Tag: wrinkles

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.

When Did I Become a DJ’s Song Introduction?

How many times through the years have you heard a DJ introduce a recording as an oldie but a goodie.

I now realize that I have become exactly that, an oldie but a goodie.

And what might you ask makes you think you are a goodie? Oldie one gets without the need for an explanation.

Perhaps it is the fact my memory now resides in Google and the things I remember and treasure are on Facebook pages I share with thousands of others. We realize there is a limited number of us who are aware things we once adored ever existed. But thankfully I can still recall the things that made childhood so special.

Of course the very accomplishment of reaching that certain age, puts you in a category that should be applauded.

As Barry Manilow sings, “I made it through the rain…”

So if indeed I did, and we all did, then what now?

What is our next great achievement?

Becoming an oldie but a goodie seems rather lackluster, although damn nice to hear.

What is our next stage? Antique?

Rare antiquity? Salvageable?

Should I run every time I see someone resembling Indiana Jones heading in my direction?

Is my fate to stand alongside Cleopatra’s barge in some museum as an example of how wrinkles evolved?  

It must give one pause. So I’m pausing. Largely because I need to more often now. Pause I mean. Racing through stuff is no longer the option it once was.

Currently, sharing becomes selective. Telling your grandchildren about meeting Soupy Sales loses its flavor when they turn to you with a blank stare and ask, “What’s a Soupy Sales?”

I now understand our accomplishments, exciting moments, and fulfilled goals must be taken at face value. Our face. And despite the fact we now have so many more moments to share, there are fewer left who have any idea what we’re talking about.

Thus the need for Facebook pages dedicated to stuff that happened sixty years ago.

So finding an old hanger from a department store we hung out at over sixty years ago that no longer exists seems exciting to us. Especially when you can post it on your Facebook page and there will actually be others who are equally jubilant.  

I dread to think what would happen if Facebook disappeared and we had to wander the streets talking to ourselves or anyone who would listen about how we found the recipe for J.L. Hudson’s Maurice dressing..

I’d prefer to tell my grandchildren that elevators used to have uniformed people in them pushing the buttons and opening doors.

Still, as their eyes glaze over you might regret not posting about it on Facebook instead.

Here’s a scary thought. What if you had to go through life boring everyone you meet until you heard snoring as you recount how you lost your skate key from around your neck.  

Can you even imagine how millennials would look at you if you told them your mother filled twenty books of S&H Green Stamps to get a toaster?

Or that a bank used to give small appliances away to get you in the door to open an account?

Now you’re lucky if there’s anyone there to even help you at a teller window.

I don’t believe they want to be bored when you share these little gems from your past. I just think young people can’t in any way relate. Let’s face it, things are very different now.

There is no way anyone would believe you didn’t pay for light bulbs or Bill Knapp’s gave you a free cake for dessert on your birthday.

It so begs credulity you may as well walk into a party and announce you just arrived from Mars on the Concord.

Telling my grandsons we had trucks driving through the neighborhood selling baked goods. Or a milkman dressed like milk sounds like a fairy tale to kids that can order anything they want with one click on Amazon.

Yes, I understand that times change and life moves at breakneck speed, especially as you age. Still, is it so terrible to believe Clarence got his wings when that bell rang?

I agree living in the moment may be the right thing to do. But is wanting to remember some of the happiest times of your life and share them so bad?

I feel lucky that my grandsons will take time off from building robots or Minecraft and listen to my tales of the past. Sure, a yawn may slip out, but they listen. And at times they are even intrigued by my tales from ancient times like the fifties and sixties. Or the events that colored our lives in the past.

I can’t tell you how often my grandson has asked me to tell him about the day JFK was assassinated because he knows how important a memory it is for me.

So even if it’s a pity listen, I’ll take it gladly because it’s borne out of love. And at least he understands who John F. Kennedy was and how much he meant to Baby Boomers.

I know we need to have a balance now. It’s important to keep making new memories as we selfishly guard the old. Exactly what that balance is, don’t ask me. I still consider a balanced breakfast a sleeve of Oreos dipped in a glass of milk.

So I Got This Text From my Liver: Stop Sending Me These Damn Pills

In elementary school they offered a class in home economics which taught us the art of loading a dishwasher, how to stuff a date and how to sew a waistband. Okay, so none of these things truly prepared me for life as a whole, but at least they tried.

I feel entitled to bitch because I am so tired of getting a senior discount without even having to ask for it.

Now I’m wondering why no one prepares you for the greatest challenge in life…growing older.

Sure, people write books about how to live forever, how to age gracefully and how to stay healthy, but by the time you need these books you can already write one yourself.

So, what is the secret of learning to grow old gracefully and dealing with all aging entails?

Wrinkles, loss of mobility, forgetting things, wrinkles, loneliness, health issues, did I mention wrinkles cause I forgot, and of course appetite, medical and pain issues.

If one is lucky enough to live into the laugh laugh golden years you are on your own as to how to deal with the constant craziness that inflicts your existence each day.

Men find it impossible to get through a night without a dozen trips to the bathroom, where women can usually get through with only two or three. No one tells you your bladder retires to Boca years before your actual body and you’re left with only the memory of a functioning bladder to get you through the day. And night.

Is there a solution here besides Depends, prostrate surgery and if that’s an option good luck to you?

Your body seems to take on a mind of its own which is a good thing since your mind is usually out to lunch. Now most of the exercise I get is from walking into a room, forgetting what I came for and walking back out. Then two minutes later I remember and walk back in again. Hey, it ain’t Dancing to the Oldies with Richard Simmons, but it is a form of exercise, sort of.

