Pieces of the Whole
Da kittums, dat’s who.
I confess, I tried to set up a cute picture of one of my cats looking in the mirror for today’s prompt (Primp). It didn’t work. I guess they aren’t as vain as their mama.
![AdobeStock_98604038 [Converted]](https://myworldwithwords.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/05/adobestock_98604038-converted.png?w=204&h=300)
I spend less time these days in front of mirror than I did years ago, although of course, in my younger years I was working with better material. Most of us hit our peak before 50. It’s just a fact. These days, looking at my neck depresses me.
Fixing myself up used to be a lot more fun.
When I get my hair cut, I make sure I’m wearing the full visage. Too much time staring at that mirror under those lights. I don’t know what it is about salons and retail stores, but the lighting is always so harsh. Okay, salons, maybe they need it to accurately see what they’re doing, and I’ll forgive them for that reason. But why should The Gap make me feel bad about myself when I’m trying on jeans?
It isn’t the visible signs of aging that concern me as much as the time that is passing by without achieving what I believe I’m capable of doing. Yet I hold fast to my belief in the power of subtle changes.
There are days when your world might completely turn around for the better, and it’s possible all good things will come to you in short order. Generally, however, the gifts in life are given to us one at a time, until one day we look back and say, “hey, my life is growing stronger.”
Where I am today is far better than where I was five years ago. Some of it feels the same, but the reality is, it simply isn’t. Yes, there are stresses in my life, but I believe things will work out. That’s been my experience in far worse circumstances than what I’m facing today.
Thank God for the power of experience. It’s–no other word for it here–a relief. Okay, other words fit, too–it’s a comfort. It’s confidence. It helps you sort out what matters. You don’t worry so much about what’s going on outside your control.
But today I think I’ll spend a little extra time in front of the mirror and see where that gets me. A little primping might do my heart good.
Image Credit: © sapunkele — Adobe Stock
Today I discovered the injury to my thumb that has been plaguing me for the last several weeks is likely due to decades of avid knitting. I saw a physical therapist, and with the help of some special tools, she was able feel an unusual number of bumps in the muscle that goes from my thumb to my wrist. These bumps are typically due to tiny tears in the muscle that heal over and form scar tissue. Over time, it can cause tendonitis.
Throughout your lifetime you’re warned to eat right, exercise regularly, get plenty of sleep and avoid stress. Of course you may or may not pay attention to this advice, and as you age, you could find yourself paying the price of a lifetime of bad habits. That’s expected.
But nobody told me to moderate my knitting lest my thumb pay the price. Nobody.
There’s a limited warranty on our bodies, and not a whole lot of recourse with any of it. There are some relatively guaranteed benefits of healthy living, although disease can hit any of us and counteract those benefits at any time.
For the rest of our physical well-being, it’s basically planned obsolescence.
How many other surprise aches and pains await me in the coming years? This is annoying, I have to say it. I’ve been drying my hair in the same manner since I was a teenager. Is that going to cause a problem someday?
I should regain full use of my thumb, but it may take weeks. In the meantime, knitting is out, which is like taking away a part of my spirit. I find myself getting a little depressed, not being able to use the soothing therapy of creating with beautiful fiber.
Yes, I know, there are many more serious problems, and I do have proper perspective on this. It is wear and tear, literally, not chronic or terminal disease. Overall, I remain basically a healthy person. My heart is in good shape. My screening tests come back negative, and that’s positive. I don’t have diabetes, cancer or glaucoma, and I am grateful. Truly, deeply grateful.
But this aspect of getting older — pooh.
Image Credit: © sapunkele — fotolia
I’m feeling like a grown-up today, and I don’t like it.
My mom had hip surgery last week, and I went to stay with her during her recovery. That’s a much shorter period of time these days, in part, thankfully, because of advancements in procedure. The surgery went beautifully, and she’s experienced only a moderate amount of pain.
Until now, the day after I had to leave. Actually, I didn’t have to leave, I planned to stay a day or two (or three) longer. But the weather was worsening, Mom was worried, and she insisted I leave. So I did.
She also confessed that as long as I was there, she’d depend on me, and she couldn’t do that any longer. So I made the long drive home, normally one I somewhat enjoy, feeling guilty, even knowing I did what she wanted.
Or said she wanted.
It leaves me to muddle through from my home 700 miles away. She’s my mom, and I could never do enough for her. Yet I’m being called on to be responsible for at least part of her care, and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I’m muddling with the help of others, but putting those pieces together weighs on me. Do I move to be closer to her? It’s what she wants, but is it what I want? Is what I want important here? Would I regret not moving after she’s gone? I have to make adult decisions and it’s hard.
Should I have insisted I stay longer? At what point, as the daughter, do I call the shots? Aside from this surgery, my mom is perfectly capable of taking care of herself. She’s proven that, time and again.
What decisions lay ahead? Will she be able to live on her own until she dies? Family history says yes, but that isn’t a true predictor of her situation.
How could I move her out of her home? I couldn’t.
I’m feeling like an adult, and I don’t like it.
I’m glad fall is near for one simple reason: I look so much better in fall & winter clothes.
I’m not particularly thrilled my ego is that sensitive, but at the same time, I dread the day I no longer care about my appearance at all.
It would be nice to start caring a little less as a I get older, and I think I probably already do, or I’d be in a panic as I watched the signs of aging creep in on me. I don’t recall ever believing I’d get this old. Not that I thought I’d die young, I just didn’t think I’d ever age. Yes, logically I knew I would, but my mind generally wouldn’t go there.
It still doesn’t, until I look in the mirror and can no longer deny it. I’m in my 50s. How the hell did that happen so soon? It’s not going to get better, so I need to figure out how to deal with the disappointment. Just why does it bother me?
Part of it, I suppose, is being single. Like it or not, how you look affects your ability to captivate the opposite sex, and I’m not feeling the same power I used to. Not that I ever felt powerful, but still, on a good day I felt competitive.
So to keep from getting lonely, I need to look good? I don’t think that’s a truth I want to start believing.
But here’s the other thing: aging gracefully is a requirement for people older and wiser than I (believe I) am. The driver’s license isn’t letting me get away with thinking I’m any younger, but wiser is harder to assess, and I just don’t know if I measure up.
I don’t want to be an old fool. I know a few of those, and becoming one probably scares me more than anything else.
There is one piece of wisdom I’ve acquired. All the plastic surgery in the world isn’t going to keep you from looking older. It has its benefits for some, but it’s not likely it will ever be something I’ll consider. I’m looking for other alternatives, including attitude, to take its place.
Attitude, and hair color.
Image Credit: (clock) © Jakub Krechowicz; (water) © JulietPhotography; (sky) © Kirsty Pargeter; (wood) © Filip Miletic–all, Fotolia
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