DIDN'T MY
SKIN USED
TO FIT?
Books by Martha Bolton
FROM BETHANY HOUSE PUBLISHERS
* * *
Didn’t My Skin Used to Fit?
I Think, Therefore I Have a Headache!
Cooking With Hot Flashes
Growing Your Own Turtleneck
It’s Always Darkest Before the Fridge Door Opens
(with Phil Callaway)
Your Best Nap Now
MARTHA BOLTON
DIDN'T MY
SKIN USED
TO FIT?
Didn’t My Skin Used to Fit?
Copyright © 2000
Martha Bolton
Cover illustration by Daniel Vasconsellos
Cover design by Sheryl Thornberg
Scripture quotations identified NIV are from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION.® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House. All rights reserved. The ‘‘NIV’’ and ‘‘New International Version’’ trademarks are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by International Bible Society. Use of either trademark requires the permission of International Bible Society.
Scripture quotations identified KJV are from the King James Version of the Bible.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Minneapolis, Minnesota 55438
Bethany House Publishers is a division of Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN 978-0-7642-2184-2
* * *
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Bolton, Martha, 1951–
Didn’t my skin used to fit? : living, laughing, loving life after forty! / by Martha Bolton.
p. cm.
ISBN 0-7642-2184-1
1. Aging—Humor. 2. Middle age—Humor. I. Title.
PN6231.A43 B65 2000
814'.54—dc21 00–008485
CIP
* * *
To Dr. Robert Rood,
my doctor and friend,
for keeping me together
all these years.
MARTHA BOLTON is a full-time comedy writer and the author of over fifty books. She was a staff writer for Bob Hope for fifteen years along with writing for Phyllis Diller, Wayne Newton’s USO show, Ann Jillian, Mark Lowry, Jeff Allen, and many others. Her material has appeared in Reader’s Digest, Chicken Soup for the Soul books, and Brio magazine, and she has received four Angel awards and both an Emmy nomination and a Dove Award nomination. Martha and her husband live in Tennessee.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A special thanks . . .
To my husband, Russ, whom I met when I was fifteen years old and married when I was eighteen . . . back when my skin used to fit.
To my family: Russ II, Matt, Tony, Nicole, Crystal, and Kiana, who try their best to keep me dressing young and in style. (Now, where did I put those bell-bottoms?)
To my friends Linda Aleahmad and Mary Scott, for never letting a birthday pass without getting our annual dose of laughs. Despite what the rest of our bodies are doing, I’m glad none of us has developed a wrinkle in our sense of humor.
To the memory of my father and mother, Lonnie and Eunice, who taught me how to find the humor in all circumstances . . . even crow’s-feet.
To my ‘‘adopted’’ mother, Diantha Ain, whose energy and youthful appearance continue to defy the aging process. What’s your secret, Di?
To my editor, Steve Laube, who didn’t send even one threatening e-mail while waiting for me to finish this project. (Changing my address four times might have had something to do with that.)
And finally, to all my friends and relatives, who’ve made this life the wonderful journey it is, I thank you from the bottom of my murmuring heart.
CONTENTS
1. Hangin’ Loose
2. Yo Quiero No Discount
3. Walk a Mile in My Feet
4. And He Huffed and He Puffed
5. Hey, Brother, Can You Spare a 401K?
6. Out of Style
7. Changing With the Times
8. A Handout
9. Tan Your Hide
10. Infomercial Paradise
11. Making Memories, Not Regrets
12. Gravy Is Not a Food Group
13. I’ve Only Got Eyelids for You
14. Death Doesn’t Become Us
15. Are We Having Fun Yet?
16. Thanks for the Memory . . . Loss
17. You Don’t Bring Me Flowers Anymore
18. Regrets
19. The Gravity of the Situation
20. All Grown Up
21. A Hairy Experience
22. A Cut Above
23. Old Friends
24. Blisters, Sweat, and Tears
25. You’re So Vein
26. Where’s Your Drive?
27. Beside Myself
28. Happy Birthday to Me
29. The Good Ol’ Days
30. Extra! Extra!
31. Aka Doughgirl
32. Impatiently Ever After
33. Life of the Party
34. Is There a Doctor in the House?
35. It’s All in the Attitude
36. I’m My Own Grandma
37. When You’ve Got It, You’ve Got It
38. Plenty to Smile About
39. Seasons
40. The Search
41. Scars
42. Hold Your Tongue
43. Running Hot and Cold
44. That’s Entertainment?
45. Made to Last
46. What’d You Say?
47. Who Unplugged the Fountain of Youth?
48. Evading the Obvious
49. And Another Thing
50. Priorities
51. The Ride
1
Hangin’ Loose
I began noticing it several years ago. The skin I had worn for most—no, make that all—of my life suddenly didn’t fit anymore. It used to fit. Rather snugly, as a matter of fact. It was tight around the eyes and mouth. There wasn’t any extra under my chin or any hanging down from the sides of my cheeks. There was just enough to make one pass around my entire body. One trip was all that was required, and the exact amount was provided to do the job. Not too much, not too little. It was a perfect fit.
