I know what you're thinking. Well, I don't really know what you're thinking, because I'm not a Medium. I'm more like an Extra Small. That's quite possibly one of the lousiest puns ever. Actually, while reading the above intro to this blog, I realized that a Medium doesn't know what you're thinking. I'm confusing that term with a Psychic. I do that sometimes. Okay. I do that lots of times.
Getting back to getting old. If you are young, you are probably already yawning, wondering where the blinkin-beepin I'm going with this. If you are young, you probably care less where the blinkin-beepin I'm going with this and have moved on to much more interesting subjects (subjects of which I haven't a clue, because I am old.)
As for the remaining old readers, most of whom I've offended by referring to as old, I will finally move on to my point.
As everyone knows, we begin to age as soon as we are born. Now that's an uplifting take on life, is it not? Just so my readers know, I don't mean that in a negative way. More like a statement of fact, to lead me to my point. To quote Ellen Degeneres, "And I do have one."
We have nothing to fear about growing old. It's a natural part of life.
What a load of crap.
Growing old bites.
Let's start with the wrinkles.
I have a love/hate relationship with gravity. On the one hand, gravity is a good thing. It helps us remain grounded. It prevents all of our anti-wrinkle cream products from flying off into space. But on the other age-spotted hand, gravity does quite a number on our once youthful, non-droopy faces. No amount of plastic surgery will win the fight against that heavyweight gravity. No, gravity is the ultimate champion, wreaking havoc where there was once a firm, havoc-free, 'look at me I'm not old' face.
Men turn grey, women turn into old hags.
Let's move on to another dreaded nemesis of aging, grey hair. As an aside, is it grey or gray? I've never been able to remember which way to spell that word, so I alternate between the two spellings, as though that evens the scales somehow. Maybe it doesn't matter which way it is spelled. Who cares? I'm such a dork.
When I first started noticing the occasional gray/grey hair, it was simply a matter of plucking out the offending strand. I'm not sure if any man reading this blog will understand the strange ritual of plucking. Nor any woman for that matter who welcomes the beginning of their transition to silvery locks. I guess I just don't get those women. Either that or I secretly envy the devil-may-care attitude about allowing their hair to grow as white as the snow, not one strand of which meets with a chemical cover-up.
Anywho, as my hair became increasingly grey, it occurred to me that plucking the greys was no longer an option. To do so would mean several hours in front of the mirror and random patches of baldness. So I joined the ranks of grey-covering guys and gals.
Most people have probably heard that grey hair on a man makes them look distinguished, while the same gray hair on a women's head makes them look, well, old. Rubbish. White is white and silver is silver. Where there was once blonde, brown, black or red, there is now shocking white. Perhaps this is by design, so when the elderly are crossing a busy street, the glowing white mop of hair stands out, thus preventing certain annihilation from youthful drivers.
Yes, women (and men, doncha know) spend inordinate amounts of money on haircare products and salon visits to cover the grey, but of course, it is only temporary. The grey is hovering menacingly just below the scalp, slowly growing it's plan of attack. We continue shelling out the bucks, desperately hanging on to some vestiges of our youth. Another way of looking at the gray covering is that it makes us feel more attractive, and feeling more attractive gives us more confidence. But that's not funny, thus rendering it useless for my blog, so I won't go any further with that.
Of course, for all of the bald men out there who hate their shiny scalps, they have little sympathy for the white-haired whiners. Either that or they, too embrace their baldness, happy to no longer spend inordinate amounts of money on haircare products and such.
If you're squimish, don't readish.
Let's see. I've covered wrinkles and grey hair. I shall now move on to more, shall we say, delicate issues. Specifically digestive issues.
As a young whipper-snapper, we took for granted that we'd evacuate our bowels in a regular fashion. We never even gave it a second thought, unless acquiring a nasty intestinal virus. Or having a run-in with a particularly nasty, rot-gut meal.
Getting old means becoming more and more obsessed with regularity, bloating, gas, etc. Oh, the joys of aging bowels. Seriously, as a nurse, I have to add that any sudden changes in bowel habits warrant a visit to your primary care provider.
And don't even get me started on the bladder. Some men may be fascinated (or grossed out) to know that as a woman ages, her bladder muscles wimp out and no longer behave properly. Translated; sneezing, coughing, jumping and running can all cause something known as stress incontinence. I know, too much information. Deal with it, you distinguished looking grey haired dudes. Sure, there are pads out there to deal with the offending leakage. But dammit, didn't we have enough of those bulky things when we had the monthly curse? (That's what my dad called it.)
Let's not forget the men and those enlarged, squeezing, urethra-choking prostates, causing interrupted sleep as they shuffle to the toilet, cursing the offending walnut-sized trouble maker. Of course, there are pharmaceutical aids for both men and women to deal with these urinary troubles. The rub is, taking them risks exposure to a list of side effects that span the length of Niagara Falls. The astute reader may have caught my correlation between bodily fluids and earthly fluids. Now aren't I clever?
Okay, okay, enough of the unsavory intestinal/urinary issues. If I'm creeped out, it must be getting bad.
Who are you?
Another favorite aging bonus is loss of memory. Now, I don't mean the serious, short term, don't-remember-what-you-had-for-breakfast memory loss. That is not inevitable. That is a dementia, and it is not a natural part of aging. No, what I'm referring to is the 'where the heck did I park my car' memory loss, and the 'what the heck kind of car do I drive?' memory loss. (As a side-bar, I wanted to write a word other than heck, but I'm trying to keep my swearing private. Like when I'm cursing and stumbling around the parking lot, searching for my car.)
I have to tread carefully with the memory loss jokes, because knowing the signs of dementia are important. But as we age, we begin to forget things like names. For instance, I've been known to run through the entire list of my sons first and middle names before arriving at the correct one. I've even been known to use the dog's name. I'm not kidding.
And all the rest.
There are a lot more fun facts about growing old. My goodness, I haven't even scratched the surface. If you are of the inquiring mind type, have a chat with an honest to goodness, born before 1930 person. The type of person that is not afraid to tell it like it is. You may even want to bring refreshments and take notes.
To summarize and end this depressing blog: Aging is a fact of life. Handling it with humor (and the occasional sob-session in the shower) can go a long way. Humor can help us ease into this unavoidable, life-changing event with a smile on our face and a song in our heart. Another load of crap?
I will leave that for you to decide.
If you can remember what you've just read.
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