Thresholds, Stairs and Memory Loss

Retirement finds most of us spending more time in our homes, making us aware of how frequently we forget where we’re headed when we go from one room to another. You might think this is because we’re home more often. Turns out, there’s a scientific reason for this memory gap.

The University of Notre Dame published a study some years ago that has only now come to my attention. The author is Professor Gabriel Radvansky, and his ND webpage tells us his research “is aimed at understanding… how younger and older adults differ on their use of mental models.” I’m sure this is a fascinating field, but I’m mostly interested in his paper: “Walking through doorways causes forgetting.”

In that study, subjects either walked through a doorway to another room to get something, or they walked the same distance within a room. Those who crossed a threshold (what Radvansky calls an “event boundary”) showed more memory loss than those who walked within a room. He concluded that these event boundaries compartmentalize activities in the mind, filing them in separate mental spaces. This impedes the ability to retrieve thoughts or decisions made in a different room.

His conclusion comes as no surprise to me. In fact, I can add to his findings. The more doorways you walk through, the harder it is to remember what you started out planning to do. We have a big house (please, Lord, not for much longer). I have things going on from the basement to the third floor and the two floors in between. I rarely get through a day without forgetting which floor I’m headed to, never mind for what reason. The further I have to go, the more likely I am to forget why before I get there.

Speaking of floors, stairs are another major “event boundary.” If something requires me to hit the stairs, chances are I’m going to forget what it was that put me there. If I’m lucky enough to remember why I’ve arrived on an upper floor, I’ll likely realize I left an important paper in the basement from whence I set out. Or I need a tool that’s in a closet or drawer on a lower floor.

Luke’s nail clippers, for instance. He’s usually on one of the second floor beds, but his clippers are in a cabinet off the kitchen. I’m not likely to forget why I’m carrying a bowl of his food upstairs. But it can take weeks before I put the notion of carrying the clippers with me into the equation. Note to self: why not store the extra pair of clippers in the linen closet between the bedrooms? Second note to self: remember where you just put that first note.

I think I know why stairs are such a major contributor to forgetfulness, other than Radvansky's research or Murphy’s Law. It has to do with this charming A. A. Milne poem:

Half way down the stairs is a stair where I sit.

There isn’t any other stair quite like it.

I’m not at the bottom; I’m not at the top.

So this is the stair where I always stop.

Halfway up the stairs isn’t up and it isn’t down.

It isn’t in the nursery; it isn’t in the town.

And all sorts of funny thoughts run round my head.

It isn’t really anywhere! It’s someplace else instead!”

There you have it. We lose our minds on stairs because when we get halfway from here to there we’re nowhere. And our minds are happy to join us there.

This leads to the conclusion that the best way to deal with these event boundaries is to eliminate them from our homes. In other words, when we retire, we should adopt an open floor plan: one enormous room with no doorways and no stairs. My husband loves that loft-style architecture. Me, not so much.

If you’re giving this careful thought, you’ve probably realized that there needs to be at least one door: to the bathroom. Chances are, we won’t forget why we were headed there, no matter how many trips we make in a day. For most of us, that’s one thing to be thankful for. Of course, when we come out of the bathroom, figuring out where to go back to is something else entirely. That's what sticky notes are for. Note to self: add post-its to shopping list.

Weight Loss Wardrobes

The number that the scale recorded at last year’s annual physical shocked me into the realization that I needed to lose weight. A lot of weight. Knowing that it gets harder and harder to accomplish this the older we get, I decided it was time to develop a plan. My goal was to lose 30 pounds before my mid-year checkup and another 10 to 15 by the next annual physical. I came close, losing 28 by mid-year; there’s still three months ‘til my annual. Along the way, I learned some things about weight loss and wardrobes.

Some of the discoveries were good news; some not so great. On the plus side (or not so plus anymore), my calves are finally sized for regular width boots. Before the diet, I could fit into only the wide width styles, but those were so wide, it looked like I was wearing funnels on my legs. So, I stopped wearing high boots, traded them for mukluks and muttered to myself “function over form”. On the minus side, I tossed my regular width boots when I de-cluttered the house to list it, so I’m still wearing mukluks.

Staying with footwear, I also learned that being thinner means my taller socks last longer. Before the diet, my calves stretched out the elastic at the top of my socks within a season. The socks then slipped down into puddles at my ankles. The good news is that with my newly slimmed legs, the elastic in my high socks will last for years. The bad news is that if I diet until I reach my goal, my calves may get so slim the socks will fall down anyway. Garters, anyone?