Who ya gonna call when you look in the mirror and see your parents staring back at you? Is that my mother’s ghost or me? Either way it’s scary as hell!

Nothing raises a red flag to signal you’ve crossed into an ancient zipcode than your body telling you it’s time for dinner at 4:30 in the afternoon. 

How many times have you heard your friends say,” I can’t eat any later than six o clock or I’m up all night?”

I had spare ribs for lunch on Sunday and I was still tasting them at Monday night’s dinner. I used to love a great spare rib, now the only rib I can handle is when my grandson’s tease me about getting old.

I also wish someone would tell the truth about reducing inflammation. Can I help my arthritis if I stop eating dairy, meat, drinking wine or liquor, (just when you start to need it most) fried foods, bread, chocolate, sugar and wait a minute what the hell is left? And no, I don’t think you could make an argument that eating only Kale could be considered a quality-of-life diet. 

I just found out I have arthritis in my jaw. Guess we know why that is because if any part of my body is degenerating from overuse it would definitely be my mouth! Isn’t it bad enough that we have to watch our once full and luxurious locks disappear down the drain every time we wash our hair? Now I have to consider eating and talking a luxury.

Or that we have to see the stretch marks once on our hips start drifting downward to our thighs? 

Can someone teach a course in how to see the numbers on your cell phone? Or how to spot a spam call about social security or where to get the strength to get off the couch?

Of course there are older people that have enormous energy and are tech savvy. I have many friends who play pickleball, whatever the hell that is, and some are even still working. 

So what’s the big secret everyone has to write a book to share?

Many say it’s attitude. I suppose an argument could be made that mind over matter is a component, but I’ve known many people with great attitudes who are six feet under right now and didn’t make it to old age.

I guess there is not one magic bullet that can keep us young. In fact, I don’t think there’s a whole gun store full of bullets that can accomplish turning back the clock. And this whole schtick about age brings wisdom is a crock because wisdom is meaningless if you can’t remember it. 

“Yes, grandson so when I was young I used to believe that, but now as I’ve aged I learned…”

“Learned what Grammy?”

“What I just told you. The bit of wisdom I just imparted to you about that thing. You need to remember these gems of wisdom I tell you.”

“What gems?”
“About the thing we were talking about.”

“But you didn’t tell me anything.”
“I just told you what I learned.”

“Okay, Grammy, sure and thanks for sharing your wisdom with me.”

You watch your grandson walk away shaking his head and believing he’ll never get old and forget like you; but we all do, we all do.

Is it possible to exert any control over these “things” that happen to you? To change the direction your mind and body are taking and reverse the trend?

Hell if I know. I think we all make an attempt to do what we believe will help slow the process.

I’m learning a new language because I’ve heard it helps your brain. How can you actually measure if it works or not? If it doesn’t I won’t remember I even learned that language anyway.

I’ve heard exercise helps. Well that’s something I can’t verify since my arthritis has decided the days of running and leaping are far behind me. And yes I realize there are also chair aerobics and low impact choices, but I’ve never pretended to like exercise except for retail cardio and I won’t now. Besides, I count changing my sheets as exercise and I’m not the only one.

So what about eating? Okay moving on here since the thought of living without ice cream or chocolate sends a chill down my spine only equal to the shower scene in Psycho. 

Is it fair that having spent my entire life being too short for my weight I’ve now shrunk and need to lose more weight to keep up?

Is it stress? Hello, it’s stressful getting older. How can you feel calm when every time you pick up the phone or check out Instagram you hear someone else you know has just died?

Is it helpful that they can’t make a hearing aid that creates such a loud buzzing you can’t hear anything? 

Good luck living stress free in the golden years.  One shooting pain in the “good” knee elicits a “damn-not-another-knee-replacement-stress reaction.”

Ah let’s get to the supplements. I have friends that spend about an hour a day just trying to ingest all the pills. Between the prescription drugs you need to stay alive and the vitamins, minerals and strange sounding supplements the average liver is spending all day just trying to sort and send to the proper organs throughout the body, there’s little time for the fun stuff. 

I can hear my liver bitching now…

”Let’s see now, the E is for the heart, the C for immune, D for what was it? How many letters are in the damn alphabet? What the hell is SAM E? Where should I send all this crap? I’m shutting down and going on strike here and no, don’t dare send me any supplements to boost or cleanse me!”

At a time of life where minutes are so precious, I refuse to spend most of my day swallowing pills!

Begs the question; is there a fix for old age? Sure, death. I guess that’s the only way to stop the aging process. As long as we’re here and breathing our bodies are slowing down.

When I was a kid Jack LaLanne was the symbol for exercise and a healthy lifestyle. He died at the age of 96, but so did my mother and she never met a salad or a healthy meal in her life.

The only exercise my mother got was running after my father to yell at him. Actually, that did provide her with a lot of steps every day and she must have worked off a ton of calories screaming.

If there is an answer and I’m not sure there is, we can only do the best we can. Sometimes I’m better than others. Some days my diet is atrocious and some healthy. 

Some days are stress filled and others Zen.

At times I walk a great deal and other days my ass is attached to the sofa cushion.

There are so many variables involved in how one ages I could spend days trying to name them all. 

I still believe it’s a cocktail of genetics, luck, lifestyle, environment and attitude. 

I also believe it’s silly to worry because eventually something’s gonna get you. None of us lives forever, so as long as we make an attempt to enjoy the minutes we have; what the hell, maybe that’s all we can do. If you agree just yell yes! Oh forget it, I probably couldn’t hear you anyway.