The Lunch Report: My Magentic Lunch

We're all getting older, some of us more visibly than others.

I remember when "getting older" was a clichéd joke that I would hear "adults" use in a quasi-self-deprecating way.

I say “quasi” because Americans are generally bad at self-deprecation. A woman’s “I’m sooo old” usually comes off not as humorous self-indictment but as hopeless sincerity borne of extreme self-consciousness, begging to be rebuffed with a "don't be absurd, you're not old" from a caring friend. Meanwhile the caring friend diverts her eyes away from the crow's feet that seem to have mysteriously overtaken her friend’s entire face.

I guess I should have realized sooner that I was old. There have been so many clues, all of which I’ve willfully ignored or misinterpreted.

Maybe I should have realized it last weekend, when I stayed in a hotel in South Beach, Miami that manages to charge top Euro (now that only Europeans can afford America’s better hotels, “top dollar” is considered anachronistic) for mediocre rooms just because they house a decent contemporary art collection. The “contemporary artists” were 10-15 years younger than I. I always think of contemporary artists as 10 years older than I am. Maybe it was intended to be a collection of child-artists . . .

But today I finally realized I am old, and this is how I found out. . .

Today my shoulder and I had our first MRI in 18 years.* Eighteen years ago, we volunteered for an MRI, as part of an experiment, but today we needed an MRI. Last October I fell down the stairs and landed on my shoulder. First there was excruciating pain and then a series of doctors. I used to jump down flights of stairs for fun—since when did such a slight tumble require medical attention? Since when had the sturdy bones and cartilage that make up this invulnerable “me” become so fragile?

When I arrived at the imaging center, I was impressed by how much MRI culture had evolved. Of course there’s still the infamous clanging, but it has been muted with certain creature comforts.

MRI centers now offer music. My underage (under which age, I’m not sure) technician offered me a headset and asked whether I would like to listen to "80s" music. It wasn’t a good guess of my age—she had the patient info sheet and knew exactly what I would have been listening to in college.

As she slid me into the massive cylinder that would host the magnetic resonance session, I was looking forward to a light nap accompanied by New Order or Simple Minds. OMD’s “If You Leave” would certainly help me ignore the clanging. Instead, I was jolted awake somewhat by the sound of John Denver’s “Sunshine on My Shoulders.” At first I thought it must be a mistake but next came Captain & Tenille’s “Love Will Keep Us Together,” followed by Elton John’s “Bennie & The Jets.” I still remember listening to this 45 on my sister’s record player when I was 7 years old.

Without realizing there was any distinction to be made among the various pre-1990s genres of music, what she had actually put on were, as you surely recognize, 70s tunes. For her, 70s and 80s music was all part of a single prehistoric musical era that pre-dated CDs and iPods.

Yet, couldn’t she hear the difference? Couldn’t ANYONE with ears hear the difference? Maybe not—it wasn’t hyper-techno and there were no rap lyrics. To her ears, it was all a part of that uniform world of sound that preceded her musical consciousness. And I must be part of that uniform world of “older” people who would listen to such music. After all, what distinction is to be made between 42 years of existence and 52 years of existence—both represent a really long time.

And what do I have to say about this long long time I’ve been hanging out and existing? What did I have to show for it? Just as I felt a panicky midlife crisis moment coming on, it gave way to a midday epiphany.

One of the advantages of getting older is seeing the nuances that you could not appreciate when you were 19 or 20. Sure, maybe some wrinkles and grey hair come along with those nuances and subtleties, but, all in all, I think I’d rather be able to appreciate the finer distinctions I glossed over at age 20 (even if it means I have to color my hair to hide the grey) than actually be 20 again.

So today for lunch, I ate a little pride but gained a sense of peace.


Notes
*I was a subject of an experiment conducted by a friend who has since become an expert in studying the brain through magnetic resonance imaging. Dr. Fahmeed Hyder is a doctor passionate about his work and the only boyfriend I've ever had who gave me a picture of my brain for my birthday (and, for any ex-boyfriends reading this, not only do I in fact have a brain, but the MRI did not reveal any missing portions or general deformities).