Relative Age is Not Always Kind

By Elaine L. Orr

Note: I wanted to write something about age and writing, but am still ruminating. As I reread other things I'd written on aging, I pulled out a piece from 21 years ago. Still funny to me. You may recognize the irreverent humor seen in the Jolie Gentil series. 

Age is often a question of perception.  In my family – where the first cousins range from 44 to 70 and their children from 2 years (so far) to 50 – age also is a question of much good-natured ribbing.  In both generations, it is my immediate family that has the youngest – my 44-year old brother and his 2-year old son.

 Among my siblings, the spread is 10 years, with me being the oldest.  With such a relatively small span of time (so to speak), you would expect us to all look roughly the same age.  As my nieces would say – not!

 The biggest cause of occasional consternation is my youngest brother, Grant.  First, he is in disgustingly good shape – a walking advertisement for eating healthy and getting regular exercise.  He has little gray and had the good sense to marry a woman 10 years his junior, so people assume he is her age.  This, however, has become somewhat of a problem for me. 

 It may have started at their wedding, when the bride’s mom and I walked down the aisle together to light wedding candles.  (Our mom was ill and could not attend.)  A year later, when meeting some of the bride’s mom’s friends again, one of them commented how nice it was to “see Grant’s mother again.”  Ever tactful, Grant pointed out that she only thought this because of the candle lighting ceremony.  Always ready with a jibe, our brother-in-law George said, “It is not.  She thinks Elaine is old enough to be your mother.”  George does not mind living in a metaphorical doghouse; just ask my sister.

 Perhaps I should be used to this kind of confusion.  Everyone who saw my 47-year old father with his 3-year old son assumed Dad was Grant’s grandfather.  Fortunately, this tickled him to no end.

Miles with 3-year old Grant.
(Photo by Arthur Noma)

 Then there is the issue of how people perceive brother Dan, who is 8 years Grant’s elder.  When our mother was in the hospital one time, Dan and Grant were at her bedside when a nurse came in and asked them to leave briefly so she could attend to mother.  The guys moved to the hall, and they heard mother wake up as the nurse was assisting her.  To orient mother to her surroundings, the nurse informed her that she was in the hospital and “your son and grandson are just outside.”  Grant relays that he had only a second or two to pretend he did not hear or rib Dan.  Of course, he opted for the ribbing.

 Unfortunately, two recent experiences have shown that these mistaken opinions have crossed to another generation.  Recently, Grant’s 5-year old was applying pretend make-up to my face.  She picked up a new ‘jar’ and informed me that she was going to put it on my face because “it’s for old people.” 

 “Am I old?” I asked.

 She gave this some thought and said, “Just a little.”  My sister-in-law had the good manners to be embarrassed.  My brother loved it.

 A few months later, I was again babysitting when little Olivia focused on a couple of small splints on my fingers.  (Never let it be said a writer’s life will be free from arthritis.)  She asked about them, and I remembered what my mother always said to young children who were afraid of her wheelchair.  “You don’t need to worry, ‘Livie.  This kind of thing only happens when people are much older than you.  Plus it doesn’t happen to many people at all.”

 She pondered this for a moment, then asked, “Are you older than dinosaurs, Aunt E?”  I assured her I was not, and – given how much my brother laughed at this – was very surprised not to find a plastic one in my Christmas stocking. 

 The really irritating thing about all this is that our brother Wayne has the least hair, and no one seems to put him in the wrong generation.  Go figure.  My personal equilibrium will be restored when someone thinks my sister is our youngest niece and nephew’s grandmother.  One can hope.

(Twenty-one years later, my sister is a grandmother. She is called GiGi, though at age four one of the kids told her she didn't need "two G's," she could just be Gi.)

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