My "Do-Not" Lists

 

After age sixty, there were things I could still wear (but really shouldn't have):

 1. Skirts too tight or too short. Mini's were out. No-one's bumpy knees or calves knotted with varicose veins were attractive. Likewise, the rolls around my gut couldn't be hidden by anything tight-fitting unless it was a corset, which aren't produced anymore.

 2.  Plunging necklines. Wrinkled or leathery cleavage wasn't an asset.

 3.  Red dresses. I looked like a male cardinal on steroids.

 4.  Anything that had "pouf" in its name. Why did I want to look as though I had additional cellulite around my thighs or hips?

 5. Sleeveless tops, unless exercising. The flaccid "angel wings" hanging below my arms were hideous.

 6.  Pants with pleats around the waist - added ten pounds!

 7. Pencil-thin jeans. My muscular calves were bound so tight they cramped.

 8. Pants with wide cuffs. Heels got caught in them (who wants to tumble?) and they got filthy as soon as I sat down.

 9.  Heels that were pointy or over three inches high. My bunions screamed and the formerly dislocated disc in my back warned me, "You'll be in therapy again!"

10. Anything that didn't have an underwire in the bra (as in swimsuits). No such thing as perky, pointy boobs anymore!

After age seventy, there are things I THINK I'm ok with (but really am not):

 1.  Making an introduction. I may have no clue what my best friend's name is, even if I'm staring at her!

 2. Walking into a room without having written down why I'm entering. I may have to leave and re-enter to remember what I'm there for.

 3. Spending all morning looking for my glasses. They're usually on the top of my head.

 4. Eating anything with garlic. The reek lasts well beyond several applications of toothpaste and mouthwash.

 5. Removing my shoes for any reason in front of anyone but my husband. The bunions are grotesque! At least at the beach I can bury them in sand.

 6. Getting out on the dance floor to join twenty-somethings in their latest groove. Especially true for limbo contests! My body refuses to become a pretzel.

 7. Eating any food in any quantity. Ditto for liquor.

 8. Skipping the flu or Covid shots or forgetting to take my eight vitamins and cholesterol pill each night.

 9. Travelling alone. I'm not looking for any kind of adventure without a guide to rescue me.

10 . Signing up as a chaperone for a teenage grandchild's class trip. Child will never speak to me again.

11. Applying make-up that will cover blemishes and bruises. Must be scraped with a putty knife!

12. Applying mascara that looks like cat's whiskers except they've relocated around my eyes. Or wearing those old cat's-eye glasses!

13. Going through a buffet line more than once. There wouldn't be enough Tums in my nightstand to get me through the night.

14. Wearing stockings. They eventually sag around the ankles and they're sooo 70's.

15. Trying to copy Jennifer Aniston's waist-skimming or feathered hair styles. Ear-length is the asolute max that won't blow into my eyes (or glasses) and make me look like a wanna-be 60's hippie.

16. Attempting to set up anything electronic unless my grandchildren have already pre-programmed it.

17. Attending a grandchild's sporting event and cheering so loudly the opposite team turns to stare at the old lady, while my grandchild's team whispers behind their hands, "Is that your grandma?"

18. Trying to sleep through the night (unless you're a man). Herbal and green teas, sleep aids, reading till midnight, bathtub jets, bath oils, and sleep masks do not perform as advertised! 

My Bra Life

 In the early days of our marriage, before I had kids, I could still wear plunging necklines. In fact, I enjoyed the sidelong glances I got walking into a party, sometimes with just pasties under my dress. The bras I bought were lacy blacks, plunging reds, or strapless florals that could be easily unhooked. Sports bras were no problem, their crisscross straps slipping easily over my head. In those days, before arthritis began its slow march into my shoulder joints, I could raise my arms over my head.

Now I walk through department stores, looking at strapless dresses I remember purchasing in a distant past.

(from Pinterest)

My favorite was a white with bright pink hydrangeas that had a built-in bra which I didn’t fall out of.

Today I shop for bras that are beige and have heavy-duty straps with underwires that lift and shape. They support the sinking boobs that have nursed nine-pound babies and hang like melons waiting to be lifted into their bra cups. My husband claims drooping boobs don’t matter to him. But they do to me. My back and shoulders have begun demanding, “Help!”

Fortunately, I have found the perfect bra that does as advertised. First I had to be measured by a consultant. No problem there, since my daughter-in-law knew the routine and this was a piece of cake for her. The bras were shipped to me, they lifted and separated, and I bought one each in black, gray, and nude. They definitely performed their advertised task, but no-one would call them sexy!

My fondest memories of bras are those that remained in the drawer, never-worn. Gone are the days when I didn’t need any…until I lose my marbles and simply throw a tee shirt over my chest!

  Mrs. Claus apron

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Aging Hands and Other Mishaps

They say you can tell a woman’s age by looking at her hands. Which puts me at about one hundred!  Let’s just say that my hands will never be models for a sculpture, unless it’s outside a skilled nursing facility.

Earthworm

One of my granddaughters once asked me why I had blue worms on the backs of my hands.  The veins are raised and twisted, in-between the now protruding knuckles. I gave her a lengthy explanation of what veins do, and told her she had them in her hands, too. The only problem was, we couldn't find them!

