Growing Older (Just Not Up)

I recently passed a major milestone in the number of years I have been on earth entertaining/pissing off people. It was celebrated with many well wishes from friends and family, and chocolate and Royals/Chiefs paraphernalia from the men in the household. The next day I went to the doctor for my annual physical. Today, January 12, 2016, 102 days later, I am FINALLY finishing that results of that exam.

I have had every orifice of my body thoroughly examined and samples taken from all. I have had scans (bone density is wonderful, bladder is weak.) I have had my boobs smushed three different ways in my annual mammogram, which was pronounced clean. I had a splint on my right hand for a month, and then physical therapy for another month, although neither was a by-product of the physical, but of a weekend with high school friends in Branson. Alcohol was not involved. I also had another corticosteroid shot in my left knee.

I then had my eyes checked, expecting new glasses. Nope. I needed cataracts removed, but first, they wanted a look at my right macula. This is where I both hate and love the internet, because while you can get reassurance, you can also read enough to scare the living daylights out of you. My eye guy sent me to a retina guy who pronounced it a macular pucker and told me not to worry (does that phrase really ever work?) He in turn, sent me to the cataract guy. (Don’t you love large practices?) By the time I saw Dr. Doogie Howser, the cataract guy, the entire process took up a couple of weeks. Doogie Howser was obviously not his real name, but I dubbed him that because while he was a giant (and at 5’1”, I consider anyone over 6’ to be freakishly tall) he has the face of a 12 year old. Dr. Doogie sent me home with a roll of tape (to re-stick the plastic eye patch to my eye each night after surgery), wraparound sunglasses, a magnifying glass, and six appointments, two for surgeries, two for next day follow-ups, and two more for one week follow-ups (they did each eye separately, several weeks apart.) The last appointment was a month ago, and today I go back to the eye doc who started this cluster, and hopefully get a prescription for long distance glasses. Lenscrafters darn well better have this particular prescription in stock, because if I have to wait 2-3 weeks, I just may blow a gasket. If I blow a gasket, I am sure to get it fixed tomorrow, because I have my quarterly meds check in/bloodletting at my regular physician, who is actually a nurse practitioner. I also need to schedule another knee shot, and talk about maybe adding the left knee to the party.

Kids…stay young. As your car ages, things wear out, and it’s the same with your body. Once you hit 65,000 miles, they start looking under the hood to see what’s about to spring a leak, and while you can trade the car in for a newer model, you’re stuck with the same body, regardless of the number of miles it has racked up. I need both hands to count the number of knee replacements my friends have had this past year.

Meanwhile my mind is perpetually 16, bopping along to whatever music is playing, attempting to convince me that even though I am yawning by 9pm, I should get a second wind and party until at least 10. Events out are planned and excitedly awaited – until the appointed day when I am NOT in the mood to actually get out of sweats, let alone do something with my hair and (gasp) put on makeup. I mean seriously, unless Hugh Jackman or Joe Manganiello is going to be there and devote all their time to me, it ain’t gonna be worth it and I ain’t going, no matter what I said when you asked. Just telling you right now.

While some people worship youth, I am comfortable with my age. I feel it gives me a freedom to act however I want, be it cranky, flirty, wise, or silly. Back in 1972 Marlo Thomas and friends initiated the Free To Be You and Me movement, encouraging children to cross traditional gender lines when it came to employment, likes, and household duties. I think the phrase has great merit once one attains a ‘certain age.’ Free to be you or me, tells me that I do not have to conform to the traditional role of senior citizen if I don’t want to. I am free to be Me, and Me is whomever I feel like at the moment.

So in honor of Jimmy Buffet’s wisdom and song with the same title, I shall grow older, just not up. Pardon me while I slip into my pink Converse, turn the music up on my iPod, and download a few new books on my e-reader. I am happening, baby.  I am happening.