Sticks and Stones

...may break my bones because it turns out I have osteoporosis, and boy, howdy, do I have it bad apparently.

I'm exactly a week out from having minor surgery to remove one of my parathyroid glands that was the bad actor who put me in this predicament, and I underwent a "DXA" scan, which is essentially a bone scan (or maybe it's exactly a bone scan - heck if I know) to try and determine if there had been damage done in the time it had been malfunctioning. My sister-in-law told me it'd be the most straightforward test I'd ever take, and it was very much like Star Trek-level tech, and she was right on both counts.  Maybe a bit bulkier than the handheld devices "Bones" used on the show, but it's still among the many incredible machines I've been subjected to these past several weeks as I navigated through my first real long-term health issue as an adult (everything else, let's face it, has been griping for the sake of griping and hoping y'all would relate and join in because misery does love company). The test ran about ten minutes - about a tenth of the time it took me to commute to the location and back, but hey, it got me out of the house. They told me it would be two days before I received the results.  But they amazed me there, too; it took less than two hours to hit me with the news. And honestly, hit me it did.

I get it. In the bigger scheme of things - keeping in mind that a biopsy is still being done on the tumor on the gland that was removed - this isn't a big deal and a lot of people are struggling with so much worse. But please forgive me, it's still taking some time to wrap my head around. It's not something that can be cured, and my life, in the time it took me to log in and read the results, changed from a woman who was aging but healthy to one who is aging with a lifelong condition that I have to learn to spell so I can list it on every medical history I have to fill out from here on out. It's manageable, and I've never broken a bone outside of some toes, which was many years ago, and has everything to do with my tendency to go around barefoot when I shouldn't and nothing to do with a lack of calcium, so I'm not panicking or thinking I'm suddenly a female Mr. Glass (for all you M. Night Shyamalan nay-sayers, you can Google him to get the reference), yet I woke up thinking of myself one way and I'll go to bed realizing I'm another, and I can't just shrug that off.

I think about my mom at times like these. She was, in my opinion, overly dramatic when she got her Parkinson's diagnosis. And, of all the laundry list of things that she had going on, it always remained the thing that gave her the largest pause, and she struggled with the most mentally, even though it was always controlled well by medication and when you met her you would be very hard pressed to even know she had it. (Granting that by the time her Alzheimer's diagnosis got handed down, she was not capable of processing that one, or else I'm sure it would have taken over the pole position.)  She used to tell me, "You know, Parkinson's is fatal." It's not, but she used to tell me my cat was going to suck my baby's breath out of her too, so her medical knowledge was a little outdated (and this was a Registered Nurse talking). I was smart enough to know it can be a serious disease nonetheless, but, again, it was well-controlled in her case, so whenever she bemoaned the condition or tried to illicit sympathy or special treatment because of it I would tend to ignore it or eye-roll my way through it (had I been smart, I would have leaned into it when I was trying to get her driver's license away from her). But tonight, I am more sympathetic to the mental gymnastics she was going through, and I wish I'd been a better source of support and more present for her in those moments.

What I think we all have to know is that the one relationship we cannot divorce ourselves from is the one with our own bodies and minds. If my partner cheats, I can decide what to do with his cheating ass. Forgive him, drag him to couples counseling, or kick said ass out. If my body betrays me, I'm still stuck with it no matter what.  Even if the betrayal is maybe no more than, say a flirtation, which is probably akin to my diagnosis, there's still a moment when you realize your love affair is less than perfect and will never be the same as it was, and there's some trust that's eroded. That's where I'm at mentally. But at the end of the night, I gotta take this body upstairs and go to bed with it, even though it let me down, and I'm a little pissed about it.

Care for the Caretakers

I'm not Catholic, so all my lifetime's worth of sins are all bottled up in here.  If anyone were to hear my confession, they'd have to get comfy and cozy because they'd be in for a long listen. Sunday night would be on the list.

