When I was a child, my mother used to take me up to London for a Christmas treat. We’d take the express train from Brighton and then transfer to the underground with its then Victorian lighting and massively deep moving staircases. It was all magical to me. But nothing was so magical as seeing Santa Claus at Harrods.
Santa was always found at the end of some magic garden full of bright colored, fantastical flowers, twinkling lights, revolving figures, and dancing animals. I was fascinated. I’d want to stop and look but usually couldn’t because there were other people in line behind me. At the end, Santa would hand me some small package and wish us Merry Christmas. By then I’d grown used to this world of fantasy. But we’d be ushered past an exit sign and out into an undecorated corridor. That was a shock even though I knew it was coming. I remember feeling that we had been suddenly dumped backed into the real word. That feeling of loss was emphasized when we walked past the line of children still waiting to get in.
It was strange to me as a child—this contrast between illusion and reality—and it is still is. I remember enough about Santa’s Garden to recognize the feeling. I’ve felt it when I’ve watched my loved ones retire from work. One day they are professionally capable and productive, then they retire, and the next day their former colleagues are too busy to have a cup of coffee with them. Life has moved on to next people in the queue.
I’m reminded here of Shakespeare’s comment on this very topic in King Lear, his play about aging, power, and illusion. “A dog,” he said,” is obeyed in office.” In other words, chain a dog in front of a door and no one will enter. Let it be found running loose in the street and it is a different matter. Shakespeare understood the shock of being out of office and confusing the position with the individual holding it. I pointed this out to my London cousin who is thinking of early retirement. I told him to have an exit strategy for the corridor outside.
I’ve been thinking lately about the final exit door. I wouldn’t want to be around someone who does not think about an exit strategy. But it’s hard to prepare when you don’t know what’s out there waiting in the corridor. People who have peeped through the door tell us that they see loved ones and even beloved pets. The one time I was around death as a child and heard strange things, I was convinced that “they” had come from the old gentleman who was dying. At the same time, I don’t want to be around someone who tells me what to think. And that includes the structured teachings about the next life that are so often forced on us as children. This is the final mystery of our lives—and we walk alone through that door between illusion and reality.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Guest Comment: The Swimsuit Issue
Speaking for the other half of the world, I'd like to help to clarify, or more correctly, redirect your attention to some more than obvious flaws in the aging processes of the male at the top of the food chain. That collection of years known as your age has dropped his chest into the upper portion of his now much larger sized slacks. What used to be a washboard of an abdomen, has now become a Whirlpool washer instead. His beltline and his waistline no longer have anything in common as they are practically located in different zip codes. HIs beltline is approximately five inches below the former waistline. Sadly. those five inches are how much he'd have to add to the pant size he buys if he wore them where he did thirty years ago. He no longer wears stretchy material shirts that outline his musclar frame for fear that these shirts would allow his man-boobs to appear as though he was only halfway through the changeover processes. We're not talking about lost elasticity of pectoral muscles. We're talking about some real hooters here. The hair on the chest has either fallen out, and totally unevenly at that, or has turned a lovely shade of white. Definitely a dead give away that he qualifies for that senior citizen discount. No need to ask. What's left that thick, dark hair is now inside his head where he can only remember it.
Marty
Marty
Thursday, January 24, 2008
The Swimsuit Issue
It’s getting near to spring again and time for the yearly ritual inspection to see if I can get another year’s wear out of my swimsuit. The issue is perilous because I really don’t like shopping for one. The answer this year is no. I have to replace mine.
My current suit was a rushed choice off a deeply discounted rack of season closeouts. I was in Seattle with my grandson. He wanted to swim in the hotel pool and I had forgotten my suit. I grabbed the first one that wasn’t too absurd and was fortunate enough to have it fit. But five years of getting in and out of the hot tub have taken their toll on it. The fabric is getting little runs that promise trouble ahead. It is time.
I know exactly what I want: a well constructed one-piece swim suit in a substantial fabric that won’t cling or bag, designed simply with some super-structure support, and in a single colour such as flattering burgundy. A trip to the department store and on-line catalogs has convinced me that I am asking for the impossible.
