The Art of Aging Gracefully

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The Art of Aging Gracefully

Wednesday, 30 September 2009 19:39

By Jim Brigleb

This year, I turned 55. In some circles, this qualifies me as a senior citizen. At the outset, I want you to know that this is virtually impossible. After all, my birth year was 1954. Disneyland was born a year later, and NOBODY considers Disneyland to be a senior citizen.

There are two reigning theories as to the origins of the 55 means senior citizen phenomenon. The first goes something like this: The American Association of Retired Persons, (AARP or aarp - which is the sound of a breathing tube hitting your epiglottis), whereupon studying the demographics of America, realized two things: First, the AARP desired more lobbying power in Congress, and second, the Baby Boomer generation represented a cash cow of potential membership income. Solution? Lower the age of being a senior citizen! However, the more plausible theory concerns Denny’s. On the sidelines, they studiously observed the success of the McDonald’s, who revolutionized the food industry, capturing the stomachs and loyalty of children with Happy Meals. Denny’s took this lesson to heart, going after the market at the opposite end of the chronological food chain - people without a sense of smell, taste, a lack of teeth, and who were sick of cooking Salisbury steak. Again, seeing the Baby Boomer bonanza bubble, they ingeniously captured a larger market share by simply renaming industrious workers in their mid 50s, senior citizens. Mind you - conspiracy theories, both. My relaying them to you has nothing to do with actual fact, or even research.

Enough history - What about aging gracefully you ask? The first step, for balding men (and women) is minoxidil. Minoxidil is a miracle ointment when applied to your balding patches morning and night. The manufacture expressly warns the product doesn’t work for everyone. Further, minoxidil is most effective when used early in the balding occurrence, and if there is no evidence of hair growth within the first four months of treatment, minoxidil probably will not work for that particular user. I waited until I was 54 to start using minoxidil. At age 20, I had a receding hairline. Although the hair tried bravely to stay put, a 34 year battle resulted in my original hairline position retreating to the back of my head. Enter minoxidil - after 4 months use, minoxidil provided no evidence of effectiveness. I took pictures at intervals for documentary evidence - lest I fool myself. The photos from Days 1 and 120 appeared indistinguishable. Unlike pessimists at the minoxidil lab, I wasn’t going to abandon the plan. After sixth months, the photos still revealed no change. Decision time: Was I going to face reality or throw good money after bad? Being a realist, I decided to continue treatment another 6 months. Perhaps I would provide the minoxidil folks with a breakthrough case. At just under a year, the crown of my scalp appeared to have activity. This activity, it turned out, was a chemical burn causing the few surviving follicles to stand up on end, getting as far away from the crime scene as possible. So, in conclusion, balding men and women need to make a decision: you can buy a rug, go for the miracle drugs, or you can just let nature take its course and learn to amiably accept the jokes, scorn, and rejection.

The second technique for aging gracefully can best be explained with this true anecdote: In for fingerprinting (Homeland Security now requires this for using a public restroom), a clerk asked a few preliminary questions. The clerk: “Height?” Me: “6’2”.” Clerk: “Eye color?” Me: “Brown.” Clerk: “Hair color?” Me: “Painted or plain?” The clerk looked at me dumbly and said, “What?” You see, the clerk didn’t even know that my hair color was counterfeit. Painting your hair is very important in aging gracefully. A tinge of gray emotes sophistication, but that’s as far as the admiration scale goes. Given the chance, the gray hairs come in like a flock of cowbirds, stealing nests from those songbirds who built them; your regular colored hair is just no match. Almost overnight, your skin takes on an ashen appearance; ashen reminds people of ashes; ashes remind people of bad things happening in the Bible, and there is nothing graceful about brimstone and fire. So, don’t be ashamed to paint your hair. If your co-workers or friends snicker, simply find a group of people who don’t know you, become lifetime friends, and they’ll never know the difference.

This next suggestion is painful. Before continuing, I suggest you take a short break, get a glass of wine, and consume it with your favorite comfort food. If you’re drinking cabernet, dark chocolate might be a good choice. Okay? Now, as we age, it becomes harder and harder to keep the weight off. Drinking alcohol and eating snack food is literally the death knell of many people in their golden years. Have you noticed this? When in my 20s, I could eat anything with no impact. In my 30s, I could do the same, gain an inch or two, resolve to do twenty sit-ups a week, play a rigorous game of croquet, and the weight gain would vanish. When I entered my 40s, the rules changed. I couldn’t eat whatever with abandon. An exercise club was joined, and I had to finally cave and buy a larger waist size. Now, the 50s. Here, one eats less because most foods result in heartburn, you’re still hungry, and you gain weight. When one exercises, the body seems to laugh and say “Who are you kidding?” Longstanding friendships with cartilage, tendons, and muscle seem to mean nothing; they all turn their back on you, become irritated - even inflamed. The solution to this spiraling betrayal? Hawaiian shirts and elastic waistbands. These articles of clothing are fashionable in some circles, and allow you to expand gracefully while still enjoying those foods and beverages which do not give you heartburn. Additionally, consider yoga or t’ai chi as a replacement for jogging, push-ups and sit-ups. They emphasize flexibility and allow you to actually catch some sleep while pretending to meditate.

The art to aging gracefully is filled with adaptation. We admire this trait in the animal kingdom, so why be ashamed? If tying shoes is difficult because of your gut, buy slip-ons. Can’t turn your neck as far as necessary to see behind you when parallel parking? Buy an expensive car with a backup camera. Your glasses are never where you left them? Invest $50 on the internet and get 20 pair of reading glasses to be left in every possible location. The important thing is - don’t get stressed over getting older. Sure you don’t look as good as you once did; agreed, it’s harder to lose those pounds; of course most of your favorite foods are starting to act like toxins; granted, you’re tired and don’t have the energy of yesterday; no argument - body parts ache chronically. But these are not reasons to lose hope. A Chinese philosopher once said “A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.” Just imagine how many steps you’ve already taken. Doesn’t that make you feel tired? I’m not sure what this has to do with anything but the point is... eventually things will worsen. It’s time to realize that today is probably as good as it’s going to get. So, my advice? Get out a bottle of cabernet, a box of dark chocolates, surround yourself with some good friends, and say “Do I know you?”

By Jim Brigleb

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I Hated My Name Wednesday, October 12, 2005

From AboutSeniors - Readers' Stories

by Daphne Hargreaves

My fate was sealed twenty-one years before I was born. It was at the time of my mother's birth.

My grandmother had longed to give her first born daughter the name Daphne. Her husband would have none of it, instead the baby was named Elsie Eileen. This name, my grandfather's choice, he registered before my grandmother was discharged from hospital - she was not even a party to the naming of the baby she had just given birth to!

As my mother grew up, my grandmother told her the story of how she was named. She instilled in her daughter the desire to use the name Daphne, should she bear a daughter of her own.

Thus it was predetermined.

I was born at 6a.m.on a glorious June morning in England. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, all was well in my mother's world; Daphne had arrived. Why couldn't my father have been more assertive? It was many years later that he admitted that he didn't really like my name but since my mother was so set on it he just 'let her have her own way' or so he said.

Read more...