Ode To Old

My husband stood at the mirror trimming the hair in his ears. I teased my hair with one of those three-pronged combs designed to make hair look full, when he looked at me and said. “You know, it takes me longer to trim the hair in my ears and nose than it takes the barber to trim the hair on my head.”

We started to laugh and it took a good fifteen minutes before I pulled myself together. I said. “Yes, I was just thinking that I wished for long hair but I’m really just longing for hair… period.”

By this time, I thought I might end up on the floor because I laughed with such gulping and hiccuping that I had to fold my arms around my stomach, which led me to sit precariously on the edge of my chair.

I have girlfriends that tell me everyday how I should count my blessings and not worry about the aging process. Some of them, who are ten to fifteen years younger, let the corner of their mouths turn up in a smile without looking like the rest of their face from the eyes down has just collided with their lips. They nod their saucy curled heads sideways to allow their hair to swing, while I worry about whether the thin spots on my head show. Did I brush concealer on them this morning? These girls can still push their grocery carts with normal speed through the isles. I wipe the germs off the handle with a sanitary wipe, and then lean into the handle in order to stabilize my aching hip. They have no idea!

I know there are so many things said about aging and when I hear or read about them, I must admit I start to feel depressed. Thank goodness my depression doesn’t last long, because most of the time I can’t remember what has been said ten minutes after I’ve heard it or read it.

I don’t like that I snap and crack in the morning before I get to the kitchen to pull out a box of cereal which is suppose to do the snapping and cracking when I put milk on it! Then, when I sit down to enjoy my breakfast that I have to worry that my reflux may turn this one meal… into two. Of course this is when I reach toward my pill organizer to dump the array of drugs into my hand, pop them into my mouth and wonder when my next doctor appointment is.

Is it just me? Or do all women over seventy have trouble trimming their toenails? I’ll admit that my mid-section isn’t what it used to be. Most of my waist has broadened all the way to the edges of my hips… uniformity, so to speak. Anyway, when I bend, I can just about reach my ankles. If only my feet were where my knees are.

Finally, one of the most disturbing things about aging, because I am a writer, is that I’ve begun to feel a little like my computer. Each year I start out with a great deal of memory and a lot of drive. By the end of the year, right about ‘candle blowing out time,’ I realize how many parts I’ve had to replace: eyeglasses, teeth, vitamins, and knees. I make a trip to the health food store to purchase some memory pills, take them for several months, go back to the store to purchase more… and can’t tell the clerk what I’m looking for because I’ve forgotten the name of the product.

Yep. Don’t let anyone under seventy tell you that the aging process is fun, much less that it should be considered “the golden years.” The only thing golden about aging is the crown on the tooth my dentist replaced this year with porcelain, which gave me the opportunity to sell  the old crown for some cash!  God does have a sense of humor!