I married a younger man—just not young enough

My husband is younger, but just by a few years. That puts him in the same decade of life as I am. And it means that when we’re watching an old movie, and I ask, “Who’s that actress again?” he usually answers, “It’s What’s-Her-Name.” And there we sit, neither one of us able to conjure up even a first initial as a guide. If we’re lucky, he or I may shout it out a half-hour or so later. But most times, the mystery ends when he looks it up on his iTouch.

Then there are the crossword puzzles. I love doing them, and I’ve even been tackling the New York Times Sunday puzzles lately. But more often than I’d like to admit, a word sits on the tip of my frontal lobes but just won’t work its way down into my hand and out the ballpoint pen I'm clutching. After several tries, I’ll admit defeat and ask my spouse for help. Nine times out of ten, he's sure he knows it but just can’t get it out of the recesses of his brain either.

So it appears that his relative youth is of no use to me in these trivial pursuits. Or is it? Would I feel better if he glibly spouted the actress’s name or leaned over and wrote the elusive puzzle word in the squares? Absolutely not. If he did that, I would probably conclude that my lapses were a sign of encroaching memory loss—the A word. Instead, we can laugh together at the toll age takes on our storehouse of memories. Then I think to myself: If someone younger than I can’t answer these questions quickly either, I must be OK. And we’re in this together.

In an effort to look youthful

I went clothes shopping today, despite having a closet and a half stuffed with sweaters, pants, skirts, and jackets. But I've recently realized that I don't like many of them, whether I bought them five years ago or this past summer. I'm taking a hard look at everything I put on these days in an effort not to look frumpy. (Or is the word I'm looking for "old"?) So as comfortable as my loose-fitting sweaters are, if they don't pass the "does this sweater make my torso look sixty-ish?" test, they need to be replaced.

One problem is that I often shop alone. I know I should sweet-talk one of my younger or hipper friends into coming along for encouragement and honest appraisal. But when I shop with friends, even the young and/or hip variety, I'm usually too intent on the gossip and the lovely girltalk to look for clothes. Or I gladly stand by while my companion tries on her selections, but I brush off any suggestion that I go and look for my own.

This afternoon, in my solo pursuit, I purchased two jackets from Chico's, my favorite retailer. I'm hoping that watching episode after episode of "What Not to Wear" has strengthened my ability to choose wisely. I guess I'll just have to wear them and wait for the compliments ... or the awkward silence.

Is there a doctor in the house? On TV?

Something I've been wondering this evening: Does my age have anything to do with the fact that I sat in the family room this afternoon watching both Dr. Oz's new medical talk show and The Doctors on The U? Maybe not, as I can see audience members for both shows who are younger, if not young.

But here's another more telling clue: I sat there with pad and pen, ready to jot down any helpful hint the docs dropped that will help me with ringing in my ears, grumbling of my stomach after meals, cracking of my jaw when I yawn, and that other noisemaker, an aftereffect of eating too much broccoli.

And jot I did. Dr. Oz warned against indulging in caffeine and tonic water to avoid worsening that swishing sound in my ears, and I wrote it down. On the same topic (coincidence?), The Docs on The U pointed out a new therapy that can be performed by your friendly ear, nose, and throat doctor to help the noise, called tinnitus. So I now have two pages of scribbled health directives that I may or may not follow.

When did I start paying such close attention to medical shows—that is, real medical shows, not ER, St. Elsewhere, and Dr. Welby (to go back a ways). But then, when did I start reading Prevention every month? Was I always so eager to turn to the Health Beat section of the Trib? Certainly not in my fifties. What can I expect to focus on when my seventies roll around? I'm afraid to speculate.

Facing the season—or not

I'm one of those lifelong Chicagoans who has never embraced Chicago winters. In fact, the disdain I have for the approaching season of snow, cold, ice, and slush gets worse every year. So I've decided to be proactive this year. I bought a SAD lamp, expected to come by FedEx next week. I sure hope it works.

But can a SAD lamp cure my fear of driving in slippery new-fallen snow? Can it provide the brilliant color that disappears from yards and entryways when all the summer flowers die? But I have decided not to dwell on these questions and take another positive step: listing all the things I like about winter (and this will take deep thought).

The first item that comes to mind is trivial but important to me: I love winter sweaters. No, not the ones with reindeers frolicking across the bosom or the ones with a Fair Isle pattern across the neckline. (Truthfully, I hate those sweaters.) I just love cashmere, merino wool, even heavy cabled cottons. I love the colors that winter sweaters come in too. Claret, amethyst, teal, and my all-time favorite, black.

