Where the #@!%* am I? Ask my GPS.

Like many others these days, I have a GPS. It’s helped me find some sites, but for the most part, it’s failed me miserably. Today I was headed from work to my dermatologist’s office, which is located in an area familiar to me. I know how to get to the street where her office is, but the last time I was there was a year ago, and I’m not sure which of the look-alike buildings she’s in. So I decided to set up the GPS so that, when I get near the office, it would tell me where to turn in. I typed in the address and pressed “Go.”

Right off the bat I was in trouble with The Voice—that “lady” who tells you when and where to turn. She didn’t like the way I was heading. My route is the one I take home each working day, and it’s the most convenient, least stressful way to go. But The Voice kept trying to steer me down other streets. I must have heard “Recalculating” six or seven times.

At one point, I was told to turn left on Milwaukee Avenue. “Milwaukee?” I told The Voice. “There’s construction that makes that road a nightmare. Why would I take Milwaukee?” She said nothing, but spat out “Recalculating” after I refused to follow her directions.

Confidently continuing to the street I knew was the correct one, I heard The Voice tell me to turn right at the next intersection. Right? I was going someplace north of the road I was on. Turning right would take me south and nowhere near where I needed to be. Even circling back would be difficult because a lot of those side streets are dead ends. After I heard the testy “Recalculating” again for not turning right, she tried to make me turn right at the next intersection too.

I realized then that the problem might be outdated navigation maps—even though we bought the GPS in the past year. The area I was going to was developed within this decade, and the doctor’s office was in a fairly new building on a fairly new street. So where was my Garmin taking me? I turned it off, followed the street signs, and found the building with no problem.

My biggest gripe about any GPS is that it can’t adjust to my favorite routes. I can save a route that it gave me, but it will be saved as the system originally configured it, using the same streets I want to avoid. If there’s a system out there that can ask us how we want to go (like Google Maps, which lets you click on the route with your cursor and drag it to the streets you prefer), I don’t know who sells it. Instead, I’ll just keep the old-fashioned folding road maps handy, along with a printout from Google Maps. Or maybe I’ll win the lottery and hire a driver. That’s about as likely as hearing The Voice apologize for causing me emotional distress.

Beware the Evil Eye (pooh pooh)

Here’s something new I’ve discovered about my sixty-something self: I’ve become superstitious. I don’t mean that I refuse to leave the house on the 13th—especially when it falls on a Friday—or that I avoid walking under ladders (although this doesn’t come up very often). Most of my superstition revolves around illness, even death, or its possibility.

For example, like everyone else in America, we received our Census 2010 form in mid-March. The note that came with it says in ultra-bold letters: “Please complete and mail back the enclosed census form today.” Then, the first question asks how many people are living in my home as of April 1, 2010. It’s only March now. What if I say “2” and then, God forbid, something happens to one of us before April 1? If I mailed in the form before the deciding date, am I jinxing my life or my husband’s? Silly, I know. Yet…

I also tend to knock on wood a lot, and not just when something is spoken, like “I haven’t had a cold in six months!” I also do it, or at least want to, when I think something like that. Intellectually, I don’t really believe that tapping on the dresser is going to prevent me or my loved ones from getting sick, but somehow it makes me feel in control. This leads me to think I may have a touch of OCD, which, if I let it, will set me off on a whole new path of worry.

Where did I get this behavior? I think back to when my first daughter was born in the mid-60s. My mother was peering into her crib, remarking over how beautiful she was, alternating with utterances of “pooh pooh”—but thankfully not spitting—which is supposed to ward off the Evil Eye that retaliates at such declarations of beauty, health, and well-being. She also tied a red ribbon around one slat of the crib to reinforce the pooh poohs.

But in those days, and decades after, I wasn’t nearly as superstitious as she was. I was optimistic and, although realistic, did not think disaster was going to strike at any time. To be fair to my mother, she lost her mother tragically when my grandmother was fatally struck by a car. My mother was 14 and the youngest of six children. So I always understood why she was determined to do everything to ward off that Evil Eye. I was just as determined to not be that way.

And here I am now, fraught with my own brand of superstition, just short of pooh poohing. I still haven’t mailed the Census 2010 form, but I did fill it out with a bold declaration of two [healthy] people living in our household. Pooh pooh.

Where's the restroom?

Next month we’re heading west to visit my brother-in-law and sister-in-law. We love spending time with them, so I’m looking forward to it, despite my usual anxiety over air travel and being so far from home. We’re staying at their place, and I’m grateful for their hospitality. Also, staying with relatives (when you genuinely like them) can be a way to get to know them better than just passing a few hours together at an event or dinner.

But just the other day, I started to wonder about our accommodations and if we’d have use of a private bathroom, close to our bedroom. This sounds like the whine of a high-maintenance (which I am) prima donna (which I don’t’ think I am), but this is the fact of our lives: We “older folks” spend a lot of time in the bathroom—with one or more nocturnal visits each. In my case, I spend a little too much time there in the daytime too, not the least of which is devoted to primping. I guess I could cut back on the primping for five days, but I’m not so sure about the other visits.

I remember a time, years ago, when I could adapt to almost any temporary living conditions. (This excludes outhouses and sleeping in the woods with bugs and critters.) I wasn’t adventurous, but I didn’t worry so much about the proximity of a bathroom. So it must be true that, as we age, we get set in our ways and less tolerant of being out of our natural habitat. I hate that. It reminds me of all the times I tsk-tsked over my elders’ stubbornness about such matters.

Update: In an e-mail yesterday, my sister-in-law assured me that we’ll have our own private bedroom and bathroom. I feel better now.

Wii shall overcome…laziness

I’ll do anything to avoid actually working out. We are now the proud owners of a Wii system. The first night of ownership, we bowled (I was lousy at it, but at least I stayed out of the gutter), played a set of tennis (also lousy, but my husband wasn’t much better), and sampled baseball (I have an eye-hand coordination problem). But it was fun. We’ve yet to try boxing and golf, but they’re on the agenda for the next time we Wii. I’m not keen on boxing—or golf. I’m setting that up right now as an excuse if I embarrass myself when we do this.

I sampled this system at a friend’s house last summer and loved it. It seemed like an indulgence in a weak economy, but lately I’ve been avoiding the gym since I broke my little toe, so I rationalized it as a good way to get some exercise in. Next purchase? The Wii Fit system for more targeted exercise.

Now we just have to reprogram our lives to fit some serious Wii-ing in each day instead of collapsing in front of “Dateline” (mostly me) or “NCIS” reruns (always him).

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.)