Modern swimsuits appear to come in four types. There’s the revealing costume that is murder for anyone with bulges that can poke out through the cutouts or hang over the cleavage. I don’t even look at them. There’s the athletic costume, usually lycra, with sides that come up to the hip bone. It emphasizes—well—anatomy. I’m sure men must have the same problems with gravity, but theirs are not so obvious. I look as if my chest is about to bomb the floor. Then there’s the slimmer. It’s full of elastic bands stretched in every direction, all designed to hold in and thrust up. Trouble is that what is held in and thrust up has to go somewhere. When I try it on, I feel like the Pilsbury doughboy wrapped in an Ace bandage. Then there’s the camouflage costume, designed supposedly to conceal. These suits remind me of a Dorothy Lamour movie since they so often include a sarong design. More recent versions include a loose top over what look like bloomers. I rather imagine that all the extra material gets heavy and cold when it’s wet and probably very sandy if you are on a beach. I feel clunky and fat in them, not to mention self-conscious wondering if anyone else is thinking about the old Hope-Crosby movies.
I suppose the closest thing to what I want is called a tank suit. But even with these, the sides ride up to my waist, the back badly wants to be a thong, and they come in black or neon or with some large hibiscus or similar flower splashed across me. That all looks cute on someone tiny—I even looked good in them when I was young—but they are not what I need at this stage. I’m discouraged enough to think that the best choice might be two pieces and be damned to the slash of white skin across my middle. So what if it ripples? I’ll just get a sun tan. Everything looks better when it’s tanned.
I think what I really need is to go back to that department store in Seattle and grab another suit off their discount rack. In buying swimsuits, it appears that luck is about as good a predictor of comfort as agonizing over racks or on-line catalogs. Now, if only I could remember which shop it was.
You can contact me at coololdtech@gmail.com or http://www.dmdeluca.com/
My current suit was a rushed choice off a deeply discounted rack of season closeouts. I was in Seattle with my grandson. He wanted to swim in the hotel pool and I had forgotten my suit. I grabbed the first one that wasn’t too absurd and was fortunate enough to have it fit. But five years of getting in and out of the hot tub have taken their toll on it. The fabric is getting little runs that promise trouble ahead. It is time.
I know exactly what I want: a well constructed one-piece swim suit in a substantial fabric that won’t cling or bag, designed simply with some super-structure support, and in a single colour such as flattering burgundy. A trip to the department store and on-line catalogs has convinced me that I am asking for the impossible.
Modern swimsuits appear to come in four types. There’s the revealing costume that is murder for anyone with bulges that can poke out through the cutouts or hang over the cleavage. I don’t even look at them. There’s the athletic costume, usually lycra, with sides that come up to the hip bone. It emphasizes—well—anatomy. I’m sure men must have the same problems with gravity, but theirs are not so obvious. I look as if my chest is about to bomb the floor. Then there’s the slimmer. It’s full of elastic bands stretched in every direction, all designed to hold in and thrust up. Trouble is that what is held in and thrust up has to go somewhere. When I try it on, I feel like the Pilsbury doughboy wrapped in an Ace bandage. Then there’s the camouflage costume, designed supposedly to conceal. These suits remind me of a Dorothy Lamour movie since they so often include a sarong design. More recent versions include a loose top over what look like bloomers. I rather imagine that all the extra material gets heavy and cold when it’s wet and probably very sandy if you are on a beach. I feel clunky and fat in them, not to mention self-conscious wondering if anyone else is thinking about the old Hope-Crosby movies.
I suppose the closest thing to what I want is called a tank suit. But even with these, the sides ride up to my waist, the back badly wants to be a thong, and they come in black or neon or with some large hibiscus or similar flower splashed across me. That all looks cute on someone tiny—I even looked good in them when I was young—but they are not what I need at this stage. I’m discouraged enough to think that the best choice might be two pieces and be damned to the slash of white skin across my middle. So what if it ripples? I’ll just get a sun tan. Everything looks better when it’s tanned.
I think what I really need is to go back to that department store in Seattle and grab another suit off their discount rack. In buying swimsuits, it appears that luck is about as good a predictor of comfort as agonizing over racks or on-line catalogs. Now, if only I could remember which shop it was.