Another thing I love about winter? I don't feel obligated to have regular pedicures. One exception: My annual visit to the gynecologist is always in winter, and I vainly make sure I have colorful, non-chipping toenails for that event.

I also like holiday parties, not just for the camaraderie, but also for the opportunity to wear those lovely winter sweaters...

I'm sure there are many more reasons to love winter, but I can't seem to summon them right now. Next post, I planned to talk about what I dislike about winter, but I can't think of a single thing that millions of others haven't said before about the season. So I'm officially off this subject, for now.

Just a simple "thank you"

Allow me to deviate from the theme of this blog to mention an observation I've made over the years. Most—not all—of the women to whom compliments are given cannot simply answer with a "thank you." I include myself in this group. I'm one of the worst offenders, if this is the right word to describe it.

On second thought, there is a sort of charm to this offense. When told, for example, that the boots you're wearing are adorable, you may respond with "These? They're so old, I almost didn't wear them today. I'm not sure they're still in style." Or maybe someone told you, "I love your hair that way" and you replied, "Do you? I'm having such a bad hair day." Haven't you ever said something like "What a cute blouse!" only to hear the complimentee say "But it has a spot on the left side, under the arm"?

Why is it that so many women cannot let praise be praise? Why must we set the record straight lest the complimentor really think we are clueless about that spot or the outmoded fashion of our boots? I don't have the answers myself, so this is a rhetorical question, unless someone wishes to comment and let me know what's going on.

As I said, I believe this behavior might be charming rather than pathologic. After all, don't women—as a rule—often provide much more information than expected? We tend to overexplain. And maybe that's what makes us women. (Yes, there are many exceptions. But I haven't found too many of them in my own observations.)

A meal maven I'm not

One thing I am not doing as I get older: Getting better at cooking. What I am doing is getting better at cooking without cooking. I can make a pretty impressive salad, complete with pine nuts and four kinds of lettuce. I can artfully arrange pita chips around a swirl of store-bought hummus with a little sprinkle of paprika on it. So I guess it's fair to say that putting out uncooked food is my forte. ("Forte" may be an exaggeration since it takes me three times as long as anyone else to cut up a cucumber.)

It's not that I can't cook at all. I'm now expected to bring a batch of potato kugel muffins to every Passover seder. I guess you would call that my signature dish. But, generally, I'm not confident when having to put food into an oven, watch it, possibly baste it regularly, and then know when it's done—with or without a food thermometer. When it finally comes out of the oven, I can't trust myself to slice it properly. Against the grain? With the grain? And which way is the grain going anyway?

I always thought that when I cut back on working (I'm now down to three days a week) I'd have the time to try new recipes and practice my culinary skills. But that hasn't happened. Besides contributing to mealtime only by making salads, I excel at collecting menus from nearby restaurants like Corner Bakery or Go Roma or the carry-out Szechwan palace down the street.

Who am I becoming?

Years ago, I’d watch certain actions by my mother with amusement and a tinge of disdain. Become obsessive about collecting coupons? Not me. Not ever. Amass a pile of shopping bags and plastic totes—just in case they’re someday needed? Nope. Too messy. Too old-ladyish. Spend the day after hosting a family dinner complaining of exhaustion and turning down invitations to go out? I couldn’t see myself letting a little cleaning, cooking, and serving get the best of me.

But that was then. Little by little these days, I see my mother creep into my persona. For example, we hosted a small family holiday celebration last night. My husband did much of the cooking, although I ran up and down the aisles of two supermarkets during the day, dusted, and dragged out the heavy dining room table pads and retrieved the better china. But I also got down on the floor several times to play and commune with my preschool grandsons, each time groaning my way to an upright position. Then came today. I feel as if I’ve been in a triathlon without any training. I ache everywhere, and all I want to do is sleep or eat leftovers.

Am I collecting coupons? Yes, I cut them from the Sunday paper flyers religiously. I also, nine times out of ten, forget to use them. So in that respect, I’m not my mother. In fact, she would berate me for paying full price while a 50-cents-off coupon languishes inside my purse.

And the shopping bags? I have them, in a dark corner of our master closet. You never know when you have something to tote…

But it isn’t just my mother’s habits wending their way into my psyche. Decades ago, I found my paternal grandmother’s frequent meal of cottage cheese topped with canned fruit a little sad and definitely a symbol of old age. But recently I developed a taste for this combination—if only as a snack.

I’m not going to fight this though. I am what I am, or rather, I am what I’ve become and will continue to become. This process has given me a new appreciation for the older generation. I’m sure my mother and grandmother and anyone else whose habits I’ve adopted would love to hear me say that … if only they were still around.