Monthly Archives: February 2017

Give Me a Lift…..

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img_1355I never knew I made noise getting up until my first grandchild was about two and everytime he got up from sitting or moved something or did any kind of lifting, he would make these sounds of extreme effort.  I thought it was quite odd in such a young child until one day when I was lifting my fat arse off the couch, I made a sound very similar to Jack and then the proverbial light bulb went off in my head.

Jack was imitating the noises he had heard me make whenever I had to “move it, move it” (did you just sing it like the King Lemur Julien from Madagascar?)

How long had I been doing that?  Do I do it in front of others?

Getting older has not been pleasant for me in terms of both my physical limitations and my mental state.  I just cannot wrap my mind around being in my early 60’s…it just seems impossible for the young girl inside me to be that age in body.

But my body is certainly trying to convince my brain we are the same age.

Besides the huffing and puffing (you would huff and puff too, if you were carrying the extra weight of a full-size human around), it seems every part of my body that could sag or hang has decided to give up the ghost of fighting gravity and is racing towards my knees….even those things that are supposed to be stationary inside my body.  My bladder has decided it would like to see the light of day and it is fighting like hell to get out and since I have gotten rid of my lady parts in my Southern Hemisphere, it has clear sailing to someday pop out and say, “Surprise”!   Not that it will really be a surprise as it is certainly giving me clues as to it’s trajectory.  I am afraid I will soon be asking my youngest granddaughter for her Dora the Explorer pull-ups.

Is there truly any way to tighten the bat wings which have now become my upper arms?  I would trade a kidney (tho, I better hang on to both since they are not working up to snuff and two bad kidneys I suppose are better than one bad kidney) to get an upper arm lift. Actually I need a full on body lift.  Like how “Egger” from the first Men In Black movie just grabbed the top of his head and lifted all his excess skin.  Why is there not a need for more human skin.  I would be first in line if they needed it.  Go ahead, cut a slab off here and there….just make sure you cut both sides the same….liposuction ain’t gonna help me none since once the fat is gone, I would have miles and miles of defatted skin…..

If I had known I really would live this long, I might have taken better care of my body…key word here folks is: Might.   Because when you are young and everything is where it should be and nothing is hanging, you never give a thought to how fast you will age and if it hangs at 35, watch out at 62….

People will tell you that “you are never too old to start getting healthy or in shape” but that’s a load of crap.  Which is harder on a body, staying the same or starting to stress it out by not eating your favorite foods, giving up drinking, and taking long walks when the thought of falling is paramount in your mind and you just shuffle down the road in your crocs, hoping against hope that your bladder will stay put, you won’t sneeze or cough, and nobody you know will drive by.  I don’t think my heart could handle that kind of stress.

I just want to wake up some morning fit as a fiddle and as long as I am feeling delusional, I might as well wake up with a taunt neck, unspeckled skin, with upper arms like Michelle, and a body like JLo and legs like Taylor.  And a Kim K. bank account ( I would have said an Oprah bank account but that would be just crazy thinking).

I would love to continue chatting but I must go pluck those eyelash hairs that have transplanted themselves to my chin….how do they do that?

Keeping my chins up till next time,

Your aging Queen

The Truth About Aging (and it ain’t what you think)

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Last week my mom just lost another close friend.  And I wonder what it is like to be my mom’s age and to have suffered through the loss of most of her childhood friends and those women whom she knew so intimately all during the newlywed/young family/teenagers/empty nest/marriages/grandbabies/widowhood years of her life?

How do you  cope with funeral after funeral?  Do you lie in bed each night and wonder if tomorrow it will be your time to die?  Do you long for sleep to dream about all your loved ones who have been gone these past many years.  Do you wake up in the middle of the night and relive the past….the joys and the sorrows?

Even at 62, I often go back to the past when I can’t sleep.  I see the neighbors who are now gone, some who had a profound part in my growing up.  I see them all in their younger years, gathering for coffee at one another’s house or on the tiny patios or lawns each had.  I see Eleanor and Bernice, Joyce and Cel, Millie and Sylvia, Diane and June, my Grandma Tillie and Mrs. Kiehl, Nancy and DeMaris and Mrs. Persh sitting out on her back steps.  In my mind’s eye, I see them all, I remember their homes and the scent each one had.  I remember being yelled at by some and being given cookies by others.

I remember them all.

Is that what it all boils down to?  To be remembered?  Does anyone lay in bed and think of me?  Will anyone remember me?

I hate with a passion getting older.  Not because I have lost my looks or that my body has expanded and that everything hurts.  No, it is the future that scares the heck out of me.  The inevitable losses that must come.  I am not a brave person.  I don’t do well with emotional pain….it sits like an elephant on my chest and the ache overwhelms me until I retch with unnerving sounds that crawl up from the deepest parts of my soul and frighten me with their intensity.  It is in that pit of despair and hopelessness that I struggle with ending the pain myself.  But I have to remind myself that ending my pain will only bring pain to those left behind who care for me; and do I not love them more than myself?  If you have ever struggled with the longing to step from this world into the next, you know the fight that goes on inside your brain.

I am not brave.

My mother is brave.  She mourns her loss and then goes on with life.  She is the poster child for aging right!  She looks forward to each new day.  To the adventures that day may bring.  She does not hide from the pain of life.  She LIVES.  And LIVES well.

I hide.  I close up.  I retreat.  I am not aging well……

I WILL go gentle into that good night…..

img_1341This poem is by Dylan Thomas.

This post is in memory of Bernice Olson who died last week and who was the “Ethel” to my mom’s “Lucy”.  Bernice lived next-door to my mom for 47 years.  She was my “second mom”.  We had keys to her house and she ours.  Need something from her cupboard?  Go on in and find it.  It was normal to come downstairs in the mornings and find Bernice in her robe having coffee with her hair up in pincurls or rollers.  She had piercing blue eyes that she highlighted by the use of cake mascara….like clumps of black spider legs were surrounding her eyes.  I was always fascinated by those clumps.  Bernice seemed to bring me a lot of places with her.  She had one son who was like six or so years older than me and who got the biggest kick out of teasing me.  He was the love of her life.  I don’t think she had the easiest of lives.  Her husband died of a sudden heart attack at the age of 62 and then her beloved son died of a heart attack at 54 and if memory serves me, she was there to witness it.

Rest In Peace, dear Bernice, with Larry and Laird….as long as I live, you will be remembered with love……

Robyn