Growth Spurts, in Reverse
Melanie Chartoff makes note of all the changes occurring for her at the three-quarter-century mark.
The jig is up. No more kidding around. Three-quarters of a century spinning around this Earth is making itself known—it means business, baby.
I’ve stopped labeling the slowdowns as “phases” or “bad days,” or “not enough sleep” or “jetlagged” or “ate stupid” or “forgot vitamins.” These lapses must now be designated my new reality. I must get a gerontological grip with no excuses, apologies, shame or regrets.
Several markers of irreversible eldering became far easier to notice when I returned home after a month away, confronted by what were once the most reliable arbiters of my condition.
The TV volume has migrated from level 14 to 20 or even higher on streaming shows. At first, I blamed the ultra-naturalistic acting styles, the regional and foreign accents. Next, I blamed the undercharged remote for my diminished hearing. But no, it’s me.
Now “closed captions” have become such a constant that I’m reading the dialogue and sound descriptions (“moaning,” “nickering”) more than I’m actually watching the stories unfold. How I treasure silent scenes with no words in which I can dive deeply into the expressive faces, quirky behaviors and palpable thoughts of fine actors and realize what the hell I’ve been missing. I wish all my conversations in noisy restaurants had the “closed captions” option so I’d know what the hell my companion just said. There will be an app for that any minute.
I returned from weeks away and felt saddened by my husband’s sudden vocal wussiness. Poor man. Our dialogues have dwindled to him speaking sotto voce and me repeating, “What? What?” Can’t he hear me muttering, “Such a mutterer?” He can’t, and he’s not. It must be me. I could hear him clearly last Spring in the kitchen from the dining room. Our life together recently lost its soundtrack. To avoid missing his sweet nothings, I might conceal a body mic in his beard. I’m now using the Apple AirPods which work well to isolate our table from the din of other diners and the chronic thump of electronic music in the best restaurants. But I’m at that awkward-in-between stage—not bad enough to invest in fancy hearing aids, not good enough to know what stage actors are saying when they turn from my direction.
Sphincter issues are difficult to ignore. It takes concentration and extra time for the swallowing apparatus to allow bottlenecked bites to head down the digestive tract. Forget eating on the run. Monotonous chewing of teensy bites in utter stillness is now in order. I’ll just about finish chewing breakfast when it’s time to start chewing lunch. And it takes far more time for the Southern sister to remember which direction is “down” or “out.” I whistle, I cajole, I remind, I hold my ears, I run the faucet to help her out.
My former mousetrap of a mind has become fallible. I forget names of familiar folks of whom I’m very fond. I greet them so sincerely, hoping a name will float up from my muscle memory when I’m mid-embrace, or that someone else will shout that name aloud. “Hey, Darlene!” Sometimes, I slur the possible moniker with an affectionate chuckle or cough to obscure it. “Is that Har—hahahah!” Or I’ll make up an endearment on the spot, like “Hey there, big boy,” or “C’mere, you crazy kid, you,” to cover my oblivion.
Three-quarters of a century spinning around this Earth is making itself known—it means business, baby.
I’ve stopped labeling the slowdowns as “phases” or “bad days,” or “not enough sleep” or “jetlagged” or “ate stupid” or “forgot vitamins.” These lapses must now be designated my new reality. I must get a gerontological grip with no excuses, apologies, shame or regrets.
It's become far clearer that time flies. It was just June and now it’s September? How did that happen? I’ve ceased saying, “I can’t wait to see you!” to friends for fear of rushing the days between too speedily. I may have shortened the length of my life with such enthusiasm and impatience. It stops now. Instead, I’ll just relish living in the anticipation of seeing dear friends at some point in the distant future.
Fortunately, I’m not going into this new era alone. I have buddies my age who admit, when I notice and alert them, that we’ve had this same exact loop of conversation before—same words, same jokes, and, no, it is not déjà vu. “Oh, was that you I told?” they’ll say, to cover. I just smile, but it takes me until the entire loop of the story is almost over to remember it.
