What Nana Taught Me

My grandmother used to say that getting old was “for the birds”. Nana (as we called her) died at eighty seven years old of a heart attack. Her exit was quick and relatively painless considering what many people go through. Nana took care of herself – she walked or golfed every day, drove her own car and cleaned her own house – as well as taking care of her younger sister and any neighbors in need. Her next door neighbor, Ed, left her his house when he died as a thank you – for years Nana would take him breakfast, lunch and dinner, every day of the week.

I have always considered my Nana to be a true example of what it means to age gracefully. Her example inspires me to stay active and reminds me of the importance of serving others in your community. Nana lived her long life with resolve to do things herself, so when her aging body began to set limitations on that resolve she felt frustrated. My heart would ache for her during the last few years as her treasured vitality began to wane.

One thing I never heard Nana complain about was wrinkles, though her appearance was always immaculately managed. She wanted to look her best, but she didn’t obsess over sagging skin or thinning hair.

Lately, it seems that growing older has become some kind of horrible epidemic that must be stopped. There are countless books, endless beauty products and various surgical procedures all promising to make us look younger… better.

I am only thirty yet, so I haven’t really experienced significant signs of aging myself. So on my thirtieth birthday, thinking that it was all down hill from here (physically speaking), I began to feel a little righteous anger… on behalf of Nana.

I’ve always believed in looking your best. What I don’t feel comfortable with, is the idea that a persons’ best is no longer good enough. Given that modern science has discovered a “cure” for just about every flaw a person may posses, there seems to be no reason we shouldn’t all look eternally twenty-five. It’s rare these days to see an actress over forty that doesn’t have unnaturally plump lips, especially taut facial skin or a strangely blank expression due to botox induced paralysis. Why must the standard of beauty be so unrealistic?

Perhaps I will change my tune in another twenty or thirty years, when the wrinkles and gray hair are staring back at me from the bathroom mirror. I really, really hope not. I don't want to feel ashamed of aging. I don't want anyone else to either. My Nana hated getting older because it set limits on what she could do - it took away a certain amount of freedom - but she never felt ashamed. Nana was proud of her years on this earth, and I am proud of them, too.