For many years I would talk to my Mama every Sunday evening because long distance was cheaper Sunday night than on any other. Even after she got a flip phone and long-distance rates became a thing of the past we continued the Sunday tradition, partly because it was a tradition and partly because Sunday evening was the one night I never had a school event. When I asked her how she was doing, her reply never varied; “Fairly well” was her standard answer, and she refused to go into details unless there was some ailment or other Daddy had. She also reminded me that my paternal Grandmother was a little more loquacious when it came to sharing her health status, and that she had been dying since Mama met her in the 1940’s and the lesson Mama learned from that is that people get tired of hearing about your ailments. I remember once Mama had surgery for throat cancer (from years of smoking) and didn’t tell me about it until I noticed her voice didn’t sound the same on the phone, and even then didn’t tell me any details other than “I was in the hospital for a couple of days, but I’m much better now.”
The only complaint she ever really had was always near the end of our conversations and would ask me if I could come over one day and see if I could find out who the old lady was that showed up in her mirror every morning. I would smile to myself and remind her that old lady looked good to me and I hoped she would be around for a long time. Then she would say “son, let me tell you that old age is not for the faint of heart.” She was right. Again.
I am slowly learning for myself exactly what she meant by that “faint of heart” business. For example, one of the things I have noticed is over the last several years I have become simultaneously less tolerant and much pickier about the people I choose to associate with after 4pm. What tolerances I do have recede even further and the inclusion circle tightens ever more quickly as 9pm approaches, and after 9pm the list has closed to include only Betsy and the dog.
I have also noticed, over time, the number of successive days in which I can participate in any sort of manual or physical labor without a significant recovery time has been reduced to one. That includes golf, mowing the yard, cutting firewood, walking the neighborhood and especially driving. The formula for traveling seems to be 6 hours of recovery time required for every hour driven, so a 4-hour drive would take a minimum of 24 hours recovery time before driving another extended distance. Without that day of recovery time and at least 2 naps, my cheerful personality and sunny disposition suffers substantially - or so I’m told.
My dog and I are of a similar age and suffer from similar arthritic effects. When rain threatens and the barometric pressure drops, we both walk with a slight limp. Hers, however, varies from right front leg to left back leg depending upon the degree of severity of the coming storm. She also cuts corners when we walk, but I let her get away with it because her legs put her belly pretty low to the ground and it takes about 24 of her steps to equal one of mine. The biggest difference is that she rarely whines or complains about any pains, and I’m pretty sure at least part of her limp is strategically calculated to play on my sympathies.
College football is important. Reading is important. Church is important. Talking to your spouse, daily exercise, water and computers and emails are important, but nothing beats a timely nap, unless it’s heated car seats in winter. I wouldn’t want to do without either. Both have crossed the fine line that separates those things that were once luxury that have now become necessity.
Speaking of football, I have learned that about 38% of the US population has at least one college degree. It often seems that many of those have been educated far beyond their capabilities and intelligence. Some of the smartest people I know don’t have a degree of any type. The obverse of that is all too often true as well, and people in that category negatively affect my delicate sensitivities. It’s getting harder and harder to tolerate obtuse behavior. I try not to be surly when confronted with stupidity, but some of those supposedly educated people take the degree of difficulty to a new level.
I have noticed that in late September or early October, once I get cold, I must resign myself to the fact that I will, as a general rule, stay that way regardless of the thermostat setting or the thermal underwear or long pants and flannel shirts or wool socks until the following June. It also seems that someone has replaced a large portion of my wardrobe with long pants and flannel shirts and sweatshirts, and many of them have that faded, worn look acquired through constant use and fit all too closely the slightly unkempt look associated with men over a certain age. On the positive side, I am truly thankful that our grandkids have grown out of baseball, and we no longer have to endure the harsh extremes of heat and cold and wind and rain and snow and hail and tornadic activity that occur at little league fields from January to August each year. Little league games also slow down the passage of time to where minutes pass like hours and innings take days, but that’s a different story. I am pretty sure the weather-related stress from many, many years of little league baseball decreased my tolerance for temperature extremes in either direction.
