Senior no-no? I'm stumped.

I got a birthday card this year, and with my friend's signature came this directive: “Do something fun…something you’re not supposed to.” Hmmmmm. That made me stop and think. Long and hard. What is it at this age that’s fun and that I’m not supposed to do? That I would want to do? That last part is the key. I can think of naughty things to do, but why would I want to do them? Who has the strength? Or the concentration? Or the dexterity?

That got me thinking about what someone in my age group could possibly want to do that I’m not supposed to do:

• Eat pepperoni pizza? My doctor would love it if I never touched the stuff again, but I indulge about once a month (or more).

• Skip going to the gym? Please….this is habitual and not worthy of a special occasion day.

• Wear anything I want to? What I want to wear—and usually do—is what makes me look 10 years younger. Nothing disobedient about that.

• Play hooky from work? If I do that, a) I have that much more to do when I get back, and b) I don’t get paid. Not fun, not festive.

Am I missing something here? Lord knows, I’m neither athletic nor adventurous, so even though extreme sports may be something I’m not supposed to do at my age, it would be more punishment than fun. Any other ideas are most welcome.

Please don’t use the E word

Are you as appalled as I am when you read a newspaper story like this? Not a real one—just representative:

“An elderly woman was injured yesterday afternoon when a dazed driver lost control of his car and drove up onto the sidewalk. The victim, Rosemary D. Jones, 65, is in critical condition….”

Sure, I feel sorry for poor Rosemary. But do they have to call her “elderly”? Isn’t that literally adding insult to injury?

And why is it that when reading only the first sentence, I picture someone like my Grandma (may she rest in peace)? I cannot fathom that this elderly person who met an unfortunate fate is actually my age or younger!

Are we elderly? Can’t we wait until we’re in our 80s for that adjective? Or will we bristle at that description in our 80s too? Maybe then we’ll think that elderly should apply only to those over 95. And at 95? I think we’ll have more important things to worry about than how the world of journalism describes us.

Fish tales (but no tails, please)

I was listening to the radio, and a guest on a talk show was touting a new restaurant. One of the dishes he rhapsodized over was pickled herring. Pickled herring? What memories that brought back! Smelly memories.

Older generations in my family, having Eastern European roots, loved pickled herring, creamed herring, and heaven knows what other malodorous dishes. As a young child, I insisted on being seated as far from the herring eater as possible, sometimes in another room.

Herring wasn't the only victim of my disdain. I also couldn't stand to smell—or look at—sardines. Those beady eyes. The heads, the tails. Yuck.

While other Jewish children were eating smoked fish, I declined. When lox was served on bagels, I opted for the cream-cheese-only alternative

Later, as a young adult, my parents and my contemporaries chose when and where to eat out based on who had the whitefish special. I tried it a couple of times—at least it didn't come with recognizable body parts. But I found it "fishy" and sometimes bony

I often order fish in a restaurant, especially because the latest research tells us it's a way to ward off early death. But I limit my choices to halibut (in spring and summer), sea bass, tilapia, cod...all mild species. I love any fish that doesn't taste like fish.

With so many great restaurants offering a wide variety of these non-fishy fish, I can order with confidence. The only problems I've had have been in foreign countries. In Amsterdam several years ago for a conference, a large group of us went to dinner at a highly recommended restaurant. Entrees were delivered to the table, but mine lagged by a minute or so. When it arrived, my sour expression made everyone laugh. On my plate, giving me the Evil Eye (I swear), was a whole fish—head, tail, gills, and all of its bones. My colleagues knew about my squeamish attitude toward seeing my food as a whole being, and someone quickly summoned the server. My plate was whisked back to the kitchen to be filleted. I was only slightly embarrassed…even though two of my fellow diners were my boss and his boss.

I’d love to think that I’ve matured and am game to try different types of fish and seafood. But this hasn’t happened. In fact, I’ve regressed. I grew up on salmon patties and liked them reasonably well. I ate salmon in restaurants in the 60s and 70s. But I no longer can tolerate the taste of salmon, which tastes like…salmon. I won’t order mussels, clams, or prawns, and before I order a Caesar salad or dressing, I check to make sure no anchovies have come anywhere near it.

A glimpse of my youth—dermatologically speaking

Shouldn't being sixty-something be too old to get pimples? (Even saying "pimples" instead of "zits" should prove that I'm too old for this new affront.)

I'm not talking about a whole face full of those ugly, angry bumps. Just a few...but one is right over my eyebrow, and not the side that is normally covered by bangs.

I'm resorting to past cures, like cortisone cream, to speed up the healing process, but this eyebrow job seems to be getting redder and bigger. Thank goodness for a concealer that I can spackle on and then reapply after I forget and absent-mindedly rub the itch—and dislodge the cover-up.

I'm not too concerned about this new development because I practically have my dermatologist on retainer. Most of my visits with her end with me purchasing pricey age-defying creams. But occasionally I ask her to pop out a whitehead or remove a scaly patch. I’ll ask for help at my next visit if this reminder of my teen years is still there.

