Category Archives: Middle Age/Aging

Today Is Your Birthday…I Mean MY Birthday

Hey all!  Today is my birthday.  Yup.  April 6.  Besides me, Paul Rudd, Candace Cameron, Bill Dee Williams, Marilu Henner, John Ratzenberger and a whole bunch of people I’ve never even heard of also have a birthday today.  All my life I thought I shared a birthday with Houdini, but I just found out I don’t.  That’s embarrassing.  I also share my birthday with a couple of friends, which is totally cool but not.  Get your own birthday!  JK.

So, I’m 47.  Or as my sweet dad likes to say, “you’re in your 48th year.”  Thanks dad.  I can officially say that I am in my late 40’s.  Although I would really prefer not to say that ever.  I don’t know why.  I feel good, I’m in a good mental state (well, most of the time), I’m fairly happy with the way I look (Except my eyelids.  They droop so bad, it looks like I’m sleep walking.  When did that happen?).  I’m doing something I absolutely and completely love, love, love.  So, what’s my problem?

I’m almost 50.  Sure, you may think it’s not a big deal.  And on the large scale, it isn’t.  It’s just a number.  I need to embrace it.  Sure, okay.  I will.  But first I need to say this:  Like my eyelids, WHEN THE HELL DID THIS HAPPEN?  And freak that.  It is a big deal.  Holy Hell.  I’m almost 50.

Just yesterday I was 19, when I met my husband-to-be.  DH had a grandmother (she lived to be 99 — love and miss you Mem).  She was in her seventies when I met her.  I used to say, “Oh, I’ve got plenty of time before I’m that old.”  Well, guess what?  I’m closer to there than I care to admit.  I barely remember the first half of my life it whizzed by so fast.  That is what scares me.

Why do I think about it so much?  Because.  There is stuff happening to me that makes it quite apparent that I am aging.  How is a girl supposed to NOT think about it when…

  1. I swear, I lose an inch of height a year.  At my tallest, I stood at five feet five and three quarters of an inch.  Now?  Let’s just say The Kid absolutely LOOMS over me.  I can’t even post a picture of us on Facebook without someone making that “are you kneeling?” comment.  My name is Mo and I am shrinking.  There, I said it.
  2. I think that's Broadway running along there

    I think that’s Broadway running along there

    The backs of my hands look like a road map of Manhattan.  Where did you say you wanted to go?  Madison and 37th?  Oh, here it is.  Right beneath my left ring finger.  Kind of convenient, wouldn’t you say?  No.

  3. Every morning when I get out of bed, I have more aches and pains than an athlete who just finished a marathon followed by the Iron Man.  No, actually, I think I hurt more than that.  It takes me a good 10 minutes to loosen up in the morning.  I may need a cane soon to get me to the bathroom so I can go pee.
  4. Speaking of pee…when I go, it doesn’t stop.  I think it stops.  But it doesn’t.  I have been known to leave a lovely trail to the shower (follow the yellow pee road).  I’m sorry.  I can’t help it.  All the Kegels in the world don’t help.
  5. Holding my arms out to read something no longer works.  I don’t really want to talk about it.  Let’s just say there are a pair of readers in every room of my house, in my car, pocketbook and on my head at all times.
  6. My eyelids are just about reaching my boobs.  Which is pretty bad because my boobs are now half way down my stomach.  They haven’t quite reached the belly button though.  And for this I am grateful.

    There is that damn perpetual eyeglass mark on my nose.  #11 why getting old sucks.

    There is that damn perpetual eyeglass mark on my nose. #11 why getting old sucks.

  7. I call everyone under the age of 40, a “kid.”
  8. I think my hair has more gray than blonde.  But I wouldn’t really know because I hide it with highlights.  In fact, I don’t even know what my real hair color is anymore.  And I have a feeling I should continue to stay in the dark about that for as long as I possibly can.
  9. I graduated high school 28 years ago.  When The Kid graduates, I may be going to my 30th reunion.  Oh Dear God.
  10.  When you start running at the age of 46 and need knee surgery less than 8 months later, then maybe you shouldn’t start running at the age of 46.

