No, I'm not jumping out of a plane, unless it's on fire
Unfortunately, my only extreme sport these days is driving on I95 in Florida.
This is the Snarky Sunday edition of Snarky Senior — the newsletter from Erica Manfred, which you can read about here. If you like it and don’t want to miss an issue, you can get it in your inbox by subscribing.
I’m always envious of those stories about people my age or older who are doing extreme sports.
I’d be happy to sky dive but I’m afraid I’d break a bone when I landed. I’d hike the Pacific Trail like Cheryl Strayed if I could walk for more than a block. I want to try ziplining but am afraid I’d fall off the rope and couldn’t get on and off those little platforms. I’d go up in a hot air balloon in a heartbeat but getting in and out of that basket might be a stretch. I’d snorkel or scuba but I’d probably be swept out to sea.
That doesn’t mean I’m a wuss. I may be old, overweight, arthritic, and hard of hearing, but I’m pretty fearless. Or I used to be. Unfortunately, my only extreme sport these days is driving on I95 in Florida. That takes real nerve. I’ll drive at night—in the rain, fog, high winds, you name it. I once drove a cab in New York City. I actually enjoy driving in bad weather—it’s a challenge.
There aren’t too many non-vehicular challenges I’m physically fit enough to take on anymore, unless eating in restaurants during the pandemic (outdoors only) counts.
I was a caseworker in the South Bronx in the 70s, walked into buildings the cops wouldn’t have entered without guns drawn, and felt nervous, but not too scared to do it. I have no fear of threatening strangers. When friends cross the street to avoid groups of menacing teens, I cross the street to be near them. I find them exhilarating and want to hear the latest lingo.
I allowed men to pick me up at my house when I did personals and then internet dating. Friends were horrified. No axe murderers showed up. Only extreme bores.
I traveled around Mexico alone in the 60s, when it really wasn’t safe for young women.
I have a fear of flying--not of the flying part--but being jammed in next to strangers for hours.
Fearless does not mean I’m not scared. I’m actually terrified about everything that involves social and emotional rather than physical risk: walking into a room full of strangers and making conversation, dealing with authority (which is why I’ve been working alone for thirty years), rejection; my daughter when she’s in a rage; my ex-husband when he’s in a rage, actually anyone who’s in a rage.
I’m not afraid of being hit though, that doesn’t bother me. It’s being yelled at that terrifies me.
When I tell people I’m shy they don’t believe me. I seem so outgoing, but it’s an illusion. The sight of a crowd of strangers throws me into a panic. Or even one stranger who wants to talk to me. My social anxiety conflicts with my nature which is sociable. I do have friends and enjoy getting together with them. Somehow I’ve managed to gather my nerve to join a variety of meetups in Florida which involved meeting strangers. It helped that most of them were strangers to each other—and that we were meeting at a book club, or movie or trivia, so had something to talk about. Everyone was awkward so I didn’t feel that I was part of the out group. We were all in the out group.
I thought somehow I would feel less shy as I got older, but that didn’t happen. I still wish I was one of those women who could go out alone and feel comfortable.
Part of the problem is that I’m painfully self-conscious. When I was young it was about being fat. I’m still fat, but relative to my age not so much fatter than anyone else.
Now I’m self-conscious about looking old, about my plethora of wrinkles and age spots. I always thought I would be one of those women who aged “well.” I have no idea why I thought that since I’ve spent my life in the sun without sunscreen and gained and lost hundreds of pounds.
I haven’t aged “well.” My face looks like a topographical map. Plastic surgery is not an option even if I could afford it. I’ve had surgery and I can’t imagine undergoing it voluntarily. I can imagine getting “fillers” but what’s the point? I’d have to dye my hair and wear makeup and do other youthifying things that I don’t want to do. I hate makeup and am allergic to most of it anyway.
The only way my social anxiety has diminished with age is that I no longer feel nervous about meeting eligible men. That’s because I never meet any.
There are no eligible men in my world and that is not a bad thing. I don’t miss that stomach-clenching terror of walking into a party or bar and having the men there either ignore me, or look at me like I was possibly dinner. It’s a relief to have aged out of the dating pool.
I don’t think I’ll ever feel comfortable in a group of strangers. I don’t like them on Zoom either. What’s changed is that I realize this is a battle I no longer care to fight.
Getting old is pretty grim no matter how you look at it, but I’m finding comfort in finally accepting some of my limitations.
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