sixty

When I was younger, sixty seemed ancient to me.
Women who were sixty complained about their feet. They sweat profusely, bitched about their husbands, wore sensible shoes and shopped at Lane Bryant. I knew I didn’t want that to be my narrative!
How did I want to be at sixty? I wanted to be curious, and vibrant and full of the joy of life! Well, you know what? Now that I’m here, what I know for sure is that you have to put in the effort to look and feel good. And unless they figure out a way to reverse the aging process and put us back into the body that matches how old we feel inside, I intend to continue to make that effort. 

In the meantime, here are some things I know about sixty.

My neck looks like an uncircumcised penis. Underneath all of the loose skin lies the long, firm, neck of my youth. Sometimes I have to pull all the extra skin back just to wear a necklace.  Why don’t they have a Spanx for that? 

I love differently. Bigger. Deeper. And although their numbers may have dwindled, the ones I love now as opposed to back-in-the-day have embedded themselves under my skin. Some days I wear them like a cozy blanket or a cape. I know, it’s creepy for them—but I’m telling you—that’s what happens over time. 

I feel so good. I think it’s because I’m in better shape all the way around than I was at twenty. I eat better, I sleep better and I definitely exercise more than I did back then which isn’t hard. Nobody went to the “gym” until Jane Fonda and Olivia Newton-John shamed us into it. I certainly didn’t. I was too busy being a self-absorbed little bitch to walk a mere fifty steps a day. I floated instead. Over a sea of other girls like me in my desperate climb to the middle. 

That being said, self-care at sixty has become a full-time job. Between appointments to get the barnacles that have accumulated burned off my body, slathering Crepe Erase all over my neck, my arms and my everywhere, and the tweezing of stray, black chin hairs, I barely have time to fit in the hormone replacement appointments. 

Babies don’t come to me. They have a finely tuned sixth-sense and can smell the fact that I never had children and that I’ll probably get distracted and put them down and forget where I left them. 

My feet are still pretty but they’re loud and scream in protest. A lot!

The veins in my hands are so big they could carry crude oil to Alaska.

As far as fashion goes, black is a color. 

I love my gray hair.  While it took awhile to grow out the blonde, the lack of monthly maintenance has left me feeling so much lighter—and my wallet fuller. I highly recommend it.

People call me ma’am. They just do. I used to get annoyed, now I just smile and flip them off when they’re not looking. 

Men hold doors for me. I’ve become invisible to the opposite sex so I don’t expect it. Maybe I look frail? It surprises me every time, especially when I have to run because it’s clear they’re getting annoyed with me for taking too long. Just so you know, there is an expiration date on random acts of kindness. It’s three minutes. Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention, Kenneth!

I haven’t had to renew my driver’s license in ages. Longer than I can remember…huh.

I love my alone time. Being an extrovert and a people person, I used to hate being alone. If I was in a room by myself for one minute, I had to either turn on the TV or crank up the stereo. Filling every second with music gave me an awesome soundtrack for my life but it never allowed me to think. I’m guessing that was the point. 

I love texting. It’s quick and nasty and where has it been all my life? 

I waited a long time for true love. People discouraged me. They said I was too picky. I spent many a Saturday night feeling profoundly lonely instead of settling for a schmo.  But I held out hope kissing a lot of frogs along the way to forty-three. I’m happy to report that in the end—it was worth it. 

I’ve made some questionable decisions in my life. I’ve fucked up. I’ve gotten my heart-broken. I’ve hurt people. And now, when all the dust has settled, I’m not sure, looking back, if any of it really mattered… 

In stark contrast, I’ve made some great decisions in my life and there by the grace of god I’ve created this life I’m living now. I’m certain both the terrible and the inspired played a role. But would I have ended up here no matter what? I ask myself that question all the time and I’m not even stoned.  

Speaking of stoned, every vice imaginable has been pried from my white-knuckled grasp as I’ve aged. Call it allergies, call it hormonal, call it sulfites, the latest casualty is red wine—and I call bullshit.

But what do I know about sixty? I just got here. 

Carry on,
xox

I don’t know about you, but as I approach sixty I find myself growing weary of things that used to delight me.

Take going to the beach for example.

Growing up in Southern California had its perks, one of them was living in a state of perpetual summer. A common side effect of that was “beach obsession”. And I wasn’t alone. Every chance we got (I admit to making my own chances by calling in sick to work or school on those particularly gorgeous, eighty-five degree February days of which there were many) me, and my friends and family would load our cars and hightail it out to Malibu.

Since I grew up smack dab in the center of the infamous San Fernando Valley, it took an hour of twisty, turny canyon driving to get us there.

First, beach gear (ice chest, chairs, towels, umbrella and sand toys) had to be assembled and bologna sandwiches and Kool-Aid had to be made. Once there, the endless cacophony of transistor radios broadcasting endless Dodger games, and when I got older, boom boxes with Prince, Foreigner and Loverboy mix tapes blared along the wide swath of hot sand known as Zuma. If you were bold enough to walk in your bikini all the way down to the water’s edge and dip your toe into the freezing cold Pacific— the rip current would grab your ankles and suck you under while the monstrous waves would pummel you senseless.

But I didn’t care about any of that! I loved the beach! We all did. That being said, even though I still live in LA, I’d be hard-pressed to tell you the last time I went.

Not only that. When the thought does occur to me to go and partake of the negative ionic benefits that spending time at the ocean provides, I have a list as long as my arm of everything that offends me about the idea.

The first one is: I have an aversion to driving an hour to get anywhere that doesn’t have decent food, comfortable chairs, and accessible WiFi.

Not only that; it’s always windy so reading anything other than a Kindle is exasperating…and the humidity makes my hair look like the Bride of Frankenstein’s…and I’ve developed an aversion to sand. It burns my feet and gets into places I’d rather not discuss. Places whose price of admission is dinner and flowers. I once took a bath only to discover afterward that there was sand in the bottom of the tub from a tropical vacation six months prior.

Don’t ask.

As long as I’m making this list—here are a few other former pleasures that test my tolerance and suck the joy right out of me:

Just any seat at concerts — Music sounds better in the cheap seats—said no one—ever! I used to just be so happy to be there, now, I want to actually be entertained. So I step up. I swallow the bitter pill that is ticket extortion—Isn’t that what money is for?

Loud music — I have things in my life I may want to hear a couple of days later. Like ambulance sirens while I drive or my husband telling me something very important…from another room.

High heels — I used to live in them. Now, I have a ten-minute rule. I will walk from the car to the restaurant in them, pivot, and sit. That’s it.

Sex — I don’t like to give sex a lot of forethought. I’m lazy that way. I enjoy spontaneity, and romance not goopy gels and creams and half-hour warnings. If it takes longer to get my party started than it does to read this essay…meh, I’d rather read a good book.

I don’t mean to sound like an old curmudgeon, I’m actually someone who is game for almost anything.

Just as long as I’m home in bed at a decent hour.

Carry on,
xox