Senior's day out
Published Oct 26, 2020 04:18 pm
MEDIUM RARE
Jullie Y. Daza
With their masks and face shields on, are senior citizens distinguishable as 60, 65, 70, 75 years old?
Unless they’re bent and crooked, with utterly white hair and one hand holding a cane or walking stick, can security guards at mall entrances guess how old they are? Once upon a time, when Joe Guevarra the widely read humor columnist of the original Manila Times celebrated his birthday in his “open house” one Sunday, I greeted him, “Happy 71st, Joe!” And he replied, “But I look 70!”
Age is just a number, as seniors keep hearing that worn-out cliché, yet it’s more than a number. It’s how they stand, walk, move, socialize or not. There are 70-year-olds who look 80-ish (especially if they’ve lost all their teeth), just as there are 60-year-olds who could pass for someone much younger. In the age of the pandemic, seniors ages 60 and up are told again and again how vulnerable they are. Stay home unless the need to go out is “essential,” we are reminded. One group challenged IATF to defend their policy in court, which suit may actually have helped in prodding IATF to loosen the restriction and allow seniors up to age 65 to leave their domain since the lockdown began in March. They’re now in the same category as 15-year-olds.
In-between ECQ in March and GCQ in October, however, a strange thing happened. Within families, seniors found themselves being guarded by their children and grandchildren acting like jail wardens! The younger generations are more strict than IATF, the barangay captain, and the National Task Force COVID Shield! Taking to heart DOH’s nagging reminders that the elderly tally high mortality rates, their descendants watch the oldest members of the family like a hawk: No going out, Lolo; stay home, Lola, for your own good.
Last week, I had an essential reason to leave the comforts of my hermetic prison cell. Accompanied by my youngest children, I rejoiced as soon as we parked in the basement of the mall – thank God there are clinics in our malls! The world seemed almost normal but for the empty parking slots, vacant ladies’ rooms, the few shoppers about. The guards were most courteous, even if they didn’t say outright, “Welcome!”
Jullie Y. Daza
With their masks and face shields on, are senior citizens distinguishable as 60, 65, 70, 75 years old?
Unless they’re bent and crooked, with utterly white hair and one hand holding a cane or walking stick, can security guards at mall entrances guess how old they are? Once upon a time, when Joe Guevarra the widely read humor columnist of the original Manila Times celebrated his birthday in his “open house” one Sunday, I greeted him, “Happy 71st, Joe!” And he replied, “But I look 70!”
Age is just a number, as seniors keep hearing that worn-out cliché, yet it’s more than a number. It’s how they stand, walk, move, socialize or not. There are 70-year-olds who look 80-ish (especially if they’ve lost all their teeth), just as there are 60-year-olds who could pass for someone much younger. In the age of the pandemic, seniors ages 60 and up are told again and again how vulnerable they are. Stay home unless the need to go out is “essential,” we are reminded. One group challenged IATF to defend their policy in court, which suit may actually have helped in prodding IATF to loosen the restriction and allow seniors up to age 65 to leave their domain since the lockdown began in March. They’re now in the same category as 15-year-olds.
In-between ECQ in March and GCQ in October, however, a strange thing happened. Within families, seniors found themselves being guarded by their children and grandchildren acting like jail wardens! The younger generations are more strict than IATF, the barangay captain, and the National Task Force COVID Shield! Taking to heart DOH’s nagging reminders that the elderly tally high mortality rates, their descendants watch the oldest members of the family like a hawk: No going out, Lolo; stay home, Lola, for your own good.
Last week, I had an essential reason to leave the comforts of my hermetic prison cell. Accompanied by my youngest children, I rejoiced as soon as we parked in the basement of the mall – thank God there are clinics in our malls! The world seemed almost normal but for the empty parking slots, vacant ladies’ rooms, the few shoppers about. The guards were most courteous, even if they didn’t say outright, “Welcome!”