It must be some kind of virus, a disease that makes my eyeballs skitter towards health news in various publications, online news feeds, etc. Why, oh why, do we need to know anything else about protecting our bodies? I hate to tell you but--WE ARE GETTING OLDER. SHIT HAPPENS. FEET GET GNARLY. BLADDERS BECOME TESTY. HAIR TAKES OFF FOR JAMAICA LEAVING US BEHIND. AND LET'S NOT EVEN TALK ABOUT THE BACK OR THE KNEES.
So now one of the biggest pieces of "I am going to kill any possible shred of joy left in your life" news is, "Sitting is the new smoking." Yes indeedy do. Sitting consecutively for more than 3 hours at a time (some say 6 hours) contributes to: Diabetes 2, obesity, heart problems, and a host of other things including extreme crankiness and an inability to understand James Joyce.
As I sat in my Weight Watchers meeting two days ago (yes, those last few stubborn pounds love my belly and have no intention of ever leaving), the leader chirpily informed us of this horrifying news. We came up with fabulous ways to keep moving, as in: keeping hand weights near the TV so we could do reps while watching "American Idol"; parking far away from the center of town to make us walk; getting up each hour to waltz around the room etc. etc. I suggested buying a Jack Russell Terrier as my method to get up and moving. It works, trust me.
Not content with practically ruining my happiness at sitting at the computer and writing (Dear Lord, I am actually dying as I sit here and write...), some other health organization whose name I have forgotten, probably due to overconsumption of twinkies when I was young, now tells us that egg yolks are terrible for our health. Bad, bad, bad with a severe wagging of the finger at those of us who happen to like the occasional egg on a morning with some great coffee. Where were these people ten years abo when the news first came out about these dangers? Egg sales plummeted. We got used to eating other things for breakfast--like steak. I kept consuming modest amounts of eggs because they are a terrific source of lutein. This is a fine phytochemical which helps those of us with Macular Degeneration (probably caused by watching too many "I Love Lucy" reruns). Lutein is marvelous for your eyes, and though I hesitate to contribute to yor physical collapse, I'd suggest you just not listen to this latest health bulletin.
Here's my informed and wise advice: Walk at least 15 minutes a day, 30 if you have a dog, preferrably a Jack Russell. Drink red wine. Not a lot of it, mind, but at least one glass daily with perhaps a small top up. Use olive oil on your food. Put tumeric and cumin in your beans and other recipes because they are anti-inflammatories and very good for you. Eat lots of veggies and fruit and moderate the red meat. Here's the important part--laugh a lot, it's good for you, and keep up with your friends.
And, of course, being the religious nut that I am, it's clear to me that faith is good for you. As long as it's not the kind of faith that tries to strong-arm the rest of the world into its own belief system, or the kind that takes out assault rifles and...you know the rest of the story.
We need to take ourselves way, way less seriously, and enjoy our short tenure on this beautiful and precious earth. I believe it was Thomas Aquinas who once said, "Do you know why angels can fly? Because they take themselves lightly." Do I hear an Amen, anyone?
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
NAMES WE'D RATHER BE WITHOUT
Ok, fellow aging broads and broad-ettes. Or, broaderinos. If you are like me, you tend to cruise along occasionally reading the N.Y.Times Science section and getting horrendously guilty afterwards (I am not single-handedly saving the world from climate change! I have not given 2 billion dollars to the eradication of malaria! I could use my cholesterol numbers when playing the lottery, they are so high!), then let go of all that blamed information that is making us crazy and go have a glass of wine, or two, on the deck. Or perhaps download a new crappy romance onto your Kindle--with the exception of "50 Shades of Gray," which doesn't qualify as writing. Ever. Or erotica. Ever. Don't make me go into details. It's too embarrassing.
So, I tend not to worry too much about my health, with brief episodes of sweaty dismay, but every now and then something rises up to slap me in the face. It could be something like a disheveled and olive-sized parathyroid which had to be removed. By a man with an English accent! It made it all bearable, trust me. Or, it could be an operation for carpal tunnel syndrome, which did t'job, as the Brits say. We won't mention colonoscopies. I am not an admirer of those. But recently, I decided to do something about the fact that I peed somewhere upwards of 20 times a day. Yes, that is right--twenty, as in, please don't ever drive too far away from a bathroom, or perhaps we could put a clivus multrum in a little trailer and tow it along with us wherever we go, even if it's only10 min. down the road to pick up the N.Y. Times.
