You Can Do This, Kid!
Sometimes the hardest part of getting older isn't the aches. It's believing you still deserve something that makes you smile.
Welcome to Pushing Ink, where we navigate the broken world of work, detour into pop culture, and occasionally embark on whimsy-filled side quests… among other hot topics
It has been quite the adventurous two weeks for yours truly, my friends. One could even go so far as to say it was a multitude of side quests.
I suppose.
Sorta.
Mind you, those 14 days did not involve a vacation but rather my work, wherein the busiest time of year is June, July, and August. Though nothing is busier than those first two weeks of summer once school lets out.
Such full days require a bit of extra oomph on my part (thus the break here on Substack). You know, copious amounts of vitamins, coffee, and silent, desperate wishful thinking. The days start far earlier than usual, go long, and expand over weekends.
To help me through, I wrote a countdown on the kitchen whiteboard, marking the new day every evening as a sign of progress toward the finish line. With each erasure, I’d tell myself, You can do this, kid!
Here’s where I must admit that some of those days I felt pretty discouraged. Some of it is simply me being me, always on the struggle bus trying to stay positive, one foot in front of the other. Suck it up, soldier! However, my age especially took center stage. My mind and body simply didn’t want to cooperate.
I suppose it would be one thing if some grace and dignity surrounded aging, but here in America, if you can’t bootstrap with a perpetual smile, wrestle a rabid grizzly bear with your bare hands and pearly whites (and win!), you’ll get left behind.
So behind.
Thus the effort to make hard work look like water off a duck’s back.
Or should that be a bear’s back, given the whole wrestling thing?
Eh.
Mind you, existing after the age of forty here in the good ol’ U.S. sometimes feels more like Logan’s Run. All that’s missing is the slick 1970s decor, silky robes, and the theatrical palm-raising just shy of a Star Trek rip-off.
Sure, our American society doesn’t eliminate people the moment they hit a certain age (though I’d argue our healthcare system has a way of making people of every age feel disposable). We just stop seeing those deemed old in some form or fashion. Old being subjective, of course. I mean, some would say 30 is old. Meanwhile, our government wants to change the retirement age to 70? All because 70 is the new 40, apparently!
All said, age has a funny way of humbling (and humiliating) all of us. We spend years assuming getting older is something that happens to other people. Then one day, you don’t walk nearly as fast as you used to, and people blow right past you on the sidewalk. There are the weird aches and pains from doing nothing more than turning your head or, dare I say, blinking. Opening a jar while home alone suddenly becomes an Olympic event. Oh, and you find yourself spending an egregious amount of time searching Google for THE word sitting right there at the tip of your tongue.
Oh, age, you rascal! It is such a strange thing to experience, let alone try to articulate to someone ten or twenty years your junior. The moment you do, they look at you like you’ve made some bad decisions in life or, at the very least, taken a wrong turn at Albuquerque.
Fortunately or unfortunately, age happens to all of us, if we are so fortunate.
Besides work, my car reminded me of the passage of time these last few weeks, too. My beloved 2015 vehicle went so far as to drop dead (and smoke a wee bit) about five minutes shy of my work destination one morning. Day six of the two weeks of chaos, to be precise.
I knew it was coming. My odometer had passed 140,000 miles the month before. The two of us missed out on the balloons and birthday cake in exchange for constant worry over every little out-of-place sound (and smell) the last 12 months or so. I had this desperate dream for my car to make it to December. You know, crossing the 2026 finish line on not so much a wing and a prayer as a collection of dashboard warning lights and my refusal to make eye contact with them.
Fortunately, a stranger came to the rescue as I sat stranded on a busy city street after crossing a set of train tracks. I’d managed to coast around the corner, but not quite enough to be out of everyone’s way.
As an older woman, you become so invisible, unnoticed unless a Karen or in someone’s way, that I hadn’t expected any help. I figured it was just going to be me and my dead, smoking car blocking traffic, waiting for someone to yell, “HEY, YOU CAN’T PARK THERE!”
