I celebrated my 55th birthday with a ride on my mountain bike, logging around 8 miles of bumpy dirt road and feeling downright proud of myself. It was another sparkling Teton Valley day with hawks perched along the fence lines watching for voles, sandhill cranes yodeling overhead and the crick, crick, crick of my deteriorating left hip with every pedal push.
This cheerful snap of worn-out cartilage reminded of my morning phone call from a well-known seer and aging expert. As usual, my sister got right to the point.
“Happy birthday. Getting old sucks.”
Over the years, she’s offered valuable advice and recommendations about this age-old battle. Now, I’ll share those pearls of wisdom with all of you.
Just last week, she was trying on skirts in a retail dressing room. The sales clerk knocked on the door as she was forcing the zipper. The clerk asked if she needed any assistance. My sister responded that there was an odd bulge preventing her from closing the zipper.
“Do you have any control?” asked the clerk.
“If I had any control, I wouldn’t be trying on a size 18 skirt, now would I?” she snarled before it occurred to her that the clerk was referring to control-top Spanx.
Moral of the story: When you’re old, you snarl at people uncontrollably and that’s okay.
I once made the mistake of asking for advice on how to lose weight. Her initial response was less than optimistic.
“Losing weight at our age is like pickaxing cement out of a car trunk.” Then she told me how she managed to lose 20 pounds rather quickly by going on the Clapton Diet. First, she read Eric Clapton’s autobiography “Clapton.” This brought back memories of his youthful beauty and magnetism.
After reading his book, it was clear that Eric had surprisingly low expectations when seeking female companionship. So she put his 70s rock star picture on her refrigerator, inside cupboards and above her scale reasoning that if she lost a few pounds and ran into Eric on the street or at the mall, her chances were as good as anyone’s that she could catch his eye. Just the thought of him on his knees singing ‘Layla’ to her provided sufficient motivation. She lost the weight and then saw him on a television show and realized that he had aged right along with the rest of us. The honeymoon was over.
Moral of the story: Let go of fantasies and just eat whatever you want.
And finally, there’s the never-ending conversation of how, when and where to wear yoga pants without completely alienating the children. When I told her that in my neck of the woods, women wear yoga pants everywhere; grocery shopping, mall browsing, wedding receptions, horseback riding, job interviews, you name it. This kind of behavior doesn’t fly in SoCal. In the Newport Beach area, yoga pants are carried in special exercise bags to the yoga studio where they are put on prior to yoga and then removed immediately after yoga. So when my sister tried to travel by air with her children and they realized she was planning on wearing yoga pants ON THE PLANE, the sky fell.
“I even put on my best cowboy boots and they still wouldn’t let me leave the house,” she said sadly.
Moral of the story: Don’t grow old in Southern California if you like to wear baggy yoga pants.
Our phone conversation devolved into a discussion about the ignominy of being hailed by every miracle face cream and weight-loss kiosk operator in the mall.
“Excuse me miss. Not you. No, not you. YOU over there in the pink yoga pants, I have some extra potent samples just for YOU.”
Then she had to hang up because she was running late to the eyebrow salon where a true artist would try to make brows appear where there weren’t any since half of each arc had fallen out at the age of 50.
Moral of the story (and this can’t be stressed strongly enough): Growing old isn’t for sissies.
I’ll take the good days with the bad and continue to ride my bike in my loose yoga pants. I’ll keep coloring my hair until I decide not to. I’ll paint in a brow line and rub anti-ageing cream pretty much everywhere from the forehead down. And that’s okay.
Moral of the story: Keep pushing the pedals. There’s a lot more fun to be had.
My friend, who I’ll call Empress in this story because she really is an Empress, is marking her two-month anniversary of Diagnosis Day.
In my friend’s case, the diagnosis is rheumatoid arthritis. R.A. is incurable, painful, debilitating and potentially fatal. Treatment plans vary according to the individual and healthcare provider. The disease, like many autoimmune illnesses, flares and then quiets like the hesitation between Fourth of July fireworks, making you wonder if each display is another burst of sparks or the blazing finale.
Anyone who has had a medical diagnosis of a nasty disease knows that this particular day will stand out among other days. For many, D-Day can offer a strange relief. Finally, there’s a name for all of the unexplained pain, dizziness or whatever bewildering symptoms. On my D-Day, my first thought was “Hey, maybe I’m not crazy after all.”
On my D-Day, my first thought was
“Hey, maybe I’m not crazy after all.”