It even stretched. If I gained a pound or two, or twenty, my skin easily expanded to accommodate the increased territory. It wasn’t judgmental. It didn’t condemn me for that third trip to the food bar. It never tried to knock the brownie out of my hands or shame me into putting back that super-sized scoop of banana pudding. It simply stretched and accommodated. It met the challenge of whatever was required and never once complained.
If I lost weight, my skin was equally accommodating. It would easily return to its original size as though nothing had ever happened. I could gain weight or lose to my heart’s content, or discontent, and it would adjust, snapping right back into place when the time was right.
Well, it doesn’t snap back anymore. In fact, it doesn’t do much of anything except hang there, looser in some places than in others. Like under my chin. That’s where a lot of it seems to gather and hang. I’m not very happy about that. It’s disconcerting when people stare at my neck and I know they’re thinking about Thank
sgiving.
Frankly, I think someone should come up with a choker necklace that could be worn just below the chin and would keep all that extra skin tucked neatly in place so it doesn’t hang down like loosened upholstery under an antique chair. Whoever designs the first necklace like that will make a fortune.
Little folds of flesh have started to gather around my eyes, too—wrinkles that won’t minimize no matter how much wrinkle minimizer I apply. They call it ‘‘crow’s-feet,’’ but my face doesn’t have just a few of them. It has a whole chorus-line thing going on! Every time I squint, my skin seems to fanfold itself into a neat little stack, like pulled taffy, right beside my eyes. It’s orderly, but not very attractive. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want tidy little stacks of pulled taffy next to my eyes. I’d much rather go back to the days when crow’s-feet were something you only worried about in an Alfred Hitchcock film.
For some reason, my upper arms have fallen to this extra-skin curse, as well. Don’t ask me why, because I haven’t a clue. What I do have, though, is a nice swag look every time I raise a hand. I’ve measured, and there is a good two inches of loose skin under each arm. If a strong wind kicks up, I could be flapping for hours.
I don’t think I’d ever actually become airborne, but given the right aerodynamic circumstances, I wouldn’t bet against it. That’s the reason I wear long sleeves most of the time. They help keep me grounded and save the embarrassment of having to explain a sudden and unscheduled flight to air traffic controllers. What would I say?
‘‘I know I should have radioed in my flight pattern, sir, but this was one of those spur-of-the-moment trips. And besides, that 747 could easily have gone around me.’’
I’m sure I’d get into some sort of trouble with the Federal Aviation Administration.
Personally, I believe that’s why Renaissance clothing sported those long, flow-y sleeves. The women back then had a problem with loose underarms, too.
I’ve also been noticing the skin beginning to bunch up around my ankles. I thought about painting the little rolls of flesh to match my outfits, passing them off as slouch socks, but decided against it. Even slouch socks aren’t supposed to go that far up your legs. Besides, if I wear real tight nylons, I can usually push the extra skin back up to my knees, where people expect to see extra skin.
Wouldn’t it be great if we could unzip our skin, take it to the dry cleaners, and let them shrink it back into shape? They shrink everything else! I suppose that’s not an option, though. When’s the last time you saw a dry cleaner coupon that read, ‘‘While-U-Wait Epidermis Pressing. Save 20%’’?
An elderly movie star I once worked with had a good idea. She pulled all the loose face skin up under her bangs, then taped it back by her ears. Amazingly enough, it gave her the illusion of being thirty years younger! I was so impressed with the results, I tried it myself, but it didn’t work as well for me. All we had in the house at the time was duct tape, and the silver kept showing through my hair.
Skin that doesn’t fit is just one of the symptoms of growing older. There are plenty more, of course. Symptoms that, for the most part, we can’t stop no matter how much we’d like to or how hard we try, so we might as well laugh about them. And laughing about them is what this book is all about.
YOU KNOW YOU’RE
GETTING OLD WHEN . . .
getting ‘‘in the groove’’ means your walker hit a crack in the sidewalk.
2
Yo Quiero No Discount
I always feared it would happen someday, and there it was—in black and white. All I had done was walk into a Taco Bell in east Tennessee and give my order to the teenager behind the counter.
I wasn’t trying to cause any trouble, or pick a fight, or be disruptive in any way. I was just trying to get a couple of tacos and a seven-layer burrito. That’s all. It was lunch. There was no justification for what the clerk did. He should have handed me my order and let me pay for it, and I would have been on my way. A simple transaction. But noooo. This guy had to take it one step further. He had to be confrontational. He had to take it upon himself to ruin my otherwise happy and peaceful day. He had to keep going until he pushed my buttons. All right, his button—the one on the cash register that printed out the words ‘‘SENIOR DISCOUNT’’ on my receipt!
