Beauty in a jar—but which jar?

A part of me is excited to be aging at a time when the market is filled with affordable anti-aging products. But it’s so confusing! Between TV ads for the lotions and creams, and articles in More and O touting over-the-counter products that are (supposedly) dermatologist-endorsed, my head spins.

I’ve been reading a lot about peptides and hyaluronic acid that are supposed to work wonders on age spots, undereye bags, lines, and all the other uglies that settle in. With this in mind, I look for products that contain these ingredients. The problem is, it takes a long time to browse the skin care shelves at Walgreen’s or Ulta—especially because the ingredients, if not blazing across the front of the package, are in tiny print (in other word, not for older folks) on the back.

But here’s the dilemma: What if I spend weeks—months!—using a product and it’s not the one that will work best on my wrinkles? I’ve actually lost time, and time’s running out. But it’s also not helping that I keep switching. I’ll use one lotion or cream for a week or two, and then, prompted by an ad or convincing commercial, I’ll buy another and use that for a while. For night creams, I rotate using a product with Retinol and one much milder. And if I get a sample as a bonus gift? I switch to that until it runs out.

This fickleness came back to bite me. I developed flaky patches on my cheeks that sting when I use any of the anti-aging products. It wasn’t during the coldest days of winter, and I hadn’t buried my face in a fuzzy wool scarf recently. I didn’t change laundry detergents, so my pillowcase wasn’t at fault. So I’m thinking it must have been a cosmetic product. But which one? I had no clue. Now I’m putting nothing but Eucerin on my face until the dry patches go away (and losing time that I could be seriously battling wrinkles and brown spots).

In my forties, I relied on Noxzema day and night. Ah, the good old days. Life was less complicated. And I was younger.

All is not lost…just avoiding me

My birthday present this year was a petite subcompact digital camera. I always wanted a camera I could easily drop into my purse and have it handy whenever a photographic moment arises. (My definition of a photographic moment has now changed so much that I find very few these days. Nevertheless, I wanted that camera.)

It’s tiny, shiny, and teal blue. I bought a tiny case to put it in, and I tucked it into one of the compartments of my purse. But this camera is so small I’m afraid I might lose it in there.

I lose things in my purse all the time. It’s usually an item I know is in there. I’m reasonably sure I didn’t take whatever it is out of the purse, and I don’t think it fell out when the purse tipped over—most likely to happen when it’s sitting on my car’s passenger seat and the guy in front of me stops suddenly, and…well, I’m sure I’ve painted the picture.

To meet my approval, purses have to have several zipper compartments, preferably on the outside too, where I like to store my keys so I can get at them quickly. That way, I always know where my keys are. Except when I absentmindedly put the car key in the wrong outside zipper compartment and then panic for a minute when I think I dropped it somewhere.

But how is it possible that in a medium-size purse (by today’s standards), I can lose a pair of bifocals in a hardshell case? Or an 8-ounce bottle of water? Or my red patent leather wallet? When I thrust my hand into my purse, whatever I’m looking for flees from my fingers and hides in a dark corner of the bag—even if I just put the damn thing back a few minutes ago!

My husband is amused while I go through the frenetic ritual of locating something—like my glasses so I can drive the car. But I get to give it back. Because men don’t (usually) carry purses, all of their daily needs end up in their pockets—front pockets, back pockets, shirt pockets, and hidden inside-the-jacket pockets. Do you really think they know in which pocket they put which items? Please… I’ve seen that self-patting down men go through just to locate a pen or loose change. And as in my spouse’s case, they sometimes discover that the item really is missing, only to find it (at their better half’s suggestion) between the pillows of the sofa or in a pair of pants they just changed out of.

Should I take my tendency to lose something that’s not really lost as a sign of advancing age? Nah. I just need a bigger purse.

This little piggy’s crying “Waa, waa, waa!”

A week and a half ago, I broke my little toe by, of all boring things, turning quickly and stubbing it on the floorboard in my bathroom. This is the first bone I’ve broken in my sixty-something years of existence (knock on wood, pooh-pooh, and all that).

