Sorry About the Sensible Shoes
Yesterday I bought my first pair of magnifying readers and attended an exercise class for senior citizens. That’s right, in the course of one day I got old. Like legitimately O to the L to the D. And no amount of orthotic inserts can cushion the blow.
Weekend before last when I hosted the Lip Trip Girls Trip, I was amazed that my friends could read their menus when we went out to dinner each night. Literally out of the blue, I can no longer read fine print. Or medium print for that matter. I am that person pumping the menu in and out, auditioning different distances as if somehow something might suddenly click. I arch toward even the faintest beam of light to illuminate pages I am attempting to read. And I have even succumbed to using the flashlight feature on my iPhone. More than once.
My husband has readers scattered around every room in the house the way Sophie and I litter the place with hairbands. So I broke down and tried a pair of his glasses. HOLY SHIITAKE MUSHROOMS! I could actually see. I started reading away, but because I am old and constantly exhausted, I fell asleep after about half of a page, rolled over, and snapped an arm off the readers. Rookie move.
Regardless it was as clear as the print on the page (through +1.50 magnification), that I needed reading glasses. I just sat with that news overnight, I had to let that one marinate.
I awakened yesterday firmly resigned, sort of, to the fact that I needed readers. Thus I set about scouring the Internet for the most fabulous pair. I decided to go with an Iris Apfel look because like Iris, I am not afraid of statement necklaces and a bigger-is-just-bigger accessory strategy.
But everything I found looked decidedly more like Kentucky County Clerk Kim Davis. Sigh. Getting old and blind sucks, worst fears confirmed.
In addition to going blind, I am suffering from a relentless case of plantar fasciitis. During the recent Girls Weekend I felt compelled to apologize repeatedly and explain my ghastly footwear. I must have said, “Sorry for the sensible shoes” about thirty times over the course of the weekend as I constantly cited the plantar fasciitis.
The fact that I have become the person talking about plantar fasciitis over wine and cheese hurts my soul more than the actual injury hurts my sole. There is perhaps no conversation topic more painfully banal. So like a topic-specific monk I have taken a vow of plantar fasciitis silence. Starting now. No more talking about it.
But I am trying to find ways to exercise around it which is proving difficult. I have tried light walking. I have tried the rowing machine. I have tried the elliptical. Pain pain and more pain. So I decided a water-based activity was required.
Which is how I found myself at Aqua Cardio yesterday. Of my twenty or so classmates, I was the youngest by a solid twenty years. The women were all incredibly welcoming and lovely…floating over to compliment my dark hair (dyed)….floating over to ask if my eyelashes were real (extensions)…bobbing up to say how much they liked my cover up hanging on the hooks over there (Amazon Prime.) I LOVE MY NEW AQUA CARDIO FRIENDS! But the real hero of the class was the instructor. He stayed on dry land near the pool’s edge, dancing out the exercise moves and coaching us in his light Spanish accent. He is clearly a crowd favorite as my classmates became quite rowdy with their familiar banter, catcalling, and mildly flirty backtalk. Those of you who have seen the movie The Proposal will understand how I began to feel like Sandra Bullock in this scene with Ramon.
So that’s the story of how I became old yesterday. It’s not like I didn’t see it coming. I saw it coming. I was just plodding along with a hint of denial. Sort of like listening to Phil Collins’s In the Air Tonight. You know the drum solo is coming, of course you do. And yet after so long with the melody just plugging along exactly the same, one teeny tiny quiet place hidden away in your brain starts to wonder….maybe….maybe the drums aren’t coming?
Ba-da-boom-boom-boom-boom. The drums come crashing down. And out goes the light superiority of mocking the youth with their soulless pop music. Out goes the condescension that we are experiencing a love of vinyl for the second time around. Gone is the haughty pride that we made it through college without the Internet or cell phones. That’s right, it’s all fun and games until you find yourself talking about plantar fasciitis at a cocktail party. Forty isn’t the new twenty, it’s just forty. And you either look good or you don’t.
Besides, that patronizing 40-is-the-new-20 cliche doesn’t even apply to me because I’ve blown past 40 and am technically edging closer to 50.
BUT, lest you think I am all complain, complain, complain, whine, whine, whine…fear not. I am already coming back around to the silver lining. Hope floats. (And apparently I do too in Aqua Cardio with the help of a trusty noodle.) The good news is that I did find some non-Kim-Davis readers online and they are being shipped as we speak. I am oddly excited about them. AND I really loved my aqua cardio class and kinda can’t wait to go back. Plus my girlfriends and I are still flying high from our lip sync weekend, laughing nonstop at the music videos we created.
Which reminds me, are you one of the gazillion people who emailed me last week that you couldn’t see the videos in the last post? Sorry about that. Try these links and have a belly laugh on me:
And with that, I am off to crank up the volume on bitchin’ tunes so I can tackle midlife with verve. Despite a couple of minor setbacks (they really are so silly and minor) I am plowing ahead with glee, vigor, gusto, and optimism. I am grateful for life, health, and countless blessings. 45-is-the-new-45. Viva Midlife! Am charging onward with no regrets and no apologies.
Well, except maybe just one. Sorry for the sensible shoes.