"WEAR & TEAR"

There are certain words and expressions I’m not fond of as I grow older. 

 

“Sir” has been my least favorite, a term that’s supposed to convey deference and respect, but only translates in my head as the person saying, You’re an old dude. 

 

“Are you retired?” feels like skipping what I deem as a more respectful question: “What do you do for a living?” Fake the assumption I’m still working, still climbing that ladder, still hoping for a year-end bonus that is more than a turkey coupon. (Yes, my first “bonus” came while I was a waiter; we each got a coupon redeemable for the Christmas bird, never mind that I was a vegetarian.)

 

The expression that’s made me cringe—and fret—the most over the past year has, however, been “wear and tear.” When I think of the phrase, tire treads come to mind. Maybe my favorite blue jeans that are starting to grow an unfashionable, even creepy hole just below the zipper. I have running shoes with the soles worn down unevenly which is unfortunately because it finally feels like I’ve broken in. 

 

Those examples of wear and tear only require money and the wherewithal to finally shop for replacements, adieu to the old wares. Sorry, landfill.

 

But the “wear and tear” I’m struggling to get to in this post is far more personal, the description rendered by medical professionals, the subject being my body. Not the body of a twenty-three year old whose been spending too much time on the tennis court. RX: rest. No, the wear and tear for this sixty-year-old body is spoken of as being permanent.

 

I suppose I set my dentist up. I’ve had a couple of dental fractures in recent years, teeth splitting in half…or in less precise ways to create especially jagged edges. I’ve had too many needles to freeze certain areas. (Dammit, it always takes three needle jams before I can’t feel anything in the focal area.) I’ve seen oral surgeons in offices with prime views of Vancouver that are for naught once I’m knocked out. At my last dental appointment, I expressed frustration. My teeth don’t look great as there’s an upper tooth that grew in crooked and my mother (rightly) told our family dentist I couldn’t handle braces. Still, I’ve always been praised over how well I take care of my teeth and how they are strong and healthy. 

 

Strong and healthy teeth aren’t supposed to crack. “What is going on?” I asked. “Am I doing something wrong? Is there something else I should be doing?”

 

Please, not another floss talk.

 

“It’s just wear and tear,” he said. “It comes with age.” Ouch. Apparently, he was truly peeved over my sporadic flossing. 

 

I compartmentalized. Okay. It’s my teeth. They’ve chewed aplenty in six decades. Wear and tear? Better than my grandfather’s era when so many people at my age had dentures, including him. He’d dump his teeth in a glass every night and then the grandkids would beg him to show us his sunken smile. “Eww!” we’d scream and run to the far corner of the room. The poor man took it all good-naturedly…or so it seemed. I have an apology forthcoming next time I visit his grave.

 

So, yes, aging teeth, that’s all. I could still take pride in everything else. I am still told—frequently—I don’t look my age. Recently when I got an electrocardiogram—one of several this year—the technician looked at my stats on a computer screen and exclaimed, “Sixty? Wow! I was thinking you were my age.” This from a guy who doesn’t work for tips. I’d say he was forty. Hell, let’s go with thirty-five.

 

But those multiple ECGs—another one pending!—seemed to tell another story. When I went over various results with a cardiologist, I was proud of how low my heartrate is. It scares nurses and technicians and they always have to check-in with a doctor before I am allowed to leave an examination room but, time and time again, the doctors explain that I am just very fit. They throw in a sentence or two, lumping me in with athletes. Hello, Summer Olympics, 2028, Los Angeles! If I compete, it’ll be an event that doesn’t involve throwing. Or catching. Or punching people. Or pinning dudes to a mat. 

 

Okay, fit, but no Olympics. I know L.A. well enough. 

 

The cardiologist may have tossed out the words “fit” and “athlete” once again, but then he slipped in another phrase: “wear and tear.” 

 

What?!

 

Teeth are one thing. The heart is quite another. He must have seen my face pale. Or maybe it was my eyes welling up. “It’s just part of aging,” he added. Like that normalized everything. Like the lack of an imminently scheduled transplant or triple bypass made everything great.

 

Is that really the bar?

 

“Wear and tear”…and “aging.”

 

Egad!

 

It doesn’t get better. Hello, reality. Or, to rephrase, hell, reality.

 

 

     

  

IF I COULD TURN BACK TIME

So, yeah, this aging thing has been on my mind lately. Last week I contemplated a field trip to Florida’s Fountain of Youth, but Florida’s off my travel list these days (one word: “GAY!”) and the only thing worse than looking young and foolish is being old and foolish. No splash of holy water is going to reduce the vestiges of age. 

 

This week’s post continues of the notion of aging denialism. Sigh. Maybe I should have renamed my blog, Ice Cream Gayly. Writing, and especially researching, would be so much more fun.

 

What I’d meant to write about last week before tangents took over was how fifty-somethings I know, myself included, are trying to appear young to stay in the game in terms of our careers. 

 

I recently FaceTimed a friend from college who is now a principal in an architecture firm in Los Angeles. She switched firms during the pandemic and, during her first year, only met colleagues once in person. As I observed when I stayed with her for a few days in January, the job continues to be mostly a work from home experience, her days filled with Zoom and phone meetings that seem to go on and on. (My friend has always been intense about all aspects of her life.) I wondered how she was connecting. She said everything was highly satisfying which was a highly unusual stance as I’ve listened to her rant ad nauseum about the office dynamics in every firm she’s worked at during the past thirty-five years. Maybe working from home was offering some necessary space and distance. 

 

When she talked about her team, she mentioned that all of them are under thirty. “Can you relate?” I asked.

