I recently read Committed, Elizabeth Gilbert's latest book. You probably recognize her name from her best seller, Eat, Pray, Love, wherein she eventually finds her soulmate, Filipe. After a whirlwind courtship followed by the mutual declaration of their undying love his US visa is revoked. Homeland security proclaims they must marry if he is to remain in the states. During the many months it takes to process his background check, they live in Thailand and travel throughout southeast Asia. Ms Gilbert uses this time to investigate the various views about marriage through several cultural lenses This is important to her because she must now, after a tumultuous first marriage and divorce, recant her adamant declaration to never marry again! And she needs to find a strong and valid reason for making this commitment anew.
During her search for the universal support of matrimony, she discovers the practice of taking a "ghost husband". It seems in China for a woman to establish herself in society or business she must be married. Not all women want to marry so hence the invention of the ghost husband. I visualize the bride-to-be scouring the local cemetery in nuptial garb with bridal party in tow for what I would assume is the most promising stiff she can dig up and become Mrs. Rigor Mortis. Actually, she is looking for a name to take for the ceremony.
In America, we have a custom very similar to this: online dating.
Millions of women of all ages, races, religions and socio-economic backgrounds scour our versions of the local graveyard: bars, gyms, and the produce section in grocery stores. The truly desperate sign up for classes in dry subjects haunted by men like Military History, or Stock Market Analysis; the hope is of course to find that elusive candidate for courtship, or as we romantics like to say, our soulmate. Once you enter the senior dating arena, bars and gyms are mostly out and the only section in the grocery store that might produce a viable date will be the OTCs: Polydent, Metamucil, Bengay and something to cure foot fungus.
Wait 'til you move into the 65 to 80 year old dating range. The term ghost husband is not a stretch or a myth. And at times, death seems far more exciting than what is available online in the Senior Dating Olympics. Suddenly, men in their late sixties and seventies have been re-invented, rejuvenated, and re-constituted. They work out 3 or 4 times a week at the gym, and have taken up roller blading and French cookery. These are the same men who we were married to for thirty or forty years who couldn't manage to pick up their socks or open a box of cereal, and fell asleep in front of the tv before nine in the evening. Now they want to go out for dinner, dancing, share a glass of wine, and get this-they want to hear all about you. Right!
Also, don't be discouraged to learn that some of these gentlemen are looking for women 25 to 35 years younger. As men age, their brain cells begin to desiccate in the presence of younger women; they fail to function rationally, and often believe they're studs. This usually passes after an afternoon of roller blading.
We're still dating the same homo sapiens, many not so sapien, but the very same guys we went to high school with. They haven't changed much, only their financial and follicle status.
I read the enticement of one online lothario who had recently been advised by his physician that in the future he would need someone to accompany him to medical procedures. So Casanova in his profile makes this suggestion for a first date: "I thought we could go by the hospital (notice the casual implication of this) and I'll have a colonoscopy and then we could go out for a light dinner". I solemnly swear on my Senior People Meet membership this to be true.
The guys we were married to who were boring and boorish as heck have evolved, and perhaps it's time we face the obvious: we were holding these intellectually curious, sensitive, and cultured souls back from fulfilling their true destiny: a Bruce Springsteen/Mahatma Ghandi/Clint Eastwood composite.
Whatever your taste in men, they're out there and for the price of membership in an online dating site or if you're not too picky or sensitive to surprises, like sudden death, you too can be whisked away into a fantasy of romance and spiritual fulfillment maybe not by the man of your dreams, but one who can still drive at night and can remember your name and number. Just be careful and know that the one you got rid of, when all is said and done, might be the best one.
