Monthly Archives: June 2023

I was visiting with a friend the other day and I began to realize during the conversation that a lot of what we were talking about were the things on our bodies that were not working the way they used to. We stopped for a moment, looked at each other and sighed before she said, “Aging is not for the faint-hearted.”

And it struck me (and certainly not for the first time) that I am getting old. If I didn’t already know this, there are many little signs that my age is catching up with me. The number of times I am in the doctor’s office and the ever-increasing amount of pills I take each day is proof enough. In addition, I find myself wandering in stores, admiring the designs on canes and the many varieties of braces there are and the imaginative areas of the bodies where you can use them.

People have a tendency to talk more loudly to me than they used to and of course, I am also talking a lot louder…mostly so I can hear what I am saying. When they talk to me about new technology, they try hard to “dumb it down” for the woman who can remember when the phone was attached to the wall and it didn’t do everything but sing and dance and wash the dishes.

I take a list to the grocery store, but frequently forget it in the car. I was the last person of my acquaintance to learn to use modern payment methods and I still haven’t been on PayPal yet. I do know how to text on the phone, but I can’t check my voice mail and I can’t delete it either. That’s okay, though; I can barely hear to speak on the phone. I’d never make it with voice mail!

I can vividly recall when people began to address me as Ma’am and stand aside so I could go through the door first. And I thought, “They think I’m getting old; how funny!” Now, I am perfectly content to stand and stare at others until they remember to carry things for me and I’m regularly referred to as “Dearie” or “Sweetie”. It’s okay, though, because usually while they are calling me that, they are doing things for me that I could do myself, but I’m just as glad to let them.

I can tell that I’m getting older because I can’t lift what I used to be able to and the only reason I would run is if the house was on fire or Harrison Ford was operating a kissing booth on the corner. And right there is a good indication of my age…I’m looking at Harrison Ford, not Charlie Puth! Age has come to us all, Harry!

Some days, I feel all of what my friend said–aging is not for the faint of heart. But there are other days when I know I’m lucky to have made it this far. I’m lucky I have to sit down to rest my tired back, because usually I’m sitting in the company of good people. I’m lucky that the grocery boy bags my groceries in smaller amounts, so that I can still get my own supplies.

I can enjoy my children without having to worry about their grades in school or the costs of their clothes. I have lovely grandchildren to spoil–well, they say I spoil them, I’m sure that’s not true! But, I’m old, what do I know?

I generally get the best chair in any room, and I always get to ride in the front of the car. No one expects me to do the driving, and since I never could read a map, not much navigating is required of me, either. I read somewhere that some cultures value their old people for their wisdom and experience. I like that idea, but so far I don’t feel all that wise and my experience isn’t something anyone else wants to share. I may have to get as old as Yoda before anyone cares.

I have discovered that getting older is all in your perspective, however. I went through some of my old articles and read the one where I am lamenting the fact that I am getting older and turning 35. I should go back and slap that 35-year-old, because she didn’t get that she was only old at 35 from her perspective. From my view now, she was an ignorant child.

When this getting old thing gets to be too overwhelming, I try always to remind myself that it is far better than any alternative. I curse the bad days and rejoice when my body breaks out occasionally in a rendition of its 40-year-old self. That never lasts long! I read and nap and work when I want to and there is no one left who is old enough to be the boss of me. This isn’t too bad!

Except–this morning I awoke with a stiff neck from sleeping on it wrong and my hearing aid needs a new battery and I hate changing them and the guy at the grocery store loaded my bags down too heavy so now I have to carry them in a few things at a time. Yup, aging is preferable by far to the alternative, but it’s also not for the faint of heart!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

Recently, I was privileged to visit the dentist for my six-month checkup. I say privileged because due to their vigilance, my teeth are no longer the diseased, cavity ridden, hellhole they once were. I credit my husband for making me more conscious of good teeth care, but it is still up to me to drag myself to the dentist for those checkups.

