OLD IS NOT BAD, JUST DIFFERENT, AND OCCASIONALLY ANNOYING AND/OR TERRIFYING AND/OR JOYFUL

 

In the past six Covid months, I have aged.  

My physical appearance has changed noticeably.  There is no denying the grayer hair, the deeper creases and wrinkles, the saggier jowls, the crepe-y skin on the inside of my arms, my thighs, the backs of my hands.  No amount of moisturizer seems to take the years away.  Of course, this was happening anyway, and maybe I didn't notice.  I also still blame that cataract surgery last fall -- non-soft-focus eyesight can be startling in front of the mirror.

I still, occasionally, put on a little mascara and blush.  I do not wear any jewelry except my wedding band and the cheap little turquoise ring I bought at a sidewalk gift shop at the Boulder Dam in 1974 and have worn every day since, its original Native etchings worn smooth over the decades.  I put earrings on one day and felt like a floozy.  Too much.  I took them out.  I do wear my Fitbit, but those have never been confused with jewelry -- they are devices, which is different.

If I leave the house I put on a sports bra.  Otherwise...the girls go free.  I wear black leggings every day with one of a dozen cotton T-shirts with some political or yoga message on the front, or maybe a hoodie on cool days.  My Oofos flip-flops are a constant, unless I don my Addis's for a walk.   I wear ball caps on bad hair days -- or a pony tail, or pig tails.  My hair has gotten very long.  I cut my own bangs; maybe you can tell.

All of my houseplants are thriving because I'm good at houseplants normally, but now they are getting extra TLC.  I replanted all my African violets, which they never like.  Like me, they are homebodies, even if their homes are way too crowded for them.  There were traumatized by the move; I can relate.  But this morning all are strong and healthy and 4 of the 6 are flowering.  Aren't African Violets the epitome of an older woman's houseplants?  I should also have a cat.  I would if Hub didn't object; I think there are meds for that allergy issue, but being a considerate wife I'm sticking to my vow of no more cats after over 30 years of making him endure sharing our home with a bunch of them over time.

Technology stymies me at times.  Easy stuff becomes nightmarish.  The other night Hub and I watched a Tom Hanks movie on Apple + .  I still have no idea why that channel shows up on my TV from a little box Son Two installed; I just know it does, and we watch.  We got a year free of Apple + when we bought our iPhones last year so maybe that's it?  Dunno.  I do know it has added a 4th remote to the three it already takes to watch TV -- one for the TV, one for DISH, one for the receiver.  Now one for the Apple box. Last night we wanted to watch something on Showtime and my brain went blank as to how to access Showtime On Demand.  We spent a good 20 minutes trying various screens, scrolling and backing out of this and that screen.  Then I realized one of the remotes was not even working, so I changed the batteries.  Still nothing, and I said we'd have to give up and do something drastic, like read a book or something, but Hub grabbed the remote and discovered I'd installed the batteries upside down, which I frequently do even when I try super hard to get it right, like I did last night.  

Anyway, back to Tom Hanks... the movie wasn't that good.  ("Greyhound" -- new release straight to streaming because there are so few theaters to show movies these days.)  It was a WWII Navy battle movie, reminding me of all the WWII movies I watched as a kid.  This one had echoes of "The Enemy Below" -- a classic fave.  It was intense at times.  The story of those Nazi subs and their torpedoes cutting through the waves aimed at our hero's destroyer and all those fresh-faced sailors was nail-biting!  But not scary enough for my resting HR, usually in the 70-80 BPM range, to shoot up to 160 per my Fitbit.  

I kept an eye on my heart rate as I got ready for bed and it stayed high.  I started to take deep calming breaths.  I started to feel palpitations.  I started to feel a twinge of pain, perhaps in the left chest.  I did what any normal person would do in this situation, I googled "racing heartbeat" and "heart beat: how high is dangerous?".  I checked the monitor about every 10 seconds.  When Hub came to bed I casually mentioned I seemed to be having a wee bit of tachycardia.  He put on his placid doctor face, sat on the bed next to me and took my wrist in his tender, professional hands to check my pulse. 76 BPM.  I questioned his pulse-checking skill since he IS retired and my Fitbit said at that moment 151.  He defended his 35 year career in medical practice with the suggestion that it might be a Fitbit problem.  We had a good laugh at yet another episode of me foiling the Grim Reaper and I went to sleep reassured.  This is not the first time I've been at death's door; health anxiety sucks.

So the next day, with Fitbit HR still soaring even though I was sitting in a chair, I spent about 2 hours over three contacts throughout the day, on the Fitbit Help Chat following their instructions, performing all manner of reboots, clearing of data, uninstalling and reinstalling the software and finally they agreed it was malfunctioning and they are sending me a new Fitbit.  Upside, that falsely racing heartbeat also tricked Fitbit into thinking I was exercising and it gave me about 3 hours of "active minutes" for the day.  Nice.  I can claim that on my Silver Sneakers app and get points toward Amazon Gift Cards!  (Shhh...don't tell.)

I think I've become a stereotype, but maybe I've just come to the realization that we all grow older as life progresses and we forget to pay attention.  I look around my home, which I love, and see how it might look to a younger person.  They would not want the beautiful china hutch filled with my grandmothers' pretty dishes.  They have no memory of the hand-painted cookie jar full of hard candies at Grandma's house in Indiana, nor the sweet green figurine I won at the 5th grade Mother-Daughter Tea at my elementary school.  They might not want the 25 year old multi-colored chair in the room off the kitchen that I still love, even if a bit worn, because I can see the frayed fabric made so by numerous kitty claws, reminding me of hours of sitting there with a purring cat on my lap.  They might not know the fancy carved old table in the guest room was made by a distant relative or that the blue and white quilt was made by a cousin of some sort while recovering from injuries sustained in the Spanish-American War.  In fact, they might know and just not care.  Kids these days don't prize that old stuff.  

And, today, I'm feeling like Old Stuff too.  It both saddens and amuses me.  In many ways, just a few months shy of turning 70, this is one of the best times of my life.  I am free to create my days as I please. I am pretty healthy (when I'm not fretting about NOT being healthy).  My marriage is good, my kids are close by, my granddaughters are adorable.  I  have friends, even if physically distanced right now. And I have a new appreciation for the precious precariousness of life.  

Also laughter.  I have that.  Life's elixer.

At least, that's the view from here...©