I’d had two years of odd rashes on my face, legs and arms. My fingernails warped and rippled. I was always tired. My joints felt like balls of fire. My ribs and heart were sore. I was depressed yet caring for a 7-month-old son while pregnant with my daughter. When my physician called me at home one evening with the results of my most recent round of blood tests and told me that I definitely had systemic lupus erythematosus, I was almost delighted. Finally, a name! Finally, a reason! Finally, a treatment plan!
Photo credit: Albumarium/Chiara Cremaschi
The odd euphoria of D-Day ebbed quite a bit when I realized that remission was not around the corner and that the coming years would require that I change my expectations about certain facets of my life that I thought were part and parcel of who I am. Or was. Or will be.
Still, if I were to place SLE in one hand and my old self in the other, I would hold on to the Me with SLE. I used to let little things get to me but having this disease has forced me to see life from a different perspective. I don’t get ruffled easily. I avoid drama. I appreciate more. Sure, I miss out on some things due to pain, fatigue or my sensitivity to sunlight, but what I do have I hold more closely to my heart than I think I would have pre-SLE.
Empress is moving from the shock of D-Day through the grief of losing a part of yourself without really knowing what the part will be. Yes, there’s a reason for today’s blinding pain and the mental fogginess. The question really is all about tomorrow and the days after that.
Of course, no one knows from one day to the next what will be gained or lost. I would argue that for the most part, most people can live with the belief that tomorrow will be much like today in terms of physical and mental capacity.
For the person with a “Diagnosis” it’s virtually a certainty that each day will be uncertain. Sometimes, I see myself as an adventurer going into each day and night with hope and curiosity. Other times I’m grumpy and tired. We all build our own way of adjusting. I don’t know what the Empress will build for herself as an outcome of D-Day, but I’m hoping it will be a crystalline outgrowth: reflective, illuminating and precious.
Do you have a story about your D-Day that you’d like to share? Let me know in the comments below.
We’ve all heard about Fashionistas and some of us may even have one in the family. These people are easy to identify because their need to wear the hippest trends always trumps what is sensible. Catching a flight? Wear gravity-defying heels. Skiing? Throw on a fur coat (faux or not). Grocery shopping? Gucci sunglasses and snakeskin gloves. Unless they fall off their heels and knock someone down, Fashionistas provide a harmless source of amusement.
On the other hand, Passionistas are getting on my nerves. We’ve all heard their seductive cajoling: “Find your passion” or “Chase your passion” or “Be passionate about your passion.” We’re further told that work isn’t work when you’re passionate about your work (huh?) and that we have the opportunity to pay passionate people a lot of freakin money to find out what we’re really passionate about.
Passion schmassion. Passion can be brilliant when first pursued and explored but with time it can lose its eyes and fluffy tail. (See The Velveteen Rabbit). Don’t get me wrong. I believe in the pursuit of happiness and meaningful existence. It just seems to me that we’ve taken a good thing – passion – and turned it into yet another way to measure our shortcomings.
One-track passion can erode all too easily if the rest of the garden is left untended. This ubiquitous lecturing on passion should be expanded to include the surrounding soil in which we plant the bloom.
I consulted with global experts and among all of the well-intentioned, incredibly intelligent people that I found pontificating on Google, two people without college degrees and somewhat notorious pasts nailed it down for me.
Before I reveal this life-changing tip about passion, let me share some of the other messages I found:
Start the day early and end it late. If you’re sleeping, you’re wasting time.
Always have your passion on your mind. Always.
Surround yourself with your passionate work. Bring it home with you, too.
Don’t be polite. Be passionate (which apparently isn’t polite).
Be dedicated, hard-working, focused and willing to fail.
Talk about your passion and surround yourself with like-minded people.
Bore people with your passion.
I suppose there are little golden kernels in all of those tips along with an unhealthy dose of guilt-inducing mandates. There should be some acknowledgement that a perpetual spring of motivation would have to nurture this flaming impolite passion. Or can we be allowed to accept that passions can rest, sleep, multiply or change over time and THAT’S OKAY.
In every case, there is one requirement for leading a sincerely passionate life.
Paul McCartney and John Lennon said it best. All you need is love.
Love your dog. Love your partner. Love the view of the Tetons. Love a breath of fresh crisp air. Love yourself, muffin top and all. Love is meant to be planted, shared, and spread. If you keep digging in the same spot, all you’ll get is a hole.
Hearts have a crazy capacity to beat and beat, on and on without much instruction from us. It’s only right that we repay such single-minded loyalty from a ball of muscle by opening our hearts to all of the beauty around us in a decidedly unsingle-minded way.