Tag Archives: Aging

My father and his daughter, the non-doctor

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SOB (sister of blogger) and HOSOB (husband of sister of blogger) left yesterday for a week in Europe.

The last time SOB left the country for a week, my father was so anxious that his doctor-daughter was more than a mere phone call away that he ended up in the hospital ER at least three times.  I, the non-medically trained daughter, met him at the ER each time, and waited with him until his anxiety-caused shortness of breath, etc., passed.

Dad would apologize for taking me away from my office or my family.  I would tell him I am glad and relieved that he called so I could be there.  He would respond, how else would you know anything was wrong because you don’t call me.  Ok ok ok ok.  I gave him the grandchild whom he sees on Tuesdays and we have him over (along with SOB and HOSOB) every Sunday night and every holiday.  SOB is in charge of daily check-ins.  I am in charge of weekends and holidays.  Did I mention that I provide the grandchild?  (I used to call him every day as well from the cab home, when I worked close enough to home to take cabs after work.  Now I take the subway (no reception) and when I walk in the door I need to spend time with my son and partner.)

Ok, he has hypochondriacal tendencies, but he was 88 at the time.  Now, he is 89 and he does have heart disease now that is making him slow down.  But he is by no means enfeebled.  He is healthier than most people 30 years his junior.

Last week SOB and I discussed which ER Dad would likely go to.  I thought if I could figure it out, I could arrange to have office space and wifi during these ER stints.  One hospital serves free apple juice; the other is farther away but is in the hospital where Dr. SOB is an attending physician, so he would be fawned over. His cardiologist is smack in the middle.  Don’t under-estimate the draw of free apple juice to a son of poor immigrants raised in the Depression.  So, not a clear cut option.

Of course, this is only mildly amusing if nothing is really wrong.  Dad went to the cardiologist on Thursday and Dr. SOB went along to make sure his new medication was helping and that he was in good shape. SOB left the country, confident that everything will be all right.

Dad had something to do yesterday.  We are seeing him today — going to see his sculpture on display at his studio and then taking him to dinner.  So, I knew that all would be okay on the weekend.  It is Monday that will be the test.  Last night, I priced those wifi plug-ins.  One has to be prepared for anything.

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The Chump who should have been dumped

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Ok, ok, ok.

A DFOSOB (dear friend of sister of blogger) is in a shaky relationship with a guy we call Stan.  Stan is not his real name and we purposefully don’t use his real name when we are mad at him because if FOSOB and he were to get back together again, well, then we would ditch the name Stan, with all of its negative connotations.  A brilliant idea devised by my brother-in-law HOSOB (husband of SOB).

I met Stan at HOSOB’s and SOB’s wedding.  I remember telling SOB at her wedding that Stan hit the jackpot with DFOSOB, because DFOSOB is urbane, kind, gracious, loving, graceful, fun-loving and totally terrific (and not because she is SOB’s college friend and someone I have known for over 30 years).  Stan is — how do you say? — none of the above.  But FOSOB loves him and as much as we all wanted her to dump the chump when he got cold feet about getting married, we were honest (in my case, brutally) but supportive of her decision to stick it out and make it work.

Because DFOSOB is family (after so many years, how could we not be), we (ok, not I) held our tongues as to our assessment of the man to whom she gave her heart.  But now Stan wants to extricate himself from the relationship.

No more biting my tongue (as if I ever did).

Stan has rounded the drain and can only hereafter be referred to as SHMUK (selfish, happiness-adverse, mean-spirited, unctious kvetcher).  FOSOB is still upset — G-d bless her, she sees something in SHMUK — but he doesn’t deserve her and never did.  That he doesn’t realize that he will never find anyone who comes close to DFOSOB is proof positive of his delusional psyche.  I met the guy and a Renaissance man or Superman he is not.  DFOSOB deserves someone who will make her laugh, make her feel loved and beautiful, catch her when she falls, who will hold her up in her weak moments and will love her when time (and, G-d forbid, disease) diminishes her vitality.  SHMUK is not up to the task.  He is not a man; he is gray haired, petulant boy.

If only DFOSOB liked girls, I think I could hook her up with some wonderful people . . . .

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Lip Creep

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For the last few days I have been wearing lipstick because I finally accept my mother’s opinion that a little lipstick hides that washed-out look that comes with age.  And, lipstick is a good lip moisturizer.

