So now I’ve reached the age where people expect I won’t be
able to do certain things myself. I went over the hill maybe seventeen birthdays
ago but I don’t acknowledge I’ve even hit the upgrade yet. I can
certainly take care of myself and I don’t plan to give up activities like
tennis or travel. However, there are things I used to be able to do that don’t come so
easily anymore.
For example, I used to be able to open any kind of lid or
wrapper. My unladylike biceps are a result of years of work-outs at fitness
centers, and I still play a sport at least four times a week. However, three
out of four times I cannot open the top of an iced tea bottle. I usually hand
it to Charley, who struggles a bit and may tap it with a utensil, but succeeds. Is it because the arthritis in
my wrist is getting worse or is it because the brand I buy uses tightening
machines designed to frustrate me? I have now switched to iced tea cans.
Then there are the liners inside cereal boxes. I can never
pull the glued tops apart to open a new one. “Do they use Gorilla Glue on these
things?” I lament. Finally, I give up and use scissors.
The other day it took two of us to open a clear plastic
Q-Tip container. Adhesive labeling covered both ends. Once I had ripped all
that off, I tried to pry open two small protrusions on one side which I
thought were tabs. Negative. I
checked the other side. It was perfectly smooth with an indentation half-way
around. I pushed on the indentation. No luck. “Can you open this thing?” I
said, handing it to Charley. Negative. That’s when I pressed as hard as I could
on the top. Magically it flipped backward!
I sometimes walk into a room and forget why I’m there.
No-one can help me with that. I walk out and remember and walk back in again.
Dare I mention the hearing problem…both mine and Charley’s? I
have to repeat almost everything and ask him to turn
the television down when he says it’s already down. If he’s got it on and
shouts to me in the kitchen, I usually can’t hear him. “See? You can’t hear,
either,” he says.
When someone comes to clean our house, the beds are made, the
dishwasher emptied, and Charley has put dirty laundry in the washing machine. There
might be a chore I need to do like change a light bulb on a one-step stool or
gather up the scatter rugs to shake on the deck. “You shouldn’t be on that
stool!” the housekeeper admonishes. “You might lose your balance. And scatter
rugs are dangerous. You might trip.” I replay the refrain in my head and
realize I have now become my parents.
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| Pam's parents, Ev and Walt |
At least I know I’m not alone. I see other signs of aging
among those around me – on the tennis court, for example. After a few games,
one of the ladies might suddenly drop her racket and run in the direction of
the bathroom. Or one of the men might suddenly head toward the tennis shop. “I
forgot my drink,” he’ll say, holding up a bottle and stopping to talk to
someone through the fence upon his return, while the rest of the men wait on the court. Despite
an on-line schedule, we might have seven ladies show up instead of eight. Or
nine. Or one might begin to play in reading glasses that have to
be switched to the distance glasses left in the car.
And then there’s the matter of keeping score. In tennis, the
server is supposed to yell the score before each point. Some women are
perfectly silent. I’m never sure whether it’s because they don’t want to be
bothered or because they haven’t been able to keep track. Three out of four on
the court aren’t paying attention, anyway.
I’ve purchased little beads on a string to keep track of my
strokes in golf. That way my partner will still be talking to me when we finish. But first I have to remember if I moved a bead.