The Real Reason I Want to Live to Be 100

'Playing the old lady card' can be fun!

By

Bette Ann Moskowitz

 
Published June 04, 2026
Illustration of older woman proudly standing in line at grocery store
Amber Day

My mother died at the age of 99, a month short of her 100th birthday. She had just had a manicure, and I imagine if she had been able to comment, she would have said dying at that moment was a waste of good nail polish — this despite the fact that she had dementia for the last eight years.

Let’s get this out of the way: when I say I want to live until I’m 100, I mean only if I’m dealing from a full deck. I don’t want to live a life of diminished cognition or constant pain, so that cancels the wish. Aside from that, I very much enjoy being 86 and look forward to turning 87.

I have a persistent memory of my mother: we are in Florida, she is somewhere in her mid-80s, and we are crossing a big intersection. The light has changed and pedestrians are supposed to stop, but my mother does something she has done since I was a little girl. She steps into the road and holds up her hand like a traffic cop, stopping cars, because she doesn’t intend to wait.

Back then, I accepted it. I thought dragging a child into moving traffic was what every mother did. When I was a young adult, I disapproved, using it as proof of how uncompromising she could be. But that Florida day, though I was terrified of the action itself, I marveled at her power and confidence.

Not that I intend to cross any intersections against the light, but her energy and can-do attitude are something I value.

One of the things she did was what I used to call “playing the old lady card,” which she did by sometimes sweetly asking people to let her cut the supermarket line (implying “I’m too old, I don’t have time to waste, I could drop dead before I check out”), and sometimes by simply putting her desires and wishes first. She knew instinctively that “No” (as the saying goes) is a complete sentence. At the time, I was slightly embarrassed by how willful that seemed.

Then, about five years ago, I found myself making use of my age to get things done. I recognized it as “playing the old lady card,” but somehow, it didn’t seem so selfish or bad anymore. In this ageist society, it seemed to work by taking back some of my waning power.

From a supermarket request for someone to reach a top-shelf item to cancelling a date because I just don’t feel like going to asking someone to trade seats at a lecture because my (old) ears need to be up close and personal, I forge on.

After my husband died, the IRS mistakenly charged me thousands in back taxes we had already paid, and I was able to clear it up and get my funds restored in a relatively short time. This, by playing the widow card, a combination of “boo hoo poor me” and “let me lean on your capable shoulder.” I have used it since to get a credit card company to forgive a late payment and for a little extra attention from a plumber.

Someone mentioned that my playing the card could be moot if I just applied a little charm. I said, “You mean the charm card?” and then realized that I, and many of us, have been dealing from the same deck most of our lives. We play the roles expected of us because they will yield the right results. The mother card, the grandma card, the new widow card, all transactional, all effective.

Aside from the (slightly cynical) notion of these self-protective maneuvers as cards, they are tried and true ways for me to continue to live in the world as best I can. As my body needs help, I will ask for it. As I try to navigate my ignorance in the digital world, I will tell the technician straight out that I’m 86 and don’t know anything. People respond to a cry for help, so I think of it as appealing to their better nature.

As to why I would like to live to 100 despite the absolute certainty that with each year will come more strains and strictures, fewer things I will be able to do and more activities relegated to memories?

There will always be this:

The pleasure of sunshine on the side of my face, touching my hand.

The thrill of opening a book and looking forward to a new “once upon a time.”

The turning seasons. How I hate the cold and welcome spring and then change my mind and hate the heat and can’t wait for a nip in the air.

Stormy days when I am safe inside. The excitement of thunder and lightning.

My dog, slouching on my lap.

One more day with everyone I love.

One more sentence to write.

Bette Ann Moskowitz is a former songwriter, writer of fiction (Leaving Barney and Reading the Signs: A Schoolhouse Mystery) and non-fiction (the memoir, Do I Know You: A Family’s Journey Through Aging and Alzheimer’s and Finishing Up: On Aging and Ageism). Her most recent novel, Three Legs in the Evening, was published in 2023. She is a past recipient of the New York State Foundation for the Arts Fellowship for Literary Non-Fiction. Her blog, Vinegar Mother (vinegarmother.wordpress.com) is eight years old and still ongoing.