A few years before I became a senior citizen (I detest that term), I thought about all the times I would read tips to prevent diseases that target the elderly (a term I detest even more). Each article made me feel more guilty because I wasn’t eating right, exercising enough—or at all—or sleeping the recommended seven or eight hours. “I’ll start soon,” I told myself. “I’ll make sure I change my habits when I get old enough to worry about them.”
And then more birthdays came and went. I knew I couldn’t postpone my lifestyle makeover any longer. Almost overnight, I made changes—motivated not by common sense, but by fear: Fear of a heart attack, stroke, sudden death, or—shudder—dementia. The fact that my bad cholesterol level and blood pressure began rising was a strong motivator too.
I cut back on saturated fats, even completely eliminated trans fats before the onslaught of products touting “No trans fats!” hit the shelves. I started reading the sodium content on nutrition labels and could no longer buy a can of soup with over 500 mg. I joined a gym and manage to go there twice a week. I added some whole grains to my meals and am slowly getting used to them. (Buckwheat pancakes are an exception.) Besides sticking my tongue out at The Grim Reaper, I lost 12 pounds and dropped a pants size!
Practically, I know that if I had started this regimen earlier, I would have gained that much more of an advantage over the evils of senior ailments. But I didn’t, and I can’t look back. No, the fear of getting something labeled “usually striking people over 65,” has not disappeared. It still pokes me occasionally, especially when I read an obituary for someone my age or hear about a friend of a friend who’s had a massive stroke. But now I can tell myself that I’m (usually) doing the best I can to prevent it. That’s a relief. Except when I have a strange shooting pain in the middle of the night…
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
The right to bear arms and legs, or not
Coming of “age” in this decade of rapid cultural change can present a few problems. Just when we’re realizing the necessity of covering more of our flesh, the younger generation of women is exposing more of it.
When did women stop wearing pantyhose—even with formal dresses? What’s a sixty-something to do? Do we observe the new rule and skip the hose, thereby exposing our varicose and spider veins, those funny skin patches that our dermatologists assure us is normal for aging skin, and the black-and-blue marks that occur a little more often because we need to work on our balance? Or do we wear the pantyhose anyway, thereby looking like we failed to notice that it isn’t the twentieth century anymore?
And those sleeveless dresses this past summer—not to mention tank tops everywhere. Sixtyish arms have a whole different set of problems: upper flapping flab, brown spots (some of which glom together until they look like one shapeless bruise), and, if you’re fair and thin-skinned like me, big, blue, meandering veins.
But there’s also something I discovered late one evening, and quickly covered up. Wearing a short-sleeved T-shirt while reading in bed, I absentmindedly raised my arm to push my hair off my forehead. My eyes wandered from the page to my upright inner forearm, and I was horrified at what I saw: rows and rows of craggy folds of skin. Ugh. I quickly straightened my arm, and they were gone. But now I knew the truth: I would have to wear long-sleeves all year long.
But, pragmatic person that I am—much of the time—I admit that I have gone to casual parties in cap sleeves, attended a niece’s wedding wearing pantyhose (in my defense, it was kind of chilly on the walk from the church to the reception), and surely have broken many of my own rules for being age-appropriate. Like we probably told our kids when they were teens: Be aware of the trends, adopt some, scoff at others, and do what feels right. I’m trying.
When did women stop wearing pantyhose—even with formal dresses? What’s a sixty-something to do? Do we observe the new rule and skip the hose, thereby exposing our varicose and spider veins, those funny skin patches that our dermatologists assure us is normal for aging skin, and the black-and-blue marks that occur a little more often because we need to work on our balance? Or do we wear the pantyhose anyway, thereby looking like we failed to notice that it isn’t the twentieth century anymore?
And those sleeveless dresses this past summer—not to mention tank tops everywhere. Sixtyish arms have a whole different set of problems: upper flapping flab, brown spots (some of which glom together until they look like one shapeless bruise), and, if you’re fair and thin-skinned like me, big, blue, meandering veins.
But there’s also something I discovered late one evening, and quickly covered up. Wearing a short-sleeved T-shirt while reading in bed, I absentmindedly raised my arm to push my hair off my forehead. My eyes wandered from the page to my upright inner forearm, and I was horrified at what I saw: rows and rows of craggy folds of skin. Ugh. I quickly straightened my arm, and they were gone. But now I knew the truth: I would have to wear long-sleeves all year long.
But, pragmatic person that I am—much of the time—I admit that I have gone to casual parties in cap sleeves, attended a niece’s wedding wearing pantyhose (in my defense, it was kind of chilly on the walk from the church to the reception), and surely have broken many of my own rules for being age-appropriate. Like we probably told our kids when they were teens: Be aware of the trends, adopt some, scoff at others, and do what feels right. I’m trying.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
I see a bright light ...
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.
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.
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.
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