The shape of things to come

I seem to be on my way to inventing a whole new body type. You’ve heard, of course, that people are “apples” or “pears” based on the shape of their bodies — each shape having specific health concerns associated with it. Well, I think I’ve leapt right past “pear” to all out “gourd.”

I had the best intentions ths spring. I (found and) dusted off the pedometer, fed it a new battery, and decided to follow an interval walking program from Prevention magazine. Some days you walk at a steady pace, other days you alternate fast and slow walking for specific amounts of time. It’s supposed to burn way more calories than just plain walking. On the “steady” days, you start out with some strength and toning exercises using what are essentially giant broken gumbands (which I bought on Amazon).

I tried the walking program (and I only fell once during the “Sprint” pace as I stepped half on the street and half on the neighbor’s grass berm), and even did the gumband exercises — no small task, considering it meant following a few sentences of explanation and one picture of a buff woman in perfect shape…

Stand on end of 6-ft exercise band with left foot and place right foot on band about hip-width away so band is around outside of right foot. Place right hand on hip and hold opposite end of band in left hand so it crosses body (band will be loose). Simultaneously lift fight foot out to side about 45 degrees while raising left arm out to side to shoulder height. Hold for a second, then lower to start. Complete a full set, then switch sides. Do 2 sets on each side.

I was quite a sight, I’m sure. The cat was fascinated and amused. But I persevered for a few sessions through all 5 similarly baffling exercises, puffing like Thomas, so it had to be working, right?

But then, I got sick — another flu thing and KILLER sore throat that knocked me out for a week. Then there were all the trips to visit mom, and trips to her house to clean up, and lots of work to churn out. And many trips to Taco Bell because I couldn’t find the time to grocery shop or cook. Walking fell by the wayside. As did my backside — hence the pronounced gourd effect.

And wouldn’t you know, I actually have an “event” to go to this week — a professional organization fund-raiser masquerading as an awards ceremony honoring my former bosses. I really want to go — I wouldn’t have my career if not for them 17 years ago taking a chance on a writer with virtually no professional experience and teaching me the proverbial “everything I know” during my four years there — so much so that I plunked down $120 for two tickets (for light hors d’oeuvres and a CASH bar) and even got a new dress.

A new dress? I can count the events I need a new dress for in once-every-three-years-or-so terms. I’m sure I could have trotted out the “black pants and fancy top” thing for this. But, my soul needed something new. So, about 15 dresses later, I found one. Black of course, even though I was determined I didn’t want black. But really, when you’ve got the gourd thing happenin’ the black thing better be happenin’ too.

Soooo, I will someday, soon, I promise, haul my saddlebags back on the walking path. I may even keep up with the stretchy bands. But not before fully enjoying my $120 worth of cheese cubes and a couple $4 glasses of cabernet and wishing those three guys well in my spiffy new dress.

Maybe I can just tie the cute little zebra-striped shrug it came with around my waist — suburban camouflage?

 A bear, however hard he tries, grows tubby without exercise.
                                                                      ~ A. A. Milne

 

…and don’t call me Shirley

Yesterday was a good day — I found the barely opened bottle of cuticle remover I’ve been searching for for weeks. (I also found an inch of cat hair and dust behind my computer monitor, but that’s beside the point.) Yes, folks, this passes for a big event. I’ve only ever had 2 professional manicures in my life, and both times the manicurist exclaimed, “Wow, you have a lot of cuticles.” (They grow, the nails don’t.)

This reminds me of one of my most memorable “grooming events” — in college, at a fine Oakland hair salon (I don’t think we called them that in those days. It was probably the “beauty parlor” — oh how hopeful). I was going for the then-quite-popular Linda Evans look — the infamous ’80s Dynasty bob. (I even brought a picture.) As the hairdresser pulled and stretched and wound my stick-straight hair around a giant round brush (and practically out of my head), wielding her blow dryer like a sword, she uttered an exasperated, “Your hair has zip in the way of body.”