The hygienist scraped and tapped and washed my teeth a little bit and then she said something that’s never been said to me before in a dentist office: “Your teeth are pretty clean; there’s not much I need to do.” I was still basking in the pleasure of this comment when she brought up the touchy subject of flossing.

“Your husband is very good at flossing,” she said. “He uses a waxed mint flavored string; is that what you do too?”

“Well, no. I don’t like the string,” I confessed. “I use those little pick things. They work much better for me. But I haven’t convinced my husband that he should try them, too.”

“Oh,” she laughed, “so you two are in a mixed marriage. It’s good that you’ve been able to stay together all of these years with such different opinions on floss.”

Now she was kidding, but it got me to thinking about living in a mixed marriage. And it isn’t just the great floss controversy which is mixed about our marriage. On my way home from the dentist, I began to add up the various things which make us a couple with mixed expectations.

Take our banking styles for instance; we differ greatly on that score. My husband, a certified public accountant, believes that your checkbook should be balanced, your transactions should be checked every day, and you should never spend more than you have in the account. My views are different: I usually have my checkbook balanced within $100, I check my transactions sometimes daily, sometimes not, and I have been known to get that little slip of paper called an overdraft. When we married my husband was unaware of the fact that we were in a mixed marriage having to do with finances, so with all the confidence of young love, he set up a joint checking account. After the first overdraft on an accountant’s bank account, he revised our account and divided it into two parts. He adopted a theory of tough love: he figured if I got tired enough of getting overdrafts, I would learn to handle my account. I appreciate his misplaced faith.

We have a mixed marriage when it comes to food as well. For Roy, it is important to follow a healthy diet. According to his beliefs, you eat a certain amount of vegetables, meat, bread, and you tailor that to whatever your health needs are. For me, my eating habits are a little different, considering that I believe that sugar is its own food group and should never be denied. I have, to some degree, brought Roy over to the dark side when it comes to sugar, but he would still prefer to eat a good healthy soup or salad, while I think chocolate cake is an appetizer.

Entertainment is another place where we are in a mixed marriage. Roy believes any sporting event, from professional football to amateur spitting, is worthy of his time and attention.  For it to be entertaining for me, there must be a plot, interesting characters, hopefully a science fiction background, and it must contain no hint of reality. Therefore, he watches a lot of football, basketball, et cetera, while I sleep in a chair, and when Star Trek, Star Wars, or The Twilight Zone comes on, he finds something else to do immediately. Regarding music, our tastes are a little more similar.  He enjoys the head-banging, guitar screaming music of the 70s, while I reach back a couple of more decades to seek the soothing tones of classic rock. Occasionally we overlap-we both love The Beatles-but there is very little other common ground. At least this portion of our mixed marriage allows us to be polite enough to listen to the tunes of the other.

The greatest point in our mixed marriage must be room temperature. During the summer, I am convinced that Roy was the son of a tribal chieftain located along the equator in his last life. He prefers the temperature in the summer to be warm and he doesn’t object to humidity either. In the winter, he digs down to his Eskimo roots and keeps the temperature as cool as possible. I’m not sure if this has to do with heredity or just to the fact that he doesn’t want to spend too much on temperature control, but it is definitely not compatible with me.  I find myself in a quandary, because my ancestors hail from somewhere between the equator and the North Pole. That means in the summer, I like a comfortable temperature which doesn’t require me to wear a headband to catch all the sweat, and then in the winter, I’d rather not wear my ski jacket while sitting in the living room relaxing on a cold afternoon. Therefore, one of our mixed marriage problems is that we spend all of our time turning the thermometer up and down on the furnace and on the air conditioner until the dial starts to smoke and a message comes up from the basement telling us to get our hands off.

After all these years, the things which make our marriage mixed have also provided a great deal of entertainment; or maybe that’s just distraction. So even though we don’t agree on food or temperature or even dental floss, I think this mixed marriage will continue to stagger forward. I wish you a compatible day and whatever floss you use, just make sure you do it!