I enjoyed a birthday last week but for once in some birthdays, acknowledged my aging. The camera and mirror seem to show an older woman than the day before. Who cares? Who “feels” wrinkles? I feel, instead, the aches.
Over the weekend, after many hours of planting a container garden on my deck, getting up from the brick-stone tiles was a challenge. That, I felt.
As I age, I’ve worked hard to steer clear of the obesity from which my mother, her seven siblings and my paternal grandmother suffered, all afflicted with diabetes, too. They had lean childhoods, I think contributing to overeating in adult years.
I did, however, acquire overweight status more than once and each time, sleep apnea. I so hate the CPAP machine that recently, when confronting its necessity again — even though not yet overweight — I lost some weight and, thus, the sleep apnea.
My clothing size in my late 50s is a medium. In my late teens, I probably fit into a small or extra small. When I worked as a cashier in Florida at Piggly Wiggly at age 19, my uniform was a red polyester pantsuit. My mother and grandmother wore polyester. It stretched. I swore I would never wear polyester again — or anything that stretched.
Yet, I’ve worn the same bamboo-fabric large PJs for years. They’re soft, loose and comfy, and practically fall off me because they’re old. After their last washing, the pants bore a bottom rip so I bit the bullet and ordered a new PJ set. I ordered medium, because I am. They’re nice but made for someone in their 20s or 30s. They fail to forgive my sagging triceps and fuller belly. They don’t stretch. I need to sleep, not look sexy.
So, I’m back to my old PJs and adjusting to the changes as my body ages.
Becky Clark, Editor