Today was an interesting day. A guy came round to change the filters in the HRV home ventilation system, something they do every two years. It was, as usual, uneventful, but it also ended up being a reminder of how old I am. It happens.
The guy who came today was different from the one who changed the filters the first two times, and it turned out that the operations in the Waikato were bought by a new company. Makes no difference to me obviously, and yet…
After he changed the filters, he checked the airflow from each of the five vents (they were all good, of course), then he sat down to fill out the paperwork, and said, “I don’t mean to be rude or anything, but do I hear an American accent?” He didn’t offer why he thought it might be rude, though legend has it that Canadians get tired of being assumed to be from their southern neighbour, which is ironic because these days it’d probably be best if people thought I came from north of that same border.
I said to him, “yes, that's where i came from originally.” He asked whereabouts, and I said, “Chicago”, which is literally the place I moved to New Zealand from, however, that reminded me that whenever my parents took me on holiday—whoops: “vacation”—and someone asked where we were from, she always answered, “near Chicago” (it was really about an hour’s drive from where we lived, but she knew no one in another state or country would know of the town we actually lived in).
The guy then reasonably asked, “how long have you been here?” I said, “30 years,” and he said, “Oh!” and paused no more than a split second before adding, “As long as I’ve been born.” I probably smiled a wry smile, knowing that I’ve actually been living here for closer to 31 years than 30.
That wasn’t the first time my age has been driven home for me, and it’s usually been inadvertent, except when it wasn’t. When I turned 60, Nigel had great fun saying to me, “Fuck you’re old!” Well, that and “I can’t believe I’m going to be married to a SIXTY year old!” I was so looking forward to being able to return the favour when he turned 60, but I never got the chance: He was 55 when he died.
The real truth is, I don’t actually care about how old I am, though sometimes I like to pretend I’m offended when someone mentions my age. Mainly, I’m on team “getting older beats the alternative”. However, I also know that the disconnect between my actual age and how old my brain thinks I am is widening, and I’ve read that’s quite common for people as they age. It certainly is for me, anyway.
I’m not sensitive about my age—it is what it is—but I’m definitely aware of it and of possible future issues. That’s why I started walking every day (except for sick days) for more than a year and a half, and why I started researching more things I can do that may help keep me in reasonably good condition as I get ever-closer to a true “elderly” age.
At the same time, I’m also keenly aware that getting older is a gift not everyone receives, and that’s particularly true this month: Next week is Nigel’s birthday, the seventh he never got to experience, just like the seven of my own birthdays he also never got to experience—or tease me about.
These are things I’m always aware of to some extent or other, but it’s usually front of mind only when something raises it up in front of my face and says, “Hey! You’re old!”. Today a guy innocently reminded me that I’ve lived in New Zealand longer than he’s been alive, and, of course, I also had an even longer life in my native land before that. There are plenty of other everyday things that can remind me, too, of course, but overall, I’d rather be reminded of my age than not be here to be reminded.
One thing is certain: There will be more reminders for as long as I live. And I’m fine with that.
I wrote a detailed post about the HRV system when it was installed in 2020.
No comments:
Post a Comment