I think that’s enough.  Today is a happy day.  Today is my birthday.  So what that I may have to start adding Metamucil to my wine.  Mentally, I feel like I’m 15.  A 15 year old with a short term memory problem.  Whatever.  It could be worse.  My boobs could be hanging down to my belly button.

Peri-Menopause: Nature’s Gift to Global Warming

peri-menopause

On my Facebook page last week, I mentioned that I wear baby doll pajamas to bed.  Even in the dead of winter.  That’s because if I don’t, I run the risk of death by drowning.

When I got my first night sweat, I wasn’t sure what was happening to me.  I thought maybe I had a bad nightmare.  I was drenched.  Like someone doused me with salt water.  I actually had a puddle right where my boobs meet.  My head was as wet as if I just came out of the shower.  And the sheet under me?  It was more like a Slip ‘N Slide.

I was relieved to discover that this didn’t happen very often.  Just once in a while.  I could totally handle it.  That was about 3 years ago.  Recently, it has decided to kick itself up a notch.  Including the hot flashes.  You know the ones.  Where you swear someone lit a match to your insides and started a bon fire?  Yeah.  Those.  And in the last 3 weeks my night sweats have produced enough water to create a small sea.

I was told that I was in peri-menopause.  Peri-menopause?  What the hell?  I can’t be going through that already.  I’m only thirt — oh — 46.  And I’m not sure who told me.  Was it my doctor?  A friend?  My mother?  I don’t know.  Because one of the other symptoms of peri-menopause is…ummm.  Hmm.  That’s funny, I don’t remember.

Even if you just started hanging around me, you quickly get the idea that I’m freaked out by the whole aging process.  The changes to my body is completely throwing me for a loop.  I mean, I don’t mind being in my forties.  I feel like I’m all mature and stuff.  Mature.  Something I’ve been trying to achieve since 1987.  But really.  Can’t the Age Fairy just leave my body alone?  What did I ever do to her?

So, Age Fairy.  You are a meany.  Here’s what I say to you:  this old age may cause me rage but sweat and mood swings will never hurt me.  Nanny-nanny boo-boo.

 

Why Being 40-Something is Awesome

glasses on headSo, maybe “awesome” is a strong word here.  But being in my 40’s isn’t as bad as I thought it would be.  I was inspired to write about this subject by a post I saw the other day.  The blogger wrote a list of 40 reasons why being 40-something is better than being 20-something.  And it got me thinking about my own reasons why the 40’s are better than the 20’s.  I couldn’t come up with 40 exactly, so 10 will have to do.  Here’s what I think.  Tread lightly.

  1. You don’t need to bring your ID with you everywhere.  Believe me.  I don’t care how young you think you look.  You will not get carded.  Unless the bartender is trying for an extra tip.  But for me, that doesn’t work.  Because I know he is trying for an extra tip.
  2. We are smarter.  See number one.
  3. When I was in my 20’s, I would beg, borrow and steal to get you to like me.  Now?  I don’t really give a damn, Scarlet.  Unless your name is DH.  Cuz I want him to like me.  Otherwise I’d be divorced.
  4. I would rather die than admit that I needed glasses to read.  Today?  You can find me at any given time with 3 pairs sitting on top of my head.  It’s really quite cute.  And oh so convenient.
  5. People take you a little more seriously.  And I can act like a dumb ass around young people and they can’t say anything because it would be totally disrespectful.  It’s so much fun to see The Kid’s friends squirm or the young people at My Retail Job give me that “you’re so weird” look.  I should be embarrassed.  But I’m not.
  6. I can, and have, answered the door in my robe and slippers and am surprisingly fine with it.  Now the person at my door?  That may be a different story.  I see soap to the eyes in their near future.
  7. When I was in my 20’s, you would never, ever catch me singing out loud in my car to myself.  Ever.  Now?  Not only will I sing out loud and proud, but I may even roll down my windows for all to enjoy.  Consider that my gift to you.  You’re welcome.
  8. As a 40-something year old woman, I am more confident, sure and wise.  Honestly.  You couldn’t pay me a million bucks to go back there.  Well, actually.  It would be really great if my ass still looked that good.  Or was at least in the place it was intended to be.  Because I am completely freaked out by what happened to it.  I think I need a bra for my butt.  A Butt Bra.
  9. I have no problem with being accountable for my actions.  Back then I would throw every Tom, Dick and Harry under the bus to save my ass.  Oh wait.  I thought I was supposed to be smarter?
  10. I am so incredibly at ease with my partner.  I will walk around naked in the light.  Tell him what I think.  Burp out loud.  And poop with the bathroom door open.  Ok, actually that last one is a lie.  That’s just gross.