Thursday, March 1, 2012
Monday, February 6, 2012
The HIgh Price of Gas
Over the past years, I and three of my friends have found ourselves curled up in the fetal position and lying on a gurney in our local emergency room. Aside from the painful and frightening aspects of an urgent medical condition is the process one must undergo when there is no family or neighbor available for transport. Naturally, a deep friendship bond is desirable when a friend is in need of an advocate and driver. Not to mention someone you trust to see your exposed derriere or any ratty underwear. Please make a list of friends who are able to drive at night. Spending painfully wasted minutes calling on a list of people and getting the "Sorry, but I can't drive at night, but I will call an ambulance for you" response is counterproductive and scary. No one wants to go to the ER alone.
Since most of us in our sixties and seventies are mothers and grandmothers and we loathe having anyone make a fuss over us, unless it's Mother's Day, we are apt to wave away the notion that the EMTs should be called. The sound of a siren heralds to the neighbors that the first step toward assisted living has been taken. After this incident, all eyes will be peeled for any deviation from the norm. Be very careful, the younger generation has a hair trigger when making these decisions, and are not hesitant about using it. Go outside just once with your bra over your shirt. Bang! You're in a home.
People should learn to appreciate the process a person of age, and living alone must navigate in order to make a decision about emergency trips to the hospital. First, while writhing in pain, one must determine if, indeed, this is an emergency. Second, whom to call once it's determined that this is an emergency: cold sweat, white knuckles, chest pain and shallow breathing are usually adequate signs. Ok, it's an emergency. Should I shower and change clothes? Would this be a good time to write my will? Why should I leave anything to those ungrateful brats who never call or come by? Wonder why mother left the good china to my brother instead of me. What if I die, but come back. Should I write a book about it? I don't want to be buried, but don't like the thought of cremation, except in the case of my ex, and he should be conscious!
After admission to the hospital's ER (and this is when the meter starts ticking) a series of MRIs, CAT scans or x-rays and blood tests, etc., will begin, but only after a nurse has taken a medical history which is usually relayed through clinched teeth and moans. They take your history regardless of how many times in the past you've given it to them. When is that national data base gonna kick in? Diagnostic tests can take hours to accomplish before the poor suffering soul learns precisely what the problem is and receives relief.
During this glacially paced process, we older folk mentally jog through a list of fatal diseases we believe we are probably harboring and have remained hidden from our physician. We are convinced we are terminal because in all the ER stories we've heard from friends it begins rather innocuously: Barbara Simpson went in for a hang nail and within two months she dies of Dengue fever. During the twenty minutes following the medical history and the CAT scan, and while hospital workers are twiddling their thumbs, we (the older, efficient generation) have managed to experience all seven stages of grief and have entered the funeral home's number on speed dial in our cell phone. And at this vulnerable juncture we switch from pondering which fatal disease will be the cause of death to planning our funeral.
Should Amazing Grace be played as a processional or recessional? Should it be a vocal or instrumental? I should probably write my own obit since the ungrateful brats won't have anything nice to say about me and evidently they have forgotten when I was born. Gee, those latex gloves look really big. . . What should I wear? My daughter who has hated me since junior high will have me put in my old navy wool suit with shoulder pads and pleats, knowing darn well it always made me look fat-uh-fatter. From funeral planning we may segue into remorse: I shouldn't have put Nair in Wanda Snodgrasses' shampoo in high school, or substituted baby aspirins for Helen Bright's birth control pills in college. I take it all back.... Anyway, you get the picture. Life is not simple at this age. Too many decisions and amends to make and so little time.
After what seemed to be days, which in reality was only four hours, the twelve-year-old ER doc comes back with all the test results. Diagnosis: GAS! That's right. The intestinal by-product of too much fiber and too little elimination was responsible for the horrific circumstances that propelled us (un-huh, pun intended) into the hospital. Embarrassing? Yes. Expensive? Yes. The bill came to just over $3000.00. Since the local ER is just a little over 8 miles away, I figure with the current price of gas that comes to about $375.00 per mile. That is not counting the cost of Gas X that we buy and wear in an amulet around the neck. Perhaps in the future it may be advisable to wear a medical alert bracelet with the warning: keep away from open flame.
