Other changes that happen to the middleaged foot have to do with bone structure. Sometimes foot bones start doing strange things when they pass their fortieth birthday. My own feet started growing bony extensions out their sides a few years ago. I’m not sure why they’re doing this, but if I ever go to the backwoods of Canada and leave my footprints, we could start a whole new Sasquatch rumor.
Many of the foot problems that we suffer later in life, though, are our own fault. Perhaps they’re the result of repeated sports injuries, improper nail care, or years of cramming a size nine foot into a size seven shoe. I used to do that myself, so I guess I shouldn’t be surprised if today I’ve got a Taylor’s bunion. In fact, I shouldn’t be surprised if I’m carrying around his whole family on my feet. After all, if the shoe fit, I really should have worn it.
If I’d known I was going to live this long, I’d have taken better care of myself.
—Eubie Blake, at the age of 100
4
And He Huffed and He Puffed . . .
In the story of The Three Little Pigs, the big bad wolf gave the three little porkers a threat. He said that if they didn’t cooperate and open up their doors, he would huff and puff and blow their houses in.
It’s obvious from the verbs ‘‘huff’’ and ‘‘puff’’ that we’re talking about a middle-aged wolf here. Middle-aged wolves and middle-aged people do a lot of huffing and puffing. For some of us, it has become a second language. I myself am trilingual— being equally fluent in wheezing.
In our youth, we ‘‘huffers’’ could run, jump, climb, race up stairs, even skip a step or two in the process. We didn’t have to make six rest stops in the 100-yard dash or send out for oxygen at the halfway point of a flight of stairs. We could have walked up the steps of the Taj Mahal with very little effort.
As soon as we hit forty, though, it’s a different story. A fifteen-step staircase suddenly looks like Mount Everest. Before even attempting to scale something of that magnitude, we search the entire area for an elevator, a ramp, a rope, a search and rescue team, a St. Bernard, anything to make our task easier.
Running, jumping, and stair climbing aren’t the only activities that can start us huffing and puffing. We huff and puff getting out of our cars, too, especially if those cars are so low to the ground only an ejection seat could get us out without effort. Frankly, I don’t understand why car manufacturers make car seats that low anyway. Maybe it’s so that after a test drive the client can’t get out and has to buy the car.
Answering the telephone can leave us huffing and puffing, especially if the call comes in the middle of a shower. I’m sure more than a few callers have hung up on a middle-aged huffer, mistaking his gasps for heavy breathing.
A few of us even huff and puff putting on our shoes. You thought tying your shoelaces was a challenge when you were four? Try it when you’re forty. That’s probably why so many seniors opt for slip-ons. Tying shoelaces just isn’t worth the battle.
Opening things can leave us huffing and puffing, too— things like potato chip bags, vacuum-packed cookies, vacuum-sealed cans of cheese puffs, or a membership account at the gym. I don’t see why manufacturers have to package their foods so tightly anyway. Is keeping us out of the package the only way they can get away with the nutritional benefits printed on the back?
Now, contrary to what you might think, not all huffers and puffers are smokers . . . or even ex-smokers, for that matter. I’m a huffer even though I’ve taken very good care of my lungs. I’ve never smoked and I’m very careful not to inhale too much of my own cooking. And although I did grow up in the Los Angeles smog, I held my breath during most of my formative years. Yet even after taking all these precautions, I still huff and puff. The bottom line is lungs are delicate and susceptible to routine damage over the years no matter what you do to protect them.
So, you see, it had to have been a middle-aged wolf chasing those three little pigs. No teenage wolf would huff and puff that much after going to only three houses. And to huff and puff hard enough to blow two houses in? Why, the poor beast should have been carrying a portable oxygen tank! The story’s been told wrong all these years. That wolf didn’t want those pigs’ houses; he needed mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, and not one of those pigs would help him. Not a good-hearted Babe in the bunch. That poor wolf had to keep going from house to house, huffing and puffing and wheezing. Then, when he finally climbed down the chimney of the third house to personally plead for help, what did they do? They lit a fire in the fireplace, which took up even more oxygen! The story ends there, of course, but it makes its point: middle age? It’s rough on both man and beast!
YOU KNOW YOU’RE
GETTING OLD WHEN . . .
the brand new house you remember moving into as a child is now protected by the historical society.
5
Hey, Brother, Can You Spare a 401K?
Many middle-aged people have planned well for retirement. Their savings accounts have grown, their stock investments have paid off, and their retirement plans are all set to kick in. They’re prepared.
This chapter is for the rest of us. We who have $2.48 in our savings account, didn’t invest in Microsoft because we thought it was a hand cream, and will probably get to our senior years, reach for our nest egg, and realize we already fried it years ago.
I’ve never been much of a financial wizard. The only portfolio I have is the one I bought at OfficeMax. I have, however, watched everyone around me get rich off their stock market or other investments, while I’m busy looking for a grocery store that has a coin machine where I can cash in my quarters.
Not that my husband and I haven’t tried our hand at investing. We have. We just haven’t been very successful at it. Take, for instance, the piece of desert property we bought over twenty-five years ago as a retirement investment. It’s five and a half acres, and we were told it would eventually be worth well over $100,000.