Still, I have noticed that not only does the lipstick make my lips look bigger, it is actually making them bigger. 

Lip creep is the culprit.  Tiny wrinkles around the lips allow the lipstick to run into the crevices that the wrinkles create which, as I grow older, will become ravines. 

Now when I see an old woman with lipstick down to her chin, I will be more kind.  Or as kind as I can be.

For now, back to Chapstick for me.  Sorry, Mom.

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The Blogger in my midst

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So, after the funeral, I decide to work from home since most banks are closed (and my clients are banks).  I return the rental car and make the mistake of hearkening back — with no one else in room — to the earlier conversation about menopause that I had with the same rental car sales assistant.   She was not pleased.  She had mentioned earlier that she has mood swings.  I notice as I stand over the counter that she still hadn’t taken her vitamins.  I decided not to mention that the name of the GPS NeverLost is a misnomer.  And, I assume I am going to get a schmuck tax on top of the usual rental car costs.  I am fine with all of it because, well, it is what it is.

I go to grab lunch and there is a woman sitting opposite me at the communal table in Le Pain Quotidienne.  She looks at me as if she recognizes me.  We hold a gaze for an extra second. I know that I don’t know her so I assume that she asked me a question and is waiting for a response.  So, I say, “excuse me?” as if she said something.  She didn’t.  I apologize.  I go back to my various devices of connectivity.

She types furiously on her laptop.  I think she is a blogger.  I wanted to say, “Hi, I’m 40andoverblog.  Who are you?” But that would have sounded like the ookiest come-on line and that was not my intention.

I surreptitiously glance over at her from time to time, trying to see what she is typing.  She catches me a few times.  I have to leave now lest she think I have any interest other than uncovering a blogger and responds with interest or revulsion, neither of which I could handle.

I inhale my food and pay my bill.

I imagine that she is thinking, “wow, she reminds me of my mother”.  I catch a cab and take to my bed.

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Today I went into work in jeans

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Going to work in jeans on a Monday was not a rebellion against “The Man,” but an acknowledgment of the realities of aging — the rounding out of one’s waist and tummy. 

I scoffed at low-rider jeans until some years ago, POB (partner of blogger) told me I had to stop wearing “Mommy Jeans”  and she took me jeans shopping.  Little did we know that years later the President would make Mommy Jeans famous as necessary nerd wear.

Today I am grateful for these low-riders because they fasten below the waist and tummy.  Some days, my full-waisted dress pants don’t close without a fight and I am tired of popping buttons.   And when a button pops, it does so with enough velocity to hurt someone unfortunate enough to be in its trajectory.  Soon, I will have to register my tight-fitting clothes with the local police precinct, as is the rule with assault weapons. 

So, until I lose a few pounds or feel that it is ok again to spend money on new dress pants, low-rider jeans are the way to go even though, by every demographic study, it really NOT a look I should sport.

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Deja Vu All Over Again

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I saw my sister in the gym tonight.  Actually, I bumped into a trainer just outside the gym who told me my sister was working out.  I looked shocked; the trainer then looked puzzled.  You see, my sister has a stress fracture in her foot and should not be on an elliptical machine (and that is all she does at the gym when I am not around to coach her about weights).  I march upstairs in my “street clothes” to confront my sister.  I go to the heart of the matter and ask her whether she did, in fact, get her medical degree through a correspondence course with an off-shore medical school. In our family, that is the sum total of trash-talking.

After having laid down the gauntlet, my sister sputters some rationalizations, all of which I reject in an imperious way (after all I am a doctor, too — ok, a juris doctor).  I give her THE LOOK (Mom’s look of disappointment).  She doesn’t flinch.  She is not my sister.  My sister would have flinched.  I am confronted by the realization that my sister’s body is inhabited by an alien who is not scared of THE LOOK. THE LOOK proves the old adage, “if looks could kill . . . ” Well, not exactly, but THE LOOK with the eyes of my mother can really make a person plead for forgiveness. No sign of recognition by the alien inhabiting my sister.

Still, she knows about “our” Dad’s procedure tomorrow.  Clever aliens, these pod people.

So, I test this alien with other facts that my sister should know.  I mention some things I had written in my blog.  She is a little hazy about some of my latest entries.  But she does zero in on some with incredible accuracy.  I am not convinced yet but I leave to regroup and give the alien a false sense that she fooled the sister of her host body.  I come back up and flash an old picture of my parents and my sister at camp visiting day, circa 1969.  The alien looks at the picture, sighs and hugs me.

