When aging rubs the wrong way

I was filled with hot coffee, toasted bagel, and the afterglow of warm chit-chat when I finally returned home from that morning's run. But my teeth were chattering anyway. 

This is not unusual.

Even if I'd skipped the social hour, the cold would set in before I'd made it home. 

As I turn and walk into the stream of the shower, stepping over my clothes that are now in a damp heap on the floor, I anticipate the kind of warmth that will set in if I let myself linger in the spray. 

The water hits me like hot needles; finding places I hadn't known were slicked with perspiration or gritty and irritated with salts that had dried onto skin.

A burning sensation surprises me.

I know from that particular sting when I look down, there is likely to be a patch of grated skin or a sunburn.

A blister, maybe? A cut?

I don't see anything amiss until the last drop of water escapes through the drain, and I slide the curtain open. 

As I reach for a towel, I catch a splotch of bright red in the pile of clothes next to it. 

My mind is slow to grasp there is blood where blood shouldn't be.
But when it does, the air around begins to pulsate. I hear no other sound besides the bifurcated thud of my heart. 

Next, I do all of the things I have learned over the years to keep my involuntary systems from becoming overwhelmed. Most of which involve slow-playing every fearful thought I can imagine from this moment until the one in which my brief existence on Earth comes to an end. And THEN telling myself NOT to panic. 

This never works. 

What helps is that under closer inspection, I could find no active bleeding.

I managed to get through the next few hours by the tasks of distraction and deciding on a reasonable timeline.

When will I call the doctor? Do I wait until happens again? Or do I call today ... or tomorrow? Do I call them next Tuesday I'm never?

The correct answer is lunchtime.

Instead of loading up on carbs, I chew on my fingers while I wait on hold for 22 minutes expecting to schedule an appointment three months out.

When the music stops a voice at the other end of the line says ... "We have a cancellation, can you come in at 2?"

All of a sudden I can't breathe. I am comforted and alarmed at the same time.

They think this is serious. It must be serious. Like a heart attack.

By the time I'm wrapped in a paper gown with my legs dangling over the edge of a pleather-bolstered exam table, I have almost resigned myself to a future without me.

I try to downplay my thoughts as I explain my symptoms. Winter skin? Overly long, scaldingly hot showers?

The doctor is quiet as she gently examines my complaint.

"It looks like a tiny cut there. Most likely chaffing as you were running. I wouldn't worry. You may want to use some kind of protective cream before long runs."

I wonder aloud if maybe I should lay off the long showers?

She shrugs “This stage of life it's normal to experience a loss of elasticity and … some atrophy. I'd just try the cream for now and see how it goes. A little dab should do you."

Aging really can rub you the wrong way.

Kick start

 

 
When his winter sport ended a month ago, my son retreated to the warmth of his overheated room and the comfort of his favorite video games. It is the equivalent of adolescent hibernation. 

And for the past four weeks, we've barely seen him.
Oh, we noticed evidence. 

Damp towels slumped on the bathroom floor like a dozing dog. In the morning, nowhere near the kitchen sink, I might find bowls encrusted with a thin layer of late-night ice cream. 

A trail of empty wrappers leads to his always-closed bedroom door. 
A shoe, sole up, trips me up in the entryway. A few hours later, I will notice its mate kicked under the dining room table, and I will try to make the mental note of it stick. 

Tomorrow morning he'll be limping around looking for his lost kick. I'll try and pull the sticky note out of my brain, but it will come out with a lot of words that ask only one question: "why can't you keep track of your things?"

Spring is here, boyo. It's time to turn over a new leaf.

However inartfully said, the message was clear. The boy could get a hobby ... or a job ... or he could putter around a house with no internet and only healthy snacks. His choice.

Truth be told, I thought it was a long-shot bet the man placed. After all, the likelihood we'd ever cut the wireless cord in earnest was next to nil. But thanks to some hidden odds, the wager paid off.

"Sam asked me to join the track team so I'm going to stay after school today. Hey, have you seen my sneaker?"

I couldn't believe my ears.

Wasn't he the little boy who demanded to join me on race day, but who ran out of steam by the first mailbox? After which, wasn't he the boy who gave me the hairy eyeball when I asked him if he'd like to go for a run?

Who was this boy?

"What? Wait, you joined track? Like ... you are going to run?"
I thought I might hyperventilate. 

A child ... of mine ... was going to live a dream I never even knew I had until I turned 40 and learned recreational "jogging" was the only sport I could do.

Finally! I was going to live vicariously through him. He might even ask me for what little advice I could provide. 

II was already picturing myself at the sidelines, cheering him on. I don't even know the events: shot put? long-jump? Javelin? There's no way he's running long-distance ... not with his father's big bones and my flat feet. ...

"Mom ... I'm better at discus, and New York state doesn't allow javelin throwing." He almost had it all figured out: "I'm not sure I'll ever figure out hurdles. Distance sends knives into my Achilles and makes my left lung hurt. Honestly, I'm thinking about joining the sprint team. ...

"Hey ... do you know why my shoulders hurt?"

And before I could answer, I made myself breathe into a paper bag. 
I couldn't believe I'm going to be one of THOSE parents ... the ones who know a little bit about a sport and will get to armchair coach like they are s certified pro. 

"You're probably tensing up. Just try to be mindful of it and relax."

The Unraveling

There is something about the modern age that makes me feel as if the old adage, Children should be seen and not heard, is more than just the words of some curmudgeonly aunt historically lamenting the annoyance of her visiting nieces and nephews. 

