So many clichés about aging…so many cutesy sayings to get the laugh and cut off the whining. Basically, the whines deserve to be squelched. Someone just might suggest that the complainer’s happiness lies in the natural alternative to aging.
I love being alive, love my life, my family, my friends, my activities. When any group starts, “Well, my (surgery, illness, problem) went like this…”, I have been known to draw tongue blood determined to avoid contributing to the ain’t-it-awful-one-upmanship.
Granted, verbal processing is vital to some folks. With that need in mind, it is my duty of respect to listen, maintain eye contract and wait for the pause.
Despite the rehashing of medical miracles, we, the over 65 group, are good for a lot of grins.
Consider the Miracle Of The Hair. 80% of women are without a single visible gray hair and 99.9% of men are gray, white-haired or bald. Must be part of the Venus/Mars deal.
And speaking of Venus/Mars…How about those commercials for the little blue V-pill. Most prescriptions have totally scary side effects, but 4 hours and still worth the risk?
We make lists to remember what was on the other lists that might have been on the list we lost while we were thinking about what we should have handled yesterday. Or was it last week?
Picking up yesterday’s reading material and going back several pages to figure out what happened before we dozed off makes for slow return of library books.
Waxing nostalgic for the days of our youth when everything was amazing is a definite clue to geezerhood. (If you, Gentle Reader, grew up in the 50’s, you are part of the group that holds claim to complete accuracy about that decade’s perfection.)
Tsk- tsking about the current dress or hair styles while pretty much enjoying the view is an old person’s game.
Excusing totally embarrassing memory lapses with that senior-moment sheepish shuffle is coin of our realm. (My spouse’s name is what?)
Which brings me to Rosalind Russell. Some years ago, Bob and I caught the tail end of an old movie. We both recognized the actress but could not come up with her name. It plagued me for weeks. Then, at approximately, 4:00 AM I awoke, sat up in bed and shouted, “Rosalind Russell”. Now we had a tag for the longer delayed memory stuff struggling to get out.
And Black Jack? Well, we do have surprisingly intriguing conversation considering our combined ages total 146 years. One of those conversations was about candy and gum from those perfect 1950’s of our youth. Valomilk, Grapette, Teaberry Gum but what was that licorice gum that lasted about 3 1/2 minutes before it turned to tasteless rubber?
We loved that gum, but naming it was threatening to be a Rosalind Russell. Bob needs his oxygen aided REM sleep so I determined to force the connections and find that name prior to the next 4:00 AM surge.
I am not proud of how I handled it.
Black Jack is now the tag for bolts of memory hurled from the mind and out the mouth at the most inopportune times. Consider a hushed church, soft organ music, walking back from Communion, head bowed in reverence, and out pops “Black Jack!”
Poor Bob. He had to sit in a different pew to convince people that his wife didn’t come to Mass that day. And who was that woman playing cards in church?