It all started last week when I tried to pick up a delivery from our dining room door. Granted, the door is older, but I’ve opened it without incident dozens of times over the years. Being old, it takes a little effort to get the lock turned and the knob turned just right, but usually it goes without a hitch.
Not that day. I turned the lock and it didn’t move much. So I turned it harder and grasped the doorknob, pulling with some strength (mind you, I’m no Jack LaLanne, so this wasn’t some super-human pull on a doorknob). Be that as it may, the doorknob pulled off into my hand, while the door remained locked.
My husband, who, fortunately for me, is very handy, was able to fix it with tools and a screw he had in his workbench. This attack on our property cost him no money, but about an hour of his time.
No harm done.
A few days later, I opened my bottom dresser drawer to extract a pair of pants and the right hand knob came off in my hand. Well, it came off and rolled under the dresser, which was frustrating. Not only would my short arms not reach it, but I discovered a multitude of dust bunnies and cobwebs of which I had been unaware.
So, not only did I have to get out the Swiffer, but I was also unable to get any pants out of the drawer. I ended up retrieving the drawer knob and dusting in a dress.
My long-suffering husband, however, had to make a run to town for wood glue and spend more time fixing the knob so that it would hold – even against my seemingly incredible arm strength.
I might have chalked this up to coincidence but I know better. First off all, these kinds of things come in threes. And secondly, the cost was slowly building. I feared the next calamity would cost us more dearly.
I didn’t have long to wait. Yesterday, I was driving into the grocery store when it happened. There’s a sort of road that goes into the store parking lot that has a bend in it and on the right hand side, a curb. While I was entering, a car exiting drifted into my lane. (Let me digress to say, argh.). I chose not to be side-swiped by this distracted or poor driver and wrenched my wheel to the right. I heard – and felt – my front tire hit the curb.
As I pulled into the lot, my dashboard informed me my fears had been realized. I had “6 lb” of pressure in my tire. The driver of the other car was long gone, while I sat in the parking lot with a flat tire.
I called my husband and AAA, both of whom arrived on the scene. The roadside assistant put our spare tire (a ridiculous-looking bicycle tire good for about 20 miles) on the wheel in record time and I followed my husband out to the service shop.
Huzzah! Our tire was under warranty. This would cost us nothing but time!
Yeah, not so fast, the universe replied. THAT tire is free, but it turns out all your tires need replaced. How about forking over about $800 to insure you keep driving safely.
Eight hundred? That’s not really in our budget, but what’s a girl to do?
I’ll tell you what I did – I thanked heavens the third thing was over and I have fully stopped opening any drawer or door.

Many of the following thoughts came from Stefanie Pettit’s 2018 article. I’ve just caught up with her…and added a few of my own.
1. Stephanie said, “I see people out there zip lining and mountain climbing, and here I am feeling good about myself because I got my leg through my underwear without losing my balance.”
If you are a person of a certain age, I expect you’ll be laughing at that opening sentence, or at least agreeing. I have the most risk for falls just trying to get one leg into underwear or pants in the morning.
2. Some of my friends, like my husband, exercise every day. Meanwhile, I am watching a show I don’t like because the remote fell on the floor.
This is true only on the off chance I actually get the remote. My hubby is usually “in charge” of this device. Occasionally, well, okay, often, he falls asleep with a death grip on the thing. I’ve watched more soccer games and weird animal shows that I care to remember – all because if I try to gently extricate the remote from his grip, he wakes up and says “Wha? I was watching that!”
3. I don’t mean to interrupt people, but I just randomly remember things and get really excited.
This one happens all the time, especially with those of us having hearing impairments. Conversations with people zip and zoom along, people talk over one another, subjects changing quickly. Those of us who don’t hear so well are often a beat or two behind.
So the conversational topic may have moved from foods we like to results of the recent election, when in the midst of someone’s animated oratory about political ethics, one lone voice pipes in: “I think mashed potatoes with cheese are better than French fries.”
That’s followed by a stunned or awkward moment of silence. I’ve experienced that one myself.
Now unless someone has dementia or other ailment, this is that aging-interrupting-time-lag thing. Normal, and understood by boomers everywhere.
4. You know you’re getting old when you talk about every other driver on the road for their lack of driving skill or etiquette – or both.
Surely you have followed someone on the freeway with a turn signal blinking mile after mile. People who speed around in parking lots, who pull out in front of you, who cut you off – these are all folks we love to vetch about!
5. Eating and drinking after hours used to be “last call”.
Now it’s “hmmm…I can’t drink this water, it’s after 8 p.m.” Or “uh-oh, I can’t have onions past 7 p.m.” It’s all about trying to get a full nights’ sleep with minimal trips to the bathroom or indigestion.
Getting older is no easy feat, that’s for sure. And by the way, mashed potatoes with cheese are the best!

