Tag Archives: middle age

Weighted vests. Need I say more?

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I’ve had my nose to the grindstone this past year and when I looked up everyone was wearing a weighted vest.

Or at least people my age.

My beach buddy uses one and she mentioned it last summer, but unlike this summer, there was no sign of them in my news feed, so I continued to go for my weightless walks.

A couple weeks ago I told her I was considering one. Two more beach buddies piped up about their vests.

Then I was driving back from Cuffy’s (can never have too many things that say Cape Cod), and there was a woman walking with what I can now identify immediately as a weighted vest.

Everybody’s been wearing them and I had no idea. Now it was just a matter of which vest.

As I perused the reviews of different vests, one said,

“If you’re middle-aged and you don’t have one, what are you even doing?”

What have I been doing?

I’ve been walking unweighted.

Some people said the vest is ridiculous and just put on a backpack.

It brought me back 8.5 years to when we lived in Boston and the only way BB breastfed or slept was in a moving sling attached to my body.

I went for so many weighted walks.

I’m not sure how much money someone would have to pay me to do that again, but the feeling of the weighted vest high up on the top of my body as opposed to a backpack or a baby is worth the purchase.

I’m addicted to walking. I’m going to walk no matter what. I don’t have unlimited time for walking. So adding the weight and getting some thigh burn feels ideal.

Don’t even talk to me about running. Not my thing. Not happening. Last time I ran was when we were on the beach and RB said,

“I need to go potty, the poop is coming out.”

Even then I slowed to a trot.

My thighs need to be ready for skiing in the Alps by the first week of December. I do not intend to be the last travel advisor down the mountain.

In the meantime, I’ll be wandering around suburbia 16 pounds heavier. Chest hair optional.

When I put in weighted vests, these popped up. Good to know there are hairy options.
This weighted vest kept gaining weight and was a little fussy.
Forgive the million photos of BB in the sling. There are SO MANY. She lived in there for the better part of a year.
Weighted baby sling arrives in suburbia, circa 2017. I did not consider myself middle-aged yet.

Captain’s cleanse aka his colonoscopy, my middle-age acne and a town hemorrhaging teachers

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It’s that time of year when I’m assessing all of my life choices.

Our town override vote failed by a significant amount and now our schools are losing SO MANY teachers. When we bought our house, I was not paying attention. If a town leans right, it’s bad news bears.

My 42nd birthday is approaching and I have a bottle of blood pressure medication on my counter that promises to cure my middle-age acne, while also giving me numerous other side effects considering I don’t have high blood pressure.

Captain’s 50th birthday is approaching which really makes me feel very good about 42. Also he’s overdue for his colonoscopy since they moved the marker on him and now you’re supposed to start getting them when you’re 45.

RB and I headed to Target to pick up Captain’s Miralax and all that fun stuff.

I would’ve been going on my own, but the day before, RB came home from school, sat down in the living room and wouldn’t get up. Several hours of sleep later she asked me,

“Can you carry me to the art room?”

“Why?”

“I want to be with BB.”

“Go ahead.”

“I can’t walk.”

“You can’t walk?!”

“My knees hurt.”

“Both knees?”

“Yes.”

“Did you fall and get hurt today?”

“No.”

An hour later we were supposed to be headed to a fun event at her preschool. Captain and I stood before a seated RB. I told her,

“I don’t think we can go to the art show.”

“I want to go!”

“Then I need you to walk.”

“You can carry me.”

I stood her up. She screamed like I was trying to kill her. I put her down. I called the doctor’s office. The nurse said,

“Bring her in.” She also asked,

“Does her throat hurt?”

“RB does your throat hurt?”

“No.”

At 6pm we headed for the doctor. My 7:30pm book club plans were vaporizing before my very eyes. I was envisioning a night at the hospital with a child who could no longer walk.

The doctor came right in. She asked a minimal number of questions, shined her light in RB’s throat, took a swab and said,

“Looks like strep, we’ll know in a minute.”

STREP?! She can’t walk and she said her throat doesn’t hurt. The doctor said,

“Have a look.”

I peered down RB’s throat. Yup. Sure looked like it hurt.

I explained my confusion to the doctor. She said,

“Sometimes kids don’t even know what their throat is.”

Great point.

The rapid test came back fast. Positive!