So, that’s about it.  For Now.  Maybe there will be a Part II because surely there are many, many more reasons why being 46 is better than being 26, right?  Can you think of any?  Let me know.  Because it has got to be better than this.  Maybe.

Everything Gets Old. Everything.

Unknown-1

That’s a dried up peach. Get your head out of the gutter.

Attention all women.  Guess what we have to look forward to as we age?  Besides wrinkles.  And gray hairs.  And flabby skin.  And age spots.  And facial hair.  And toe hair.  And nose hair.  And memory loss.  And menopause.  And dryness.  And baldness.  Ooh, I got a little carried away there.  Sorry about that.  Apparently, there’s a new ailment in town.  Well, perhaps it’s not new per se.  I’m sure it’s been around since the beginning of time but no one felt comfortable about talking about it.  Until now.

It’s called Vaginal Atrophy.  Yup.  You got it.  The walls of your vagina can dry up from underuse.  You heard me right.  Underuse.  If you do not use your vagina, it can have the potential of drying up like the Sahara.  Or like old rubber left out in the sun too long.  And there are side effects that come along with this dryness.  Just think bread but not as nice.  Gross me out the door and gag me with a spoon. (There’s some ’80’s slang for you.  To prove I’m not old.  Oh wait, actually that proves that I AM old, doesn’t it?  Never mind.)

How do I know this?  Because my poor mother suffers from it.  She’s been suffering from the effects of it for months.  Months.  I had to listen to her complain about it for months.  Do you understand?  This is almost as bad as when I got up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night when I was 13, only to find my dad skipping around the living room in his heart covered briefs.  Okay, maybe that was worse.  Okay, that probably was worse.  Okay, that was worse. She didn’t know what it was. No amount of Monistat was curing it.  No amount.  I’m pretty sure the woman bought enough of that crap to put a down payment on a vacation home.

Anyway, her good doctor said it was from underuse.  When she told me, I was overcome with all sorts of emotions.  My amusement turned to disgust.  Which turned to disbelief.  Which then turned to full on panic.  Because I do not want to have vaginal walls of cracked shoe leather.  Like, I don’t worry enough already about getting old.

So, in a nutshell, if you don’t use your vagina, you could possibly suffer from vaginal atrophy.  Can you imagine?  What?  Are we supposed to have sex until we are 80?  I mean, sex is great and all.  But I’m guessing after 60+ years, I may be wanting a break.  Does anyone hear what I’m saying?  I mean, how hot will I look in a maid’s outfit at that age?  After all, if I’m still doing it at 80, I’m going to have to get creative.  Sorry for the visual.  But the truth sometimes hurts.  How would you get in the mood?  I’m talking about you.  Not your husband/significant other/partner.  Because men can go for forever.  They are like the Energizer Bunny crossed with Tony Randall.

It does give sex a whole new meaning though.  “Hey honey,  get ready.  We have some vaginal wall drying-up prevention to do.”  Mmm.  Romantic.  I’ll grab the petroleum.

Nelly vs Nellie

I’m always bitching about my age.  How old I feel (not act, there is a difference.).  How old I look.  How old I am.  But what really confirms all of the above is this…

When someone commented on Facebook about Nelly being in a Honey Nuts Cheerios commercial, I got so excited I almost peed my pants.  Honestly, I felt like a little kid on Christmas morning.  “OMG!  Nelly is doing a commercial?”  You know who I’m talking about.  The saucy little rich brat from Little House on the Prairie.  Which, by the way, is one of my favorite TV shows OF ALL TIME.  Just so you know, it’s still in syndication and I will tune in if I spy it with my little eye on one of the ten thousand television stations available these days.

