The Ages of Life

I realized yesterday that I am older than some of the women I thought years ago to be ancient. I'm not sure if that is more frightening or more sobering. Thinking back on it, if I thought someone in their 60's was timeworn, then someone in their 70's must have been archaic. I shutter to think how immature I must have seemed. 

Today (at least in my mind) the 60's are now the new 40's? Amazing how my attitude changes.

Suddenly "sensible shoes" make sense. A sweater set is practical.  Dining out earlier is a no brainer. After all the prices are better and there is rarely a wait for a table. Why would someone not check the weather first thing in the morning and always carry a coat?  One never knows. I check my mail box daily for the "snail mail" and I usually have stamps on hand.

I haven't yet reached the age of Bingo. My land line is long gone. I'm not into "house shoes" (however the fact that I even know the term makes me shudder). I never have the exact change - often because I never have cash. I have yet to watch reruns of Matlock or Murder She Wrote. My grandchildren will not find hard candy in my purse (although there may be a cough drop in there left over from last winter's bad cold.)

In reality, the Middle Ages is the name of historic period of time that ended in the late 15th century. In today's parlance, it is defined as the population aged 45 to 65. Now anyone over the age of 65, according to 'those who know', is referred to as  in"Late Adulthood". No doubt 'those who know' are in their late 20's. In reality, what do they know.

Age is just a number. Unless one has 'Doc' Brown and his 1981 Delorean, one is left to their own devices to make their way through time day to day.  Life is truly a state of mind. To be trite, it is what each of us makes of it. As the French would say "vivre la vie au maximum" and "carpe diem". If you are not sure of the translations, hopefully you will seek Google rather than your World Book Encyclopedia for help. Just saying! 

Laugh Lines and Sweater Sets

 I'm not old. I'm young at heart. You're as young as you feel.

Who said anything about feelings? Certainly that is a reference to a state of mind not the physical state of my body. I can handle the former because I am in denial. As for the later, the aches and pains are catching up with me. I find myself lingering in front of the anti-aging cream section of the face cream shelf. Although, I doubt seriously these very expensive bottles of miracle potion can change one's life. Seriously, most likely they are concocted of monkey dust. But, I digress.

Age is a state of mind. If that is so, then I am in a state of confusion. In my mind I try to dress in a very stylish way. However, when I look through my closet, I realize that "stylish" is a vague term, one up for interpretation. I am in style, if one's taste is that of June Cleaver, complete with sweater sets, a string of pearls, and nice pumps.

Well, scrap the heels, they are now safely stored in boxes on the top shelf of the closet. Why not wear sweater sets, they are comfortable and practical. Except the paisley one -  every time I wear it, a family member (who's name I will not give) states that "It looks like you". A comment I realize is the kiss of death.

I like clothes that are in style - today. Well except for the pants they are now wearing with bell bottoms. Who looks good in bell bottoms? Never mind the pictures of me in 7th grade. I'll spare you my other thoughts. You know you are old when "Retro" fashions refer to what you wore in junior high school.

Those lines around my mouth (referred to as nasolabial folds in medical journals) , commonly known as "smile lines" or "laugh lines", the creases by my eyes, and the discolored spots on my face are just signs of experience. So they say. No doubt "they" are in their late 20's. These days I am comfortable in my clothes unless there is a full length mirror, a current copy of vogue, or a swim suit involved. 

All that said, there are some bright moments. Last week while wearing a traditional pair of Weejuns (aka Penny Loafers) a young lady commented that she had seen those in a fashion magazine and wanted a pair. Silently I was thrilled - I'm ahead of my time, I thought. But, then I'm assuming that it was a current fashion magazine and not one she found in an old books store.

My Nemesis

 As with anyone who has attained my age, I have accumulated several nemesis along the way. I think my earliest foe was a girl named Rhonda in 6th grade. That was followed by Algebra in 10th grade, Biology my freshman year in college, and Astronomy my sophomore  year. I shudder with just the thought of cell structure or the Andromeda Galaxy, But, I digress. And I'll spare you my entire list of antagonists.  

