TIME, SHELF LIFE, AND OTHER EVIL MONSTERS
Time is a funny thing. It means something different to everyone. Some of us spend it while others kill it. Some of us try to save it, while those of us who are coming to grips about our own mortality are trying not to waste it.
Sitting in the waiting room of my doctor’s office recently (which seems to be a frequent event these days), I noticed an elderly couple sitting across from me. They were holding hands and he was playfully swinging hers back and forth. They looked like they were both in their eighties and it was obvious that they had been quite the handsome duo in their earlier years.
“It’s so great that you are still holding hands,” I said.
“It keeps her from slapping me,” the man replied as he grinned at me, his sense of humor still very much alive.
“Wow!” I said. “Can I sit next to you guys? Maybe some of that luck will rub off on me.”
Was it really luck, fate, hard work, commitment, or just Cupid with a good aim? They looked quite devoted and it appeared that time had treated them both well. I started asking myself, how is it that some people find the love of their life and others of us don’t? And how do we know when we are spending time with someone or wasting it?
Shortly after crossing the forty yard line of my life, I found myself needing a swift kick and some professional assistance to end a relationship that was going nowhere. I often asked myself where that somewhere was located where relationships were supposed to lead and how do we know when we arrived?
I had spent two carefree years laughing and dancing with a handsome, sexy, ten-years-younger, but emotionally ambivalent Peruvian Ph.D. It was on again, off again. He didn’t want kids one day and the next day he did. He loved me, he loved me not.
Dr. A (let’s call him), and my counselor of choice, peered up at me over his glasses and asked, “How old are you?”
“I’m forty (something),” I mumbled.
“What do you want?” he queried.
“I want a serious, long-term relationship,” I replied.
As he held up his thumb and index finger to his forehead in the shape of an “L” in reference to my partner (or me) he asked, “How much time do you really have to waste?”
Call it. I looked at my watch. Time of death: 9:30AM. In Dr. A’s office, my relationship was over. Those were the words I needed and although I had read countless magazine articles about how a woman over forty had a better chance at being hit by a bus than being asked for her hand or anything else, I held my ground and gave my salsa-boyfriend the boot. Thanks to Dr. A, my time had just become more valuable.
Now in my fifties, after many meetings and partings behind me, I sometimes ask myself if I made a mistake by passing up certain relationships with nice men and even refusing offers of marriage. I think I was passed over (or passed out) when the homing gene was being distributed because I never felt the urgency to formally and legally coupulate (my word) that some women did. I wanted a relationship, but I wasn’t in much of a hurry to get married back then or pop out a mini-me.
I did seem to get a double dose of the female analysis gene though and as the years went by, I wondered. What if it’s me? Will there be a next one if I let this one go? What if I’m wrong? And will that bus hit me before I find true love? And shouldn't I be going somewhere?
I seemed to be the victim of the ruse of time, that silent enemy who lurks behind the last page on the calendar and pops up like an evil Jack-in-the-Box, smiling sardonically as another year slides past. Gotcha (again)!
Just for grins, I looked up expiration date at Wikipedia online: Could refer to shelf life of a grocery item; See distressed inventory. It could also refer to humans. (Do we have an invisible date stamp too?)
Dr. Phil has it down to the number of days we have left. Thanks, Phil. This distresses me. My biological clock has stopped ticking, but now I hear the distant chime of a grandfather (or grandmother) clock. Or maybe it’s more like that incessant beeping on “24” reminding me that time is running out.
How do we stay inspired if we are expiring? How do we keep our sense of emotional and physical health along with our sense of humor? And if we are single at this age, how do we find love in time and get to that somewhere we are supposed to be going in our relationships? I suddenly had a horrible vision of a sixty-something woman with her skirt hiked up her thigh, thumbing a passing bus for a ride.
Those of us who are baby boomers and are unwilling to crawl back into the cradle and pull the covers over our heads, need to figure out how to live and date in this gray area. It doesn’t matter if we are starting over and new to the scene, single by force or divorce and daily belting out a tear-filled version of “All by Myself” in the shower, or a well-practiced single by choice and like it that way, things are more challenging now.
I don’t believe that we were meant to live life alone. We are physical beings created with parts that fit beautifully together yet somehow we don’t seem to be plug-and-play. Some of those parts don’t look so good or work so well anymore. Hair falls out where it should be and grows where it shouldn’t (this applies to both sexes). Men worry about balding and performance, and women are obsessed with menopause, wrinkles, and sagging, but I happen to think that expiring might be more fun if it’s shared.
