What? Me elderly?

A few weeks back, I visited my sister and brother-in-law in Tucson. I had a midmorning flight, so Uber'd my Uber at 7:30 a.m. or so. 

The Uber arrived and the guy at first didn't pop the trunk for me to stick my roller bag in. I was gesturing to him to open the trunk, he was gesturing to me that it wasn't automatic and I had to actually lift it myself, when out from nowhere a woman appeared to provide me with help.

Actually, she didn't at first appear appear, because her voice was what I encountered first, and that voice was shrieking at the driver: "This woman is elderly! You have to help her. You need to get out of the car and help her."

Who you calling elderly, toots?

I told her thanks, I was fine, but she grabbed the roller bag out of my hand and shoved it into the backseat of the car. Where I didn't want it, as it's easier to get something out of the back of an SUV than it is to get it out of the backseat. 

Anyway, while she was shoving the bag into the backseat, she said to me, "I'll be there soon enough. I'm 58 and was just diagnosed with osteoporosis."

Thanks for sharing, sistah. (Sorry for your troubles, by the way.)

She wasn't done quite yet.

Moving around to the drivers side, she resumed yelling at the driver. "When you get to the airport, you need to get out of the car and help her. This woman is elderly."

What? Me, elderly? ME???

My reaction was mixed: embarrassment, annoyance, sadness. I have to confess that I did tear up a bit. (Oh, woe is elderly me.)

At the airport, I found that my plane was delayed, which would tighten the already tight connection in Dallas. So I asked the gate attendant what her sense was of whether I'd make the connection. She didn't have the gate info, but told me that they thought everyone would make their connections just fine.

She then asked whether I would like her to request assistance for me when I got to Dallas.

No, I'm good.

But when I got to Dallas, I wasn't so good.

I couldn't get service to check the gate for my Tucson flight, and there was no flight info board around. And, naturally, all the gate attendants were engaged.

So I flagged a guy speeding by on one of those elder transporters, just to ask him what gate my next flight was at.

He gave me the gate info, then told me to hop on.

Thus, I became one of the old geezers careening through a crowded airport to get to my next gate. Or to get to the Skylink to catch the tram to my next gate, as that's where they fellow left me off.

Fortunately, I made my flight with a couple of minutes to spare Which was a good thing, as the next flight was hours away.

I forgot to mention that, when I rolled on board at Logan, the young man sitting opposite my seat offered to put my bag into the overhead bin for me.

I was delighted to have his help, as the bag was heavy and I knew I was going to struggle a bit to heft it up.

He also took it down for me when we arrived in Dallas, even though taking it down is (marginally) easier than getting it binned. 

(On my other flights, I was also helped by other passengers - very nice men, all - and I was very grateful for their assistance, especially on my flights home, as my sister Kath had loaded me up with books, and my roller bag - heavy to begin with - was anvil-weight.)

So I guess I need to embrace the suck of being elderly, and take the good - people volunteer to help a gray-haired-little-old-lady - with the bad - who wants to be old?

Especially, me.

I don't (mostly) feel old. 

Despite the gray hair, I don't think I look old. (Thanks, Ma: I don't have all that many wrinkles. My mother and her mother were pretty much wrinkle-free.)

It could, of course, be worse.

Year ago, for a brief while, I subscribed to Ancestry.com, and in an attempt to lure me back - which they will no doubt do some day - they send periodic little hints on information available that I might find tantalizing. Sometimes it's duh obvious stuff, like I'm related to my niece. Sometimes it's that there's a fourth cousin I've never heard of out there. 

And the other day, I got an email that I had a couple of hints about people named Kathleen, Maureen, and Patricia Rogers. That would be me and my sisters. 

The hint for Kath would come from the U.S. Marriage Index. The hint for Trish would come from U.S. Public Records.

My hint? Well, that would come form the U.S. Cemetery nd Funeral Home Collection, 1847-Current.

Huh?

I took a screenshot and texted my sisters, asking them whether I'm dead and no one told me. 

Kath's response: "We sere waiting for your birthday to let you know."

Well, I may be kidding myself about not being (that) elderly, but I'm pretty sure I'm not dead. Yet.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

This is the print that elder-me is aptly posed in front of:  Yeats' "A Lover Pleads with Friends for Old Friends."