It has now been a couple of weeks since I’ve had my SAD (seasonal affective disorder) lamp. I wish I could say definitively that it has improved my attitude toward the upcoming winter, but it’s too soon to tell. But since I’m writing this on the evening after we’ve changed the clocks back to standard time (in my opinion, the worst day of the year), I can report that I’m not in a terrible mood. It’s only 5:42 p.m. and pitch black outside, but I’m not feeling blue. In fact, I’m looking forward to watching “60 Minutes” and putting a Newman’s pepperoni pizza in the oven—to eat with a healthy green salad, of course.
I turn the bright light on every morning just before I eat my breakfast. I’ve had to change my seat at the table so that the lamp can be plugged in close to me, and to avoid having the cord stretch across my husband’s seat, potentially strangling him. (That would not be a good start at averting sadness.)
What I’ve loved about the lamp from the beginning is that the light it provides is so much better for my cataract-impaired good eye than the three cloudy pendants that hang over the table. After my half-hour dose, and I turn it off, I’m startled at how dark the table area is without it.
This is not yet a solid enough test of SAD therapy, so I promise to report on it again from time to time. The real test begins when I have to leave work in the dark on Tuesday afternoon. We’ll see if I’m still smiling then.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Never too late? Sez who?
Women’s magazines are filled with articles whose theme is that it’s never too late—to develop a new hobby, become physically fit, revitalize our skin, take up a new religion, or make new friends. But there are some things to which I can rightfully say “Absolutely too late!”
Among items on my too-late list are going to graduate school, entering a marathon, and having a nose job. Now I know I could probably take a stab at going back to school, one course at a time, or practicing five days a week with a trainer. The truth is that I don’t want to. Not now, not for the foreseeable future, and probably not ever.
As for the nose job, I just don’t have the guts to go under any knife. But I really do believe that if I can’t accept my face at this age, there’s no hope for me. I do accept my face—most of the time. But recently, I saw a candid photo of myself in profile… Do noses really grow longer while the rest of us shrinks? But it’s too late, and if I’m being honest, I had no desire to go through that surgery 20 or 30 years ago either.
My husband recently finished a two-year stint with metal braces—rubber bands and all. Now that they’re off, he has a purple retainer to wear day and night. Although I didn’t think he needed to do this, I respect his desire to fix something that has, apparently, always bothered him. I give him credit for putting up with the sore gums, the inability to eat taffy apples, and the need to share the orthodontist’s waiting room with teenagers. He looks good, but most important, he feels good about his smile.
I couldn’t have put up with all that suffering for such an extended period. But those who know me probably remember that, several years ago, I had massive dental work, spanning a couple of years and including seven implants, a sinus lift, a bone graft, three root canals, and various other procedures, much of it under general anesthetic, and all of it followed by days of pain. I’m glad I did it, but when I think about going through that now, it seems impossible. What’s changed? Is this the same inflexibility I used to find objectionable in the older generation? If it’s my turn to take on that can’t and won’t attitude, I hope that somehow, somewhere, they forgive me for my scorn back then.
If a new hobby, friend, or low-impact fitness program comes along, I’ll go for it. Just don’t ask me to do anything painful, complicated, or risky. You’re too late.
Among items on my too-late list are going to graduate school, entering a marathon, and having a nose job. Now I know I could probably take a stab at going back to school, one course at a time, or practicing five days a week with a trainer. The truth is that I don’t want to. Not now, not for the foreseeable future, and probably not ever.
As for the nose job, I just don’t have the guts to go under any knife. But I really do believe that if I can’t accept my face at this age, there’s no hope for me. I do accept my face—most of the time. But recently, I saw a candid photo of myself in profile… Do noses really grow longer while the rest of us shrinks? But it’s too late, and if I’m being honest, I had no desire to go through that surgery 20 or 30 years ago either.
My husband recently finished a two-year stint with metal braces—rubber bands and all. Now that they’re off, he has a purple retainer to wear day and night. Although I didn’t think he needed to do this, I respect his desire to fix something that has, apparently, always bothered him. I give him credit for putting up with the sore gums, the inability to eat taffy apples, and the need to share the orthodontist’s waiting room with teenagers. He looks good, but most important, he feels good about his smile.
