Skip to main content

Reflections on an olden eye



   I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how I got to be 51 years old when it feels like just yesterday I was blow drying my feathered hair, pulling on my painter’s pants and grabbing my backpack before I went off to a college class. It’s like I blinked and it was over. With that in mind, I think there may be a few common factors for those of us who are growing older, while our hearts are still at that kegger party from 30 years ago.
   You know you’re getting older when: You find saucers in the cabinet with dried food on them.
   You know you’re getting older when: Your husband helps you put on your socks.
   You know you’re getting older when: You no longer look forward to water slides.
   You know you’re getting older when: You get dizzy watching your grandchildren ride a merry-go-round.
   You know you’re getting older when: Your friend tells you she has named one of her varicose veins: Veinessa.
   You know you’re getting older when: You hope for an underactive thyroid diagnosis.
   You know you’re getting older when: Your well-constructed outfits could qualify as play clothes.
   You know you’re getting older when: You start to refer to the television programs you watch as “My shows.”
   You know you’re getting older when: Your children start asking you how your doctor’s appointment went.
   You know you’re getting older when: You start to think of applesauce as dessert.
   You know you’re getting older when: You wear your sandals three seasons because they’re the only shoes that feel good.
   You know you’re getting older when: Everyone else tells you the television is too loud.
   You know you’re getting older when: You have to grab onto the arms of the chair to push yourself out of it.
   You know you’re getting older when: You think a hot date is a walk to the library and a stop at the drugstore to pick up some rubbing alcohol.
   You know you’re getting older when: You start buying fig newtons and stop buying pantyhose.
   And you know you’re getting older when you think more and more about that old kegger party and less and less about what you’re going to wear tomorrow. 


   “I grow old … I grow old …I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.” ― T.S. Eliot

Comments

Unknown said…
have to shout out to debbie for her beloved varicose vein....or as i thought it was in elementary school...her "very close" vein.
Deb said…
She's NOT "beloved", she's reviled! I hate that Veinessa. And I still have feathered hair, it's just that it's now gray and wiry. Hot, huh?

Popular posts from this blog

I Like to Call Them Ow-Bows

   It’s a toss-up. Do I write about the fact that if you search “jobless goddess” in Google the dairy goddess and the library goddess come way ahead of me, or do I write about the fact that my husband is incapacitated due to a broken elbow? I guess I’ll go with the broken elbow. Besides, who the hell breaks their elbow anyway? My husband of course.    It started out innocently enough. I, in my desire to lose weight and become the wrinkly, thinner woman I was meant to be, decided we should start up the morning walks again. I prodded him while he was still under the covers. “Come on, let’s do it. You know we have to do this,” I said while tugging on my really sexy yoga pants (which, by the way, never get used for yoga).    To his credit, he got up, pulled on his pajama pants and went with me. We got about a 16 th of a mile past the driveway before he landed in the gravel. I’m talking a bed of gravel. Gravel embedded in the palm of your hand. Gravel ...

He sells sea shells, I wish

   So now rather than being obsessed with fake fingernails I can’t afford, I’m becoming obsessed with checking this blog. I’m pretty sure all 52 views were made by either me or my husband.   That leads me right into the current situation at hand. We need friends. We’re desperate for them. I’ve started handing out my telephone number to people I meet while doing my meager freelance work. They think it’s for the story I’m writing but really it’s in hope that someday they’ll find a reason to call and then I can hit them with, “By the way, do you play cards? Bingo? Gin Rummy?” If I wasn’t so arthritic I’d throw Twister in there.    It’s not so much for me, it’s my husband who likes to have people around. I have become hermit-like since moving here while he has become convinced we could die here and not be found for months. He had friends back in Syracuse but he chose to stay home at night with his loving wife. Now all of a sudden I get the impression he’d h...

Parish the Thought

     I love small towns. When I lived in Parish, New York, there was no end to the reverie, not to mention the constant parades.      We had a Halloween parade through town featuring people of all ages marching in costume along a rather abbreviated parade route. It all culminated at the fire barn where a couple of old draft horses would pull along a hay wagon. Most all town festivities featured the fire barn.       Monday night bingo held there. The caller was a volunteer firefighter prone to bringing on fits of laughter when he drew N 44…which he pronounced as "N farty-far," whereby producing great gales of cackling from the middle-aged women who showed up every week, I think maybe just to flirt with the caller and the other male volunteers who collected their money. Don't get me wrong, I'm not making fun. I spent more than a few Monday nights there myself.      The gas stations served as restaurants in Parish. You...