How much is that doggie bag in the window, and does using it label me as cheap or old?
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Tag Archives: Aging
Is using zip-locked bags at restaurants a sign of growing old? i asked myself this the other day in a luncheon meeting attended in the main by seniors or mature adults as they’re now called by some. At the end of the meal, several opened their purses and There Was an Old Lady Who Swallowed a Fly. You Don’t Know Why She Swallowed a Fly? I Do.
Collage by Lisa Congdon
I know why she swallowed a fly. She was a woman, past her physical prime, aches and pains increasing, counting the days as she aged. And she was pissed.
At first she didn’t realize she was pissed. She thought the people around her were getting more annoying and stupid, whatever common sense and humor they once possessed draining away by the second.
For example, if she saw young women, who obviously spent hours on their hair and makeup, gossiping, giggling and strutting their stuff in shopping malls, she wrote them off as dim-witted, self-centered idiots. As for the men, they were worse. They spent all their time staring at women.
Riding on the bike trail, she went by a queue of children headed the opposite way, chattering and careless of her passage, nearly knocking her over. She wondered why they weren’t in school where they belonged. Better yet, isolated in boarding school or juvenile hall until they were able to function like adults.
As for television, films, print, Internet, the people featured seemed to be in a never-ending competition to show the most skin and selfishness. First extolled, then rewarded with heaps of money and attention, they repaid their perqs by modeling behavior for those around them to ever-increasing extreme behavior.
When she thought about the respect given to older people in other times, other societies, she had sworn previously that she would function as if she expected and received the same today. She wouldn’t fall into the error of the marginalized seniors she’d seen since childhood. People ignored, treated as simpletons, overlooked in stores and restaurants, talked over and around when in a group. However, she was learning the impossibility of fighting an entire culture on her own.
So when a fly flew by, she snapped and caught it.
Swallowing a fly was nothing compared to the bile she had to hold down. She was becoming a grouchy old lady, replete with negative attitudes. But since she still possessed her wits, if not her young looks, questions kept arising. Why was she angry constantly? What had happened to the good will she used to extend to all humanity? Was she going crazy or was the world around her doing so?
In the slow process by which she always seemed to learn about life and its truths, she began to probe her emotional responses. Questions, always her guide to self-discovery, arose. Why the negative reactions? She uncovered jealousy, regrets, fear, anger, a heaping load of damage. Now the real work had to begin—to use these as the stuff for constructive growth. Or to be an old lady in truth as well as appearance.
I’d Tip My Wig to You, But I Haven’t Got a Wig
More and more people seem to be wearing hairpieces or wigs. Or maybe more and more people are wearing poorly made wigs. Walking out of a building today, I spotted a man with an obvious hairpiece. The piece was longish, all the same length (like a Dutch boy bob), and dark; but I spotted gray hair underneath where the hairpiece tilted a bit. I know other people with wigs obvious to the passerby. These folks must feel the accessory improves their looks.
But I wonder why someone would go to the trouble of buying a hairpiece that’s ill-shaped, poorly fitted, and whose color is at odds with the hard-earned traceries of time on the their faces.
Must be the wide-spread belief that gray or white hair makes you look older. Are wig-wearers so fearful of growing old—or looking old—that they’ll do anything to avoid it? Then why not dye it? Eleven percent of men and 55% of women color their hair, and you can be sure they’re not choosing gray.
Another option for changing styles are hair extensions, favored by public figures like Britney Spears, and not infrequently bedraggled or limp, and their close cousins, hair weaves. These usually are selected for the “beauty” they supposedly convey on the wearer.
Of course, there are lots of reasons to wear wigs that seem more legitimate than mere appearance: religious, health, diseases. But still the wearers are wearing wigs because they can’t or won’t tolerate nature’s dictates.
I have sufficient reason to participate. A young friend of mine guessed my age to be greater than my older sister’s, partly because my hair’s gray. But excuse me from the group. If I were really intent on fighting time, I’d do something about my hair; but I’m too lazy and too cheap and too devoted to simple comfort.
Not that there’s anything wrong with wearing artificial locks or coloring hair. Humanity has been doing it for millennia. If you have an inclination in that direction, go for it. However, I come down on the side of Chris Rock, whose documentary film “Good Hair” is a close look at black culture and the influence of society on young African-American girls. Natural hair is popularly believed to be unattractive, but Chris feels, and I agree, that natural hair tends to be a healthier, easier, more self-confident choice.