I ordered lots of books over Amazon, my favorite addiction; read up on OAB, and decided I had that. OAB. It should mean: "Overactive Amazing Broad." Or, "Officially Amazing Bitch." Or something of your choice which is way sexier than, "Over Active Bladder." What happened to partying naked? Dave Barry brought that up years back when he spoke of his cronies getting together at parties to discuss their degenerate gums, crowns, and painful dental procedures that attempt to keep teeth inside your mouth. Then they would josh each other and say, "Remember partying naked?" Doctors tend to rear back when you bring up something with the word "naked" in it, also "partying." As I did with my new doctor who was going to help me "retrain my bladder." (This involves tiny whips and lots of treats...) That is about as opposite to "partying naked" as you can get, I think. I left the office thinking that he probably has summed me up as a slightly crazed older lady who has swiftly read through the entire "50 Shades of" horrendous series.
I realize that you probably already know more about my body than you ever thought you wanted to know. I am aware that keeping a "pee diary," except we call it, "void diary" (as if you had just lost part of your brain and were wondering where it had gone to...), and scheduling your pee visits is not something you really, really had to know. I just don't see all of this as me. It doesn't fit my inner image of me.
The tragic thing is, all the substances I love most in the world--fresh orange juice, zesty tomato salad, chilled Chardonnay, frothing hot lattes, dark magic coffee, and chocolate--are not kind to the bladder. Perhaps we need a new name for that little disobedient organ, something slightly sarcastic and amusing like, oh, Mr. Rumsfeld. Or Cheney. "How are you doing today, Cheney?" I could ask, and no one would know. Wouldn't that be cool?
In retaliation for going from Over Abundant Blessed Broad to that....other name....I am going to go get my toes painted and my fingernails at the marvelous Cambodian nail place over at the mall. I go there to relax. I can't understand a word any of the young women are saying, but it sounds as if they are cracking each other up with witty jokes, sharing news of desperate boyfriends, and maybe talking about luscious food they are planning for the evening meal. Instead of actually talking about their very own...Mr. Cheney.
And after that, maybe I'll buy a motorcycle so I can convince somebody who is at a distance with rather poor eyesight (think Mr. Magoo) that this hot dame in black leather is about to take off. With her very own Mr. Cheney in tow.
So, I tend not to worry too much about my health, with brief episodes of sweaty dismay, but every now and then something rises up to slap me in the face. It could be something like a disheveled and olive-sized parathyroid which had to be removed. By a man with an English accent! It made it all bearable, trust me. Or, it could be an operation for carpal tunnel syndrome, which did t'job, as the Brits say. We won't mention colonoscopies. I am not an admirer of those. But recently, I decided to do something about the fact that I peed somewhere upwards of 20 times a day. Yes, that is right--twenty, as in, please don't ever drive too far away from a bathroom, or perhaps we could put a clivus multrum in a little trailer and tow it along with us wherever we go, even if it's only10 min. down the road to pick up the N.Y. Times.
I ordered lots of books over Amazon, my favorite addiction; read up on OAB, and decided I had that. OAB. It should mean: "Overactive Amazing Broad." Or, "Officially Amazing Bitch." Or something of your choice which is way sexier than, "Over Active Bladder." What happened to partying naked? Dave Barry brought that up years back when he spoke of his cronies getting together at parties to discuss their degenerate gums, crowns, and painful dental procedures that attempt to keep teeth inside your mouth. Then they would josh each other and say, "Remember partying naked?" Doctors tend to rear back when you bring up something with the word "naked" in it, also "partying." As I did with my new doctor who was going to help me "retrain my bladder." (This involves tiny whips and lots of treats...) That is about as opposite to "partying naked" as you can get, I think. I left the office thinking that he probably has summed me up as a slightly crazed older lady who has swiftly read through the entire "50 Shades of" horrendous series.
I realize that you probably already know more about my body than you ever thought you wanted to know. I am aware that keeping a "pee diary," except we call it, "void diary" (as if you had just lost part of your brain and were wondering where it had gone to...), and scheduling your pee visits is not something you really, really had to know. I just don't see all of this as me. It doesn't fit my inner image of me.
