I figured a good idea for a blog about aging would be to ask fellow seniors who they thought was sexy. So I sent out an email to about fifty friends who I thought were over sixty. I eagerly awaited the answers. Nothing. Nada. Surely they couldn't all be ignoring me. Surely I couldn't be getting creepy in my old age. Then I discovered that I had only sent it to five people.
I'm enjoying a vertical life in a town where horizontal is an honorific; I now live in a high-rise alongside the Frank Lloyd Wright Historic District. There's a lot to see looking east from the 11th floor, principally the tops of three gorgeous churches: Calvary, Grace Episcopal and the United Church of Christ. I'm thrilled by their chimes, especially on Easter Morning, and disheartened by the architecture of the mostly flat-roofed rectangles surrounding them.
I hate to turn on the news in the morning, especially Monday, and hear how many people have been shot in Chicago. It’s horrible and it’s senseless. Father Michael Pfleger calls it genocide. It looks like that to me.
Now seniors and everybody else will have a choice to see such films. The Lake Theatre has announced a First Tuesday Film Club. The first film Albert Nobbs, is scheduled twice on Tuesday, April 3 at 1 pm and 7 pm. It stars Glenn Close, who was nominated for an Academy Award for her role. She plays a man so she can get a job at an upscale Irish hotel. The plot thickens when she falls in love with a man.
I’m going to get a manicure today. I wonder if I’ll tear it to shreds trying to open something when I get home. Maybe it will be something as simple as a tear-back can of soup. I can never do it in one fell swoop. I always have to find something to pry up the round thing on top and then pull as hard as I can, and maybe get it open enough that the soup will fall out.
Losing your keys is always frustrating: it’s worse for an older person. It’s another humiliation, another chink in the carefully constructed armor of creating a life where you try to put everything in the same place when you come home, write post-it notes all over the house and choose easy-to-recall passwords only to be told you have to change them - add a capital or a number or some other memory-confounding combination.
I saw a play last weekend called Assisted Living. It got me to thinking. We spend so much on the so-called quality of life - or dying - for sick, older people. Be it live-in help, assisted living, supported living, nursing homes, hospice, whatever, it’s all there, and it costs plenty, no matter who’s paying.
Hang on kids, because the metaphors, similes, half-quotes and cries of desperation are going to fly. I am in an extended state of anxiety, and it's all because of Steve Jobs, who shall henceforth be referred to as Stevistopheles.