• you consider the raised median your personal driving lane;
• you’ve ever worn out a new brake light on a two-mile trip to the store;
• you refer to going thirty-five miles per hour as ‘‘flooring it’’;
• you’ve ever honked at a pedestrian and said the words, ‘‘Move it, buddy! You think you own the sidewalk?’’;
• a tractor has passed you on the freeway, and it was being pushed;
• you’ve ever used a stoplight to get in a short nap;
• you’ve ever made more than three U-turns within a single block;
• you’ve driven for more than twenty-five miles with your left turn signal on;
• you’ve ever tried to report a fire truck for tailgating you.
You’re only as old as you feel . . . and I don’t feel anything until noon. Then it’s time for my nap.
—Bob Hope
27
Beside Myself
I don’t like the idea of my skin cells dying every day. I suppose it’s perfectly natural; it happens to everybody. We do grow new ones, but it still seems a bit morbid.
What is it that’s killing them off anyway? Are they looking at themselves in the mirror every morning and committing suicide? (If you saw how I looked in the morning, you might not blame them.) Whatever it is that’s making them die off, shouldn’t we be doing something about it? Oh, I realize there are facial masks, skin cleansers, astringents, and all sorts of other skin care products on the market that supposedly do a good job of removing dead skin cells, but I’m talking about something a bit more organized.
Perhaps we could hold fund-raisers or weekend telethons. After all, this is a problem affecting the entire human race. I know I’d rather not have to worry about thousands of cells falling off my body every day and forming a microscopic pile at my feet. If I could save one skin cell from an untimely death, it would be worth whatever work it took to achieve that goal.
But it’s hard getting others to feel equally passionate about my cause. All they want to do is scrub dead cells off and let them slide down the drain rather than do anything to save them. I once knew a lady who got so into scrubbing dead cells from her face, she actually drew blood. Obviously she went a bit overboard. She probably took out some cells that were merely in critical condition. I’m sure her intentions were good, but someone needed to tell her there’s nothing attractive about raw flesh.
Skin is a good thing. It helps people recognize us, and it keeps the dust out of our vital organs. Even as I’m writing this, though, my own skin cells are continuing to die despite all my efforts to intervene.
I suppose one day they’ll try cloning new human beings from dead skin cells. Scientists have already taken the DNA of sheep and cloned exact replicas. Not that I’m saying it’s the morally correct thing to do, but there has been a lot of experimentation going on lately. I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t want an exact replica of me walking around, especially one that looks younger than I do! And who’s to say the clone wouldn’t start charging up all my credit cards? Or worse yet, charging less than I do? My husband might want to trade me in for the cheaper model.
No matter how much a clone may look like us, though, it can never actually be us. For one thing, it wouldn’t have our life experiences, and knowing what we do, we’d want to save it from every difficult situation it might have to face. But it’s the unique combination of both the difficult times and the happy times in our lives that have made us who we are. So instead of having another ‘‘you’’ running around, all you’d get in a clone is a shallow look-alike.
That’s why if my skin cells have to die I’d rather they stay dead. I hate to lose them, but they did their tour of duty. They were faithful to a point, and now it’s time for them to say their farewells and go to that big loofah sponge in the sky.
Age should not have its face lifted, but it should rather teach the world to admire wrinkles as the etchings of experience and the firm line of character.
—Ralph B. Perry
28
Happy Birthday to Me
Birthday parties are fun, but they remind us that . . . well, you know—we’re getting older. Most of us loved celebrating our birthdays when we were two, eight, sixteen, and even twenty-one. But when we get past forty, we might not want to be reminded of the number of years we’ve lived.
Surprise birthday parties can be deadly the older you get. Imagine poor Grandpa walking into the kitchen on the evening of his ninety-ninth birthday. All he wants is that slice of apple pie he’s had his eye on all week. He doesn’t suspect a thing, and with his impaired eyesight, he certainly can’t see the shadows of eighteen people hiding under the counter. He feels along the wall, turns the lights on, and all of a sudden hears, ‘‘Surprise!!’’ The rest of the story can be read in the coroner’s report.
Then there are the gifts. Ah, the gifts. After forty, you no longer receive gifts that you really want. Unbeknownst to you, you’ve suddenly crossed over into a different realm, you’ve entered into what is known as The Medical Gift Zone. You’re getting things like medical dictionaries, callous removers, and baskets filled with an assortment of Bengay products.
I suppose to a certain extent it’s understandable. After all, nothing says ‘‘I love you’’ like a blood pressure cuff or one of those new at-home cholesterol tests.
When my husband turned forty, the only thing he wanted for his birthday was a full body scan. He didn’t have a single symptom, but if something was getting ready to go haywire, he didn’t want to be the last to know about it. His reasoning was this: What good is a new power tool if your triglycerides are on a roller coaster ride? A new tie means nothing to someone whose thyroid gland is about to poop out.
A full body scan was what he wanted, and it was my duty as a wife to get it for him. But you can’t just go to aisle 14 at Kroger’s and pick up one. And if you go to a hospital to buy one, they’ll tell you you need a doctor’s order.
