The Generation Test    

I should’ve known something had changed when our conversations had less to do with our children, grandchildren, and our jobs, and more to do with ourselves. Devora’s daily call in is a litany of aches and pains that have her in their merciless grip. Bending down is an activity she approaches with caution and consideration. Perhaps a broom and dustpan with a handle can scoop up the desired, or quite undesired, object that’s landed on the floor.

This, thank G-d, isn’t what awakened me to my membership to the old-age club. Nor was it looking into the mirror to have a face riddled with wrinkles staring back at me. After all, there were friends who were creased at 40 and those lucky enough to have a smooth visage, with just a furrow or two added for character, when they became great-grandmothers. That wasn’t proof enough.

When the name of someone I’ve known since childhood escapes me, people will chalk it up to a “senior moment.” But just yesterday I was speaking to a 40-year-old who went blank trying to remember his grandmother’s maiden name. So it isn’t exclusive to those who have been around since Eisenhower was president!

You might think that just because I look for someone to help me open up a jar of pickles that my youth was quite a distance behind me. But you would be wrong. I comfort myself that there are those born with forcefulness in their hands and there are those with daintier and more feminine fingers that weren’t created to wrestle with metal caps.