Memento Mori—remember that you must die!  It’s motivating that is, and as you careen further toward your crematory end you will think about it more frequently. 

Example.  Casually scrolling, some entertainer you haven’t thought about in bloody ages, and who you likely already thought was brown bread, makes the news because they only just popped off the planet for parts unknown and blimey, he was only 68!  I might only have a few more years…. You get the idea.   

Although we’re forever in pre-boarding I suppose, regardless of age, and must take some measure of comfort in not knowing the exact time of take-off from a hopefully not too bitter end. 

To balance it all out of course we must also remember to Memento Vivere—remember that you must live!

With that in mind I still go commando.  I know.  As a woman of a certain age, and post-menopausal no less, I probably shouldn’t.  Yet rebelliousness to any degree can keep the old juices flowing.  Besides, coverage can be kept close at hand such as in the boot of the car, or a tote bag even.

I suppose I should clarify that any going commando in my case refers to going on a prolonged walk without the structural support of at least a walking cane—and not to leaving the house without wearing me knickers.

I realize that I’m playing a little fast and loose with the definition of going commando, but I implore you to indulge me as I work on gaining the confidence of a mediocre man about to enter a female sports category.  I’m pushing those boundaries toward my authentic self and yes my imaginary balls are tingling at the prospect dammit.  I’m wearing the bloody trousers in this essay.

Sensible shoes are de rigueur too—the kind Mum always told me would prevent the bunions I ended up with because I didn’t listen.  Those beauties have been visible from space for years.  {I later learned bunions can also be hereditary, she had them, and wouldn’t listen.}

For women who live long enough the cloak of invisibility will be bestowed upon you.  Unless you’re a man of course. Then, you’ll be stunning and brave; but whether you festoon a fanny or a makeshift minge with fairy lights it won’t matter, because once you pass that event horizon there’s no going back—and, the more you try, while you might once again become visible it’ll be for all the wrong reasons.  Besides, no one wants to look like mutton dressed as lamb, do they?  Hang on a minute…

Social media has confirmed that to be a lie.

Pardon my digress.

If you’re lucky enough to be without any horrendous medical conditions as you get closer to midnight, you’ll likely still experience some reminders that you’re beginning to wear out; although I’m sure there are some people who never get anything. 

Bring them to me so that I may beat them with my big, handcrafted, made in the USA walking stick.  The one I bought because it looks cooler than a cane, thus making me feel less old and allowing, should the mood strike, to go all Gandalf and say You shall not pass!

I’m lucky to have been born into immense physical health having inherited decent genes, but somewhere along the line a little rent comes due.  In my case, as for many, it was Arthritis—Osteoarthritis.  Something I’d never given a second thought to until several years ago. 

I certainly didn’t think the bugger would ever take up residence in one of my hips, and while not life-threatening, it’s still a bloody nuisance and a sharp reminder that one is no longer a spring chicken.

I always thought it odd that objects are referred to as she.  Ships for instance, launched with the exclamation of bless this ship and all who sail in her! followed by the waste of a perfectly good bottle of champagne.  Well isn’t that noble.  Until it sinks then “she’s” all the Jeremy Hunts under the sun and it’s the bloody ships fault. I suppose latent revenge then, led me to assign my arthritis male, and christen him Jeremy, because sometimes He can be a right one. 

Until that Jeremy moved in I had taken my easy, pain-free movement for granted, as you do.  I was around 57 when I had an official diagnosis of what ailed me, my stoic bent quickly overshadowed by my mind going straight to the worst-case scenario; or, if you prefer, I catastrophized. 

Life is a shipwreck, said Voltaire, we must learn to sing in the lifeboats!

The sky indeed was not falling, and nor would it, if I became proactive, grabbed a lifeboat of sorts, and started singing.  So I took up pole dancing; the story of which can be found in a little book I wrote about it called My Anthropolegy; a little tome in praise of pole dancing.  You can find it on that online store named after a shrinking Brazilian rainforest. 

I know.  A shameless book plug.  Yet I felt this to be a reasoned opportunity to slip one in.  Besides, I heard somewhere that old age combined with cunning can often overcome youth and skill.  Hence, the vulpine measures to lure anyone to the yard as I’m out of milk and eggs.

I did have a bit of a dress rehearsal for the descent into dotage though care of a past college class.

In search of an elective to add to the rest of the BS, I chose The Psychology of Aging which gave us a glimpse of what might lay ahead before my subscription is cancelled.  A live-and-learn as you wait your turn for the urn. 

We patched eye glasses to reduce peripheral vision, taped fingers to mimic severely arthritic hands, and used canes and wheelchairs to roam a campus in someone else’s shoes, albeit crudely.  Glad it’s not me—I thought as I easily slipped out of my appropriated disabilities; only to switch roles with my fellow student.  Another lesson—perhaps greater.

Patience Caregiver….

It’s hard to slow down when you don’t have to; it’s harder to keep up as you age.  Patience with others.  Patience with self. 

Go on then.  Dance in your own way toward the final exit.  Be patient.  Adapt. 

And don’t forget to sing in the bloody lifeboats! 

