Of Common Denominators

The other day, I learned that when I renew my driver’s license in Colorado (mercifully not until 2012), I can do it only for five years instead of the ten before that magic 65th birthday and that a letter from a licensed optometrist or opthamologist certifying that I have had an eye examination in the previous six months must accompany me. I guess that the Motor Vehicle Division no longer trusts their own tests to determine that I can see. Now they want corroboration.

This doesn’t really bother me—after all, it could be worse--I could have reached the age where I have to submit a doctor’s report that I am physically able and mentally alert enough to be trusted on the road—but it does make me reflect on how one day I am competent and to be trusted and then, come the magic 65th, next day everything has changed. It makes me understand the angst of the airline pilots who are suddenly grounded in their fifties. It also makes me understand what my late husband used to call the lowest common denominator, in this case the clear worse-case scenario that EVERYONE over a certain age is in the early stages of Alzheimers or about to stroke out and thus is a potential hazard on the road that must be removed before the damage can be done.

Now, I don’t deny the inevitable effects of aging. No one—least of all me—denies it or the physical problems it brings. I’ve blogged about some of them. Nor do I oppose extra requirements for older drivers any more than I oppose them for very young ones. What bothers me is the arbitrary line beyond which competence has to be proved based on the assumption that an aging population necessarily means an increasingly incompetent one. It’s a matter of pride and perhaps a little fear. If I can’t drive, given the way that American suburbs are dependent on the automobile, I would be a prisoner in my own home. Fortunately, I can’t see any reason that would happen, but the idea has been planted.

While I will follow whatever requirements I must to renew my license when the time comes, I hope I can do it with a slight smile and shake of the head as some bureaucrat reads the letter on my eye exam to see if it meets her standard. I hope my optometrist has the grace to smile and shake her head when she signs the letter for me. I want to believe that these requirements are silly when it comes to me, even if society is doing everything possible to make me part of a group of people aged in a spread between 65 and 100 all of whom have been classified as pretty much over the hill.

Over the hill? Last week I took my grandson white-water rafting. We signed a release about the inherent dangers of the activity—these included banging into rocks and falling out of the boat and drowning. Thank God, they didn’t have anything about the additional dangers of white-water rafting while being over 65. I was just another thrill-seeker with the upfront bucks to pay for it. I got the same instructions as everyone else. There were no special precautions, and everything was fine. It was a lovely day in the mountains, the river was running high, and while paddling madly, I was able to forget my age and everything else and just have fun.