Maybe my sister is inhabited by an alien, but it is a really endearing alien.  Maybe the alien can heal her stress fracture.  Maybe the alien can help with my sagging neck.  After all, aliens have special powers that can conquer humanity, or at least that is true in the movies.

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No-Where-istan’s Gender Politics

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Friends were over Saturday night and the discussion came up about the gender of No-Where-istan’s Minister of Peace, Love and Happiness.  According to more than a few, but less than a majority, of those present (lesbians between ages 45 and 58), the Minister (see prior entries) is of indeterminate gender.   (These are blackberry camera photos, so the picture resolution and, therefore any conclusion, are necessarily fuzzy.) 

I then raised the not-so-news (to us old folks) that academic circles hold forth that there are six — count them, six — genders.  None of us could think of more than 2, and we did acknowledge that a person could identify with more than one at a time but there are still only 2.  Determined not to be out of the mainstream and matters hip and trendy, some stood fast in their knowledge and ability to discern gender.  Not that it matters.  But when you gather highly educated and accomplished people together, there is bound to be strong opinions and lines drawn on your imported Persian carpet (oh, well).

So, last night, I saw the Minister holding a conference in the Times Square subway.  I tried to get close enough, but not too close as to arouse suspicion.  But, my eye sight forced me to squint and trend closer to the Minister, so much so, that in order to continue my covert investigation I had to give her a dollar and get a small red heart-shaped Ministry-gram that said “peace is in your heart”. 

I felt the Minister’s calloused hand.  Not dispositive.  No discernible Adam’s apple.  Still not dispositive (one can have that shaved down, I understand).  Nice muscle tone but still within range of any gender. So, not dispositive. 

After my investigation, I still have no idea (although I have a guess).  But it doesn’t really matter as long as she is my Minister of Peace, Love and Happiness and still gives out Ministry-grams.  And as long as she isn’t looking for closet space in No-Where-istan (which is still in my head and a bit full, with cobwebs and all).

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Another Gym Moment

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We had had friends over for dinner Saturday night and good food and wine doesn’t not go gently on the body anymore. 

So, Sunday, at the stroke of 11:39am, I set off for a run.  I cut short the run at a mile, because, well, the chill in the air was not helping the creaks in my knees and the gym is warmer.  So I trot into the gym and, thinking about my new health regimen, I get one of those parsley, beet, cucumber, kale, blah blah blah drinks with some extra stuff for energy and focus.  It is a gross green color and therefore it must be good for me, right?

I drink it up as I am inputting my weight and my age into the machine (I pause for a moment to shake my head at the weight creep up the scale) and I notice that I have a faint after-taste of garlic.  Aaaargh.  Garlic was not listed in the ingredients to this elixir.  Luckily, I have one of those damp towels with eucalyptus in it (who knows why, but I took one), so I can breathe into it and not offend others near me.

This time I choose the recumbent bike, so that there is really no way I can fall off this machine, even if I faint from the garlic and the eucalyptus.  The woman next to me is ten years older and is going further and faster on her bike.  And she is burning more calories.  It’s ok, I rationalize because if I went faster, I would sweat more garlic, and SHE would keel over.  So my slow pace is actually altruistic.  And not only that, I am breathing through my eucalyptus towel to keep the garlic smell quotient to a minimum.

All of this altruism, eucalyptus and garlic is making me tired and I still 25 minutes to go (I have only been pedaling for five minutes, but it was a complicated and emotional five minutes).  The Marathon is on the TV and now I am psyched up to keep going.  Then I turn to another TV and see John King on CNN asking dumb questions instead of tough questions and I get agitated.  My bike starts making weird clanking noises.  They are loud enough for the people next to me to look over because they can hear the noises over their iPods.  The older woman is staring at me and I want to say, “hey, I am breathing into this stupid towel so you don’t faint from garlic, and you are running faster and further than I am, so you want to make something of my clanking bike?”  But of course I don’t.  I smile sheepishly as if I had been flatulent and everyone can smell it. 

Oh, will the degradation ever end for this schlepper at the gym?  No, I fear. 

I am destined for every gym visit to be — how shall I say? — “schl-epic”.

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Bruised, but energized

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I arrived at the gym at the crack of 11:30am on Sunday, ready to get back into shape.

