Despite my constant carping on the atrocities of aging, I continue to look for reasons to be grateful about being older. A recent newspaper article prompted this one.
The story cited these survey results: One-fourth of teens and one-third of young adults admitted to “sexting,” or sending nude photos or videos of themselves by cell phone.
Isn’t it wonderful that, at the age of sixty-something, we’re not remotely tempted to do this? Think about it—the horror, the horror.
And who would we send these unsightly images to? Certainly not our spouses. They get enough of the jiggles, lumps, and bumps morning and evening. And if we’re single, do we really think we can tempt a potential partner with an artfully posed veiny, splotchy corpus vile? (Don’t bother looking it up. It means “A person or thing fit only to be the object of an experiment.”) I didn’t mean this literally. I just wanted a fancy way to say “a body we wouldn’t want the world—and certainly not a would-be suitor—to be able to view, enlarge, and gasp at.”
I’ll continue to have my photo taken while wearing my most flattering outfit, which is not my birthday suit. What’s flattering is becoming more specific every year. I still expose my neck, but how long will it be before I start tying on a colorful scarf or bulky jewelry to conceal the cragginess and lines? And that reminds me of my late mother, who would put her hand in front of her neck when posing, much like an ingénue of early films. We teased her about it and she took it with good nature, but if she wasn’t wearing a turtleneck or neckscarf, that hand would be splayed below her chin in almost every photo. I try not to emulate my mother in actions that we laughed at, but even if I wanted to, I don’t think the back of my hand would be a suitable substitute for an old neck. But that’s another story.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Thanksgivings past and present: It’s all good.
On this Thanksgiving Day, as I’m primping for our 4:00 p.m. reservations at an area restaurant—just the two of us—my mind wanders back many years. If this were the Thanksgiving version of a chapter of Dicken’s A Christmas Carol, the Ghost of Thanksgivings Past would be taking me soaring over these scenes:
It’s the early 1970s, and I’m alone in our modest Skokie bi-level home, trying not to think about the turkey dinner with more than enough trimmings that my mother has prepared for the family and that they are all feasting on now. I’m nursing the 24-hour stomach flu and am grateful that this year’s holiday takes place at my parents’ home, allowing me to send my family off to enjoy it and to wallow in my miserable symptoms by myself. (To this day, I associate late November with this gastrointestinal malady, so it must have happened more than once.)
Next, my ghost and I float over a scene in the late 1970s, and I’m basting the turkey one last time before taking a minute to answer the doorbell. It’s a cousin I’d lost touch with for years and whom I invited after one of us contacted the other. Like many Thanksgivings, I invited someone who was not usually on our guest list, someone who otherwise would have nowhere to be with family and friends on that day. It was fun to have this newcomer at our dinner table, and I suppose I felt noble extending our hospitality.
My ghost and I skip the 1980s and hover over a mid-1990s Thanksgiving dinner. I’m living with my second (and current) husband in a three-level townhome in Rogers Park, and we’re continuing my tradition of having an extra guest or two. This year, I’ve invited a woman from work and her college-age daughter whose family lives across the country. The conversation is lively and stimulating.
We swoop into the twenty-first century and see a scene in my in-laws’ home in Munster, Indiana. We’re dining with my mother-in-law who, like me, is not so fond of cooking, and the rest of the family who’ve come in from Wyoming. For past holiday dinners in Munster, my father-in-law, who learned to cook whle working at a dining hall in his college days, always prepared the feast. But this time, he’s in late stages of a terminal illness, so we ordered turkey and trimmings from Boston Market. My father-in-law is too weak to dine with us. He makes a brief appearance at the table and then retreats to his bed. That night, he falls out of bed several times, and although there are enough people there to help lift him back up that night, it’s determined by his sons that he should be moved to a hospice center because my mother-in-law cannot do this on her own. He's taken to the center that night. A few days later, after long visiits with family and his beloved poodle, he quietly passes away.
We’re looking over a scene a few years later in a cozy Munster restaurant, where my husband and I and my mother-in-law are remarking over how good the meal is and how many people are also dining with their small families in this neighborhood place. This is the first time I’ve had dinner out on Thanksgiving, and I’m pleasantly surprised at how satisfying it is. As always with my mother-in-law, the conversation sparkles with her youthful enthusiasm and love of topics like anthropology, modern music, and the latest movies. For a few minutes, I wallow in nostalgia and the fact that I’m not with my kids and twin grandsons. They traditionally attend a large family dinner on their father’s side. To keep that sadness in check, I think of all the holidays we do spend with all of them—including the other side—as well as the fact that we’re making my mother-in-law very happy.
Unfortunately, she passed away after a brief illness just before last Thanksgiving. So this year, it’s just the two of us, and we’re still thankful. We expect to have a great feast, charming ambiance, and good one-on-one conversation. Maybe we’ll start planning the holiday party we’re giving in December.