Today it’s not worth much of anything because it has been turned into a sanctuary for an endangered insect. I believe it’s in the gnat family. So much for making our fortune there. We’ve listed it for sale a couple of times, but not many people want to own a government-protected five-and-a-half-acre gnat grazing ground.
Whatever porcelain collectibles I’ve managed to accumulate over the years haven’t paid off either. They actually were increasing in value, but the last Northridge, California, earthquake turned them into mosaic pieces.
How about a game show called Wheel of Missed Fortunes? Contestants could spin the wheel for a dollar amount— $10,000, $50,000, $100,000, and so on. A lovely blonde could stand by the answer board while contestants guessed the cost of their missed investment opportunities or bad business decisions. It might be a depressing show for the contestants, but the viewing audience would feel a lot better about their own bad investments.
It’s hard to predict which ‘‘sure deal’’ really will be a sure deal. We don’t know if a piece of real estate will cost us a fortune or make us one. The stock market carries no guarantees, either. Gold might be devalued; the company handling our retirement account could default; we could be hit with a catastrophic illness that depletes every dime of our savings. There are no fail-safe ways to wealth, no assurances that the money we save is going to be there for us when we need it. That’s why the most important investments we can make aren’t financial. They are the ones we make in the lives around us.
AN ADVANTAGE OF POVERTY:
Your relatives gain nothing by your death.
—Hebrew proverb
6
Out of Style
I’m not against people dressing younger than their age, but there are some who go to extremes to look young. At some point we have to accept the fact that we’re not teenagers anymore. We really do need diffused lighting.
Just so there’s no misunderstanding, I should clarify that I’m not talking about the person who acts young. Being young at heart is a healthy attitude that will add quality to your li
fe and maybe even years.
This chapter is about that individual who blots out her age on her driver’s license with Wite-Out, reinvents her personal history to cover her age tracks, and shops in the youth department of clothing stores while complaining to the clerk that the loud music is giving her hearing aid feedback.
I’m glad I don’t do things like that. Okay . . . there was that one weekend when my niece, Lisa, gave me a temporary tattoo just above my right ankle. It was one of those fun things you do when your sixteen-year-old niece is staying with you for the weekend. It was a rose in full bloom, but it took several weeks to completely wear off. When people saw it in its varying stages of decomposition, they probably thought I had gotten a real tattoo on the installment plan.
But it was just for fun. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not condoning or condemning tattoos. Personally, I’d never get a real one, but that’s me. I get enough ink on me when I write. And to be perfectly honest, I can’t see varicose veins going that well with body art.
What I am saying, though, is this: In our quest for a more youthful appearance, moderation should be our goal. The following guidelines are provided as a public service:
MIDDLE-AGE FASHION FAUX PAS The following combinations DO NOT go together:
• A nose ring and bifocals
• Spiked hair and bald spots
• A pierced tongue and dentures
• Bikinis and liver spots
• Miniskirts and support hose
• In-line skates and a walker
• Ankle bracelets and corn pads
• Speedos and cellulite
• A belly button ring and a gall bladder surgery scar
• Unbuttoned disco shirts and a heart monitor
• Hot pants and varicose veins
• Midriff shirts and a midriff bulge
I’m not saying the above is the last word on the subject. Simply use it as a guideline. The fashion police will thank you for it.
All men should strive to learn before they die what they are running from, and to, and why.
—James Thurber
7
Changing With the Times
I’ve yet to go through the change of life. I know it’s coming— those night sweats that flood the lower floor of your home, the hot flashes that keep three fire stations on standby, and the mood swings. Oh, the mood swings—those hormonal changes that make you weep like a baby because Grape-Nuts just went on sale or turn you into a raging lunatic when the telephone cord gets tangled around your ankles.
I’m not looking forward to menopause. Night sweats don’t sound like a lot of fun to me. I had them once after a bout with the flu, and it was a lot like taking a shower with your clothes on only the water was coming from the inside out. I prefer the traditional shower. I don’t like waking up in a water bed when I didn’t start out in one.
And hot flashes—whose idea were those? Frankly, I think they should be called ‘‘in-law flashes’’ since they come totally unannounced and seem like they’re never going to leave.
They say irritability is also a common side effect of the change. IRRITABILITY? CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT?! THAT’S THE MOST RIDICULOUS THING I’VE EVER HEARD! THEY’VE GOT NO . . . Sorry. I don’t know what came over me.
Men go through a change, too, but they call it a mid-life crisis. Some make it through this period unscathed. Others? Well, you’ve seen them. Those perfectly stable, well-adjusted men who suddenly go out and buy a Harley-Davidson motorcycle, get a tattoo that says, ‘‘AARP RULES,’’ and start listening to the same music they’ve been telling their kids to turn down for years.