The tragic thing is, all the substances I love most in the world--fresh orange juice, zesty tomato salad, chilled Chardonnay, frothing hot lattes, dark magic coffee, and chocolate--are not kind to the bladder. Perhaps we need a new name for that little disobedient organ, something slightly sarcastic and amusing like, oh, Mr. Rumsfeld. Or Cheney. "How are you doing today, Cheney?" I could ask, and no one would know. Wouldn't that be cool?
In retaliation for going from Over Abundant Blessed Broad to that....other name....I am going to go get my toes painted and my fingernails at the marvelous Cambodian nail place over at the mall. I go there to relax. I can't understand a word any of the young women are saying, but it sounds as if they are cracking each other up with witty jokes, sharing news of desperate boyfriends, and maybe talking about luscious food they are planning for the evening meal. Instead of actually talking about their very own...Mr. Cheney.
And after that, maybe I'll buy a motorcycle so I can convince somebody who is at a distance with rather poor eyesight (think Mr. Magoo) that this hot dame in black leather is about to take off. With her very own Mr. Cheney in tow.
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
GET OFF MY BACK, HEALTH-NUTS!
Ok, I am officially tired of people telling me I am going to die. If I don't eat soy beans, drink almond milk, avoid sex, love my dog, participate in community, avoid red meat, give up, yadda-yadda-yadda. You know the routine. Here I am sitting on the slouchy couch at night, suitably tired from a day of wrestling with my new adult novel, which causes great swaths of uncertainty and self-loathing to wrap themselves about me. I am enjoying a glass of crisp, chilled Toasted Head Chardonnay when I read what awaits me if I eat hamburger or steak. Or hotdogs, also bacon--which I don't actually eat that often.
The Chardonnay goes up my nose as I spit it out, exlaiming to Rick, "Another damn forbidden thing. Joy-killers1" I consider whether this is on the same plane as Rush Limbaugh excoriating Ms. Flute--decide it is not--but feel somehow diminished and bullied by people who insist on overseeing my health. Even though I am disguised as an adult. Of a certain age.
How is one to craft a life free of this kind of bullying, masked as helpful advice? I mean--I do want to live as long as possible without horrid diseases corrupting my flesh. I want to be healthy, also loving and compassionate, and something more than an aging broad thinking about taking up Spanx to make me slimmer, and overseeing every bloody bite that enters my body.
What else do I remember from bleak health news? Oh, yeah. Statins impact memory. My memory is a shattered train wreck, but can I blame it on the Statins which actually help keep me alive by controlling my cholesterol? What else: Mmm, wine. How bad it is to drink right after you exercise. Who does that? Not me. How, if we are watching our weight, when we drink the body first metabolizes the alcohol, and the cheese fries you just ate go directly to your thighs, only losing their color on the way. Well, doh! But then another article appears telling me that one glass to one-and-a-half of white wine daily reduces my risk of heart attack by--do I remember?--17%. That's a good statistic I think, sipping my Chardonnay and mopping up the drops resting on my bosom.
Damn. Is nothing just fun anymore? Have we turned into some kind of joyless Puritans, contemplating the sorry state of our immortal souls, except now it is the state of our mortal flesh? Isn't it the same kind of impulse? To fend off disaster by controlling everything that surrounds our bodies?
Ack. The problem is that this flood of health articles, meant to keep us on the straight and narrow path, just make me want to break out and do something silly. Also unhealthy. Such as rush right down to the Miss Florence Diner for a plateful of eggs, sunny side up (but watch that uncooked egg white, babe), with three strips of meaty bacon, and two pieces of wheat toast (I'm not a complete fool here...) buttered. "No, not dry," I'll tell the waitress in a guilty voice. Then I plan to return home and sit unmoving in a chair with the windows closed, reading steamy romances on my Kindle (sure to be bad for me), and contemplating taking up chewing tobacco.
God. Save me from health advice. Let me be like my Jack Russell terrier, alert to life, eager for whatever is around the corner, be it a fat squirrel, something rather disgusting hiding in last year's wood pile, or a nice bit of rainwater in the ditch. I'm going to take her as my health guide and throw over all the self-righteous health Puritans. And if I die early? So be it. At least I'll be one happy broad.