When I go for blood work, the lab nurse never fails to exclaim, “Oh, these are beautiful!” I look at her like she’s not playing with a full deck. Then she explains that I’ll never be traumatized by having a succession of needles poked into my hands (or forearms) trying to find a vein. And that if one collapses, I’ll have plenty of others to choose from. That’s supposed to make me feel better?  

There are operations where plastic surgeons inject YOUR OWN fat into your hands to plump them up.  The operation is a mere $5,000/hand. But then, I do have some rolls I’d like to get rid of! 

Almost as offensive as the veins are the small round bruises. I’m not even aware of doing it, but if either hand bumps against something, a small purple mushroom appears. My mother used to call them “age” or “liver” spots. She had to take Coumadin to thin her blood, then an aspirin regimen to replace the Coumadin. I don’t know if the blood thinners were related to the spots, but I take neither and my hands always look like a Jackson Pollock painting.  

Tonight my right hand sports a new wound across the thumb. That’s from cutting it on the door latch of my locker, while storing my golf bag. So in addition to the blue worms and purple mushrooms, I have a red badge of courage. The courage was just for going out on the golf course!

Then there’s the lump and blue/black bruise on my shin. I know I’m digressing from the hands, but it’s the same beat-up body. In a tennis match I whacked myself with my racket as I followed through during my serve. An ugly hematoma appeared instantly, and my opponents were gracious enough to let me sit with an ice pack for ten minutes so I could elevate the leg. The lump is gone, but the blue-black three-inch bruise remains. You can actually see the indentation of my racket against my shin. 

 I guess I could sit at the computer all day, or on the sofa. But my blue worms need exercise!

 

Over the Hill

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.

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.

An Inheritance from My Dad

     My father commuted from Connecticut on the train every day to NYC till he was in his mid-seventies.  On weekends he transformed the wily brook on our property into a tamed stream and built a bridge; he sowed and reaped vegetables and fruits; he mowed two acres; he planted, then transplanted, a nursery of evergreens.  He never lacked exercise.

     Dad would slather mayonnaise on his sandwiches and layer each piece of toast or muffin with several swipes of margarine before adding the jelly.  Every evening after dinner he would enjoy a frozen yogurt.

     After their move to Florida in their eighties, Dad's new doctor suggested a cholesterol test.  The total reading was around 350 - off the charts.

     The doctor prescribed a cholesterol-lowering statin pill.  Dad began the treatment but within a short time resembled Big Bird.  His liver was malfunctioning.  The doctor prescribed another statin and another.  Dad couldn't tolerate any of them, and there weren't many to choose from back then. Both he and the doc gave up and Dad went back to his routine -  a bowl of cereal for breakfast with toast (covered in margarine) and banana, a sandwich for lunch (with mayonnaise), and whatever Healthy Choice frozen dinner my mother stuck in the microwave, followed by frozen yogurt.

     He lived to be 95.

     I am my father's daughter.  My body is on overdrive producing cholesterol.

     What is cholesterol?

     Cholesterol is a type of fat found in our blood.  The body needs cholesterol to function.  It occurs naturally in every cell of the body.

     HDL (High Density Lipoprotein) or "good" cholesterol is one of five major groups which enable fats to be carried in the blood stream.  Other lipoproteins which enable fats to be carried include LDL (Low Density Lipoprotein or "bad" cholesterol).  In healthy adults, approximately 30% of cholesterol in the blood is carried by HDL.

     LDL's function lies in its use in cell membranes, as well as the making of hormones and Vitamin D. However, since our cells take only what they need, excess levels of LDL can enter blood vessel walls and build up under the lining.  Deposits are called plaques.  The "good" cholesterol or HDL acts as a scavenger, picking up excess LDL "bad" cholesterol and delivering it to the liver, where it's broken down. If there is too much excess, deposits can clog arteries, restricting blood flow (hardening of the arteries).  A blood clot may eventually result in a heart attack or stroke.

     I have always lived a healthy lifestyle.  I've played tennis for forty years.  I go to the fitness center and use cardio machines, free weights, and long-and-short muscle machines twice a week.  As a New Englander I eat fish regularly - sometimes more than three times a week.  I enjoy fruits and I mix a fiber drink every night.  I am a lifetime Weight Watcher and panic when I'm five pounds overweight. Sometimes I'm so sick of salads for lunch that I rebel and eat a wrap.

     My HDL "good" cholesterol is very good.  Although it fluctuates, at this moment my LDL "bad" cholesterol is very bad.

     I had no discipline while the grandchildren visited.  I ate Easter candy, frozen yogurt (with hot fudge), cheeses, pastas, and cake.  I ate nuts and homemade breads and chocolate chip waffles with syrup.

      After many trials, the doctor found a statin I could tolerate without resembling my father's sunflower yellow.  It will have to suffice while I revert to my healthy diet.

     The doctor told me there's a monthly shot that's been developed which he's testing on a few patients.  It costs $800/shot.  Seriously??

     Thanks, Dad, for the inheritance.  I'll take my chances with your longevity any day.

Sleep

This post is by Don Weiss, pharmacist, friend, and author of the murder mystery, Picture Perfect, available on Amazon.

Men of a certain age enter what is called the Age of Prostatism. Although it sounds vaguely religious, it has nothing to do with religion. Unlike the Age of Enlightenment or the Age of Reason, the Age of Prostatism refers to the time in a man’s life when the prostate gland begins to enlarge. This may lead toward the possibility of developing Prostate Cancer for some of us. For most of us, it means that we will be getting up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom (maybe two or three times a night), disrupting an otherwise peaceful night’s sleep.

