It’s Thursday afternoon. For days I’ve been wanting to write something — anything. It isn’t for lack of ideas that I’m not getting anything down. It’s more a lack of ability to focus. This isn’t a problem I’m used to having, yet more and more, I recognize that exactly is what is going on. I wonder if it’s a sign of aging.
(more…)Tag: aging
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On Birthdays and Learning
Yesterday was my 58th birthday.
I have never been someone who could not wait until her birthday arrived, thinking its timing coinciding with Back to School made it convenient to ignore. The worry of wearing scratchy, too warm clothes the first day of school coupled with concerns about whether I’d like my teacher(s), and outright paranoia about the moment that teacher called out my name in class during attendance always seemed to take precedence over celebrating the day I was born. When I think back over the years, unsurprisingly, not many of my birthdays stand out. Other than the good memories that remain of a few adolescent slumber parties, I remember my 20th because it seemed a milestone to no longer have teen attached to my age. My 40th stands out because in defiance of the impending school year, I told my husband I wanted to go to Las Vegas. The significance of this is probably lost on anyone who hasn’t taught school and can’t imagine the potential terror of going away for three days just before school begins, minus lesson plan books and teaching resources, to relax and have fun. It remains one of my best memories because it was a spontaneous decision. My 50th will always be remembered because my husband and very best friend organized a lovely dinner party for me at her home. Family and friends attended, waiters passed with trays of tasty tidbits, and dinner was enjoyed outside under a late August evening sky.
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My Particular Brand of Menopause.
I’m a bit under the weather today with what seems to be a fairly nasty head cold compounded by a lack of sleep caused by the cold. It’s a two-fold cold: that of being sick, and that which is caused by our window which has to be open lest one of us sweat to death in the night. Being under said weather puts me in a less than joyful mood and left to consider all the more pleasant aspects of my life — like menopause.
Just seeing the word on the page can cause a number of reactions depending on one’s particular set of circumstances:
- You’re female and under 30 so menopause can’t possibly have anything to do with you. In fact, the concept of one grey hair or chin whisker may have recently sent you to near hysteria;
- You’re male, and anything having to do with the female body that isn’t about cleavage, thighs, or hot sex may as well be written in a language unknown to man. That would be a male, and not mankind in general;
- You’re a menopausal woman and because you’re on a first name basis with menopause, reading about it most likely isn’t the first item of the day with your usual Venti Soy Decaf Latte, thank you very much; or
- You’re married to a menopausal woman and unlike awaiting the bouncing bundle of joy which is the result of a healthy pregnancy, you suspect absolutely nothing that cute could possibly come of this.
From time to time, I Google menopause just to see what comes up and it’s dismal. I suppose this behavior makes me Glutton for Punishment’s poster child, but it seems to be part of my two-year and counting adjustment to aging. Most of the initial hits are for sites selling or promoting HRT drugs. The others are large medical sites like the Mayo Clinic and WebMD and although basic information can be found on all of these sites, they essentially say the same thing: hot flashes are normal; we’re at greater risk for joint pain and osteoporosis; our skin will become more dry and less elastic; our midsections will increase in size; our muscles begin to disappear, our hair will thin in some places and grow in others less desirable; we will have difficulty with our teeth and gums; and most importantly — we will be at far greater risk for heart disease.
The good news is that regular exercise, improved diet, and reduced stress can lessen the effects of all of the above. By all means, let the happy dancing begin.
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You, too can enjoy life past 30
Today is my birthday. And as much as I can say that many women my age choose not to admit their age, I’m proud of mine.
I’m 52 years old. Not 52 years young, or 52 years better. It doesn’t need to be made into something other than what it is.
Fifty-two.
The year I was born, The Platters recorded “The Great Pretender,” Elvis made it to U.S. hit charts for the first time, and Doris Day’s serenade of “Que Sera, Sera” let all who listened know that the future was not for us to decide.
I beg to differ.
Carousel was playing in theaters, and The Edge of Night could be seen on television. Jackson Pollock died in a car crash, Eisenhower was re-elected President, and IBM invented the “Hard Disk Drive.”
Not that long ago, but at the same time, several lifetimes ago.
I have fond memories of growing up in the latter years of that decade and the earliest of the next, but would love to forget many of the years following, until high school was nearly half over. Yes, there were good things about those years, but I’d never live them again if given the opportunity.
Um, no thanks.
I’ve learned quite a bit in all this time, so indulge me, and I’ll give you the short version:
- Be an optimist. It’s more efficient. But Murphy does exist, so if you acknowledge that and prepare yourself, things actually work out.
- Really bad things can happen to you and you will get over them, but may always struggle to find even a thread of patience with those who insist upon wallowing in self pity. Try anyway.
- You can find beauty in just about anything with little or no effort. People who can’t see it aren’t looking close enough.
- Be generous with yourself. It makes no sense to wait around for someone else to do it.
