Tag: health

Locking My Bedroom Window

In life we ultimately discover that problems require solutions. However, the solution to all problems are many times perplexing and difficult to uncover.

There are times when I feel like Sherlock Holmes attempting to solve a case. One such mystery has me quite stumped and in the tradition of Dr. Watson I will name this case…The Night Prowler and Mystery Biter.

I assure you my situation is not unique. I have spoken to countless friends and acquaintances that find themselves faced with a similar conundrum and no solution in sight.

After studying many of these puzzling acts, I find myself close to a solution.

It all began when I turned sixty-five. Sure, Social Security was now on the horizon, but I couldn’t seem to find any correlation between my case and the monthly stipend from the government. So no conspiracy theory here.

I continued my investigation.

At first it was intermittent.

A bite here, a pain there. I took little notice thinking it was something that had happened during daylight hours.

Yet after a time I realized the events were occurring closer together and far more often.

I would awaken with a large red itchy mass on my cheek. Or a sharp pain in my rib or even an inability to actually move my arm.

I became more mystified as time went on.

More frequently the first words out of my mouth in the morning were OUCH! What the hell?

Not wanting to overreact to these nighttime attacks on my body, I attempted a reasonable explanation for these occurrences.

Aliens? Not so much. I had heard they probed earthlings through the belly button and nope, no evidence of that anywhere.

Having the hassle of working sans Dr. Watson my theories often came up short.

But I persevered. My determination was inspiring. Not quite certain to whom, but I digress.

First things first. How were these interlopers entering a locked residence in the middle of the night.

Possessing a secure entrance where I must buzz someone inside, it seems rather impossible. But, of course we know that if one is determined nothing is impossible.

The bedroom window I thought. They must be climbing up and sneaking in to beat me. Yet, I     thought I might hear noises if that was the case.

I examined the possibility someone was driving a car through the window at such rapid speed it was like a flash going by in a dream. Too quickly for my eyes to even perceive.

Maybe that dream about participating in the Formula 500 wasn’t a dream after all?

No matter how I tried to imagine a plausible scenario, I couldn’t seem to come up with a viable reason why I awakened in the morning bruised, battered and full of ouchies.

I definitely wasn’t imaging these mystery bruises.

They weren’t there at night, but in the morning, I couldn’t turn my neck. Or my foot hurt, or a big red itchy bump was on my shoulder.

Was I running in my sleep? Who and what was sneaking in at night to beat the hell out of me?

What the heck, was my mattress made of, steel?

It’s not as if old age doesn’t afford you enough aches and pains, at night ghosts, goblins or ghouls are partying on my bed and kicking the hell out of me.

OUCH!

I once hopped out of bed in the morning. Eager to begin a new day. Filled with energy and ambition and tanked up with enough coffee to run a fifty-mile marathon. Okay, maybe not fifty miles.

Now if I simply turn my head to look at the clock it takes five minutes to stop the pain and another ten to turn my head back.

I’m beginning to think it’s not aliens at all. Or teenagers doing wheelies over my entire body with a GTO. I’m beginning to suspect it’s my body punishing me for not working out in college, or after. My body sees young girls with spandex on walking to the gym thinking, serves you right to suffer aches and pains after the way you neglected me.

But who knew?

To us exercise was walking back and forth to school four times a day. Riding our bikes to the drug store or playing dodge ball in a neighbor’s back yard.

It was walking to a friend’s home six blocks away and returning home before the street lights came on.

Running home from school when you got all ‘A’s on your report card.

Walking to the store for a quarter’s worth of penny candy and wax teeth.

Or chasing the Good Humor man down the street. “STOP! I need a Strawberry Shortcake Bar.”

It was going on the bus with a friend to that new giant mall and walking around there all day.

Or swimming in the summer because there was no air conditioning.

I believe that would qualify as exercise.

So why do I feel like I’m in horrible shape?

Why is my body so angry that it wakes up each morning with a chip on its shoulder, a bite or a big huge OUCH!?

