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.

A hair too fussy

I may be in the last third of my life, but I can't believe I'm still going through the straight-hair vs. curly hair internal debate. A few  years ago, I gave up blow drying my wavy, sort-of-curly hair straight and embraced (also sort of) my natural curls. I say "natural" with an asterisk: *Making it look acceptable involved these steps: 1) rub some kind of gook for curly hair into it, 2) scrunch for about a half-hour (while eating breakfast), 3) go over the scrunched curls with the diffuser dryer, and 4) heat up the curling iron to better define those stubborn few strands.

This may sound exhausting, but it really isn't so bad, and I got used to it. Still, I envied women with straight, shiny, silky—and youthful—tresses. I pined over every shampoo and conditioner ad that featured a swirl of glossy hair. Every once in a while I thought about blow drying it straight, just for a day or so, but I'd get lazy and do the usual. But just last week the temperature and humidity plummeted, a snowstorm kept me at home, and I was bored. I fished out my old straight hair tools and tried  to turn a layered bob into a sleek hairdo. And it worked! Never mind that I couldn't see out of my right eye because of the silky hunk of hair hanging in front of it. I felt sexy!

To give this look equal time, I'll describe my multi-step method: 1) blow-dry my hair with what some might consider an antique: an oblong dryer that has an attachable comb or brush; 2) place large Velcro rollers throughout for volume, and spritz each with hair spray  (then eat breakfast); 3) remove the rollers and gently comb out the hair. Except for the more arduous arm lifting, both methods are about the same amount of trouble. And people liked the "new" look. (The photo here is an example, but it's not a current one.)

I'm sure I'll go back to curls in a few days. The issue is that I'm still not sure how I want to look and what style is best for me. I still have straight hair envy but feel silly about not embracing the curls that often bring compliments. Isn't this the decade of acceptance? If not, there's always the next one. Bring on the 70s! (But not too quickly.)

60s music—it’s not always the Beatles

As much as I hate to admit it, I have become a noisemaker as I’ve aged. Maybe other sixty-somethings do this too, but either I’m too absorbed in my own music to notice, I’m too polite to pay attention, or I’m simultaneously getting hard of hearing.

Here are some of the not-too-easy-on-the-ear sounds I produce:

• Melodious, drawn-out yawning. I’m afraid I can’t find the right syllables to describe this in writing, but those who make yawning into a symphony of sounds know what I mean. My parents did this as they got older. Now it’s my turn.
  
• Loud, resonant burps. (I am again being polite. Let’s call them what they really are: big belches.) I try to be discreet about this in public, but it’s obvious that I don’t consider my husband public. He can return the favor, and together we could put on a musical. It could be traced to the fact that we’re eating healthier—broccoli, cauliflower, Brussels sprouts, beets, hummus… This could lead me to another noise caused by aforementioned foods, but I refuse to go there.
  
• Creaking and popping joints. It’s hard to move these days without some clicking or popping noise coming from one of my limbs. I guess I have to be grateful at this point that I still have my own joints and haven’t had to have any replaced (knock on wood). I also recently discovered that when I turn my head from side to side, it sounds like my neck is filled with gravel. Heaven only knows what’s going on in there, and I’d rather not know.
• Muttering to myself while trying to solve a crossword puzzle. With my husband nearby muttering, “That’s not right!” while he’s working on a Sudoku, I don’t feel so odd saying, “That doesn’t fit!” at the same time. This wouldn’t be as bad if I didn’t also make these sounds when I’m alone.
• Uttering “uhmmmmm” (which comes out as a whiny humming sound) while typing this post. I just noticed myself doing this, and I know I do it often. Noises just escape from my throat involuntarily. This can be the vocal version of the sigh, but I might also label it a closed-mouth kvetch.
  

I could go on, but I’ve already provided enough fuel for others to avoid inviting me to parties. Please know that I am able to hold back the music while interacting with friends and colleagues. That is, for now. What will the next decade bring?

Not too old for paperless bills—with a little help from my brain

When it comes to technology, I think I’m pretty savvy—or more so than many others in my demographic. I bank online and pay most bills that way. I prefer e-mail to telephone calls. At work, I write and post copy to the company’s web site, using HTML no less. I’m blogging…isn’t that proof of my comfort with 21st century communication?

