Old Age Day by Day March 17, 2010

I've lived in the town I'm in now at three different points in my life. And many buildings and streets look virtually the same. I sometimes feel I bump into my other selves around town. There is the student who lived in a dorm, then a coop, then married and lived in different apartments. There is the woman with two toddlers living as a single mom, then living with the man she later married. Then there is the person who lived six blocks away, and walks by her old house, her old apartments, the dorm, the coop. I sometimes feel like those other selves have more in common with people their age than me now. In fact, I feel certain of it. When I sit in a park I see myself forty, thirty twenty years ago and wonder. Who was she?

Our oldest son and his wife live in a nearby town where my first husband and I lived after he was born, and where his sister was born. It's also a place I taught college for years when our youngest was in elementary and junior high. So I drive by the hospital where our older daughter was born and for a second it's nighttime and I am hoping I'll make it to the hospital (she was born 29 minutes after we rushed through the doors). I breeze by the campus where friends still work and am back at a staff meeting restless in my chair, I glance at the JC Penney's where I worked one Christmas season and feel my tired feet.

How our lives spin around, circling certain spots on earth, hovering, the moving on. And in every place we leave a part of ourselves, rooted, living out our alternate lives, moving and breathing, and once in a great while I can recognize for a second, the young confused student, the girl in love who is mourning a boyfriend's leaving, the tears of the lost woman looking for a path, the laughter of the one who danced to Joy of Cooking, the woman coping with the dying of her father, the one seeing her children fly the nest one by one. They did the best they could with the skills and knowledge they had, and I bless them all. When I cross paths with them now, I feel nothing but tenderness.

Old Age Day by Day March 16,2010

I just received a video of our granddaughter singing. We miss her so much; it is delightful to have this great technology that can keep us connected. And when I see her, I remember my mother telling me that I sang "Candy Kisses" (whatever that song is) and threw Hersey's kisses to the audience when I was two. She also loved to relay the information about me coming up to strangers on a bus and asking if they wanted to see me sing and dance. I still have that aspect to my nature, and have recently allowed myself to get back to "showing off" a bit. When you're young it's considered adorable, but later you can be made to feel embarassed, as if you're grasping for undeserved limelight. I let that kind of thinking rule me for decades, but I now permit myself to belt out songs, sing as I walk the dogs, take voice lessons and I'm about to sing in a choir. We should feel just as dellighted when we see a grown up singing for joy as we do a child.

In my old age, I no longer care about what "they" think of me. I feel I only need to check my own motivation, and make certain it is not harmful to others. My passion about this right now comes partly from seeing these old musicals (I bought a boxed set) with Jane Powell and Debbie Reynolds when they were teenagers, or close to it. They were kind of the Deanna Durbins of the late forties and early fifties, and their playful fun keeps me watching some pretty dumb plots and actor's lines. Everybody loved Shirley Temple until she became a teenager, but Jane Powell and Debbie Reynolds arrived as teenagers and then lost their power later, mainly due to the demise of musicals. That's why people love Mamma Mia and Tony and Tina's Wedding and sing alongs of the Sound of Music. Our voices have been silenced and we need that outlet. If a person has stopped attending church, ask them what they miss most and they say "the singing". We're all fools during Christmas carol season, and who doesn't sing at a ball game.

I'm glad I'm recovering some of the joy I lost after school choruses and church choir was behind me. If you see me tap dancing down the street with two labs or wonder if I'm talking to myself, don't call the police. I'm fine, I'm feeling great, and I'm SINGING to myself.

Old Age Day by Day March 15, 2010

Daylight savings time switched over the weekend, and it was confusing having the alarm ring when it was still dark this morning. I automatically reached for my bags to head to the airport, but there were none. It was disillusioning. I was not going to Paris or Portland or (best case) Hawaii. I had to stumble downstairs and find my way to the driveway to search for newspapers. I did a little prayer of gratitude that the paper deliverers had gotten their acts together and thrown the weapons of mass destruction at the foot of the steps. A dark morning and no paper; that would have been dismal indeed. At least the dogs were thrilled yesterday when they believed we'd fed them an hour early. I've given up trying to explain to them the intricacies of saving time. I don't even understand it myself.

But as I've gotten older, this time thing has become harder to adjust to, and by the time I sleep again until the alarm goes off and can get to bed early enough for eight hours sleep, the time has switched again and I'm back to square one. What is weird is on trips now I seem to handle the time being ten or eight hours different with no ill effects. It's like being Alice through the rabbit hole - it's an alternate reality so I just go with the flow. Sometimes I can't sleep, but still manage to have a good time. I once went several weeks in India without actually sleeping. I just lay there and had very rapid thoughts. I believe the drug they give for malaria had a lot to do with this, but I seemed to do fine without rest. I carried my bag down dusty roads when the train broke down, I observed calmly our rickshaw coming within inches of smashing us into soup (this experience of course happened many times), I trudged uphill to shrines and fought off monkeys trying to grab my backpack at the same time.

