Dispatches from the Waiting Room of Act III

There I sat in a ophthalmologist’s waiting room with my daughter when I noticed something across from me: a half dozen men, all wearing various shades of khaki, white sneakers, and an air of polite resignation. Most were flanked by a spouse or an adult daughter – chauffeurs, companions, and quiet witnesses to this curious stage of life that involves a lot of sitting in exam rooms.

I was just about to share this clever observation with my own daughter, who had graciously volunteered as my post-dilation seeing-eye-human, when I stopped short. Because I realized I had officially entered the pre-boarding group of Act III.

Three incriminating clues:

1. I wasn’t wearing khakis, but my gray Dockers were just a couple shades darker than the official uniform.
2. I had debated this very day wearing my white sneakers, but was put off by laces. Who has time or the flexibility for that sort of Cirque du Soleil performance anymore? I reached instead for the black slip-ons even as I thought, This is how it begins.
3. Like my counterparts in this waiting room, I was there thanks to my daughter, acting as my designated adult.

Suddenly I remembered a moment from long ago in a church pew when I was 12-ish, whispering jokes to myself while drawing in the margins of the program. A caricature of a balding man with rogue hairs erupting from his nose and ears. The caption, which I thought was such comedy gold, read:

Old men have more hair in their noses and ears than on the tops of their shiny bald heads.

12-year-old me

I was proud of that line. Smug, even. It has stuck in my head all these years since to harangue me with each new curveball life has thrown me.

I’d like to go back in time and swat that kid with a hymnbook.

Flash forward. On the eve of starting a new job where most of my coworkers were closer in age to my kids than me, my daughters handed me three things:

• A wardrobe from this millennium
• A pair of wireless AirPods, along with a lesson in office AirPod etiquette for when you use one vs. both
• And a nose-and-ear-hair trimmer (without comment).

Message received.

I could almost hear my twisted version of the ghost of Dorian Gray snickering from some Victorian corner of the universe: 

You drew you, old man. Boom—roasted.

But here’s the thing I’m learning from these little mini-field trips into Act III I’ve been reluctantly taking: once you get past the indignities (and yes, there are plenty), you start to notice something else. A quiet kind of courage.

The folks in those khakis? The ones sitting patiently in ophthalmology offices and pharmacy lines? They’ve lived. They’ve endured. They’ve loved people who have grown up and now drive them home. They’ve lost people, maybe even their person. And some of them – even in spite of stiff knees and small print – are still doing and supporting good in the world. Still rekindling sparks. Still showing up with encouragement, advice, or maybe just a listening ear that doesn’t work quite as well as it used to.

We laugh, because that’s how we cope. But beneath the laugh lines and white sneakers, there’s resilience. And maybe even a bit of wisdom – though it’s often tucked behind the nose trimmer and wrapped in khaki.

So here’s to the ones who keep showing up. In waiting rooms, at family dinners, in creative circles and community meetings. We may be a few shades short of stylish, but we’re still in the fight. Still lacing up (or slipping on) our shoes – one way or another.