 

“Of course,” she said. “We click.” But then there was a pause. “You know, when I was twenty-eight, I used to think all my bosses were so old, but they were the age I am now.” Another pause. Wait for it…Recalculating…“Do you think they thing I’m old? Come to think of it, their weekends sound so different than mine. More, um, fun. And they do things together. I don’t get invited.”

 

Oh, dear. The highly satisfying stance was taking a hit. Her face showed some extra lines—creases, furls. I needed to divert a freefall. I brought up American politics. My turn to suffer. We’re completely on the same team, but she argues as though I’m not. (Intense, I said.) The talk lasted another hour—all politics, no more mention of work. I saved her but not myself.

 

Speaking of myself, I attended a writers’ conference in Seattle in September. I have three novels I’m desperate to get published and I haven’t been able to stand out in what they call the slush pile which is the hundreds of emails agents get every month, if not week, from writers seeking representation, hoping to see one of their books at Barnes and Noble, a needle in a haystack of books by Stephen King, Colleen Hoover and that dang James Patterson who comes up with a new book as often at The New York Times publishes another issue of its newspaper. Jeez, James. Take a vacation. Maybe learn an instrument and join Stephen King’s band, a group of writers. Pick the hardest instrument, James. Spend two years on violin, then give up and take up the oboe. You’ll need to practice plenty to get up to snuff. 

 

Okay, tangent. Sorry.

The conference. I put big pressure on myself. Agents would be sitting through four-minute pitches from all of us slush pile foragers. I needed to stand out. I needed them to believe they could make money off me…a ten percent cut from hundreds of thousands of copies of my bestseller which would eventually become a hit streaming series. (How many seasons of The Handmaid’s Tale can they milk?) I needed agents to know I have a whole career ahead of me. Many, many more books. Much, much more money. Let other slush pile writers begin wishing I took up bagpipes to perform instrumental duets with James Patterson.

I theorized that one way to convey to agents I needed to be scooped up was to give them the impression that I was much younger than I am. Looong career. No arthritis, Metamucil or Matlock marathons in lieu of writing for decades to come.

It was clear that applying a Fresh Lotus Youth Preserve Rescue Mask and then slathering my face with glycolic acid, retinol serum, Hyaluronic Marine Hydration Booster and Wrinkle Expert 55+ Moisturizer during the week of the conference would make me poorer, not younger. (I’m feeling a tad defensive over the word choice of “Youth Preserve Rescue,” as if my face needs emergency intervention. But then, maybe it does. That product is shaming me!) My best shot from the list of 2023’s best anti-aging scams products was the Peter Thomas Roth Instant FIRMx Temporary Eye Tightener, but that got me worried. 

Temporary eye tightening?!

I might not be able to blink or, worse, sleep. Would an agent interrupt my pitch, shield their face with a raised arm and yell, “Stop staring at me!” A memorable pitch but no deal. Call it a hunch. 

I opted for a hair appointment. Melanie, my foul-mouthed but expert stylist, needed to work a miracle. A magic potion perhaps: foil, white goop and two and a half hours of hocus pocus. Poof! Blond highlights plus gray sideburns painted away. A decade younger (or a couple years?) without losing eye function. 

I pitched. Two out of three agents asked for more. Alas, one has followed up with a rejection and the other seems to have ghosted me. Maybe the requests were about politeness, a pity play for the old man with the bad dye job and eyes in dire need of tightening.

I’m not the only one praying a fresh coat of paint offers a new improved look. Another friend in his fifties is looking for a new job. He’s a star in his field, his talents obvious in just a five-minute chat about his profession. Still, the interviews have been fewer this time around and younger, less experienced people are filling the positions. Experience is an asset until it’s an extra financial cost. He’s lopped off the first decade from his résumé. He’s also gotten a younger cut from his stylist, colored his mustache and tried to go more pepper than salt with Just for Men’s Grey Reducing Shampoo. To my eyes, it’s working. Maybe he can monetize his transformation as a TikTok influencer. It’s apparently a viable career for young ’uns.

Just say no!

An acquaintance who owns a business in which attracting new clients is always a pressing concern is getting a facial procedure today. I’m not sure the specifics. She’s discreet about these things and assures me it has nothing to do with exploding lips. (Seriously, can we please have an intervention for every woman seeking puffy lips? It’s unnatural, unflattering and maybe a little bit scary. I’ve told my friends to do something similar when my highlights stop making me look Swedish and start messaging Old Man Being Scammed by Moneygrubbing Salon.)

Someone else my age is getting a whole set of dentures this week. Again, I don’t know the specifics, but just the mention gets me fretting about my smile. 

Aging teeth can pull focus from all that other age-reducing work. I whitened mine for the first time the day before my writers’ conference. (No difference.) 

I’ve had great teeth my whole life but, after I hit fifty, pesky—and, for me, traumatic—work became the norm. I’ve fractured teeth on both sides of my mouth. When I despairingly asked my dentist what was going on, he gently talked to me about “wear and tear.” I’m basically an old set of tires, treads worn down, ready to be chucked in a junkyard or converted to an earthship in New Mexico. 

I remind myself there are plenty of old tires still rolling along. Misery loves that. Still, all I want to do is kick and scream…burn some rubber. I haven’t tantrummed since I was seven. It’s my easiest shot at appearing younger, but that’s not the look I’m going for. 

Guess I’ll have to hit the drugstore and splurge on a face mask. Perhaps not the Youth Preserve Rescue one. Maybe there’s a Batman one in the back I can get at a discount. We older shoppers are known to be savvier.