I have never been happier to get a positive strep test. My imaginary night at the hospital was no more. One stop for antibiotics and off to book club I went!

So that’s why the next day I had RB’s company to collect colonoscopy supplies.

On the drive to Target RB asked,

“Is Dad sick?”

“No not at all.”

“Then why does Dad need medicine?”

“For his colonoscopy. He needs medicine to get all the poop out of his intestines so the doctor can go in his butt and look around.”

“She’s going to fit inside Dad’s butt?!”

“I mean she’s going to look inside Dad’s intestines with a stick.”

“The doctor is using outside things inside Dad?!!”

WOW I’m really butchering this conversation.

“No no no. I’m sorry. The doctor is using a special doctor tool to see inside of Dad and make sure he’s healthy.”

“Oooh. I don’t need medicine to poop.”

“Right!” And I don’t either.

When my doctor offered the oral, blood-pressure medicine he said,

“It’s hard to put topicals all over your back.”

Well it’s great for my shoulder mobility and I’ll happily do that instead of taking my chances with the thirty-seven side effects.

My acne is now under control; I have three more colonoscopy-free years and I don’t know what will happen to our schools. Please send help.

Forties are looking bright despite my looming mortality

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I’m officially 40! My Cape Cod and Alaska celebrations are in the rearview and middle age is stretching out ahead of me.

Wikipedia defines middle age as 45 – 65, so maybe I can delude myself for another few years.

All of a sudden I’m thinking about menopause, but wikipedia also mentions that I will now be beginning my cognitive decline, so maybe I’ll forget about it.

I’ve always had irritable mood swings with my period. I’m happy to warn Captain about them ahead of time, but beware the person who asks about it mid-PMS.

As much as my irritableness is unjustified, it is very hard to come to terms with that in the moment. That is what alarms me about menopause. How much of an emotional roller coaster will I be on and how long will it be until I feel like myself?

I understand that I might have another eight years before I need to worry about this, but it makes me even more nervous that no one is talking about it.

I feel like I was blindsided when I had my first baby and I don’t intend to be blindsided again if I can help it.

I’ve taken to crowdsourcing the topic at the beach. I’ve heard some interesting takes on it, including some people with no irritableness. Must be nice.

I jut my finger into Captain,

“What’s coming for him?”

Several beach buddies pipe up:

“Nothing.”

“A belly.”

Nothing or maybe nothing with a belly. Grrrumph.

The talk turns to how popular botox has become. If I had some extra money to throw around, the first thing I’d do is get some hair lasered. Maybe that’s next year’s birthday present.

As I contemplate my inevitable decline, I wake up with my right eye swollen shut. A stye one day before my birthday. One day before I’m trying to look forty and fabulous at a fancy dinner. I’m beside myself.

Every spare moment I had was spent hanging over the sink with a warm washcloth pressed against my eyeball. And every spare thought willing it to go away.

Sunglasses and a tiara did wonders to disguise it at the beach.

By dinner time it was much better and makeup took care of the rest. I’ve never been happier to return to my status quo.

Bring it on middle age. I’ll take what I’ve got, minus the mood swings, stye and chin hair.

Yes I really wore my tiara to the beach.

As BB would say, this is all about my foots

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I don’t know when the last time is you went to the podiatrist. For me it was Monday. Nothing has made me feel quite as old as this did.

When I hear the word podiatry, I think of eighty-year-olds. I remember hospital rounds with my dad and old guy toes with nails so long they were curling in spirals at the end of his feet.

In retrospect, feet sticking out of a hospital bed were just about eye level for 7-year-old Jessica. No wonder that memory is here to stay, even if on a good day, I feel lucky to remember my name.

After answering numerous sports-related questions, I’m guessing people younger than 80 go to a podiatrist. I can get over myself, or continue on with a whole post about my feet. You’re welcome.

Twenty-five ish years ago, probably the year I grew 4 inches all at once and had no idea where my body started and stopped, I fell going up the stairs. I don’t know what I did. Broke a toe? Dislocated a toe? Whatever it was, it hurt BAD, but I wasn’t going to tell anybody and risk not being able to go play.

I had always been fond of that toe. I loved that it looked it like ET. It healed kinda funny and I was left with one ET toe, the counterpart on my other foot.

