Not aging gracefully

[superfranklymydear]

Moving On

I have spent the last year or so, deciding whether I could retire, and whether I should retire.  I must have interviewed dozens of friends and  acquaintances who are retired; some, my age, some a bit older.  Some have been retired for 10 years or more, some a year or two.  Some said, “You will know when it’s time”.  I waited, but didn’t get a sign.  Did that mean it wasn’t time? I don’t normally get those signs. Usually I overthink everything to death. I wait for a sign but it never comes, so I have to take matters into my own hands.  I interviewed people about their retirement--what was a typical day, how did they feel about being retired, and did they regret it.  The answers (and I’m not saying my friends are typical, but there were a lot of them) were probably about 98% positive.  They were busier than ever, they loved being retired, and I should definitely do it.  Several remarked that I lived in NYC and there would be a million things to do.  Truly, I expected more hesitant answers, but in fact, they were highly enthusiastic in nearly every case.  That gave me hope.

I started by asking my husband what he thought.  While he is a year older than me, retirement is the furthest thing from his mind.  His work (scientific research) is his life - his job is his hobby.  He told me he doesn’t know how to play golf, so what would he do? That is how he envisions retirement.  I don’t play golf either and don’t intend to take it up anytime now or in the future.  He told me the decision on whether to retire is mine. 

The next, and probably most important phase, was to look at finances.  I had a financial advisor run the numbers.  Not bad.  In fact, pretty good - at least better than expected! All that retirement saving was apparently paying off.  In addition, I’m in a State pension plan at work, and thought I had to work 10 years to be vested.  Retiring next year would only bring me to eight.  There’s something in the pension world called “service credits”.  You can buy them and add that to your service.  I found out I could buy additional service credits for similar work done in another state, but this was not as easy as it sounded.  Without going into boring detail, I successfully bought an additional two years of service credit - but it took several months of frustration.   I got to the ten years of vesting, which I then found out that I didn’t actually need because of my age!  Nevertheless, that part worked out.

That turned out to be the easy part.  The “can” was answered, but the “should” not so much.  I continued to overthink.  I waited again for a sign.  None came.  I should tell you, I love my job, but I also love doing other things and don’t have time for many of them.  I want to play more piano, I want to travel, see grand babies more frequently, and just have fun.  I tried envisioning staying another year, or two years.  That didn’t feel particularly good.  Maybe that was the sign.

During this time, my husband’s cousin, a vivacious woman in her 70s who lives on a boat with her 80-something significant other came to visit.  She is one of my favorite people who I don’t get to see nearly often enough.  I mentioned to her that I was thinking of retiring but didn’t know what to do.  She told me a story.  Back when she and her husband were in their 50s, they had a very successful business and worked very long hours.  After many tries, she successfully convinced her husband that they should cut back and semi-retire.  Shortly thereafter, her husband was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and died.    Her next words were obvious, but for me, profound.  “No one knows how long they have.  I’m not telling you to retire, but I am telling you to do what you want.”  She is a person who has had plenty of difficulties in life, and yet has a positive outlook.  Her words continued to echo.  

I decided that although I enjoyed my job, I had limited time in which my health would continue to cooperate and that I could take advantage of the time I would have to do things other than work.  I did not want to wait until I became decrepit to stop working.  

Because I am the director, I gave my library board six months notice, plenty of time to find my replacement (although in reality my assistant director is super-able and waiting in the wings, and the board is happy to have her).  While they were surprised (why is everyone always surprised when you announce your retirement?) they took it well.  Next I told my staff, who congratulated me and moved onto something else.  I breathed a sigh of relief, and moved on to learning to play MahJongg, just like, as my daughter described it, “An old Jewish lady”.  And I’m proud of it. 

[superfranklymydear]

This is my view.  It’s New Jersey, about two miles south of the George Washington Bridge. I’m looking west from upper Manhattan.  I have taken dozens of photos of this view, at different times of the year, different hours of the day and night, and different weather conditions. Sunsets can be magnificent.  Sometimes there are barges, other times sailboats, once in a while kayaks, Circle Line tourist boats, and even the occasional cruise ship. One time, I saw an unusually large number of boats in the river. and there were hundreds of little arms and legs coming out of the water that I didn’t notice until my husband pointed them out.  I could not imagine why people were swimming in what I always understood, true or not, to be polluted waters.  It turned out it was something called the Little Red Lighthouse Swim, a five mile swim to the historic lighthouse near the GWB.  It’s held annually in the fall.  This was also the route Capt. Chesley Sullenberger took when he miraculously landed US Air Flight 1549 further down the river. Had I been home and looking out my window at that moment, I would have seen a low flying plane passing directly in front of me.

Early one morning, before sunrise, I couldn’t sleep, and went into the living room. I looked out the window and saw stars. Many, many stars.  They blinked incessantly. After several seconds of staring, these stars appeared to be moving.  I really thought my eyes were playing tricks, but kept staring. Very slowly, the sky began to lighten to a dark violet and the stars grew closer, and bigger. I could then see that they were not stars, but dozens, yes, dozens of helicopters patrolling the Hudson before dawn, to protect and defend us. Who knew?

[superfranklymydear]

Oatmeal for One

I have put on some weight recently.  I’m really not sure why.  It could be because I am eating too much, and snacking too wrong.  I know better.  And today, I vow to start being more mindful of what I am eating. Oatmeal.  A healthy breakfast.  And very simple to make in the microwave.  I look at the box and see that one portion is ½ cup oatmeal, and a cup of water.  Directions say to put in a deep bowl, cover with plastic wrap and microwave for 2-4 minutes. 