However, the most evil enemy I have encountered over the years is my bathroom scale. The status of my day is made or ruined by this small flat electronic device. I learned years ago that the only way (no pun intended) to control my weight is to subject myself to this device of torture. I have an acceptable range of weight that I need to stay within. A bit over the range tells me that I need to "seriously watch" what I eat that day. Within the range means I just need to "watch" what I eat. If the God of the Scales blesses me with a number below my range then I am free to eat without worrying so much. But reckless abandonment is never on the table. That joy ended many years ago.

Coming in at a close second to the evil scales is my clothes. I despise tight clothes. Not only are they unsightly and uncomfortable, they are an undeniable sign that my weight is edging up. Since I refuse to buy larger clothes, the tight material around my thighs and weight is a constant reminder that portions need to be decreased and sweets eliminated. 

So I live in a constant tug of war with my weight and size. Each year nature makes this a miserable tussle, one I lose more than win. So while most people would chose unlimited money if granted a wish from the genie,  I would choose the ability to eat with reckless abandon, needless to say, followed by the a second wish for the monetary resources.

If nothing else, I could purchase a kinder set of bathroom scales that would not torture me each morning. And to think some people fear speaking in public or crossing a street. 

Aging, Good taste, and Comfortable Shoes

Looking over any given group of people, one thing comes to mind - do these people have a mirror? Especially women. What were they thinking when they got dressed this morning?

There are the women in their 40's and 50's who are convinced that dressing like a 20 something makes them attractive and younger  - Not! Also the ladies who try to fit their size 12 body into a size 8 dress. Hint- you cannot get 2 tons of fertilizer into a 2 ton truck. It all comes down to math and physics.

And, what's with wedding attire? Years ago I was appalled by the guests attending nuptials who showed up in sundresses. These days I just hope they are wearing shoes. Their clothes, or lack thereof, make me look like the church lady in my attempt to dress appropriately. 

If a woman dares to wear very tall heels, she damn well should be able to walk on them without looking like someone wobbling on stilts. Shoes being referred to as 'comfortable' does not in any way mean they are frumpy. Anyone with good sense would want to wear comfortable shoes.

I don't care what anyone says, yoga pants are only designed for those who can pull them off. Everyone else should . . . pull them off and do away with them. Large women just need to accept it and move on. Let me rephrase that - some women feel they rock in yoga pants. They are proud of their rounded figures. For those, I say - You go girl. When you have the attitude, wear it. I wish I had the strength of character to be a force of nature and show my curves, my flab, and my bumps, but alas I do not. 

Older women should avoid looking like Dame Edna with too much blue eye shadow and bright clothing. Speaking of age, very few, OK almost no one can look like Jane Fonda, unless they are Jane Fonda. Face it, she never ages. 

As hard as we try, as much as we wish, there is no denial - we all get older. Suddenly we find ourselves a bit baggy in places, larger in others, and wrinkled in many more. We must accept reality, make the most of it and do our best to age gracefully. 

The best we can do is find clothes that are comfortable, attractive, and say "I feel good". Today's fashion offers plenty of appropriate choices for those of us who are mature. And, for the record, there is a difference between 'Mature' and 'Old'. Even a teenager can be mature, if they know better, show responsibility, make good choices. 

We should not think of aging as being doomed to SAS shoes and the walk in bath tub. "Looking one's age" should not be the kiss of death. Rather it should be the talisman of grace and good taste. 

Times Moves on, Faster and Faster

 Am I  getting older, or is time really flying? Here we are at the end of August and my head is still getting through March. I read an article last month about how time actually does move faster as we age. The theory (or truth) being that as a young child we only have so many memories to deal with, only so many experiences to compare the events of each day to. As we age that number of life events, memories, and experiences expands - exponentially. Therefore as an older adult we mentally compare any given day's events to those many (many) thousands of days we have experienced in the past. 

