Now maybe I'll consider living past 55. Maybe.

When my great grandmother died almost three years ago, I got a tiny peek into the life of the oldest generation of my mother's side of the family. And after seeing my inevitable fate of being a crotchety old woman with pack rat and poor gift-giving habits, I slammed that window shut and closed the blinds. Being old was for old people.

I inherited GGMA-M's 1984 Oldsmobile Cutlass, in which "inherit" translates as something that nobody could be paid to take. I sold that car last month a little because of the holes in the sides of it, and a lot because of the burgundy velvet interior. I upgraded last week for a beautiful little 1991 Geo Prizm. I call her Dot and she belonged to my great aunt Ruth. Ruth is 88 and has dementia which has shrunk her short term memory to approximately that of a goldfish cracker. I spent 20 minutes with her the other night and told her my name, age, major and familial position 10 times.
Despite the fact that she can't remember her cataract surgery three days ago, my name or where here glasses are, she is a complete and total firecracker. I saw her for the first time in my memory the other day and was astounded at how much of myself I could see in someone so incredibly different from me. She gave me shit about going to GirlLand, regaled me with stories of Macalester (her alma mater), and told me remote controls are ridiculous inventions that are for losers.

The picture below is my aunt Ruth. It's blurry because that's sort of how she sees life these days. Memory disorders scare me more than most forms of cancer and disease, but seeing this woman in all of her fiery glory was like a giant sigh of relief. Because at the end of the day, if we don't have our humor and sass, strong women have nothing.