The Oldie

Well, friends, I'm old.  I've known it for a while now, but it hadn't really hit home until I started my new job as a Target employee.

Like I told my team lead the other night, "I sweat so much working here that if I don't lose at least 15 pounds I'm gonna be mad".

Sweat.  Where did that come from?  The 19 and 20 year-old girls I'm working with aren't sweating.  Their little red t-shirts aren't stuck to their backs.  They aren't constantly wiping rainfalls of water from their foreheads or under their eyes.  They don't seem to be crazy with the need for water.

And I'm slow.  I've been ruined by spending the last 10 years walking at the pace of a toddler.  Meandering.  Stopping to look at everything and anything of interest as we go along.  Now I can't keep up with the other girls as they whip at a frenzied pace from location to location, cheerfully jabbering in their walkie talkies as they go about shouting out acronyms at the speed of light.

When I yell, "Can we fix it?"  They just blink at me and smile.... that smile you give the elderly when they aren't making much sense but you don't want to point it out.  Guess Bob the Builder isn't part of their daily viewing.

On one of my first days of employment a girl asked me how old I am.  I was fine with answering 36.  My age doesn't bother me other than I realize time seems to be speeding up.  I've been through a lot, I've grown, I DESERVE to claim every one of those 36 years.  Turns out I'm - at a minimum - 10 years older than all the rest.  "You've aged well.  You look younger than that," she replied.  I just smiled... the same smile that the elderly give to the young who are trying to soothe over a hurt that wasn't actually inflicted.

I'm that plodding oxen on the wagon trail with a bunch of thoroughbreds.  They race about, flitting from task to task, chatting and laughing as they go about.  While they chat, flit, and giggle I fold, hang, sweat and work steadily.  Somehow I manage to make progress, even though they seem to be the ones running from task to task.  In the story of the Tortoise and the Hare I have become the Tortoise.

I've decided it's my "Mom-ness" that is the difference.  I'm used to picking up after people.  To going back to  a place I've already cleaned and having to clean it again.  I'm used to the multitasking of answering phones, sorting carts, helping guests and sweating.  Always with the sweat.

The young girls like to gather outside of work and watch movies like The Notebook.  I am that party pooper who just wants to go home.  It's 11:30, are you girls crazy?  I try to remember what it was like when I was 19 and my social group was the same as the group I worked with.  But now my social group is snuggled in their beds, smelling of baby soap and apple scented shampoo.  The one I want to see the most is warm from the covers and murmurs a bit as I crawl into bed, legs aching, finally with the sweat washed off my face.

It's an adjustment for all of us, me working outside the home for the first time in 10 years.  We're working out the kinks.  I'm so proud of my little wagon train as the children step up and Hubs guides things in a way that my strong temperament doesn't always make room for.  We are all growing....

Can't wait to see what this new path brings.

Dr. Doom

My mom and I were discussing her recent eye doctor appointment. {Right now I can't remember if an eye doctor is an ophthalmologist or an optometrist or whatever "op" it is, and I'm too stinking tired to Google it.  So, for the purposes of this blog it will simply be an eye doctor.}

Anyhow, after she told me her tale we were laughing so hard at how sometimes doctors are just harbingers of joy.  It was so delightful, that halfway through the appointment she told him she was going to start calling him Dr. Doom :)

In the spirit of sharing things we can all relate to with a giggle, I asked her if I could blog some of the highlights of her eye adventure.  She agreed.  So, please, enjoy the lovely snippets of an eye doctor appointment.

My dad went with my mom, probably to act as an emotional support.  Apparently when the doctor went to do the eye test he handed my mom that little spoon shaped thing that you cover an eye with.  He then instructed her to cover her left eye.... which she did.... using her left hand.  The tool sat useless in her other hand.  Ha ha.  She quickly realized her mistake and started laughing.  The doctor looked at my dad and Dad said, straight faced I'm sure, "You'll have to be VERY specific with her!"  I believe from that point forward the doctor took that advice to the extreme.

Mom asked about some droopiness she'd noticed in her left eye lid.  The doctor's reply, "Yes.  That happens when you wear hard contacts for many years."  Oh.... information that may have been helpful 40 years ago.  Then he threw in this little gem, "That will happen to the other eye too.  But don't worry, when you get cataracts and have to have surgery we'll correct the drooping at the same time!"  Oooh.... phew!  Good news indeed!

She, of course, asked about trading to a different type of contact in order to perhaps ward off some of the drooping and he said something about how at this point it would just be extra work to go that route.  She's been wearing the same contacts for years, no reason to go to the effort of changing now.  {Apparently when you're 60 it's all downhill and we wouldn't want to put in any extra effort when cataracts are on their way anyhow!}

Not her actual doctor

Next, during that eye exam where the doctor pretty much sticks his nose on your nose and looks into your soul he said, "Oh, you have a little "v" shape in your eye.  I better make a note of that so that when you get dementia we can remember when that "v" showed up."   Uh..... okay.  You're the doctor!

He also noted a small mole in my mom's eye.  "I'm surprised you don't have melanoma," he said casually.  "Those kinds of moles can kill people.  We'll make a note of that too so that we can refer back to it when it becomes a problem."  Nice bedside manner, this guy!

All in all it was a very uplifting experience.  She was given a clean bill of health - albeit clearly he believed that to be a temporary thing - and sent on her way.

She was able to laugh about it, rather than cry.... because crying would make her eyes swell, which could bring on the cataracts and dementia, not to mention inflame the mole causing fatal melanoma!

You can never be too careful!