Every minute, every hour, every day, and every week becomes just one of tens of millions of minutes and many ten of thousands of hours and days in the memory of our life. Where as in a 12 year old's mind there are multiple times fewer to moments to compare. 

Well, that explains a lot - I think. It took me a while to contemplate this concept. Does this mean that someone who has lived a very exciting and memorable life experiences an accelerated feeling of time moving on? Or in the case of a hermit who sees few people, rarely goes any where, or vary from a daily schedule - does he (or she) find time crawls by?

This begs to ask, when we are encouraged to live large, grab the brass ring, and make the most of our days are we scurrying toward the end at a more reckless pace? 

You know you are getting old when . . .

Toward the end of her life, my Mama was very optimistic, irritatingly rosy at times. She always told me that life was good. Every morning it was not unusual to get a phone call from her. After we exchanged the general pleasantries, she would always say, "Did you know 'so 'n so' died?" If I was not familiar with this most recently departed, I would judge my reply carefully. If I had some time, I would ask Mama who this person was. Ten minutes later I would find myself tired, looking at my watch, and questioning my insanity to inquire.

Mama died in 2012. And with her, went those of daily updates of the dead and dying. After that, even though I was out and about in the community and kept up with friends, I often was the last person to learn of someone's (or their loved one's) demise. So I then found myself looking at the local paper's Obituary column daily. Even worse, I was able to sign up to receive an email every morning of the obituary column. One knows they are old, long in the tooth, whatever, when that message is the first one you check when opening your email every morning.

Then, while looking over my list of "Friends" on Facebook, I was shocked to see how of many them are no longer with us. Which brings up the ultimate conundrum - does one remove the names of those dearly departed? If so, is that seen as sign of respect or the ultimate insult - ie you do not care for their memory? But I digress. 

However every time I peruse the obituaries I think of my Mama. It is a generational thing.  While the ages of those listed in the daily column were once mostly of older folks. You know, in their 70's or 80's.  They are getting younger everyday. It doesn't take new math for one to realize that the difference between their ages and mine is quickly diminishing. Now, I have passed that milestone and have become a member of the generation who wants time to stop. It goes by so quickly. 

Nothing can slow time down. There is no miracle elixir (or phone app) to make it stop. Short of being in Wilder's "Our Town", we cannot go back in time - relive those moments. In that story, the stage narrator warns Emily when she wants to return for one day, “Choose the least important day in your life. It will be important enough.”  This is a quote that has stayed with me since college.

It is the mundane that gives us comfort. Sure Christmas mornings as a child, one's wedding day, graduation, etc. would generally be the ones we want to relive. But chances are we have fairly clear memories of those particular days. Most likely there are old photos, faded flowers, or some other tangible items that tie us to those particular moments. But, it is the "every" days that would give a better look back. True, one day in a life of hundreds of thousands seems minute. But each day is part of one's fabric of their life. I'm not sure what day I would chose. But then, if I knew a day, it would have been memorable - which defeats the purpose.

My doctor once gave me wise advice when I was stressed. "Live in the moment," he said. It took me a while to grasp that concept. So I try to 'live in the moment' when I can. Worrying about something will do me no good. After all, if I could do something about what I am fretting over, I should have already done it. Otherwise I have to realize it is out of my hands. So remember the 'Stop and smell the roses', advice we have all heard. The trick is finding and recognizing the roses among all life's melee. After all, no one promised us a rose garden.

The Cruelty that Never Ends

I made the mistake of once again trying to find a new bathing suit - sober. And, it has gotten worse since my last foray into the wilderness of swimsuits. I found myself staring at two racks. One was full of itsy bitsy tops and the other, teeny weeny bottoms. Really? They could at least keep the two parts together, the humiliation is greater when one is forced to face it twice.

