“Shit,” I shrieked, as the stemmed goblet hit the tile floor and shattered, spreading the rich red Pinot Noir under the fragments and shards of glass. This was the antithesis of my usual routine upon arriving home from a full day managing 7-year-olds while teaching them to share, read, and control their emotions. I was in my 20s, enjoying my first teaching position, and the independence that comes with self-sufficiency. My standard practice on a weekday was to savor the silence as I crawled through the snail-paced traffic of Los Angeles to my cozy one-bedroom apartment. Upon arriving, I pulled into my designated parking space, retrieved the mail, and dropped my purse, jacket, and stack of schoolwork on the entry table. I would grasp the open bottle of my favorite wine on the kitchen counter and pour a more than half full glass as I dropped down to the faux leather sofa. I was exhausted.
Unfortunately, this day was different. After the mishap caused by juggling a handful of solicitations and the glass of fermented grapes, my emotions got the best of me. I was having a tough time practicing what I preached to those bright-eyed children.
Early evening was my favorite time of the day. The calm and quiet was welcome after keeping order in the classroom of 30 wiggling bodies. But now, as the wine flowed into the grout, I mumbled more expletives and grabbed a wet towel to clean up the mess. “Damn it! What the f**k?”
I never thought much about my use of unacceptable words said in anger, frustration, or humor. Didn’t we all do that? Years later when I became a mother, I tempered my use of profanity. No one wants to hear a five-year-old swear like a sailor, mimicking his parents.
An occasional slip of the tongue by my husband or me in front of the children was always followed by, “Daddy (or Mommy) is bad! That’s a bad word. We shouldn’t say those words.” And when the kids occasionally slipped, they were reprimanded with, “You know you are not supposed to say that. Sit here by yourself for a bit and think about it.”
Outside influences by other kids, on TV shows, and social media countered all parental teaching by spouting those “dirty words” without hesitation. It took a conscientious effort to ensure the kids avoided watching profanity filled shows then blurting out something inappropriate on the playground—or to their parents.
Now that the kids have left the sheltered conversations of their youth and are adults, we are free to say whatever we are comfortable expressing and in whatever company. We have friends and acquaintances whose natural conversation is peppered with vulgarity. Then there are those who righteously declare, “I never swear.”
Who cares? I say, chill. If is not a personal slight, or offensive toward any religion, race, ethnic group, disability, or provokes violence, then “Save it for the important things” as my mom used to say.
In my seasoned years, when the bloom on the flowers is fading, I find myself reacting to different offensive words. My definition of senior profanity includes different “dirty words.” Forget the F word, the C word, the B word, and all the others designated by letters of the alphabet.
When we get together with friends, the conversation always heads down a path to gloominess. All roads seem to lead to physical health, or lack of it. There is no escaping. A simple question, “How was your trip?” can quickly segue into, “My stomach didn’t agree with the food, and I had diarrhea the entire time. I couldn’t wait to get home.” An equally friendly inquiry such as, “How is the golf game going?” might result in a description of an injury, physical therapy, aches and pains, and medication. There is no safe topic for us oldies that does not lead to the dark side.
I wonder if we can somehow put a curse on these curse words?
I propose that these irreverent words leading to depressing thoughts be avoided for the good of the aging. Keep the talk about surgery, obituaries, funerals, heart attacks, sleep apnea, incontinence, and any mention of doctor’s appointments OUT. Keep the pacemakers, titanium joints, and insulin patches undercover.
I am aware that it is easy and natural for us oldies to fall down this rabbit hole. During our third act of life, we all have some issues … but who wants to hear them?
Can we just stick to retelling old jokes? Can we discuss the Hunger Games even though our friends might think these refer to the skimpy meal served at a new restaurant in town? Can we throw a handful of beaded bracelets on our wrists and pretend we are Swifties? Can we brag about seeing the Barbie movie and say it was KENough?
Maybe we could talk about sex, but I doubt there is anything we haven’t said in the past half-century.
If the conversation doesn’t come naturally, let’s just talk about the weather. At least then we can all agree that the forecasters usually get it wrong, and we can hope for sunny days ahead. When all else fails and someone mentions one of the newly defined “dirty words,” I recommend giving them a time-out or opening another bottle of wine to share, and giving a toast to all of us for making it this far.
Suzi Schultz Gold is a native of San Diego, California, as was her father. Her entrepreneurial spirit, along with inherited restlessness, has led her down many paths. Though she has relished stints in retail, education, marketing, and travel, change is what drives her. She continues to grow and in retirement is trying to live in the moment—writing, reading, traveling, spending time with her children and grandchildren, and looking for new ventures and experiences.