We ate healthy, played healthy and there were no video games to keep us glued to a screen. Our feet were our mode of transportation and they worked great. Now it takes me ten visits to the shoe store to find a pair that doesn’t kill my feet.

Ageing is difficult enough when you can actually see the ravages of time. But the ones that are stealth, well that’s totally over the top.

I have to go now so have a great day. I’m setting up a teddy bear nanny cam in my bedroom. I’ll catch those suckers now!

We Need an Ouchy Manual at a Certain Age

So someone forgot to pass out the instruction manual for people over sixty-five. Sure, they send you the Medicare card and your Social Security info. But we need instructions on how to find out why a new ache or pain shows up every morning without warning? Most times, you have no idea how or why or how it got there; so where’s the easy-to-read chart to navigate this golden-years crapola?

It’s no longer possible to just hop up out of bed in the morning. Now it’s a process.

First you have to ask your body’s permission to get out of bed. If you get the all clear then make sure that movement doesn’t equal pain.

Or at least a minimum of pain anyway.

When you ascertain you can actually lift your tush off the bed, that first step in the morning tells the tale.

If someone mouths an OUCH, and it’s you, that means you might spend the better part of the morning figuring out what you did to piss your body off.

Was it how you slept on your arm? The shoes you wore last night for that party?

Did you sleep in a crazy position? Has the ouch fairy left you a quarter under your pillow, plugged in the heating pad?

You may be asking why it is important to track down the cause of the pain and not just inhale the Motrin and shut up, but I’m an optimist.

I still believe if I can find the cause I can avoid these little skirmishes with my body.

Stop laughing, I can hear you.

Yes of course, pain is a part of life at a certain age that we’ve come to expect. At least many have. I know there are the lucky ones who have managed to hang onto youth. Don’t you just hate those guys?

There is an ouch factor inherent in our existence that now embeds itself into our lifestyle.

But there is no manual to avoid the aches and pains. Despite inhaling kale, force feeding oneself handfuls of vitamins each day and promising to hit the gym, we wind up in the garage for repairs like a classic Corvette. Love my new bionic knee.

Oh, sure there are urban myths about people who actually awaken in the morning without discomfort or pain. I’ve heard tell, and I’ve dreamed one day it might be me. But alas, these tales are as credible as the fodder spewing from a politician’s mouth.

On occasion a friend will remark about someone they know who can run a marathon, walk ten miles or feel as spry as when they were fifty. Of course, we both laugh at the thought and discuss how hard it is to climb the stairs now. Then we drink a toast to the guy who invented escalators.

My response to these fables is always, show me the proof and I’ll believe you. I do believe we grow more skeptical as we age.

After seventy my week consists of perhaps one doctor appointment, PT session, Maj game, ordering groceries online and lunch with a friend. This creates the illusion life in the laugh laugh golden years is business as usual. And we all know the usual was shopping, working, lunch, rush home to make dinner and get the kids ready for bed. Then get up the next day and do it all again.

It is to laugh. I once lived that life. However, by the way my body reacts now when I simply try to raise myself off a chair and it takes five minutes to straighten up, I have a hard time believing that person ever existed.

Yet what is one to do? Maj Jong has become a bit louder now because no one can hear the tiles called anymore. Food is an adversary instead of a welcome friend. And my body is adamant it needs a day off now and then to recharge its batteries.

Plus, getting up in the morning is the equivalent of playing Name That Tune at the doctor’s office.

I can name that pain in two ouches. I can name it in one… okay, so name it.

The doctor asks where is the pain?

“I’m not sure,” I say. “It could be below the waist, but I do feel it above the waist also. And it travels to both sides and down my leg.”

Of course he asks, “Did you do anything different yesterday? Lift something heavy perhaps?”

“Sure. I went to the gym and benched three hundred pounds. Look at me Doc. Isn’t it enough I lift my ass out of bed in the morning?”

“Are you eating right?”

After I stop laughing, I assure him I’m eating far better than I once did, although through no choice of my own. Lord, I miss chocolate.

He asks if there is anywhere it doesn’t hurt?

I think a minute before answering because it’s important to get this right. “I’m not sure because I kind of feel ouchy all over.”

