Navigating aging: A humorous reflection

It appears we’ve reached that age. I don’t like admitting it, so I won’t. I’ll talk about people I’ve heard about. People I used to know. People who have stumbled before me. People who’ve told the same story over and over again while I sit quietly and think to myself, “Don’t do that.”

But then I realize – oops – I think I just told that story. But who was I talking to? Hopefully it was someone else at another time. My friends are too tactful to come right out and say, “Yeah, we’ve heard that one before.” I catch that eye roll, though, and quickly divert the conversation by asking a question and taking a bite of my sandwich. Let them repeat themselves. I’ll sit quietly and enjoy my lunch and their company.

We have dear friends who actually talk to one another. A lot. And late into the night. I can’t even imagine. Even thinking way back, I don’t remember Ol’ Bill being much of a talker. He’ll say he’s more a man of action. Well, maybe a long time ago, but I’m not seeing much of that anymore either. Things are pretty quiet around here. So when I get the chance to chat, you might want to get out the hook and pull me off the stage like my mother once suggested during a long-winded preacher’s sermon one Sunday morning.

Actually, you get a taste of my style right here. My tendency to ramble as I wait for my muse to show up.

Ah, here you are. Where in the world have you been? I’ve been rambling, killing time. Shall I tell my friends I nearly fell into the washing machine trying to grab that one elusive sock to toss into the dryer? I was on my tiptoes, leaning into the dark far reaches of the monster, when the thought occurred to me – oh my gosh, could I really fall into its depths in pursuit of a sock? I imagined myself headfirst, feet kicking frantically. The perils of being short.

At my tallest I may have been nearly 5-foot-5. Recently, I’ve noticed I need my little step stool around the kitchen cabinets. My dear hubby offers to help me reach things, but he too has lost some stature along the way. Next time I need something retrieved from the washer, I’ll call him and see if he can keep both feet on the ground. He used to seem so much taller than me, but now we’re seeing more eye to eye – at least physically.

I guess that’s where the phrase “little old ladies” comes from. When we were young, we were all arms and legs. Now we’re surrounded by tall people. We’re becoming invisible in a crowd. We’re liable to be trampled if a disturbance breaks out.

I had a friend I didn’t get to see often, but every time I did over the past few years, I couldn’t help but notice she had gotten considerably shorter. I found myself glancing around to see if I was standing on a rise or she was in a hole. Nope. She was, shall we say, downsizing.

We’ve reached that age – oh, how I hate to say it – when nearly all our friends have new knees, hips or shoulders, or are facing surgery any day now. My husband must come from good stock, knock on wood. He has taken a couple of tumbles but luckily hasn’t broken any bones. He makes me nervous every time he stands up and utters, “Watch out!”

His dad never needed replacement parts. His mother, however, seemed prone to falling. To the extent that she had one of those little Life Alert bracelets to call for help if she took a tumble. When we stopped to visit one day, I noticed she wasn’t wearing her bracelet. I asked where it was. She said it was in her bedroom. She reasoned if she was going to fall, it would be in the bedroom.

I had to question her thinking, as she had already fallen in Lodi and Seville, but never in her bedroom.

Her own mother lived to 100. A feisty little lady, she spent hours outdoors tending her flowers until the day she was moved into assisted living, much to her chagrin. We visited her when she was having lunch brought to her room. We asked why she didn’t go to the dining room. She explained they were a bunch of old people there – she preferred her own youthful company.

I have to go do my stretches. I’m all inspired just thinking about Grandma.