Rhymes with Zaby Zoomer

Of all the names I've ever been called, my favorite so far is 'Mama.'  In the early sixties I had a doll that called me that when given a two-handed squeeze under her rib cage.  Her head finally popped off after one too many Heimlich-induced endearments (which, thinking back, actually sounded more like "RAW-CRAW.")

I loved that doll.

Luckily for my daughter Abi, I noticed differences in the delivery room that made me hesitate before I squeezed:  her eyelids closed even when she wasn't tipped upside down, and the perfectly round hole where you put the milk was more like a moving ("talking") target.

During the first week of kindergarten, her teacher called to inform me of a little tidbit Abi had announced during 'Show and Tell' one morning.  (Anyone who has ever had a child in their home for more than 30 minutes - a child who knows how to put two words together - is cringing right about now, but it turned out okay.)

She had told her classmates, "My Mama is a Olderly Woman."

I *gasped* because (grammar be damned!) I'd never had a prouder moment.  The teacher *gasped* and informed me no cash prize went along with this distinction.  I assumed she thought Abi should skip a couple of grades, but she had apparently called to reassure me that I was still young.  I was so confused.  Besides the fact that I have no qualms about getting older, I was thrilled that Abi had made up a new word.

Plus, I was 34 - next stop ancient to a five-year-old.

At what age is it okay to be called Olderly?  Or how about just plain, old OLD?

I know some people who are headed for three digits on their age odometers.  They can laugh along with the neighborhood when an entire fire brigade shows up to extinguish their birthday cake bonfire, but do not - anybody - ever, ever call them 'old.'

'Old' is not a defect.  It's just a thing.  I'm not crazy about analogies involving the aging properties of fine wine and special cheese because old people have something more fine and special than fermentation:  they can flail their arms and sing.  Food products cannot.

A friend of mine lived to 85, and every time I saw her during those last few years she said, "Oh, child, you do not want to get old."

"Um.  Yes," I would answer, "I do."

"Oh, no, child.  You don't!"

"Um.  Yes, damn it.  I do!"

And so on, until I finally gave up disagreeing because I realized I don't want to be whatever 'old' felt like to her.  Instead, I want to say, "Yeah - wow - this is some crazy gray hair, and these are my speckledy arms, and - oops, hold on, these are still my dad's legs - but this is apparently my neck, and these must be secret places to store snacks under my eyes, and look how OLD everything is!"  The kind of fun you can't have in your youth.

(Possibly a fitting analogy:  The time a well-meaning friend tried convincing me I had not been fat while I was pregnant.  I had gained over 60 pounds.  Trust me - I was fat.  The person insisted I was not - as if my disagreeing insulted her personally - but I just kept repeating the truth:  "I was fat.  I was not even as big as a barn.  I WAS the barn - the whole barn - and I wallowed in my barn-ness.")

Recently, I had to stop and re-read a sentence in a news article after stumbling on the term 'successful aging.'  Doesn't that just mean 'still breathing?'  Or do you have to be able to breathe and chew gum in order to be a successful ager?

I believe biology dictates certain milestones that I do not believe should be added to our resumes.  Otherwise, a newborn might claim the title of 'successful emerger,' be praised in childhood as a 'successful seventh-grade survivor,' and muddle through middle age crises as a 'successful screw-up' before grabbing that 'successful ager' crown.

She's Olderly.

And what about those people who die way too young?  Are they Loser Agers?  Failure Agers?  FAILGERS?  Of course not.  But I'm choosing a name for them because they are precisely the ones we should hold close when deciding on labels.

Let's call them Real Lifers.  The Real Lifers remind Youngerlies that life doesn't go on forever, and help Olderlies see that we are not heroes just because we wake up every day and breathe.  We are nothing more than lucky Olderlies, which is more than enough.  We may be involved in heroic things in our lives, but if wallow we must, let's wallow in our fortunate-ness.

So, let's synchronize our playbooks here.  We have the Young Youngerlies (YY - birth to sense of humor development), the Youngerlies (Y - still figuring out how to give meaningful compliments), the Old Youngerlies (OY - fresh memories of Fraternity Row), the Young Olderlies (YO - middle age is headed for the rearview mirror), the Olderlies (O - careful - this does not guarantee superhero-ness), and the Old Olderlies (OO - no awards on the mantel for this one, either, but still the luckiest place to be).

Even the Old Olderlies may carry the 'Real Lifer' title after death if they have aged in a way not meant to frighten the Youngerlies coming up behind them.

Sample conversation the new way:

Olderly:  "You are really going to like being old."

Youngerly:  "Really?  I kind of like being young."

Olderly:  "Perfect!  That means you get it.  Stand by for better-and-better-ness."

Youngerly:  "I love a good neologism."

See how that works?  Even if it's just on a subconscious level, Youngerlies look to Olderlies to gauge events they've not yet experienced.  If we find ourselves disappointed at any stage of life and start issuing spoiler alerts that those further back on the age train are in for a bad time - well - it just kind of makes everybody sad.

So, help me out here, fellow Olderlies:  If I ever seem a little bummed, go ahead and say, "YO, Mama!  Nice legs!"

You know I'll do the same for you.

(Why is it often so hard to find the right word?  Usually because that word was taken off the roster years ago and is not even welcome on the bench. Next week we'll discuss the importance of leaving certain phrases on the Permanently Disabled List - where they belong.)