I’m sure younger people stub toes and break them, but I can’t seem to separate this outcome of a stubbed toe from my slow advance toward osteoporosis…and old age. I suppose I can look on the bright side and be glad I didn’t do this in summer, when the temptation to wear sandals (against doctor’s orders) would be great. Still, I have to wear sensible shoes, and any pointy toes or high heels are out of the question. (Those who know me—and my feet—are now gathering to announce, in unison, “You NEVER wear pointy toes or high heels!”) This sensible shoe edict goes against my current campaign against frumpiness.

I’m sure I’ll survive this temporary affliction. But the jury is still out for my prescribed anti-bone-weakening regimen: large doses of Vitamin D, daily calcium, and lots of exercise. (Note to doctor: I can’t really exercise until my little toe heals.)

Eek! The younger generation is aging.

You know you’re getting old when your hair stylist, who’s the same age as your daughter, tells you she can’t read fine print anymore. And that reminds you: Your daughter told you several weeks ago that she was forced to buy a pair of drugstore reading glasses. You’ve repressed it, until now.

Does it sometimes seem worse to admit your kids’ advanced ages than your own? I recall my mother, on one of my big birthdays, exclaiming “I can’t believe I have a daughter who’s 50!” I laughed then, but I won’t be laughing a few years from now.

Where did all that time go? We may feel older, but not that many years older. We’re looking out of the same eye sockets we looked through at 15, 25, 35, and hearing with the same ears. At this point, I have to quibble with my own statement. The eyes certainly aren’t what they used to be—for us or our adult kids—and the ears? Well, some of us turn up the TV volume now, and many, like me, hear a constant swishing sound. But still, it seems that decades have sped up and flown by, and we have a hard time believing that we’re those people we thought were really old back then.

This was the gist of conversations with my high school classmates at our “almost 50” reunion this past summer. (It was an “almost 50” because we went to school when Chicago had two enrollment periods: September and February. Our class graduated in January, but the organizers of our reunion wisely determined that few, if any, grads would travel to Chicago in winter—especially those who moved to warm climates just to get away from our cold, snowy season.)

When we got together that July evening, we were 18 again, remembering scene-by-scene the events that motivated our best gossip in our freshmen to senior years. As a contrast, we also bragged about our darling grandchildren—some of them now teenagers themselves. So I’m wondering why it’s easy to acknowledge that you’ve been out of high school nearly 50 years and you have grandchildren but hard to think about having middle-aged children.

So now that our children are aging, will they be a little more empathetic about the things we complain about? Will they understand a little more why we say and do the things we do? Yeah, right.

Be careful what you laugh at

For one recent birthday, a long-time friend gave me a card that read “Ten Things We’re Still Too Young For.” Then it went on to list, from 10 down to 1, a la David Letterman, actions and attributes that immediately bring to mind little old ladies. My friend’s comment inside the card was “Uh-oh—I’m close to thinking some of these aren’t bad ideas!!” As I started reading through the list, I laughed as I recognized what applied to my mother and other older relatives but was pleased to see they didn’t apply to me. Then I read further, and my smile faded:

10. I don’t wear a plastic rain scarf. Do they even sell them anymore? I vowed years ago, watching my mother encase her teased hairdo in the ugly bonnet, that I would never wear one. So far, so good.

9. I don’t—and would never—have a tissue box cover made of yarn. Never.

8. My shower floor does not sport rubber daisies. I have a modern shower with the standard non-slip base (we were too over-upgraded to have the shower floor tiled), so that’s a non-issue.

7. I do not go to the “beauty shop” to have a once-a-week hairdo teased and sprayed. That practice will probably die out with the older generation. (However, sometimes I forget and call my salon the beauty shop.)

6. Do I have a drawer of newspaper clippings? Hmmmmm. Maybe not a drawer. Does a manila envelope count?

5. I was too quick to say no to having a huge vinyl purse with a padded strap, but the stores are now filled with fake leather purses, large ones, which may or may not have a “comfort strap.”I think I have one of those…

4. A seven-day pill organizer? Here, I get a little uncomfortable. Who at our age doesn’t have one? At least in my experience. Does it count if it contains only vitamin D pills and baby aspirin?