I have friends of higher ages (over 90—it used to be 80, but 80 is on my own horizon now) whom I have ceased to correct in their misuse of words. They have the exact right amount of accuracy. I nod and smile and encourage and praise and hope folks will be as kind to me.
Confining, elasticized clothing is leaving my closets and fantasies. Victoria can keep her damn secret. I was itching to wear that hot little tight wool dress for the boys, but now it’s too hot, too little, and boy, it does it itch. Vanity once made itch tolerable. But spandex pants are no longer worth the deep bands in my amorphous torso and the limited breathing capacity. This is tunic time. The oversized sweater era. Time for boyfriend shirts. Time for voluminous pants and empire waists. Time for muumuus and caftans. Time to take the tight to Good Will.
I’m miniaturizing, as measured by my tailor taking up 3/4” hems on slacks and skirts, taking in ½” on shirts and jackets, and my once little nephew Eli suddenly looming above me. No, he has not grown, he assures me, it must be me. Now I feel I must shout at crowded gatherings to be heard from down here—"I’m shrinking, I’m shrinking!” Honey, they shrunk the olds.
I’ve grown very appreciative of the beauty of banisters and caress their reliable stability while taking steps just one-at-a-time. No more hurtling; much more turtling. I no longer skip, hop, or turn to talk to somebody when heading down a staircase or escalator. Unless I can grow an exoskeleton to protect these brittle bones, I need to focus on my feet looking at the step-by-step-by-step all the way down.
I often can’t tell my plan to accomplish something from having already accomplished it. Did I take out the trash or just dream it? Frequently, I’ve done some small thing and forgotten I did it. Who brought in the mail? Oh, I did. Yesterday, I wrote an email and realized I’d sent a similar one the night before.
And the backing out of a room ruminating on why the hell I walked into it worsens. Sometimes, departing a room, I repeat the word that represents the reason I’m setting out over and over (“receipt,” “floss,” “hot cup of tea I made this morning, and left someplace”). Then I pick up something else entirely and return to start, then wake up in the middle of the night remembering what I really wanted, why I really went, determined to hang onto that thought…only to wake up forgetting it. I write myself little notes and lists more often, but as my handwriting deteriorates, it’s wiser to dictate a voice memo or text to myself.
On the bright side, my efficiency has improved. I waste less time circling my home doing little chores which once killed an entire day and now knock them off one-by-one by staying in the same dull spot, same room, throttling the damn task until it’s complete.
I’m less flamboyant with my energy—not running off the nerves, the need for attention. I’m giving myself a personality-ectomy. I’m reducing my very vivaciousness—it’s become too taxing, both for me and the receivers. I don’t always need to have the last word—especially because I didn’t hear the word before it.
And the great relief is that I am not panicking about these increments. Acceptance and a sense of humor and proportion seem to be coming with the territory. That’s probably because of how frank my friends are, and how public aging boomers are going with their journeys in pieces I read in publications that deem these thoughts of value…like this one.
A reminder that in the run-up to my 60th birthday in early October, I’m offering 10% off my already low subscription rates of $55/year and $6/month. After that, prices go up to (the still very reasonable!) rates of $60/year and $7/month.
Thanks to all of you who already support my work with your dollars. You help me to keep “Exploring what it means to travel through time in a human body, at every phase of life,” and to keep paying contributors. 🙏 💝 - Sari Botton
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I recognized myself and laughed out loud. My favorite line: I wish all my conversations in noisy restaurants had the “closed captions” option so I’d know what the hell my companion just said.
So well done, Melanie. So well said. I turn 75 in just a few weeks, too. Three quarters of a century is most assuredly a milestone and an opportunity not just for humor and acceptance, but also for growth...kind of a last chance for growth. We'll all do it in our own way, in our own time, as time speeds up and slows down. But the growing never stops.