Jackie Wells-Fauth
When I was in my early 40s, I remember trying to pick something up and having a twinge somewhere in my back and thinking jokingly, “Oh, look at me, I’m getting old.”
Nowadays, I only have to bend over or move sideways–without picking anything up–and I’m reminded seriously of that bumper sticker which says, “I thought growing older would take longer.” It is a sad truth that I no longer joke about getting older and every day I am reminded more vividly that I am getting so very much older. And far from taking longer, it has all happened in the blink of an eye!
As our bodies begin to age, we all begin to make concessions. We begin to deal with ourselves to keep from facing the awful truth that age, that merciless witch, has caught up with us and she did it with all the speed of a sprinter. I sit down more carefully and walk more precisely than I ever did as a young woman and still, the body persists in showing that age.
I used to walk through a grocery store picking up things aimlessly and in no particular order. Today, I stand and debate with myself about whether I could really maybe get along without milk for another week because I don’t want to walk to the back of the store to pick up the carton that I forgot to get (memory–another age-related casualty) while I was at the other end of the store.
I avoid certain clothes in my closet because they require me to twist my body to get them on in ways that age now forbids me to do. I don’t throw away the clothes, mind you, because someday I’m going to feel better and exercise my way back to all of the moves that I didn’t appreciate when I was young. And of course, I never clean the closet because my body is no longer fond of that activity, if it ever was!
I like to think that I am meticulous about keeping my kitchen floors clean—always mopped them regularly. Old age has made me watch the dog much more carefully. If she is out in the kitchen, licking the floor, I figure I can let the mopping go for another day or two. And as for moving out appliances to clean or mop beneath, well, if the dog isn’t bothered by their condition now, I see no reason I should get excited about it!
When my children were babies I dreamed of going to bed early and not having to get up in the night. That dream has never become a reality. If I go to bed too early, the old body protests against too much time in a prone position and as for not having to get up in the night, well, most of us old people will tell you that we have a night light in the bathroom and it’s not just for show!
Each morning, I get up and do an inventory of what aches, is numb from an unwise sleeping position or just plain has shifted and sends up notice that its function has now changed and it won’t be performing all those menial tasks for me anymore.
In my 20s, I threw fits because my hair was so thick I couldn’t get a comb through it. Today, I have put away all of those worries and just hope I have enough hair to cover my head. I loved high, spiky heels as a girl, believing they flattered my legs. Now, I wear heavy sneakers and comfort myself with the fact that my legs are always covered in compression socks, so no one would see them anyway!
At 35, I wrote my first column/blog about getting old. It was a complete whine about having to face the problems of encroaching age. Now, at almost 70, I would like to go back and kick that idiot 35-year-old in the butt—except I can’t get my foot up that high. And I suppose, if I live to be 100, I’ll look back on this column and laugh at what I can still do now that I won’t be able to then! It is all relative.
So it’s true, I did think growing old was going to take longer and instead, it has happened in the blink of an eye. This thought was really kind of depressing me the other day and I confided to a colleague that “I can’t believe I got old so very fast.”
He looked at me, cocked his head thoughtfully and replied, “This is all very true. It’s not that much fun getting older…but the alternative is a lot less attractive. I’ll take aging.”
And there you have it; the aging process is all in how you look at it—whether you’re 35, 50 or 80. So, I’ll try to be content with my growing age, but I still say that eye blinked pretty darn fast!
dropsinthewell 