Perspectives on Aging

Now that my oldies have passed on, I forget that the title of this blog is, "Living with the Oldies." The oldie I live with is me. The husband may be older in years but he's much younger in spirit. When his band plays, I am a ball of fire at first and then I can barely stay awake for the next sets.
My mom shared this with me. We agree it is fitting. I wish I could credit the author but I have no clue.

Getting Old is a Gift.

>> I am now, probably for the first time in my life, the person I have always wanted to be. Oh, not my body!
>> I sometime despair over my body, the wrinkles, the baggy eyes, and the sagging butt.
>> And often I am taken aback by that old person that lives in my mirror (who looks like my mother!) but I don't agonize over those things for long.
>> I would never trade my amazing friends, or my wonderful life, my loving family
>> for less gray hair or a flatter belly.
>> As I've aged, I've become more kind to myself and less critical of myself.
>> I've become my own friend.
>> I don't chide myself for eating that extra cookie or for not making my bed, or for buying that silly cement gecko that I didn't need but looks so avante garde on my patio.
>> I am entitled to a treat, to be messy, to be extravagant.
>> I have seen too many dear friends leave this world too soon, before they understood the great freedom that comes with aging.
>> Whose business is it if I choose to read or play on the computer until 4 AM and sleep until noon?
>> I will dance with myself to those wonderful tunes of the 60 &
70's.
>> And if I, at the same time, wish to weep over a lost love … I will.
>> I will walk the beach in a swim suit that is stretched over a bulging body,
and will dive into the waves with abandon if I choose to, despite the pitying glances from the jet set .
>> They, too, will get old.I know I am sometimes forgetful.
>> But there again, some of life is just as well forgotten.
>> And I eventually remember the important things.
>> Sure, over the years my heart has been broken.
>> How can your heart not break when you lose a loved one, or when a child suffers, or even when somebody's beloved pet gets hit by a car?
>> But broken hearts are what give us strength and understanding and compassion.
>> A heart never broken is pristine and sterile and will never know the joy of being imperfect.
>> I am so blessed to have lived long enough to have my hair turning gray and to have my youthful laughs be forever etched into deep grooves on my face.
>> So many have never laughed and so many have died before their hair could turn silver.
>> As you get older, it is easier to be positive; you care less about what other people think.
>> I don't question myself anymore; we've even earned the right to be wrong.
>> I like the person I have become.
>> I am not going to live forever, but while I am still here, I will not waste time lamenting what could have been or worrying about what will be.
>> And I shall eat dessert every single day. (If I feel like it.)

With apologies to the author, I changed a couple of lines. I also will not eat dessert every single day.

How Are You Celebrating?

I'd hate for anyone to miss out on an opportunity to recognize a cause or fail to celebrate an occasion.

It's Digestive Disease Week.

I know this because my mother works in health care. She works in gastrointestinal things, or in layman's terms: butts and guts.

Many of my friends work in health care. After I stopped laughing, I took a short poll. No one was aware of this particular cause. One of my friends said, "OK, now we've gone too far."

I thought we had passed that line a long time ago.

Happy Digestive Disease Week!

The Spray Bottle

In my never-ending quest to control the maniac dog, I am open to any and all suggestions. I find her funny and delightful but apparently, I am the only one who holds this opinion.

I've tried the clicker, the whacker and the mean voice.

My mother suggested the spray bottle. I thought this was a little absurd since Labs love the water but as usual, my mother was right. Today was our first day with this experiment and she stopped jumping on people and counters within minutes. If I reach for the bottle, she becomes docile. Why didn't anyone tell me this secret?

Do you think this would've worked with the oldies? "Sit up, Hangdog or I'll spritz you!" Or, "If you fry one more thing in this kitchen, I'll blast you with my spray bottle!" We'll never know.

The only problem with the spray bottle plan is it has now become one more item attached to my person. Two pairs of glasses on my head or buried in my hair, cell phone clipped to a pocket, pen stuck behind the ear ... and now the spray bottle strung through a belt loop. I'm a freak but I'm prepared.

Humor

Humor is selective, don't you think? Lots of people (including some of my friends) do not understand when and/or why I find something hysterically funny.

"Mean" has been called more than once. I let it pass.

When there's some interesting story on the news about a man that survived a bowling ball crashing through his windshield, I will laugh. Once the oldies were safe and I thought about our neighbor saying, "Someone's grandpa is on the loose," I laughed a lot.

I don't like racist or ethnic jokes but crude jokes will make me laugh.

My mother and the husband can make me laugh more than anyone. I have actually fallen out of bed with both of them (not at the same time -- we're not that weird) from laughing too hard.

I often joke that the husband would bring a date to my funeral. No one likes this joke but me. I think he would be classy enough to leave her in the car.

If this situation should ever come to pass, I hope she can outrun my girlfriends and I hope she has a great sense of humor.

Dear Mr. or Ms. Anonymous

This blog has been up and running about six months. It's not attached to a website or any other web vehicle so people who read it have either:

Been told about it
Been begged to read it
Stumbled on it
Met my mother

I'm still figuring it out. I'm not very good with links and some of the other bells and whistles. But, I'm diligent and determined -- doesn't that count for something?

One of the crucial decisions you make with a blog is whether or not to allow anonymous comments. I said yes. I said, "Bring it on!."

Sometimes people are freakishly honest. Sometimes they unearth a memory. Sometimes they spark an idea. Sometimes they put me in my place or slap me back to reality. It can be brutal but it always makes me think.

Blogger can occasionally be difficult to maneuver. Lots of people have figured out that they can go in as "Anonymous" and then they sign it. That makes me smile. They didn't want to be anonymous but skipping the hoops allowed the comment to still be posted.

I read every comment. I sit on my hands sometimes so I'm not tempted to go back and respond.

Thank you Mr. or Ms. Anonymous. Please keep commenting.