Aging

ameonaging

Thursday, January 31, 2019

Today I am grateful for aging.  First off let me say that I really am grateful I’m aging because that means I’m still here and I want to be here for a long, long time.  And well.  Sadly, many of my friends haven’t been so lucky.  But here’s what no one tells you about aging, or if they did I wasn’t paying attention.  It’s a lot so grab a coffee or tea.

 

Every day is a new discovery of an ache or pain.  I went to bed last night feeling fine, aside from the still-nagging-me planter fasciitis and woke up with a sore shoulder, elbow and both wrists.  What?  I’m sure it’s from something I did with the buoys in the pool.  At this point all it takes is one odd move and I’m hauling out the bags of frozen peas.  FYI-frozen peas are a lot more fun in summer!

 

Then there is the hair.  When my hair was brown it was straight as a toothpick.  I had to plan perms with a little curl left in the ends or you simply could not bend those sticks around a perm rod without it poking up like a sputnik.  Now that it’s mostly gray and I want to wear it poking up, the front on top is wavy.  Seriously?  What’s that all about?  And if there is going to be curl, could it please be the entire head?  Some of my friends are experience substantial hair loss so I’ll take mine either way, but it is a curiosity.

 

Many of you have been blessed with padding through life never having to worry about your weight and now have to battle to keep it off like the rest of us.  I’m sad for you.  Sort of.  But I do get that for you that extra 20 pounds are as foreign as if I’d wake up one morning and look like Twiggy.  (Google her, young’uns)  For those who have always battled, the battle continues. . .and gets harder.  It’s probably related to the aforementioned injuries.   Or cookies. And I’m not talking about the ones that mess up your computer.

 

I just heard that actress Kathy Bates lost 60 pounds and she looks fantastic, so good for her.  But my kids claim she should to play me in the movie of my life (“you dirty-birdie. . .you cocka-tootie”) so either she has to gain it back or I gotta drop a ton.  I’ll keep you posted.  Ha-ha!

 

My balance is still pretty good, knock-wood, but if there is any ice or uneven ground I shuffle like I’m a thousand years old and have no feeling in my lower extremities.  It isn’t pretty.  But if this Weeble goes down, it’s gonna take heavy equipment to hoist me back up, because rolling onto my bionic titanium knees does not feel good at all! Picture the little boy in The Christmas Story who is flailing on the ground looking like a tick about to burst.  Then put my old lady face into his scarf-wrapped hood.  Falling is a serious issue that I never thought of when I was younger.  Hips, wrists, knees, elbows and spirits all break easier.

 

The floor.  Things drop to it.  Although I’m a larger person I am still amazingly flexible, as long as I don’t have to try and get UP off the floor.  So I don’t go down there.  But I bend easily.  Himself has no problem sitting on the floor and getting up, but if something DROPS to the floor he looks at it with longing and betrayal, as if to say, “How could you do that to me?  I was just holding you and now you fell into the abyss, you bastard!”  If I witness this I put my hand on his chest and say, “I’ll get it.  Don’t worry.”  His stiff-as-an-ironing-board-back thanks me.

 

We have two extender-grabbers in our house.  One is in the laundry room, one in our closet. I swear I have almost finger dexterity with those things, but Himself doesn’t.  When he squeezes the handle it twists in his hand like a bad tennis racket.  I can pick up an ornament hanger and put it in a box in one motion.  Much of our Christmas tree this year was decorated with the grabber.  But who knew back in the day, that I would need one? Certainly not me.

 

I could probably list a bunch more things but my shoulder is killing me, my wrists are starting to feel pinchy and the bursitis in my elbow is shooting electric charges down my arm.  My eyes are drying out, my trigger-finger is popping (it’s the middle right, so it can be a convenient tic) and soon I’m going to have to run, in a panic, to the bathroom.  That’s another foible of aging.  Hopefully I’ll make it or next I’ll be writing about changing clothes three times a day and the extra laundry.

 

So think ahead before you politely ask an older person, “How are you doing?”  Or be prepared for a full-on organ recital.  Because that’s what aging is all about!  Still happy I’m here!

 

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