How to Age Disgracefully

by Clare Pooley

She couldn’t see anything that remotely resembled her old BlackBerry. Everything seemed to be Apple these days. Why was all technology named after crumble ingredients?

Thank goodness she was British and could resort to the tradition of tea-making when the going got a little tough.

Hope, he had learned, was more painful than acceptance.

She appeared to have jumped out of the frying pan of sexism and into the fire of ageism. The final frontier of isms.

“Mandel Community Center is the beating heart of our local community,” she said, projecting right to the front of the room. She paused to let the words land. “It houses a wonderful nursery, an extremely popular senior citizens’ social club”—she hoped the council hadn’t bothered to check Lydia’s attendance records—“Alcoholics Anonymous, NCT antenatal classes, and a karate club. I can’t even imagine the chaos if all those toddlers, bored geriatrics, addicts, heavily pregnant women, and trained killers were left to just wander around the streets!

Daphne had never understood dogs. Cats she rather admired. They walked their own path. They were independent and wily, and doled out affection sparingly and only when they had an agenda. Dogs, on the other hand, were entirely too needy and would roll over for a tummy tickle from any random passerby. That was no way to garner respect.

If she had been a wildebeest in a previous life, she’d have been the Kris Jenner of the herd.

She was pretty sure Princess Margaret would never have weed in a lift. Or perhaps she would. That woman had had hidden depths.

“You’re not supposed to eat it, you know,” said Daphne. “Especially since it’s vintage Prada. If you insist on eating a handbag, at least choose one from Primark.

Art thought about the children at Mandel Community Center Nursery. All their lives were blank sheets of paper waiting to become stories.

He’d picked up anything that caught his eye whenever he’d been unable to resist the urge, like a magpie on amphetamines.

“Most folks see gray hair as a sign of age. Not me. I see it as a blank canvas.

Lydia felt a warm glow of satisfaction, watching her club members collaborating over something that wasn’t borderline illegal, or positively dangerous. Or perhaps it was just a hot flash? It was difficult to tell the difference.

It would be just her luck, to suffer the indignity of being killed by an affordable yellow car.

Lydia helped herself to another celebratory slice of cake. Maybe it would help plump out some of her wrinkles. Like a cosmetic filler, but more tasty.

Why on earth, when there were so many more important things they could be teaching their children, would parents waste their time reading stories about an insect with a dysfunctional relationship with food? And she objected to the use of a butterfly as an aspirational ending. Butterflies were fragile, and had extremely short life expectancies and the tiniest imaginable brains. What sort of a role model was that? A unicorn would be far more appropriate. At least they carried a built-in weapon on their heads.

“Mmmm. Let’s burn that bridge when we come to it, shall we?” said Daphne. “Cross that bridge, you mean?” said William. “No, dear boy. I’m all about burning my bridges. There’s never any point in going back,” said Daphne,

Despite her age, Daphne seemed to have the hearing of an adolescent bat.

The tired, neglected old hall was as warm, inviting, and primped up as the madam of a high-class brothel. It had a whole new lease of life, much like himself and the other senior citizens.

“Are you familiar with the lovely Michelle Obama?” said Daphne. “Oh, yes! Becoming is one of my all-time favorite books,” said Lydia. “So inspiring.” “Well, then, you’ll know what Michelle says about what to do when ‘they go low’?” said Daphne. Lydia nodded. “When they go low…we get revenge,” said Daphne, with a flourish. Lydia frowned. “I don’t think that’s what she said at all, Daphne,” she said. “In fact, I know it’s not.” “Well, she should have done,” said Daphne. “See, not even Michelle Obama is infallible.

It was a miracle she had any tears left. She’d cried so many buckets recently that surely she must have lost weight?

“You’re not a very nice person, Daphne,” said Art. “Well, luckily, I’ve never aimed for nice,” said Daphne. “That sort of wishy-washy adjective is much more your bag. You can wallow in nice as much as you like, just don’t expect me to be a part of it.”

It's giving the witch from "Into the Woods."

Numbers always did what you expected, whereas words could so easily be mixed up or misinterpreted.

She didn’t need all the self-help anymore, since she’d realized she was entirely capable of helping herself.

You don’t get to our age with a completely unblemished record. Not unless you’ve not lived. The trick is just to try to ensure the balance falls on the side of the good.”

The strange thing about reaching your fifties is that, although your outsides might be gradually falling apart, on the inside you don’t feel any different from the way you did in your twenties. I still don’t feel like a “proper adult,” and I don’t expect that I will at seventy, either.