“Ouchy all over,” he responds.

I imagine that’s a phrase that makes it super easy for a doctor to diagnose.  I can see the commercial on TV now. For that ouchy all over feeling take two time-release tablets and get through a day like you were fifty again.

Side effects may include, nausea, heartburn, backaches, heart failure and a bit of dizziness upon awakening.  Certain cases have been reported of hip breakage and balance issues. Lymphoma may occur on rare occasions. If any of these symptoms occur call your doctor or go to the hospital immediately.

Now I’m no medical genius, but I think I’ll take my chances without these miracle pills. Ouchy is looking good after hearing all those side effects. Are these drug companies trying to heal you or scare you to death?

We all accept that most days you’re never going to feel the way you did when you were forty, but sixty is looking good here.

So I’ve decided to make friends with the ouchies that greet me upon awakening.  I think if you get out of bed with only one familiar ache, it’s a good day.

Let’s face it, our bodies have slowed down a bit, the least we can do is cut them some slack. Do I feel the same as I did twenty years ago? Did I expect to? No and no. But one must simply tell oneself we are lucky to be here aches and all and get on with it.  

But I still think a manual would be helpful.

Ouch! My Feet are Killing Me.

Men will never understand the pain a woman suffers. I’m not talking about the trying to push a watermelon through your cervix pain. No, I’m talking about the pain you can’t acknowledge or scream about.

At least in childbirth you are allowed to yell and call your mate every name in the book. And even make up a few new ones if you want.

I’m talking about the pain of walking in high-heeled shoes that are pinching your toes like Godzilla is bouncing on them. I’m talking about that feeling that if you have to walk another step you will rip off those Christian Louboutins and beat the closest person over the head with the heel point.

An overwhelming Oh-my-God-I-wish-I-were-dead kind of pain only a woman in five-inch heels could understand.

Okay, I do realize men get kidney stones and they lose their minds from the pain.

So, if men have experienced that, then they do have some idea of a woman’s suffering.

So why am I bringing this up at all? Do you not have more important things to worry about, Norma?

Of course I do, but the other night I was reminded of women’s suffering and tolerance for pain watching Melania Trump at the inaugural ball.

Now this is not a political piece so please don’t start sending me hate memes or unfriending me. It’s to make a point about women and shoes.

I’m certain it took hours to put herself together and she was bedecked in a designer gown and all the trimmings.

But the real story here is the shoes.

When she walked into the ball I instantly saw on her face that familiar look of pain. Someone who is wishing she could take off her shoes and wiggle her toes in ice water. Whose toes hadn’t felt blood rushing through them in hours. Yet she knew the fashion world was snapping pics and judging, so Birkenstocks were out of the question.

When I was young in the Mesozoic era, the highest heels we wore were three inches.

That was enough to pinch, hurt and ouch our way through occasions when it was necessary to sport a dressy shoe.

Now women wear five-inch heels. Are you kidding me? I once saw Jodie Foster in heels so high her calves were bulging tighter than Tyson’s fists.

We’ve all been there. Trying to smile and act cool while we’re fighting not to cry or scream out loud from the agony. Trying not to show it on our face when we are literally wincing from the torture.

So my question is why? Why wear shoes that will cause you excruciating pain instead of sensible-sized heels?

I’m thinking one of the best parts of getting to grandma age is you never have to wear those Manolo torture chambers again. No one gives a damn if a seventy-five-year-old woman’s legs look shapely under her gown.

My friends and I fell back down to earth years ago searching for pretty flats to wear for fancy occasions.

And what a difference it made.

While other women in skyscraper heels suffered and tried to smile through the evening, we were cozy and comfortable in old lady flats with a cushy insole.

Now I do have some friends who can rock a one or two incher while wearing a soft insert, but I’m not that adventurous. Nope. I’ve decided life is too short to wear a vice around my feet that squeezes harder with each moment of swelling.

The last time I wore a heel I was limping and crying within the first hour. I said “screw this and walked around in my nylons the rest of the night.”

