The wonder and the worry

The list of things I cannot change has never been more apparent than it is now.

I am hampered by both the meagerness of my pockets and their depth. 

I am driven to the edge of frustration by the mind set of those around me and my inability to see how they reached such a impasse.

The unbelievable thirst for violence I find in entertainment dismays me.

Walking, I look into the faces of those I pass and wonder, "What do they see?"  An old lady lumbering down the walk ways of a world rapidly going faster and faster, or a grandma still spry enough and wanting enough to get out here and join in?

I have reached that age I thought about as a child when I wondered what it was like to be old. Now I wonder what old is.  Is it gray hair hiding under a made up façade, or youth tucked up under a fading shell?  Is it a mind set and if it is, whose?  Mine, or the people looking at me?  Does it come with venerability or infirmity?

I remember thinking grandmas were supposed to be people with white hair tied up in buns, who wore little gold glasses perched on the end of their noses and spent their time knitting socks and baking cookies.  That was an outdated concept 63 years ago, so it certainly isn't true now.  Maybe it never was.

It makes me think that I am not so different from the grandmothers of ages past.  We are still the same people we always were -- full of wonder and worry, but understanding now that the first is much more productive.