Aging with Grace ~ Fighting The Old Fart Syndrome


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For me, looking young is not the goal.  Not becoming a cranky old fart is. I admit, I have old fart tendencies.

I caught myself laughing at some kid the other day, who wiped out on his skateboard because his baggy pants fell down. He went down hard and hit his noggin. I laughed as I walked by and thought to myself, serves him right for dressing like a moron. Then I remembered walking downtown San Francisco one day with my Dad. I was about 14 years old, wearing neon yellow hip-huggers and an orange and yellow ribbed, poor-boy style shirt. A lady—apparently from out of town looked at me, shook her head and mumbled something about “The way these people dress here.”
My dad looked at me and shrugged his shoulders. I can’t remember what I felt, but since I remember the incident some 45+ years later, it clearly had an impact. I realize now, I was being judged without her knowing anything about me. She didn’t know that my mom had been sick for years,  that I took care of my sister and brother, that I cooked and cleaned and played nursemaid almost every day of my life and  that I shouldered more responsibility than most 30 year olds. – No, she didn’t know that at all.
 I shouldn’t have laughed at that kid. I should have just asked him if he was okay. I acted like an old fart—and I am mad at myself for it.
There is a lot to be said for life experience. We (old people) share our unsolicited advice at every turn. Romance advice (which I failed miserably), education advice, (an incomplete here), health (well- I’m alive at least), wealth (double fail). Honestly- what makes me think I’m so smart? Why would I think I know any more about life than some 15 year old?
With my son, I constantly remind myself, we all have our own path. He has his lessons and his burdens, his own joy and his own grief. You can’t tutor someone through life 101A. Not even if you have completed Life 101B. So why do we always insist on trying?
The old saying, It’s not how old you are, it’s how old you feel, is true enough, but it’s also how old you act. When you start poo-pooing everything the new generation comes up with and start thinking your generation was the only one that had it right- you are without any doubt at all- an old fart.
When you look at someone with tattoos and shake your head, and say something like kids these days. You are an old fart.
When you start to say things like- in my day we didn’t need car seats for babies– you are a stupid old fart.
When you forget your own youth (misspent in many cases) and start hating teenagers just because they are teenagers, or because they have long hair, or baggy pants, or rings in places you don’t want to know about… you are an old fart.
You can dye your roots and lift your sagging skin so high that you can tie it in a knot on top of your head, but you’ll still be an old fart when you open your mouth.  
I have to confess; I have thanked my son on numerous occasions for not dressing like a moron and for walking like a man and not some missing link with something stuck in his behind. I’m appreciative that he was a relatively easy teen – easy, mostly because I have a good memory and there was nothing he did that I hadn’t done ten-fold. I need to remember to keep that same perspective with everyone.
I’ll continue to dye my roots, and try to keep my body in working condition—but it’s my attitude I’m going to concentrate on. I can’t fight the aging process, things will sag and stretch and eventually fall apart, but I plan on remembering things the way they really were and try to look at things from younger eyes.

The Year of Me

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The last ten years have been tough ones for me.  I managed to get through a cross -country move to North Carolina,where I knew no one — all by myself unless you count the two dogs and one cat.  I survived my son’s deployment to Iraq and his four years in the Marine Corps.  I started a new career at fifty-five years old, moved back to California (now with three dogs), the loss of my cat of fourteen years, another new job, the loss of two of the best dogs ever, the shocking loss of my son’s father at fifty-three years old, frozen shoulder, a horrible flu, several bouts of shingles — too many to count, and my already poor hearing has recently tanked. I’m not whining though, I’m glad I have lived to tell the story. 
Throughout all of these bumps in the road, I haven’t done much for myself in the pampering department. I get my toes done every few months when the weather is nice, my hair done once a year and I don’t buy myself much of anything, except books. No vacation since 2007 when Nick came home from Iraq and I spent nine days in Palm Springs, (waiting for him to step off that bus.)  at my Uncle’s house. The nine months leading up to that “vacation” was so stressful that the stay in Palm Springs didn’t really have the affect itshould have had on me.
Since I turned sixty-one in February, I have gotten my hair done, I’ve gotten a facial (a gift from my nieces) a pedicure and manicure, started taking Taiko (Japanese drum) lessons, and today I went for a reflexology massage.  Suddenly, I feel like I deserve to do something for me. I realize now, I need to take care of myself a little bit more than I have been.
Many moms are like me. They walk around with holey underwear and tattered bras while their kids are wearing 200.00 shoes and taking three trips a year to Disneyland or some other fun-filled place. My son was always better dressed than me, but that was mostly because his grandparents liked to take him shopping. 
Now at 61, I can do a few things for myself without the guilt. I’ve worked hard, really hard, in the last few years and I’m proud of myself for not falling apart when things got bad, not giving up on life, putting one foot in front of the other and staying remarkably hopeful. Sometimes, I didn’t know where that hope came from, but it always prevailed. 
In the past I have offered one piece of advice to new moms, (or dads) and that was always have a hobby, have a life outside your kids just for you, so you are not devastated the day they leave you.  
Now, I’m adding to that advise and hopefully taking awaysome of the guilt. Pamper yourself from time to time it’s okay, really.