The Chardonnay goes up my nose as I spit it out, exlaiming to Rick, "Another damn forbidden thing. Joy-killers1" I consider whether this is on the same plane as Rush Limbaugh excoriating Ms. Flute--decide it is not--but feel somehow diminished and bullied by people who insist on overseeing my health. Even though I am disguised as an adult. Of a certain age.
How is one to craft a life free of this kind of bullying, masked as helpful advice? I mean--I do want to live as long as possible without horrid diseases corrupting my flesh. I want to be healthy, also loving and compassionate, and something more than an aging broad thinking about taking up Spanx to make me slimmer, and overseeing every bloody bite that enters my body.
What else do I remember from bleak health news? Oh, yeah. Statins impact memory. My memory is a shattered train wreck, but can I blame it on the Statins which actually help keep me alive by controlling my cholesterol? What else: Mmm, wine. How bad it is to drink right after you exercise. Who does that? Not me. How, if we are watching our weight, when we drink the body first metabolizes the alcohol, and the cheese fries you just ate go directly to your thighs, only losing their color on the way. Well, doh! But then another article appears telling me that one glass to one-and-a-half of white wine daily reduces my risk of heart attack by--do I remember?--17%. That's a good statistic I think, sipping my Chardonnay and mopping up the drops resting on my bosom.
Damn. Is nothing just fun anymore? Have we turned into some kind of joyless Puritans, contemplating the sorry state of our immortal souls, except now it is the state of our mortal flesh? Isn't it the same kind of impulse? To fend off disaster by controlling everything that surrounds our bodies?
Ack. The problem is that this flood of health articles, meant to keep us on the straight and narrow path, just make me want to break out and do something silly. Also unhealthy. Such as rush right down to the Miss Florence Diner for a plateful of eggs, sunny side up (but watch that uncooked egg white, babe), with three strips of meaty bacon, and two pieces of wheat toast (I'm not a complete fool here...) buttered. "No, not dry," I'll tell the waitress in a guilty voice. Then I plan to return home and sit unmoving in a chair with the windows closed, reading steamy romances on my Kindle (sure to be bad for me), and contemplating taking up chewing tobacco.
God. Save me from health advice. Let me be like my Jack Russell terrier, alert to life, eager for whatever is around the corner, be it a fat squirrel, something rather disgusting hiding in last year's wood pile, or a nice bit of rainwater in the ditch. I'm going to take her as my health guide and throw over all the self-righteous health Puritans. And if I die early? So be it. At least I'll be one happy broad.
Sunday, January 1, 2012
Resolutions, or Whatever....
It's that time of year again. When we make silly resolutions, slap our too-full bellies, think about never drinking again, swear we will feed the poor and rescue people by the side of the road, resolve to give up laughing in a way that resembles a stark raving mad whinnying horse, and in general--despise our present selves for some unobtainable future self. It's sort of like being put into hell in the person of a teenager who only sees what they HOPE they will be, and not what they actually ARE.
Why do we do this to ourselves? From whenceforth cometh this self-loathing? For that is what I think it is. I can remember being a young teen and looking at some hairstyles in "Seventeen" magazine and thinking, wistfully and urgently; "Well, if I can just get some ROLLERS, and put them in THAT way, then, damn, I will be beautiful. Or, maybe just prettier." It had a magic about it. Like not stepping on cracks in the sidewalk, throwing salt over your shoulder (boy, does that date me!), or wishing on a star.
I just read an article in today's Sunday "Boston Globe" (this being New Year's day, 2012) about making resolutions, how human it is, how far back in history this goes, and how ultimately self-defeating it is. Apparently, there is something about just the making of a resolution which keeps us from meaningful change. Don't ask me what the "something" is because I didn't finish the article. That's a resolution I mean to make--to finish things I've started. (Like the two pairs of knitted socks for my husband which are sitting in a basket because some stupid LADY who works in a knitting store told me I had been knitting the wrong way for over 40 years. "Surely not 40," I whispered, full of self-loathing.) So those socks are just sitting there while I stare at them, flushed with defeatism and the conviction I will never knit again. I resolve not to make a resolution about finishing things I've started.
