Aged Wisdom

Aged Wisdom

Thursday, April 13, 2017

Say what?

April 13, 2017


Only me.

I went for my nearly-annual check-up today. Prior to seeing my doctor, the nurse asked me, “Is there anything specific you’d like to talk to the doctor about today?”
“Yes. I’d like to talk about the syphilis vaccine - the one for people over 50.” I smiled--being proactive felt great. 
“Ummm… the syphilis vaccine?” she said, staring at her computer screen.
“Yeah. I’ve seen signs for it at every pharmacy.” 
“You have?” she asked.
“My pharmacist said he would give it to me, he just needs the ok from the doctor.”
“You talked to your pharmacist about it?” she asked — just staring at me.
“Of course,” I said with nonchalance. 

I waited a half an hour for my doctor. I heard some talk in the hallway about a vaccine, but I was making a grocery list, and sketching outfits I would like to make, so I didn’t really pay attention. 

My doctor came in, smiling, and apologizing for running late. She has been my doctor for several years, and also looks after my two daughters, so she’s fairly aware of our family “story”. 
“So…what vaccine did you ask the nurse for?” she asked. 
“You know ... the one for people over 50...umm ... oh, it’s related to chicken pox.” 
“Oh,” she said and started to laugh. “The nurse told me that you wanted a vaccine for syphilis, and I told her that there was no such thing.” She continued laughing. “I knew you were in here, and it just didn’t make sense. I told her that she must have heard you wrong.”
Omigod! A light bulb blinked on in my head. “Oh No! I did ask for a syphilis vaccine,” I said, “I meant shingles—they are roughly the same length…you know when you picture the word in your head, AND they start and finish the same.”
“And you’d be surprised how many symptoms they share.” 


Only me.


Tuesday, January 17, 2017

Making the breast of it

My two friends W, J, and I walked onto the porch of my cottage after a crisp but sunny spring afternoon spent down by the river drinking wine and sharing stories. We walked up the steps of the cottage side-by-side-by-side. I reached out, pushed the key into the lock and W said to me, “Did you have a boob job?” In perfect synchrony we all looked at my chest. I cupped my hands beneath my boobs and heaved them up. We broke into another round of lose-your-breath hysterics. 
“What are you talking about?” I said.
“A reduction,” she said. “I remember you being bigger than us.” She turned to J for confirmation, “They used to be bigger, right?” Unfortunately J shook uncontrollably and made a small clicking sound in her throat—characteristic of her laughter gone internal. She would fall over soon and then turn blue. We stood by, ready to resuscitate. 
We had been friends since 1985. I’d reckon that our breasts weren’t the only things to have changed. 

***
Back when Laurèn and Yohannes were little, they climbed into bed with me each morning when the clock said 7-0-0. It didn’t matter what time they actually woke up, or if they snuck into each other’s bedrooms; they did not enter my bedroom a second before 7:00 am. (Such a control freak!) Anyway, on one morning they curled into each side of me as I lay half-coherent. They jabbered over top of me and leaned in with their elbows planted on my chest as if I were the dinner table. I felt a small hand press into my chest and pat around. 
I opened my eyes—“What-cha doin’?” 
“Where are your boobs?” asked four-year-old Yohannes. 
I raised my head and looked. He was right, my t-shirt lay completely flat. I found my boobs resting (peacefully, I might add) against my ribs on the side of my body. I scooped them back into position to wide-eyed stares, and then I let them go; they slunked over the edge and both kids broke into giggles. And then, to my horror (and quiet amusement) they each pushed one breast back up and let it go again and again, laughing uncontrollably. 

***
Recently, Ward told me about a conversation he’d had with seventeen-year-old Faven. 
“I’m not going to have breasts like Mom’s when I get old,” she said.
“Oh,” he said, “Why is that?”
“Have you seen them?!” she asked, incredulous. “They have fallen down.”
“Well, I suspect that is normal; I don’t think your mom did anything to cause that.” 
“IF that happens to me I’m going to get a boob-job. Do you know what that is Dad?”
“Ummm, I think so.”
“You can get your boobs put back into position if that happens,” she told him, and then added, “I wonder if Mom knows.”