I've tread on this ground before, I realize. As a matter of fact, it was just over a year ago when I last did. I have an annual breakdown, I suppose. It brims to the top and bubbles over.  But bear with me because it's hard to be a caretaker. Harder still when you didn't want it or volunteer for it. And harder still when you've worked in that capacity for a quarter of a century. It's not burnout at that point; it's volcanic ash.  I had a few years of respite there, but my husband has not. After trying to care for our daughters and my mother, he barely had time to grieve before he was off to care for his brother, and now he has his mom.  And she's hard for all the reasons a 90-year-old person is hard: they're dying. It may be years before they do, but it's in progress. They know this, and they're scared. Growing up a pastor's daughter probably doesn't prevent you from wondering at the end if what you listened to your father preach all those years and you yourself believed all your life might, in fact, be smoke and mirrors. Life is what you know for sure exists. Faith must, well, be taken on faith. Plus, you're bored and lonely. Far from family, having outlived most friends, and too frail and ailing to go out any longer to do things. I think the last time we dared take her on an outing was last fall, and it didn't go all that well. So, in the evenings, she wants some time and attention. If you step back to think of everything I detailed above, it's a reasonable and understandable request, and compassionate people would grant it. But she doesn't ask like a lovely, caring mother.  She yelled it as a demand, and we both said no.  I begged off that I was busy. I was washing dishes, which was moderately accurate, but I could have set them aside. However, my resentment of having put up with this for six years bubbled more than the dish soap, and I just doubled down on my scrubbing.  My husband was just infuriated by how she yelled at both of us, demanding attention like a toddler (which really is more or less where she is mentally), and just met her angry request with an angry denial of it.

A family outing, which are harder and harder

That night, instead of sleeping, I sat pondering, regretting my actions. I can't control anyone else's, so he can atone alone—or not. And it is a two-way street, so I get it if he has no regrets. She's completely forgotten the word "please." About 90% of what she says is a complaint. And it's 100% delivered as a whine unless she's yelling, as she was that night and the next night and the one after that, leading me to believe this is how it will be moving forward. But that's old age for you.

Jan, my mom, and me in the 90's

This brings me to my point: everything I've ever said about aging pales compared to the fear of being "that person." The person whom the people who love you the most avoid being around and almost cringe when they have to. You have to remember I loved and was very close to my mother-in-law.  I've said this before, I think, but she was the very first person I told I was adopted the night I found out (because I couldn't get my daughter on the phone, but...). She planned my wedding. I wore her wedding dress, actually. She once confessed that I was hard to like (I can't disagree), but she took me in and treated me like a daughter despite that. All of that adds to the guilt of my situation.  But here I am, struggling to meet her bizarre, disruptive behavior and her constant demands with anything resembling compassion, and she was, for the bulk of my life, a gentle, caring person I loved deeply.  Who in the [bleep] will do anything remotely like this for me when I was never gentle and caring about anything not on four legs?

2008 maybe?

It terrifies me to be candid.  We're all part of the vast Baby Boomer generation, which the country knew was one day going to be the Geriatric Boomer generation and tax the healthcare system. I was struck by this conclusion in an article published by the National Library of Medicine, "...The real challenges of caring for the elderly in 2030 will involve: (1) making sure society develops payment and insurance systems for long-term care that work better than existing ones, (2) taking advantage of advances in medicine and behavioral health to keep the elderly as healthy and active as possible, (3) changing the way society organizes community services so that care is more accessible, and (4) altering the cultural view of aging to make sure all ages are integrated into the fabric of community life." Particularly points 3 and 4. 

But it was an article published by Vox that I think hits the spot where I'm afraid my family will live: "'We are in a crisis of care,' said Carlene Davis, co-founder of the nonprofit Sistahs Aging With Grace & Elegance (SAGE). It’s a crisis that American society, with no paid leave, a fragmented care system, and minimal public discussion around aging and disability, is woefully ill-equipped to handle.“We are in a crisis of care,” said Carlene Davis, co-founder of the nonprofit Sistahs Aging With Grace & Elegance (SAGE). It’s a crisis that American society, with no paid leave, a fragmented care system, and minimal public discussion around aging and disability, is woefully ill-equipped to handle."