You can contact me at coololdtech@gmail.com or http://www.dmdeluca.com/
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Second Hand Rose
The recent death of Sir Edmund Hillary was noted with respect in our house. Sid has climbed around the world and said of Sir Edmund that he was there for the “glory years.” That interested me. It didn’t sound like the term “good old days” that I hear from retirees. What they mean is that the good old days were more leisurely, more gracious, and a lot less dangerous. Sir Edmund’s conquest of Everest did not fit into any of those categories. Sid had to mean something else. As it turned out, he did.
Sid is part of a generation of pioneers. I just missed out on that. Sadly, I have to consider myself part of a transitional generation: too young for the great generation, too old for the boomers. Sort of like Second Hand Rose in the musical Funny Girl. My generation still shared the values of our parents and weren’t gutsy enough to be cutting edge like the generation behind us. I personally envied both generations their certainty. Part of me wanted to rebel but the other part told me I had to behave. I was a very mixed-up teenager with a non-conformist streak shackled to a need for approval.
Sid never had to suffer this angst of confusion. He is a retired oral surgeon who worked with a small group of fellow surgeons to create a new field of oral-maxillofacial surgery. What he means by the term “glory days” is that time when a sport, or an idea, or a process is developed before it is widely adopted and metamorphosed into what I call “massification”-- in other words, become overcrowded and routine.
During WWII, the Colorado Rockies were the site of training for the 10th Mountain Division, which was designed to be the US equivalent of European mountain troops. When the war was over, some of the veterans remembered the perfect snow and came back and started the Colorado ski industry. At first, the ski areas had chains and t-bars, skiers had to mash down the snow with their skis, and people sat communally around fires in the evening, sipping Chartreuse. Today quad chairs are common, people ski the runs with a sort of grim determination to get in the most number of runs, and no one shares anything after the day. The glory days, as Sid would say, were when the slopes were uncrowded and the expensive resorts just an idea.
Then there's Hawaii. I can remember the first time I saw it. It was 1959, just before statehood. At that time, the Lurline and Matsonia still sailed between the Mainland and the Islands. Jet service was in its infancy. The pink lady, the Royal Hawaiian Hotel, was the tallest building on Waikiki Beach. Now you can hardly see the Royal Hawaiian as hundreds of aircraft deposit hundreds of passengers who want transportation, lodging, and services. Hawaii is as massified as are the slopes on Colorado’s mountains.
Even Bill Gates has moved on. Tracy Kidder’s book, The Soul of a New Machine, described the creativity and excitement surrounding the development of the personal computer. Now it is so routine that Mr. Gates has turned to philanthropy.
The “good old days” are nostalgia for a more familiar world. The “glory days” are a time of invention and collaboration. The enemy of “good old days” is time. The enemy of “glory days” is massification.
Sir Edmund climbed during a time when courage and daring took the place of sophisticated climbing gear and space age electronic communication. Everest now is littered with the bodies of those who failed and the equipment left behind by those who find it not cost effective to carry it out. People climb the mountain with various handicaps—blind, double amputees—trying to recreate the sense of frontier that came naturally with the “glory years.” But there can only be one time called that. The old timers of Everest may lament this new emphasis on extreme experience, but there is nothing they can do about it. Those glory days have gone.
I suppose we all must at one point let go of the glory years if we have been fortunate enough to participate in them. By definition, they are only the brief moment of excited possibility. The wisest among us can accept that they are fleeting. The unlucky among us will never know that they existed.
If you would like to comment on this blog, please feel free to click on the comments button. Or if you prefer, you can e-mail me at coololdtech@gmail.com I would love to hear your thoughts and reactions. If you are interested in my other writing, including my WWII novel called "Extraordinary Things," please go to my website http://www.dmdeluca.com/ I'll look forward to hearing from you and thanks for reading this blog!
Sid is part of a generation of pioneers. I just missed out on that. Sadly, I have to consider myself part of a transitional generation: too young for the great generation, too old for the boomers. Sort of like Second Hand Rose in the musical Funny Girl. My generation still shared the values of our parents and weren’t gutsy enough to be cutting edge like the generation behind us. I personally envied both generations their certainty. Part of me wanted to rebel but the other part told me I had to behave. I was a very mixed-up teenager with a non-conformist streak shackled to a need for approval.