So what's an aging broad to do? Sitting in the UCC church today listening to absolutely mind-blowing beautiful Gospel music that made me want to get up and dance (and why didn't I? Let's resolve to dance in church this year, just not the Catholic Church....), I thought--with my heart and not my brain--"I want more music in my life. More liveliness. More dancing." I sat there some more, and when Rev. Andrea Ayvazian talked to us about letting go of our wounds and grief and regrets, I tossed a stone into a big empty metal cauldron listening to it clank with all the other stones, representing the griefs and regrets of others. "I want to let go of guilt," my heart said. "I want to let go of worry." Deep in my heart I felt that rattle of my own stone and the stones of others.
It seems to me, from the vantage point of being newly turned 66 (gasp, wheeze), that this is a good time to let go of things and also invite other things in. That's my take on the resolution business, which I am trying to give up: Simply invite into my life some activities I want more of--music, dancing, friends, and being outside. And let go of things which keep me from living fully--guilt, remorse, fear, and worry. I have been known to worry about our neighbor's dog, for God's sake, that she wasn't getting enough water in her crate. Also known for worrying about: the state of the world, conservative Republicans, climate change, my thighs, my low bank account, my eyes, my grown "kids", the health of my friends, and the lack of birds at my feeder. (Was it something I said? How about I buy you another feeder? Isn't this taking worry to a ridiculous extreme?)
So, without putting any time to this or sense that I have to make things happen now in the New Year, I am just going to do a little slidey dance which incorporates some cooler more lively things, and at the same time, I'm throwing some crap over my shoulder as I dance. Want to join me?
Why do we do this to ourselves? From whenceforth cometh this self-loathing? For that is what I think it is. I can remember being a young teen and looking at some hairstyles in "Seventeen" magazine and thinking, wistfully and urgently; "Well, if I can just get some ROLLERS, and put them in THAT way, then, damn, I will be beautiful. Or, maybe just prettier." It had a magic about it. Like not stepping on cracks in the sidewalk, throwing salt over your shoulder (boy, does that date me!), or wishing on a star.
I just read an article in today's Sunday "Boston Globe" (this being New Year's day, 2012) about making resolutions, how human it is, how far back in history this goes, and how ultimately self-defeating it is. Apparently, there is something about just the making of a resolution which keeps us from meaningful change. Don't ask me what the "something" is because I didn't finish the article. That's a resolution I mean to make--to finish things I've started. (Like the two pairs of knitted socks for my husband which are sitting in a basket because some stupid LADY who works in a knitting store told me I had been knitting the wrong way for over 40 years. "Surely not 40," I whispered, full of self-loathing.) So those socks are just sitting there while I stare at them, flushed with defeatism and the conviction I will never knit again. I resolve not to make a resolution about finishing things I've started.
So what's an aging broad to do? Sitting in the UCC church today listening to absolutely mind-blowing beautiful Gospel music that made me want to get up and dance (and why didn't I? Let's resolve to dance in church this year, just not the Catholic Church....), I thought--with my heart and not my brain--"I want more music in my life. More liveliness. More dancing." I sat there some more, and when Rev. Andrea Ayvazian talked to us about letting go of our wounds and grief and regrets, I tossed a stone into a big empty metal cauldron listening to it clank with all the other stones, representing the griefs and regrets of others. "I want to let go of guilt," my heart said. "I want to let go of worry." Deep in my heart I felt that rattle of my own stone and the stones of others.
It seems to me, from the vantage point of being newly turned 66 (gasp, wheeze), that this is a good time to let go of things and also invite other things in. That's my take on the resolution business, which I am trying to give up: Simply invite into my life some activities I want more of--music, dancing, friends, and being outside. And let go of things which keep me from living fully--guilt, remorse, fear, and worry. I have been known to worry about our neighbor's dog, for God's sake, that she wasn't getting enough water in her crate. Also known for worrying about: the state of the world, conservative Republicans, climate change, my thighs, my low bank account, my eyes, my grown "kids", the health of my friends, and the lack of birds at my feeder. (Was it something I said? How about I buy you another feeder? Isn't this taking worry to a ridiculous extreme?)
So, without putting any time to this or sense that I have to make things happen now in the New Year, I am just going to do a little slidey dance which incorporates some cooler more lively things, and at the same time, I'm throwing some crap over my shoulder as I dance. Want to join me?
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