History describes how young Indian braves were given water to drink on the eve of battle so that the would be up early ready for the fight ahead of them.

I’d be willing to bet that the young warriors had to stand in line behind the tribal elders to get to the bathroom.

An ever growing prostate is only one of the reasons for interrupted sleep. As we age our need for sleep seems to diminish. Maybe it’s God’s way of telling us that “Hey, you don't have that much time left, so don’t waste it!”

When I was a young man living in my bachelor apartment, I could sleep uninterrupted for eight, nine, or even ten hours. Once I slept through a fire alarm and when I was in college, I slept through an earthquake. Those were the days, my friends. Now it’s up at 3:30 a.m. on the dot to stumble to the bathroom and stumble back to bed. Sometimes I can go back to sleep, other nights I can’t. So what do I do?  I lie awake, thinking, looking back on my life (I recently turned 64), or I get up and write a blog post.

The New Technology

This guest post is written by my pharmacist friend Don Weiss.  His murder mystery, Picture Perfect, is about to be released.  Check it out in e-book or paperback form on Amazon or Barnes and Noble!

Hello, fellow sexagenarians. I’m typing this blog post on my brand spanking new computer. It is light, fast, and pretty darned near amazing compared to my old machine. Which brings me to our topic—technology.  First, let’s harken back to those thrilling days of yesteryear.

For my twelfth birthday, I received a compact transistor radio, complete with leather case and earphone.  Raise your hand if you know what a transistor is?  Give up?  It’s a tiny device invented by two guys at Bell Labs that started the whole tech revolution. I had that little radio for years. I wasn’t married to it like kids are today, and I sure didn’t treat it like a disposable commodity. And for years, nothing better came along. Then sometime in the mid-seventies, things began to change. Two guys working out of their garage came up with something called the Apple II personal computer, and another revolution began.

It’s always amazed me how quick we are to embrace technology and how little about it we understand. Televisions used to come in big, heavy, wooden cabinets. We got three channels, and the broadcast day ended with a test pattern. Show of hands again. How many remember the test pattern?  The test pattern stood for two things: the end of the broadcast day or the Russians had just unloaded their entire nuclear arsenal in our direction, and we were to stand-by. We had to constantly adjust the vertical and horizontal hold and fiddle with the “rabbit ears” to clear up a fuzzy black-and-white picture.  But despite the primitive nature of the set, most of the programs were pretty darned good. Now our sets are 55 inch wide, ½ inch thick, ultra-high definition marvels of technology with computer interfaces. I have a satellite dish on my roof instead of a flimsy metal antenna and at least 2500 channels beamed down from a satellite hovering 22,000 miles above the planet in outer space.  Mostly, I watch the Discovery Channel, Netflix, and A&E., which brings me to my brand new laptop computer.

My daughter, Amanda, who is now 25 years old, sat with dear old dad to help set up my new machine. Mans (as I call her) was born in 1990.  She grew up with computers, cell phones, iPods, iPod minis,

PlayStations I, II, and III, Wiis, laptops, tablets, e-readers, and all of the other 21^st century marvels. She instantaneously adapts to every new gizmo that comes out of Silicone Valley. When she was a student at Florida Atlantic University, some of her courses were on-line. Why did it cost so much if my daughter didn’t have to leave her room to attend class?  When I attended university, I had to be there rain, shine, sleet, snow, or hail. Slide Rules ruled the day and the few computers we used had punch-cards. Anyone see a job for a key-punch operator lately?  I do take comfort in one thing. If all of our technology suddenly disappears, as a writer I can still sharpen up a few number two pencils and grab a piece of paper.

Ear Hair

For a lighthearted look at aging from a man's perspective, I turned to my friend, mystery writer, and pharmacist, Don Weiss, for a guest blog.

Today’s essay can be summed up in two words—ear hair.  Of all the bodily changes that come with the aging process, why has God in his infinite wisdom granted us the curse of ear hair and its companion plague, nose hair?  I mean come on!  Sure we’ve gotten used to our hair gradually turning gray, our bodies sagging where they never sagged before, but really God— ear hair!  What did we do to deserve that?

 

As teenagers we coped with acne, gawkiness of limb, hormones going off the charts, girls becoming women before our very eyes, the promise and freedom of driving, and rebellion from authority. But we were uncertain about so many things, and we felt free to test the waters. We were becoming self aware like no other time in our lives  When we were young and part of the youth culture, the whole world lay before us. Now a good portion of that world lies behind us.

In our twenties we were embarking on our careers and beginning to raise our families. We had a path and a direction and we were still young. We were learning how to be grown-ups.

In our thirties and forties, we were in the thick of our careers. Our children were going through their own teenage angst, and we were thinking about approaching middle age. That’s when we started to notice some gray in our hair.

Pam's father, Walter Plumb

By our fifties those gray hairs may have outnumbered the brown, black, red or blond hair that we grew up with, and for many of us men, our hair had begun to thin. Our children were grown, and if we were lucky, were out of the house.  For some of us, the first grandchildren had made their appearance.