SENIOR DISCOUNT! I almost dropped my tray! The nerve of that acne-faced troublemaker! Had I not been so hungry, I would have taken him on right then and there. I would have put my tray down, told him to meet me outside, then paper-cut him to a pulp with my birth certificate! I may have been over forty, but I was a long way from a senior citizen discount!
But I calmed down, decided to turn the other wrinkle—I mean, cheek—and forgive him. It was a simple oversight, after all. I went ahead and gave him the benefit of the doubt. It was the right thing to do. And besides, a 10 percent discount is a 10 percent discount!
Maybe he had a migraine headache and his vision was temporarily impaired, I reasoned. Or maybe it was Taco Bell’s own version of Candid Camera. That’s what that little video camera above the cash register was all about. Or, what was most likely the case, the young man’s finger slipped, causing him to inadvertently hit the senior discount key instead of the coupon key. That had to have been it. Both keys were probably in the same general area. One little slip is all it would have taken.
That would have been the end of it, except I realized I hadn’t ordered a drink and had to go back.
‘‘Diet Pepsi, please,’’ I said, watching his every move this time. His finger hit the Diet Pepsi key, then without even getting anywhere near the coupon key, it went straight for the one marked ‘‘senior discount.’’ He didn’t hesitate for a second. He was confident. He was beyond confident. He didn’t even bother to ask my age. If you’re in doubt about something, you usually ask first, don’t you? Like if you’re not sure if someone’s pregnant or if she’s just put on a few pounds, most people ask before throwing a baby shower. It’s the same principle.
But apparently this guy had no doubt. He was so confident I deserved a senior discount, he announced it as he handed the receipt to me.
‘‘Here’s your drink, ma’am,’’ he said. ‘‘And with the senior discount it comes to $1.09.’’
I didn’t have a choice now. I had to stop him before he dug his hole even deeper.
‘‘Excuse me,’’ I said, ‘‘but I’m not really a senior. I’m not entitled to a discount. In fact, I shouldn’t have gotten a discount on my first order, either.’’
There, I thought to myself, I’ve set the record straight. That should make him think twice before giving away Taco Bell’s profits to some other undeserving patron. I smiled, feeling vindicated and proud of myself that I had made the world a safer place for those of us past the forty mark.
‘‘Aw, close enough,’’ he said. ‘‘What’s a couple of months?’’
It had to be the lighting.
You grow up on the day you have your first real laugh at yourself.
—Ethel Barrymore
3
Walk a Mile in My Feet
They were by far the most comfortable pair of shoes I’d ever tried on. They were made of soft leather, and their built-up arches supported mine—which, like the Roman Empire, had long since fallen. There was plenty of room to stretch my toes, and they even had tiny air holes that helped the shoes—and my feet—to breathe.
They came in a variety of colors—okay, white, black, and brown—and were available in all the hard-to-find sizes. They weren’t cheap, either. About eighty bucks, to be exact. If you want quality, though, you have to pay for it, or at least that’s what the salesman kept telling me.
What I’m referring to, of course, is corrective footwear. There, I’ve said it. I recently had to start wearing corrective shoes because I was developing what is known as a Taylor’s bunion on my left foot. I don’t even know who Taylor is or why he had the nerve to park his bunion on my foot, but it appears I am stuck with it.
&nb
sp; Now, corrective footwear may not represent the latest look on the Paris fashion runways, but who knows, it might catch on someday. And I for one am doing my part to bring corrective footwear into the forefront of the designer world.
I’ve decided against surgery. Actually my doctors decided against it. Their recommendation was corrective shoes together with a set of custom-made inserts that compensate for every flaw in my feet.
I’m pleased with the results, but let’s face it—corrective shoes could use a little updating. They may be comfortable to walk in and give my feet plenty of room, but most of the styles are rather matronly.
We have the power to change that, though. All we bunioned people need to do is unite. It’s up to us to demand better representation in the fashion world. We need to stand up on our Taylor’s bunion, or whoever else’s bunion we happen to have, and protest. We deserve stylish sandals and adorable pumps. We’re bunioned, not dead. We have the power to make Dr. Scholl as popular a designer as Bill Blass or Oscar de la Renta. All we need is the chance.
Not only do our feet go through changes as we grow older but our toenails do, as well. In case you haven’t noticed it yet, something happens to toenails on a forty-plus body. They start doing what old envelopes do—curl up around the edges and turn yellow. They also tend to thicken and grow to incredible lengths. Howard Hughes’ toenails were a perfect example of this. For some unknown reason, he decided to let his toenails and fingernails grow into all sorts of interesting shapes. Maybe he didn’t have enough whisks around the house and decided it was just as easy to grow his own.
Long toenails aren’t very attractive and limit your choice of footwear, but there are some advantages. Walking barefoot in your backyard could easily take care of that Rototilling job you’ve been putting off for months. And think of all the fun you can have going swimming and spearfishing at the same time. And then, of course, there are all those cans that you’ll be able to open should your electric can opener ever go on the blink.
Didn't My Skin Used to Fit? Page 1