So this is Sixty…

On this day, my 60th birthday, I am up at 6AM. It’s only fitting I guess that in a week that sleep was a priceless commodity, I squander it now to write something about turning 60.
Sixty – feels just like 59. But it sounds better to me. Better on so many levels- like I made it to sixty- or- I am sixty dammit- don’t treat me like a child, moron, idiot (you pick the noun).
I already perused facebook, commented to some annoying person, and chatted with one of my Marine Mom’s this morning. I checked my emails, drank two cups of coffee, and so far I have to say that 60 is just like 59.
I received a couple of very nice cards from well-wishers. One card from my oldest, dearest friend – we have actually grown old together (45-46 years of friendship), how great is that? One card in particular caught my attention because it’s from a new, young friend, who said in the card that I bring joy and light to her. I don’t see myself as bringing joy and light to too many people. I bring something… sharp wit, a few laughs, intelligent conversation, hard-headedness, but not so much joy and light. That I am able to bring this to her made me feel better about myself. Maybe sixty has smoothed some rough edges. Maybe my new friend looks at me through fresh young eyes and doesn’t see the baggage, the scars, the information highway which grooves my face.
I am having breakfast with two old friends this morning- then dinner with my sisters. I plan on doing the things I enjoy today- like reading, writing, riding my bike and walking my dog.
I don’t plan on reminiscing my way though the past 59 birthdays or future tripping on what 60 will be like. I’m just going to do the same thing that got me here- and keep putting one foot in front of the other. Maybe I’ll watch my step closer.
I have just a few words of wisdom for those of you behind me in this trip. Take care of your skin, your teeth, your feet and your back. (I didn’t)  If you smoke- quit now- (I did) it may buy you a few years. Don’t get fat- it’s nearly impossible to get rid of it later. (I’m trying)  Find beauty in something. Have passion for something. Hang on to your friends. Don’t let anyone use you as a doormat. Don’t complicate things. Feed your brain and keep it nimble with books. Learn new words as often as possible. Focus on the now- not the future or the past.

The True Confession of an Obit Reader

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Okay, so I read the obits. So what? I bet you do too. I bet everyone over the age of 40 reads them, or younger if you are Italian. I bet you wonder what killed them if it doesn’t say. I do, especially if they are young- or my age. Sometimes you can tell by the charity chosen to donate to. Sometimes it is the Humane Society, so then you’re left to wonder.

I started reading the obits in my 20’s. My mom read them too. She would call me when I lived in San Francisco and she lived in Marin- and ask me to check the San Francisco obits for relatives and friends.
My reasons for reading them now are two-fold. Or so I tell myself anyway. First because I do have a morbid curiosity to know if anyone I know died. Second, I like to critique them. Now the latter sounds bad- but I can’t help it. It has made me somewhat obsessive about my own obit, so I am either going to write it myself- or possibly trust my son to make it a good one. (Depending on how much of a surprise my departure is.)
I am particularly curious about the people that lived to be ninety and their obituary has almost nothing in it.  Mind you, I don’t want mine to read every little detail. “Katie was wild as a youth, ran away from home several times, was somewhat promiscuous in her twenties (it was the 70’s people) and drank like a fish until she was in her late thirties.”
No, I don’t want that. (Nick, please note.) But some accomplishments- other than giving birth to an awesome kid- would be nice. And if I died of being hit by a big old bus- then say so- I don’t want my friends and other obit aficionados to wonder how I ended up wherever I end up.
I live where I grew up, so I’m seeing more and more names I know in the obits these days. Most of them I haven’t seen in forty years- so I won’t be running off to their funerals. That would be too Harold and Maude, even for me.
Lately, I’ve found a couple of other good uses for obits.  Character names and profiles are a plenty in that section. Of course, I mix and match- but grabbing real careers and names makes very believable characters.
 Lastly- reading the obits really reminds me to live like there is no tomorrow. Live passionately and be true to yourself- because it may be a one-trip deal. (As much as I like the thought of reincarnation- just in case- I like to hedge those bets.)
So here is hoping I don’t see your name anytime soon and if you see mine- I hope the following blurb gives you a couple of laughs.
Happy Weekend!