So I got him a tie . . . and a doctor’s appointment. I do want to keep him around for a lot more years. I want to be able to watch him blow out seventy, eighty, or even ninety candles.
It’s funny, isn’t it? The older we get, the more candles we’re expected to blow out. If you ask me, it should be turned around. At our first birthday party, there should be eighty candles to blow out. We’ve got breath then. We’re full of energy and should be able to handle it without having oxygen on standby. Then we could start removing the candles, one per year. That way, by the time we reach eighty we’d have only one candle left to blow out. And if that’s too much, we could call in a tag team.
Live your life and forget your age.
—Norman Vincent Peale
29
The Good Ol’ Days
If you’ve lived more than forty years, chances are you’ve seen a lot of changes. In my lifetime I’ve seen the advent of the personal computer, the information highway, e-mail, the fax machine, the cell phone, space travel, and pet rocks.
I’ve seen changes in clothing, too. I’ve watched bell-bottoms come into style, go out of style, and come back in again. I’ve seen torn and holey jeans graduate from being a financial statement to a fashion one. I’ve seen hemlines go up, down, and even shred themselves.
I’ve seen hairstyles go from long to short to blue to purple to spiked to bald. And that’s just the women.
Body piercing used to be something you only saw in National Geographic or when you accidentally pierced yourself putting on a new shirt before taking out all the straight pins. Now some people are piercing every body part they can think of. I don’t get it. I had two amniocenteses done while pregnant with my last child, and that was all the body piercing I needed for a lifetime.
I’ve witnessed a lot of changes on the political scene, too. I’ve seen a president impeached, a president resign, a president assassinated, and one lose his meal in a dignitary’s lap at an overseas state dinner.
We’ve traveled to the m
oon and had plenty of public figures we’d like to send there.
I’ve watched dissatisfied, unfulfilled stay-at-home moms join the work force and dissatisfied career women quit their jobs to become stay-at-home moms.
I’ve seen dads become Mr. Moms when they realized that their children are only young once.
I’ve seen good changes and some that weren’t so good. Changes we’ve fought against and plenty we’ve had to learn to accept. But if life is about anything, it’s about change. We don’t have a choice in that. We do, however, have a choice as to how much we change with it.
In three words I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life: It goes on.
—Robert Frost
30
Extra! Extra!
I’ve stopped reading the newspaper. Not all of it. Just certain parts of it. OK, just one part of it—the ‘‘obit’’ column, otherwise known as the obituaries. Most of the news ruins my day anyway, but the obituary column can ruin it the fastest.
The problem is this: instead of reading the deceased’s name, accomplishments, and who they are survived by, my eyes are immediately drawn to their age. I can’t help it.
I’ve talked to other people who do the same thing. If the age of the deceased is anywhere near our own age, give or take twenty years, we spend the rest of the day wondering what it was that took the person. If the poor guy walked in front of a bus and was run over, then we’ll be more careful the next time we cross the street, but we won’t lose sleep over it. If he slipped at the grocery store, slid into a giant pyramid of canned pinto beans, and was hit square in the temple with the jumbo-sized one, causing a massive brain hemorrhage, we’ll feel bad and probably skip that aisle the next time we go grocery shopping, but we’re not going to become paranoid over it.
But if they’re dropping like flies from things that could easily strike us, too, then we start to worry. That pain in our back suddenly becomes cancer instead of the muscle strain the doctor told us it was. The discomfort in our chest that comes right after eating that fifth slice of sausage, onion, and bell pepper pizza becomes the heart attack we’re sure is going to take us. Don’t get me wrong. Any persistent symptom should be checked out by your physician, but sometimes we write ourselves off when we’ve still got plenty of life left.
Personally, I don’t want to go until I’m 110. It sounds like the perfect age to leave this world. You’ve seen it all. You’ve had fun. It’s time to move on. No one talks about a 110-year-old man or woman being ‘‘struck down in the prime of life.’’ You won’t hear phrases like ‘‘It was so sudden. Nobody saw it coming.’’ At 110, everyone sees it coming. You’re wearing a sweatshirt that says, ‘‘Life—Been There, Done That.’’ You’re probably on your third heart and fourth kidney by then.
But the majority of those listed in the obituary column aren’t over 100. Most of them are substantially younger than that. That’s why I’ve quit reading it.
One obituary recently caught my eye, though. It was that of Sarah Knauss, who died on December 30, 1999, at the tender young age of 119. Her daughter, Kathryn Sullivan, ninety-six, attributed her mother’s longevity to the fact that she was a tranquil person. Nothing could faze her.
So maybe that’s the secret to longevity. That and a good sense of humor. George Burns, who also made it past his 100th birthday, used to say that every morning he’d get up and read the obituary column. If his name wasn’t there, he’d make breakfast.