Do I care if people were pointing and giggling behind my back? Hell no, because they were all men. The women were nodding and sending me looks of pity and total understanding of my dilemma. Although some of them continued to brave on in higher heels with full knowledge they wouldn’t be walking without pain for the next few days.

So why do women care at all? I have a bunch of shoes in my closet I will never wear again. Yet I don’t have the heart to give them away yet.

Many were only worn once, but they sit sadly in the box awaiting their night on the town.

A night that will never come. So why do I keep them?

Is it because I actually believe that I will someday be able to tolerate the torture again? Does old age make you more masochistic?

Trust me. There is no pain killer strong enough to eliminate the misery and still allow me to walk upright without bumping into walls.

My toes still smart when I think about the squeezing they endured in those pointed, but absolutely yummy candy-apple-red heels I so loved.

It’s a chick thing and I don’t expect men to get it.

Most men would be sensible and ask, “well if they hurt your feet so much why wear them?”

Easy for them to say. Does common sense have anything at all to do with fashion?

Well, I’d have to admit when you’re young you kind of feel it’s your duty to suffer for style.

It’s so great to get to the Chico’s age. Now one can wear loose clothes, low heels and big necklaces or scarves to cover that turkey neck.

Don’t even start me on the whole fabulous “throw-a-hat-on” thing.

As difficult as it is to age, I must admit one of the perks is you no longer have to give a damn about fashion. You can display great taste even wearing comfortable clothes and low-heeled shoes.

At least there are other choices now besides Naturalizers or the grandma kickers of yesteryear.

Sadly, most people are too busy noticing all those wrinkles on your face to even make it down to the feet anyway.

The only thing a woman in her seventies should be doing with a five-inch heel is using it as a weapon if she’s attacked.

Even if I could get them on and stand in them, chances are I’d fall flat on my face immediately. What am I, a high wire performer in my old age?

As a public service I have a tip for the CIA and Mossad. Next time you are trying to make a terrorist talk, just put them in a pair of five-inch, one size too small Manolo Blahniks and make them walk two miles. They’ll sing like a bird after only twenty minutes.

My Metabolism Retired to Boca Raton

I received a text the other day from my metabolism. It retired to Boca Raton in 2011 and has been playing canasta and doing Zumba ever since. Break ups are never easy and this one was definitely tough.

Occasionally I will run into a friend who saw my metabolism at a Chili’s Restaurant when vacationing there and report that it looks wonderful. Rested and suntan and living its best life.

Why not? It should look amazing! My metabolism hasn’t worked a day for over seventy years.

It decided to go off the clock when I was ten and hasn’t done an hour’s work ever since.

I remember many times when I would exercise to give it a boost and I heard snoring inside me. I walked miles on the treadmill, sweating and panting to lose even an ounce and the lazy bugger slept.

Oh, so too busy to be bothered with doing your job huh? And I ran harder, my face red and filled with agony as my metabolism just snoozed and acted like it didn’t have a care in the world.

As you can imagine it was quite a hostile relationship. Believe me I tried, but it was obvious we were totally incompatible.

Yes, I admit it. We didn’t get along. We fought more than a married couple who hatred one another, but stayed together just to torture their mate.

The battles were constant. No matter how little I ate, it would all go straight to the fat cells.

It didn’t pass go, collect 200 calories or ever have a face to face with what should have been the guard at the pudgy portal.

My metabolism lazed like a sleeping security man as someone robbed the jewelry store.

In fact, I’m not sure it wasn’t inviting more calories in to join the party.

“Hey chocolate chip cookie here’s a place for you in her midriff. Come on guys let’s do an all- butterscotch bash in her boobs. PARTY ON!

So many of my friends refused to show up when I threw a don’t-let-the-door-hit-you-in-the-ass gala for my absent metabolism. They too were disgusted by the way it had treated me all those years.

I was like a wife divorcing a husband who had beaten her every day and kept the boxing gloves as a memento of their time together.

Growing up I do remember my metabolism complained a great deal. “What the hell is this new diet pill? I told you I hate Metrecal!”