As a society and in government, we must do better by our caretakers, both professional and non.  However, particularly the "nons" since they are the men and women who have never signed up for this and don't get a paycheck to do it.  They fell into it by the simple fact of being related to someone.  They have no training in what they're facing. They have very little support.  Sure, a caregiver support group meets at the local library in my township, but I can't go: I can't leave my MIL alone...and I work. But that's emotional support. I'm not aware of any training offered to teach us how to handle it when your mother can't remember your name or swears at you and tells you she hates you. Nor how to change an adult diaper or help with PT, or lift them into bed if need be.  Trust me, my MIL is small and frail but a full-on dead weight that can still be hard to lift so that neither one of us gets hurt.

Sure, you can hire that kind of help and expertise, but then you'll bankrupt yourself quickly. I recently demanded we bring help in.  My husband semi-took me seriously and did some research, but the cost became daunting. We drain ourselves now; what will we live on when we retire? And we're middle class. We're luckier than most. Reasonable care should be available for all. Because if it's not, we all will pay one way or another when all of us overwhelm the welfare system when we age.

Long story short, this problem is going to get bigger. It's too late for me.  But for my poor only child, and for all of you who have parents who aren't quite to the point my MIL is: press for better options for the caretakers before you are one. Please.

The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly

 

Does anyone remember spaghetti westerns? I do, but I don't know why I watched them with some glee. Maybe the bad dubbing was amusing, the odd soundtrack caught my ear, or was it the wanton violence that drew me in from a young age (I'm an avid John Wick fan - although I always skip over the part where the puppy dies - so make of that what you will). Still, I didn't just watch them sitting with my dad. I would actually watch them by myself sometimes. Do I remember anything about them other than they featured Clint Eastwood scowling and a lot of gunfights? Nope. But that's okay because this isn't a post about B-level westerns. It's about life past 60, which is good, bad, and sometimes ugly.

Let's look at it backward. I'll start with the Ugly. I've talked about a lot of this: the facial lines might be where you think I'd start, but I wonder if some lines are a bad thing. Is that weird, ladies? I don't want too many, but some evidence that I'm a natural person who has seen real life is not that bad. And I'm afraid of bad plastic surgery. I think that's worse than letting your face show some experience. I spotted a blonde woman sitting on the glass at one of the Florida Panther's games during the playoffs. The camera just glanced at her, but I could immediately tell she'd had work done. To me, that's distracting. Suddenly I'm not paying attention to the real you, I'm preoccupied by the alterations. I don't want others to assess me that way. At the same time, I don't want to look like Valerie in The Princess Bride either. A nice in-between is just fine by me.

But, hypocritical as it might be, I would gladly do some cosmetic work to get rid of the weird river map on my right leg. I featured that last summer, and a year later, it's better actually, but still there, so I assume it's with me for life, and I'd prefer that instead, it takes a hike. The one bulging vein on that leg actually hurts on occasion and is truly a definition of ugly. (And did I remember to ask my doctor about it? Nope.) Then there's the fact that going braless is off the table. My arms take work to stay toned (and are not currently). Tummy control? Ugh, more like tummy-out-of-control. I bemoan a lot that I never thought twice about twenty years ago. Such is the march of time.

But then there's the Bad, which outweighs the ugly. By the time you hit your 60s, I am willing to bet you've seen some shit, and life has handed you some raw and painful deals. I don't care if you're rich (ask Jessica Biel how her last few months have been going after her husband decided to bring Stupid back) or poor; you don't get here without realizing life is both unfair and cruel. The question is, what should we do with that information? It can inspire you, or it can break you. Or, if you're like me, it depends on the day. But if you're still standing, which if you're reading this, you are, so I'm betting you went the inspired route.

As I'm finding out, falling into the Bad category is the fact that no matter how healthy a lifestyle you try to lead, your body may have some other ideas about your health. From small issues to large - the temples that house us sometimes have shaky foundations. I suppose that is true no matter our age. Cancer can strike at any point, just to name one evil doer. In my case, I was recently diagnosed with hyperparathyroidism. Which is a total mouthful, to name one problem. But, while it's minor surgery to correct, it'll mean I'll go under the knife soon for the first time since I was three and had my tonsils out. Was it anything I did? No. Just a thing that I've lived long enough to hit the odds of it happening - or something happening anyway. I'm guessing there will be more. Like eye floaters. You can say you don't want them, but they seem to want you.