It's an old saw that pretty accurately describes adolescence.

Between electronics and earbuds, the house often feels like someone accidentally hit the mute button.

The only time we even notice the quiet is when some sudden noise shatters the silence. And even then we tend to ignore it: footsteps on the stairs. Water flowing from the tap. The rustling of bags and a dry cascade of chips into a bowl. Footsteps back on the stairs. 

Midnight mice.

They sleep well past the morning. And sometimes there is a noise that jolts us awake. A dog barking. A cat hissing. An expletive that wakes up the snoring.

It was some blue utterance followed by a slamming sound that jolted me into awareness. 

I knock on the door … and wait.

As I stand in the hallway I can't hear anything coming from the other side. Wireless headphones, I assume. The kind that seems to blend in with the structures of their ears and block out the background so they can focus on a distraction.

This is one boundary I try to respect.

I knock again before I turn the knob and send my voice into the room alone.

“Yes?”

“Is everything ok?”

I look into the room, seeking out her reflection rather than finding her directly. The room is tidy and warm. It smells faintly of cinnamon and vanilla. I can barely make out her shape from the corner of my eye … wrapped in a blanket and still tucked into bed. 

I can tell from her mirror image she is looking at me as if I have crash-landed on her planet. I am intruding.

She sighed but didn't slam the door. 

“Everything is a mess.”

Like most of us who are obsessively checking the news these days, she has little knowledge of foreign affairs and no expertise. Yet somehow the distance from such understanding feels like a lens bringing our failings as a society into sharp focus.

"War? Why is that still a thing?"

My daughter has awoken from the sheltered, childhood part of her youth and embarked on the portion of the journey through adulthood where one tries to keep whatever is left of the insulating chrysalis intact. 

"Why?"

She's not looking for answers. 

She knows I don't have them. And that I never really do.

I don't remember the world ever having more than small pockets of peace. 

But I remember reaching the age of so-called reason and breathing a small sigh of relief.

The things that had worried me had involved scenarios that with time and distance seemed to become rather remote:

Quicksand.

Nuclear war. 

The Handmaid's Tale. 

These seemed quaint in comparison to the true terrors that presented themselves to our kids: passive aggression, active shooters, and an increasingly apparent apartheid state. 

I've been watching what is happening in Ukraine. I've been seeing the news from Texas and Missouri and Florida and Idaho. My level of outrage feels like catatonia. 

We think we have been watching insanity unfold, but this feels like the part where insanity entirely unravels. And a new hope takes hold: That her generation won't try to piece it back together. They will make better, fairer, more humane choices.

And the peace the follows won't seem as quiet.

Smart daughter, Stupid Watch

The watch on my wrist vibrated. "You seem stressed," it informed me. "Why don't you take a breather?"

Of course, I hadn't felt stressed.

Sure, I'd been pretty busy: I'd gone for a run, cleaned the kitchen, argued with the cat, fed our family's entire winter wardrobe to the laundry machines, and stretched my shoulders to prepare for the moment when the dog would double dare me hold on to the loop end of her leash during her late afternoon squirrel hunt.

I wasn't stressed …

At least I wasn't until it told me I was.

I tapped the glass face to demand further explanation:

Pulse? Normal.

Respirations? Normal.

SpO2? Normal.

It all seems normal. Why does it think I'm stressed?

“Hey, dummy. Did you look at the STRESS widget next to the VO2 reading I keep trying to explain to you?”

I hate this watch.

A bright orange number appears. Like VO2 this number means nothing to me. 

But the watch won't give up. A line graph scrolls past with a spectrum of orange-hued spikes stabbing into all hours of the day. "You have not had enough restful moments throughout the day to balance your stress levels. Why don't you try a meditation break?"

Three wavy lines appeared and instructed me to tap them. More magic:

Breathe in ...

Hold your breath ...

Breathe out ...

Hold your breath.

Each prompt was accompanied by a long vibration and the understanding that for the next fifteen minutes I would have to focus if I wanted any peace from my timepiece.

"Close your eyes."

In

Hold

Out

Hold

In ... Hold ... Out ... Hold ... In ... Out, Hold, In, Out Hold, Out, In, Fidget, Twist, Shout.

The watch shouted back: "Your meaningless orange number went even higher! How did you manage to relax into more stress?"

I wanted to throttle this watch. I wanted to remind it of the time it tried to alert the authorities that I had fallen and might be bleeding out on the side of the road … when no such accident had occurred.

I hadn't tripped. Hadn't shifted weight. Hadn't moved. I hadn't even thrown the maniacal timepiece across the room out of sheer frustration. 

Can you imagine? Me standing there yelling 'YOU DON'T KNOW EVERYTHING,' into my wrist?

But I didn't. Truth is the watch … and all its proprietary technology … makes me believe we're all just one update away from wearing our primary care providers on our sleeves. And if people ever saw me talking to my watch there'd be no chance they would assume I was secret service.

“Want to go to the mall?"

I know what you're thinking. … But I hadn't lost my grip on reality, my daughter had.

She had seen me practice hyperventilating and decided what I really needed was a little retail therapy.

I think about the traffic. The parking lot. The strange vibrations you feel when you finally stand still on the second floor of the wide-open space.

How can I say no? 

“Who's car are we gonna take?”

“Let's take yours, then you can relax.”

My smart daughter is so much better at helping me relax than my stupid watch.