In our sixties, the uncertain certainty that we felt as teenagers returned with a vengeance. All of a sudden, nothing makes sense and the inmates are running the asylum. We find ourselves seeking out the early bird special at restaurants, we have absolutely no understanding of the music that our kids listen to, and our bodies are changing as dramatically as they did when we were teens.

Then one morning while performing our daily ablutions, there it is—ear hair.  ARRGGGG! 

Another Necessary Evil of Aging

Because of my husband's report from the doctor this week that his colonoscopy revealed a "pristine cylinder," I am reproducing this blog post from July, 2012.  Just honoring my vet on Veteran's Day.          

U.S. Air Force Lieutenant
1966

I was working on a machine at the fitness center when I overheard this conversation next to me.

John  (standing in a UMass teeshirt, dripping sweat that barely missed the gray-haired professor-type
          in white socks halfway up his shins, trying to do sit-ups on the bench under John):
         "You've never had a colonoscopy?  How old are you?"

Professor-type:  "I'm sixty-five."

John:  "Your doctor let you get away with that?"

Professor-type:  "I just didn't bother."

John:  "So this will be your first?"

Professor-type:  "That's right, and I'm not looking forward to it."

John:  "Well, the actual procedure isn't so bad, unless you've had a problem with anesthesia.
            You're sedated, you know."

Professor-type:  "I only had anesthesia once, and I was real groggy after."

John:  "Then you'd better be sure to bring someone to drive you home.  You won't know where
           you are, but you have to be there so early in the morning that by the time you're
           finished, it's only 10:30.  You can still go back to bed.  Anyway, it's the day before
           that's brutal."

Professor-type  (still in halfhearted sit-up routine):   "That's what I hear."

John:   "Well, the liquid you drink is a lot better than when I first started.  That stuff was like
            brake fluid.  Now you can get these little bottles of Citrate of Magnesium.  Unless
            you have a problem taking magnesium."

Professor-type:  "No."

John:  "That's lucky.  You have to make sure the Citrate of Magnesium is clear.  There's a
           lemon flavor.  Stay away from the cherry.  You have to finish the whole bottle around
           6 o'clock.  So you'd better plan to take off work the day before, because you have to
           take Ex-Lax pills in the afternoon. They react on some people fast."

Professor-type:  No response.  Still doing half-speed sit-ups.

John:  "And you have to drink 64 ounces of water.  That's the most
           important part.  The water flushes your kidneys.  So like I said, you could react fast or
          slow."

Professor-type:  "Got it."

John:  "For me, things started to get interesting around 7 o'clock. I'd suggest a portable t.v. in the bathroom,
          or a magazine."

Professor-type:  "Thanks for the tip."

John:  "Of course, you can't eat anything all day, so you begin to get hungry the more you sit on
           the can.  But you can't drink anything after midnight, either."

Professor-type:  "I'm sure I won't be thinking about eating."

John:  "Well, I had to run every half-hour all night.  You might be different.  When
            it got clear, that's when I knew I was about done."

Professor-type:  No longer doing sit-ups, putting a towel over his head.

Pam:  Stifling laughter, jumps off the machine and runs to the mats.  Stretches in hilarity.

P.S. - I've had two colonoscopies and wouldn't skip one for the life of me (and the two friends
          we lost to colon cancer).
     

Sixty Is a New Sixty

In anticipation of the 2014 publication of my book, ELDERLY PARENTS WHO HAVE ALL THEIR MARBLES: A SURVIVAL GUIDE FOR THE KIDS, I've invited fellow writer and practicing pharmacist Don (D.G.) Weiss to be a guest blogger.  D.G. is the author of three detective/mystery novels, including the first in the series, Picture Perfect.  He'll be sharing some lighthearted commentary on the aging process.


At my yearly physical when I turned fifty my doctor asked, "Do you know what being fifty means?"

Image courtesy of Photostock at FreeDigitalPhotos..net

I stared at him.

"It means you just bought yourself a colonoscopy."

"I'd rather buy a vowel," I said.

Then at fifty-five, my blood pressure and cholesterol went through the stratosphere.  For years, I'd had the blood pressure of a seven-year-old girl.  Now I was being introduced to all the medications I'd been dishing out over the years:  ACE's, ARB's, Calcium Channel Blockers, Beta Blockers, and the ever popular Statins.

After months of trying different combinations, my blood pressure and cholesterol returned to near normal levels.  Of course, now I have leg cramps, acid reflux, and heartburn - all in the fine print.  I've cut back on salt and sugar and I'm trying to exercise.  Sometimes, though, I can actually taste chocolate butter cream frosting melting on my tongue.

I look back on my life before sixty, before fifty, before pills, and sigh.

A Ladies' Luncheon

Ladies over age fifty should hire an event planner if they want to "do" lunch.  This was my latest experience.

     Two days before the luncheon, I called three other women to carpool with me.  They weren't home, so I left messages.  I emailed two of the three who actually check their emails.  The next day, I heard from those two that they'd like to ride with me.  My SUV holds seven and I still had empty seats, so I decided to call another woman who lives close by.

     Again, I left a message.  I heard from her that night.  "I called someone else for a ride but I don't remember who it was.  I might need a ride with you, Pam."  Meanwhile, I still hadn't heard from one of my original invitees, so I left another message.