But there's also good. There's something to be said about leaving youth, with its inexperience and self-doubt, behind. I don't think we are as fiery about things as we once were, although I suppose it's unfair to speak for others, and there are some of us (the Republican Presidential nominee springs to mind) that prove the opposite, to be sure. But in general, I think our youthful tempers seem to be balanced out by a level of maturity.  Some might see that as the death of passion or idealism, but that fire burned hot. I prefer the simmer it runs at now. Don't get me wrong, I'm still passionate about some things, but I think it's more focused and hopefully intelligently directed now. 

I like that I've accepted my age. I can embrace telling you I'm a grandmother; you can look at me and guess it anyway, so why shy away? Gone are the days when I felt like I needed to act older to get that job or promotion, but then later, required to act younger to avoid getting lost in the influx of young ups and comers. Have you ever noticed we were never the exact right age? It was exhausting.

And of course, I like getting a discount at the movies. 

I could go on, but the point is that it's not all bad to be a Golden Girl. Or Boy. So, here we all are: living our very own spaghetti western. Maybe we're not going to win an Oscar for it, but hey, it can be oddly entertaining.

The Roads We Should Have Traveled

I crossed vet school off the career list in 5th grade. A friend of mine hurt her knee pretty badly on the gravel in the playground after school. When I saw it, the image is still pretty clear to this day, all bloody and full of ground in dirt and gravel my stomach did a little backflip, and that was the end of telling all my parents' friends I would be a vet when they patronizingly asked what I wanted to be when I grew up. No one ever told me, and I never once considered, that there are other ways to be involved with animals for a living without being a vet. I had other passions, and I decided to pursue those. Do I do any of them for a living now, either? That's a no. I work in property management. Do I want to work in property management? Did I ever? Also, a no. No one - and I mean no one - grows up thinking, "One day, I want to enforce deed restrictions for a living." Now, some of us have found it fulfilling. I found a family with the people I've worked with and whom I work with now, but the job itself? Honestly, shoveling elephant shit would be more rewarding.

So, a while back, after a pretty rough period, I thought about said elephant shit and decided, "Well, let's put my theory to the test and see what kinds of opportunities there are out there to do just that." And, as it happens, the Pittsburgh Zoo and Aquarium runs an International Conservation Center where they house and care for a number (five currently) African elephants not too far from here - close enough to drive in for games and, as luck would have it, they had openings. When I read about them, I thought my dream job was about to be mine. Until I read the requirements, a BS in Animal Husbandry was a requisite. Next, I looked to see if they had any openings at the local zoo, which was very, very close to my house. They did, but - you guessed it - if you want to get up and close with the animals and actually "handle" them (including shoveling their shit), you need that degree.

And that's when I knew. I fucked up. All my life, I've surrounded myself with animals. Domestic and wild. I had deer who responded to me when I called them by name. Total strangers came up to me and deposited animals in my care because my reputation was that I would do it and know what to do (erroneously, but that's how urban myths are made). It was right there screaming at me all these years: I was put here to care for animals. Their welfare, I do firmly believe, is our welfare. Sure I've always had rescue dogs and sure I volunteered at shelters, but I could have made this my calling. I could have kept the roof over our heads by doing something that helped the planet instead of telling people to mow their yards.

Could I do it now? I looked into it and did some fast math: it was a losing proposition. I would never earn enough in the limited years I could do such a physical job to make the expenditure worthwhile. The other day, I decided I didn't care; I was doing it anyway. I was going back to school to earn a completely different degree than anything I studied initially—a degree, I should add, that is heavy on chemistry—my Kryptonite.  And if I never really earned it back, oh well. I applied and got accepted to a middling school where I could get the entire degree online (Penn State, where I would love to go, is a lot harder to get into and requires the last year to be on campus.) My husband was on board until I told him the cost. Then, he not only got off the boat, he jumped overboard. Next, I researched grants and aid money for seniors. It's out there, but it all starts with the FAFSA. I started filling it out and realized that the tax return they wanted was a good year for us - I could only imagine being laughed out of the program asking for aid under the circumstances. Turns out my husband jumped off a sinking ship.

So here I sit, on the eve of Independence Day, wondering if I have wasted my life and if I will have the opportunity to somehow set karma right. And feeling pretty guilty about it. I know full well there are people in Ukraine and Gaza just fighting to survive another day, and I dare worry I made a good living doing the wrong thing?! And what does that say about all the good people I know who do what I do for a living? How dare I question it as a vocation. Yet, here I sit...

