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elfsThe local nursing homes, of which there are several, regularly encourage their mobile residents to get out and about the town. There are days when a van with a nearby nursing home logo will be parked outside the cafe Omaha and I routinely visit, and apparently they sometimes coordinate so that elderly from different homes have a chance to meet and get to know one another.
It was during one of these events at the cafe when I heard a once-muscular man with a massive beard tell a woman, "Come on and sit with us. It's all right, darlin'. I'm 72 years old and no longer consider myself a sexual being."
The man proceeded to regale the woman with wartime tales and proclaimed that he himself was descended from the Scottish Highlanders and was therefore still "as tough as stone from the quarries."
For a moment, I paused while ordering my coffee and wondered if I would ever feel the same. I hope not. If you've ever embraced an identity as someone who enjoys sex, it would be a sad thing, I think, to feel obliged to give it up due to age or frailty. (For all I know, medical issues hamper him in that arena, but the only defining characteristic he gave us all— loudly— was his age.)
Still, as I hurtle away from that mystical defining line known as 50, I know my own faculties are slowing down, and my own ardor is slowly fading into a kind of fondness for physical contact. Lots of it, and in all sorts of complicated ways, but not quite the raging fire of my 20s.
It was during one of these events at the cafe when I heard a once-muscular man with a massive beard tell a woman, "Come on and sit with us. It's all right, darlin'. I'm 72 years old and no longer consider myself a sexual being."
The man proceeded to regale the woman with wartime tales and proclaimed that he himself was descended from the Scottish Highlanders and was therefore still "as tough as stone from the quarries."
For a moment, I paused while ordering my coffee and wondered if I would ever feel the same. I hope not. If you've ever embraced an identity as someone who enjoys sex, it would be a sad thing, I think, to feel obliged to give it up due to age or frailty. (For all I know, medical issues hamper him in that arena, but the only defining characteristic he gave us all— loudly— was his age.)
Still, as I hurtle away from that mystical defining line known as 50, I know my own faculties are slowing down, and my own ardor is slowly fading into a kind of fondness for physical contact. Lots of it, and in all sorts of complicated ways, but not quite the raging fire of my 20s.