As it turns out, I’m not as good online as I thought I was, at least when it comes to paying bills. Going paperless for our bills seemed to be the natural step after setting up online payments. So now I’m alerted to our monthly phone statement by an e-mail only. But I’m also inundated with advertising messages from the company, which I immediately delete. It’s not a stretch, then, to imagine me mistaking a bill notification for a pesky ad, and I must have done this twice. Recently, I got a text message on my cell phone from our provider: We were behind in our payments and our mobile phone service was being suspended until we paid up. This was upsetting because we have our home phone with the same mobile service, and we were suddenly without any phone connection. The message also said that, conveniently, I could press a couple of numbers and the pound key and an automated system would take my credit card payment over the phone. I did so, and our service was restored.

For my MasterCard bill, I have no problem recognizing the e-mail announcing that my statement is available online. It’s the payment schedule that confuses me. When we relied on paper, I would get the monthly statement, note the amount due, then write a check and mail it before the due date. Now, when I look online at my card’s activities, I note the amount due on the statement but also see the outstanding balance, which is larger because I’ve used the card after the close of the statement. This may sound like a no-brainer: Pay the statement amount each time, and everything works out, or pay the outstanding balance once a month, as long as the payment isn’t transmitted after the due date. (See, I’m already getting confused by my own ramblings here…)

After the phone incident, I was tempted to go backwards and request paper bills again. But then I'd be living up to the nasty stereotype of older folks who complain about change and refuse to embrace technology, won’t I? No, I will not be those people. I’ll just have to be more vigilant and proactive about monthly bills. (I think a fancy smart phone with a musical reminder app would help…)

I admit the problem is mine and not the fault of the paperless systems. To be honest, I once missed a department store card payment because the paper bill, which I probably saw when it arrived, became buried under a bunch of junk mail, and I forgot about it.

Since it’s only the second day of a new year, I resolve to be more organized in 2010. And this year I really mean it!

SAD accomplishment, in baby steps

It’s time for another update on my experience with the SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder) light therapy, and if I think it’s helping me stay positive this winter. To sum it up: I’m not quite sure.

I sit with the lamp at least one half-hour each morning. (“Morning” can range from 7:00 on work days to 9:30 on Sundays and other lazy days.) I don’t feel any more joyful while I’m using the lamp—although I’m happy that I can read the small numbers in the crossword puzzle clues a whole lot better.

There’s no dramatic uplift to my mood, and I don’t go around smiling more often (at least I don’t think so; I’m certainly not smiling every time I look in the mirror—especially the magnified mirror). But I noticed one important change. In the days leading up to December 21, I heard myself say, with a cheery tone: “After December 21, the days start getting longer!” This is one the most positive statements I’ve made in the early part of this season.

I have also found myself thinking that, since all time seems to have sped up since I turned 60, winter will pass quickly too. So even though the snow keeps piling up today, with cold temperatures and windy conditions predicted, in a wink, it’ll be spring! There’s a down side to that kind of thinking: In less than a wink, I’ll celebrate another birthday and be a year closer to old age. The old BSADL me (before SAD lamp), would have been taken down in the dumps by that thought. Now, I’m focusing on the coming end of winter and not the coming…well…end.

As I write this, I’m leaning toward cautiously stating that the lamp therapy may be working after all. I still fear driving in snow, I dislike being cold, I’m miserable when my eyes and nose run at the same time, and I’m afraid I’ll fall and break a bone on the ice. Otherwise, I’m pretty upbeat.

The good knife—and other unquestioned "truths"

In earlier posts, I’ve mentioned how I had scorned some of my mother’s opinions, only to find myself thinking her way decades later. Here's another example.

Whenever I’m hand-washing my kitchen knives, I reminisce about conversations with my mother in the late 90s, when she was selecting a set of knives for us for our anniversary. She named two common brands she considered inferior—her disdain was so strong, she might as well have uttered “ptooey!” after each one. Then she announced, “Wusthof!” And that’s what we received—and appreciated.

This morning, as I wiped the sponge over my Wusthof paring knife, I found myself thinking, decisively, “These really are the best knives…” But would I have thought this way with no earlier maternal prompting? Maybe not. Or maybe so. They are fine knives.

Now I’m wondering what other, more significant biases—good and not so good—I hold without question, ones that didn’t come from my own research. There are probably hundreds (thousands?). I promise to notice them for what they are as they come up. But will I be able to see them objectively and then form my own opinions?

I was past 60 when my mother passed away, so I lived through many years of her strong opinions. (More often than not, these opinions were informed and good ones; this was hard for me to admit.) It’s challenging to re-examine such long-held beliefs and come to different conclusions—without feeling a little guilty. But I’m going to give it a shot.