Since most of us in our sixties and seventies are mothers and grandmothers and we loathe having anyone make a fuss over us, unless it's Mother's Day, we are apt to wave away the notion that the EMTs should be called. The sound of a siren heralds to the neighbors that the first step toward assisted living has been taken. After this incident, all eyes will be peeled for any deviation from the norm. Be very careful, the younger generation has a hair trigger when making these decisions, and are not hesitant about using it. Go outside just once with your bra over your shirt. Bang! You're in a home.
People should learn to appreciate the process a person of age, and living alone must navigate in order to make a decision about emergency trips to the hospital. First, while writhing in pain, one must determine if, indeed, this is an emergency. Second, whom to call once it's determined that this is an emergency: cold sweat, white knuckles, chest pain and shallow breathing are usually adequate signs. Ok, it's an emergency. Should I shower and change clothes? Would this be a good time to write my will? Why should I leave anything to those ungrateful brats who never call or come by? Wonder why mother left the good china to my brother instead of me. What if I die, but come back. Should I write a book about it? I don't want to be buried, but don't like the thought of cremation, except in the case of my ex, and he should be conscious!
After admission to the hospital's ER (and this is when the meter starts ticking) a series of MRIs, CAT scans or x-rays and blood tests, etc., will begin, but only after a nurse has taken a medical history which is usually relayed through clinched teeth and moans. They take your history regardless of how many times in the past you've given it to them. When is that national data base gonna kick in? Diagnostic tests can take hours to accomplish before the poor suffering soul learns precisely what the problem is and receives relief.
During this glacially paced process, we older folk mentally jog through a list of fatal diseases we believe we are probably harboring and have remained hidden from our physician. We are convinced we are terminal because in all the ER stories we've heard from friends it begins rather innocuously: Barbara Simpson went in for a hang nail and within two months she dies of Dengue fever. During the twenty minutes following the medical history and the CAT scan, and while hospital workers are twiddling their thumbs, we (the older, efficient generation) have managed to experience all seven stages of grief and have entered the funeral home's number on speed dial in our cell phone. And at this vulnerable juncture we switch from pondering which fatal disease will be the cause of death to planning our funeral.
Should Amazing Grace be played as a processional or recessional? Should it be a vocal or instrumental? I should probably write my own obit since the ungrateful brats won't have anything nice to say about me and evidently they have forgotten when I was born. Gee, those latex gloves look really big. . . What should I wear? My daughter who has hated me since junior high will have me put in my old navy wool suit with shoulder pads and pleats, knowing darn well it always made me look fat-uh-fatter. From funeral planning we may segue into remorse: I shouldn't have put Nair in Wanda Snodgrasses' shampoo in high school, or substituted baby aspirins for Helen Bright's birth control pills in college. I take it all back.... Anyway, you get the picture. Life is not simple at this age. Too many decisions and amends to make and so little time.
After what seemed to be days, which in reality was only four hours, the twelve-year-old ER doc comes back with all the test results. Diagnosis: GAS! That's right. The intestinal by-product of too much fiber and too little elimination was responsible for the horrific circumstances that propelled us (un-huh, pun intended) into the hospital. Embarrassing? Yes. Expensive? Yes. The bill came to just over $3000.00. Since the local ER is just a little over 8 miles away, I figure with the current price of gas that comes to about $375.00 per mile. That is not counting the cost of Gas X that we buy and wear in an amulet around the neck. Perhaps in the future it may be advisable to wear a medical alert bracelet with the warning: keep away from open flame.
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
So this is what 70 feels like. . .
Last year melted into a blurry image of hot, humid summer days and was quickly followed by an explosion of orange, auburn, and bright yellow that eventually turned a muted and dry crinkly brown. In November, this series of rapidly projected seasonal vignettes slowed and stopped in full view of my bay window which just happened to coincide with my (shudder) 70th birthday. My beloved grandmother, Becky (as she was called, by all except me) told me I was born in the season of summer ashes-beige, ox blood and dark walnut-colored leaves. Desiccated reminders of the once lush, green hues that provided the backdrop to spring's translucent watercolors and summer's celebration of watermelon and fireworks.