     The morning of the luncheon, I had no idea who would show up in my driveway.  Six ladies appeared.  We pulled down the jump-seats in the back that accommodated five-year-old rumps and were on our way. 

     There were the usual drinks in the lounge, where fourteen different floral scents mixed to form one giant cloud of nausea.  The wine loosened everyone up, and someone asked about the recent demise of a family pet, which led to more stories about the loss of family dogs, hamsters, and parakeets.  Eventually a waitress led us to a long table for fourteen. 

     One of the women seated across from me didn't respond to any of my inquiries.  I figured she was blowing me off.  "She's deaf in her right ear," the companion on my right said.  After that I shouted diagonally across the table at her left ear.  Each time I did, the conversation on both sides of the table stopped.

     Then the woman at the head of the table rose and clinked her wine glass with her spoon.  "I want to thank all of you for your support while I was going through treatments," she said with tears in her eyes.  More than one of us reached for a Kleenex. 

     She finished and sat down, swiping her nose with her napkin and rearranging the napkin on her lap.  "Do you remember, Janet, when you were teaching and my daughter hated your class?" she asked.

     "No, I don't remember that," Janet said.

     "Do you remember when you lived next to me, Sue, and your son was such a willful child that the other kids used to spray him with the hose?" the speechmaker said.

     "Actually, he was the easiest of my three children to raise."

     The plated meals arrived at that moment.  "Is that tuna?  I can't eat tuna," the speechmaker told the waitress.

     "No, it's chicken," the waitress said.

     "I don't eat chicken," my companion on one side said.  "Please may I have just a green salad?"

     It came time for the bill-paying and per usual, those who had not had a glass of wine didn't want to pay for those who had.  Judy, who'd organized the luncheon, had a calculator and declared that she was splitting the bill equally among us.   End of discussion.

     We each passed the appropriate money down the table to Judy.  But Judy counted twice and she was missing fifty.  That was because Cynthia, with dementia, sat in the middle and thought we were paying her for something.  The missing dollars were in her wallet.

     When we got outside.  I unlocked my car and sat waiting for the rest to come out of the ladies' room.  One of them appeared and kept going right through the parking lot and out onto the street.  "I can't find my car," she kept saying.  "Where did I park?"

     "Betty, you didn't drive," I yelled.  "You came with me!"



    

    

Age-Appropriate Clothes



     It's spring-cleaning time.  Starting in my clothes closet, I organize into two groups: donations and packables.  The packables go back into the closet until May, when they get boxed to go north to Massachusetts for the summer. 

     My "faves" stay with me for ten years or more.  I keep them because I can still fit into them (YEAH!!) and because the style eventually comes back around in fashion.  What goes around, comes around, right?  I tell Charley I really am trying to save him money.

     I start with the skirts.  If they're obviously too tight or too short, they go into the Goodwill pile.  A definition of  "too short" is open to interpretation.  I have decided that kneecaps are not my most attractive feature (I'm still looking for what it is!), so that means a lot of the skirts have to be hemmed.  Among the skirts I haven't worn in two years, none will get donated!  Maybe there are perfectly good jackets hanging somewhere in there that go with them. 

     The blouses are easier.  I recently wore a fancy pink lace top that showed a bit of cleavage.  Then I noticed a couple of ladies whispering and looking in my direction at a party.  So I decided that wrinkled cleavage over sixty isn't an asset.  The lace will get donated.  There's also a silver lame top with spaghetti straps, purchased in Italy, and a long, tight tunic that shimmies down over my hips when I wear black tights.  They both go into the Goodwill pile.  I'll throw the tights in the trash.  My workout capris are now loose enough so I can breathe and pump iron at the same time.

     A few dresses I love must also go into the Goodwill pile.  One is bright red, with a "handkerchief" hem of different pointed lengths.  It's slinky and fun and fits perfectly.  But I must have been delusional a couple of years ago when I bought it.  I look like a male cardinal on steroids in it, so it's never left the closet.  There's also a white shift dress with tank top and "poofs" all around the skirt.  "Poofs" around the thighs are a bad idea to start!  Furthermore, the arms of anyone over sixty should probably be hidden, unless you've produced an aerobics video.  In fact, no matter how many tricep machines I struggle with at the fitness center, I still have angel wings hanging beneath my rather large biceps.

     There are pants with cuffs that my heels get caught in and others with wide, wide legs that brush against the floor mats when I drive and get filthy.  Into the Goodwill pile!  Any pants with pleats around the waist only make me look ten pounds heavier.  Those too must go.  And finally, my beloved gray jeans.  They're pencil-thin and make my muscular calves cramp because they're too binding.  The jeans make me saddest.

     I find high suede boots that take ten minutes to pull on and black satin pumps with heels I can't even stand in.  Actually, anything with a heel over two inches must go.  I spent five months in therapy one year, suffering from a dislocated, herniated disc; shoes must be as flat as possible.  Unless I can stand in them for more than an hour and have fallen in love with them, of course.

     Which is the story behind one reptile-printed three-inch wedge with laces that Charley helped me choose in Key West.  He chose it immediately among the two dozen pairs I was trying on at a shoe store.  They would have looked great on a Paris runway and I felt years younger in them.  The only problem was that they dislocated my big toes because of the severe angle, and I never wore them again.  I haven't told him.