Some of you may or may not have noticed that, while I pay little attention to fashion trends, the trendy clothing I do wear has been gifted to me by Betsy and my grandkids. I received a comfortable pair of Hey Dude shoes a couple of months ago, but since then have been sternly cautioned about wearing them with socks. “Pop” Austin said in a quiet tone, “you don’t wear socks with those shoes. It’s not even close to cool to do that.” I thanked him and remembered a few years ago an uncle with his Bermuda shorts, black socks and sandals at the beach, and my 18-year-old look of horror and helplessness as he walked toward me and the young lady I was desperately trying to impress. She excused herself quickly and vanished forever. It was mortifying.
It has also come to my attention, as the number and variety of my visits to doctors of various types have increased, that 50% of every profession, including doctors, graduated in the bottom half of their respective classes. Find a good one for each type of ailment and follow their advice. Ignore the bad ones. My personal litmus test is that the bad ones will never, ever, ever admit they don’t know something or that for every question you manage to ask the best answer is not always the one they think of first. I generally take that to mean they are formulating an answer while they should be listening more carefully to my questions and ailments. The good ones don’t mind telling you “Let me check on some options you might want to consider” or “I’m not sure about that, but I will find out and get back to you.” You will soon become adept at learning the difference between good doctors and the others, or you will indeed spend more of your life sick than not. I have learned it’s OK not to trust every doctor just because they graduated, and they all use the term “practice” for practical and appropriate reasons.
Speaking of ailments, bruises, cuts and scrapes appear magically with no recollection of how they may have gotten there. Every single time I pick up a screwdriver, hammer, pliers or tool of any type a new bruise or cut appears somewhere on my hands or arms. There is, more often than not, no accidental bump or cut or scrape or apparent corresponding injury that coincides with the area. Put a Band-Aid on it and let it go. I’m pretty sure they are caused by evil and invisible gnomes. No other plausible explanation presents itself.
If 9:30pm is the new midnight, 3:30am is the new dawn. I don’t understand it but have adapted.
Random song lyrics from many years ago often show up in my head for no apparent reason. I am often amazed at the number of stupid songs I know and can recite. Two just entered now: “They’re coming to take me away ha ha hee hee ho ho…” and “If you like pina coladas, and gettin’ caught in the rain…” You’re welcome.
Far too often lately, the word I’m looking for disappears from my head for an indefinite time, and reappears miraculously unbidden hours later, sometimes so much later that I had forgotten I was still searching for it. In much the same way as with the song lyrics, I seem to have no control whatsoever as to when this might happen or when it won’t.
I seem to have misplaced a significant percentage of my balance from time to time, and corners, doors, cabinets, ironing boards and otherwise stationary objects seem to quickly dart into my path without warning. See the part about bruises above. If I close my eyes while washing my hair one hand had better be on the wall to make sure it doesn’t move suddenly.
It takes an enormous amount of immaturity and stupidity over a great number of years to eventually develop any maturity at all and a semblance of what, at my age, passes for wisdom. For every good thought or solid piece of advice I can now give with certainty there are an exceedingly large number of bad experiences and poor decisions that preceded each one. Apparently, there were many, many bad ones that I had to go through first in order to gain personal experience to determine with confidence the differences between the two. Those poor decisions and bad choices must provide us with enough background material, physical and emotional scars and disturbances to appear, over time and on the surface at least, calm, cool, calculating and prescient when facing a dilemma. What we are really doing is moving slowly as a learned behavior. It seems a shame that many of us were also slow, at least in our youth, to learn the difference between the things that are good for us and the things that are not. No pain, no gain is, if we live long enough, both a harsh reality and a way of life for younger people, and we always hope that our kids and grandkids will take our advice and learn from our experiences. Not to dash your hopes upon the rocks of reality or anything, but our parents and grandparents hoped that too, didn’t they?