Yesterday I wrote a brief email to CBC Calgary, objecting to the use of the adjective "elderly" to describe a 72 year-old woman whose car had been stolen. I felt the nned to call out the editor whose bias was revealed. I don't think a 72 year-old man would have been called "elderly".
Today I read this column by Arthur Black today on everythingoomer.com, and liked it so much that I am sharing the whole thing. It's a great reminder not to take ourselves too seriously.
I am not a coot. Neither am I a geezer, a buzzard, Gramps or
Old Timer – and woe betide the wet-behind-the-ears johnny-come-lately who tries
to brand me with the repugnant “senior citizen” or worse yet “golden-ager.”
Curmudgeon? Sometimes, for sure. Elder? I suppose, although
it sounds a little priggish and high-falutin’ to my ear. To tell you the truth,
I don’t much like any of the terms – Zoomer excluded – customarily draped over
Those of Us Who Have Attained a Certain Measure of Maturity. Except for one. I
think I could handle being labelled a jubilado. It’s pronounced “hoo-bee-LAH-
dough” and it’s what Spaniards call their retirees. In English, it means pretty
much what it looks like – “jubilant one.”
OH – AND HEADS UP – it’s defiantly sex-specific. Guys are
jubilados; girls are jubiladas. Deal with it. And, truly, why not “jubilant
ones?” Most of us who get to this age bracket are bedecked and festooned with
reasons to celebrate. We are less encumbered than we’ve ever been in our lives.
The kids are grown and unleashed. The mortgage, if not paid off, is under
control. We wear what we choose, get up when we please and no longer give a fig
about rush-hour commutes, layoffs, pro- or de-motions or the emotional ups and
downs of the psycho boss in the corner office. We can choose to watch the
sunrise or plump the pillow over our head; walk the dog or slurp margaritas in
a hammock; spend the afternoon with a good book or catch a baseball game on the
tube.
WHAT’S
NOT to be jubilant about?
Alas,
our society discourages jubilation in its jubilados. We’re treated more like
hockey players past their prime. There’s a sense we’ve been put out to pasture,
sent home with a gold Timex and a permanent time-out. We’ve done our stretch
and nothing further is expected of us. We can sit back, relax and fade into the
wallpaper.
Well,
screw that. I choose to be a jubilado. I’m going to make noise, dance up a
storm, kick up some dust, raise a little hell and generally make some whoopie.
Why not? It feels good to be a jubilado.
Anybody
can get older. Hell, boulders do that. The trick is to age in style. Some
choose to do it by diversion – two weeks in Maui, a few rounds of golf, tickets
to see the Jets or Leonard Cohen, a shopping spree through Holt Renfrew or
Lululemon – they all make you feel good, if only for a little while. Others
turn their focus outward, embracing volunteerism, philanthropy or the simple
care and nurturing of friends and family. Still others go out and buy
themselves a flamboyant red hat. Aging well doesn’t have to be a 180-degree
U-turn. It can be a simple shift in your colour spectrum. Jenny Joseph showed
us that when she wrote a hit poem entitled When I Grow Old, I Shall Wear
Purple. Take your choice and fill your boots. But do it joyously, jubilantly.
And me? You can colour me purple. In a cherry-red Stetson.
ARTHUR BLACK IS THE AUTHOR OF 16 BOOKS OF HUMOUR AND A THREE-TIME
WINNER OF THE STEPHEN LEACOCK MEDAL FOR HUMOUR