Sid never had to suffer this angst of confusion. He is a retired oral surgeon who worked with a small group of fellow surgeons to create a new field of oral-maxillofacial surgery. What he means by the term “glory days” is that time when a sport, or an idea, or a process is developed before it is widely adopted and metamorphosed into what I call “massification”-- in other words, become overcrowded and routine.
During WWII, the Colorado Rockies were the site of training for the 10th Mountain Division, which was designed to be the US equivalent of European mountain troops. When the war was over, some of the veterans remembered the perfect snow and came back and started the Colorado ski industry. At first, the ski areas had chains and t-bars, skiers had to mash down the snow with their skis, and people sat communally around fires in the evening, sipping Chartreuse. Today quad chairs are common, people ski the runs with a sort of grim determination to get in the most number of runs, and no one shares anything after the day. The glory days, as Sid would say, were when the slopes were uncrowded and the expensive resorts just an idea.
Then there's Hawaii. I can remember the first time I saw it. It was 1959, just before statehood. At that time, the Lurline and Matsonia still sailed between the Mainland and the Islands. Jet service was in its infancy. The pink lady, the Royal Hawaiian Hotel, was the tallest building on Waikiki Beach. Now you can hardly see the Royal Hawaiian as hundreds of aircraft deposit hundreds of passengers who want transportation, lodging, and services. Hawaii is as massified as are the slopes on Colorado’s mountains.
Even Bill Gates has moved on. Tracy Kidder’s book, The Soul of a New Machine, described the creativity and excitement surrounding the development of the personal computer. Now it is so routine that Mr. Gates has turned to philanthropy.
The “good old days” are nostalgia for a more familiar world. The “glory days” are a time of invention and collaboration. The enemy of “good old days” is time. The enemy of “glory days” is massification.
Sir Edmund climbed during a time when courage and daring took the place of sophisticated climbing gear and space age electronic communication. Everest now is littered with the bodies of those who failed and the equipment left behind by those who find it not cost effective to carry it out. People climb the mountain with various handicaps—blind, double amputees—trying to recreate the sense of frontier that came naturally with the “glory years.” But there can only be one time called that. The old timers of Everest may lament this new emphasis on extreme experience, but there is nothing they can do about it. Those glory days have gone.
I suppose we all must at one point let go of the glory years if we have been fortunate enough to participate in them. By definition, they are only the brief moment of excited possibility. The wisest among us can accept that they are fleeting. The unlucky among us will never know that they existed.
If you would like to comment on this blog, please feel free to click on the comments button. Or if you prefer, you can e-mail me at coololdtech@gmail.com I would love to hear your thoughts and reactions. If you are interested in my other writing, including my WWII novel called "Extraordinary Things," please go to my website http://www.dmdeluca.com/ I'll look forward to hearing from you and thanks for reading this blog!
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
A Sambu by Any Other Name
Like a rapidly increasing number of widowed seniors, I have made the decision not to remarry. After nearly forty years of marriage, I felt that I had done sufficient honor to the institution. Fortunately, I found a loving man who felt the same way I did. We wanted to care for one another without inviting legal and government intrusions into our lives with the potential for disinheriting our children.
I expected a certain amount of raised moral eyebrow over our decision. In fact, I have found none. The difficulties have come from an entirely unexpected quarter: the English language. English, in fact, has no word that can adequately describe a committed relationship between seniors.
The difficulty emerged almost immediately when we were in a social setting. Girlfriend or boyfriend is ridiculous as a description for two adults of advancing years. The word friend did not do justice to the relationship. Companion sounded as if I was being paid to provide nursing services. Life companion sounded ominous. Partner sounded as if we were about to open a MacDonalds franchise. Domestic Partner sounded like a gas stove. Consort sounded pretentious unless the word prince occurred before it.
We even considered getting officially engaged so that we could use the word fiancée. In fact, we did that for a while. It was true enough that if we were to get married it would be to each other. But in the end there was something not quite honest. Anyway, we didn’t have an answer when asked when we planned to set the date. It seemed better to just abandon it.