Anyway, I was anxious to see how she looks after all these years.  So, I didn’t waste any time going to Youtube and looking it up.  Here it is people:

YouTube Preview Image

Number One:  I thought Nelly was going to pop in at the last second.  It took me 30.5 seconds to realize she wasn’t.  And that I had the wrong “guy.”

Number Two:  The correct spelling of Nelly’s name from Little House is NELLIE.

Number Three:  Who the hell is this Nelly?  Does he play sports?  Act?  Sing?  I guess he’ll just get added to my list of “who the hell is that” and I’ll have to move on.  Where oh where are the Robert Redfords and Debra Wingers of the world?  Sigh.

 

Knee Deep

knee surgery

Before, During and After

The day was perfect for surgery.  Rainy, windy, disgusting.  Perfect.  Perfect for me to lie around sleeping off my anesthesia.  Which, I have to say was awesome!  The anesthesia, I mean.  Honestly, I’m so glad I didn’t cave to peer pressure when I was a teen.   Because there would have been a problem.  A serious problem.

I woke up at 5:30.  Because I had to pee.  But I didn’t get up to pee because I was too lazy.  So I laid there thinking that in less than 3 hours a surgeon would be cutting little holes in my knee.  A knee that I’ve always liked.  A knee that on our second date, DH commented on how cute it was.  I was wearing shorts.  Get your head out of the gutter.  But I wasn’t nervous.  The morning of my hysterectomy I was like a child gripping the doorway.  Kicking and screaming.  Not wanting to go.  But this definitely was less invasive.  And if I survived one bout of anesthesia, I knew I would survive another.

The nurses were super, super nice.  A little too nice, actually.  I was hoping for a bit of a Nurse Ratchet so I had something to talk about.  But, no.  It didn’t happen that way.  I got to change in an area where the only thing separating me from all the other patients was a curtain.  “Everything off except your undies.  Gown, opening in back.  Robe, opening in front.”  I’m just glad I opted for the grannies with a touch of lace instead of my usual thongs.  The entire Operating Room probably didn’t need to see my ass cheeks.  Which, by the way, no amount of running makes those suckers go up to where they were once upon a time.

They asked me the same questions over and over again.  I signed my life away a million times over and told them they better try to save my life if I die.  Okay, I didn’t say that.  But I did say I would have a blood transfusion.  That’s the same thing, right?

They wheeled me into a room.  A room they take you to before you go to the Operating Room.  Again, only separated by a curtain from the other patients.  It was like a cattle call or something.  Then the party began.  The needle containing what I could only describe as liquid heaven was inserted into the back of my hand.  “Ooh, I like this, I wouldn’t mind having a little of this every day, I don’t seem to care about a thing” was the last comment I remember saying to the doctor.  Or was it a nurse?  I don’t know.  They were all starting to look the same to me.

What seemed like 30 seconds went by.  The first face I saw was my doctor’s.  Asking if I was okay.  But boy did I feel good.  I’m sure I said something silly or stupid because that’s what I do.  But I guess I’ll never know.  Which makes me kinda sad.  They should let you record these things.  Really.  I’m not kidding.  I wonder if someone would have taken notes if I asked them?  This shall be one of my biggest regrets.

So, here I am.  With my downloaded Cow Bell app, having DH wait on me.  He’s being a very good servant man.  I’m sure by the end of this weekend, I will be on his last nerve.  But until then, a little higher to the left honey, oh and would you be a prince and fetch me a bucket.  This Vicodin makes me feel like I’m going to vomit.  Because my nerve block wore off and I’m not feeling so great anymore.  Where’s that Liquid Heaven when I need it?

I Have Been a Very Naughty Girl…er, Old Lady

Maxine and exercise

I have decided that I am being punished.  I am being punished because I started taking care of myself at this stage in my life.  And it’s not just me.  I know a few people in the same age bracket who are being punished for the same exact thing.  And it sucks.

I have never had a real injury in my life.  I’ve scraped a knee from falling, because I’m a klutz.  I’ve bumped my head by forgetting to duck while entering my car, because I’m forgetful.  I’ve burned myself on the oven rack because, well, I’m an idiot and didn’t use a potholder.  But I have never had an injury that is incurred by being an athlete.  Because I never did a sport in my life (except track team, age 14, one season).  Sure, I did aerobics in the 80’s, but who didn’t?  And besides, that doesn’t count.  It was more about who had the cutest thong with matching scrunchy socks.

