The Gray Area of Seniorhood
By: Lauren Salkin
Tags: Boomers, Life, Change, Nonfiction, Seniors

The Gray Area of Seniorhood

Navigating uncharted terrain.

Photo by Markus Spiske on Unsplash

There’s no doubt we’re living in strange times, confined to our homes away from others. — Not the best time for a change, and yet change is in the forecast for us, as we say goodbye to our house and 19 years of memories.

Between COVID and moving, life has diverged from the normal we knew.

Still, we try to hold onto some semblance of normal in the routines we follow, which deviate from routines of the past: a daily shower now a washcloth soaping and a powder, a daily commute to the office now a walk up the stairs.

On most days, I forgo business attire for lounge-around clothes while working out of my home office. My boss doesn’t know I write emails in my bathrobe. And that it’s been months since I’ve had a haircut. My hair hangs in tangles, a three-month-long discordant mess.

Our house though, is a paradise of order; thanks to months of purging outdated clothing and dusty belongings. It is in picture-perfect condition, except for the kitchen where the sink descends into chaos: glasses, dishes, and silverware abandoned in random impulse, a manifestation of a neurotic disorder.

I don’t do well with change. If the sink were a diorama it would illustrate life in turmoil, as we downsize from homeownership to a townhouse rental.

In the coming weeks, we will stand amid boxes and plastic-shrouded furniture, while burly short-sleeved strangers invade our home and carry our possessions onto a truck.

After they finish disemboweling our house, we will follow the truck to the next level of the game of life, from homeownership to rental.

Freedom from the monetary shackles of home maintenance convinced us to rent rather than buy, to no longer be bound to market values and mortgage rates. We disavowed the security of homeownership (once the pinnacle of the American dream) for a fleeting two-year lease, which may turn into four. Who knows?

A ballsy revelation from someone who thrives on sedentary complacency. Someone who views change as a stretched-out sweater, unraveling from years of degraded yarn.

Life is transitory enough during so-called “normal” times. Now in the age of COVID and downsizing, every day is different and yet eerily the same. We go through the motions as if nothing has changed.

We stock up on food and toss the recyclables in the bin, casualties of a disposable society where throwaway gloves and masks are the latest fashion statement.

We hold onto things until we have to let them go. Sometimes things we can’t touch or see — like 19 years of memories baked into the walls, the soul of a house.

In a sense, memories are disposable, too, mental imprints fade away over time. Only recyclables last forever. Once they’re left at the curb for pick up, they’re reincarnated into another form.

I’m cognizant of their enduring purpose. When I wheel them to the end of the driveway, I try to be gentle. I avoid snagging cracks in the pavement as they rattle around inside. (Are they complaining or thankful?) I don’t speak recyclable. So all I can do is respond with a “Bon voyage! Thank you for your service.”

And now those disposable things that once stocked our shelves need to be replaced by new things, but not by us.

Other shelves await us in our new home. The thought of filling them seems insurmountable.

So, we ignore our inevitable uprooting at the end of the month and live life as it’s meant to be lived, day-by-day, avoiding the reality of COVID and selling our house. Regarding them as distant notions, instead of imminent truths.

Neither my husband nor I like change. Yet, here we are on the cusp of change, after enduring a three-month cultural COVID shift, an even greater shift awaits us.

Maybe normal is an untenable longing during these tumultuous times if it ever existed at all, and change is the only constant.

A thought that lingers in the periphery, as we prepare to pack boxes and fulfill contractual obligations.

Amid the uncertainty, I continue to work part-time from home. Despite the hollowing out of the workforce, I remain employed. My husband does not. He is one of the unlucky ones who lost his furloughed job to diminished retail sales. He found out in an email addressed to someone else.

The idea of retirement while on the brink of senior-hood also disturbs our sedentary nature. What will my husband do now that he’s escaped the working man’s chains? Will there be new chains, and will I have visitation rights?

This is part of the unknown on which we prepare to embark. But how ready are we for this new unfathomable place to which we are headed?

We’ll find out soon enough, as we “la la la” our way through the inevitable during this last month in the house we shared with our son for 16 of 19 years— with cats and dogs for not as many years, which reminds me of the Crosby, Stills & Nash song, “Our House.”

Our house is a very, very, very fine house

with two cats in the yard

Life used to be so hard…

Will life be easy now?

That will be left for interpretation in the coming months and years. For the moment, we ride shotgun with time, looking ahead at the unseeable future and behind at the indelible past. — A never-ending forward motion that carries us deeper into the murky, uncharted terrain of seniorhood where change is the only constant.