Didn't My Skin Used to Fit? (2 page)

YOU KNOW YOU’RE
GETTING OLD WHEN . . .

getting ‘‘in the groove’’ means your walker hit a crack in the sidewalk.

2
Yo Quiero No Discount

I always feared it would happen someday, and there it was—in black and white. All I had done was walk into a Taco Bell in east Tennessee and give my order to the teenager behind the counter.

I wasn’t trying to cause any trouble, or pick a fight, or be disruptive in any way. I was just trying to get a couple of tacos and a seven-layer burrito.
That’s all
. It was lunch. There was no justification for what the clerk did. He should have handed me my order and let me pay for it, and I would have been on my way. A simple transaction. But
noooo
. This guy had to take it one step further. He had to be confrontational. He had to take it upon himself to ruin my otherwise happy and peaceful day. He had to keep going until he pushed my buttons. All right,
his
button—the one on the cash register
that printed out the words
‘‘SENIOR DISCOUNT’’ on my receipt
!

SENIOR DISCOUNT!
I almost dropped my tray! The nerve of that acne-faced troublemaker! Had I not been so hungry, I would have taken him on right then and there. I would have put my tray down, told him to meet me outside, then paper-cut him to a pulp with my birth certificate! I may have been over forty, but I was a
long
way from a senior citizen discount!

But I calmed down, decided to turn the other wrinkle—I mean, cheek—and forgive him. It was a simple oversight, after all. I went ahead and gave him the benefit of the doubt. It was the right thing to do. And besides,
a 10 percent discount is a 10
percent discount
!

Maybe he had a migraine headache and his vision was temporarily impaired, I reasoned. Or maybe it was Taco Bell’s own version of
Candid Camera
. That’s what that little video camera above the cash register was all about. Or, what was most likely the case, the young man’s finger slipped, causing him to inadvertently hit the senior discount key instead of the coupon key. That had to have been it. Both keys were probably in the same general area. One little slip is all it would have taken.

That would have been the end of it, except I realized I hadn’t ordered a drink and had to go back.

‘‘Diet Pepsi, please,’’ I said, watching his every move this time. His finger hit the Diet Pepsi key, then without even getting anywhere near the coupon key, it went straight for the one marked ‘‘senior discount.’’ He didn’t hesitate for a second. He was confident. He was beyond confident. He didn’t even bother to ask my age. If you’re in doubt about something, you usually ask first, don’t you? Like if you’re not sure if someone’s pregnant or if she’s just put on a few pounds, most people ask before throwing a baby shower. It’s the same principle.

But apparently this guy had no doubt. He was so confident I deserved a senior discount, he announced it as he handed the receipt to me.

‘‘Here’s your drink, ma’am,’’ he said. ‘‘And with the senior discount it comes to $1.09.’’

I didn’t have a choice now. I had to stop him before he dug his hole even deeper.

‘‘
Excuse
me,’’ I said, ‘‘but I’m not really a senior. I’m not entitled to a discount. In fact, I shouldn’t have gotten a discount on my first order, either.’’

There
, I thought to myself,
I’ve set the record straight. That
should make him think twice before giving away Taco Bell’s profits to
some other undeserving patron
. I smiled, feeling vindicated and proud of myself that I had made the world a safer place for those of us past the forty mark.

‘‘Aw, close enough,’’ he said. ‘‘What’s a couple of months?’’

It had to be the lighting.

You grow up on the day you have your first real laugh at yourself.
—Ethel Barrymore

3
Walk a Mile in My Feet

They were by far the most comfortable pair of shoes I’d ever tried on. They were made of soft leather, and their built-up arches supported mine—which, like the Roman Empire, had long since fallen. There was plenty of room to stretch my toes, and they even had tiny air holes that helped the shoes—and my feet—to breathe.

They came in a variety of colors—okay, white, black, and brown—and were available in all the hard-to-find sizes. They weren’t cheap, either. About eighty bucks, to be exact. If you want quality, though, you have to pay for it, or at least that’s what the salesman kept telling me.

What I’m referring to, of course, is corrective footwear. There, I’ve said it. I recently had to start wearing corrective shoes because I was developing what is known as a Taylor’s bunion on my left foot. I don’t even know who Taylor is or why he had the nerve to park his bunion on my foot, but it appears I am stuck with it.

Now, corrective footwear may not represent the latest look on the Paris fashion runways, but who knows, it might catch on someday. And I for one am doing my part to bring corrective footwear into the forefront of the designer world.

I’ve decided against surgery. Actually my doctors decided against it. Their recommendation was corrective shoes together with a set of custom-made inserts that compensate for every flaw in my feet.

I’m pleased with the results, but let’s face it—corrective shoes could use a little updating. They may be comfortable to walk in and give my feet plenty of room, but most of the styles are rather matronly.

We have the power to change that, though. All we bunioned people need to do is
unite
. It’s up to us to demand better representation in the fashion world. We need to stand up on our Taylor’s bunion, or whoever else’s bunion we happen to have, and protest. We deserve stylish sandals and adorable pumps. We’re bunioned, not dead. We have the power to make Dr. Scholl as popular a designer as Bill Blass or Oscar de la Renta. All we need is the chance.