Previously, I described my body as a pear with rhombus touches.  Right now, I feel like a square rhombus, which is a fatter, squatter, diamond shape.  I am going for the diamond shape rhombus — I am not getting any taller but I can shrink the girth.  Less girth, more mirth.  Somehow that isn’t slogan-y enough.  Let me try that again in sing-song perky voice — More Mirth!! Less Girth!!!  Naw.

How about:  It is time to put the T-O-N-E in my muscles.  (Except there is no “t”, “o” or “n” in “muscle”.)  Don’t I sound like an infomercial?  [imagine someone with perky, sing-song voice singing “All right, okay, waste that waist away!!” while doing something 1980s like jazzercise.]  (Didn’t some trainer of C-list celebrities say something like that?)

I still looked dweeby in my gym outfit because, while the length of my work-out pants covered my unshaven legs, they were toooooo form fitting.   (Here’s the sad truth — these once weren’t form fitting work-out pants.)  And my work-out shirt, which thank G-d was not sleeveless, wasn’t long enough. 

I did both cardio and weights.  I hurt today.  That is an understatement.  My body is SCREAMING at me.  Yet, I will go at it again, today, or, errrrrr, tomorrow.  But DEFINITELY, today or tomorrow.  Or Wednesday.  But I am committed, clearly.

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Slapstick at the gym, starring me

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Ok, I have not kept up with my gym routine.  But this week I resolved to get back into shape (a pear with rhombus accents).  So I spent two days getting psyched and yesterday I went to the gym. 

First, I have to say in my defense that I am sleepwalking most mornings before 10am so while I thought I was packing a gym “outfit”, I was, in fact, packing a gym “misfit”.

I am in the locker room and to my horror I discover that I packed running tights that go down just below my knees and are form-fitting.  Two things to note — since Labor Day, I can’t remember when I shaved my legs, and if form-fitting looked good on me, I wouldn’t need to go to the gym.  I soldiered on and experienced the unpleasant sensation of my butt touching the backs of my legs and creeping around my body to engulf my hips.  If you are eating while you read this, please stop one or the other.

I have a geeky t-shirt that stops at my waist making “my look” particularly unattractive.  If my skin were pasty, I would have won the Woody Allen female impersonator award.  Not pretty a pretty sight at all.

Nevertheless, boldly, I go upstairs amid the lovely, the young and the buff and claim rights to a Stairmaster.  Not the easy pedal kind, but the full-on steps.  I am going to do 30 minutes no matter what.

After 5 minutes I think I will die.  Then I decide that I should have turned on my iPod that is lying on the tray all tangled.  I am trying to untangle the iPod, while on Stairmaster and wearing bi-focals.  Well that lasted for less than a second because I am crumpled on the ground having banged my head.  Buff, beautiful and thin people come over, offering helpful excuses like, did you have a seizure?  Did you have a drink before going on Stairmaster?  Have you eaten?  No, in fact, multi-tasking on a Stairmaster when you are a klutz AND you are wearing bi-focals is stupid, but not an illness recognized by the medical community or any support group known to me.

Bruised, but undaunted, I return to the Stairmaster to conquer this beast.  I start the program over AND I up the level from 5 to 6.  I’ll show the machine who is boss.  I make sure to put my ear phones in first.  But after 5 minutes, I am ready to collapse.  I decide it is time to email my college friends to catch up.  At some point I knocked my ear phones out while thumbing a message on my blackberry.  Ah!! Another trick, you dangerous and mean Stairmaster!! You want me to retrieve my ear phones so that I can fall off again.  No, I say, NO!!!  I will not succumb to your evil tricks!! The ear phones are not near any mechanism.  I WILL CONTINUE FOR 30 MINUTES AND MY FORM FITTING OUTFIT WILL LOOK BETTER FOR IT!!

I spend the next 20 minutes on Stairmaster looking at the closed captioning on the TV screens (the bifocals did come in handy, or seemed to, anyway).  I am bored out of my mind.  But I am determined to burn 200 calories and climb over 2 miles.  I even do the 1.5 minute warm down after the 30 minutes are over.  Take THAT, you evil machine.

Triumphant, I walk around the gym floor looking at other tortures waiting to be vanquished.  Then I catch sight of my gym stalker in the mirror — that middle-aged gray haired lady getting a little thick around the middle.   You remember, the one who looks suspiciously like my mother.  I sigh.  My reflection and I have had enough of the gym for today.  We go home together.

But there is always tomorrow . . . . . .

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