Yet a nice gentleman appeared seemingly out of nowhere to help me push my sad little vehicle out of traffic before having me pop the hood so the two of us could peer into the depths. We could see nothing charred or out of place. Not that I really had any clue what I was looking at or for. I’m not so sure he did either.
We scratched our heads for several minutes, exchanging barbs about various makes and models, before I pulled my cell phone from my pocket to call for a tow (a whole story in and of itself), thanking this angel profusely as he left me to my own devices.
Or is that ruin?
I was grateful when the tow truck arrived far more quickly than expected, the young driver kind and informative. My preferred repair shop was, as always, attentive and wonderful, even as the bad news unfolded.
My old, hoping-to-reach-December car was now a paperweight unless I wanted to spend a hefty sum replacing the engine.
“Well, you tried, ol’ girl,” I whispered, imagining a number on the kitchen whiteboard not for me but my car. I just wanted her to last another six months. Now we had to erase the six for one big, fat zero.
Sigh.
I hate cars, but they are preferable to a horse and buggy, I suppose.
Anyway, here’s where things get interesting.
My age was already heavy on the brain. I felt invisible and defeated, and now I needed to replace my car.
Reluctantly, my husband and yours truly headed to a used car lot. We weren’t expecting much given the current state of everything. If nothing else, I figured we’d spend the better part of a day wandering from one car lot to the next while I silently reminded myself to suck it up. It could be worse. I could be hitchhiking to work every morning. Or worse, carpooling.
That’s when a small, blazing red car caught my eye. Every little brain-file on vehicles I’d carefully tucked away suddenly burst wide open. She was exactly what I’d had in mind for the better part of a year. I mean, I knew my old car was on borrowed time, even with my desire for her to make it as long as possible. Me being me, I’d done a little bit of homework. I’d tucked away some calculations, makes and models in that brain-file, hoping against hope I wouldn’t have to retrieve them until 2027. Maybe even 2028!
Do I hear 2030?!
Hey, a gal can have ridiculous car hopes.
The used car was in my budget. Well taken care of.
We gave her a good test drive.
We poked and prodded.
Did the whole car history thing.
I got her.
In fact, the whole process went so blindingly fast that, after days of galivanting about two counties in a splashy red, new-to-me car, I find myself wondering if I’ve gone too far. I feel guilty. Like I don’t deserve something this bold (but in budget!) because I’m an old woman.
Preposterous, right? Yet, there it is.
I spent two weeks feeling invisible and defeated, and the second something bright and shiny puts a smile on my face, I have to fight the urge to apologize for it.
What do you think?
Until next time, my friends—take your breaks, chase a side quest or two, breathe, and be ready to lead with a little whimsy.
Beth aka The Pushing Ink
Now for some humor
About me
I’ve been fascinated by the broken world of work (and other random hot topics) for as long as I can remember. My first job was at 12, delivering newspapers—an early lesson in unpredictability, absurdity, and human weirdness. Since then, it’s been one head-scratching employment adventure after another.
I initially went back to school late-ish to become a divorce counselor, but life nudged me toward what actually excites me: poking at the quirks, snobbery, and chaos of work itself. I earned a bachelor’s in Applied Psychology (work psych) in 2014 and a master’s in Organizational Leadership in 2018.
I’ve spent decades bouncing in and out of newspapers (city beats, courtrooms, the whole nine yards) and wandering through the nonprofit world’s strange corridors. Now, with Pushing Ink (a former newspaper column turned passion project), I write about leadership, people-pleasing and the tyranny of niceness, along with pop culture, humor, the occasional absurd sidequest, absurdism, and more.
Still very much a work-in-progress like myself, you can find me online under The Pushing Ink on YouTube and other social channels (minus the former bird app), where I keep experimenting with whimsy, insights, and chaos.