by Gwynne Hunt
Whenever I hear the ocean I quote Tennyson’s, I must go down to the sea again’, you know, ‘the lonely sea and the sky?’ Things pop into my head like that but the frightening thing is that as I get older they don’t stay in my head; I blurt them out like an excited child with the right answer.
People stare; no doubt embarrassed by my poetry, my rhymes and my jokes that fall from my lips in a Tourettes-like way; sharp static bursts that surprise the listener and me. Sometimes I even apologise. ‘Oh goodness’, I say, ‘did I say that’? The word ‘goodness’ coming form my trucker mouth? It’s like grandma curled up and died inside my young vital mind.
I said ‘yikes’, the other day and ‘oh my word’. I ran to the mirror and was shocked to see that not only did the old lady live in my head but she had invaded my face as well. When had I started to look like Aunt Bea instead of Barbie? Finding her in the corners of my mind has been too much to bear.
She says things like, ‘dear’ and ‘honey’ to women half her age and she pats people on the hand an awful lot. She is comforting this old woman, and kind. I hate kind, old women. What the hell is she doing living in my heart and my brain? If I could get her alone I might be able to extricate her with delicate surgery but she is never alone; she is with me so deeply rooted in my psyche I think an operation is too late.
I think if the old lady dies, I will perish as well. The ‘there, theres’ and the ‘oh mys’ are bad enough but she tells terrible jokes that poke through her childhood memory like clichéd thorns. I heard her tell a friend she was going to stay at the Bucanneer Motel when she went to the Island. When her friend said, ‘where is that?’, she, the old woman said, ‘ right under her Bucking Hat’.
I didn’t know that bad joke had never left my brain; like an unwanted tenant just lying in wait to burst out at an inappropriate moment naked, and embarassing the landlord. Everytime someone says ‘do you want a clean sheet for your bed?’. she responds, ‘I want two sheet’ (in a French accent). I get so upset by her stupid jokes that I have to leave the room and then I have to try and find a way to eradicate her babble from my head.
The old bat’s happy. I know that because she sings in the car all of the time; ‘my boyfriend’s back and there’s going to be trouble’, in a high pitched nasal voice. Poor old wretch, her boyfriend hasn’t been back for forty years. She wails out show tunes and pop songs. When I hear her, I shut her up, close my mouth and try to look professional and stern as I drive down the road. I think if my mouth is closed, I look younger.
I know, I know I should embrace growing older, becoming a crone and all that. I did for awhile. It was fun in my late forties and early fifties to be wise and sure of myself. A mature woman. But while I have never put an emphasise on my looks I’ve now realized, since I have lost my good looks, that it is hard. It is very hard. It’s hard to admit my vanity. I never thought I was.
But you see I was a vital, young, attractive woman and now-well, now I am old and unsure of my looks.. I’m aware of my age, , how saggy I am and I realize that I am no longer in the girl-loop. I’m surrounded by lots of younger women and they do ask me how I feel, like I might expire at any moment.
How do you feel? Do I look so bad that they are inspired to ask me how I feel? I always smile politely and answer with some surprise that I am fine thank you. I’m afraid that the old lady is going to get tired of being polite and say, ‘How do you think I feel be-atch.’
I’ve discovered that younger women are not interested in old women. They tell me their stories and troubles and ask how I feel but they don’t ask how I am. They don’t ask me stuff that young women ask each other . . .
I always knew my face and body would get old but I never thought my mind would age. But the old lady is talking out more and more. She’s mouthy, senile and, well, I think she might be downright crazy. Yesterday, she stepped out her door and said out loud, “Spring has sprung the grass has rizz I wonder where the birdie is”. I tried to stop her but she went on, ‘the bird is on the wing but that’s obsoid, the wing is one the boid.” I looked around in panic. Was anyone listening?
My granddaughter looked up and smiled. Bless her heart, she loves the old lady that lives in my head. But even she tells me to fix my hair and has asked, ‘are you wearing that outside?’
It seems that grandma cannot wear sweatpants to walk her to the school bus stop. Like the old lady inside my head, I guess I must try harder. I didn’t want to be like that when I grew old. I don’t want to put a lot of effort into how I look and I can sure as hell tell you, you won’t find me joining any old lady hat clubs-no matter what colour the hats are.
She constantly tells corny jokes. It is so odd, she can’t remember what day it is half of the time but she can remember bad jokes her dad told her when she was six. She remembers the words to every pop song between 1960 and 1980. Too bad neither one of us can sing. She remembers fun and laughter and is not afraid to be who she is.
I, on the other hand am struggling to stay quiet and poised because I am ashamed of looking and feeling old. She doesn’t care. ‘Bring it on’ is her motto. She is getting louder everyday and I know I am on the cusp of a new beginning. I think she has been old longer than me. It’s an insane struggle, a triptech dance between the old woman, me and the young woman I used to be.
I always thought I would grow old gracefully. Well, that is until the old lady started kicking her motorcycle into gear and screwing with my thoughts. That is why you see me silent, afraid to open my mouth for fear the Hell’s Angel will be let loose .This morning, she woke up singing, ‘the sun will come up tomorrow’ and when she went for a walk she sang, ‘kickin down the cobblestones, looking for fun and feeling easy’. She ran into a lady on the street and said, ‘good morning star shine’ and told an older gentleman, ‘don’t let the sound of your own wheels drive you crazy’. I need help here. I need a straighjacket around my exploding brain. Grandma’s going to get run over by a reindeer soon and then maybe I can think like a young person again. Maybe I can do an exorcism and get free of her loving embrace. She’s making me look ridiculous. Oh, oh, here she comes again.
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