Easy.  

I am careful to put the oatmeal and water into a bowl much larger than what I would eat out of so it won’t boil over, all over the microwave.  I cover with plastic wrap and set the timer for 2 minutes.  In the meantime, I get out a bowl and a spoon to eat with, and a spatula to take the oatmeal out of the bigger bowl.  After two minutes, I look at the oatmeal. It’s watery; definitely not done.  So, I put it back for another two minutes.  Then I look at it again and it has exploded,  all over the plastic wrap and microwave. Sigh.  

I use oven mitts to get it out, (note to self - need new oven mitts), and use the spatula to get the 90% of the oatmeal off the glass microwave tray and back into the bowl.  The plastic wrap is no longer usable, so I get out a plate to cover the oatmeal, as the recipe says to let it sit for one minute.  I decide I still need something healthy to put on the oatmeal and make it a bit sweet without a lot of sugar.  I take out some maple syrup, some orange marmalade, dried apricots, and raisins.  At that point my husband gets up and comes into the kitchen, and remarks on the elaborate breakfast I am having (our diets are completely different, but that’s another story).I put back the maple syrup, and the apricots and carefully add a few raisins, and about ½ tsp marmalade to the oatmeal.  And some low fat milk.  It’s actually quite delicious. And my 12 simple breakfast dishes are piled in the sink, laughing.

[superfranklymydear]

Gray

I just turned 65. Somehow, that has affected me. I feel like officially, I’m now an old lady, in every way except how I actually feel. Demographically, I’m past middle age, and my official expected lifespan is now about another 20 years.

 I want purple hair.

 About five years ago, I decided to stop dying my hair.  I went gray early, maybe in my thirties, and since that time had various shades of brown, red, dark blonde, even a sort of dark purple, which was really dark brown. Sometimes, I had it done professionally; other times, I did it at home, making our shower and shower curtain look like the shower stabbing scene from Psycho, and missing spots because after all, you can’t see the back of your head.  

 So, I went to my regular hairdresser and she asked me, “What are we doing today?”  I said, meekly, “I think I don’t want to dye it”, expecting an argument.  She said, “OK, let’s cut it short, and see how you like it.  If you want to dye it after that we can.”  So, she cut it into a rather short, but adorable pixie cut, leaving just a tiny bit of dark blonde at the ends.  I loved it.

 That evening I went to meet my husband for dinner at a restaurant, and asked him the dreaded question, “Do you notice anything different?”  He gazed at me intently.  Gulp.  “Did you dye the ends of your hair?”  At least he noticed that it was a different color.  

 I kept my hair short and sort of spiky, and it eventually was mostly a very nice, white-silver gray, and I loved it, and received a lot of compliments.  It was easy to take care of, and as long as I kept up with the haircuts around every six weeks, did not become that awful curly, frizzy old-lady mess. I enjoyed the freedom.

 But then another thing happened.

 People, mostly men, actually, began giving up their seats to me in the subway.  The first few times it was great to get a seat in a crowded train, and it gave me hope that people weren’t as selfish as I thought.  But then I looked around.

 I looked old.  

 Sure, there were a few other people with gray hair standing up, but they weren’t offered the seat, I was. I started declining the seat, with the excuse that I was getting off soon, and thanked each one with a smile. But the offers continued.  I had had it with the gray hair.  It was not me. I was going to fight it.

 The last few times I went to the hairdresser I floated the idea of dying my hair again.  She was against it.  She said, “Why? It looks fantastic.”  While I didn’t dye it, my gut kept telling me to do something; I didn’t know what.

 Finally, last week I went for my overdue haircut (and by this time it had become the curly, frizzy old-lady mess).  I again said, “I am sick of my hair.  I want something different. I don’t know what. Maybe another style; maybe another color. But I hate it.”  She told me she would style it so that it would grow out a bit, but I would be responsible for blowing it dry – which I dreaded.  Again, I had that fear of frizz that kept me from letting it grow.  Still, I decided to try it.  Our discussion continued.  I told her about my fear of looking like an old lady.  And the polite people on the subway.  We went over options.  There weren’t many.  I didn’t want anything dark that looked, in my mind, like an old face with fake dark hair. What about blonde?  She was against it.  I sighed.  Then I told her about a colleague who was a bit younger than me but dressed very awesomely funky.  Her hair was two different colors – brown in the back, and a white-blonde in the front. It was amazing.  I said, “I don’t know – I’d like something exciting – purple or pink or something”.   I expected some eye-rolling but instead she said, “YES!!!  I am thrilled you want that.  She ran to get the book of swatches.  

Cindy Lauper is about my age.  Granted, she’s an artist, but she has pink hair.  She looks great. She’s definitely not afraid that people will make fun of her and complain that an old lady has pink hair.

I Googled, “purple hair old ladies”. Yes, I really did.  A ton of photos came up of famous, and not so famous people, who, for the most part, looked pretty splendid.

I can’t change the fact that I am getting up there, agewise.  But does that mean I have to become boring, when I don’t think I was ever boring before?  My mother lived to 87, and definitely was never boring.  I don’t think there are people in my family who are boring, so why should I be?  

 My next haircut is in four weeks.