I received a text the other day from a friend who is also a runner, among other things.  She’s been really working it to get into shape.  She’s about my age.  She was diagnosed with bursitis.  Bursitis!  Probably because she has been weight training.  The poor girl.  All she’s guilty of is trying to sculpt her body.  Because she wants to be healthy.  And look good.  Like me.  So when we go through menopause, we can be ahead of the game and avoid that ugly meno-gut.  That damn ugly meno-gut.

About 2 months into running, I started experiencing pain in my left knee.  It hurt a little.  But I still ran.  No biggy.  Then I injured it at work.  And still ran.  Then I stopped running for a day or two because it hurt.  Then I slipped on water in the kitchen and twisted that mo-fo knee.  Then I went for a run after a couple of days of rest. Then I tripped on something at My Retail Job.  Now the stupid thing just hurts.  All the time.

I went to the orthopedic guy the other day.  To get to the bottom of this situation.  I need an MRI because the x-rays can’t see a damn thing.  Thanks for the shot of radiation for no reason, doc.  Then he said some nonsense about it possibly being a torn meniscus or something along those lines.  I stopped listening when I heard “meniscus.”   Just so you know, they don’t repair themselves.  All the “resting” in the world will not help.

So, I started riding my bike.  My big, fat mountain bike.  On the road.  The one with cobwebs and a gear shift that gets stuck.  The one that literally hasn’t been used since 1997.  But it’s exercise.  Because I’ll be damned if I let a little ripped meniscus stop me from taking care of myself.  And gaining 25 pounds back.  No freaking way.  I would rather eat cow poo while swinging from a 46 foot high tree limb.  Ain’t happening.  And just so you know, I’m going running with my Bursitis friend this week.  Screw you meniscus.  Screw you Bursitis.  Try to stop us.

One Moldy Oldie

photo

Soul Asylum. I think that’s their name.

There are many, many things I am too old for.  I’m too old for drama.  But I will not discuss that here because this blog is for fun and inspirational subject matter.  I’m too old for My Retail Job, even though I have to admit I’m having a blast among all the aches, pains and “you’re a mature woman” comments.  I am too old for roller coasters, which pisses me off because I would go on one a thousand times in a row if my brain didn’t scramble into a million pieces after the first 30 seconds of the first ride.  And as much as I love my new sport of running, I may be too old for it because my knees feel like they have been through a war.  Maybe even 2 wars.

Last night I met a friend of mine for dinner about an hour away from where I live.  A very old friend.  She’s not old, our friendship is old.  We were having a great time, having great conversation as always.  Halfway through dinner she asked if I wanted to go with her to meet some of her friends at this theater outside of town to see a band.  Who am I to pass up a good time?  PLUS it was an opportunity to meet new friends.

We trekked on over the border into the next town to see this band.  You may remember them.  Soul Asylum.  I was never a grunge band follower.  I am classic rock and moldy oldies all the way.  After singing half a dozen songs, they sang ONE song I vaguely recognized.  But every person in that room had gray hair.  If they didn’t have gray hair, it was colored I’m sure.  So, I didn’t feel out of place.  A Justin Timberlake concert I would feel out of place at.  This concert?  I just felt old among the old.  And the music was just too effing loud.  I mean, how is a mature woman supposed to have an intellectual conversation with all that noise?

Me and my old friend

Me and my old friend.  And that would be Sprite in my cup.  I swear.

Me and my new friends

Me and 2 of 4 of my new friends.  And my Sprite.

Sure, I had a good time.  Sure, I danced to music I never heard of or even liked.  Sure, I had a drink.  Ok, half a drink.  Ok, a quarter of a drink.  Because after about 20 minutes into being there, I hit a wall.  Not literally.  But the “holy shit, I need my bed NOW” kind of wall.  As much as I was enjoying these women, my new friends among my old one, I felt a very strong urge to put my head on a pillow.  In fact, if there was a pillow somewhere in that place, I would have had my ass in a corner on that floor.  Even amongst all the racket.  And it wasn’t even 10pm yet.