According to the U.S. Census Bureau, by the year 2050 the number of people over the age of 100 will be nearly 834,000. That’s pretty encouraging. Just imagine all the things you could do if you lived to be over 100 years of age. You could wait until you’re fifty to get married and still live long enough to celebrate your golden wedding anniversary (that is, if your spouse lived that long, too). You could put off college until your forties, then get your doctorate and still put in a fifty-year career. You could attend your eightieth high school reunion and take any seat you wanted. You’d probably have to dance by yourself, and your class photo might be of you and the waiter, but you could still have a great time.
Do you realize that at 100 years of age, you could conceivably see the birth of your great-great-great-great-grandchild? What kind of gift do you buy a great-great-great-great-grandchild?
By the time you reach 100, you could have cashed in three consecutive thirty-year bonds and paid off three thirty-year mortgages.
If you live to be 100, chances are you’ve outlived your parents, your siblings, your doctors, most of your friends, and a lot of your enemies. Your diary would read like a history book, and you wouldn’t have any elders to look up to except God.
So if you’re lucky enough to live as long as Sarah, or even George, don’t just sit there reading the obituary column every morning, wondering whether or not you should get up and make breakfast. Put on your in-line skates and roll on down to the Waffle House.
If I had my life to live over again, I wouldn’t have the time.
—Bob Hope
31
Aka Doughgirl
Lately my cheeks have been looking puffy. I look like the CBS eye—with hair. I don’t know why I’m filling out this way. The fact that I’ve gained fifteen pounds could have something to do with it, I suppose, but I’m not a doctor.
Maybe I got bit by something. Insect bites can make you swell. Or maybe it’s an allergic reaction. I could have been allergic to that box of Krispy Kreme donuts I ate the other night.
The thing I don’t understand about weight gain is why it takes place in just one or two parts of your anatomy. For some people, it’s the hips; for others, it’s the stomach; for me, it’s the cheeks . . . What’s going on? Do all our fat cells gather together in one place and hold meetings? Do they send messages to each other like ‘‘Union meeting today, right hip, two o’clock. Be there’’? I’m pretty sure my fat cells held a meeting there last week while I was busy eating at an all-you-can-eat buffet. After that third plate, I glanced down at my right hip and it looked like a 100 percent turnout! In fact, it looked like they might have been holding a regional convention.
The way my cheeks have puffed up, I have a feeling they’re gathering for the Million Man Fat Cell March. But why my cheeks? If they really felt the need to congregate somewhere, why didn’t they go where my body could use some added cells? I have a few suggestions, and I’d be more than happy to direct them there, but so far I haven’t been able to figure out how to crash one of their meetings.
In the meantime, if CBS ever needs a double for its logo, they know where to find me.
Life is a great big canvas, and you should throw all the paint on it you can.
—Danny Kaye
32
Impatiently Ever After
We don’t only lose hair and teeth as we grow older, many of us start losing our patience. We just don’t put up with as much as we used to. That’s why you hear about so many ‘‘grouchy old men’’ or ‘‘cranky old ladies.’’ By the time you’re sixty or seventy years old, you’ve had enough. You don’t always know what it is you’ve had enough of, you just know you’ve had enough of it.
Traffic jams never used to bother me. Now I find myself wishing I had multiple personalities so I could at least drive in the carpool lane.
Slow food service didn’t affect me either. But lately I’ve noticed when my husband takes me to our favorite romantic restaurant, I start honking the minute I don’t think their drivethru lane is moving fast enough.
Perhaps you can identify with what I’m saying. When you’re reading Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs for the fourth time to your grandchild, do you find yourself editing the story down to Snow White and the Four Dwarfs just to get it over with sooner? Have you been making Cinderella leave the ball by ten o’clock just because you can’t stay awake until midnight? Has Little Red Riding Hood had to take a taxi to grandmother’s house rather than waste time walking through the forest?
If the answer is yes to any of th
e above, your patience level has reached the danger zone. You can help yourself by (1) buying shorter books to read to your grandchildren, and (2) avoiding things that could possibly make your blood pressure rise. These include but are not limited to . . .
• political campaign speeches;
• people who never put their cell phone down;
• telemarketer calls during dinner;
• broken postage stamp machines;
• businesses that refuse to put you through to a live person no matter how many buttons you press;
• dogs who perform barking concerts at two in the morning;
• closed-minded people who refuse to agree with you no matter how many times you tell them you’re right;
• people you let cut in front of you who are so impressed with your kindness they let twelve people cut in front of them, too;
• door-to-door salesmen who spend more time on your porch than the family cat;
• relatives or friends who only seem to remember your phone number when they need a favor.
The list of things that cause us to lose our patience continues to grow with each passing year. But there are a few things left that most of us can still be patient about. For one thing, I don’t have any problem with my dentist taking as long as he needs before calling my name—I could wait for hours and never complain. I’m never in a hurry for April 15 to roll around either. And those February deferred credit card statements? They could arrive in August and you wouldn’t hear a peep out of me.
So you see, impatience doesn’t have to be an inevitable result of aging. It’s up to us whether or not we slow down and enjoy life to the fullest. The sun is going to continue to rise and set at the same speed every day no matter what. So relax and enjoy.
Didn't My Skin Used to Fit? Page 6
