Reading glasses, turkey wattles and polyester

The aging process wasn't something I gave a lot of thought to until I personally started aging, or at least noticed I was aging. The first sign (after a few gray hairs at age 30) wasn't wrinkles, it was my eyesight. In my mid-40s I went to the eye doctor because I couldn't see the fine print, you know, on important things like cereal boxes and scriptures. It was weird - like my eyesight had changed over night. My goal was to get in, get my eyes checked, get my new prescription, order new glasses, get new contacts and leave. The eye doc had an easier solution. The conversation went something like this:

Me: "So, my prescription has changed quite a bit, huh?"
Dr.: "No, it's exactly the same."
Me, with puzzled look: "What?"
Dr.: "Welcome to your forties. You are in your forties, right?" (He probably didn't say that but I'm so young looking, he could have - written in sarcasm font.)
Me: "So do I live with not being able to see small print?"
Dr. "You go to the dollar store (not kidding) and buy some reading glasses - keep trying on different numbers until you can see clearly."
Me: "So I will wear contacts but glasses with them?"
Dr.: "If you want to be able to read, yes."

Sigh. I guess I was happy to have an easy, cheap solution. But that visit was a bit of a blow to my youth. Welcome to your forties, indeed. I'm not just four eyes, I'm six eyes.

One day a few years ago a man in my ward smilingly pointed out the gray hair at my temples. (Hmpphh. Like he even had the right to do so. I wanted to say "Hey, plenty of people have gray hair at the Temple.") I had noticed too but now others were noticing. What to do? Another time one of my innocent young students asked me, "What color did your hair used to be?" Really? I had dark hair. Still. Somewhere. In fact they outnumber the grays so what the heck? (I managed to pull out the first few gray hairs when I was 30 but decided bald was not a good look for me.)Why was I getting ganged up on about hair color? And why do older women feel they have to dye their hair anyway? To look younger? That probably works for a while but when you're 90 and have mahogany-colored hair there's a big red arrow above your head that says "Nuh uh." For now my gray hairs stay. I'm happy with them and I don't care if I have to explain myself.

I've watched my mom age the past few years and it's been hard. I remember her as a smooth-skinned, vibrant, sparkly-eyed woman with a quick step and a ready laugh. She was always fashionable - from my early years I remember cute knee-high boots, snowmobile outfits, a faux leopard skin coat, cute dresses and capris. Later in life she shifted to sweaters with ladybugs and African animals; patriotic, cat-emblazoned, birdhouse-painted sweatshirts; embroidered denim shirts and POLYESTER PANTS! Really! Is there some magic age when you wake up and go, "Well, I'm old, guess I'll go buy some polyester."

I've never understood the desire to dress old. Granted, my mom's tops and skirts, blouses, coats and such were still stylish - styles for mature women, but the polyester pants, I don't get. They're comfortable, they wash well and they have an elastic waistband, good for getting your pants down quickly when you have to pee, but any good pair of jeans or cords are just as comfortable. I have a few women friends who are over 80 and manage to keep polyester at arm's length. It can be done. I will not own/wear/desire/settle for old-looking/polyester/matronly type clothing. Ever. (Yet, noticing some women swing way too far to the other end of the spectrum, I will not attempt to dress like a teenager either.) My 102-year-old aunt Bea died a few months ago. I admired her for several reasons - her stories, her humor and her clothes. She dressed cute from head to ankle. Because you can't be old and have cute shoes. Next subject:

Shoes for the aged. I mentioned my mom had cute knee-high boots. She used to have cute peep-toe pumps, fun colored gym shoes and darling heels. Heels are an old person's worst enemy. Besides diarrhea. They go from being snappy and stylish to precarious and deadly. So, out they go. Traded for Dr. Scholls, Propet velcro-closure, nurse-type shoes that make sense for women who are no longer so steady on their feet. So goes the way of the peep toes.

One sign of aging is the way your skin changes. It wrinkles, for sure, but I think wrinkles are earned and should be treasured (heaven knows our kids help us earn them). Two things I don't like are old lady neck skin and thin skin. Old lady neck skin - you know what I'm talking about. It's not smooth and taut. It's Mrs. Turkey wattle. I read once that men's neck skin stays firm and nice because guys shave daily in an upward motion. Why aren't we women doing some kind of similar neck stroking exercise from age 16 on? Are we doomed to neck wattle because we don't shave? And thin skin - it's inevitable. An older person's skin gets translucent and papery. It comes after the polyester phase and somewhere before embalming. And it's not fair.

I have this morbid (weird word choice) fascination with obituaries and especially notice those where the family chooses two photos - one of the deceased in their younger years and one closer to death. It doesn't matter if it's a man or a woman - I study those faces - the young face, the old face. I see how that old face really was that young face at one time.  I imagine them at that younger age.

I think when we're old we need to make buttons to wear on our shirts every day. The button would have a picture of ourselves as we looked in our 20s or 30s or even 40s. It would say "This is ME!" It would be a conversation starter. We'd say, "I know you can't see it through the wrinkles and with the gray hair, but this is ME - I used to look like this!" Maybe the button could even have a video showing us doing somersaults or water-skiing. There was a slideshow of my great-aunt Bea playing at her funeral. I looked at the photos of her in her teens and twenties - vibrant, dark-haired, agile! I hate some of the vestiges of age - not so much going gray or even getting wrinkles, but losing agility and ability and independence. That just sucks. And the percentage of old folks out running marathons or doing push ups a la Jack LaLanne is miniscule compared to the ever growing group of gray-haired walker pushers out there. My friend Jan is over 80 and she teaches aerobics twice a week, drives a cool car, wears cute clothes (no polyester), has a cute hair style (it's gray) and her wrinkles just make her face even more darling. I want to be like her when I'm her age. But who can say what health and time will do to us, when we aren't paying attention? We can control some things like exercise or eating healthy but diseases, health problems and accidents happen and rob us of how and who we want to be.

My sweet mother was physically fine until age 79. Then all hell broke loose. Problems with her back, her eyes, her head, her feet, her skin, her innards, her heart, her knees ... It was one thing after another. She slowly diminished from an agile, steady, capable, independent woman to not. It's been heartbreaking. She is my hero. I make fun of her for wearing polyester but she more than makes up for that in a million other ways. Her bright smile, her comedic sense of humor and her never ending gratitude for what I do for her are all drops that fill my ever draining cup. The ravages of time, working hard all her life and just some genetic messiness have put her in a different body than she would have ever wanted. It scares me. I'm 30 years away from her age so I feel like I can stay healthy and limber and contributing for many years. But no one has a glass ball to really know for sure.

So, the bottom line for me is this. Take joy in every day of living. Love yourself. Love your family. Be a genuinely, consistently nice person. Smile. Give service to others. Laugh. Don't sweat the small stuff, and it's all small stuff. Love God and be worthy of His blessings. Eat healthy. Exercise. Wear sunscreen. Protect your eyes. Protect your ears - wear earplugs around loud noises, even a blow dryer.

It doesn't matter if I have gray hair or even if others point it out. (Curse them anyway.) It really doesn't even matter if I end up in a care center. I'll pick my own, thank you very much, and I'll get a motorized Jazzy and challenge others to hall races. And I'll have my video button pinned to my non-polyester lapel - me water-skiing in my 20s, para-sailing in my 30s or rappelling off a 70-foot tower at age 49. Yep, that's all part of the real me. Turkey wattle and all.