Category Archives: Aging Gracelessly

THEM BONES, THEM BONES, THEM DRY BONES


I made a visit to the chiropractor yesterday hoping to rid myself of a persistent kink in my lower back. Despite being outwardly out of shape, I went there thinking my framework was good. I practice yoga, I walk for exercise and lately I’ve added swimming, all things that should promote good bone health and alignment.
Alas, my framework is more a leaning Tower of Pizza than a stalwart Statue of Liberty. My feet are somewhat flat, my knees turn out, my hips are lopsided as are my shoulders, I carry my head too far forward and my back is hyper-curved.
It turns out I have writer’s syndrome – my term not chiropractor’s. The pain in my lower back is from slouching in my chair instead of sitting upright with straight spine. The chronic ache in my neck is from winching my head ever closer to the computer screen in a somewhat vulture like stare, and the burning in my shoulder blade is the result of over-developed, tense muscles on my dominant side from muscle fatigue over and improper mousing.
Available from smileyfacecat on Zazzle
Improper mousing?  That sounds like something my cat might do – maybe hunting the little rodents out of season or exceeding his limit?
Oh, and let’s not forget the dehydration. When the doc asked how much water I drink, I told him I use water to make my coffee.  Who’d have known that soft-tissue and joints need plain H20 to keep them plump and healthy, and plenty of it?  Or that swilling cup after cup of the caffeinated elixir of the writing gods was sucking my joint and bones as dry as the Egyptian desert?
I told the doc I’ve been writing, hunched over a typewriter and then computer, for more than twenty-five years. I never had these problems before. The kind young man gently pointed out that the problem is I’ve been around long enough to have been writing for the past twenty-five years, and apparently I’ve developed some pretty bad habits doing it. 
There’s also the consideration that until a few years ago, I wasn’t devoting as much time to my chosen pursuit as I am now. I had children to care for, a day job, other things that kept my behind out of the desk chair, which is apparently contorting me into the Hunchback of Northland Fame.
Wouldn’t you know it? I finally emptied my nest of obligations and feathered it with the accoutrements of my dreams, only to find my spirit is willing but the old bones are too weak to carry me through.
I cursed my old age above the audible pops and cracks as the doc snapped my spine back into a semblance of proper alignment.
“You’re not that old.”  He chuckled when he said it.
Oh yeah? I want to hear him say that when he’s on the bone-cracking table in about fifteen years.
He says it shouldn’t take long to get me straightened out.  I’m doubtful about the chances of keeping me that way.  I’m doing the therapy exercises he recommended and I’m shopping for a better desk chair.
I’m making an effort to be more aware of my posture. I’m even considering hanging a ping-pong ball above my desk that will hit me in the forehead when I start cantilevering my head beyond my shoulders, but I cannot give up the bean.
I cannot replace my hot java, with it’s depth of character and complexity of bitter and bold taste, for a glass of cold, transparent, bland water. Not to worry, the doc told me.  I just have to drink at least as much water as I do coffee.
I’m sure he’s right about it being the solution, because with that much liquid going in has to come out and I won’t be able to stay at my desk long enough in any one sitting for it to cause a problem.

