A Reason to Live

I have never kissed someone without teeth.

Pucker up, honey!
(Source: Google Images)

I'm just putting this out as a public service announcement since my mother felt compelled to ask me about it last week. Maybe others want to know.

Mommie Dearest turned 87 a couple of months ago, and these days life is getting more difficult. Not because her health is failing, but because she doesn't have anyone to kiss. Nobody to flirt with. No elderly 'boyfriend.' A fact she bemoans to me at every opportunity.

What is the point of living?

As her July birthday approached I contemplated what to give her. It's hard to know what a woman who has outlived two husbands, several 'boyfriends,' her entire family of origin, a boatload of friends and acquaintances, and had more than a few brushes with death could want. Unable to come up with a gift to wrap, I decided this year I would give her the gift of service. I had been noticing that her apartment was taking on that suspiciously chaotic look of a hoarder. Because, in fact...she is a hoarder. Every time I mentioned that we needed to clean her apartment she would say, "Oh yes, we do. But I don't want to throw anything away!" So really now, what's the point of that?

One day I stopped by to see her and after knocking on the door I heard her say, "Just a minute," followed immediately by an alarming 'thud.' Next she yelled, "I just fell," and I took off running to find someone who could unlock her apartment. When I entered, she was on the floor but seemed unhurt. I picked her up, put her in her chair, and after a few minutes told her I wanted to see if she could stand. In her crankiest voice she said, "Oh I'm fine."  I insisted she stand up. Then, I told her I needed to see if she could walk. At this she got very irritated and in her best 13-year old smart ass voice said, "There. See. I can walk," while shuffling along, wiggling her butt, and doing a little dance.

She was fine.

The fall made me realize that her apartment had become a danger zone and I could no longer avoid conflict by not cleaning. On the other hand, trying to clean while she insisted I not throw anything away had the potential to make me contemplate pushing her down. Since I would prefer to avoid elder abuse I knew I needed a plan. Fortunately Anna Queen of Planning, was home for summer and concocted a strategy whereby Steve, who basically deserves sainthood, would take Mommie Dearest to lunch and shopping while we stayed behind to clean. Perfect. She'd have to choose between making sure we didn't throw away grocery lists from 2010, junk mail, and crushed packets of saltine crackers, or shopping, which is her favorite activity following flirting. And kissing. Oh, and drinking wine. Whatever.  We had this.

While Steve and my mother dined and shopped, Anna and I cleaned and discarded. We scrubbed, and vacuumed, and organized until finally, tired and dirty, we plugged in a sweet smelling air freshener; our denouement. Moments later Steve and Mommie Dearest returned. I was concerned that she would be upset about all the things we had removed. She didn't even notice. She was so excited about the over sized purse Steve had bought her she could think of nothing else. The purse was way too big for her bony, arthritic shoulders to carry but that didn't matter. She had something new. And something new meant she might not be too old. And not being too old meant she might be able to attract a man. 

A reason to live.

A few days ago I went to see her and asked how she was feeling. A stomach virus had made her ill in the days prior. She said she was bored. The boyfriend thing again. I asked how she was feeling physically. She said she was fine. But bored. No available men. She pointed around the room and said, "Just look at what I have to choose from!"  She proceeded to point to a nearby man, and said, "That one doesn't even have any teeth!" Imagine that, I thought...she does have standards.  Nevertheless, I suggested she stop being mean. Ignoring me, she kept repeating it and finally said, loudly, "Have you ever kissed someone with no teeth??"   No, I assured her, I had not kissed someone without teeth. Maybe someday. But not yet.

It's been a while since Mommie Dearest has had a steady beau. I guess when you're 87 and insist your guy has chompers you limit the field a bit. Regardless, I'm sure there's someone out there for her. Someone to play a very old Rhett to her walker laden Scarlett. It probably won't be long before she crooks her gnarled up little finger with its long, red acrylic nail at some unsuspecting bachelor and nabs him.  Then she can commence flirting. Kissing. Drinking wine.

And living. 

Youthful Foot Folly

My left foot is getting old. I know that seems a bit odd since, presumably, my left foot is the same age as the rest of my body. Knit in my mother's womb and all that. But for whatever reason, my left foot seems to be getting old faster than any other part of my body. It troubles me with a variety of aches and pains which, no doubt, can be traced back to when I was in my 20s. 

In those days I didn't think about middle-aged pain. My fashion awareness dictated that my wardrobe  include several pair of cute and colorful high-heeled pumps. No sensible one-inch heels for me, thank you.  Put the emphasis on 'high.'

Turns out all that stuff they tell you about the perils of pitching your body forward and standing on your toes all day is right.  Your feet develop a slow but seething hatred. Of shoes. Of walking. And most particularly...of you.

I started noticing this pedial rebellion a couple of years ago when, in the morning, my left foot would ache through my first waking steps. Over time my daily walks started to induce numb toes and throbbing arches. Next, I acknowledged that wearing heels was causing pain far more intense than the younger me had grown accustomed to. When I started looking at footwear with a wary eye toward the level of pain it would cause, and opted for flats instead, I knew I was in trouble. 

After attempting a variety of home remedies for my ever increasing pain, I eventually decided to consult a physician.  I generally don't find much point in going to a doctor for the simple stuff.  I figure I'm just as capable of guessing what is wrong as they are, but when things get more complicated, I acquiesce. Medical professionals have fancy machines that see below the surface and, since I possess neither x-ray vision nor the equipment for such a sophisticated view, I opted to make an appointment. 

Turns out my left foot has a number of issues. Whatever can cause pain, my foot pretty much has. Bunions.  A pesky Morton's neuroma. Some run of the mill arthritis. And a little plantar fasciitis for good measure.

Okay, so that explains the pain. I asked about a remedy. The doctor recommended I change my footwear to no heels, a wide toe box, and sturdy soles.

Geepers, that sounds attractive. What's the point in having feet if you can't wear cute shoes? 

Eventually though, I had to get realistic. It's not like hobbling around on cranky old feet is all that fetching. I went on the Internet and started researching shoes to match the criteria. There wasn't much. It seems few shoe manufacturers are concerned about healthy feet. And those who are have very underdeveloped stylistic sensibilities.  

Goodbye fashion.

Hello Grandma.

I ordered these in every color.

Hot, sexy mama shoes

There's a moral to this story, of course. Don't be foolish. Be practical and follow the advice of wise old crones who tell you to consider the future. Your feet will thank you.

Nevertheless, would the 50-something me advise the 20-something me to forgo fashionable footwear in deference to later consequences? Probably not.

Would the 20-something me listen to the 50-something me? Assuredly not.

Because there is also an Epicurean moral. Wear heels when you're young...because you can.

I don't regret my youthful choice of colorful stilettos. Granted, in retrospect it wasn't very smart. But smart can be over-rated. There is something to be said for choosing whimsy over practical. Cute over boring. Fuchsia over brown. Was choosing fashion over pragmatism the brightest decision I could have made?  Of course not. But it sure was fun. Besides, some of my foot complications might have happened anyway. Plenty of men who never wore high heels have similar issues. I wouldn't change a thing.

Eat, drink, and wear cute shoes for tomorrow we get bunions.