It's my birthday and I'll cry if I want to!

Fair warning, this post is not for anyone who doesn't want to hear all about the joys of turning seventy. That's right, I said seventy. Seventy. I figure if I keep repeating this number, it will lose its potency.                                                                                

When I woke up this morning, did I bound out of bed and shout, "Hooray. It's my birthday?" No, I did not. I sort of rolled out and stood up and groaned. My knees hurt. Why? This is a bit of a conundrum to me. What in heaven's name can my knees have been doing all night that I wake up and they feel as if I have just climbed the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. This is only one of the many mysteries I've encountered as I quickly approach 'old age'. 

Well, I guess I am actually there, aren't I? There are a number of things I've noticed in the past year that are not particularly amusing and that scream, “Boy, are you getting up there!” For one, my skin has lost all elasticity. I mean I have become walking crepe paper. You could decorate a school gym for the big dance with me if only I had some color.

And let face it, things are drooping – badly. Knees are sagging, butts are dragging. I could send semaphore messages with my arm flaps if I knew the correct formations. Because this is a family blog, I will not go into the hideous result of not wearing a bra. Suffice it to say, it is not pretty.

My hearing is an in and out affair. My end of conversations with Tom consist of a lot of, “What?”, “Sorry, what did you say?”, and “I can’t hear you when the waters running.” Or really any other time.

Tom, whose hearing is a bit more in and out than mine, thinks he’s a bit of a comedian. So, his end of the conversation is always a treat. Instead of just asking what I said, he likes to repeat what he thinks he heard, but knows damned well he didn’t. There is really no reason I can think of that I would ask him if his liver had been dyed. He is a card.

My memory is a bit off. This is putting it kindly. If I don’t write it down, it doesn’t get done. I actually forgot what I was going to make a note of the other day in the time it took me to pick up the pen.

Also, I have an affliction which I call ‘noun aphasia’. I sometimes cannot remember nouns. This leads to a lot of interesting conversations that consist of charades and word clues. Such as, “You know, that stuff you put in a glass to make the drink cold.” “You mean ice?” “Yes, ICE!”

Tom and I had a kind of funny experience visiting the optometrist. We had already been to the ophthalmologist, so we only needed to have our vision tested. We both went into the exam room together and met the doctor. We hadn’t seen him before, but assumed it would be a quick ‘read the chart’, write the prescription, and Bob’s your uncle. At least he was mine. We were not expecting the third degree.

I was first in the exam chair and the doctor started peppering me with questions about my medications and other health issues. I hesitated while I tried to remember exactly what I took and for what reason I took it. Luckily, Tom was able to fill in the blanks. I felt a bit of an idiot. And I’m pretty sure the doctor agreed with me.

On reflection, I think it was the chairs fault because when Tom sat down he couldn’t remember a damned thing and I had to fill in the blanks for him. It was like a weird marital cross-talk act. I’m pretty sure the doctor was happy to see us go.

Seventy. Let’s say it together – seventy. Well, I’m finding that the adage is correct. Old age is not for sissies. And the other old adage is also correct. Being seventy is better than the alternative.