Plus, unlike wigs, natural hair won’t slip down over your forehead.
Keeping My Balance, or the Strange Case of the Woman With a Toothbrush Lodged in Her Throat
Who’s the woman on the street corner lifting her leg to the front, side, back? Some urban looney? The victim of a new disease? No, I’m working to keep my balance.
I’m familiar with the hundreds, thousands, of experts and organizations who freely offer advice about achieving balance between work and family, mental and physical activities, spiritual and carnal desires. Stressed out? You need balance. Overweight or in poor condition? You need balance.
But another kind of balance is commanding attention in my life. It’s plain old body balance. Not falling down or over. Avoiding stumbles that send me tumbling to the floor. Being able to carry a tray of goodies without spilling.
Zumba dance class brought this concern front and center. Twenty years ago I could kick above my head without a thought, and a series of leg lifts like a Rockette was part of my routine. Then I realized that certain moves in Zumba routines are threatening me with disaster. These all relate to balance. Several quick thrusts alternating right and left limbs, even simply standing on one leg for a short period of time makes me shaky. Tremors run across my entire body, and my eyes cross as I try to remain vertical and stable. So I’m seeking ways to improve my balance.
Cars and pedestrians who pass me on my walks stare when they see me at a red light, for I’m exercising. Sometimes I practice when I’m stuck in line at the grocery store or post office. My latest effort, after reading advice from a 99–year-old athlete, is to balance on one foot while I’m brushing my teeth. This is a true challenge, and I do worry my husband may find me one day with the electric toothbrush firmly lodged, but still vibrating, deep down my throat.
Another article with a trainer at the Y provided tips complete with photos in the Denver Post that I’ve tried to implement gradually. Start small with only a few inches of foot raising. Then add small weights or a ball to the routine. The pinnacle is perching on a stool or bar while holding barbells over your head.
I’ve been practicing semi-religiously for about three months with little improvement in sight. I’m getting so worried about losing my balance and injuring myself that it might be time to address the balances in my life concerning stress and worry. Once I do that, I’ll build up the courage to attempt the most challenging exercise: the half-ball, one-leg effort or Bosu ball. Just in case someday I have to traverse a road or hall with a surface constructed of globes, or I decide to join Cirque do Soleil.
Who’s the Old Bitch Now?
Me. Never thought it would happen. When I was young, I’d see old women in non-action at committee meetings and on the job, even in my family. I always had two questions about them.
1) Why did they apply rouge or blusher in bright blotches on their cheeks? And,
2) Why were they often so grouchy?
With age comes wisdom. Sometimes. Or in this case, at least answers. I’m here to tell you that old ladies apply uber-color on their cheeks because their eyesight isn’t good. They can’t discern how heavily they’ve applied it.
As for the grouchiness, this, too, appears to be a function of aging. I’ve lived and learned. The older I get, the more impatient I am with people who have yet to understand the things I have. For example, a group planning an event refuses to prepare a detailed list of responsibilities and assignments. When essentials are overlooked and supplies go missing, my inclination is a motherly “I told you so.” A young friend delivers a lecture to me about packing and scolds that miniature lotion and shampoo are unnecessary. I crow after my return and report the number of hotels failing to provide these essentials.
This extends into public issues and creative efforts. Politicians of all stripes forget what has preceded them, ignore the many solutions that have been implemented in the past, insist on re-visiting the same old debates. Writers believe they’ve uncovered secrets of the universe when a little research would show just how over-used an idea is. Artists brag about their individuality when a visual style is actually a return to days gone by.
Of course criticisms about inexperience and immaturity could flit through my mind and not out my mouth. But maturity also makes me aware that time is fleeting. I don’t want to waste energy and effort being diplomatic. If I blurt out my opinion, get to the heart of the matter without fussing around, I’ll save precious minutes. Unfortunately, I might offend some people in the process.
So before you wonder, “Why is she such an old bitch?”, pause to consider the words of George Santayana (and others who’ve said nearly the same thing), “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it”. Maybe you can actually learn something from someone older than you.
On the other hand, you could remind me, courtesy of Kurt Vonnegut, “We’re doomed to repeat the past no matter what. That’s what it is to be alive.”
Bonnie McCune, author 