And the band?  They have to be at least my age.  Where, may I ask, do they get their energy?  I guess from their hair.  Because they had plenty of it.  Hair.  Good for those guys.  But I will bet any amount of money that they went home, slathered a crapload of Ben Gay on their joints and fell into a deep coma.  Because that’s what I did.  And I’m not too proud to say so.  I mean, who needs pride when you pee your pants every time you sneeze and, well, never mind.  Anyway, I think I’ll stick to James Taylor.  He gets me.

Back to the Issue

381788-bad-back

Have I mentioned lately that I’m too old for My Retail Job?  Why, yes, I think I have.  If you missed my myriad of reasons, please click here.

There is now a new reason why I think I am too old for My Retail Job.  The crap I do there is intended for the back of a 20-something year old.  Or a camel.  But I am neither so therein lies the problem.  How did I even get hired for this job?  I am a humpless mature woman (remember, I have been reminded twice).  Hmmm.  If you ask DH, it’s because “I’m smart, reliable and trustworthy.”  Apparently, the world is in short supply of these attributes.

That is all well and good, but it still doesn’t hide the fact that I’m old for this job.  Yesterday I was pushing some product, helping to unload the truck.  When there was a sudden pain in the bottom right part of my back.  What’s it called?  Whatever it is, it hurt.  So, I took some Advil, and it worked its magic.  Masking the pain.  So what did I do?  Pushed more product.

This morning I am lying in bed.  Writing this post.  I should be cleaning the kitchen from last night, doing at least one of six loads of laundry and washing the toilets.  Am I?  No.  Because I can’t move.

I have to work later today.  Until almost midnight.  Looks like I’ll be O.D.’ing on some Motrin so I can get through it.  And making My Retail Job people document what happened.  You know, just in case it doesn’t get better.  Which it will.  It’s just a pulled muscle, I’m sure.  But you never know.  I really hate complaining about stuff like this.  But what did they expect?  They hired a dinosaur.  Wait.  Didn’t dinosaurs have strong backs?

Maturity is Overrated

Unknown-4I’ve always considered myself “young.”  I’ve never acted my age.  Ever.  Even now, as a mother.  The Kid is constantly reprimanding me because of my inappropriate behavior.  I do silly things.  Make dumb choices.  Laugh when someone farts.

But not only have I always acted young.  I always looked young.  When I was 12, I looked 8.  When I was 18, I looked 14.  And so on.  When I finally turned 21 and I ordered my first legal glass of White Zin, the waitress stared at my I.D. for about 17 seconds then accused me of forging my birth year.  I got carded for quite a while.  And then, I didn’t.  Huh.

So, when two “collegues” in the span of about 7 days approached me at My Retail Job asking for my advice because I am a “mature woman” I was a little more than shocked.  Me?  Mature?  What do you mean?  I looked around to make sure they weren’t speaking to someone else.  Like some old biddy standing behind me, perhaps?

Unfortunately, they weren’t.  “You know, you’ve been around a while.  You know what to do.”  I ran home both times and stared at myself in the mirror.  Okay, so I have a few more wrinkles than usual, my lips are pretty much non-existent (why does that happen) and my jowls rival those of Julia Childs.  But come on.  I’m not old.  Am I?

Hmmm.  I do tend to pee without warning when I sneeze, cough or just because.  I can’t remember what I did 30 seconds ago pretty much all the time.  I need longer arms so I can read.  My hair is going gray.  I have parenthesis between my eyes.  My knees are sagging.  And my boobs have joined them.  My body aches when I get out of bed in the morning.  I need to turn up the volume on the TV to about 42.  Oh.  Holy Shit.  I’m old.  When the hell did that happen?  But, I was just young the other day.  I swear it.

Ok, so this old chick isn’t giving free advice anymore.  If you want it, you’re gonna pay.  Except it ain’t gonna be a nickle.  Hey, we seniors have to make a living.  And if you ask for advice and use the word “mature” in any form, there’s going to be a premium added.  Let this be your warning.  Have a nice day you whipper-snappers.