 2019
Here's a couple fun facts about aging as a woman: Your vaginal walls will thin. You will lose your hearing and eyesight (likely simultaneously), such that when you have to insert a pill into your vagina (to "strengthen the wall," combat the irreversible deficit of estrogen), you won't be able to see what you're doing. It may very well be the closest you've come to masturbating in years. As easy as it sounds, there's a 60 percent chance the pill will fall to the floor when you stand up. You will, sacrificing your last shred of dignity, wash it off and insert it again. When it stays in on the third try, at age 75, this will be your biggest victory that weekend. And yet, you will be a bit smug about it. You will take your wins—because tomorrow will be another round of not remembering if you brushed your teeth, took your insulin or properly counted your pills, all the while leaning into acceptance and world-weary knowledge that your halcyon "Golden Years" are proving to be tarnished, equal parts comedy and tragedy. And you will be okay with that as you soldier onward into the indistinct, uncomfortable unknown.
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 Photo by Rod Long on Unsplash
2019 My night sweats, which I could once attribute to menopause, are now of inexplicable origin and unbearable duration. I'm supposed to be past this particular indignity. At 75, in fact, I'm supposed to be past just about everything. The new normal, however, is there is no getting past anything because everything changes underfoot and overhead and not for the better. My formerly adorable freckles, for example, turned into age spots overnight without warning, which seems patently unfair. The apotheosis, the moment I crossed over—from older to just plain old—naturally took place when I was getting a pedicure. My manicurist rolled up my pants leg to reveal a shrunken limb—hardly resembling my supple calf of yore—covered with a loose, crepe-like sheath punctuated by a big DOT equidistant from my knee and ankle. All eyes (to my mind) drifted to it in tandem. Undeniably copper (like my hair), this mark did not disappear despite my manic scrubbing in that moment. "Ah, age spot!" shrieked my manicurist, as if we had something to celebrate! It would turn out to be a precursor of my future constellation of "starburst sun spots," as euphemistically described a few months later by a seemingly prepubescent physician's assistant. What would this toddler with a headlamp and magnifying glass know about the age spots that had inconveniently multiplied and occupied my legs, arms and hands? Thankfully, she had a magic salve to reverse the aging process. Sure, it was expensive but what price would you pay to have the dewy, porcelain skin of a newborn? The stinging sensation I endured when she slathered it liberally all over me surely meant it was burning the spots into oblivion. Four appointments later, as with all other Western remedies too good to be true, the only thing that disappeared was the green stuff from my wallet. "Stubborn," the PA shrugged before reminding me there were "no guarantees." I should have read the fine print, only I couldn't read the fine print on account of my severe astigmatism and unrelated cataracts. Before I could spend more money and mental energy willing my spots to disappear, they were soon accompanied by mysterious red, purple and blue bruises. If I made contact with the corner of my kitchen counter, a hematoma the size of Texas would cover my hip; if I reached into my purse, the hand I withdrew emerged as a painter's palette—blood-filled bruises, between spots, over wrinkles. When it all became less surprising than expected, I knew the battle to remain ageless was lost. Rather than surrender, though, I would proffer the "Age This!" challenge to the Gods, putting one (formerly dainty, now gnarled) foot in front of the other. As in ... go ahead: hit me with your best spot. |
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