A November birthdate imbues a slight proclivity for depression. October prances around in her autumnal splendor to lavish applause and praise, while December appears spiritual and virginal dressed in white and smelling of fir and peppermint. November slogs about in sack cloth and ashes. If you are not slightly depressed by now, then you may have missed the whole point of SAD-Seventy and Depressed.
I believe everyone entertains a depressing thought on occasion, but for the majority of the time we humans are optimistic and productive owing to our ability to control many of the factors in our environs.
Although, outside of an early and unforeseen demise, we will attain our promised 70 or 80 year lifespan with tempered surprise and even less fanfare. And we will feel a tad depressed knowing we are but a temporary fixture here( a dubious gift left un-bestowed upon the rest of the animal kingdom), and will sometime in the next 20 or 30 years depart for our next mysterious journey. As you may deduce, 70 makes one introspective, i.e., depressed.
I have mentally listed all the harrowing aspects of turning 70, which by the way is the age I recall most vividly when thinking about my mother and grandmothers. Seventy was an age they graced well, not at all like me, I shag and twist to beach music in the living room while rubbing Aspercreme on my shoulders and hips. At seventy my whole generation is a paradox. We are 18 and eerily wise. Agile and stiff, free spirits and old farts, jaded and awed by life, bitter and sweet, inspirational and oppressive.
We can talk about the past and evoke yawns and eye rolls from grandchildren. When we talk about sex we suddenly become perverse and unstable. (We, like our parents, are to know nothing of sex). We are all candidates for the nursing home in the minds of the younger generation,(who will never succumb to the mental and physical decrepitude we fell victim to).
All this may be true, but this old gal of 70/18 ain't going down without a fight! Yes, I get my hair colored, and sport a youthful cut. I wear knee-high boots, and turtleneck sweaters(concession to the turkey neck), I work out and ache like the devil the next day. I'm engaged in the battle of the bulge, and know I won't succeed, but will die trying. As for romance, it's out there; however, it's usually dependent upon a little blue pill. Instead of birth-control pills on the nightstand, there is a collection of death-control pills: anti-hypertensives, statins, antacids, pain pills, fiber (lots of fiber). Between big pharma and my hairdresser I can pass for 65 or 69 depending on the time of day, the lighting and if the fiber did it's job.
We gals over 65 still like to think of ourselves as hot. We are a challenge for clothing designers who want to adorn these aged frames in polyester and double knits. We don't want to look like puckered up Kewpie dolls from a carnival sideshow, or wrinkled sluts, but graceful and stylish women to can be comfortable and attractive--youthful, has a nice ring to it. We do like the new stealthy stretch fabrics that look slenderizing and contemporary, but allow for double helpings of cellulite.
I'm still pretty strong. I shoveled 8"deep snow off my driveway by myself last year, and hefted my 45lb kayak on top of my car. I try to remain strong in the event that my dating life may hinge upon my ability to lift a date on or off something-I'm hoping it's not a potty.
We are still very susceptible to the attention of the opposite sex, i.e., geezers: the retired football players, the bald captains of industry with beer guts and the shriveled academics who once turned many heads, but now can only attract insurance companies hawking Medicare Supplements and nursing homes. Yes, these are still the guys that make our hearts beat a little faster(pace makers not withstanding). We want to think we're still attractive and even "doable" assuming the new hip can withstand the activity. You have to get use to the smell, not of pheromones, but of Bengay in the bedroom. Hint: it's not the bed that's creaking.
Well, that's all for now, it's nap time and the fiber is kicking in. I'll be back with more pearls, and sand.
