Mom and I went to see a dance program last night. It was amazing, but that’s not the point of this. Well, as long as we are gathering here, I may as well take a minute to wax poetically about the incredible performance. They were called Bzzz and they were tap dancers and a beatboxer. That description feels woefully inadequate as I type it, but it is accurate. They were joyful and talented and innovative and the entire performance I was rapt, as was the rest of the audience. I even called today to tell the venue how spectacular the program was- because I couldn’t help myself. It turns out that they produced the program, so even better.
Support the arts, people.
Okay, I’m done now.
We got something to eat at a lovely local establishment that is right down the street just before the performance. Maybe she’ll kill me for sharing this, but I don’t think so: mom is using a cane right now. She had a surgery and is just fine, but walking is a bit of a challenge. She’s a total trooper, so no complaints out of that one, but plenty of worry on my end of the universe. So. Much. Worry.
I was particularly concerned because I’m absolutely spent right now, exhausted, and I wanted to be on my game to make sure we navigated the city in a way that was safe and made her feel secure.
Anyway, the restaurant is beautiful but its outdoor seating, which is where they situated us, isn’t a setup that is conducive to flexing one’s use of personal space. It’s a bit tight and awkward. Not so much once you are seated, but the getting there is a struggle. I want to be clear that the struggle part is not related to having any sort of physical impairment. I was concerned about tripping over something or banging into someone or knocking over someone’s something.
So, you might imagine that my anxiety over mom’s wellbeing was on high alert in such an environment. But then, the most wonderful thing happened. The couple seated next to us helped us. Read that again, please. They HELPED us. Literally with their physical bodies and words. The gentleman helped mom situate herself at the table and remove her coat. They suggested that we place her cane where it wouldn’t be hit or misplaced. The woman even encouraged me to place my purse on the other side of my seat, advising that our waiter would bump into it several times if I kept it where I initially placed it.
It wasn’t just their out-of-the-way kindness that got me. Not even close. They were just so lovely to each other. I wasn’t trying to be a voyeur, but the seats were awfully close, and it was hard not to take note of their affection for each other and zest for the dining experience. At one point, the woman gazed wistfully at the French fries that accompanied my burger and mentioned to the gentleman that they should have ordered the same. They had their Brussel sprouts wrapped to go, as they opted to save room for dessert (reaffirming my growing affection for their approach to dining and life).
We exchanged a few pleasantries at the end of the meal, and it turns out that they were headed to the same dance performance. An odd feeling passed over me when I learned that fact that I can only describe as happiness. Strange, because we didn’t know them any better in a meaningful way by the end of our meal, but some part of me felt like I did. Mostly, because they were so unbelievably generous of spirit, and kind.
Oh, I forgot something. A fact that is mostly irrelevant but bears mentioning. They were, at my estimation, in their 70s.
Who cares, right?
I mean, everyone. Mostly everyone.
This morning, mom and I were reiterating what a lovely evening we had and she shared her sense of relief that there were young people in the theater. I, in turn, shared that I was pleased to see folks her age at the theater. Why? Mom asked. I know why she asked this. It’s not that unusual to see folks her age at art performances.
My response was simple. I just told mom that I felt like the more people of different ages engage with each other, the more than can appreciate commonality.
I think our society is innately agist. I feel like I’ve shared this before and even written about it. It’s a funny thing, because on some level, the perception of age is relative. Well, on every level, really. What we think of as middle-age or even “old” when we are 10 is different than what we think when we are 20 and very different from what we think at 30 and wholly different from what we think at 40 and a world apart from what we think at 50 and 60 and 70, and up. And still, our society (America) tends to place little to no value on our aging.
In fact, we spend a good deal of time and money trying to combat the signs and symptoms of age. You’ve of course heard this from me before, but I can’t help but talk about it again. It really irks the shit out of me.
When I look at my parents or couples like the one I “met” last night, I can’t help but wonder what I’m going to be like in thirty years. I can’t help but hope that I’ll be eating crème brulee at a French restaurant in Chelsea and watching the most magnificent young dancers perform on the Joyce stage. I can’t help but hope that when people look at me, it’s with appreciation or, at worst, benign disinterest, but not with disgust. I hope that people will ask me what I know and what I’ve seen and how I’ve fared. I hope that I am still kind and the people around me appreciate my kindness and see it for what it is, resilience, and not fragility or feebleness.
I didn’t like this couple because they were “cute” or anything along those lines. I mean they were, cute as shit, but my reverence came from something deeper inside of me. I was tired and I felt the deep-seated kind of grump that comes from too much socialization and too little sleep. I felt the kind of weary that comes from feeling disappointed in people and the world at large. And, then, I met these folks who have lived longer. Whatever their situation, they’ve unquestionably had their own experiences, good and bad. And still, they found kindness in their hearts, and a passion for the world around them. For good food and great art and fellow humans.
That doesn’t deserve distain or disregard. That deserves a smile. A nod. A conversation.
Do you see what I mean?
So, do yourself a favor and reserve judgment next time you see someone walking a little slower or someone with silvery hair or someone who needs a little helping hand. Take a moment to recognize how much life they’ve already lived and how much they have to share, whether they choose to or not. That’s really something.
Really.
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