I couldn’t have put up with all that suffering for such an extended period. But those who know me probably remember that, several years ago, I had massive dental work, spanning a couple of years and including seven implants, a sinus lift, a bone graft, three root canals, and various other procedures, much of it under general anesthetic, and all of it followed by days of pain. I’m glad I did it, but when I think about going through that now, it seems impossible. What’s changed? Is this the same inflexibility I used to find objectionable in the older generation? If it’s my turn to take on that can’t and won’t attitude, I hope that somehow, somewhere, they forgive me for my scorn back then.
If a new hobby, friend, or low-impact fitness program comes along, I’ll go for it. Just don’t ask me to do anything painful, complicated, or risky. You’re too late.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
The blue screen of death and the will to keep working
A couple of weeks ago, an ominous blue screen popped up on my work laptop. I was too clueless to panic, so I calmly walked the machine down to our IT department and begged for assistance. (I was prepared to fight off the admonition, “You’re supposed to e-mail the Help Desk” with the logical “How can I e-mail you if my PC’s not working?”) But I was greeted only with “You have the blue screen of death!” I didn’t much care for that comment, and I finally did start to feel something resembling panic.
Fortunately, IT worked its magic, and I was back in business. But several days later, I was answering e-mails when all applications froze. And stayed frozen. I couldn’t restart and I couldn’t shut down. Again, I marched down to IT. This time I was told to leave the laptop there for testing and given a desktop loaner. The loaner was fine if I wanted to start new documents or play Solitaire. But all my work was on my laptop!
A day later, still toiling on the loaner, I got a phone call from the IT tech. Her message was short and not so sweet: “Can you come down here?” I suddenly felt like I had taken a battery of medical tests and the doctor’s office called to say “The doctor would like to talk with you…privately… in her office.” You know it’s bad news.
The diagnosis? My laptop had a virus and malware that had irreparably messed it up. The action plan? IT would reinstall my entire system. Thankfully, our servers back up everything all the time, so my documents would be restored, and the standard Microsoft products would be there too. But I would have to reinstall all of my software that wasn’t company standard, like four Adobe products—and their upgrades. And reinstall I did, which took me hours and was not without glitches.
I soon discovered what else this procedure had cost me. All of my preferences, my Outlook format selections, and my Favorites for web-surfing needed to be set up again. I spent most of the next two days resetting or frantically sending messages to the Help Desk to restore files that hadn’t transferred over.
After exasperating circumstances like these, I always ask myself if full retirement wouldn’t be a better option than my part-time compromise. But what would I whine and worry about during those extra days at home? My aching knees or inability to open a vitamin bottle? Or, even worse, a meltdown on my home computer and no IT help anywhere in sight? At only three days a week (and never on Monday), work is good.
Fortunately, IT worked its magic, and I was back in business. But several days later, I was answering e-mails when all applications froze. And stayed frozen. I couldn’t restart and I couldn’t shut down. Again, I marched down to IT. This time I was told to leave the laptop there for testing and given a desktop loaner. The loaner was fine if I wanted to start new documents or play Solitaire. But all my work was on my laptop!
A day later, still toiling on the loaner, I got a phone call from the IT tech. Her message was short and not so sweet: “Can you come down here?” I suddenly felt like I had taken a battery of medical tests and the doctor’s office called to say “The doctor would like to talk with you…privately… in her office.” You know it’s bad news.
The diagnosis? My laptop had a virus and malware that had irreparably messed it up. The action plan? IT would reinstall my entire system. Thankfully, our servers back up everything all the time, so my documents would be restored, and the standard Microsoft products would be there too. But I would have to reinstall all of my software that wasn’t company standard, like four Adobe products—and their upgrades. And reinstall I did, which took me hours and was not without glitches.
I soon discovered what else this procedure had cost me. All of my preferences, my Outlook format selections, and my Favorites for web-surfing needed to be set up again. I spent most of the next two days resetting or frantically sending messages to the Help Desk to restore files that hadn’t transferred over.
After exasperating circumstances like these, I always ask myself if full retirement wouldn’t be a better option than my part-time compromise. But what would I whine and worry about during those extra days at home? My aching knees or inability to open a vitamin bottle? Or, even worse, a meltdown on my home computer and no IT help anywhere in sight? At only three days a week (and never on Monday), work is good.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, October 12, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
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.
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.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)