Senior Menus and Senior Moments

Before I was a senior myself, I thought that the purpose of a senior menu was to give the elderly less expensive choices.  After all, many are living on fixed incomes.  I, of course, noted that the servings were smaller, but I didn’t realize the extent to which metabolism and appetite are impacted by age.  For decades, I was able to eat pretty much whatever I wanted to eat.  and I did not gain weight.  Now, even though my appetite is significantly less, I can’t seem to avoid a creeping weight gain.

If I order off the regular menu, the portions are usually so large that I cannot finish my meal.  Sometimes by the time the main course arrives, I already feel full from the salad and a small roll or piece of bread.  I eat some of the entrée and ask for a box to take the rest home.  The upside of this scenario is that, if my husband does this too, I do not have to cook the next evening.  I am thinking about this, because I do not have to cook this evening due to the events of last evening.

A couple of weeks ago, Bill brought home tickets to a fundraiser taking place at a very nice restaurant in a nearby St. Lawrence River town.  Accordingly, we drove the 20+ miles last evening.  It was a lovely drive…lots of fall colors along the way.  When we arrived at the restaurant, the parking lot was very crowded.  We assumed that the fundraiser was going well.  But when we got inside, we discovered that the fundraiser is next week.  Neither of us had….in our senility…looked closely at the tickets.  We don’t know how we got the event on the wrong date on the calendar, but we were a week early.  I guess that’s better than being a week late, but it did make us feel like doddering oldsters. 

We decided to stay for dinner.  The menu is extensive, and the entrees are quite interesting and elegant.  There is no senior menu.  We tried to order dishes that seemed to be on the small side, but we still ended up with more than we could reasonably eat.  Dessert menu?  You’ve got to be kidding!  Please bring me a box.

I keep saying that someday I am just going to eat the salad and dessert and totally skip the main course, but I haven’t done that yet.  I expect I will do it someday, when I am old enough that I no longer care about social conventions.  I shudder to think what else I might do at that stage!

A Box of Beads

A box of beads,

Different colors, shapes and sizes,

Rolling around but

Confined to the container.

Randomly bouncing

Off each other.

No pattern emerging,

Emitting a noisy clatter.

Is that life?

Isolated, differing events

Kept together only by the confines

Of birth and death.

Or are those events

Strung together in a pattern,

Held by the invisible cord,

Of a world view.

I grieve for those I see,

Living scattered lives,

Empty-headed, hazy,

Thoughtless lives.

When they bounce off

The final edge of the box,

Will they look back on 

A life of unstrung beads?

Saving Someone from Themselves

Saving someone from themselves is a risky business.

I just returned from grocery shopping.  As I pushed my cart through the parking lot to my car, I noticed a van which seemed to be circling the parking lot.  I decided the driver must be looking for a spot near the entrance of the grocery store in an effort to minimize walking distance.

The driver, who was the lone occupant of the car, was a heavy set, gray-haired lady.  I have no idea of her exact age….she could be older or younger than me.  She had an oxygen cannula in her nose AND she was holding a cigarette.  Now maybe, the valve on the oxygen tank was closed.  I hope it was.  But having the window cracked open a bit was not going to protect her from the dangerous combination of oxygen and a smoldering cigarette.

I considered approaching the car and saying something like:  “I am really concerned about you.  I am a nurse and have a degree in chemistry, so I understand the danger of smoking around oxygen.  Please don’t run this risk for yourself.”

BUT

I know from difficult experience that not everyone appreciates being saved from their own questionable behaviors.  MYOB, said with anger is sometimes the result of what is meant as helpful, concerned intervention.

When my kids were in town for our anniversary, I happened to be standing close enough to hear someone say to two of them, “I love your mother….she has saved me from myself.”  The person, although younger than me, could be viewed as an authority figure over me.  When I approached him about something he had said which I believed was unwise, I did so somewhat fearfully.  I have had situations like this blow up in my face.  Men in authority are especially likely to resent a woman intervening.  Of course, so are people who already know that what they are doing is not in their best interest.  I suspect the lady in the van has heard it all before.

