Disturbing Trends...

I think my brain is shrinking. Not because I sometimes can’t come up with my husband’s name. Or because I can’t remember for TEN seconds the oh-so-important thing I wanted to Google. Or because my math skills have been reduced to that of a seven-year-old. But when I run (not run as in jog or anything really physical. I mean more like I’m out walking the dogs and while crossing the road I recognize the car that was just puttering along a second ago is now barreling down on me like a freight train so that I have to run across the road to avoid becoming crow pickings) I think I can actually feel my brain smashing against my skull with each pounding step.

Disturbing Trends...

Okay, never did remember what I was going to add the other day but here are some disturbing eating trends that my husband, Geoff, and I have developed (I thought your sweet tooth shriveled up with everything else as you got older).

·     We can't get enough pie. We ate a pie my aunt gave us, in the car, with no utensils, by time we made it to the next town, ten minutes away.

·     Our friend came over to experiment with pie crust and left us with three pies (she was not happy with the crust), two of which we ate that night, with the third being eaten the next morning.

·     My brother, John, came over with half a pie in hand after visiting some friends. They asked if he wanted the pie and he said no but he knew who would. They said it wasn’t a very good pie and he said it wouldn’t matter. And it didn’t. Geoff disparaged the pie while we inhaled it.

·     We used to buy fat free, sugar free gelatin along with fat free whip cream in the can but we never made the gelatin fast enough to put the whip cream on because every time we walked into the kitchen, we’d open the fridge and take a hit off the can. I recently had the bright idea of buying a frozen tub of fat free whip cream figuring it would last longer. Nope. It just required the extra step of first getting a fork (which works much better than a spoon with frozen topping, just so you know) to snag a chunk of a little frozen delight.

·     My sister, Mary, always likes to receive chocolate for Valentine’s Day so I always buy her some and then buy her more because we ate the first batch.

Boomer Moments

I was getting dressed and leaned over only to notice what appeared to be a third breast hanging down from my mid-region. I quickly called to Geoff, my husband, to “take a look at this”, which he did and then walked away replying “I wish you wouldn’t have shown me that.” I could only respond with laughter which caused an even more disturbing site as all three boobs bounced about.

When my very pregnant ophthalmologists told me that I had the start of cataracts, I must have responded with a surprised and concerned look as she then assured me that that was normal “for someone my age”.


Working as a finish carpenter, I am often the lone woman surrounded by many men. On one occasion I caught myself adjusting my posture after spotting a rather nice-looking fellow on the job and then suddenly realized I was old enough to be his mother. I think it might have been possible for me to be his grandmother but I wasn’t willing to do the math.

Periodically I will drop something small, say a pencil, a tissue, a sock, and I will reach down to pick it up and then straighten up without having picked up the item. And I will bend back down and straighten up, again with no item having been retrieved. And I’ll do it again. And maybe a fourth or even fifth time, no longer even trying to stifle obscenities from bursting from my mouth. I do not ever remembering doing such a thing when “I was young”. Maybe I did, in which case this is not an issue of fine motor skills deteriorating with age but rather another example of my memory going to hell.

I handed my credit card which had my picture imprinted on it dating back to my 20s, to the two young women behind the counter at the vet clinic where I take our dogs. They both marveled at the great idea of my picture on the credit card and then stared back at me, critiquing. I explained how old the picture was, that I should probably update it and, yes, I color my hair, to which one of them responded "lighter hair looks better on older women" and then they both nodded their young heads with their beautiful, shiny hair.

It was some time after the incident above that I decided to stop coloring my hair and return to my darker shade of brown. After several weeks, it was apparent that I was coloring more gray than brown, and even the brown was not what it used to be. Although I thought I was maybe, possibly, okay with it, Geoff took one look and said “I’m not ready for that”. Back to the box.

Disturbing trends since turning 50

I am becoming more and more easily impressed by physical activity I am engaged in. Look at me, I'm raking the leaves. Aren't I something, I'm walking up one flight of stairs instead of taking the elevator. I'm climbing up this ladder just like a young person. Wow, I'm walking so briskly up this hill I can feel my leg muscles working (oh god, could this give me a heart attack?)

When I bend over, I can feel my face pull away from my skull.

I don’t know of one baseball, football, tennis, or basketball player who is as old as I am. A couple of golfers maybe. Although they’re probably on the Senior Circuit.

I no longer recognize names of celebrities. This is not such a bad thing.

I find it increasingly difficult to complete a sentence without using generic words like “thing”, “stuff”, “place”, “guy”. As in “Who was that guy at that place who told us to use some kind of stuff to make that thing?” Okay it’s not that bad but I’m well on my way.

Sometimes I use my fingers to check my math.

I can no longer “pop” off the floor in one, quick motion. Now it takes about four separate moves.

At this rate, it won’t be long before my pinky toenail eventually disappears altogether.

Periodically I test my husband on where I want my ashes tossed.

I also test him on signs of a stroke.

Forgetting something makes me wonder if I’m in the early states of Alzheimer’s.

Any unexplained pain makes me think:  tumor.

I’m warming up to loafers and elastic-waste pants.

I want to wear turtlenecks even in the summer.

Cruises are sounding appealing.

Doctors used to be old. Today my family physician is so young and adorable I want to pinch her cheeks.

Running is reserved for crossing the road where a serious attempt has to be made to avoid being crushed by a bus.

I’m certain incontinence products are in my future.

I used to ponder things like, would I rather be rich or pretty, smart or funny, be able to sing or play an instrument. Now I ponder, do I want my body to be cremated or donated to science

What is going on with my neck? I've got enough extra skin to cover a football.

The Big 5-0

The big event for me a couple of years ago was turning 50. Turning 50. 50. I’m 50. Holy cow. Although turning 50 is still pretty weird, it has given me a little attitude that’s been fun. Like, I’m going to eat this remaining half a cherry pie for dinner – cuz I’m 50! Or, I’m going to pluck this whisker out of my chin right here in the car in Meijer’s parking lot instead of waiting to go home behind closed doors – cuz I’m 50! And I say these things to myself using the voice of Edgar G. Robinson. “That’s right, I’m 50 see, yeah 50.” On the other hand, 50 has brought on a disturbing trend. I’ve started to drool. Not a bucket full. Just a drop. On more than one occasion. On several occasions in fact. I don’t know if salivary glands work harder as you get older or I’m just standing around with my mouth hanging open. This is upsetting for a couple of reasons. I thought that drooling wouldn’t happen until, you know, I was OLD. Not 50! Also, it’s resulted in a diminishing of my arguing-with-your-spouse arsenal. Geoff has always been a drooler. I often catch him choking on his own spit. You should see his pillow in the morning. So you see, sometimes it comes in handy to be able to come back with “yeah, well at least I don’t drool on your head”. But now, do I? And here’s another thing. I can’t seem to stop thinking about dying. I keep thinking, “what if I’m old and on my own but have a pet or a few farm animals or whatever and I drop dead and no one knows it?” What if it’s several weeks before the neighbor boys think “hey, we haven’t seen that crazy old drooling lady with the goat lately, maybe we should see if she’s still alive”? What a site they could walk into! Sure, sure, if I’m dead, what do I care? But I’m not exactly dead yet so, you know, I worry.