My brothers and I are moving my 88-year-old mother into a senior community.  This had been a long drawn-out process because she doesn't want to accept the fact that she is aging.  But a veteran now of two strokes, she's tired of being alone and struggling to maintain her lifestyle and the upkeep of her large townhouse.  So finally, we are now more or less united, mother and children, on the need for the move.   An apartment the size she wants has become available, and this week, she took her second tour of the place.  It was my first time, so we spent a couple hours, my two brothers, my mother, a staff member, and I, walking around to see the different activity and dining areas and how the senior residents spend their days there.  As they moved from activities like bridge, garden club, dining at one of the lovely restaurants, more than one resident told us with real light in her eyes and joy in her voice, "You're going to love it here."    

However, returning home, my mother sagged against one of her kitchen chairs, clearly drained, and said, "I thought everyone there looked ancient."  

I think I managed to keep my mouth from falling open.  For what I'd come away with was startling different:  that every senior  resident we saw there was moving with more ease, energy, and purpose than my mother!  (My mother, who, other than a very slight hitch in her walk from the stroke and very minor hypothyroidism, is in excellent health.)   
 
When my brother drove me to the airport, I mentioned what she'd said.  "It's interesting what our perceptions of ourself are," he replied.  "I don't feel like a 62-year-old man, but when I look in the mirror, I see one."  

I don't feel my age, either.  And people often think I'm younger than I am.  As a culture, we've been conditioned to think this is optimum.  At least once we get to a certain age.  As a young adult, we're supposed to grow up.  But once we hit a certain age, and I'm not sure what exact age that is, now the goal is to regress. To become young again. You're as young as you feel. The innocence of child. The ability to play. Youthful thinking. All ways to be, but only once you really aren't a child at all anymore.  

I'm not suggesting there isn't a kernel of a good thought here.  But America certainly has to be top on the list of cultures taking this idea WAY TOO FAR.  We get bombarded with the potential detrimental physical ramifications when people turn to the surgeon's knife to cut, paste, suck, twist, stretch, and reposition their skin, muscles, fat and tissues in an effort to look young.   But how about the mental and emotional ramifications of trying to stay so young?   I'm getting a first-hand view of what this can do to an individual.  My mother, a long-time and stalwart member of this cult of youth, cannot concept that living in a virtual resort community geared for people of similar abilities and inclinations as her current self could be the happiest of places for her. Instead, she only  sees a place for old people, and infers that if she's moving there, "I'm old, too, and that can only be awful."