In any event, I did not approach the woman in the car, and I sincerely hope that the cigarette/oxygen combination won’t blow up in her face…literally!

Addendum:

OK...OK....If I am going to be "literal," oxygen would not "blow up" in this situation.  (Hydrogen would, but not oxygen.)What it would do is support combustion.  So if a very small fire began, it would erupt into a larger one.  The extent of the problem would also depend on the fabric content of the woman's clothing.  So it might give the appearance of blowing up given the right/wrong set of circumstances, but not be a blow up in the strictest definition of that term.  Now I feel better.

Is Your Body Your Own?

Is your body your own to do with as you please?

One of the phrases we are hearing frequently in connection with current events is that a woman’s body is her own, and that no one else has a right to control it.  We hear this in regard to the pro-choice movement and in connection with the rash of cases in which a woman has been sexually violated in some way.  Because violating a woman is obviously wrong and not to be tolerated, we could easily find ourselves nodding in agreement with the notion that a woman’s body is her own.

As a Christian, I want to remind myself that my body is actually NOT my own.  I do also understand that I cannot impose this view on those who are not believers. The one who does not accept Christ as his Savior, who does not accept that God has a claim on his life, is free to use and abuse his body.  He/She can cover it with piercings and tattoos, pump it full of drugs, alcohol or decadent desserts, have sex whenever, however and with whomever, or decide to live on kale.  There are, of course, consequences to our behaviors, and we humans are free to experience and deal with those natural results.

But, for the believer, our bodies are NOT our own.

Here are Paul’s words in I Corinthians 6:  Avoid sexual looseness like the plague!  Every other sin that a man commits is done outside his own body, but this is an offense against his own body.  Have you forgotten that your body is the temple of the Holy Spirit, who lives in you, and is God’s gift to you, and that you are not the owner of your own body?  You have been bought, and at what a price!  Therefore, bring glory to God in your body. (Phillips’ Translation)

Note that this message is NOT just for women.  If we claim Christ as our personal Savior, he has redeemed us…that is, purchased us...with his blood.  He paid an enormous price!  He has a claim on us.  He expects us to take good care of the bodies he has given us, and not to use them for sinful purposes.  There are quite a few things that people seem to view as pleasurable and which they do not want to deny themselves, but which are clearly harmful.  We do not have a “right” to those things.

In Romans 12, Paul says:  With eyes wide open to the mercies of God I beg you, my brothers, as an act of intelligent worship, to give him your bodies, as a living sacrifice, consecrated to him and acceptable by him.  Don’t let the world around you squeeze you into its own mold, but let God remold your minds from within, so that you may prove in practice that the plan of God for you is good, meets all his demands and moves toward the goal of true maturity. (Phillips Translation)

So, if you are tempted to think your body is your own, think again.

And if someone else abuses what belongs to God, they will ultimately answer to him, which is going to be more difficult than answering to their victim or to those who enforce human law.  Oh, yes…they should be held accountable here and now, but public humiliation or jail time won’t wipe out their debt.

In Need of Rewiring

A couple of days ago, my husband mentioned that the lamp on his side of the bed wasn’t working.  It has a three-way switch, and the lamp was not working in any of the three settings.  He asked if I had a 3-way bulb to replace the burned out one.  It seemed odd to me that the entire bulb would burn out at the same time.  Usually in a 3-way, one of the elements burns out before the other so the lamp works in at least two of the three “on” positions.  I wondered if it was the lamp that had become defective.  Sure enough, he put in a new bulb, and it immediately blew.  So…it wasn’t the bulb.  It was the lamp itself.

At this point, it dawned on me that years roll by speedily, and the lamp must be at least 40 years old.  The base is still in great shape, but the wiring could certainly have an issue that would cause it to short out after that much time has passed.