The Ghost of Thanksgiving Past is now satisfied that I’m feeling pretty good about this holiday and its predecessors—the good, the not-too-good, and the ugly (stomach flu)—and takes off. In all cases, whatever other emotions I felt, I’ve been thankful for the family and friends I’m lucky to have.
There's no need for a visit from the Ghost of Thanksgiving Present. We're good. (I cancelled the Ghost of Thanksgiving Future. I'd rather not know...)
It’s the early 1970s, and I’m alone in our modest Skokie bi-level home, trying not to think about the turkey dinner with more than enough trimmings that my mother has prepared for the family and that they are all feasting on now. I’m nursing the 24-hour stomach flu and am grateful that this year’s holiday takes place at my parents’ home, allowing me to send my family off to enjoy it and to wallow in my miserable symptoms by myself. (To this day, I associate late November with this gastrointestinal malady, so it must have happened more than once.)
Next, my ghost and I float over a scene in the late 1970s, and I’m basting the turkey one last time before taking a minute to answer the doorbell. It’s a cousin I’d lost touch with for years and whom I invited after one of us contacted the other. Like many Thanksgivings, I invited someone who was not usually on our guest list, someone who otherwise would have nowhere to be with family and friends on that day. It was fun to have this newcomer at our dinner table, and I suppose I felt noble extending our hospitality.
My ghost and I skip the 1980s and hover over a mid-1990s Thanksgiving dinner. I’m living with my second (and current) husband in a three-level townhome in Rogers Park, and we’re continuing my tradition of having an extra guest or two. This year, I’ve invited a woman from work and her college-age daughter whose family lives across the country. The conversation is lively and stimulating.
We swoop into the twenty-first century and see a scene in my in-laws’ home in Munster, Indiana. We’re dining with my mother-in-law who, like me, is not so fond of cooking, and the rest of the family who’ve come in from Wyoming. For past holiday dinners in Munster, my father-in-law, who learned to cook whle working at a dining hall in his college days, always prepared the feast. But this time, he’s in late stages of a terminal illness, so we ordered turkey and trimmings from Boston Market. My father-in-law is too weak to dine with us. He makes a brief appearance at the table and then retreats to his bed. That night, he falls out of bed several times, and although there are enough people there to help lift him back up that night, it’s determined by his sons that he should be moved to a hospice center because my mother-in-law cannot do this on her own. He's taken to the center that night. A few days later, after long visiits with family and his beloved poodle, he quietly passes away.
We’re looking over a scene a few years later in a cozy Munster restaurant, where my husband and I and my mother-in-law are remarking over how good the meal is and how many people are also dining with their small families in this neighborhood place. This is the first time I’ve had dinner out on Thanksgiving, and I’m pleasantly surprised at how satisfying it is. As always with my mother-in-law, the conversation sparkles with her youthful enthusiasm and love of topics like anthropology, modern music, and the latest movies. For a few minutes, I wallow in nostalgia and the fact that I’m not with my kids and twin grandsons. They traditionally attend a large family dinner on their father’s side. To keep that sadness in check, I think of all the holidays we do spend with all of them—including the other side—as well as the fact that we’re making my mother-in-law very happy.
Unfortunately, she passed away after a brief illness just before last Thanksgiving. So this year, it’s just the two of us, and we’re still thankful. We expect to have a great feast, charming ambiance, and good one-on-one conversation. Maybe we’ll start planning the holiday party we’re giving in December.
The Ghost of Thanksgiving Past is now satisfied that I’m feeling pretty good about this holiday and its predecessors—the good, the not-too-good, and the ugly (stomach flu)—and takes off. In all cases, whatever other emotions I felt, I’ve been thankful for the family and friends I’m lucky to have.
There's no need for a visit from the Ghost of Thanksgiving Present. We're good. (I cancelled the Ghost of Thanksgiving Future. I'd rather not know...)
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Black is the color of my...closet
Taking a quick scan of my closet, I see what others would conclude: My favorite color is black. I do own bright- and multi-colored tops, and in the summer, I sometimes wear white or tan capris (more on capris in another post). But black takes up the overwhelming majority of my half of the space. I’ve decided, therefore, that when I shop, I cannot even consider buying any more black—for a while.
I enter a store with good intentions. Now that it’s almost winter, the jewel tones I also like are plentiful. But I still find myself perusing the racks and pulling out black sweaters, shirts, pants, and skirts to take a closer look. Then I internally scold myself. The conversation in my head goes something like this:
Practical Me: You already have three black cardigans.
Blackaholic Me: But this one has ruffles on the cuffs. Ruffles are so in now.
PM: Who’s going to look that closely at the cuffs? You’ll just be wearing another black cardigan.
BM: But the texture of this one is so smooth. And it has long sleeves. Two of our older sweaters have three-quarter sleeves—too much exposure for winter.
This goes on for a second or two more, and then I hang the item back on the rack.
