Aging Is Like Puberty, And About As Much Fun

Happy Canada Day to all our Northern Neighbors!          

 

 

 

JULIA SPENCER-FLEMING: I had my annual checkup with my NP recently, and discovered once again almost every physical change or symptom I experience is something "you can expect as you get older." (Did I mention my NP is literally young enough to be my son? Of course he is. Medical practitioners my age are frickin' retiring.)

Trouble with insomnia? "You can expect that as you get older." Bouts of vertigo when I lie down and get up?  "You can expect that as you get older."Acid indigestion? "You can expect that as you get older." I expect if I told him I was growing a second head, I'd find out that, too, is just one of those things that happen as you... you know the drill.

I've been thinking about the last time my body ran away with me - puberty - and decided the physical process of maturing has a lot of similarities with what happens as we age, except that after puberty we get to drink and have sex, while after completing aging... again, you know the drill.

Puberty: I am horrified to find the skin on my face, to which I had never given any thought other than to make sure it was washed, is embarrassing and betraying my by breaking out in zits.

Aging:  I am horrified to find the skin on my face, which I have been lavishing with elaborate and expensive serums, moisturizers and sun screens, has creases that don't iron out and has broken out in solar lentigines, AKA liver spots. 

Puberty: Oh, no, my boobs are getting as big as my grandmother's!

Aging: Oh, no, my bunions are getting as big as my grandmother's!

Puberty: I wake up once a month wracked with cramps. (My first time, when I come downstairs complaining, my mother dances around the kitchen singing, I Enjoy Being A Girl.) 

Aging: I wake up once a month wracked with cramps. I have dared to eat a little too much of whatever food substance my body's decided is verboten right now. Sadly, no on sings and dances in the kitchen.

Puberty: I worry a lot about nuclear war.

Aging: I worry a lot about nuclear war.

Puberty: My joints ache as they strain to keep up with my bones growing three inches in height annually for three years.

Aging: My joints ache from arthritis. Oh, and I've lost three inches in height! What the hell, bones?!?

Puberty: I experience a mix of panic and excitement with I think about cute boys in my middle school.

Aging: I experience a mix of panic and excitement when I think about the balance in my stock and bond portfolio.  

Puberty: Whenever I'm feeling scared or misunderstood or overwhelmed, I escape into books. My fictional friends always make me feel better.

 

Aging: Me too, 14-year-old Julie. Me, too. 

 

 Dear readers, what is your time of life akin to?

The "A" Word

INGRID THOFT

I was recently searching for a birthday card for my college best friend and one of my sisters.  I found one I thought would work for both (hope you’re not reading this, Kirsten!) and it features card producers’ favorite topic: aging.

A huge percentage of birthday cards focus on aging and the physical failures that come with it, but outside of the card aisle and the beauty aisle, there doesn’t seem to be much discussion about a process we will all experience (hopefully).

We all know that we’ll age and die eventually, but I’ve found over the past couple of years that knowing and knowing are two different things.  My own back surgery and chronic back issues, and the recent major surgery of a loved one, has forced aging to the forefront of my brain.  There’s no shortage of advice for staying and looking young, but what about best practices for accepting the aging process?

A friend suggested I read “Being Mortal” by Atul Gawande, M.D., a book that takes an unfiltered look at aging.  According to Gawande, the average life expectancy during the Roman Empire was thirty-years-old, a far cry from the 81.6 years now predicted for American women by the World Health Organization. Gawande argues that the medical community fails elderly patients because doctors are trained to fix problems, and there’s no fix for aging.  Instead, he thinks that the medical community, and the rest of us, should reframe aging as a natural process to be managed, not ignored or discounted.

In our age- and appearance-obsessed society, who do we look to for lessons in aging?

Before her death in 2014, Maya Angelou was a stellar example of someone embracing aging and celebrating the wisdom that comes with a long life.  She was a woman who seemed to get better with age!

Helen Mirren seems to embrace her current age and continue to blaze her own trail, whether in the roles she plays or her choice to rock a bikini at aged sixty-two.

And the queen of aging well? That would be the Queen, herself, in my estimation.   Queen Elizabeth II is 91-years-old and has held a most demanding job for 65 years.  Yes, she has lots of help (someone has to shop for those matching hats and outfits,) but she maintains a tough schedule and has to be “on” more than most people.

So, what are your thoughts on aging? How do you deal with the inevitable? Who do you think is aging well?

Call Me Madam

RHYS BOWEN: The other day it happened—that thing I’d been dreading for quite a while. The worst, irrefutable sign that I am growing old. No, it wasn't creaking limbs, failing eyesight or hearing...far, far worse.

I was in a grocery store,  and the clerk handed me the bag of groceries and said—and I quote—“Here you go, dear. Would you like some help out?”

Dear. Me. Jaunty, fashionable, lively and feisty Rhys Bowen. Reduced to dear.

It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him that I was not his dear. I would never be his dear and what’s more I could definitely hike more miles than him and whip him at tennis.

But I swallowed back the comments and walked out to my car, feeling crushed. I have to add that I was not looking my best—wearing sweats, no make-up, hair not styled. But all the same, that some young person thought I had reached the age to be spoken to with that gently patronizing tone was a wake up call. I will never leave the house without make-up again, not even if I have to be rushed to emergency at three in the morning.

It’s strange because I don’t mind at all when a shopkeeper or bus driver in England calls me ‘love’ or ‘ducks’ because it’s not age related. It's equal opportunity familiarity. I especially like it down in Cornwall where everyone is ‘my lovey’.