So today, I trotted myself out to Home Depot and bought a lamp rewiring kit.  I disassembled the lamp trying to keep track of the positions of all the pieces.  It is a lovely large brass lamp with many pieces!  I laid them out carefully on the table.  I didn’t pay too much attention to the sequence in which I took pieces off…just their relative positions.  That was a mistake!  Since the replacement wire has to go through some pieces with small holes, and once you tie the “underwriter’s knot,” it’s not going through those holes, sequence is important.  Also, the center tube through which the wire goes has to be positioned allowing enough of the threads on the ends to protrude and screw into the pieces at the top and the bottom.  I ran out of hands to hold all of that in place simultaneously.

I finally had it all back together….I thought.  Whoops…there was a piece still laying on the table.  I had forgotten to replace the unit that holds the shade.  That required taking most of it apart again.  So after four rounds of disassembly and assembly, I plugged it in and it worked!

It’s gotten me to thinking though….how long will my personal wiring work before I short out?  I am amazed and grateful that after 73 years, everything still functions pretty well, and in spite of occasionally feeling like my circuits are over-loaded, I haven’t blown any fuses yet!

I guess some acquaintances probably think I’ve blown some fuses, but at least I haven’t had to be rewired.

Music

Nothing to which it can be compared,

No adequate words to portray,

With reckless abandon I jump into the stream,

Let the current sweep me away.

While the vibrations penetrate my body,

My heart syncing with the beat,

I drift on a tide of melody.

And thrill to the harmony’s heat.

But robbed by tremor and age,

The song is trapped inside.

Instead of bursting from heart and soul,

It leaks in drops from my eyes.

Trumper/Temper Tantrums

When I was a toddler, I threw temper tantrums.  I do NOT remember this.  I have a few memories from very early years, but I have probably…and gratefully…suppressed this one.  So, what I know is hearsay from my Mother….I strongly suspect she was truthful!

My Dad was fighting in France in WWII when I was born, and we didn’t meet each other until I was seven months old.  At the end of the war, men had a period of adjustment trying to find jobs and reestablish themselves.  Consequently, we lived with my maternal grandparents for a time, as did all three of my mother’s brothers who were also returning from military service.  Picture this:  one cute, sassy, curly headed toddler girl living with five men….a grandfather, a father and three doting uncles.  I was spoiled rotten.  The uncle who was attending law school told me that when my mother scolded me, I should tell her that I was “standing on my constitutional rights.”  I did learn to say that.  Poor Mom!

I was quite insistent on getting my way, and when I did not, a tantrum ensued.  These were not little crying jags.  I actually laid down on the floor, kicked and screamed and eventually worked myself into such a frenzy that I vomited.  I was even known to do this in public. 

My mother frequented a bakery where the owner thought I was such a cute little girl that she always gave me a cookie with a cherry on top.  I called this a “charry.”  One day, we went into a different bakery.  That proprietor thought I was cute and gave me a cookie, but…..horrors!...it did NOT have a “charry” on it.  I threw myself on the floor of the bakery and pitched a royal fit.  My Mother was mortified as she scooped me up and carried me out kicking and screaming.

After months of dealing with this behavior, my Mother decided on drastic action.  The next time I began to have a tantrum, she put me in my room alone.  She told me that I could scream and kick and make myself throw up or whatever else I wanted to do, but that I could not leave the room until I was done and ready to behave.  She closed the door and stood outside listening.  It was dreadful, but eventually I came out.  I was an absolute mess, but I was calm.  I NEVER threw another tantrum.  I realized that my days of getting attention in that way were over.

Every teacher and many parents have encountered a child who is so anxious for attention that even negative attention is welcomed.

Now here is what I propose.  We all ignore Trump!  The left stops hollering and whining about him.  The media stops reporting on all his bizarre behavior.  The right isolates him.  We put him in his room and shut the door figuratively speaking.  He is a toddler throwing tantrums for attention.  We should have expected this from someone who reveled in reality television, and who isn’t just rich, but ostentatiously rich.

Sadly, I know this isn’t going to happen.  The “left” hates him so much that they don’t have the self-control to stop picking at every little thing he does.  The media relies on controversy to sell themselves. The more bizarre his behavior, the better for them.  The “right” thinks they need him.  They embrace him knowing he may just “puke” on them.

But…when a toddler throws a tantrum, the best remedy is to ignore him…or her.