Didn't My Skin Used to Fit? (10 page)

30
Extra! Extra!

I’ve stopped reading the newspaper. Not all of it. Just certain parts of it. OK, just
one
part of it—the ‘‘obit’’ column, otherwise known as the obituaries. Most of the news ruins my day anyway, but the obituary column can ruin it the fastest.

The problem is this: instead of reading the deceased’s name, accomplishments, and who they are survived by, my eyes are immediately drawn to their age. I can’t help it.

I’ve talked to other people who do the same thing. If the age of the deceased is anywhere near our own age, give or take twenty years, we spend the rest of the day wondering what it was that took the person. If the poor guy walked in front of a bus and was run over, then we’ll be more careful the next time we cross the street, but we won’t lose sleep over it. If he slipped at the grocery store, slid into a giant pyramid of canned pinto beans, and was hit square in the temple with the jumbo-sized one, causing a massive brain hemorrhage, we’ll feel bad and probably skip that aisle the next time we go grocery shopping, but we’re not going to become paranoid over it.

But if they’re dropping like flies from things that could easily strike us, too, then we start to worry. That pain in our back suddenly becomes cancer instead of the muscle strain the doctor told us it was. The discomfort in our chest that comes right after eating that fifth slice of sausage, onion, and bell pepper pizza becomes the heart attack we’re sure is going to take us. Don’t get me wrong. Any persistent symptom should be checked out by your physician, but sometimes we write ourselves off when we’ve still got plenty of life left.

Personally, I don’t want to go until I’m 110. It sounds like the perfect age to leave this world. You’ve seen it all. You’ve had fun. It’s time to move on. No one talks about a 110-year-old man or woman being ‘‘struck down in the prime of life.’’ You won’t hear phrases like ‘‘It was so sudden. Nobody saw it coming.’’ At 110, everyone sees it coming. You’re wearing a sweatshirt that says, ‘‘Life—Been There, Done That.’’ You’re probably on your third heart and fourth kidney by then.

But the majority of those listed in the obituary column aren’t over 100. Most of them are substantially younger than that. That’s why I’ve quit reading it.

One obituary recently caught my eye, though. It was that of Sarah Knauss, who died on December 30, 1999, at the tender young age of 119. Her daughter, Kathryn Sullivan, ninety-six, attributed her mother’s longevity to the fact that she was a tranquil person. Nothing could faze her.

So maybe that’s the secret to longevity. That and a good sense of humor. George Burns, who also made it past his 100th birthday, used to say that every morning he’d get up and read the obituary column. If his name wasn’t there, he’d make breakfast.

According to the U.S. Census Bureau, by the year 2050 the number of people over the age of 100 will be nearly 834,000. That’s pretty encouraging. Just imagine all the things you could do if you lived to be over 100 years of age. You could wait until you’re fifty to get married and still live long enough to celebrate your golden wedding anniversary (that is, if your spouse lived that long, too). You could put off college until your forties, then get your doctorate and still put in a fifty-year career. You could attend your eightieth high school reunion and take any seat you wanted. You’d probably have to dance by yourself, and your class photo might be of you and the waiter, but you could still have a great time.

Do you realize that at 100 years of age, you could conceivably see the birth of your great-great-great-great-grandchild? What kind of gift do you buy a great-great-great-great-grandchild?

By the time you reach 100, you could have cashed in three consecutive thirty-year bonds and paid off three thirty-year mortgages.

If you live to be 100, chances are you’ve outlived your parents, your siblings, your doctors, most of your friends, and a lot of your enemies. Your diary would read like a history book, and you wouldn’t have any elders to look up to except God.

So if you’re lucky enough to live as long as Sarah, or even George, don’t just sit there reading the obituary column every morning, wondering whether or not you should get up and make breakfast. Put on your in-line skates and roll on down to the Waffle House.

If I had my life to live over again, I wouldn’t have the time.
—Bob Hope

31
Aka Doughgirl

Lately my cheeks have been looking puffy. I look like the CBS eye—with hair. I don’t know why I’m filling out this way. The fact that I’ve gained fifteen pounds could have something to do with it, I suppose, but I’m not a doctor.

Maybe I got bit by something. Insect bites can make you swell. Or maybe it’s an allergic reaction. I could have been allergic to that box of Krispy Kreme donuts I ate the other night.

The thing I don’t understand about weight gain is why it takes place in just one or two parts of your anatomy. For some people, it’s the hips; for others, it’s the stomach; for me, it’s the cheeks . . . What’s going on? Do all our fat cells gather together in one place and hold meetings? Do they send messages to each other like ‘‘Union meeting today, right hip, two o’clock. Be there’’? I’m pretty sure my fat cells held a meeting there last week while I was busy eating at an all-you-can-eat buffet. After that third plate, I glanced down at my right hip and it looked like a 100 percent turnout! In fact, it looked like they might have been holding a regional convention.