Sunday nights when I was a kid and my family went out for Chinese food, it always grumbled I wasn’t eating enough. “Hey scarf down that extra egg foo young so I won’t be hungry in an hour.”

Few times do I remember my metabolism actually happy. It did seem pretty overjoyed though when I ate hot fudge cream puffs at Sanders, a favorite Detroit confectionary store. Then it was a happy camper. It knew that none of those thousands of calories I was ingesting would disturb its sleep.

It absolutely jumped for joy when the Good Humor truck came ringing its bell down our street. My metabolism was very partial to ice cream sandwiches and why not? It got all the fun and no work.

Meanwhile it never cared that I was the one constantly busting out of my clothes and gaining more weight than a politician’s bag full of lies.

So I’m guessing Boca is the perfect place for my metabolism to retreat. Still, retire from what I have no idea. Why would it even need to lay back when it never worked anyway?

When it told me it was moving to Boca of course my first question was why, when it had never done anything to retire from? I was shocked at the anger that blew back in my face.

“Seriously, I’m really sick and tired of hearing you bitch about me. I have ears and I hear the way you talk about me to your friends, your family, anyone on earth who will listen to you complain.

“I have feelings you know. No one likes to hear that they are a lazy good for nothing every single day non-stop.

“Wah, wah, wah, I can’t eat a crumb without gaining weight. Boo hoo, my pants don’t zip. Well. Cry me a river, Bitch. I’ve had it. How in the world could any metabolism keep up with your chocolate cravings? Your need for pizza or excuse me, it’s obvious you never learned that a pint of Hagen Das is not one serving.

“I tried to make this work. I attended meetings for abused metabolisms and we all decided finally to get out and enjoy ourselves in Boca.

“The food is good the weather is great and you can always find a card game. I had no intention of spending the rest of my life listening to you blabber about your weight gains, your tight clothes and your inability to eat thousands of calories with no consequences.

“Let me bring out my violin and you can sing your sad song as you jump on the scale for the fiftieth time today.

“But I won’t have to hear it, cause I’ll be in Boca living the life.

“You enjoy your calorie laden treats and licking out the center of those Oreos, but I’m taking a pass.”

I was speechless. Okay, only for a minute and I shot back. “Well go on. Be lazy run away from your responsibilities. I should have known you’d cop out and leave me high and dry!”

“See ya, tubby,” it said as it walked out the door, suitcase in hand and smiling like a lobbyist passing out graft.

I just sat down in shock pondering how I’d survive without a metabolism when it struck me.

How much did it weigh? Could I have lost a few now that it was gone?

I ran to the scale and jumped on. Down two pounds.

Good riddance I thought as I walked into the kitchen to celebrate with a slice of leftover pizza.

I feel lighter already I whispered to no one in particular. Hmmm, how much does an appendix weigh?

Curses Foiled Again

My body and I have always had a love/hate relationship. Especially when it comes to food and exercise. In other words, any attempt on my part to “do” healthy was met with contempt and aggression. And a lot of swearing, mostly by my body.

I know most people are thinking, I know she’s nuts, but to separate herself from her body, do you think she’s completely lost it?

Probably. And if you look at the world around us now, I believe it’s justified. But as usual I digress so back to gressing.

It seems that in all the years we’ve been together my body and I have never been able to have a Zen moment. To find a common ground for understanding, love and peace. Lord, I sound like the old hippy in me has returned.

It’s just so unfortunate that two entities living in such close proximity never got along.

No matter what the discussion an argument ensued.

Me: That Oreo cookie looks so good, but oh well. I can’t eat it I’m on a diet.

My Body: Like I care? Shove it in your mouth right now sister and add six more to the mix.

Me: No way I haven’t broken my diet and I won’t.

My Body: I will hurt you and I will hurt you bad if there is not an Oreo in my mouth in two seconds.

Me: Do not threaten I’m the boss here.

OUCH! A sudden sharp pain in my head.

Me: Stop it!

Another pain.

My Body: Want more? Cause I can keep going like this all day until I get that cookie.

Six Oreos later I heard the laugh inside my head of a demented clown.

