Tag: ouch

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.

It’s Never Too Late? But For What?

It’s Never Too Late? But For What?

Its never too late is a phrase I’ve learned to hate. It’s a bigger lie than I’ll still respect you in the morning or read my lips no new taxes or no, your ass doesn’t look fat in those pants.

My entire life I bought into the belief that as long as you’re still breathing there is always tomorrow and another opportunity to get it right.

Wrong!

Of late I’ve come to understand there is a point at which when you knock, opportunity says, “sorry, no one’s home.”

The difficult fact to acknowledge is you actually do get to a place when you’re just too damn old to do some of the things you’ve dreamed of doing. Years of garnering wisdom cannot make up for physical prowess, but it can lead you to a different path.

Sure you can point to an Iris Apfel at 96 still hawking her wears on HSN, but she didn’t start that business in her nineties.

Starting over at a certain point is pointless.

The revelation that you’ve reached a time where certain of life’s choices are no longer available is heartbreaking and yet one must come to terms with the fact it’s a stark reality of aging.

There are many who reach the laugh, laugh golden years and are quite happy to hang up their spurs. After a lifetime of hard work and smart investing many seniors are happy to travel and play golf or tennis if health permits.

So you’re asking, what’s so bad about that, Norma? Must you always bitch about this whole getting-old-thing? Why can’t you just shut up and go to a driving range?

Sadly, I’m of the school that believes that there’s so much to do in life I selfishly want to experience more.

When younger I’d read stories about 60-year olds that went to law school or 50-year olds that lost their jobs and started their own businesses and I found it so inspiring.

Now of course I realize these people were not in their seventies. Oops, that smarts.

So what is someone standing at the doorway of old age supposed to do when their spirit and mind says start that business or get that job when opportunity slams the door in their crows-footed face?

Baby Boomers joke with one another constantly about forgetting what they’re saying from one minute to the next. Walking into a room and being unable to even remember why you did and the inability to recall names or familiar words. We all compare what body part needs replacing or aches that particular day and mourn the fact we can’t eat an entire corned beef sandwich without inhaling Tums.

My body is now calling the shots and literally rules my world. I feel like a mummy that walks forward while pieces of wrappings drop off with every step. “Ouch” now describes my athletic prowess.

I do recognize the fact many grow older without as much physical damage, but no one’s body totally seems to escape the ravages of time unless they’re one of the really lucky ones.

In the end of course the truly lucky ones are actually those still alive to complain about the aches and pains.

I had a doctor friend who used to say that if you’re over forty and you wake up in the morning and something doesn’t hurt, you’re dead.

Okay, I’ve kvetched enough, but isn’t there some truth to my bitching? Yep, humor aside, time often robs us of our dreams.

To be realistic most seniors cannot become a country music star at eighty, go back to school and become a doctor at seventy-eight or get an MBA at ninety. Life is what it is and time unfortunately is a cruel dictator. And yes, you can argue that becoming a country star at eighty is doable, but try to come up against the young people running the music and show businesses and see how far you’d get unless you’re a Maggie Smith or Judy Densch.

So what can one do as the years pile up? Plenty, if agenda matches ability. We can take on new goals and let the old pipe dreams fly away on that Spring breeze that carries old desires away to some youth-filled Neverland.

Is it sad to say goodbye to those aspirations so long a part of our soul? Of course, and one of the pains of aging is letting go of the dreams so long inside, much like old friends we’ll never seen again.

When I was sixty I applied for a job at a newspaper that was far below my abilities. The interview went well as the editor knew me by reputation and we’d even met socially on occasion. At the end he asked me, “Would you feel awkward working here among so many young people?”

“Where do you think I’d feel better working, at a nursing home?” I asked.

Needless to say he’d dropped the A Bomb (age bomb) and literally given his prejudices away.

Yes, sadly there seems to be a time when one outlives their usefulness in a youth-oriented culture. When it’s time to leave and despite how much you’d like to stay, the party’s pretty much over.

So as when we were younger and a goal didn’t materialize no matter how hard we tried, we must now bury many of our ambitions and seek new, realistic objectives.

Of course for some it’s easier as they are happy with a retirement filled with easily achievable goals. A hole in one, regular visits to the grandchildren, a riverboat cruise along the Danube, trip to Las Vegas or a Maj Jong tournament, and these are all great ways to spend one’s retirement.

Yet so many of even these aims are dependent on physical or financial health and many times when dream meets reality one falls short.

No, this isn’t intended to depress the hell out of you; it’s just a shout out to perhaps find a new project that inspires your passion.

Especially now when we’re relegated to our homes in hiding from the monster virus it’s easier to feel helpless and hopeless about the future. Now when each minute takes on new meaning and significance a year of our time has been stolen from our lives. For many it will be difficult to tear oneself away from our new berth in front of the big screen and our affair with Netflix and that’s okay, too.

I’m just kind of venting about getting back out into the world and creating a new existence.

Whether it’s resting on one’s laurels or realizing a long held dream, go for it and make it happen knowing what warriors we Baby Boomers truly are.

Accept what you can’t do with grace, create the life you desire and recognize how much you still have within you to achieve.

There’s a reason poet Dylan Thomas wrote, “Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

So I’m schlepping myself away from this jigsaw puzzle and checking out my bucket list. For every item I can no longer achieve I’ll add another one I can.

Oy! I think the first one I’ll add is get up off the couch in under five minutes. Hmmm, do you think I can still hitchhike through Italy?

I’d be happy to do a cheer for your goals, but I’m not sure I could lift the pom poms over my head.