Beautiful. Can’t tell you how many times I’ve quoted that over the years.

But please, in my defense, those were the days before “product” was a given. I distinctly remember being at my student/workstudy/office/part-time college job (around the same time as the zip incident) and dishing with the other women about this new invention called “mousse” that one of them had bought at a swanky Shadyside salon. Yes, ladies, the days of Dippity-do were finally over — unfortunately not soon enough to avoid all those pitiful bad-hair school pictures from junior high on up.

Oh, the quest for curly hair (aka Shirley hair — as in Temple of course). As a child (up until 5th grade), I had long hair to my waist that my mother braided EVERY DAY, causing me to cry EVERY DAY because of the knots she’d comb out. On “special” occasions, she would put it up in rags. Yes, rags. Torn strips of old sheets that you wound around sections of twisted hair to create ringlets. Try sleeping on twisted up rags all night… (Not to be outdone, my one sister slept on bristly curlers every night of her life for 10 years or so, with a hair dryer on her head. Noise and discomfort. It’s a wonder she can still hear.)

And then there was the time my older sisters, to make me “beautiful” for my oldest sister’s high school graduation (I think it was hers — I would have been about 4), set my hair in hot rollers. Then they couldn’t get them out. I remember being in the back seat of the car on the way to the ceremony and them trying to work those hopelessly tangled rollers out of my hair. (If you’ve ever seen the “Everybody Loves Raymond” episode where Debra gets a curling iron stuck in her hair while getting ready for an event, it was a lot like that, times 3 or 4.)

Those were the days.

These days, I have lots of expensive “product” on my sink and, lo and behold, a fresh bottle of cuticle remover at the ready. I’m good to go. My oldest sister (whose graduation prompted the hot roller incident) actually told me a couple weeks ago when she was visiting, “Your hair looks better.”

I chose to take it as a compliment.

How can I control my life when I can’t control my hair?
                                                  ~ Author Unknown

Aging? Sorry, I can’t afford to get old.

Just as my mother was settling in for a luxurious 4-week stay at Camp Senior (a lovely but expensive assisted living facility), we received a letter in the mail from Governor Rendell urging us to “Own Your Future” and plan for long-term living by ordering a handy packet of information or checking it out online.

I’m doing both, but stopped for a bit last night to browse the Web site. It’s the National Clearinghouse for Long-Term Care Information (http://www.longtermcare.gov/LTC/Main_Site/index.aspx) and is chock-full of tidbits that will make you wish Dr. Kevorkian was your uncle. Really, the basic message I got was that I and most everyone else can’t afford to get old.

Consider the handy calculator that lets you plan how much money you’ll need to pay for long-term care. You plug in the state you plan to retire in and the monthly amount you can afford to put away now for long-term care. It spits back the cost of long-term care in your desired state, how much your monthly savings will add up to, and (in my case) your laughable shortfall. Turns out Pennsylvania was the most expensive state I checked (as I obsessively started plugging in different states to find cheaper options). Deep South seems the way to go (Georgia, Alabama, Arkansas, Mississippi, Texas) with “traditional” retirement states like Florida and Arizona more expensive. Forget about New England (which I guess PA falls into).

So, even if Mike and I put away $300 a month for the next 20 years for long-term care, we’ll only save up half of what we’ll need (roughly $350K instead of the $700K needed). (Oh, and I didn’t notice if that was per person or not!) The site also outlines other options like long-term care insurance (if you qualify) and such, including “Do you have friends or family who can help take care of you?” Hmmm, how ’bout it friends & family?

It was all quite overwhelming and extremely depressing. What a world we’ve created where we can keep people alive far longer than ever before but with no thought to how they’ll actually live.

Life would be infinitely happier if we could only be born
at the age of eighty and gradually approach eighteen. 
                                                         ~ Mark Twain
 

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