Moving up my body to slacks, I’m down about two sizes over all, though my waist is apparently on a different schedule from the rest of me. As with the boots, I got rid of much of my too-small wardrobe in preparation for our downsizing. I did save a few pairs of favorite slacks in hopes I could squeeze into them again someday. As it happens, most of those are summer weight.

I need to paint a picture here of how my pants fit as my weight goes up and down. The ideal look is to have them drape in a way that tastefully sculpts my behind. When I put on a few pounds, we get more of a clutching than sculpting. At my extreme weight, the pants were clinging for dear life. Needless to say, I was looking forward to having things fit more tastefully again.

This week I decided to visit the cedar closet on our third floor; that’s where I store my off-season wardrobe. Spring will be here in two or three months and I wanted to see what might fit me this year. I found two pairs of pants that I had kept in the “hope springs eternal” section of the closet. With great anticipation, I tried them on. Keep in mind that there is snow on the ground, and more coming. So there’s no chance of wearing these yet.

Imagine my dismay when I discovered that my lower torso had passed right through “drape” to “droop” where these beloved pants were concerned. They’re passable enough for me to wear them now (barely), but now is not when I need summer weight clothes. Who knows how bad the droop will be after two or three more months of dieting? I refuse to give up on them, however, and I’m considering investing in one of those “Kim Kardashian” butt enhancers that you see on late-night TV.

I’m faring better with some of my favorite jackets. In addition to dieting, I’ve been using hand weights most mornings. My hope is to get some definition to my upper arms and avoid that bat-wing look that we older women get. Extreme weight loss can lead to excess flesh, so if you’ve got it, don’t flaunt it. I doubt I’ll be running around sleeveless anytime soon, although you never know. Read on.

One of the other articles of clothing nostalgia in that “hope springs eternal” section was a tank top from Club Med. It has a visual pun on the front, and the explanation (in French) on the back. I couldn’t bear to part with it. There’s a certain allure to French women, after all, even when they’re Italian. The tank doesn’t go with those pants that droop, but maybe I’ll wear it with them anyway. Perhaps it will direct peoples’ eyes upwards. But if that Kardashian butt enhancer does its job, I’ll probably keep my jacket on.

Hope does indeed spring eternal.

Bow Tie Renaissance

A news feature that caught my attention reported on a surge in bow tie sales. They interviewed two young men who had purchased Beau Ties Limited of Vermont in late 2012 from an elderly gent who was retiring. He had wanted to sell his ‘baby’ to people who would nourish it as carefully as he had and keep the ties American-sourced and handmade. Based on the feature, he succeeded.

The sampling of silk prints I saw was mouthwatering and prompted me to do some research. I found a variety of bow-tie styles and ways to wear them. Since older gentlemen gravitate to the bow, I’ve put together a handy style reference guide. I won’t be covering bow ties interpreted in wood or feathers. Likewise not hokey ones with blinking lights. And certainly not ones tied onto parts of the anatomy other than men’s necks. (Sorry, ladies.)

When we hear “bow tie, ” most of us picture The Professor. It’s tied neatly, but it’s often worn crooked. For reference, check out Harrison Ford in the earlier scenes in the first Indiana Jones, or David McCallum in the hit TV show NCIS.

We may also imagine The Preppy Old-Boy style, with its angled repp stripe a la Brooks Brothers. These come straight or with rakishly pointed ends.

The Neck Pincher is a poorly-worn variation of The Professor. Its most famous wearer is Paul Rubens, aka Pee Wee Herman. The pinching has nothing to do with the thickness of the wearer’s neck and it differs from the Wattle Anchor (see below). The Pincher is simply a bow tie worn too tightly or a tie that is far too small in proportion to the wearer’s physique and appears to be pinching him.  

Some interesting bow tie shapes are the Butterfly, The Fan and The Poufy Gift Bow. Note the features that differentiate them. The Butterfly is a full style, usually with two soft bumps on each outer edge. The Fan is often confused with The Butterfly, but The Fan has sharp folds and doesn’t dip in the center of the outer edges. The Poufy Gift Bow has three soft bumps, one of which may be almost imperceptible.

 

The Accordion is sometimes mistaken for The Fan, but it’s a flatter style, with straighter edges. Sometimes The Accordion is actually flat but achieves the folded look through a printed pattern.

The Wattle Anchor is worn by men whose necks have given up trying to look good in any type of tie. When gentlemen reach this point, they often start wearing a bow tie at the base of their wattle, in hopes of directing attention away from the droop. Their shirt neck does not gap (yet). For reference, we have the midlife Winston Churchill (who always had a wattle), an ignominious to-be-nameless former president of Brown University, and Harrison Ford as Branch Rickey in the movie 42. 