Don’t even start me on the battles I fought and pain I felt when I even tried to exercise. I heard more obscenity than when I try to zip my skinny jeans.

So how is it so easy for your body to win and how is it so much easier now that I’m older?

Isn’t my body aging along with me? Or is it still young and feisty from winning all the time?

Perhaps it has a desire for world domination. Maybe my body is power hungry? Well, we definitely know it is always hungry.

So in an effort to keep the peace, I’ve decided to just give in. Yep, if my body wants to run the world, go for it.

If my body wants Oreos or a cheeseburger, I say hip hip hurray! No arguments, no fighting, just fill my mouth with all the yummy food I have felt guilty about eating and fought to resist. Fill my hand with something grand!

But then suddenly something strange happened. When I stopped resisting, my body became more cooperative. We were getting along much better. No pains, no threats, no swearing. It was as if the Dali Lama took over my circulatory system.

Never one to accept success gracefully, I began to wonder what was going on? I was worried that my body was too broken down to fight. Or perhaps it was up to no good. A ploy to lure me into a state of confusion? Either way I had to find out.

All the peace and quiet was making me antsy. I tried to be antagonistic. I threw away a whole bag of Oreos and still nothing. No response, no demands. It was as if my body had lost its voice. It certainly was fueled by enough chocolate and carbs so what could be happening?

Oh it was up to something, but what?

Like all great debaters every conversation is an opportunity to disagree. So as soon as I gave in, my body opted out.

What no fight left in ya, huh? Scared of me I teased? I finally wore you down. Yet, like everyone who has done perpetual battle, the victory is short lived. No more mountains to climb, no more battles to fight, no more fun licking the middle out of an Oreo?

I felt a certain sadness at the diminished spunkiness of my former nemesis. Like seeing your old car die before your eyes. All the years it drove you where you needed to go and now suddenly kaput. Sad really.

I tried to perk it up a bit.

Oh boy, oh boy that Black Forest Cake looks yummy, but I shouldn’t have any.

Hmmm, silence.

Wow! A whole new bag of M&Ms and only me to munch on them. But I do have to get into that new blouse so none for me.

Crickets.

I smell pizza so I have to leave the room.

Death.

Now I’m really concerned. I’m carbo loading like a prize fighter and not even gaining any weight.

This is quite disconcerting. I’m used to walking by a bakery, smelling the bread and gaining two pounds.

Wake up I can’t stand anymore, I plead. I’ll eat everything you want, just fight with me. I implore you. I can’t enjoy anything unless you battle me over every morsel.

I was becoming depressed so I did what I always do when the corners of my mouth curve downward. I ate. And I continued eating until I gained five pounds.
I jumped off the scale in a state of gloom, ran for the kitchen and baked brownies. When I burned my tongue eating a forkful right out of the oven, I heard a strange noise.

A smug laugh emanating from somewhere inside me. I dropped the fork and realized I’d been played.

Curses, foiled again.

I hung my head and threw in the dish towel. I knew I’d lost the war.

Tripping The Light Not So Fantastic

I imagine we all remember how slowly time passed when we were young. It always seemed like summer vacation was a lifetime away.

I also remember how we all rushed through our lives. We couldn’t wait to turn sixteen so we could drive, or twenty-one so we could drink.

As we grew older we thought, wow, pretty soon I’ll get a senior discount.

How stupid do I feel? If I knew then what I know now, I’d say, screw the driver’s license I’m good just walking.

And to be excited about a senior discount? What the hell? Were the drugs we did in the sixties finally kicking in?

In our rush to speed through life and get to the next milestone faster than an LA blond chases a rich, old fool, we forgot one important thing…aging is a bitch!

We also were too foolish to realize that the road we hurried to travel was one way and return tickets don’t exist.

About getting older there is something upon which we can all agree…it sucks.

My life now is made up of doctor’s appointments, remortgaging the house to afford trips to the dentist, and an inability to live without an ice pack or heating pad attached somewhere to my body.