- Absolutely nothing horrible happens when you leave dishes in the sink at night, or your bed unmade in the morning.
- Acknowledge and work on your own shortcomings and you’ll be so busy you won’t have time to criticize others for theirs.
- It is more than possible to enjoy your own kids as teenagers. I’ve done it three times, and wouldn’t trade those years for toddlerhood if you paid me.
- Life is too short to eat packaged food made with highly processed ingredients. Learn how to cook with fresh ingredients. Yes, you have time. You’re welcome.
- The concept of Family is not something to be taken lightly. A bottle of wine can help.
- Quiet times during the day are the best, even if they’re only five minutes long and in a dark closet.
- It isn’t possible to watch Pride and Prejudice too many times no matter how much my son rolls his eyes.
- It’s important to pay attention to what’s going on in the world. It doesn’t always make sense, but ignoring it makes even less sense.
- Good friends are priceless.
- Deep and lasting love is about Learning, Appreciation, and Compromise. Being silly frequently doesn’t hurt, either.
- It is more than possible to appreciate the way your body looks, even though it’s rounder and more soft than it used to be, and lined and marked where it used to be smooth. Well, mine is.
So, Happy 52nd Birthday to me! Since most of the Bloggosphere seems to be made up of twenty and thirty somethings with very young children and who often write about aging, I hope this helps you know that life is good after 39 — in fact, better. It’s all about attitude.
And and occasional masque using French clay and lots of moisturizer.
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In Vogue with Armpit Flaps
Once in a while, if I’m waiting in the line at the grocery store long enough, like others, I scan the covers of magazines. I glance past Gourmet, Bon Appetit, and Food & Wine, because I have those and others at home in some state of being dissected, stickered and splattered with my latest gastronomical creation. Instead, Style, Town & Country, or Vogue coerces me to lift it from the rack after a silent argument with myself about not needing another magazine in the house, a five-dollar magazine, a magazine that has absolutely nothing to do with me.
But right before the clerk grabs the last item on the conveyor belt, I throw the glossy—and not quite as thick as the September issue will be—August issue of Vogue toward her, and avert my gaze from her glance as she correctly sizes me up as the poser I am.
I have succumbed to “The AGE(LESS) ISSUE,” it seems which is “Vogue’s Guide to Looking Amazing at Every Decade, On any budget, Through Every Season.”
And then there is always that piece on “Beauty Fixes for Your Knees & Arms.”
Knees, maybe, since I’ve always thought I had knees that resembled those of a cow. But I’m sort of speechless over the idea of someone being insecure about a flap of skin on her upper arm. Not the one in the back, or the one that sort of waggles when your arm isn’t flexed. The one on the front.
Go to a mirror right now and look. Look at that place right where your chest meets your arm. You know— in front of your armpit. Yes, there. Poke it.
You have a fold of skin, right? Sure, yours may be larger or smaller than mine, but it’s most likely there. Or, maybe not. It seems it has little to do with weight considering the venerable Vera Wang believes that, “The armpit is nasty, nasty. Even young girls can have this problem.” How sad considering young girls already have so many far more important problems with measuring up to others’ standards. But evidently, this armpit debacle is extremely disturbing to some women—or the men who live with them and who tell them halter tops shouldn’t be worn.
The MoH is far too intelligent a human to even consider suggesting that I should or shouldn’t wear a particular item, not only because he knows I’ve already scrutinized myself a thousand times over, but that my heat-seeking missles would in an instant vaporize his tongue before his brain could transmit the thought.
The article, which to be fair, is written with some self-deprecating humor (the author tells of being obsessed about one part of her body or another (her fat thighs, nasolabial folds, elbows, but just wasn’t ready for the armpit), but I don’t think it’s all that funny. I’m stuck on the concept of the armpit flap and how women can’t see what is lovely about their bodies, and unique. Individual.
I try to understand that as much as I search for the perfect light cast on an artistically mussed salad or perfectly shaped peach, some women obsess about armpit folds. They do exercises for their armpit folds, and search for designers whose style works to hide that apparently unsightly flap of skin. They wonder whether there is a procedure or treatment to rid themselves of its offensive presence.
Who knew?
I’m still looking at my arm pits and wondering—not about my armpits—but about women who routinely have something nipped and waxed, sanded and plucked, injected or tucked and pay handsomely for it.
Supposedly, it’s all the rage to make small adjustments along the way so no one notices.
Somehow, I can’t take any of it seriously. Another article illustrates how women should dress in each decade of their lives is unrealistic, that is unless I want to spend a fortune to look great on my leg of carpool duty, or when I pop the garage door open to roll in the trash cans. Surely my neighbors would talk if I appeared to be too fashionable on these quotidian occasions.
Or would they simply not notice, distracted by my armpit flap and wanting desperately to recommend me to their plastic surgeon?
