Susan Rushton commentary: Forgetfulness and wrinkles

When I was about 16, my sister and I had chosen new wallpaper for the bathroom we shared, and we worked with our parents to replace the old paper. It's nice to remember that we did a good job. Even so, wallpapering was tedious. It took the weekend. I remember that I had used scissors for a while and put them where I figured I'd find them again. So I needed the scissors again and looked for them. Nope, not here, nope not there... and I asked if anybody had seen them. "Where did you put them?" Dad asked. A reasonable question, of course. It's just... that I didn't remember. And I said so. "Well find them, then," he said shortly -- partly because he was annoyed and partly because he would have preferred to be playing tennis. "You used them last. You're responsible for them. Where are they?" I was being told that I was sloppy and negligent. I did find them again. And once more I forgot where they were. But I wasn't going to be told how careless I was. To my relief, I did find 'em again. Another moment I remember: When I was 25, I put toothpaste on my toothbrush. Then I looked around for my toothbrush. Hmmm. And, maybe sometime the same year, I needed to make a call, and I found a payphone. Some of you may remember those. I had seen a woman -- I guess she was in her 60s, maybe her 70s -- waiting to use it, and I stood behind her. She looked at the phone. She looked at it some more. And some more. What was she waiting for? Something was out of joint. Finally she left. She never made her call. My turn. And I saw what she saw: buttons. She was expecting that dial some of us remember -- 1 was fast, 9 and 0 took much longer. But she had come upon a brand new phone with buttons. She couldn't figure it out -- at least not immediately. So she left. I hadn't seen anything like this either. But I tried it and it worked. I think about that woman a lot. I also regret that I didn't go after her and offer to help her. But I had no courage, and I had no comfort in talking to strangers older than my parents. Well. A few days ago I became 75. My goodness. I find this age kind of amazing. Really? 75? That defines me as old. Now you understand why I talk about forgetfulness and losing things at the beginning of this column. The good news -- and it is good -- is that yes, I found myself forgetting things when I was younger. And by gosh, I still find myself forgetting things. Not that much has changed. But, like that woman wondering about that mysterious payphone, I, too, find myself mystified with how to figure out puzzling stuff that I've never seen before. Wrinkles are the difficult part, however. They're unnerving and always surprising. I'm the only one who doesn't always see mine -- because, like you, I'm looking out of the eyes I had when I was young. Aren't I the same person? Well, yes. Except... I have these wrinkles that say something else. They're always such a surprise. I remember considering my mother's wrinkles and wondering... someday that's going to be me. Someone told her once that they were sorry she'd waited so long to do something about her wrinkles, because now it was too late. Ugh. Not friendly. But why do something about them? Yes, my mother had wrinkles. So do I. Most of mine, as did hers, exist for the same reason. Like she did, I have a sense of humor. There's a lot to smile about, and I laugh a lot. So did she. I love that, actually. Wrinkles: clear proof of a sense of humor. I can live with that. I can because -- well, my mother did, for one thing. For another, I called myself a hippie in the day, and my idea of hippies was people who just were who they were. They presented themselves without ultra fanciness, and decided that what they looked like was what they looked like. I decided I wouldn't wear a mask. This is me, I thought, and that's it. Besides, not wearing a mask is oh so easy. I've heard of a person who takes two hours every morning to get her face ready. Well. I don't have time for that. Plus: one's outside has nothing to do with who one is. I don't care what you look like. If I love you, I don't love your outside. I love you. I love who you are, what you do, how you behave, how you treat me and others, And I love that you laugh. Mainly I love that you laugh because you're willing to let yourself have wrinkles. Thank you. Susan Rushton's opinion column appears regularly in the Auburn Journal. Her email is goldcountrydenizens@gmail.com.