Getting old means always having to say you’re sorry

Spilling, dropping, making messes is my new normal.

Getting old is downright embarrassing.   I used to be a speed demon.  I remember my mother marveling at how fast I did everything.  She learned to slow down in old age, but I never did.  I forget I’m old and still try to do things the same way I always did, but I wind up dropping, spilling and making messes.  Then I can’t clean them up because I can’t bend down.   If someone else is around I apologize even though it’s hardly my fault that I have arthritis.  If no one else is around I curse myself for being a klutz.

Containers are the enemy, especially the child proof variety which never deterred a determined child, but they sure do deter me.   The push down and twist mechanism is diabolical.   Two-quart milk cartons drop on the floor easily.  I love drinking wine out of a wine glass but most of mine have hit the ceramic tile and are no more.

Adapting to my new—much slower--normal takes a variety of gadgets.   I’ve got a grabber, for those pesky items on the floor like shards of broken glass, tissues, pills, whatever else is beyond my reach.   I’ve also got a pliers in the kitchen for those bottle tops I can’t get off with my bare hands.   And a rubber lid -grabber thingy for even my Starbucks coffee mug which I can’t open.   I’ve got a broom and dustpan combo that stands up by itself so I don’t have to bend over to sweep.   I haven’t solved the push down and twist container issue, but there is a YouTube video that suggests piercing the top with a tack will remove the seal.  I’d probably stab myself in the finger trying that one.

Some of the compromises I’ve had to make have not been aesthetically pleasing.  I moved recently and instead of buying the comfy couch I preferred, I bought an ugly leather couch which has a recliner built in.   The seat is high, firm and shallow enough to get out of.  No more curling up on a couch for me—I’d never be able to get up.   On the upside, my new dining room chairs have casters so I can sit down and roll around, a big help in reaching low shelves and items on the floor.   Squatting is not even conceivable anymore.  And if something rolls under the couch it just stays there until an able-bodied person arrives.

The real struggle is not wrestling with objects but with myself.  I doubt if anyone else is as hard on me as I am. 

 I want to stop beating myself up when I have to face yet another decline of my formerly robust physical powers.   I want to stop apologizing but I can’t imagine it.  How do you not apologize for being a klutz when you drop something or make a mess?   You would have to be living in a society which actually values elders--where we’re not viewed simply as nuisances.

  It takes actual grace to “grow old gracefully—the spiritual not physical variety.