There were no "one-piece-that-makes-everyone-look-slimmer" choices to be found. You know the ones that are made of at least one yard of fabric that would discreetly hide the sags and weight of a middle age woman. If I thought there was a conspiracy earlier, now I know the coup has occurred, we have lost, and the new regime is in place. That regime being the young, lithe, slender, (sickeningly so) Sports Illustrated type women who can wear these small patches of cloth they call swim suits these days. Oh, to be around when they hit middle age and the cruel fate of the years catches up with them. But I digress.

As I stood there looking at the racks of swatches and string labeled "Swim Suits", a sales girl approached me. "Can I help you?" "I'm afraid not. I assume there are no more modest flattering suits this year?" "No mam." (OK, let's add polite insult to injury here.) "They just don't seem to be the fashion any more." "Certainly, someone must be making them. After all, we, you know the baby boomers (I assumed she had studied about us in her history class.) are a pretty big market you would think someone would want to tap into."

She asked, "Is it just one piece suits you are looking for?" When I told her yes, she smiled and said, "I think I can help you. There is a store down town called Maes. I am sure they will have one piece suits. My grandmother shops there all the time. "

I was afraid to qualify my request by adding that I did not want said suit to be made of wool or cover my knees. And, that a rubber bathing cap was not necessary. I graciously thanked her nonetheless.

Men of my age may tire of hearing women bemoan the ordeal of trying to find a swimsuit, I just wish they would have to sport a Speedo on the beach for a day. Perhaps, then he would feel our pain.

Yes, if there were any doubt - this is proof - God is a man. A female god would never have us suffer such agony year after year.

Oh, I Would Never Do That

 Growing Old is a Bitch! Funny, I never thought much about it in my youth. Perhaps I was in denial, more likely I was trying to cope with my daily life. Well, "Surprise!" It's here. I am on the tail end of Middle Age and onto whatever the next phase of life is called. Actually in my mind, every few years the age "Middle Age" moves back 4 or 5 years. We all cannot age like Jane Fonda. Honestly she is like Benjamin Button, aging younger each year at the age of 83. But, I digress.

As I passed through my youth and the birthdays came quicker, I had mental notes of what  was "Old Age". These were things I swore I would never do. There were these things women did, bought, and wore that showed their age. I could not imagine finding myself at the point where I would do, buy, and wear such things.

Why would anyone need reading glasses? Who wants to look like a librarian with glasses hanging from a chain around your neck. These days I have to make sure I have a spare pair at any given time should the ones I am currently using get misplaced or broken.

Wrinkle cream, seriously, why would anyone use such? Now I find myself lingering in aisle at the drugstore perusing the shelves of "Anti-Aging" cream, trying to identify the one that will be more effective, Of course I have to use my reading glasses to see the fine print on the back of the box. By the way, when did they start making all the print on the boxes so"Fine"?

High heels make ones legs look better. Lower heels are for old ladies. I haven't worn high heels in years. In fact I'm not sure where all the boxes with my "heels" are these days. Flat shoes are comfortable. Besides I am past the age of making my legs look better. They are what they are. I have other concerns.

Swim wear, they all fit, just find the color and style you like best. Not! These days I find myself wondering if there is such a thing as an age appropriate bathing suit that does bring to mind the woolen swimming suits woman wore in the early 1900's that covered most of one's body. Obviously the designers today are all in their late 20's.

Vitamins, yes. But those designated for "Seniors" in the silver bottle - never. Now I ask myself why would anyone think that a silver labelled bottle would have anything to do with old age.

Plastic surgery, what an insane idea. Who would be so vain that they would pay money for surgery to make one look younger. Women age gracefully. But these days, I ask myself how much "work" could I have done that would make me look a bit younger, but not be so much that everyone would know I did it.

All those obnoxious traits my mother had, the way she would do things, her attitude. I would never.   Now I find myself waking up at night in a cold sweat fearing that I have become my mother.  Any of you who have followed this blog in the past or read my book, know that becoming my mother would either be something I could never achieve or a disaster.