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.

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???