Indignities of Old Age and Party Hats

In Washington Post’s opinion section, Elaine Soloway stands athwart the time-honored tradition of slapping a party hat on the elderly and affirmed, yelling “stop it, you ingrates!”

You know the scene: A white-haired woman sits in a wheelchair. Her head lists to one side. There are banners and balloons celebrating her 100th birthday. Caregivers and relatives clap as they help her blow out her candles. And atop the head of this woman — who has survived all these years and most likely buried many dear ones — is a child’s party hat.

That sort of thing makes me livid.

I am 83 and have no idea if I’ll ever reach that three-digit number. But I’m warning my children and friends that if they dare to top my noggin with such a monstrosity, I will use every bit of strength to rise from my chair, grab a cane if there’s one handy and whack them all in the head.

Ungrateful enough?

It appears that with each year added to our age, others want the number to slide in reverse.

Here, for example, is a well-meaning but extremely irritating greeting that has actually been directed at me: “Aren’t you adorable?”

I hear that and look around to see if there’s a newborn or a dachshund nearby. No. It’s meant for me.

Okay. I am a slight 4 feet 9 inches tall, and I do resemble a miniature of a real, live woman. But I have children in their 50s, grandchildren, a master’s degree, four published books, a blog! For goodness’ sake, I was a specialist at an Apple store!

“Adorable” in no way matches me.

“How tall are you?” a grinning stranger will ask. “Not very,” is my innocent quip. But what I’m saying in my head is, “How stupid are you?”

While we’re on the subject of my height, which has slipped from a peak of 4 feet 11½ inches — I do use humor to ask for assistance at the grocery store. “Tall Person,” I will say as I approach someone who matches that description. “Could you retrieve that bottle of tart cherry juice on the top shelf?”

Tall Person will typically look around, point to their chest to confirm I’m speaking to their 6-foot length and answer with a sweet, “Of course.”

But in other contexts, when people try to help — grabbing my arm to assist me across the street or doing the same as I walk down banister-less stairs — things get more complicated.

I abhor the first and welcome the second. I am exceedingly grateful that daily exercise has enabled me to walk miles. You’ll see me striding to Trader Joe’s, backpack bobbing with my steps, as I speak aloud to the deity who has enabled this.

Arm-grabber: I appreciate you. Really, I do. But if we were to race, I might get to the other side before you.