If I manage to avoid the Lou Gerhig's, Alzheimers, and strokes in my genes, I envision myself as an eccentric, old lady in glamorous sunglasses, barreling down the highway in some 1950s convertible Ford (preferably turquoise or yellow). Wind in my blueish grey hair, not a care in the world.
The other morning I saw the Northwest version of that. There she stood in her ankle length, LL Bean, down trench. Strolling through the Pearl District that blustery morning, she was bundled up, but adorably classic, with her nicely combed grey bob and ballet flats. No purse, no umbrella, no dog, no spouse... just the little old lady and her big turquoise coat. Although she was striking in her simple style, for me, her biggest draw was her demeanor. As I tried to observe without looking like a stalker, I was charmed by the wander in her 80-year-old steps. No mission, no destination, no urgency, no stride (a stark contrast to my on-a-mission march down the block, squeezing parking and smoothie to-go in the 15 minutes before Bar Method).
Maybe widowed, maybe divorced, maybe her partner was at home or in a home. Whatever the case, she was alone and at peace. Or so I told myself in the narrative I constructed from my own hopeful projections. Fully herself, unphased by others' opinions, attuned to her body's natural pace, enjoying a solitary moment on an ordinary day.
As I recall it now I wonder... must I wait 'til my hair turns blue?
I love this!
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