     Sandals in south Florida are mandatory at the pool and beach, so I am  forced to wear the widest rubberized models for my bunions.  It is truly painful to donate some of the bejeweled, metallic, or seashelled versions that I have collected from our travels.  Instead, my sneaker collection keeps growing, for back support while walking, working out, playing tennis.  I'll do anything, not to be forced into footwear with velcro that is specially molded to fit my lumps and bumps!

     Am I age-appropriate yet? 

       

Aging Hands



     They say you can tell a woman's age by looking at her hands.  Which puts me at about one hundred!  Let's just say that my hands will never be models for a sculpture, unless it's outside a nursing home.

     One of my granddaughters once asked me why I had blue worms on the backs of my hands.  The veins are raised and twisted, in-between the now protruding knuckles.  I gave her a lengthy explanation of what veins do, and told her she had them in her hands, too.  Only problem was, we couldn't find them!

     When I go for blood work, the lab nurse never fails to exclaim, "Oh, these are beautiful!"  I look at her like she's not operating with a full deck.  Then she explains that I'll never be traumatized by having a succession of needles poked into my hands (or forearms) trying to find a vein.  And that if one collapses, I'll have plenty of others to choose from.  That's supposed to make me feel better??

     There are operations where plastic surgeons inject YOUR OWN fat into your hands to plump them up.  The operation is a mere $5,000/hand.  But then, I do have saddlebags I'd like to get rid of!

     Almost as offensive as the veins are the small round bruises.  I am not even aware of doing it, but if either hand bumps against something, a small purple mushroom appears.  My mother used to call them "age" or "liver" spots.  She got them from the Coumadin she took to thin her blood, then from the aspirin regimen that replaced the Coumadin.  Since I take neither, I couldn't figure out why my hands always looked like a Jackson Pollock painting.  Then I realized it's probably from the fish oil I take to lower cholesterol and keep joints functioning.  At least if I bend down for a low tennis shot, I know I'll be able to get up again.  I guess I'll have to live with the purple mushrooms.

    Tonight my right hand sports a new cut across the middle finger.  That's from scraping it on the door latch of my locker, while storing my golf bag.  So in addition to the blue worms and purple mushrooms, I have a red badge of courage.  The courage was just for going out on a golf course!

     And then there's the lump and blue/black bruise on my shin.  I know, I'm digressing from the hands, but it's the same beat-up body.  In a match I whacked myself with my tennis racket, as I followed through with my serving motion.  An ugly hematoma appeared instantly, and my opponents were gracious enough to let me sit with an ice pack for ten minutes so I could elevate the leg.  The lump is gone, but the blue/black three-inch bruise remains.  You can actually see the indentation of the racket against my shin.  At least I didn't cut myself, as our captain did in the same match and in the same location!

     I guess I could sit at the computer all day, or on the sofa.  But that still doesn't solve the problem of my worms.  

One Consequence of Aging

Women over the age of 55 are familiar with physiological changes that have occurred.  All we have to do is look in the mirror.  I want to vent about the consequences of one of these changes.

My bladder has fallen!   In addition to my fallen boobs, uterus, forehead (see previous post on 4/10/11), and skin over my top lip (gathered into attractive creases), the bladder is the last straw.  But it fell before the rest.

My bladder fell when I had my first child by natural childbirth - a beautiful son, almost nine pounds, and twenty-four inches long!  He is now six feet three inches and does not ever want to be reminded that he caused this predicament.  My second son followed sixteen months later, also by natural childbirth.  But he was off the hook, since my bladder had already fallen.

I don't know where it went, except downward.  It causes a need to use the women's room more frequently than I'd like.  Especially during the night!

A doctor actually tested my bladder to determine whether I have spasms or a chronic condition.   I have decided against surgery and Detrol medication.  I already pop five vitamins, a soy supplement, fish oil, calcium, and a cholesterol medication in my mouth daily.

I have given up high-impact aerobics.  As long as I know where the nearest women's room is, I have no need to wear special underwear.

So I am now a good judge of efficient, attractive women's rooms.  In convenient and not-so-convenient locations!  Especially when travelling.

When we were recently in South Africa, we took a seven-hour bus trip from Johannesburg to our destination at the game preserve near Kruger Park.  I never pass up a toilet, and had been forewarned before we left that we would not be stopping for four hours.  I had no juice that morning, and only a half-cup of coffee. Our guide had told us to use a toilet (the size of a pail) in the middle of the bus, with a bi fold door, if  we felt the need.  No lady in her right mind would bend over into a pretzel to sit on that thing, surrounded by the rest of the group.  I made it to the first rest stop.  One of our ladies, nearly eighty, did not.

There are always lines outside ladies' rooms.  Women in need all know that we will plow down any man ahead of us for the men's room, if there is a line for the women's.  Another of us is always ready to stand guard.  Or not.

Charley and I drive from Massachusetts to Florida and back semi-annually.  He knows I cannot sit for more than three hours.  He no longer complains, since his prostate is at the age when he has to stop at least as frequently as I do.

Once I reach the stall, there is the problem of where to put a purse.  I no longer hang it on a door hook, if the hook is reachable over the top.  I have personally had a purse stolen when someone lurked outside the stall at a rest stop on Route 95 in Florida.  By screaming at the top of my lungs, "Someone stole my purse!" and exiting immediately to search for the culprit (holding my pants up), I was able to find my bag behind the toilet of the next stall, intact!  The best bet is to lock a purse in your vehicle and enter unadorned.