A November birthdate imbues a slight proclivity for depression. October prances around in her autumnal splendor to lavish applause and praise, while December appears spiritual and virginal dressed in white and smelling of fir and peppermint. November slogs about in sack cloth and ashes. If you are not slightly depressed by now, then you may have missed the whole point of SAD-Seventy and Depressed.
I believe everyone entertains a depressing thought on occasion, but for the majority of the time we humans are optimistic and productive owing to our ability to control many of the factors in our environs.
Although, outside of an early and unforeseen demise, we will attain our promised 70 or 80 year lifespan with tempered surprise and even less fanfare. And we will feel a tad depressed knowing we are but a temporary fixture here( a dubious gift left un-bestowed upon the rest of the animal kingdom), and will sometime in the next 20 or 30 years depart for our next mysterious journey. As you may deduce, 70 makes one introspective, i.e., depressed.
I have mentally listed all the harrowing aspects of turning 70, which by the way is the age I recall most vividly when thinking about my mother and grandmothers. Seventy was an age they graced well, not at all like me, I shag and twist to beach music in the living room while rubbing Aspercreme on my shoulders and hips. At seventy my whole generation is a paradox. We are 18 and eerily wise. Agile and stiff, free spirits and old farts, jaded and awed by life, bitter and sweet, inspirational and oppressive.
We can talk about the past and evoke yawns and eye rolls from grandchildren. When we talk about sex we suddenly become perverse and unstable. (We, like our parents, are to know nothing of sex). We are all candidates for the nursing home in the minds of the younger generation,(who will never succumb to the mental and physical decrepitude we fell victim to).
All this may be true, but this old gal of 70/18 ain't going down without a fight! Yes, I get my hair colored, and sport a youthful cut. I wear knee-high boots, and turtleneck sweaters(concession to the turkey neck), I work out and ache like the devil the next day. I'm engaged in the battle of the bulge, and know I won't succeed, but will die trying. As for romance, it's out there; however, it's usually dependent upon a little blue pill. Instead of birth-control pills on the nightstand, there is a collection of death-control pills: anti-hypertensives, statins, antacids, pain pills, fiber (lots of fiber). Between big pharma and my hairdresser I can pass for 65 or 69 depending on the time of day, the lighting and if the fiber did it's job.
We gals over 65 still like to think of ourselves as hot. We are a challenge for clothing designers who want to adorn these aged frames in polyester and double knits. We don't want to look like puckered up Kewpie dolls from a carnival sideshow, or wrinkled sluts, but graceful and stylish women to can be comfortable and attractive--youthful, has a nice ring to it. We do like the new stealthy stretch fabrics that look slenderizing and contemporary, but allow for double helpings of cellulite.
I'm still pretty strong. I shoveled 8"deep snow off my driveway by myself last year, and hefted my 45lb kayak on top of my car. I try to remain strong in the event that my dating life may hinge upon my ability to lift a date on or off something-I'm hoping it's not a potty.
We are still very susceptible to the attention of the opposite sex, i.e., geezers: the retired football players, the bald captains of industry with beer guts and the shriveled academics who once turned many heads, but now can only attract insurance companies hawking Medicare Supplements and nursing homes. Yes, these are still the guys that make our hearts beat a little faster(pace makers not withstanding). We want to think we're still attractive and even "doable" assuming the new hip can withstand the activity. You have to get use to the smell, not of pheromones, but of Bengay in the bedroom. Hint: it's not the bed that's creaking.
Well, that's all for now, it's nap time and the fiber is kicking in. I'll be back with more pearls, and sand.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Turning Sixty
No one turns sixty, we crash into it head-on with no intend other than to survive it. Turning indicates a voluntary action which requires reaching for the turn signal lever and pushing up or down. Not so with Age; it stands determined right in the middle of a one lane road with no shoulders, and only one exit ramp. You either pick it up like any potentially dangerous hitch hiker, or run it down.
I chose the head-on, run 'em down method of aging. No grace, no glory, just guts.
