I’ve been reading a book my sister sent me of blog posts by the late Ursula le Guin. Le Guin shared my sardonic, self-deprecating style of humor. “No Time To Spare” takes Pollyanna optimists to task by challenging such bromides as “Old age is not for sissies”. Le Guin states flatly that old age most certainly IS for sissies. As she put it, “Old age is for anybody who gets there,” a truism that inspired this essay.
There are a number of things I’ve noticed that you likely won’t escape when you get to old age. One of those is that you’ll shrink. Almost every one of your checkups after a certain point will yield a height that is below what’s in the file from your last checkup. I wasn’t tall to begin with. In college, I was occasionally recorded at 5’ 2”, but only if I had my hair in a top knot. I got 5’ 1 1/2” for decades.
Somewhere after age 60, I clocked in at 5’ 1” and after 70, I went on a downward slide. I didn’t think too much about it. After all, how much difference can one inch make? I’ll tell you how much. A lot. There’s the obvious problem of not being able to reach things on the top-most shelves in the kitchen. I used to be able to finesse them down to me with a spatula. Now I need to get the step stool. Or my husband.
Beyond that, once I reached 5’ and a sneeze, I discovered I had to really stretch to reach the faucet handles on the kitchen sink. We tend to collect puddles of water along that strip between the sink and the counter edge. When I lean in, I soak my top all along my midriff roll. Then I have to either change the top or toss it into the dryer. You may be thinking: “No harm, no foul here.” OK, but there’s more.
We have pancakes on occasion. I make them in an old square electric frying pan that holds four at a time. There’s just enough room for the pan on the counter to the right of the center island cooktop. The cord goes over the edge to the outlet on the side of the counter base. I put a spoon rest behind the frying pan. After I’ve ladled out the four pancakes, I reach over the hot pan to put the scoop onto the spoon rest. At barely 5’, I often burn my forearm on the edge of the frying pan. I rarely did that at 5’ 1”.
The study I’m in as part of my cancer treatment has me getting weighed every time I have infusions. They also measure my height on the same scale where they take my weight. Because they have to be exact, if my shoes have any lift under the heel, they want me to take them off to measure me. I have an internal conflict over being happy I weigh two pounds less vs. wearing shoes that sneak in a little extra height. The shorter I get, the less I appreciate any weight loss.
Moving on from things to do with shrinking… Here’s something else I’ve noticed about getting older. It takes longer to get ready to face the outside world in the morning. I used to wonder why my mother could never let me to pick her up for errands until after 10 a.m. The other day I realized that it had taken me an hour to do everything in the bedroom and bathroom before I could head out to the kitchen. My exact thoughts: “Good Lord! I’m becoming my mother!”
Because I’m often too tired to do my floor exercises before I go to bed, I now do them in the morning as soon as I get up. They take 20 minutes out of the gate. Even though my hair is short, I brush it from the scalp downward 100 strokes every morning. Thank you, Georges Michael of Madison Avenue. It really has kept it from thinning out too much. Then there’s the time it takes to get dressed, most of which is spent trying to put on my socks. I can still reach my feet, but my gnarly toes refuse to cooperate. Those have become my mother’s, too.
Not everything has to do with me. I have three senior cats. One has a food station in our bedroom. I freshen up her water bowl every morning. I also make my bed. Often there are at least two cats still on it, so it’s a challenge to tidy up without disturbing them.
My advice is, no matter what your challenges are with getting old, be happy if you get there.
Copyright 2021 Business Theatre Unlimited