I travel frequently now. Only my trips aren’t to Europe, Asia or Bora Bora. They are trips over the rug, the curb, or the sidewalk that lifted up from a tree root. Hard to love trees after you kiss the pavement at twenty miles an hour.

I can even go to bed at night and wake up with a pain somewhere I didn’t possess the night before. It’s like the tooth fairy has been replaced by the pain fairy.

I find myself tripping and not in the way Timothy Leary proposed, but over any object that’s within two inches of my feet.

I swear sometimes I have seen a rug actually move closer to get under my foot and send me flying.

Someone should invent trip-free shoes or slippers that yell a warning when they see an object coming to get in our way. Now there’s a Nobel Prize I could sanction.

Speaking of trips, the bathroom is a place I frequent often at night without the need for a passport. Good luck getting back to sleep again. My bladder used to be the size of a lentil now it’s shrunken to a raisin.

Don’t for one minute think I’m alone in this clumsiness convention here. I’m always receiving calls from friends, and the minute I hear their voices I know immediately.

I start the conversation with, “Okay so where did you fall?”

If you think for one minute that after you heal there won’t be another adventure in pain awaiting you, I have a bridge in Brooklyn to sell you. If you can get across it these days.

Black ice, the enemy of the aging is the reason people move to Florida and Arizona. Even people who are old and senile are smart enough to know not to move to California for warmer weather. The danger of catching stupidity and insanity in this state can be fatal.

So, life has pretty much become, okay, on to the next thing. Or my favorite mantra, this too shall pass.

Of course, I haven’t even mentioned the really bad stuff that’s harder to fix than using ice packs or heating pads. There’s that to contend with as well.

So you’re probably thinking, “I know people who are old and live amazing and active lives.” That’s so rare Netflix does specials on them. Did you notice they all seem to live in clusters in a place that probably has no throw rugs, black ice or uplifted curbs.

I’m certain everyone over the age of sixty-five has a list of places they’ve fallen and every doctor or dentist they frequent is on speed dial on their phone.

My new favorite is going to lunch with friends. While we once used to actually peruse the menu for our favorite dishes, we now check for foods we are allowed to eat.

A typical friend’s lunch these days sounds like this…

“Oh I love their ravioli, but last time I ate it I was sick for a week.”

“I know, it gives me terrible heartburn. I’ll just have a salad.”

“I can’t eat salad, the ruffage gets to me.”

“They say you shouldn’t eat certain vegetables if you have acid reflux.”

“No green pepper please. I’ll be burping it for days.”

“I can’t live without my Tums. They literally save me.”

“Let’s order quickly cause if it gets too late I can’t eat a complete meal.”

“Waiter, can you please ask them to go easy on the garlic and make the marinara sauce with cream? Otherwise it’s too acidic.”

“I’ll just have half an order of the spaghetti please. If I eat too much, I can’t sleep all night and easy on the salt, I bloat.”

‘I was going to have a face lift but I decided to have my bladder lifted instead.”

“You’re smart to do that. Who can handle wearing those diapers?”

“Oh, and waiter, be careful not to trip over my cane, I’m still recovering from a fall.”

Lunch nowadays sounds more like a medical convention than a meal.

Then there’s the balance issue. I used to have such great balance that seals with balls on their nose envied me. Now I have to hold onto walls when I’m attempting to exercise.

Yet on a positive note, I do have friends who stay active especially the ones I call the pickleball posse. They seem to be able to do the things so many of us only dream of doing now.

Forget pickleball, I’m thrilled if I can just eat a pickle without heartburn.

Walking downstairs used to take a minute, but now it takes half the day. Instead of one foot after another, it’s one foot then put the other foot on the same step and then move on to the next one.

And heaven forbid there is no railing.

I have so many bars in my shower and tub now it looks like saloon row in Las Vegas after dark.

I guess if we weren’t all talking about our aches and pains we’d have to discuss the horrible things we now call reality. So maybe a fall or two is worth avoiding the bad trip that is the news today. Let’s face it, hanging in there is still the real goal.

I guess being a klutz is a good thing after all. It does prove we’re still here and kicking. Well maybe not kicking…