The way my cheeks have puffed up, I have a feeling they’re gathering for the Million Man Fat Cell March. But why my cheeks? If they really felt the need to congregate somewhere, why didn’t they go where my body could use some added cells? I have a few suggestions, and I’d be more than happy to direct them there, but so far I haven’t been able to figure out how to crash one of their meetings.

In the meantime, if CBS ever needs a double for its logo, they know where to find me.

Life is a great big canvas, and you should throw all the paint on it you can.
—Danny Kaye

32
Impatiently Ever After

We don’t only lose hair and teeth as we grow older, many of us start losing our patience. We just don’t put up with as much as we used to. That’s why you hear about so many ‘‘grouchy old men’’ or ‘‘cranky old ladies.’’ By the time you’re sixty or seventy years old, you’ve had enough. You don’t always know what it is you’ve had enough of, you just know you’ve had enough of it.

Traffic jams never used to bother me. Now I find myself wishing I had multiple personalities so I could at least drive in the carpool lane.

Slow food service didn’t affect me either. But lately I’ve noticed when my husband takes me to our favorite romantic restaurant, I start honking the minute I don’t think their drivethru lane is moving fast enough.

Perhaps you can identify with what I’m saying. When you’re reading
Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs
for the fourth time to your grandchild, do you find yourself editing the story down to
Snow White and the Four Dwarfs
just to get it over with sooner? Have you been making Cinderella leave the ball by ten o’clock just because
you
can’t stay awake until midnight? Has Little Red Riding Hood had to take a taxi to grandmother’s house rather than waste time walking through the forest?

If the answer is yes to any of the above, your patience level has reached the danger zone. You can help yourself by (1) buying shorter books to read to your grandchildren, and (2) avoiding things that could possibly make your blood pressure rise. These include but are not limited to . . .

• political campaign speeches;

• people who never put their cell phone down;

• telemarketer calls during dinner;

• broken postage stamp machines;

• businesses that refuse to put you through to a live person no matter how many buttons you press;

• dogs who perform barking concerts at two in the morning;

• closed-minded people who refuse to agree with you no matter how many times you tell them you’re right;

• people you let cut in front of you who are so impressed with your kindness they let twelve people cut in front of them, too;

• door-to-door salesmen who spend more time on your porch than the family cat;

• relatives or friends who only seem to remember your phone number when they need a favor.

The list of things that cause us to lose our patience continues to grow with each passing year. But there are a few things left that most of us can still be patient about. For one thing, I don’t have any problem with my dentist taking as long as he needs before calling my name—I could wait for hours and never complain. I’m never in a hurry for April 15 to roll around either. And those February deferred credit card statements? They could arrive in August and you wouldn’t hear a peep out of me.

So you see, impatience doesn’t have to be an inevitable result of aging. It’s up to us whether or not we slow down and enjoy life to the fullest. The sun is going to continue to rise and set at the same speed every day no matter what. So relax and enjoy.

I love long walks, especially when taken by people who annoy me.
—Fred Allen

33
Life of the Party

I used to be the life of the party at amusement parks. I don’t know what happened, but I’m no fun anymore. I know this because everyone else brings home souvenir pictures of themselves on the newest roller coaster ride, right in the middle of the upside-down triple loop. I bring home souvenir pictures of me on one of the stationary animals on the carousel.

It’s not that I don’t want to ride the roller coaster. I do. I used to ride all those wild rides, but the older I get, the more safety-minded I’ve become. You can get hurt on a roller coaster, for heaven’s sake. Sure, millions ride them every day, and there have been only a few incidences of a person falling out, but it could happen. If I’m riding the roller coaster, I really don’t want to end up in the sky buckets. You have a much better time when you get off the same ride you got on.

My day at an amusement park usually goes something like this:

9:00 A.M.—Arrive at park. Discuss renting locker. Everyone convinces me we don’t need one.

9:15 A.M.—Buy tickets.

9:30 A.M.—Restroom break

9:40 A.M.—Pass on virtual reality ride. Afraid shaking might throw my back out.

9:55 A.M.—Walk by log ride. Decide to pass. Getting wet could give me a chill. Hold jackets and cameras of family and friends (the same ones who said we didn’t need a locker) while they go on log ride.

10:33 A.M.—Snack break

11:05 A.M.—Walk by roller coaster. Hold jackets, cameras, and cups of soda of family and friends while they ride roller coaster.

11:58 A.M.—Lunch break

12:48 P.M.—Ride train after conductor guarantees in writing that the ride only moves in a forward direction and absolutely no water is involved.

1:36 P.M.—Restroom break

2:00 P.M.—Stop at souvenir store. Insert quarter and use the electric foot massage machine. Get a little dizzy, but it’s worth it.

3:05 P.M.—Walk by spinning teacups. Pass on spinning teacups (I forgot my Dramamine). Hold jackets, cameras, cups of soda, and bags of souve- nirs of family and friends while they ride spinning teacups.