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BACK IN THE SADDLE

My virtual-world friends David and Veronica, over at GypsyNesters, were featured on Huffington Post lifestyle page today.  I’m thrilled at their success, both in their chosen lifestyle and their growing notoriety.  I’m a firm believer in what they have to say about life after raising children being the next chapter, and not the end of the book.
On a personal level I’m happy because this latest milestone of theirs has prompted me to post on this blog, which, you might note, has not been a frequent habit of mine lately.
I’ve been following the GypstyNesters since about half-way through their first year of travels.  They are living the life I was supposed to; the life I’d been diligently preparing for much as the Nesters did, by eliminating debt, raising kids to be personally responsible, living simply, and paring down.
The details of how my wanderlust life would play out were a bit different than theirs.  My hubby was an over-the-road truck driver.  My plan was to quit my day job the minute the youngest graduated and hit the road as partner to a long haul trucker.  He already knew what living on the road entailed, and I’d gone with him for enough two-week stretches to have a good idea.
With an average of 310 days a year spent on the road, there wouldn’t be much sense in keeping a home with all its associated taxes and upkeep.  No mortgage, no taxes, no maintenance and no money spent on all of those things we fill our home with, not to mention the pastimes we pursue to “get out of the house” (think about that), AND a steady paycheck still coming in, equals saving for a damn comfortable retirement 10 years down the road.
Aside from that, I’ve been stifling the gypsy in my soul for most of my life.  While most teenagers faced with the prospect of having to move away from their high school and friends stamp their feet in whining protest, I needled my parents to pick up stakes and make the move they were holding off on until I’d graduated.
I’ve dreamed of running away with a traveling circus so often that sometimes I start to believe I did.
But fate had another plan for my empty nest years, and that’s why I belong to the portion of the GypsNesters’ audience who are living vicariously through their writing.  Hubby’s health took him off the road and the demands of long hours driving a motor home and setting up camp regularly aren’t advisable.
This leaves us with only one solution; that I must learn how to drive the truck and travel trailer we now own, or the motor home it could be traded for.
I once owned an F150 pickup. It wasn’t pretty – the situation, not the truck.  The truck itself was really quite pretty, all dressed up and everywhere to go, as I like to say – meaning fully loaded and four-wheel drive. 
The unpretty part was my inability to drive the behemoth that dwarfed me behind the wheel, without running over or backing over everything in my path.  You must understand that this comes from a woman who once backed her own Ranger pickup into the family full-size van in her own driveway.
Yes, yes.  I’ve heard all the lectures about inattentive driving and I’m not denying that I deserve them.  The point is, I am who I am and it’s probably not a wise thing to put me behind the wheel of any vehicle that’s too much larger than my beloved VW Bug.  And especially not when the co-passenger (my hubby) has a bad ticker.
Thus, my ineptness behind the wheel, along with my fears for the toll long hours of driving would take on my hubby have all but cut the wings of these empty nest birds.
So, why has reading about my friends’ continued adventures on the road got my juices going?  In the words of my beloved, departed mother – it would seem I’ve gotten “a wild hair up my ass again.”
I’ve started looking at Scamp trailers. They look like little marshmallows being towed along behind vehicles of all make and size, but can you imagine how gosh darned cute one would be rolling along behind a VW Bug?  (Don’t talk to me about engine size and towing capacity – where there is a will there is a way).  Talk about a Mickey Mouse rig – I’m sure I’d have no trouble at all maneuvering through any kind of traffic or terrain.
Back when David and Veronica were casting the net for their road warrior conveyance, one of their requirements was that it had to provide enough head room for David.  If you knew my hubby, you’d know that a little Scamp comes up lacking in both the height and girth dimensions.
This isn’t to say the ol’ boy is fat. At 6’2 and hailing from hearty European stock, my husband is a big, big man. Oddly, the Bug is quite roomy enough for him, but a Scamp’s table/bed leaves much to be desired in the stretching out department. The poor man would have to assume the fetal position to sleep.
My plan is to buy an old, worn-out model, gut it out and use it as a cargo trailer to haul our necessities, including one of those blow-up “guest” beds. Wherever we park, we can pop up the screen tent for our “outdoor” room, set up the grill, and put out the lawn chairs.  Coolers will serve double duty – when empty and dry, they will be cargo bins. Once set up, a quick trip to the nearest store and they’ll be filled with ice, food and beverages.
During the day, the empty scamp will be a roomy, walk-in dressing room.  At night, we’ll inflate the bed and have wall to wall sleeping space.  In the event of inclement weather, we can set the lawn chairs and a small table inside for the day.
If I have to say so myself, (and apparently I do, ‘cause hubby isn’t buying it) I think it’s an ingenious plan. So if you are out traveling the by ways of America keep your eyes open.  You might just see us and our Mini-Mouse-House scampering along. Don’t forget to wave!

. . . . . . mid

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LET THE SUN SHINE IN

The weather this summer has been less than ideal; far less than ideal.  If it’s not raining for days and nights on end, it’s likely that the heat and humidity index is sufficient that I have crossed ironing my summer cotton wardrobe off my list.  I just put a shirt or shorts on all wrinkled and disheveled and after two minutes outdoors, they’re as smooth as permanent press.
It’s bad enough that my summer days have been limited ever since my birth in the land of the north.  Close to the Canadian border, I am lucky to count on June, July and August for temperatures high enough to pack away the Cuddl Duds and expose my sickly white flesh to those essential Vitamin D boosting rays of the sun.
I’ve gone through more than half of all the summers I’m ever going to get. The older I get, the more precious the salad days of sunshine and balmy breezes become to me.  Every single one that I am cheated out of fills me with resentment and an urge to shake my fist and rail at the gods of weather.
So far this summer I have been either cold and wet, or wet and sticky and I can’t get that darn quack, quack, waddle, waddle song out of my head. “We are nippersinkers, we’re in luck, if it rains all week just pretend you’re a duck.”
In fact, I’m so desperate that if I thought doing a sun dance at high noon in the village square, naked except for my rubber rain boots, would guarantee the next thirty days of summer unfold in the low 80s’ with a balmy western breeze (make that the last 30 days – one and the same around here),  I’d be shakin’ my tush off. 
Do the butt dance . . .
(_|_)   (_\_)   (_|_)   (_/_)   (_|_)   (_\_)
 . . . doo, doo, doo, doo . . .
Not sure that would have much affect on the weather, but it would certainly give new meaning to the name MAD Goddess around here.
I’ve got places to go, people to see and things to do that don’t accommodate rain dates.  I’ve been in my swimming pool twice this year – and one of those times was to bail the water down after a deluge so my air mattress wouldn’t float over the edge with the over flow.
The only thing this weather is good for is growing mushrooms and mold.  Come to think of it, this jungle climate has me feeling a lot like a moldy mushroom and at this age I could go bad real fast.
Maybe I could just install fluorescent lighting fixtures in my “sun” room, fit them out with tanning bulbs, turn the fan on, haul the deck furniture inside, mix up a pitcher of umbrella drinks and call the girls over for for a little age-preservation therapy.
. . . . . . mid
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