How I Feel About Turning 74

On August 5, I turn 74 years old.
 
Modifications are in the making: 
             When it comes to my purses, fashionable has been replaced  by  practical.            
             When it comes to my jeans, funky has been replaced by comfortable.                               
             When it comes to my brassieres, sexy has been replaced by sturdy.
 
My sports heroes – like all-time greatest baseball catcher Johnny Bench – have long since retired. But I have to admit, after meeting him in person last week, he’s still a pretty cool dude. 
 

 
 
How do I feel about turning 74? Hmmm. Let’s peruse my body: 
             My mouth is filled with capped teeth, implants and bridges.
             My fingernails are false, my hair heavily conditioned and colored.
             My knees, hips and shoulders are still my own, but saggy, achy and stiff.
             And my ankle, sprained badly over a year ago, is still swollen and sore.
 
The number of books I have bought and then abandoned after a few chapters is growing. The latest is The Weight of Ink. Life’s gotten too short to stick with a book that lulls me to sleep, rather than rallies me to action.
 
Deletions: 
            I’m no longer wearing my contact lenses daily. Why? Dryness of my eyes – not to mention the other areas of my body suffering the same fate.
            I’m no longer wearing over half the shoes in my closet. Why? Heels too high. Balance too wobbly. 
            I’m no longer buying razors on a regular basis. Why? No need any more to daily, twice weekly, bi weekly or even monthly shave my legs. This is the opposite situation from my need to deal with reoccurring, coarse black hairs increasingly appearing at an alarmingly rapid rate on my chin. 
 
HB2Me (Happy Birthday to Me).
 
Reality Check: I took the worst picture of my life in the waning days of my 73rd year.
 
“You don’t really look like that,” my husband quipped after seeing the horror on my face and handing me a tissue to stem the torrent of tears streaming down my face. “Just a bad angle, babe.”
 
“Yeah. Right,” I muttered. “You’re only saying that cause you happen to look pretty good.”
 
He didn’t reply.
 

 
After posting it, I pressed DELETE and gleefully watched it disappear from my phone photos – hopefully forever.
 
In addition, I’m suddenly squeamish about driving on the very expressways I’ve driven on fearlessly since age 16. I swear the lanes have gotten narrower, semi-trailer trucks have gotten larger and speed limits are more blatantly ignored. I’m now the little old lady I laughed at years ago – the one stalwartly driving with both hands clenching the steering wheel, besieged by scowling faced drivers impatiently zipping by her, as she stubbornly adheres to the posted speed limit of 55mph. 
 
Wine makes me fat and sleepy. Not sensual and gabby.
 
And my hubby has grown immensely tired of my constant refrain of yelling “What?” after every thought, opinion or phrase he utters. My hearing was tested and next week I will be donning hearing aids – designed to make my ability to decipher all that jumbled noise (aka conversation) into something crisp, clear and sharp. 
 
My birthday present was an Installation of grab bars in our bathtub and shower (plus my hearing aids) – cancelling out a Chihuly knock-off I’ve been eagerly ogling at a local gallery for the past year. 
 
Now, when we get together with family and friends, our grandkids and our aches, pains, procedures and meds are edging out talk of travel, fashion, new restaurants and politics.
            Travel is too far.
            Fashion is too skimpy.
            New restaurants too noisy. 
            Politics too crazy. 
 
My beloved generation of compatriot baby boomers have turned into geezers and crones. And how do I feel about that? 
 
All in all, I think we’d agree, “Better over the hill, than under it.”
 
So, HB2usall (Happy Birthday to us all).
 
And may we keep blooming,
 
Iris Ruth Pastor