Early this morning, I woke up in Washington DC, where I’m going to be delivering a speech in the late afternoon. I’m sitting at my desk in the sweet early hours, my workout gear on, ready to head out to the first floor where I know the gym is located.
When my son, now in his late 30s, was about five years old, he made a remark that has stayed with me ever since. He had gone through a stage, thankfully brief, when he would pee unexpectedly, leaving a small visible stain on his trousers.
I often hear grandparents say, “I love spending time with the toddler grands but am glad to give them back to their parents at the end of the day. I’m exhausted, they have so much energy!”
Oldushka is a fascinating name for a modeling agency for older adults. It’s a funny blend of English and Russian that you would really only “get” if you had lived in both Russia and the West for some of your life.
By the time we reach our 60s, most of us have given up on anti-aging pills and potions. In fact, most of us don’t want to look younger; we just want to look radiant and full of life. This is why I prefer the term “positive aging” to “anti-aging.”
Have you noticed how many ads on television promote the use of products for bladder control problems? And do you realize that nearly all of these ads are directed at women, even though many men experience bladder leakage, too?
I’ve thought long and hard about writing this post. I figure some things are best kept private – in an era where it is the norm to over-share personal information, I have always believed that you have the right to maintain some privacy.
At the beginning of the growing season, I purchased a beautiful flowering plant. It grows tall and its blooms are bright. The hot summer sun seemed to thwart its growth. I thought, “Well, that was a short blooming season.”
Some months ago, I wrote an article about aging well which garnered some intriguing responses. One woman wrote, not without some wry humor, that she had gotten encouragement because she “simply HATED being 67.”
I thought, but didn’t write back, “Well, consider the options.”
There was no time for a blow dryer. For the past few weeks, my hair has been in braids anyway.
The hours of sorting, packing and otherwise running errands for my upcoming move from Ashland to Austin left me, most days, in desperate need of a hot, soapy shower. My look had definitely morphed to Grandma Clampett, sans the shotgun.