In my young adult years, I was very fond of the music of The Grass Roots. I wasn’t alone – they did have 21 top ten hits over the span of one decade. The biggest reason I liked them was that their songs were, by and large, upbeat and happy and easy to sing along with.
Hits like “Sooner or Later” and “Temptation Eyes” were tunes I could belt out any time. It was especially fun when driving down a highway. My all-time favorite recording of theirs was a love song called “I’d Wait a Million Years.”
It’s a love song, true, but as I have gained both age and wisdom, I have a newfound appreciation for these particular lyrics.
The refrain goes: “But I’d wait a million years, walk a million miles, cry a million tears; I’d swim the deepest sea, climb the highest hill, just to have you near me.”
I realize that this is how many feel in the throes of new-found (and often, older) love. I’m sure the lyrics were intended to convey this magical feeling between people who are deeply in love. As I have aged, however, I’ve found it to be a decades-long quest to find a different kind of magic.
For example, it took me several years – nearly ten – to find a masseuse, after the one I had used for years retired. I tried several places, and though not necessarily uncomfortable, none felt quite right. Finally, two years ago, I stumbled into (well, to be honest, my husband gave me a massage certificate for my birthday) my current place and found the magic hands of Alexandra. Turns out, though it felt like a million years, I only had to wait about a decade.
In my later years, sometime around my 40’s, I started noticing ingrown toenails. These are painful. For those of you who have never had them, here’s my advice: don’t. They really hurt. And I was fine dealing with them until my 50’s, but then my arthritis started making it difficult to bend over far enough to reach them.
To add insult to injury, my vision was such that if I could get close enough, I couldn’t see with my glasses off and if I put them on, it was too close. So began my search for a pedicurist/nail technician who could deal with my toes. And not cause me pain.
The first three I found were simply too rough. The fourth one actually gave me an infected toe. Argh. The fifth and sixth talked a lot. Too much. Finally. FINALLY! I found Marcie. It took me 20 years to find her, and I felt like I had walked a million miles, but she takes care of me just right.
Hair stylist/barber has been nearly life-long quest. I have tried too many salons and had so many terrible (really, terrible) haircuts/styles that it’s almost ridiculous. I can’t describe the poodle-perm in my 20’s. It was horrible. Then in my 30’s I went with a military buzz cut (well, not quite, but close enough). It didn’t flatter me. In my 40’s I found a stylist I really liked. Then she had a baby, so I had to find someone else.
It took me another 20 years and I felt like I had cried a million tears, but I have found Sonia. For two whole years now, I’ve had a great hair cut – one I can style myself with little fuss.
Don’t even get me started on the dentist-hunt. But for teeth, hair and nails, it appears I will walk a million miles, cry a million tears, or climb the highest hill. It’s love of a different kind.

I have been given the constructive criticism, by my near and dear, that I move a little too quickly at times. Occasionally, this has resulted in mishaps, accidents and/or near disasters.
Case in point: one day I was going to leave to go shopping and happily put on my new shoes. It was summertime and these were the rubber, open-toed, one-strap-over-the-top-of-the foot kind of shoes. Mind you, I had not worn this particular type of footwear in the past and didn’t take time to “break them in.” I mean, seriously, I’ve been wearing shoes nearly my whole life and never had a problem.
I slipped into my new shoes, picked up my purse and my assortment of reusable totes, and headed out the back door to the garage. My typical stride is fairly rapid, so again, I gave no thought to any changes based on new shoes. All was well for the first twenty steps. Then, my right foot and the new shoe parted ways. The foot went sideways and the shoe slipped backward and I did a swan dive onto the side walk. Momentum carried my body forward and my right hand slid about three feet on the edge of the sidewalk.
Cuts on the hand are devilishly difficult to bandage. It didn’t help that I thought I was bleeding to death. But my hubby cleaned me up, wrapped my hand and all was well. I put on my “old” shoes, picked up all my various totes and continued on my day. On the way to the garage, by the way, the new shoes were deposited unceremoniously in the garbage can.
I confess, speed may have been part of that calamity, but I fully hold those shoes responsible.
Another incident occurred in our woods. This was many years ago, and we were walking with our pre-teen son. I noticed one of the many grapevines growing there because it was hanging down just over the edge of a small ravine. Perfect placement for a swing!
Without discussion, I jogged toward it and leaped to grab hold and propel myself out over the hillside. Oh, what joys of youth flooded my mind!
I went quickly enough that I just barely heard my husband say, “That might not be a good idea.” It was as he spoke that last word that the grapevine snapped and I plummeted to the hillside on my bottom.
The breath was knocked from me, and I heard nothing from above. I finally was able to turn around to see both the males in my life doubled over in laughter.
It was my last monkey-vine ride.
Last week, I bought root beer floats on the way home. This is no accident, it was a thoughtful gesture on my part. I got out of the car, placed the two floats on the car roof, and put my purse over my shoulder.
I opened the back seat door and pulled out the two bags of groceries and shut the door. That movement was apparently stunning enough to MOVE the floats off the car and into the air. Well, one went into the air, splattering me on the head and shoulders. The other slid down, pouring root beer and ice cream down the side of the car.
Perhaps speed isn’t the issue at all, but it’s thinking first? Nah, it must be the shoes. And the vine. And the floats. They are the problem!