But at home this teeny tiny hour change disrupts me for many weeks. However, I do not wish to complain, because it signals longer, lighter days, and like everyone else I love the light. I adore being able to take a walk after dinner. My husband was saying this morning how nice it will be to go to chorus rehearsal after work and it will still be light. He will actually be able to see where he's parking and avoid driveways and fire stations. At our age we need every drop of light to navigate our world, and we're about to get a dollop more of it.

Old Age Day by Day March 13, 2010

I need a cook! I have made every meal, meal after meal for tooooo long. There are no kind of salads left to make. My friend tried to suggest some good ones, but I'd made them all, repeatedly. Deja vu vu. I want to eat healthily. I know about processed foods and eating out, and have read all Michael Pollan's books religiously. But no matter how many times I see Julie and Julia the enthusiasm for cooking has not been transmitted to me. Besides, French cooking's secret is all about adding a pound of butter in anything you cook, and that would seal my arteries right up and cause an explosion. I married a man who could not cook, and due to a tidalwave of hormones coursing through my body, I didn't quite realize how difficult it would be. I tried to teach him to cook, but it didn't take. And now, if I don't want to make dinner myself it is either eating out or eating one of the three things he cooks: grilled cheese sandwich with Campbell's chicken noodle soup, bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich with chips, or pancakes. It's unappetizing and severely limiting.

And if we go out, I have to avoid fries, hamburgers, desserts, too much wine. It's a minefield out there, folks. I just want Oprah's cook to make me light, delicious meals that improve my heart, give me vim and vigor and make me so full I don't want those bad, bad foods. Little quesadillas that have no calories, cakes with no sugar or fat, sparkly drinks with no calories but loads of alcohol. Is that asking too much? Don't I deserve a reward after preparing millions of meals, most of which used to be good, before I balked. I USED TO bake bread, make my own pastry, whip up a great chocolate mousse, do Chicken Kiev. Of course, my younger children have no memory of this, but if pressed, the older two can confirm what I say. I was never a cake baker. I made them, but the top layer often slipped off the bottom layer, or the cake cracked in the middle and had to be filled with triple the icing. Thank goodness for bundt cakes. I loved it when they became fashionable. I could just slop something in the center and didn't need to frost. Cakes with holes in them were invented for me. I kid you not.

But now, each week, we have baked sweet potatoes and fish, chicken and veggies, curry, salad nicoise, and round things out with delivered pizza, crispy chicken tacos from the local taqueria, and middle eastern mediterranean plate. We're so predictable, I won't be surprised if the pizza guy delivers without us ordering. I love to eat, but it's become such a CHORE. I may have to go back to what I do under stress - just eat tuna sandwiches day after day until my mercury level hospitalizes me. At this point, that institutional food is looking mighty good.

Old Age Day by Day March 12, 2010

This week, something went wrong with the Mulan DVD when my foster granddaughter (she will be five in a couple of months) and I were attempting to watch it. When I pressed play, nothing. I tried various buttons, to unplug the TV, to take the DVD out and put it back in. I refrained from throwing it across the room. Finally, my granddaughter suggested putting in another video, and it worked. I could have kissed her feet. How tolerant she is about my ineptitude, how forgiving. We both like Mulan a lot. Her favorite part is when the matchmaking lady tries to gussie up Mulan, and I like the scene where she figures out how to bury the invaders in snow. We have watched this movie at least three dozen times. I know, it's frightening. But if I let myself be on her wavelength it's actually quite soothing.

However, when Mulan didn't work, she requested Shrek, and I hate those films, so I surreptiously dozed when she wasn't demanding crackers or ice cream. Pretty soon I'll be in a nursing home, and boring an attendant in similar ways so I'm trying to get a feel for it from the attendant's point of view.

My granddaughter is going to kindergarten in the fall. So, for me, there's this feeling of enjoying her now, because I won't have her as long or as often when she is in school, and she'll have made that transition to her peers, and it won't be such a treat to be with me. This is as it should be, but I already miss her scribbly coloring (now she colors within the lines) and her mispronounciations, long gone. I hope there will be a place for me, and I figure as long as we have the soda fountain nearby I can entice her for grilled cheese, potato chips and a vanilla shake. But now I sit beside her and we smile occasionally, and critique the films, and discuss what she did on the weekend, and just hang.