Then Sid came up with the idea of virtual spouse. This came about when he was doing a genealogical chart for his family. He wanted to include me but clearly. He wrote vs beside my name and has been explaining ever since. I suppose we could use the word spouse with our own definition. But that’s getting very close to the idea of marriage and if I were to get married again, I want the bells and whistles: the bended knee, the ceremony, and the reception. I refuse to let myself be married by language proxy.
So my conclusion is that the English language needs a word comparable to the Swedish sambu. It is very common in Sweden for people to live together (sambu means just that) before marriage. The Swedes are very clear about the reasons to get married. In the guestbook of a church in Malmo one couple has signed in with stick figures. The female figure is clearly pregnant. The concept of sambu is so well established that the airlines even place ads saying “Take along your wife or your sambu.”
I thought about adopting the Swedish word. English can certainly do this. We take words from every other language we come across: think tsunami and pyjamas for example. The big problem though is finding enough seniors who speak Swedish to start the trend.
Perhaps Sid came up with the best suggestion the last time I raised this issue in frustration. “So how are we going to describe ourselves in future?” I said plaintively. He just smiled at me beatifically and replied “Lucky.”
I expected a certain amount of raised moral eyebrow over our decision. In fact, I have found none. The difficulties have come from an entirely unexpected quarter: the English language. English, in fact, has no word that can adequately describe a committed relationship between seniors.
The difficulty emerged almost immediately when we were in a social setting. Girlfriend or boyfriend is ridiculous as a description for two adults of advancing years. The word friend did not do justice to the relationship. Companion sounded as if I was being paid to provide nursing services. Life companion sounded ominous. Partner sounded as if we were about to open a MacDonalds franchise. Domestic Partner sounded like a gas stove. Consort sounded pretentious unless the word prince occurred before it.
We even considered getting officially engaged so that we could use the word fiancée. In fact, we did that for a while. It was true enough that if we were to get married it would be to each other. But in the end there was something not quite honest. Anyway, we didn’t have an answer when asked when we planned to set the date. It seemed better to just abandon it.
Then Sid came up with the idea of virtual spouse. This came about when he was doing a genealogical chart for his family. He wanted to include me but clearly. He wrote vs beside my name and has been explaining ever since. I suppose we could use the word spouse with our own definition. But that’s getting very close to the idea of marriage and if I were to get married again, I want the bells and whistles: the bended knee, the ceremony, and the reception. I refuse to let myself be married by language proxy.
So my conclusion is that the English language needs a word comparable to the Swedish sambu. It is very common in Sweden for people to live together (sambu means just that) before marriage. The Swedes are very clear about the reasons to get married. In the guestbook of a church in Malmo one couple has signed in with stick figures. The female figure is clearly pregnant. The concept of sambu is so well established that the airlines even place ads saying “Take along your wife or your sambu.”
I thought about adopting the Swedish word. English can certainly do this. We take words from every other language we come across: think tsunami and pyjamas for example. The big problem though is finding enough seniors who speak Swedish to start the trend.
Perhaps Sid came up with the best suggestion the last time I raised this issue in frustration. “So how are we going to describe ourselves in future?” I said plaintively. He just smiled at me beatifically and replied “Lucky.”
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
Nostalgia
I used to think nostalgia meant Norman Rockwell pictures of Americana or—in my particular case—pictures of thatched cottages and Wind in the Willows animals from my early childhood in England. I now think of nostalgia as being life as it was lived last year or, in some cases, last week.
This revelation came to me as I was listening to Public Radio reporting on the CES (Consumer Electronic Show for the uninitiated) being held in Las Vegas. Apparently, every electonics producer (except for Apple, which has its own show) hurries into town to display the new, the experimental, and the as yet undreamed of. Among this year’s offerings are a 12-foot flat TV, a car that drives itself, and wireless devices that do away with the need for cables anywhere.
While this is all mystifying enough, I found myself completely buried by a discussion of whether HD DVD or Blu-ray would become the Beta (obsolete) of the next decade. As far as I can tell, the competition—as it was for VHS and Beta—involves two Japanese companies duking it out for dominance. The Japanese have a nice saying that covers this: when elephants dance the grass beneath them suffers. I feel like a blade of grass.