After the original injury I could never bend it again, but it’s also never given me any pain. So c’est la vie. Or so I thought, until a few weeks ago I wondered, is it growing? Nah.

Then without me mentioning anything, my mom asks,

“Is your toe getting bigger?”

YES! I think it is! In general I’m the opposite of a hypochondriac, but now it was a little hard not to worry. As far as I know, my toes should NOT be growing.

I make a podiatry appointment. I feel awkward. They ask,

“Was there an injury?”

“Yes? Twenty-five years ago.”

I head in for my appointment. It’s a hot, beautiful day and I’m in a new sundress and flip-flops because why not? This getting out and about thing feels so novel.

As I’m waiting for my x-rays, I overhear the technician speaking to another patient,

“Oh wow, look at all those necklaces! We’re going to have to take them off.”

I can only imagine this being said to someone under 5 or over 80, which may confirm the podiatry demographic.

Once in the exam room, the doctor walks in, takes one look at me and walks right back out. I hear him tell someone in the hall,

“If they’re wearing a short dress, I need you to cover their legs.”

“…”

“Anything above the knee.”

I’m grateful for that clarification, because even if I don’t consider myself podiatry old, I feel a little old for a “short” dress. Also I don’t define a dress above my knee as short.

With my legs properly covered, the doctor starts off with the good news,

“Looks like arthritis.”

“Is it normal for it to suddenly grow like that?”

He makes a face. I realize,

“Has it been growing all along and I just noticed it?”

“Your warranty expired when you turned 35.”

So it did.

He offers,

“It’ll keep growing and if it ever starts to bother you, we can shave it down.”

“Shave it down?!!” I’M GOOD. “Is there anything I can do to stop it from growing?”

“Flip flops aren’t great.”

“Never mind. Not sure why I asked, if I’m not willing to make any changes.”

I take my toes and unwarranted self out of the office. The receptionist calls after me,

“Hope you feel better!”

“Thank you I feel great!” If just a little bit closer to 39.

…..

And if you feel like you want more about my feet, click here for a fun post from 2008.

BB and me, just before my warranty expired.

Too much beer? Just go easy on the carrots

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The longer Baby Bop is around, the harder it is for me to remember that I had a childless life for 34 years. I know it happened, but it gets fuzzier every day. One thing I used to do was ski. I’m reminded of that every time Baby Bop and I sit on the toilet and stare at my skis.

Two weeks ago I had an amazing ski weekend with my friends. Baby Bop was there because I need her to empty my boobs, but other than that, my mom and Captain did everything baby.

Even sitting on the chairlift was pleasant. Sometimes I was with my friends and sometimes with random people. One lift ride I got on with two middle-aged women. And as I’m writing this, I googled “middle-aged” to see if I made three, but it looks like I’m off the hook for a minute.

The women were chatting,

“I love my farm share, I just get way too much of the same vegetables and I don’t know what to do with it all. My kids sure aren’t eating it.”

Her friend nods. Farm-share lady continues,

“And there are always so many potatoes and I need to stay away from root vegetables.”

“Why?”

“Root vegetables have a lot of sugar.”

“I didn’t realize that.”

“Yeah, sweet potatoes? Carrots too.”

“Huh.”

“The other problem is that I have a full share and some people have half shares and the other day they gave me a half share.”

Didn’t you just say you have too many vegetables? I wipe my snotty nose on my mitten. Is this my future?

A few ski runs later I get on the lift with two teenage boys, maybe early twenties, but it’s getting hard to tell as I approach middle age.

One boy pops open a beer. The other one declares,

“Running into that tree hurt.”

His friend hands him the beer. He adds,

“I’m so drunk.”

Skiing, trees and alcohol. One of these things is not good with the others. Yes, Sesame Street is a part of my life now.

The ring leader with the beer offers empathy,

“Well I was so drunk last night I don’t even remember being on the lazy river.”

I head back to the hotel. I like my beer in the hot tub with Captain. I look at Captain. It’s like old times. This is how Baby Bop got started. Then we head to dinner the two of us. I feel like a new woman.

Captain tells me,

“You’re back!”

Yes, there’s still hope that I exist. I’m living somewhere between chugging beers on the chairlift and swearing off sweet potatoes.

These all seemed relevant.