Memento Mori—remember that you must die!  It’s motivating that is, and as you careen further toward your crematory end you will think about it more frequently. 

Example.  Casually scrolling, some entertainer you haven’t thought about in bloody ages, and who you likely already thought was brown bread, makes the news because they only just popped off the planet for parts unknown and blimey, he was only 68!  I might only have a few more years…. You get the idea.   

Although we’re forever in pre-boarding I suppose, regardless of age, and must take some measure of comfort in not knowing the exact time of take-off from a hopefully not too bitter end. 

To balance it all out of course we must also remember to Memento Vivere—remember that you must live!

With that in mind I still go commando.  I know.  As a woman of a certain age, and post-menopausal no less, I probably shouldn’t.  Yet rebelliousness to any degree can keep the old juices flowing.  Besides, coverage can be kept close at hand such as in the boot of the car, or a tote bag even.

I suppose I should clarify that any going commando in my case refers to going on a prolonged walk without the structural support of at least a walking cane—and not to leaving the house without wearing me knickers.

I realize that I’m playing a little fast and loose with the definition of going commando, but I implore you to indulge me as I work on gaining the confidence of a mediocre man about to enter a female sports category.  I’m pushing those boundaries toward my authentic self and yes my imaginary balls are tingling at the prospect dammit.  I’m wearing the bloody trousers in this essay.

Sensible shoes are de rigueur too—the kind Mum always told me would prevent the bunions I ended up with because I didn’t listen.  Those beauties have been visible from space for years.  {I later learned bunions can also be hereditary, she had them, and wouldn’t listen.}

For women who live long enough the cloak of invisibility will be bestowed upon you.  Unless you’re a man of course. Then, you’ll be stunning and brave; but whether you festoon a fanny or a makeshift minge with fairy lights it won’t matter, because once you pass that event horizon there’s no going back—and, the more you try, while you might once again become visible it’ll be for all the wrong reasons.  Besides, no one wants to look like mutton dressed as lamb, do they?  Hang on a minute…

Social media has confirmed that to be a lie.

Pardon my digress.

If you’re lucky enough to be without any horrendous medical conditions as you get closer to midnight, you’ll likely still experience some reminders that you’re beginning to wear out; although I’m sure there are some people who never get anything. 

Bring them to me so that I may beat them with my big, handcrafted, made in the USA walking stick.  The one I bought because it looks cooler than a cane, thus making me feel less old and allowing, should the mood strike, to go all Gandalf and say You shall not pass!

I’m lucky to have been born into immense physical health having inherited decent genes, but somewhere along the line a little rent comes due.  In my case, as for many, it was Arthritis—Osteoarthritis.  Something I’d never given a second thought to until several years ago. 

I certainly didn’t think the bugger would ever take up residence in one of my hips, and while not life-threatening, it’s still a bloody nuisance and a sharp reminder that one is no longer a spring chicken.

I always thought it odd that objects are referred to as she.  Ships for instance, launched with the exclamation of bless this ship and all who sail in her! followed by the waste of a perfectly good bottle of champagne.  Well isn’t that noble.  Until it sinks then “she’s” all the Jeremy Hunts under the sun and it’s the bloody ships fault. I suppose latent revenge then, led me to assign my arthritis male, and christen him Jeremy, because sometimes He can be a right one. 

Until that Jeremy moved in I had taken my easy, pain-free movement for granted, as you do.  I was around 57 when I had an official diagnosis of what ailed me, my stoic bent quickly overshadowed by my mind going straight to the worst-case scenario; or, if you prefer, I catastrophized. 

Life is a shipwreck, said Voltaire, we must learn to sing in the lifeboats!

The sky indeed was not falling, and nor would it, if I became proactive, grabbed a lifeboat of sorts, and started singing.  So I took up pole dancing; the story of which can be found in a little book I wrote about it called My Anthropolegy; a little tome in praise of pole dancing.  You can find it on that online store named after a shrinking Brazilian rainforest. 

I know.  A shameless book plug.  Yet I felt this to be a reasoned opportunity to slip one in.  Besides, I heard somewhere that old age combined with cunning can often overcome youth and skill.  Hence, the vulpine measures to lure anyone to the yard as I’m out of milk and eggs.

I did have a bit of a dress rehearsal for the descent into dotage though care of a past college class.

In search of an elective to add to the rest of the BS, I chose The Psychology of Aging which gave us a glimpse of what might lay ahead before my subscription is cancelled.  A live-and-learn as you wait your turn for the urn. 

We patched eye glasses to reduce peripheral vision, taped fingers to mimic severely arthritic hands, and used canes and wheelchairs to roam a campus in someone else’s shoes, albeit crudely.  Glad it’s not me—I thought as I easily slipped out of my appropriated disabilities; only to switch roles with my fellow student.  Another lesson—perhaps greater.

Patience Caregiver….

It’s hard to slow down when you don’t have to; it’s harder to keep up as you age.  Patience with others.  Patience with self. 

Go on then.  Dance in your own way toward the final exit.  Be patient.  Adapt. 

And don’t forget to sing in the bloody lifeboats!