Once I make it to the toilet, I must remove a paper toilet seat cover from its container and place it on the seat.  It often falls sideways into the toilet, hanging so that only one cheek of my buttocks will be spared others' germs.  If I am in a hurry, I balance on that cheek.  Otherwise, I start over.

Then there is the matter of the toilet paper holder.  After I have sat down, I glance to my side and invariably discover there is no paper left.  So I try to slide the spare roll into position in the metal holder.  I have ended up with cut fingers attempting this.

The flush mechanism can be another problem on public toilets.  Chrome bars that stick out to the side are easiest, if you can raise your foot to that level and kick downward.  God forbid you touch the thing!  Many toilets flush automatically, but in the event they don't, you must search for a small button on the back wall.  Sometimes the button is black and obvious.  Sometimes, it's chrome and blends into the plumbing mechanism.  If you are lucky enough to locate the button, it may be recessed too far to allow your finger to press it.  Then it's time to bail out.

There have been very few times in my life when I wished I were a man.  Childbirth was one (two), and anytime I ran for the women's room was another.

A CONDENSED VERSION OF MY LIFE (THIS MORNING)

I decided to pay some bills after breakfast. First, I took my cereal bowl and juice glass to the sink and rinsed them out. I tried to put them in the dishwasher, but it was full with last night's dirty dishes.

So I turned on the dishwasher, poured more coffee into my mug, and cleaned out the coffeepot. I walked toward the front room to get my glasses in the desk.

Passing through the front hall, I noticed the flowers in the vase were wilting and the stagnant water was beginning to smell. So I took the vase into the kitchen, threw the flowers into the trash, emptied the water, rinsed and dried the vase.

When I was putting it back in the front hall, I remembered I had come out there on my way to someplace else. But I didn't have any idea where. So I headed back into the kitchen and just as I remembered I was supposed to be getting my glasses, the phone rang.

After my conversation with one of our daughters-in-law, I decided I'd better get dressed. When I passed through the front hall on my way to the stairs, I remembered that I had been going to get my glasses. I retrieved them from a drawer in the desk in the front room, but couldn't remember what I needed them for. So I put them on top of my head and went upstairs.

In our bedroom, I made the bed and put the clean laundry away. I put the items that needed ironing into a pile. Then I went to my closet.

It was a very hot day, and I was going to meet someone for lunch. I selected a sundress to wear, but then I saw that it had a spot. So I went downstairs to get the spot remover.

I retrieved the spot remover but needed my glasses before I could do anything with the dress. I looked in my desk in the front room, but they weren't there. I looked around the kitchen counters and the family room sofa, as well as among the magazines. No luck!

I went back upstairs, got another dress out of the closet (I was going to be hot in this one!), put on some jewelry, and decided I'd better wait with the makeup till I found my glasses.

I started down the stairs, but half-way down, I remembered I hadn't brought the clothes that needed ironing. I went back up, but noticed the toilet was still running in our bathroom.

So I took off the tank cover and jiggled the lever a few times, lifted the float manually, and washed my hands thoroughly. I got down to the kitchen and remembered I had forgotten to bring down the clothes that needed ironing. Oh well, it was too hot to iron, anyway!

I noticed the stack of bills still sitting on the kitchen table. Since I couldn't find my glasses, I decided to cut some flowers from the garden to replace the ones I threw away.

There was a problem with cutting the flowers: the deer were eating our arbor vitae trees in the early mornings, and they carry ticks that cause Lyme disease. The arbor vitaes were right next to the hydrangeas and the roses I wanted to cut. So I had to cover myself with bug spray. That meant a shower when I came in, and I usually showered at night.

As it turned out, I was sweltering in that dress under the hot sun, anyway! After I'd cut and arranged the flowers, I went right for the shower. I took off my dress, then my necklace and earrings, and hopped under the cool spray of water.

I started to wash my hair when I discovered the glasses on top of my head! Now what was it I needed them for?

Aging Gracefully

There is age with grace, but no such thing as "aging gracefully." It's an ugly process. In fact, I'm going down kicking and screaming!

Parts of my body are not where they should be. I wore two-piece bathing suits till I was fifty. Now I dread having to purchase anything to wear near the water. I must take a pile of swimsuits two sizes larger than my dress size to the changing room. They must have underwires in the bra. Speaking of the bra, if I tie the halter strings so tight around my neck as to actually lift my boobs, I am gasping for air. My butt hangs down below the suit and I must take it (the suit, not my butt) to a seamstress to have tighter elastic sewn in. My belly "pooch" will only disappear if I purchase a swimsuit with a blouse-like top. Yes, I know 10,000 steps/day will rid me of the pooch (what's in there, anyway?), and no, I do not intend to add an eighth day of exercise to my already overbooked routine!

I began noticing in photos that my right eye was only half open. So I figured the opthomologist would be able to measure the eyelids and lift the right one - a simple procedure, according to my friends. Dr. Wesley measured and informed me my eyelids were exactly the same and had not drooped. What had drooped was my forehead! That procedure is surgical and would cost a minimum of $5,000. And oh yes, the plastic surgeon could not assure me of raising the brow more than one-quarter of an inch!

