I'm young. I'm hip. Or I need a younger hip........

In the last couple of years of his life, my Grampa Elmer was very ill much of the time. A sweet, articulate man, who, as his body broke down, seemed compelled to share the details with anyone who was around. I managed to escape the most graphic descriptions, but my cousin and aunt were not so fortunate. The episode that always left me gasping for breath from, first, laughter, second, dry heaving, had Grampa holding out a Dixie cup full of lung butter for color inspection. My cousin beat a hasty retreat at a full gallop before viewing said specimen. Auntie, however, felt, somehow, bad about the idea of running screaming from the room. She stayed. She looked. She earned her place in Heaven.


The upshot of hearing about/living through this and other such occurrences was that I vowed, out loud, more than once, to keep my shit to myself as I grew older and aches and pains became an issue. And, let’s be clear. By, “older,” I meant 80. At least.

What I did not count on were the complications pre-menopause can cause, not to mention the genetic stomach issues I inherited from my father and grandfather. Ones I was sure they either exaggerated or brought on themselves. The results of the aforementioned afflictions have had me sick and/or bitching about feeling sick for close to a year now.

I didn’t think too much about it – much less equate it with Grampa’s ill-health epilogues - till last night when I found myself telling my 25-year-old nephew about my goddamned gallbladder attacks.

WTF

I am still a vital woman. I still have many active years ahead of me and I’m as young as I’m ever going to be. Those are only some of my positive mantras and let me tell you, I believe them. I live them.

I hiked 2/3’s of the way up a mountain last week, for God’s sake, slowed only by that raw place in my abdomen. It would have been fine had I not tried to sneak a Texas Hot (for those who’ve never had the pleasure, it’s the best thing that ever happened to a hot dog and the real ones are sold only in Wellsville, NY), bacon and baby back ribs past it in a 24 hour period. Unhealthy for anyone – masochistic for someone like me, who has a testy gallbladder and intestinal tract.

And, honestly, that’s basically everything I said to Casey, my nephew. Plus he’s a doctor, though not that kind of doctor. He was either thinking, yuck, overshare – or maybe nothing, really, because he’s known me his whole life and realizes that, post-glass of wine, thought vomit is just one of my charming (?) habits.

It was a brick over the head to me, however.

“Just call me Elmer,” I thought. Minus the sweetness, charm and loving gratitude displayed to those caring for him during his illness. Not to mention the 30 years he had on me before he started complaining.

At least I realize, right? I now know what to avoid. No more stomach soliloquys. No more speeches to my daughters about what they have to look forward to in the female department when they get to my age and how fortunate they are that I’m giving them a heads up.

I’ll go forward and live my life.

As soon as I can get up.

I strained a muscle in my hip and it’s been difficult to get around the last few days………

God, where’s the tequila?

Happy Birthday

Today is my birthday. I’m 51. I don’t look it. I say that with more relief than ego, though anyone who knows me realizes just how relieved my ego actually is. When people who don’t know me, learn my age, they usually ask in amazement, how I look as young as I do. I tell them, honestly, I don’t really know. My parents both looked very young well into their 50’s. My grandmother, at 94, has few wrinkles. I have always taken good care of myself and I truly believe that my children and the love I’m given by my husband contribute heavily to whatever youthful countenance I possess. I stay out of the sun and use good moisturizing products, drink lots of water, exercise, blah, blah, blah.
Plus, I told God, years ago, after all the shit He allowed to happen in my life the least He could do was keep my face and body intact. People say The Almighty doesn’t make deals and probably doesn’t appreciate swearing, but I disagree. He’s used to my mouth and he damn well knows what I’ve been through better than anyone else. He’s doing me a solid, that’s all.
Do you want to know what I believe the real fountain of youth is? Being able to roll with it. Reinvention. The ability to welcome change and live in each and every moment.
On Thanksgiving, one of my sweet cousins, whose two youngest children are around the ages of my two youngest, expressed her bewilderment at the passage of time and how swiftly her children had grown. I saw the same look on her face that I know has played on mine. A mixture of grief and wonderment. Pride in who her children are and sadness in that they are no longer who they were. My heart ached for her – and for myself.
In the next breath we were talking about how we want to shape our lives, our careers from here on out. Life is not stagnant and neither are we. It’s not about youth. It’s about living and being true to oneself in any given moment.
I hear every day about how bad things are in the world. I know all about that. “Those things,” people talk about. The, “I don’t know what I’d do if that happened to me,” things. Lots of them have happened. To me. To those I love. Sometimes when I look back at the events of which I speak, I picture myself doing a tuck and roll through a mine field. I can laugh at some of what took place. Other parts, decades later, make me weep with sadness, frustrated still, about my inability to have prevented or at least controlled one situation or another. I was stupid here, naïve there. Selfish that time? Too young to know better? Who knows? Shit happens and that which does not kill us makes us stronger, right? There are a few times I just wished it had killed me.
And maybe it did. At least a part of me.
What has lived on is some sort of intrinsic strength and belief in the goodness in the universe. Some kind of perpetual stubbornness that is tied up in positivity and light, that, when combined with the twisted sense of humor I inherited from my Scots/Irish grandfather, shines through and twinkles in my eyes – as long as I’ve had enough sleep and use my allergy eye drops.
Look, I’m an old soul. Like many, I’ve been beaten and battered and loved and adored. I give and I take and I try to give again.
Eventually, my looks will fade, I realize. But my face is not who I am.
Neither is 51.
Bring on the years. The moments. The life.
I can take them – and so can my facial products.
Happy Birthday.
To me.