Update: Cortisone works. The red blotch is smaller and not so itchy anymore. Thank goodness. The thing started to bring back vivid memories of the late 50s. Some of it was fun, but…

Don’t make me laugh…or smile

A few days ago, as I sat here waiting to be escorted to the oral surgeon for my tooth extraction, I was painfully aware that I was hungry and thirsty. My orders were to eat or drink nothing for the eight hours before the procedure because I was having general anesthesia. If this were a typical work day, at that time of the morning I wouldn't be eating or drinking yet anyway. It's the fact that I absolutely could not have anything that made me acutely aware of wanting it. But when I came home, I couldn’t eat much of anything anyway—at least for several hours.

I was woozy and a little unsteady when standing, and, as the Novocain (which I don't remember getting) wore off, a tolerable ache set in.

I was disappointed to learn that the oral surgeon did not put in an implant right after the extraction, so I'll have to return for that procedure in several weeks. But I’ve been that route before, and though it's not fun, I can do it. Heck, I might even lose a few pounds while I can't eat for a while. (Always look for the silver lining...)

In a few hours, I felt much better, with no real pain at all. It was a clean extraction, with a few dissolving stitches. Now all I have to do is hope my dentist can make a temporary bridge that I can wear until a more permanent fix is in place.

Ever since I discovered my dysfunctional tooth and learned that I'll have a big upper left gap for a while, I have threatened to get a dummy, dress it up in something I might wear, and start throwing my voice while talking through clenched teeth. And you know how, on TV, those dummies start saying things—mean things—that the person operating it wouldn't dare say? I can’t help wondering if I might blurt out an insult or two, then look at my dummy with shock.

But as I get older, I don’t have much meanness in me, at least not toward my friends and family. It’s those politicians I’d like to lambast, along with Charlie Sheen, whose behavior threatens to cut short my favorite irreverent TV show.

If I have so many clothes, why can’t I get dressed?

I’m having an issue with getting dressed for work, or for lunch with a friend, or even for shopping. I have half our large walk-in closet full of tops and bottoms, and part of a closet in the third bedroom is filled with off-season clothes and spillover from the walk-in.

So there I stand, scrubbed clean from my shower, makeup on, staring at the array of clothing and wondering what to wear. These black pants? Um…they don’t quite fit this week. The gray ones are a little larger, so they’ll do. But what to pair with the gray pants…that’s harder. OK, aqua blue will go, but that particular top is a little short, and the way my tummy bulges in the gray pants will be obvious. Move on to the orange top. There’s a tiny hole near the neckline, but I haven’t had a chance to sew it yet.

This goes on, until I’m discouraged and ready to climb back into bed. Here are some of the other reasons I reject the items in my closet:

• The pants are too long unless I wear higher heels, but I have to do a lot of walking today.
• The pants are too short. What was I thinking when I was buying all those petites?
•  This yet-unworn jacket looks awful on me from a side view. Why did I buy it?
• This jacket fits and looks great…but are long ones still in style? And are the shoulder pads obvious?
• This blouse is not really as “no iron” as they claim. Who has time to drag out the iron and ironing board?
• This top would go perfectly. If only it weren’t so cold out.
• I can’t wear this tank top unless I go back into the bathroom and shave under my arms. What if it gets hot in my office and I have to take the jacket off?
• The neckline on this top is too low for work.

 There’s a cure for this: Coordinate your wardrobe in the first place. Buy items that go together at one time. Don’t buy something that goes with nothing else in your closet just because it’s on sale. And, finally, get rid of those things that don’t work, ever. They just add confusion and inhibit decision-making.

The trick is to follow my own advice. Because I love to shop, I am prone to impulse buying. I’m not a shopaholic, but I’m sure I could now have some expensive, coveted item if I hadn’t made so many bad purchases.

Now I’m going to go put on my jeans. They go with almost everything, don’t they? But wait…I just washed them and I doubt that I’ll be able to zip them up—especially after that brownie I ate last night.

I resolve...

Yesterday I staged an intervention for myself—OK, maybe it was just a New Year's resolution. But I decided I would monitor my game-playing on the iPad and cut back. It was getting to be addictive, if not already there.

I knew I was addicted to my iPad when, while playing a game on it, I stopped for a second to wonder where I’d put my iPad. It’s like looking for your glasses while they’re perched on your head, only worse.

When I pick up the iPad, I go first to my e-mails and reply or delete, as needed. Then, I go online, mostly to check my Facebook page—although I don’t know why. Much of the information either doesn’t involve me or is ho-hum. And I have nothing to say either, except when I want to publicize another blog post.

If I’m in the mood (translation: feeling creative), I’ll open My Writing Nook and start a blog post. Much of the time, I’m not in the mood.

That’s when Boggle gets clicked. And I’m off poking at letters and forming words. Game after game after game. When I get tired of this, I go to Solitaire, which doesn’t have the same level of attraction for me. I'm good for about five deals.

So far, I’ve managed to cut short the time I spend playing Boggle and Solitaire. It’s Day 2, and I’m holding up. For each of these days, I've allowed myself a couple of playing sessions and moved on to something else. That something else might be unhealthy snacking or watching TV, but I can only deal with one bad habit at a time.

(Anyone have suggestions for other cool iPad games?)