3. Do I have a tissue in every pocket and sleeve? Well, not in public. But with the perpetually runny nose that I was born with, I’ll admit to walking around with wadded tissues in the pockets of my bathrobes. When I have no pockets, I tuck them into my sleeve (eek!) or even my pants waistband. I surprise myself by my willingness to admit this. But I repeat: I don’t do this in public.

2. Do I have a shaky lip outline? Let’s leave this as “It’s getting there.” In my first post here (last September), I complained about how my lips are getting less defined. So I’ll have to add this one to my Yes list.

1. I expected more of this one—like David Letterman’s big finishes—but it’s just about finding a second use for bread bags. I can honestly say I never do this. But we do recycle most other relatively clean bags. And I confess that I use the cylindrical bags the Chicago Tribune comes wrapped in as shoe holders when packing for a trip. But I think I can safely disassociate myself from this one.

So how did I do? There were a few Yes answers and a couple of Maybes. I would like to conclude that I’m age-appropriate, not yet over that hill. And modern technologies will keep me from adopting the other outmoded “elderly” habits. But I’m afraid this list would look very different (and so our answers) if we asked our adult children to create it. I’m just not going to ask.

The plot thickens…as my memory thins

Searching high and low, I found another reason to appreciate getting older. Now I can watch old episodes of Law and Order—the original, not the spinoffs—and enjoy them as if I’ve (almost) never seen them before.

Even the dramatic opening crime scene doesn’t always trigger recognition. But soon some memorable character will nudge my brain, and I realize I’ve sat through the episode before, sometimes twice. But the beauty of it is that I can’t remember how it turns out—who’s guilty, who was double-crossed, who’s lying, and why. An episode can be one I’ve seen three times, and I’ll remember it has a beauty of a plot twist. I just can’t recall what it is.

Okay, this may sound more like something to fear and complain about and not to celebrate. I’m trying very hard to stay positive. And positive means that I see it as a good thing: I can get double (or lots more) enjoyment out of a single show. That’s my theory and I’m sticking to it.

But there’s something I’m wondering about. How come I can remember the beginning, middle, and ending of every episode of Sex in the City?

Give me dignity or give me health

Last Monday (one of my non-work days), I was bored, but also feeling guilty (there’s that word again) about feeling bored. With all that’s going on in Haiti now, I should be grateful to have what I have, temporarily boring or not. I am grateful, and I am contributing to a fund to help the relief effort. So, with that disclaimer, I can go back to petty unpleasant observations in the hope that whining will lift my spirits.

For example…

Growing older can be so undignified. Besides the unintended musical interludes mentioned in an earlier post, I'm faced with an increasing number of medical tests as I age, and they sure can make me feel undignified. I have an upcoming appointment with an MD who’s an expert on osteoporosis. My most recent bone scan showed that my right hip is on the verge, if not already there, of this affliction, and I’m debating going back on a medication that has been controversial in the last couple of years. But before the appointment, I need to collect a 24-hour urine sample. It involves a big (very big) orange jug and a refrigerator. At least someone had the good sense to make the jug opaque. I know this could be a whole lot worse, so I’m approaching it with a sense of humor—and an inexplicable desire to share this with anyone who reads this blog...

And then there are colonoscopies. But my next one is (I hope) a few years off, and I’ll refrain from describing what most of you sixty-somethings are too familiar with anyway. Unpleasant? Yes, pretty much. Undignified? I would say so.

As we get older, it’s not surprising that we more often have to don a backless hospital gown (in those hideous colors and patterns) and let a technician attach electrodes or insert probes in embarrassing places. But just think about our grandparents, maybe even our parents, who didn’t have to go through some of these indignities because these advanced, sophisticated tests weren’t available yet. And many went on to pay the price—not living long enough to take advantage of medical miracles.

I feel better now. I can go back to worrying about Haiti, letting the mental picture of my undignified orange jug take your mind off the tragedy. You’re welcome.