I have acquired new parts growing on my body. I have odd-shaped lumps under my arches and on tops of my toes. A podiatrist informed me that they are benign cysts, created by the friction of certain shoes. And then there is the matter of the bunions. They are round balls sticking upward and outward from each large toe. My sister and I both inherited my father's feet. He used to insert a rubber wedge between his big toe and the next when he went to bed. I simply ignore them, but for vanity's sake, the bunions cannot go unfettered! I must choose enclosed fronts on my shoes or bands across the balls. The days of hubby giving me a foot massage are over, and who can blame him?

My hands have developed raised blue veins, and the bones protrude in-between. My granddaughter refers to the squirming veins as "blue worms." The same plastic surgeon informed me that I could inject each hand with fat to hide the veins (wonder what part of my body the fat would come from?). The cost would be a mere $5,000 per hand.

Parts of me have gone missing. Such as hair that is falling out. But I guess I shouldn't worry, since I am gaining it on my chin and above my upper lip!

I was born without three permanent teeth. I am lucky that is all that was missing! The holes where they were supposed to appear didn't matter when I was still eating baby food. Eventually, however, the teeth that did appear moved over into the holes, necessitating braces. Twenty years later, I needed bridges. And now, implants. Why bother, if dentures are next??

Choosing the proper foods and portions at this age is like being in boot camp. Especially with high cholesterol. Charley and I count our blessings that we do not have high blood pressure, heart disease, kidney disease, tuberculosis, diabetes, multilple sclerosis, hepatitis, shingles, Crohn's disease, Parkinson's, colitis, osteoporosis, hemorrhoids, rheumatoid arthritis, AIDS, or cancer. We are continually digesting complex carbohydrates (fruits and veggies, meaning a salad at EVERY lunch)), 100% whole grains, fish, and poultry. I begin drooling when I think of a medium rare hunk of steak! Peanut butter, cakes, pies, ice cream, frozen yogurt, candy, do not even enter our home. Cheesy or creamy sauces and pizza never enter our mouths. We snack on Reduced Fat Wheat Thins, hummus, granola bars, and fruit. One wine or beer is our limit before switching to water, juice, or soda. I still have the "pooch."

There is the matter of hearing loss. Charley claims I cannot hear him and I tell him the reason I can't hear him is because he has a pipe in his mouth, is mumbling, and is in another room. I claim he cannot hear me, even if I am in the same room. When I have to repeat everything, I simply get louder. Eventually, I am shouting. "You don't have to shout!" he tells me, all huffy. I ask him to get a hearing test, and he asks me to get my ears cleaned out.

Hot flashes are the worst part. Charley fondly proclaims that I have had them for twenty years, which is close to the truth. What would men do if they were overcome throughout the day (in dress shirt and tie) with a prickly rash, and waves of sweat? In our Florida apartment we arrive at a compromise: I keep the temperature low, and Charley wears a light sweatshirt. He is used to my pulling the covers up to my chin to protect against the blast of cold air hitting my side of the bed. He is also used to my subsequent thrashing to get those covers off about ten minutes later. His body is like a furnace if I cuddle against him, so I reach over with only an arm. Immediately I begin to feel a burning lightning bolt shoot through my limb. I count that as a good thing!

I saw an ad in THE SUN SENTINEL Sunday paper for a choice of nightgown or pajamas designed to help women "who suffer pain, night sweats, and other discomforts" to get restful, comfortable sleep. The nightwear comes in a handful of styles and colors and the cost ranges from $29.95-$69.95. I was actually considering looking at the manufacturer's website until I read further. The journalist tried the pajamas and felt the same old YOU-KNOW-WHATS! But maybe if I looked good, I'd acquire some grace???

My "Bucket List"

I enjoyed the movie, "The Bucket List." It is a little far-fetched to think most of us could create a "carte-blanche" list of wishes and then proceed to check them off. But the premise seems good, especially the older I get (!).

Time is flying. Each day seems to get shorter and shorter. Although I accomplish numerous things and am lucky if I get eight hours sleep each day, I haven't spent time writing as often as I'd like lately. I have put people at the top of my "bucket list." Too many friends are sick or have left us. I'd rather spend my time with old friends and new, as well as relatives. I still work on my manuscript each day, just not to the extent I'd like. Nevertheless, I plan to finish.

Since we are retired, my husband enjoys his own activities. We still laugh a lot and enjoy each other's company, after forty-five years. We love movies, restaurants, books, tennis, some golf, and travel (though we no longer play tennis together - we're each too competitive!). We are fortunate to spend every anniversary at a favorite hotel on the Italian island of Ischia. My "bucket list" includes more time with Charley.

High on my "bucket list" are things to do with our five grandchildren. Although the twins are only six months, I hope to develop a memory bank with them at our Massachusetts beach, as we have with our three granddaughters. There is so much to tell them and show them and explore with all five of them! I learn from every encounter, whether it's a dance recital or collecting periwinkles or feeding baby cereal. I'd like for all of us to take a trip together or rent a place together. If that isn't feasible, maybe I could travel with one or two at a time?

Which brings me to the places around the world I'd like to visit. Charley and I have pretty much decided which areas don't interest either of us, but there are still so many to explore: Vancouver and British Columbia, Turkey, islands of Greece, Basque region of Spain, Australia and New Zealand, Fiji, Africa on safari. Some of these don't interest Charley, but that's ok. It's my "bucket list!"