Not only do our feet go through changes as we grow older but our toenails do, as well. In case you haven’t noticed it yet, something happens to toenails on a forty-plus body. They start doing what old envelopes do—curl up around the edges and turn yellow. They also tend to thicken and grow to incredible lengths. Howard Hughes’ toenails were a perfect example of this. For some unknown reason, he decided to let his toenails and fingernails grow into all sorts of interesting shapes. Maybe he didn’t have enough whisks around the house and decided it was just as easy to grow his own.

Long toenails aren’t very attractive and limit your choice of footwear, but there are some advantages. Walking barefoot in your backyard could easily take care of that Rototilling job you’ve been putting off for months. And think of all the fun you can have going swimming and spearfishing at the same time. And then, of course, there are all those cans that you’ll be able to open should your electric can opener ever go on the blink.

Other changes that happen to the middleaged foot have to do with bone structure. Sometimes foot bones start doing strange things when they pass their fortieth birthday. My own feet started growing bony extensions out their sides a few years ago. I’m not sure why they’re doing this, but if I ever go to the backwoods of Canada and leave my footprints, we could start a whole new Sasquatch rumor.

Many of the foot problems that we suffer later in life, though, are our own fault. Perhaps they’re the result of repeated sports injuries, improper nail care, or years of cramming a size nine foot into a size seven shoe. I used to do that myself, so I guess I shouldn’t be surprised if today I’ve got a Taylor’s bunion. In fact, I shouldn’t be surprised if I’m carrying around his whole family on my feet. After all, if the shoe fit, I really should have worn it.

If I’d known I was going to live this long, I’d have taken better care of myself.
—Eubie Blake, at the age of 100

4
And He Huffed and He Puffed . . .

In the story of
The Three Little Pigs
, the big bad wolf gave the three little porkers a threat. He said that if they didn’t cooperate and open up their doors, he would huff and puff and blow their houses in.

It’s obvious from the verbs ‘‘huff’’ and ‘‘puff’’ that we’re talking about a middle-aged wolf here. Middle-aged wolves and middle-aged people do a lot of huffing and puffing. For some of us, it has become a second language. I myself am trilingual— being equally fluent in wheezing.

In our youth, we ‘‘huffers’’ could run, jump, climb, race up stairs, even skip a step or two in the process. We didn’t have to make six rest stops in the 100-yard dash or send out for oxygen at the halfway point of a flight of stairs. We could have walked up the steps of the Taj Mahal with very little effort.

As soon as we hit forty, though, it’s a different story. A fifteen-step staircase suddenly looks like Mount Everest. Before even attempting to scale something of that magnitude, we search the entire area for an elevator, a ramp, a rope, a search and rescue team, a St. Bernard, anything to make our task easier.

Running, jumping, and stair climbing aren’t the only activities that can start us huffing and puffing. We huff and puff getting out of our cars, too, especially if those cars are so low to the ground only an ejection seat could get us out without effort. Frankly, I don’t understand why car manufacturers make car seats that low anyway. Maybe it’s so that after a test drive the client can’t get out and has to buy the car.

Answering the telephone can leave us huffing and puffing, especially if the call comes in the middle of a shower. I’m sure more than a few callers have hung up on a middle-aged huffer, mistaking his gasps for heavy breathing.

A few of us even huff and puff putting on our shoes. You thought tying your shoelaces was a challenge when you were four? Try it when you’re forty. That’s probably why so many seniors opt for slip-ons. Tying shoelaces just isn’t worth the battle.

Opening things can leave us huffing and puffing, too— things like potato chip bags, vacuum-packed cookies, vacuum-sealed cans of cheese puffs, or a membership account at the gym. I don’t see why manufacturers have to package their foods so tightly anyway. Is keeping us out of the package the only way they can get away with the nutritional benefits printed on the back?

Now, contrary to what you might think, not all huffers and puffers are smokers . . . or even ex-smokers, for that matter. I’m a huffer even though I’ve taken very good care of my lungs. I’ve never smoked and I’m very careful not to inhale too much of my own cooking. And although I did grow up in the Los Angeles smog, I held my breath during most of my formative years. Yet even after taking all these precautions, I still huff and puff. The bottom line is lungs are delicate and susceptible to routine damage over the years no matter what you do to protect them.

So, you see, it had to have been a middle-aged wolf chasing those three little pigs. No teenage wolf would huff and puff that much after going to only three houses. And to huff and puff hard enough to blow two houses in? Why, the poor beast should have been carrying a portable oxygen tank! The story’s been told wrong all these years. That wolf didn’t want those pigs’ houses; he needed mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, and not one of those pigs would help him. Not a good-hearted Babe in the bunch. That poor wolf had to keep going from house to house, huffing and puffing and wheezing. Then, when he finally climbed down the chimney of the third house to personally plead for help, what did they do? They lit a fire in the fireplace, which took up even more oxygen! The story ends there, of course, but it makes its point: middle age? It’s rough on both man
and
beast!