A Plan For My Future

I am taking bridge lessons. I cannot believe I am doing this. It has been thirty-five years. I played in college—much more than I studied. And then as a married person, I played in a women’s group and in a large group of married couples.

But, now? To be doing this now? I am riddled with ambivalence.

My son asks, “Why, Mom?”

 I respond, “As an investment in my old age.”

“But you are already old.”

 A bit unkind, but true. 

At the same time that playing bridge feels like some kind of weak-kneed concession to the traditional, single, senior citizen model, I have been envious of the bridge bonding that is apparent around me. When winter blizzards blast in our direction and we, at Southport Woods, are trapped by icy, unplowed roads, bridge games go on, the players pooling food resources and huddling together around card tables.

 Introverted as I am, I’d like that company, too. Introverts tend to write, read, walk and stare out of windows and introverts tend to isolate. Living alone, at a “certain age,” that is just not good.

At the classes, I play with very nice women who, like me, have a modicum of experience, and who are struggling to get back into the game. We listen carefully to our instructor, who clearly knows his stuff, and we play the hands he gives us with the dedicated concentration of a summit on world peace. And like those same summits, we make mistakes-- with less dire consequences, of course.

When I have to play a hand I am convinced that, as I struggle to remember what cards have been played, how many trump cards are still out, etc, the rusty, grind of the wheels in my brain must be  audible. I can literally feel the sluggish spin of my own mind as I try to re learn this game.

And the game has changed. I am, in bridge, as I am in any number of things these days, seriously out of date.

 I keep asking myself why I am doing this. To be a welcome newcomer in some assisted living facility one day? I guess so. To attempt to fit in—not something I’ve given a lot of thought to in my life thus far--but, yes. To make more friends who will “see me out,” as the expression goes? Yes, again. I don’t mean to sound bleak, but we are talking reality here!

Meanwhile, some blithe, ever hopeful, ridiculously youthful and optimistic part of myself that prefers to dwell only in the bright possibilities of life, has no wish to spend three hours—or more-- a week at a bridge table. This youthful me laughs at the idea of planning for a future surrounded by nice women who play bridge. Don’t be silly, it tells me; you will find something creative, something new and totally absorbing to do . . . by yourself.

I‘m glad I still have that voice inside me, and who knows? Maybe that is true, but right now, like acquiring long-term health insurance, I am learning to play bridge.

Various New York Times articles have asserted that playing bridge will  keep my mind alert and awake, may even stave off Alzheimer’s and dementia. I encourage myself by imagining the multitudinous new neuropathways being forged in my head as I try to remember what cards have been played.

When our two-hour class is finished my brain feels as if I have shoveled out new neurotrenches.

Nonetheless I persevere, looking forward to the pleasure of opening the bidding with a happy confidence. I do remember bridge being fun to play—in the old days when it didn’t make my hair hurt. 

Whatever my quirky resistance, my plan to learn this game is going forward. Five more weeks to go in this class and then maybe some more classes in the future. My investment in my old age: plowing steadily through the daunting fact that my old age is already here.