The moral of this story is that the bitch of getting older is that the old saying, "It's never too late," is a damn lie.  There are doors that are closing. I often wonder if this whole blog is a morality tale that I hope my grandchildren will find someday and heed as worldly advice. If so, here's some: know who you are and - more importantly - why you are, and then be true to it from the beginning.  But if you get lost in the chaos of just trying to live, then at some point, try to find a way to realize your true calling and don't give up on it.

I hope I find mine.

Wait, Didn't I Already Have This Mid-Life Crisis?

On my 40th birthday, years away from finding out I was adopted, I felt badly for my mom.  Here was a woman, so I believed, who had tried for years to have children (I think that part's true) and finally had me when she herself had seen 40 come and go. I wondered what must it be like realizing this "late in life" baby was reaching the "welcome to middle-age" milestone. I assumed the answer was not great. I actually got her a present and gave it to her as we stood in line for dinner at Dave and Buster's, which is where she insisted we all go.

That day was memorable for a lot of reasons, many of which were not celebratory, so I don't think I even fully realized how much of a stressful day it was for her until literally right now, but the tell was that she had orchestrated it all around the things she wanted to do: it was her choice to go out and eat (and refused to take no for an answer) and where. Maybe she didn't give birth to me, but she could do the math, and if I was 40, that put her squarely in her 80's. There were a lot of people going through a crisis at that table that night, as it turns out. Any mid-life crisis I might have been having was the very least of them. The food, however, was surprisingly good.

When my husband and I were the same age my daughter is now, give or take, we lived in a modest house on the far north end of Austin.  The kids became friends with some of the other kids on the street, as children are better than adults at doing, and two of the families joined ours with having at least one member who had a late May, early June birthday (I was the only outlier in my family), so we would gather together and have a group celebration every year we lived there.  I don't keep in touch with the adults any longer, but I'm still in touch with one of the boys. His 40th birthday was the week before last. When the notification came up on Facebook, I stared at it for a minute, then blinked rapidly a few times, like maybe I wasn't seeing it right. My brain wasn't quite comprehending that here this young boy my girls played with was now older than I was when that was happening.

He stood in the front of the line to a lot of birthdays for that generation: my oldest daughter would have turned 38 four days later, my niece saw her own 40th a few days after that, and my youngest woke up to 35 a week ago tomorrow.

I gotta tell you, it's a mind(bleep).

It's not that I think they're old.  Or that I'm locked in to a vision of them only as children and cannot grasp that they are functioning adults. And it's not the same as what I think my mom was going through, which I believe was a fear of death (because she definitely was afraid of it). I'm actually not sure I know to describe what this feeling I'm having is precisely. 

I will say I thought of myself in my 30's as firmly entrenched in adulthood, meaning I perceived that I had been one for so long. After all, if I had been a football or hockey player, I would be referred to as a veteran at that point and people would be wondering when I was going to retire. When in fact, with this new perspective, I realize that wasn't the case. I was still pretty new playing this game of life. Nor was I as mature as I thought I was.  (I learn that I'm not as mature as I ought to be on an almost daily basis, so...you know that's not a new realization really.) As I hit 40 I didn't think of myself as old exactly, but I did, again, think that I'd been at this adulting thing for a good, long time.  Now when I see my generation's kids turning these ages, and I remember things they did, things they said, things they wore when they were in elementary school like it was just a few months ago, and it sends me reeling.

Pondering this further, I confess that there is some benign fear of being closer to the end than the beginning, but it's not that I think I'm about to fall off the cliff or anything.  It's more a matter of the fact that all has me realizing how precious time is, and how fast it slips through our fingers. And how, when I was in my 30's and 40's I was so busy just going and doing, I never stopped to just appreciate being who and what I was in that moment, and who I had in my life. At that age, it tended to be about trying to be something more than I was. To be fair, that wasn't just selfish, it was for my kids that I wanted that but I wish I had taken more time with them when they were young enough to still want my company, because I can see now how truly brief a time that is. But you can't get that back.  There are no do-overs.