About the only preparation for turning sixty in our culture is a colonoscopy. After which we confidently proceed with the fleeting (no pun intended) notion that life won't be cut short by lethal polyps. But, not so fast, your physician has other terrifying diseases and conditions he/she wants to torture you with: Type II diabetes, hypertension, high cholesterol, joint pain,erectile dysfunction( if you're a woman it won't effect you directly, but trust me, it will eventually), and incontinence; the list is endless. However, thanks to big pharma, there is an arsenal of drugs to alleviate your symptoms and guarantee that your promised three score and ten lifespan is secure. In all probability you will arrive there-broke, and riddled with side effects that turned out to be worse than your initial condition.
You will begin your day with pills, and fiber, after which you greet yourself in the mirror. Avoid the mirror. The mirror hates you and will go to great lengths to distort your trim, youthfully toned body(I'm making up this part about the toned body to make a point). If, however, you believe you look great in the mirror, you may want to check out the possibility that you have cataracts.
At sixty life stops being the one, sure thing you take for granted. You feel little creaks and major dysfunctions: a knee that was always well-behaved in the past begins acting up. At the worse possible moment such as showing your son how you can squat and then rise gracefully proving that you are a long way from needing assisted living. Trying to win this argument while sprawled on the floor is useless. Okay, maybe an alert bracelet wouldn't hurt. But beware how quickly the "little" concessions to aging begin to pile up. I know somewhere in my future a portable potty is waiting to align itself next to my bed. I only hope by then they will have been designed to look like Wii or playstation component.
At sixty-four I decided to take up roller blading. Why? you ask. Because all of the actuary tables that I had seen never listed roller blading as a cause of death for someone my age. I also took up cycling, rock climbing, kayaking and line dancing. These became my weapons in my war for warding off old age. They could very possibly become the cause of death, but who cares, I am being active. Being active is a term you want to include in your profile on dating sites. This will bring rewarding results.......stay tuned.
I chose the head-on, run 'em down method of aging. No grace, no glory, just guts.
About the only preparation for turning sixty in our culture is a colonoscopy. After which we confidently proceed with the fleeting (no pun intended) notion that life won't be cut short by lethal polyps. But, not so fast, your physician has other terrifying diseases and conditions he/she wants to torture you with: Type II diabetes, hypertension, high cholesterol, joint pain,erectile dysfunction( if you're a woman it won't effect you directly, but trust me, it will eventually), and incontinence; the list is endless. However, thanks to big pharma, there is an arsenal of drugs to alleviate your symptoms and guarantee that your promised three score and ten lifespan is secure. In all probability you will arrive there-broke, and riddled with side effects that turned out to be worse than your initial condition.
You will begin your day with pills, and fiber, after which you greet yourself in the mirror. Avoid the mirror. The mirror hates you and will go to great lengths to distort your trim, youthfully toned body(I'm making up this part about the toned body to make a point). If, however, you believe you look great in the mirror, you may want to check out the possibility that you have cataracts.
At sixty life stops being the one, sure thing you take for granted. You feel little creaks and major dysfunctions: a knee that was always well-behaved in the past begins acting up. At the worse possible moment such as showing your son how you can squat and then rise gracefully proving that you are a long way from needing assisted living. Trying to win this argument while sprawled on the floor is useless. Okay, maybe an alert bracelet wouldn't hurt. But beware how quickly the "little" concessions to aging begin to pile up. I know somewhere in my future a portable potty is waiting to align itself next to my bed. I only hope by then they will have been designed to look like Wii or playstation component.
At sixty-four I decided to take up roller blading. Why? you ask. Because all of the actuary tables that I had seen never listed roller blading as a cause of death for someone my age. I also took up cycling, rock climbing, kayaking and line dancing. These became my weapons in my war for warding off old age. They could very possibly become the cause of death, but who cares, I am being active. Being active is a term you want to include in your profile on dating sites. This will bring rewarding results.......stay tuned.
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