As I age further, if I get babbly and disoriented, and start calling for Mulan, or Belle, or Elastagirl, just remember, what I'm really longing for is a little girl, fresh as a crocus, and the companionship of feeling, not words. The old and the young do operate often on the same wavelength, and we have the time to be together without agendas or plans. It's lovely. Wanna watch The Rescuers with me?

ld Age Day by Day March 11, 2010

I picked up a book the other day, by an author I enjoy, and as I cosied down with it last night in bed I realized I'd already read it. The really frightening thing is I had to read the entire first chapter before it occurred to me. I had read this book not long ago, maybe a year or two. Practically no titles of books stick in my head anymore. Next thing you know I'll be saying - "A book about four daughters during the Civil War, who worry about money and one wants to write, sounds good". I only read Little Women dozens of times and we used to act out the parts after school. Everyone wanted to be Jo, so we had to scrupulously take turns or violence would have erupted. I remember tearing off my friend's mother's hydrangea bush blossoms to make bouquets. For the weddings of course. It's interesting how nobody wanted to be Amy, even though she ends up with the rich guy. Perhaps we were more noble than not. None of us did end up with a rich husband, so maybe we were just psychic.

I now have all these little notebooks: one for films, one for books, one for ideas (that book is very blank) and one for art exhibits. Unfortunately, I forget to take them with me or fill them in except every six months or so, and then I can no longer remember what I've read or seen. In the film book you have to write in the date you saw it, but I am lucky if I can guess which year. Anything more specific is beyond me. You can find me some nights with the art book trying to think when I've last been to an art show, and when and did I like it or hate it? It's as torturous as those dream journals everyone kept in the seventies - I'd be racking my brain for details, but all I could remember was a bed with my whole family on their knees beside it. Tantalizing, but without further plot, impossible to describe. I was considered an extremely boring person due to this unvivid, unscandalous dream life. I gave up those groups and now allow myself to forget what I dreamt instantly and for eternity. My theory is the dream has done it's work in the unconscious, and it's like analyzing an accident after the event. It ain't gonna change nothin. I know, extremely convenient.

Now it's fine to reread Dickens or Dostoevsky, but it should be deliberate, not accidental. Some times I just read the darn book anyway. After all, I can't remember who did what, and the end is still a surprise. Waste not, want not. Or: remember not, waste not. I wish I could say I save on books this way, but I believe I keep rebuying the same four books, so it's not really efficient. It's especially tricky when I've read the hardback, and recognize the cover, but then it comes out in paperback, and looks entirely different, and the author photo is new (she usually looks younger with time not older, which is amazing) and they just switch the details enough to fool me and my aged ilk. I hope Obama extends consumer rights to eliminate these underhanded practices. If he were only a little older, he'd understand how important it is.

Old Age Day by Day March 10,2010

I have a couple of medical tests to do this morning. Both are routine, and yet, and yet I've worked myself into a tizzy. My blood pressure is up, I have a pain in my chest in my right heart (I have a right heart and a left heart), and all I can think of is my friends who have gone for a routine test and stepped onto a roller coaster than took them for a terrifying ride. I don't like heights, I can't abide roller coasters, I got sick on the swings at the county fair when I was fourteen and never rode anything again. Okay, I'd just had a corn dog and that may have had something to do with it, but I really hate heights. I tell people I don't like views. Views mean you have a down part or an up part, or both. I had to do some major talking myself down when we camped on the North Rim of the Grand Canyon. While everyone else was leaning over the edge I was looking at postcards to see what they were seeing.

I'm old. I've been so lucky, never had a surgery or too much trouble medically, and there is no reason for this luck, I've done absolutely nothing to deserve it, so how long can it last? At least I eventually force myself to do the right thing and have the test, though now I discover I've exposed myself to a ton of radiation for mammograms which I didn't need and don't do much good. If you live long enough, this is the kind of thing that happens. The test or medication that was supposedly saving your life is killing you. The medical people change their mind every ten years and reverse their advice. Remember ointment and burns? Estrogen for a healthy heart? An apple a day? Well, the apple is still okay. And now coffee and chocolate are, too, which is a neat thing about living so long.

So shortly I will be sitting in a room full of terrified people, each of us reading People Magazine upside down, trying to slow our breathing and fingering beads. Misery loves company, and at least the ride is open to all and does not discriminate. I thought finals were bad in school - these tests are sometimes very final, and when they're over, you know it doesn't exactly mean you're fine. It means that one little aspect of our bodies is not showing anything dramatic. The rest of the machine - well, who knows? Certainly not the doctors. We're all in the dark here, and I can either think of it as crowded or cosy.