Yeah, I think that's it.  That's the crisis: it went so quickly, and I was blissfully ignorant back then, but having all these "kids" turn certain milestones has removed that veil of ignorance. 

Bottom line is you think you'll have time. Time to save for retirement. Time to take vacations. Time to enjoy your children. Time to read all those books and see all those movies.  But to bastardize a line from one of my favorite songs, Time Does Not Stand Still.

For any readers in that 30-50 year old range, take note. Slow down and take your time now.

For my generation, all I can say to us is: don't squander what's left. Live, don't just exist.

A Weighty Subject

For me - for this family - the topic of weight is a heavy one in absolutely every sense of the word but since I sniffed around that pen in my last post where I referenced the Great COVID Weight Loss Campaign, I might as well dive in. 

The reality is I'm like others out there: women in our postmenopausal years that find we've got the stubborn belly fat, and metabolism that is going so slowly it's almost pedaling backwards. We might still exercise, but our weight seems to almost take that as a challenge to show us it can add more than we can sweat off. And, I'm sure if you're thinking, yeah, that's me then you also have at least one friend who still looks svelte and you sometimes secretly hate her. It's all very stressful, and as it happens, I learned a long time ago that I tend to eat my stress.

Despite "diet" being the ultimate four letter word in our family, I had gotten to a point where my weight was starting to not only be a cosmetic issue, but was beginning to lean into a health concern. My cholesterol was borderline bad, any kind of bad air quality day winded me terribly. And, yeah, I hated what I saw in the mirror. So when the Pandemic shut us all in, I decided I was going to do it differently than certain others under this roof. I wasn't going to binge watch streaming channels, and I wasn't going to binge bake (well, okay, I did a little). I was going to get healthy. I got help from a program from our insurance at work that allowed us to enroll in a coaching program for free that lasted a year called RealAppeal. Add that to the Peloton my husband had gotten us for Christmas the year before, and while it took the whole year plus some, I did it.  I lost 50 pounds.

Fast forward almost three years and where are those 50 pounds?  Well they're with me; I seem to have found them. Actually it's more like 20 found their way home, but enough to be depressing.  And I ride the Peloton with a religious fervor that exceeds what I was doing even in 2020-21.  So what happened?! Great question - but it's probably the ice cream. Maybe the chocolate stout beer I allow myself every now and again. Maybe it's the croutons I eat straight out of the bag (seriously, I got a "year in review" kind of email from Sam's Club recently and the number one item I bought was Member's Mark croutons). After 18 months of denying myself the simple little pleasures of The Oakmont Bakery, maybe I went a little hard the other way. Now don't get me wrong, I didn't park myself out at Oakmont or anything, it's still a special treat, but yeah, my granddaughter and I have made our way out there a few Saturdays. And, when I was counting out the number of times she and I went for ice cream when I was babysitting more than I am now...well, that might contribute to why I'm not babysitting as much now (seriously, the number of photos I could have chosen of her with ice cream in her hand was sort of an a-ha moment).

I know the science behind all of this, but this isn't a blog about the science of aging, it's the experience of it. I wanted us to share our WTF moments as we journey down the road, and what I realize as I contemplate my reaction to all of this is that all of these changes we're going through have made me want to react emotionally and impetuously, throwing reason out the window. I want the easy fix products like Golo promise. Man, I came so close to ordering that a few times, it's like my finger was hovering over the keyboard...and I KNOW there's not an easy button. Losing that 50 pounds was hard, hard work and a lot of giving up things I enjoy, like that pumpkin flavored cone Cookie's Creamery carries year round. Like not just enjoying it less but giving it up altogether - at least that's what it takes for me.

And it's not just women.  I listen to local sports talk every morning and in the last 30 minutes I've heard two different weight loss for men ads.

The decision is: do I enjoy life a little and just accept I'm not model thin, or do I want to have the body and not the ice cream?  So far, I've chosen to live a little.

What's the journey like for you?

Summertime

"Summer time, and the livin' is easy."

