I woke up the other day and found myself right smack in the middle of old age! Oh, I know. I’ve been here for a while. I’ve been a regular visitor for about ten years. But, now I’ve taken up permanent residency. I’ve been kidding myself for so long. I thought of myself and a ‘young-ish’ older person. But, it’s getting way too obvious to ignore any longer. I don’t get up as quickly or easily as I used to. I have to talk my body into getting itself up. I have wrinkles that can no longer be smoothed out. The bags under my eyes no longer respond to cool cucumbers. I have a hard time keeping weight off. [Gee, ya thing?] My eye sight is no good. I’m always saying, “What did she say?” throughout a movie. My ankles are full of water by the time I head for bed. I can’t drive at night because of depth perception issues.
I can’t hold in a toot anymore. I have to use a lot more Spray ‘n’ Wash than ever before. I trip over things that I used to be able to step over — like lines. I can’t remember what I’ve said. I can’t remember what I’ve read. I can’t remember where I put things. I often can’t finish sentence because I forget my train of thought.
My stomach muscles no longer respond to ‘sucking it in.’
There’s more . . .
I have to tuck in my ‘rolls’ to get my pants zipped. Several times I zipped up some extra skin and yelped like a kicked puppy. I don’t process detailed information like I used to. I’ve actually called Scott four times this week to ask him what kind of phone he has.
Yah, I’m there.
I occasionally look in the mirror and see a combination of my Mom and Dad in their seventies. I see my Mom’s eyes and the rest is all Dad. Once in a while I glace at myself in the foggy mirror just out of the shower and I hear a scream coming from somewhere nearby. Oh. It’s me.
It takes me two tries to pick up something off the floor. Half-way there I have to pause — adjust my stance and center of gravity — then the final stretch. I usually throw something out when I finally get to the item I’m trying to pick up. Oh, wait. You think I throw some garbage out that I picked up. No, I usually throw something out — like my back, or my neck.
My hair is thin. I worry about having hair like Mom had, where they rubbed in some mousse [more mousse than hair at some point!] and attempted to make a tiny little curl out of the ninety hairs on top of her head.
My fingernails are splitting and cracking and I can no longer budge my cuticle back where it belongs. I can pinch a piece of skin on the back of my hand or the front of my neck and ten minutes later the crease is still there. Tracy didn’t believe me one day when I pinched two flaps of skin together — longways — on my flabby neck and it stuck together like hot overcooked rice. Yah.
I hate when people call me hon or doll or sweetie or ma’am.
Oh, my good heck! Doll! Are you kidding me?
I hate that I can’t figure out a smart phone or an iPad or why the DVR skipped NCIS. That’s the oddity. I’m at a place when I can afford nice things that I cant figure out how to use.
I keep thinking I have ten good years left. Well, ten years left. I’m not sure how good. I’m often frustrated about my ‘living arrangement’ because I have to do all the winter shoveling, the laundry, the front yard and the dishes. I have to get up and down the stairs. I’m not sure I’ll ever be in a place where I can ask hubby for help. I’m pretty sure he will just ignore that I’m getting on. Lord knows he hasn’t a clue where the laundry area is located in the basement.
There are couple of things I like about middle-old age. I like having the whole couch to myself. I love controlling the remote. I love being able to go to bed when I want and get up early. I love being able to just go where/when ever I like. If I want to go somewhere, I go.
I like getting the senior discount. They don’t even ask anymore. I just get it.