The Complainer

It was early June—finally warm in Minnesota—and I was whining about how I had been waking up between 4 and 5 a.m. at least twice a month. My partner complained that his back was sore and soon we were lamenting the effects of sugar and gluten on our delicate digestive systems. He had also found more age spots on his head and I didn’t like having to use eyebrow mascara—imagine!

Detailing each new indignity had become a habit.

The next evening was the kind we Minnesotans live for—a cloudless blue sky framing leafy, tree-lined streets and a breeze that kept temperatures in the low 70s. Unable to resist the perfect weather, I set out with my greyhound to walk around the 55+ senior co-op that takes up an entire block across the street from ours. I was more than halfway around when I saw a tiny figure moving slowly down the far end of the sidewalk. Her waist-length salt and pepper hair nearly covered her narrow back, which curved over a walker as she took one small step at a time toward the corner. I recognized her dainty, full-length dress and my heart lifted at the sight of her.

I had met Priya a year earlier, after I had crossed the street to walk past the bench she occupied with her friends that day. I could feel from a distance that she wanted to pet my dog, so I had stopped to introduce myself and discovered she was a well-known writer and artist. We became instant friends, and during the warm weeks that remained of the summer we got to know each other in my backyard, at her apartment and on the bench across the street, whenever I caught her sitting there.

We’ve always believed we were destined to meet, and we love spending time together. I also know Priya cherishes her time alone and I take advantage of every opportunity to engage her, for whatever amount of time she decides she can spare. So a few weeks ago, when I spied her near the other end of the block, I increased my pace until I stood a few feet behind her. When I called her name to let her know I was approaching, she stopped and looked over her shoulder.

“Oh, Jen-ney,” she said in that rich lyrical voice I love, rewarding me with the lovely smile I had rushed to see. “Of course, it is you. And here’s your beautiful dog.”

For the next few moments, I watched her expressive, upturned face as she told me about the multi-media art she had been asked to display in the lobby of the co-op—the exhibit was scheduled for July and until then she’d be concentrating on assembling her work. She also mentioned that her legs had been bothering her, and was almost apologetic when she added that sometime during the previous night, the beginnings of a poem had come to her, which meant she would need to finish that along with everything else. Given her busy schedule, we would wait until later in July to shop together at the Asian food store we both loved. And of course, she would see me at the exhibit.

By that time we had reached the corner, where Priya turned left to head back to the building entrance and I turned right to cross the street. I was watching her navigate her path home when she turned and called to me one last time, to promise that we would get together in July.

“Ok. And I hope you feel better,” I called back.

“Oh, I don’t expect it will get much better,” she said with a smile of resignation. “It’s just part of this age, so there’s nothing to do but accept it. See you next month!”

I walked back to the house feeling oddly energized.

The next evening, I encountered another friend from the co-op. John had stopped his steady progress with a walker to say “hello,” but I could tell he wanted to keep moving, so we kept the conversation short. But on the home stretch of my walk I noticed John coming my way again and we stopped for a second time.

Turns out he circles that block five times, twice a day.

“I get in two miles every day,” said John, before continuing his evening exercise.

As I watched him laboring over his walker to complete his course, I thought about his enthusiasm. Within 24 hours I had run into two friends whose aging bodies limited what they could do physically, as well as where they could live. But an ailing body hadn’t stopped Priya from writing poetry, or John from doing his best to stay fit.

Something about John’s spirit had lifted my own.

But I didn’t have much time to think about it because a few moments later I saw another tiny body heading crookedly my way. This one belonged to a woman clutching a cigarette daintily in the hand she held out to one side for balance. I figured she lived at the co-op, and found myself anticipating how yet another octogenarian might surprise and even inspire me. She did not disappoint.

Dressed in a t-shirt and jeans that looked better on her than the same outfit would have looked on me in my fifties, Tina walked with her entire body slanted to one side. When she realized I was slowing down to speak with her she stopped to chat, looking up at me with one eye, while the other eye roamed up and to the side. Her light hair, which stood five or six inches straight out from her head—all over her head—suited her perfectly. Up close this woman was adorable, as she told me about the documentary on pit bulls she had just finished watching. I was thrilled to have met another dog lover. And for the rest of the walk my step was even lighter than before.

That was last week and I’m still thinking about Priya and her art. John and his exercise regimen. And my new friend and dog-lover, Tina. They’re friendly; they have goals; and they don’t seem to focus on their afflictions.

From now on I’ll look for them when I walk around their building. Because these people are my role models. They’ve lived full lives and their lives are full—of goals, dreams, determination, wisdom. And I’ll bet they all use hearing aids. So instead of complaining, I’ll pick up the ones I just ordered with eager anticipation of recapturing the sounds I’ve missed. The world hasn’t gone anywhere . . . and neither will I.