- Ira Gershwin / George Gershwin / Du Bose Heyward / Dorothy Heyward

Clearly the four people it took to come up with that iconic lyric had others doing their household work for them. Summer has it uses: hammocks, swimming pools, baseball (if you're not a Pirates fan that is, if you are then that's just a sad part of the season), ice cream stands. For me, it's a time when as a superstitious, ritual driven sports fan, I can choose whatever coffee mug I want because I don't have to plan it around "game day mugs". Of course that means there are no game days, so a bit of a double-edge sword there. But as a homeowner, it's anything but easy. And as an aging homeowner, summer will tell you a lot about where you truly are in your life.

For instance, when I just passively look at my yard, it's a slightly larger than average suburban yard on a gentle slope. When I'm mowing my yard, it's an estate built into the side of a mountainous incline. Want to watch a grandmother cuss like a sailor? Come watch me mow. I need to remember that the neighbors to the right of us have a toddler now and police myself, but the more tired and frustrated I get, the more the four letter descriptives about the work at hand come out.

Looks gentle, right? Yeah, right,

It's fair to ask why don't you just hire someone to mow it. There are choices one makes when supporting an aging adult completely, and our lawn service was one of the first luxuries to go (it helped that they stopped showing up regularly).  If you ask me to choose between going to a handful of hockey games or having the ease of someone else doing my yard, hockey wins every time.  But there will come a point where it's not a choice I get to make.  Our bodies will make it for us.  At one point last summer, hot, filthy, sweaty and smelly, feeling like I'd just come through the Battle of the Bastards (okay, maybe that's being slightly overdramatic), I looked at my husband and asked if we're there yet. But we're not there yet because there is the undeniable fact that if you're trying to stay active, mowing is a great way to get your steps in without ever leaving home. 

When I went through my COVID-let's-get-in-shape year, I insisted I do the mowing for that reason.  It wasn't pretty, I was hating it and myself every weekend, and the hubs made a lot of fun of me for how slow I would go, but I could get the whole yard done in a single session (with some notable breaks where I would look busy pulling weeds or trimming but was really just trying to recuperate a bit). After that summer we would split it from one week to another.  But this year, he's the one in the get-in-shape mode so he wants to do it, but he's tempering how he goes now.  Front yard one day. Backyard the next.  Rome wasn't built in a day. Our yard isn't mowed in one either.  Seems to be working better than my foul-mouthed all-out assault.

The family on the other side of us are also young parents, but their kids are a bit older and heavily into organized sports, so in true Yinzer fashion, their extended family steps in to help take care of things, and one of the dads (so roughly our age) does their mowing, and I notice he does the same thing now.  He can't make the whole yard in a single day (and it's smaller than ours but also with a deceiving slope). I saw him from my office window the other day walking up their front steps after he'd done half the front.  I thought the poor man was about to have a coronary right in front of my eyes.  In all candor, it's not age as much as he's got the beer drinker's paunch and could definitely stand to lose even more than I could, which is a fair amount.  Sorry if that sounds mean, but the truth sometimes packs a sting - a different kind of pack than we used to carry around on NFL Sundays, sadly.

That day, maybe the next, I was walking Carly in an affluent neighborhood not far from ours.  I love walking there, looking at the lovely old houses and their carefully manicured lawns and lavish gardens.  Some of those yards could fit two of ours on them with room to spare.  And as we walked past one such there was a man, roughly a decade older, painfully bent over walking his push mower slowly up and back, up and....oh-so-slowly...back.  I stopped by his house today and looked: his slope kicks my slope in the butt.  That's a hard yard to mow with a push-mower no matter who you are.

He clearly has some money or he couldn't afford the taxes on a lot like that, and our neighbor's family could pool together funds and just hire a lawn service for my neighbor. Why do we all continue to oh-so-painfully work that hard at something that I am willing to bet gives none of us joy at this stage in life.  I certainly don't see ecstasy on any of our faces when mowing.  I've decided it's because we just can't give in yet.  It would be admitting we're not the young, vibrant, capable homeowners who dreamed of how it would be to pamper our very own yards and groom them and put the stamp of our nurturing care on them.  We were the Kings and Queens of our castles and thought we always would be. We're not ready to step down from that throne. Even if, strictly speaking, being royalty means we would have people doing our dirty work...sometimes my logic is flawed, but you get the point, right? A lot about aging, I've decided, is about the battle for control.  And this is a big one.  And it's a bastard. So maybe I wasn't being overly dramatic before after all.