Today I went shopping, again, and wandered into—surprise!—Chico’s. Here’s a rhetorical question: Does a mostly black top that has red and white accents count against me? I thought it didn’t, and I could not resist buying it. It fits me well, I have many things to wear it with, and it was on sale. But it also looks vaguely like a number of other black-with-other-colors Chico’s tops I already have.
So it’s fair to say I haven’t been cured of my black clothing addiction. I know of one can't miss cure, but I’m not ready to go for it: I'll adopt a shaggy dog or long-haired cat. Then I’m sure I’ll never wear black again. Or navy. Or charcoal…
I enter a store with good intentions. Now that it’s almost winter, the jewel tones I also like are plentiful. But I still find myself perusing the racks and pulling out black sweaters, shirts, pants, and skirts to take a closer look. Then I internally scold myself. The conversation in my head goes something like this:
Practical Me: You already have three black cardigans.
Blackaholic Me: But this one has ruffles on the cuffs. Ruffles are so in now.
PM: Who’s going to look that closely at the cuffs? You’ll just be wearing another black cardigan.
BM: But the texture of this one is so smooth. And it has long sleeves. Two of our older sweaters have three-quarter sleeves—too much exposure for winter.
This goes on for a second or two more, and then I hang the item back on the rack.
Today I went shopping, again, and wandered into—surprise!—Chico’s. Here’s a rhetorical question: Does a mostly black top that has red and white accents count against me? I thought it didn’t, and I could not resist buying it. It fits me well, I have many things to wear it with, and it was on sale. But it also looks vaguely like a number of other black-with-other-colors Chico’s tops I already have.
So it’s fair to say I haven’t been cured of my black clothing addiction. I know of one can't miss cure, but I’m not ready to go for it: I'll adopt a shaggy dog or long-haired cat. Then I’m sure I’ll never wear black again. Or navy. Or charcoal…
Monday, November 16, 2009
The language of age
A friend at work recently loaned me a book she found amusing—How Not to Act Old by Pamela Redmond Satran. The cover alone made me laugh: a pair of granny panties swinging alongside a leopard-print thong on a clothesline. The book’s chapters cover the actions we older people take that give away our generation, sometimes before we open our mouths. According to Satran, if we leave a voice message for a younger person or even send an e-mail, we’re labeled as old. Instead we should text. I don’t text, and in the interest of full disclosure, I admit that we’ve blocked texting on our family cell plan so we don’t get hit with extra fees.
The book is funny, and some of the tips, I’m sure, will not be heeded by most people over 40. And many, I have to believe, are tongue-in-cheek. But it got me to thinking about my habits and how I’m noticing more of a divide between the young and myself. I specifically said “myself” because not all of my contemporaries are stubborn about giving up past practices.
My word choice is an excellent example. I still say medication instead of meds, pharmaceutical instead of pharma, applications instead of apps. It’s hard for me to cut doctors down to docs, although I used it in an earlier post. (It felt odd as I typed it then, but I was trying to be hip….do they still say that?) Some of the newer shortened words are, in my opinion, short enough in their original form. What’s the time saving there? And are we supposed to be too busy—or too lazy—to sound out two syllables? You are now getting the picture as to why I’m not texting. Can you imagine me typing "C U later" and not obsessing about the omitted letters—not to mention a misplaced “C”? I have tried Twitter though, and anyone who reads my writing can understand why I’d have difficulty saying anything in only 140 characters.
I'm told I look younger than I am, and most of the time my clothes are appropriately youthful. And I’d like to believe that I think young—when I’m not trying to come up with the ironies of aging for this space. So, the handwriting is on the wall (does anyone ever say that anymore?), and you’ll probably see me texting my grandchildren in the future—if texting isn’t considered old by the time they learn to type with their thumbs.
The book is funny, and some of the tips, I’m sure, will not be heeded by most people over 40. And many, I have to believe, are tongue-in-cheek. But it got me to thinking about my habits and how I’m noticing more of a divide between the young and myself. I specifically said “myself” because not all of my contemporaries are stubborn about giving up past practices.
My word choice is an excellent example. I still say medication instead of meds, pharmaceutical instead of pharma, applications instead of apps. It’s hard for me to cut doctors down to docs, although I used it in an earlier post. (It felt odd as I typed it then, but I was trying to be hip….do they still say that?) Some of the newer shortened words are, in my opinion, short enough in their original form. What’s the time saving there? And are we supposed to be too busy—or too lazy—to sound out two syllables? You are now getting the picture as to why I’m not texting. Can you imagine me typing "C U later" and not obsessing about the omitted letters—not to mention a misplaced “C”? I have tried Twitter though, and anyone who reads my writing can understand why I’d have difficulty saying anything in only 140 characters.
I'm told I look younger than I am, and most of the time my clothes are appropriately youthful. And I’d like to believe that I think young—when I’m not trying to come up with the ironies of aging for this space. So, the handwriting is on the wall (does anyone ever say that anymore?), and you’ll probably see me texting my grandchildren in the future—if texting isn’t considered old by the time they learn to type with their thumbs.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
All we have to fear is fear ...
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…
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…
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.
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