However, I’ve become increasingly annoyed recently at the lack of formality in matters of address these days. I suppose it’s because I write about the past when formality really mattered. But within my lifetime I have noticed huge changes. When I was at college our professors referred to us as Miss this and Mr. that. When I was at university in Germany we even called fellow students by their last names until we became friends. Even when my children were young we expected them to call our friends Mr and Mrs, not by the first names. It still feels strange when a three year old calls me by my given name.

And yet it’s the norm, isn’t it? The young doctor’s receptionist, the bank clerk, the barista in Starbucks all expect to use my first name. And it makes me very uncomfortable. First names are for friends and social equals. And while we’re on that subject, if my doctor calls me by my first name, I don’t see why I have to call him doctor. Hey, I have a graduate degree, just not in medicine.

One of the things I enjoyed most about living in Texas was that kids in school said “Yes, ma’am and no, sir,’ to their teachers. In California even teachers are called by their first name.

Actually I was  somewhere recently--doctor's office, pharmacy, can't remember--and the receptionist asked "How do you want to be addressed?" And I said, "Oh, your highness will do." She blanched before she realized I was joking.

So am I becoming old and grouchy? Do you like a certain degree of respect and formality in society or are you happy that we’re all on a first name basis these days?

LORI On Aging

In spite of illness, in spite even of the archenemy sorrow, one can remain alive long past the usual date of disintegration if one is unafraid of change, insatiable in intellectual curiosity, interested in big things, and happy in small ways.
****Edith Wharton

HANK: So Edith had it right--about so many things. Still, you've got to admit, the aging thing has its downside. But if anyone can make the downside have an upside, it's the always hilarious Lori Avocato. You know her from her series of mystery novels, and from mystery and romance conventions--she's the one in the middle of group where everyone is laughing.

And she's now the Chief Commanding Officer of the Mystery Chix and Private Dix, a fab and funny group of mystery/romantic suspense authors making its debut at the upcoming Romantic Times Convention. (Some of us Chix and Dix are going to wear costumes. Not me. I'm going to dress up like someone who knows what they're doing at such a convention. That'll fool 'em.)

Anyway, besides her very funny mysteries about nurse Pauline Sokol (the newest is Dead On Arrival), Lori's branching out into other writing. Essays on whatever strikes her fancy! And we convinced her to try one out on anything-can-happen-Friday on JungleRed.

Ah, aging gracefully.

Who the heck came up with that one? I mean, as far as clichés go, this one has to be right up there with good things come in small packages--leaving out: cars, houses, boats, planes etcetera.

Here’s how graceful aging can be. Your eyesight starts to blur so you can’t even read the newspaper without glasses you rarely can find, and soon the food on your plate blends into a fog of color. Thank goodness the sense of smell doesn’t go as quickly or we might starve.

“What?” becomes a frequent flyer off of your tongue. Of course if you have teenagers, who tend to mumble, your hearing may not be as bad as you think or at least as bad as they claim it is. But before you go spending a gazillion dollars on a hearing aid, have your ears checked. My doctor told me to tell my kids to speak up, and I’d save a gazillion dollars.

Skin is the body’s first defense against infection. When it gets cut, the chance of getting germs inside your body highly increases. So why with the “aging” process does the skin insist on increasing? Are we more prone to infection mid-life that the skin over our eyes droops down to nearly impede our vision? Does the skin below our jaw line really need to stretch out and fold itself over and over and over? And, really, does the skin of our upper arms have to...you get my point.

Aging gracefully? Puleeze.

Those creaking sounds you hear in this graceful process are your joints. Joints that have “matured” so that bone clicks against bone, causing you to “ooh,” “ah,” “aye,” and all together writhe in pain as you merely stand up from your seat, making it difficult to appear poised.

One would think that we’d want to spend less time sleeping as we hit the middle age mark of our years. I mean, if this is halfway shouldn’t we be going gangbusters the next half so as not to waste any time?

Let me put it this way: I call my daily naps “power siestas.” Somehow this legitimizes them and certainly lets others think that I am aging gracefully. After all, a power siesta implies, well, that I am powerful and following a tradition practiced by many countries for years. Surely it has to be good for us along with a proper diet.

Ah, diet and exercise. They really should go hand in hand. I’m not saying part of aging is dieting. Far from it. I think if you hit your eighties, you should imbibe in whatever strikes your fancy. In your seventies you should imbibe in half of whatever strikes your fancy and so on. Who cares if you enjoy a daily Martini, a cupcake or two, or a handful of salty potato chips? Age smage.

When I say diet I do not mean eating only grapefruits, all carbs, no carbs, carbs disguised as food (don’t get me started on “Tofurky”) or any other “diet.” I mean our daily intake of food--balanced from all the food groups (which I understand has recently been overhauled. However, I refuse to do any research on the new group structure unless chocolate has been added as the tip of the pyramid.) Against our wishes, we are what we eat seems to be proven on a daily basis.

To age gracefully, we really do need to keep moving. Our joints will attest to the fact that the longer we remain immobile our bodies will assume this should be our position for all eternity and give out...you get my point.
So, motion seems to be a very good idea. Daily walking, swimming, playing tennis, or doing mild aerobics is all part of the process. However when we hit middle age, the word exercise receives an honorary degree into the four-letter words hall of fame. A necessary evil. Oh we can try doing it in tandem with a friend, a group, or to jazzy music, but the thought of that power siesta always teases our bodies as we age gracefully.

I chuckle when a relative or friend now says they just can’t seem to wake up as early in the morning or they now take their own version of my power siesta every afternoon.

The irony of life and this thing called “aging gracefully” slaps us in our faces once again.

Age gracefully, one and all, and do not under any circumstances remain stationary for more then thirty-three minutes at a time.
If this is a slice of life...I’m way too old to lift my fork.