I learned about the Beta-VHS contest because I, of course, had a Beta. That system shortly disappeared along with the movies in that format. I could still play what I had on the Beta machine but all the new releases were VHS. I felt cheated. l felt I had bought a horse without knowing that I was only betting on it.
Then, to make matters worse (for me, not the tech companies), I no sooner had learned to use my VHS system than DVD started coming out and required all new equipment. DVD was a great improvement in quality but the equipment and things to play on it all cost money. This time, having been burnt once, I was suspicious. I bought the DVD player eventually but never invested in a library of DVDs. Good thing. Now I understand that DVDs are expected to be replaced by wireless downloads and hence the heat over the format and discs. I don’t pretend to understand any of this. I have just figured out how to play Netflix films on my DVD player cabled into my non-flat, non-HD TV. The only thing I know is that it will probably cost me money.
I'm a dinosaur. I admit it. I’m not attracted by the idea of hand-held computers: trifocals and tiny screens don’t mix very well. I’m not attracted by carrying music with me. I think there’s enough noise in the world as it is. I am not excited about new things when I have just become comfortable with the old. The tech companies don't market to me because they know that I'll not jump on the latest thing. They play a waiting game with me because they know they'll get me in the end.
That’s why I think I understand Norman Rockwell now as I hadn’t when I was younger. I’d love to find a thatched cottage in rolling green countryside where the birds peck on my window for food and the foxes play with their cubs down by the stream. But, even if I could afford that--with my luck, there’d probably by a cell-phone tower on top of the nearest hill.
This revelation came to me as I was listening to Public Radio reporting on the CES (Consumer Electronic Show for the uninitiated) being held in Las Vegas. Apparently, every electonics producer (except for Apple, which has its own show) hurries into town to display the new, the experimental, and the as yet undreamed of. Among this year’s offerings are a 12-foot flat TV, a car that drives itself, and wireless devices that do away with the need for cables anywhere.
While this is all mystifying enough, I found myself completely buried by a discussion of whether HD DVD or Blu-ray would become the Beta (obsolete) of the next decade. As far as I can tell, the competition—as it was for VHS and Beta—involves two Japanese companies duking it out for dominance. The Japanese have a nice saying that covers this: when elephants dance the grass beneath them suffers. I feel like a blade of grass.
I learned about the Beta-VHS contest because I, of course, had a Beta. That system shortly disappeared along with the movies in that format. I could still play what I had on the Beta machine but all the new releases were VHS. I felt cheated. l felt I had bought a horse without knowing that I was only betting on it.
Then, to make matters worse (for me, not the tech companies), I no sooner had learned to use my VHS system than DVD started coming out and required all new equipment. DVD was a great improvement in quality but the equipment and things to play on it all cost money. This time, having been burnt once, I was suspicious. I bought the DVD player eventually but never invested in a library of DVDs. Good thing. Now I understand that DVDs are expected to be replaced by wireless downloads and hence the heat over the format and discs. I don’t pretend to understand any of this. I have just figured out how to play Netflix films on my DVD player cabled into my non-flat, non-HD TV. The only thing I know is that it will probably cost me money.
I'm a dinosaur. I admit it. I’m not attracted by the idea of hand-held computers: trifocals and tiny screens don’t mix very well. I’m not attracted by carrying music with me. I think there’s enough noise in the world as it is. I am not excited about new things when I have just become comfortable with the old. The tech companies don't market to me because they know that I'll not jump on the latest thing. They play a waiting game with me because they know they'll get me in the end.
That’s why I think I understand Norman Rockwell now as I hadn’t when I was younger. I’d love to find a thatched cottage in rolling green countryside where the birds peck on my window for food and the foxes play with their cubs down by the stream. But, even if I could afford that--with my luck, there’d probably by a cell-phone tower on top of the nearest hill.
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
I Want a Refund
My body and I are not always on speaking terms. I don’t know why I bother to argue, though, because my body always wins. If I do something to displease my body, I very quickly regret it. If my body does something to upset me, like a belch in a public place, not only do I have no recourse but I am even responsible for it.
I think of my body as a stern, judgmental parent to whom I bring my report card: Three A’s and three B’s. I’m thrilled but my body is not. It wants to know why I didn’t get all A’s. Bodies are like that.