***
A couple of weeks ago, I went to the chiropractor. I had been at an interview for a volunteer job, so didn’t have on my normal t-shirt and jeans. When Dr. Kevin came in, I told him my troubles—well, only those related to my spinal health—and I lay face down on the table. After a few adjustments, I turned onto my back. The chiropractic table is tilted slightly toward the head. I wore tights and a sweater dress with a round neckline. As I settled on my back I became awkwardly aware that my breasts, contained in a not-quite-push-up but not-quite-full-coverage bra, began to follow gravity. I lay still, flexing my pectoral muscles underneath the sagging breast tissue hoping to hold them in place. I held my breath and closed my eyes. You know how small children cover their eyes when they play hide-and-seek?—If they can’t see you, you can’t see them. I was employing that tactic. I felt my breasts droop like a bowl of Jello turned on its side. If aging were only as sweet!

 ***
Sagging is an inevitable consequence of aging, affected by the hormonal changes of menopause, but also by size, gravity, smoking, weight gain and loss, and lo-and-behold . . . vigorous exercise. Yes, the more freedom you give “the girls” the more likely it is that you will need little people to push them back into position or, God forbid, big people to prop, sling, or stitch them back in place. 
That is the down-side. 
But here is the great news: menopausal mammaries are shape-shifters—not like in Harry Potter when Professor McGonagall changes into a cat, or when the Boggart turns into your worst fear. It would be very awkward indeed to have your breasts turn into a cat or a Dementor right in the middle of your chest. Breasts already have the ability to cause eye-popping attention, that would just be over-doing it. 
But shape-shifters they are nonetheless. These pliable sacks of tissue can be folded, squashed, plumped, thrust up, forced down, and pressed into any mould of your desire. Look no further than Madonna!
Many of the undergarments these days border on ridiculous. Take the balconette bra—so named after a railing or balustrade in front of a window. The bra’s occupants have a clear view over top of that balustrade and even risk toppling over. Ouch!
Here’s another tempting option—the bandeau bra. A fresh new take on the french word that means: “band worn over your forehead”. Warning: Your chest has to be the same shape as your forehead to wear this one. 
A popular variety, the contour or molded-cup bra, is one where the cups have been formed by a machine to fit the shape of your breasts. I suspect they used a mammography machine and live subjects for that. 
In the olden days, we used to stuff our bras with kleenex if needed. But our modern-day counterparts are too good for that, they buy a padded bra—one that already has the kleenex in it. 
Another old-time favourite was the tube top, as if the breasts “inflate” the tube. I mean if that could actually then serve as a flotation device, that would be cool.
Lastly, I’d like to talk about the shelf bra. I know it gets tiring to carry them around all the time, but seriously, who would stop and rest them on a shelf?! I can see it now…you got your nice comfy chairs in the mall, and instead of a cup holder there would be a pivoting shelf. You sit your little hiney into the chair and pull the shelf in front of you, plop your weary pilgrims onto the shelf, and whip out your phone to take a seflfie. Hi Mom! 

***
The bra that I was wearing on that historic spring day when my friend accused me of having a breast reduction, was none other than The Equalizer (aka the sports bra). It takes your breast tissue and compresses it across your whole chest—so that no one can tell where one boob ends and the other begins. It’s the unibrow, but for breasts. 
Truth was, my breasts were reduced—in the same way that my butt, thighs, and waist were reduced. Weight loss. Odd that my friend didn’t ask me “Have you had a cheek job?” “Did you get the fat removed from your knees?” or, “I swear, your arms look smaller than they used to, did you have the skin tightened over your triceps?”

Breasts, and their accoutrements are somehow Just More Noticeable.