Do not confuse The Wattle Anchor with The Old Geezer, our final style. Again, these are similar ties, but The Old Geezer is worn by men who have decided to give their wattle some breathing room. There is never a pinch of the neck with this later style, and not much of an attempt to hide the wattle. The tie is more of a celebration of it. Churchill in his later years converted to Old Geezers from his earlier Wattle Anchors. The same tie can be used as a Wattle Anchor or as an Old Geezer, depending on how it’s worn.

You may notice that I haven’t mentioned clip-on ties. They’re as bad as clip-on suspenders. If you don’t feel qualified to tie a bow, have it tied by your haberdasher. Then have it converted to a strap that hooks at the back of your neck. It will be easy to put on and will look almost as good as the real thing.

But let’s face it. There’s no substitute for learning to properly tie a bow tie. It’s like learning to pour a proper cup of tea or the perfect head on a draft beer. Or in my mind, pairing the right wine with dinner. On that note…

Fear of Balding

Through most of my life, the physical feature in which I took the most pride was my hair. OK. Maybe that alternated with my eyes, which are so dark a brown they’re almost black. Like pools in a rock quarry. But I had no control over my eyes. My hair, on the other hand, I could cut short, grow long, style up or leave down. All of which I did over time. And did again.

Colgate-Palmolive, where I worked for 17 years, had a Christmas doll pageant. The company purchased doll bodies which the employees dressed for children in poor communities. Handmade outfits competed for prizes in various categories and winners were photographed. It gave me a visual history of my changing styles, from updos and hair so long I could sit on it, to short, professional cuts that look almost androgynous.

 

Shortly after I left Colgate, I was diagnosed with stage two breast cancer. Chemotherapy left me temporarily bald. Surprisingly, this did not distress me. Perhaps that was because I had the (probably mistaken) notion that I looked cute bald. Or exotic or artsy or just interesting. This was around the time the duck-fuzzed Sinead O’Connor was in her heyday.

In my book, Cancer: A Coping Guide, I recount the story of my mother’s reaction to seeing me bald.

Once, when I visited my mother and had my head covered with a scarf, I could tell that she was curious to see what my bald head looked like underneath. I told her I’d show her, if she promised not to cry when she saw it. She said she wouldn’t. As soon as I took off the scarf, her mouth started to crinkle up. “Here come the waterworks,” I thought. But instead, she burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter.

When my hair grew back in, I kept it long for awhile. My mother nagged me to cut it short. She may have laughed at my bald head, but she never liked the way I looked with long tresses. I reminded her that I was forced to go without hair for over a year. I just wanted to be able to run my fingers through it and really brush it for a change.

Eventually, I tired of long styles again and had it cut. My mother was right, of course. I do look better with it short. It’s been at least a dozen years since I’ve had locks down to my shoulders or longer. Let’s face it: older women look better with shorter dos. Most of them they dye their hair lighter, hoping the color will blend with their increasingly visible scalp.

One reason my hair was special was that I had extremely thick tresses. I followed the daily toilette prescribed by my Madison Avenue stylist, George Michael. (He serviced one style and one style only: long and straight.) His directive: lean forward, head down, and brush from the nape to the ends 100 times every day, using a natural bristle brush. I kept doing this even with short dos until around the time I retired. Then I got lazy.

Whether a consequence of my laziness, or an inevitable aspect of aging, I can’t say. But my hair has become finer and less populous. I worry that I’m going bald. The strays left in the shower drain when I wash my locks are forming ever-larger clumps. There is no pouf left in my crown. Every morning, the mirror reveals a demoralizing reflection of “bed hair” or “pillow head” or whatever you choose to call that look that says: “I didn’t bother to brush it or comb it. What’s the point? It has a mind of its own.”

In the winter, there’s also static electricity. Thin wisps rise up in drafts of heated air, leaving me looking like a psychotic Alfalfa from Our Gang. If I dampen them to kill the static, my hair flattens and I look even more like I’m balding. All year long, I find strands on my clothes. Occasionally, it’s a really long one that has somehow remained embedded in the loops of an old sweater, reminding me of what my crown jewel used to look like. Mostly, they just remind me that they’re falling out.

I cannot ignore it any longer. I am going bald. And at a rapidly increasing pace. Perhaps if I return to that daily ritual of brushing 100 times, I can slow the process. I wonder what my mother would think about this. She’d probably tell me to dye my hair light and get a perm. (She thought that curls hid her bald spot.) Somewhere up there, George Michael is having a coronary. I can almost hear him shouting: “97, 98, 99, 100!”