A few years ago (well, that’s a euphemism for quite a while in the past), I decided to get in shape and do well by my body. I watched what I ate and took up an exercise program. This was all for my body, mind you. Well, I was jogging along, quietly minding my business, when I tripped over a sidewalk and stress-fractured my knee. Lo these many years later my body has decided to get back at me by developing arthritis where the fracture was. I get no credit for the reason I was exercising. I get treated exactly the same as Evel Knievel, apparently a fellow abuser as far as my body is concerned.
Then there are the fun little things my body has decided to do to me quite on its own initiative. The daily thyroid pills are a nice little reminder that my body resents aging. The lipitor is another gift. I can cut out all fat and meat and still have to take it. My doctor says it’s genetics. I say it’s the body doing what it wants to without any regard for my feelings. I didn’t want to learn about triglycerides or HDL and I certainly didn’t want to have regular blood tests.
If my body had any regard for me at all, it would not have wrinkled or sagged or allowed my hair to go grey. Just to remind me of the power it has over me, it has even stopped growing hair in various places. I can’t bear to look at turkeys these days, they remind me of what’s under the turtle neck sweaters I favor.
The strange thing is that I still feel as I did when I was twenty—well, maybe thirty. My mind is clear and I still think I can accomplish many things more. My body is not willing to go along with me. People look at me and draw instant conclusions about what I am capable of based on what my body looks like. I may look like I am nearing the top of the hill and about to go over, but that’s just my body. I want to yell out that I’m still alive. Still with it. Maybe I’m not going down a ski jump at the Olympics—but I wouldn’t have done that when I was twenty. I can just imagine what my body would say if I had.
One of my cynical friends once told me there are no guarantees in life and that you can’t go back for a refund. Mentally and spiritually I guess I can accept that. But when it comes to my body, I want to tell someone that there must have been a mistake. This physical being with its heart burn and arthritic knees and lumps on its fingers is not me. It can’t be. I want a refund. Trouble is—I have no idea where to make a complaint and I can hear my body laughing.
I think of my body as a stern, judgmental parent to whom I bring my report card: Three A’s and three B’s. I’m thrilled but my body is not. It wants to know why I didn’t get all A’s. Bodies are like that.
A few years ago (well, that’s a euphemism for quite a while in the past), I decided to get in shape and do well by my body. I watched what I ate and took up an exercise program. This was all for my body, mind you. Well, I was jogging along, quietly minding my business, when I tripped over a sidewalk and stress-fractured my knee. Lo these many years later my body has decided to get back at me by developing arthritis where the fracture was. I get no credit for the reason I was exercising. I get treated exactly the same as Evel Knievel, apparently a fellow abuser as far as my body is concerned.
Then there are the fun little things my body has decided to do to me quite on its own initiative. The daily thyroid pills are a nice little reminder that my body resents aging. The lipitor is another gift. I can cut out all fat and meat and still have to take it. My doctor says it’s genetics. I say it’s the body doing what it wants to without any regard for my feelings. I didn’t want to learn about triglycerides or HDL and I certainly didn’t want to have regular blood tests.
If my body had any regard for me at all, it would not have wrinkled or sagged or allowed my hair to go grey. Just to remind me of the power it has over me, it has even stopped growing hair in various places. I can’t bear to look at turkeys these days, they remind me of what’s under the turtle neck sweaters I favor.
The strange thing is that I still feel as I did when I was twenty—well, maybe thirty. My mind is clear and I still think I can accomplish many things more. My body is not willing to go along with me. People look at me and draw instant conclusions about what I am capable of based on what my body looks like. I may look like I am nearing the top of the hill and about to go over, but that’s just my body. I want to yell out that I’m still alive. Still with it. Maybe I’m not going down a ski jump at the Olympics—but I wouldn’t have done that when I was twenty. I can just imagine what my body would say if I had.
One of my cynical friends once told me there are no guarantees in life and that you can’t go back for a refund. Mentally and spiritually I guess I can accept that. But when it comes to my body, I want to tell someone that there must have been a mistake. This physical being with its heart burn and arthritic knees and lumps on its fingers is not me. It can’t be. I want a refund. Trouble is—I have no idea where to make a complaint and I can hear my body laughing.
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