I only mention the Harley-Davidson because it’s so symbolic. Many men have their identity tied up in the kind of vehicle they drive. In fact, you can usually tell what stage of life a man is going through by his mode of transportation:
MALE TRANSPORTATION THROUGH THE YEARS
Teenager: take the bus, or ride with your parents
Twenties: borrow Dad’s car
Thirties: family van
Forties: sport utility vehicle or truck
Fifties: cherry red convertible capable of going from 0–60 in two tickets or less
Sixties: Harley with a sidecar for grandchildren
Seventies: fifty-miles-to-the-gallon subcompact vehicle
Eighties: take the bus, or ride with your kids
Now, there’s nothing wrong with buying a hot new cherry red convertible or the sleekest motorcycle you can find for your mid-life crisis. But be forewarned: While convertibles and motorcycles can give you that renewed youthfulness and excitement your life has been needing for a long time, you might have to stop every couple of miles or so to go back and pick up your hair.
The meaning of life is to give life meaning.
—Ken Hudgins
8
A Handout
Remember when you were little and someone would ask you your age? You’d hold up three fingers, or four, or five, and say, ‘‘This many.’’
When you get up in years, you still give away your age by your hands, only now it’s not intentional. No matter how many face-lifts you undergo, how many laser surgeries you sit perfectly still for, or how much duct tape you’ve got holding back loose skin, your hands will still betray you. Hands give away age secrets as freely as the rings of a tree trunk or a former best friend.
You could wear gloves, of course, but you might look a little overdressed at your grandson’s soccer game. You could keep your hands in your pockets, which is what Napoleon used to do, probably for the same reason, but sooner or later you’re going to have to take your hands out to applaud, scratch your nose, or write a check. You can sit on your hands, too. It’s not very comfortable and tends to stop the flow of blood, but this is America. You’re free to do those kinds of things.
I’ve also heard lemon juice will help fade age spots, but I don’t know how true that is. I tried it once and all it did was make my hands sticky. I don’t like sticky hands. I don’t mind being friendly, but when I shake someone’s hand, I’d like to eventually let go.
A popular dish soap company used to have a mother-daughter team wash dishes together to see if viewers could tell by the look of their dishpan hands which of them was the mother and which was the daughter. It was always difficult to tell since both sets of hands looked terrific. Their soap, they said, was the reason for this. In other words, they were saying to women everywhere that we have to do dishes to get younger looking hands.
I think a husband wrote that commercial.
Age spots, wrinkles, and prominent veins are all telltale signs that we’ve been putting, as Sheriff John used to say, ‘‘another candle on your birthday cake’’ for quite a while now. And I suppose someday some plastic surgeon will make a lot of money doing wrist lifts or palm pulls to help people hide their age. But until then, I guess our only option is to keep doing those dishes and try to keep our hands as soft and youthful looking as possible. Personally, though, I’ve given up trying to hide my age spots. I’m just going to wait for all of them to connect— then I can pass it off as a tan.
What if ‘‘Hokey Pokey’’ really is what it’s all about?
—saying on a T-shirt
9
Tan Your Hide
Speaking of tans, I watched a television commercial today for a new instant tanning cream. The pitch seemed to be aimed at those of us who want younger looking skin and are willing to pay three payments of $39.95 each for it. The spokesperson said that a nice golden tan is the secret to looking younger. Face-lifts, laser surgery, and even duct tape were not the answer.
It seems the sun, nature’s usual tanning device, does a good job of browning our skin, but it also tends to age it. Harmful sunrays can damage skin so much that instead of our looking younger we actually end up looking older.
The commercial said tanning beds can be harmful to our skin, as well. They didn’t have to spend too much airtime talking me out of that. I don’t think I’d ever resort to
a tanning bed. I’d feel too much like a croissant going into an oven, and since I know all too well what happens to croissants in my oven, I know I’m better off passing on that.
So what’s the answer? Well, according to this advertisement, the answer is simple—their instant tanning cream, at $39.95 a month for three months. That’s a lot of money, but I’m tempted to order it anyway.
My natural skin tone has always been Clown White, and it’d be fun to have some color for a change. (I’m on the list for a tan transplant, but so far there haven’t been any donors.)
So I suppose an instant tanning cream is the only way to go. I just hope they’ve improved since the days when I was a teenager. I tried one back then and it turned my skin a beautiful shade of Tang orange. I don’t think I want to be orange again. It really isn’t my color.
But the ad said their instant tanning cream wouldn’t do that. In fact, not only did it make those swimsuit-clad fifty-year-old men and women look younger, it also gave them the energy to play a round of beach volleyball. That’s some tanning cream!
And while we’re on the subject of swimsuits, why doesn’t someone make a style that those of us over forty would actually wear? I for one don’t like pleats. My skin already has enough pleats; why would I want them in my beachwear? I don’t like plunging necklines, either. Enough of me is plunging on its own. And who told anyone that black is the favorite color of those over forty? Our skin might not fit anymore but we’re not in mourning over it.
But first things first. No matter what kind of swimsuit I wear, I still need a tan, so I’ve decided to go ahead and order the tanning cream. And if it doesn’t work this time, and I still turn orange, well, I guess that’s okay. I live in Tennessee, and orange is one of the colors of the Tennessee State University football team!
Didn't My Skin Used to Fit? Page 2