Age is Only a (really big) Number

 

irony ¹ |ˈīrənē, ˈiərnē|

noun ( pl. ironies )

the expression of one's meaning by using language that normally signifies the opposite, typically for humorous or emphatic effect.

• a state of affairs or an event that seems deliberately contrary to what one expects and is often amusing as a result: [ with clause ] : the irony is that I thought he could help me.

I love irony.  It keeps life so deliciously interesting.  I myself have lived a fair share of it: 

·      As a teenager who cherished being alone, I traveled the United States in an RV with my parents, three siblings, AND the family dog… for three solid years!

·      As a bride to be, I begged my fiancé to pleeeeeze never ask me to live in North Dakota.  Sixteen years later I was begging him to please consider moving us to his home state.

·      My college classmates called me “mom.”

·      My AARP card arrived my first year of teaching.

And the Grande Pooh bah of ironic mirth…

After only two years into my career, I am now officially the oldest teacher in the building.  That’s right, folks.  I am the resident geezer.  Not by much, mind you.  The next oldest is just a whisker younger than me.  But I proudly claim the crown.  I am King of the Hill.  I am the grandma of the entire student body. 

I think it’s funny.  It’s not that I love the aging process or seeing new signs of it when I look in the mirror (who is the old chick that always stands in front of me when I’m trying to see myself in the mirror???  Get out of my way, sista!)  I have truthfully had something of a midlife crisis the last year, because it dawned on me that this old thing is not going to get better eventually.  There is no cure.  It won’t go into remission.  I’m just going to keep looking older and eventually have health problems, and less energy, and…. good grief.  This is depressing.

Okay, back to irony and a few giggles.

So the teacher that was chronologically older than me announced her retirement shortly after Christmas this last year.  Everybody was pretty sad to see her go.  She has been a mainstay of our fair school and community for many years and was a beautiful example of what a dedicated teacher should be.  Everybody loves Jeanne.

But as everyone else wiped their eyes and blew their noses because of losing her from our ranks, I was experiencing a far more insidious thought.  I knew that once she was gone I, Vonda Dahl, new teacher, quasi-hippie, and leader of the Darlings, would become the oldest teacher in the building – AND POSSIBLY THE WORLD!!

It’s okay to be the oldest if you have twenty plus years under your belt and a nice little retirement nest egg accrued and have the respect and admiration of generations of students that you have single-handedly guided into wildly successful lives and careers.

I got nothin’.

To make things worse, during the last month of school, the Darlings were headed to music with the aforementioned Queen of Teaching Perfection when one of them casually tosses out the fact that they had heard a rumor that their beloved music teacher was retiring.  As the wiggling, jumping, skipping line of Darlings heads down the hall to music class, one very perceptive first grader tosses back over his shoulder to me, “Hey, Mrs. Dahl.  When are you going to retire?  It’s about time, huh??”

How do you explain to a seven-year-old that the 2.5 years paid into my pension fund would last, like eight days?

I knew this was coming.  I actually thought long and hard about the late start of my teaching career and the number of years it would require to work in order to draw on that pension.  The numbers never quite added up on paper.  Mr. Dahl and I were aware of all of that, and yet felt it okay to make the leap anyway.  The years spent at home with our four children are worth far more than being able to afford a condo at The Villages.  We don’t like humidity anyway.  And yet, the reality of my age vs. teaching inexperience has been a little harder to swallow than previously expected.

So…

I think with the Old Bag title should come a few perks.  Here are my demands:

1.     Thirty minutes of uninterrupted napping time every day after lunch.

2.     A covered garage parking space so that I don’t have to worry about slipping on the ice.  Or rain.  Or wind gusts.  Or cleaning my windshield.  Or getting my hair messed up in any or all of the above.

3.     My own private bathroom, because everybody knows that old people have to pee a LOT. 

4.     A “sensible shoes” budget.

5.     A private elevator to my dungeon classroom so I don’t fall and break a hip.

6.     My own personal assistant to help me remember all of the things that adorable, forgetful old gals forget.

7.     My own private chef to prepare lunches for me that help me maintain digestive regularity.

8.     Someone to teach me how to play Canasta.

Here’s the bottom line.  My years of teaching experience and my age are never going to dovetail.  Never.  I am too old to be a new teacher.  It just isn’t done the way I did it.  There is no polite way around that fact.  I did it backwards.  I had my years at home first, albeit chasing little tornadoes with snotty noses and PBJ faces, and then began a career. 

My dearest childhood friend is doing it backwards too.  She was an incredibly successful businesswoman for years and is just now raising a young family.  We sort of tag teamed this career/motherhood thing.  Irony is abundant in my circle, I guess. 

Well, so what?  I don’t regret a blessed thing.  I’d do it the same way again if I had to do it over.   The irony of my situation is amusing and keeps my life deliciously, marvelously, fantastically interesting.  

(yawn), I need a nap…