Sometimes I get up in the middle of the night and sneak up on my refrigerator. I open the door real fast just to make sure that that the dates on my food aren’t expiring while I’m sleeping. Then I sneak a peek in my bathroom mirror on my way back to bed to make sure that I'm not.
That Little Voice: I guess you can panic, become desperate, and let your date stamp (or “L” sign) flash in neon lights. Or you can relax, enjoy, and have a sense of humor and a large dose of acceptance in the process of living (and learning) and dating at this age. A little reassurance that you are still beautiful will go a long way. A compliment lasts a lot longer than a vial of Botox (plus it’s cheaper, smiling is nice, it helps to move your mouth when you talk, and you should avoid sucking your meals through a straw as long as you can). And whether a man is packing a pocket of blue pills or just happy to see you, I think you still might be in for a good time. Oh, and throw away anything that really starts to stink.
Sitting in the waiting room of my doctor’s office recently (which seems to be a frequent event these days), I noticed an elderly couple sitting across from me. They were holding hands and he was playfully swinging hers back and forth. They looked like they were both in their eighties and it was obvious that they had been quite the handsome duo in their earlier years.
“It’s so great that you are still holding hands,” I said.
“It keeps her from slapping me,” the man replied as he grinned at me, his sense of humor still very much alive.
“Wow!” I said. “Can I sit next to you guys? Maybe some of that luck will rub off on me.”
Was it really luck, fate, hard work, commitment, or just Cupid with a good aim? They looked quite devoted and it appeared that time had treated them both well. I started asking myself, how is it that some people find the love of their life and others of us don’t? And how do we know when we are spending time with someone or wasting it?
Shortly after crossing the forty yard line of my life, I found myself needing a swift kick and some professional assistance to end a relationship that was going nowhere. I often asked myself where that somewhere was located where relationships were supposed to lead and how do we know when we arrived?
I had spent two carefree years laughing and dancing with a handsome, sexy, ten-years-younger, but emotionally ambivalent Peruvian Ph.D. It was on again, off again. He didn’t want kids one day and the next day he did. He loved me, he loved me not.
Dr. A (let’s call him), and my counselor of choice, peered up at me over his glasses and asked, “How old are you?”
“I’m forty (something),” I mumbled.
“What do you want?” he queried.
“I want a serious, long-term relationship,” I replied.
As he held up his thumb and index finger to his forehead in the shape of an “L” in reference to my partner (or me) he asked, “How much time do you really have to waste?”
Call it. I looked at my watch. Time of death: 9:30AM. In Dr. A’s office, my relationship was over. Those were the words I needed and although I had read countless magazine articles about how a woman over forty had a better chance at being hit by a bus than being asked for her hand or anything else, I held my ground and gave my salsa-boyfriend the boot. Thanks to Dr. A, my time had just become more valuable.
Now in my fifties, after many meetings and partings behind me, I sometimes ask myself if I made a mistake by passing up certain relationships with nice men and even refusing offers of marriage. I think I was passed over (or passed out) when the homing gene was being distributed because I never felt the urgency to formally and legally coupulate (my word) that some women did. I wanted a relationship, but I wasn’t in much of a hurry to get married back then or pop out a mini-me.
I did seem to get a double dose of the female analysis gene though and as the years went by, I wondered. What if it’s me? Will there be a next one if I let this one go? What if I’m wrong? And will that bus hit me before I find true love? And shouldn't I be going somewhere?
I seemed to be the victim of the ruse of time, that silent enemy who lurks behind the last page on the calendar and pops up like an evil Jack-in-the-Box, smiling sardonically as another year slides past. Gotcha (again)!
Just for grins, I looked up expiration date at Wikipedia online: Could refer to shelf life of a grocery item; See distressed inventory. It could also refer to humans. (Do we have an invisible date stamp too?)
Dr. Phil has it down to the number of days we have left. Thanks, Phil. This distresses me. My biological clock has stopped ticking, but now I hear the distant chime of a grandfather (or grandmother) clock. Or maybe it’s more like that incessant beeping on “24” reminding me that time is running out.
How do we stay inspired if we are expiring? How do we keep our sense of emotional and physical health along with our sense of humor? And if we are single at this age, how do we find love in time and get to that somewhere we are supposed to be going in our relationships? I suddenly had a horrible vision of a sixty-something woman with her skirt hiked up her thigh, thumbing a passing bus for a ride.
Those of us who are baby boomers and are unwilling to crawl back into the cradle and pull the covers over our heads, need to figure out how to live and date in this gray area. It doesn’t matter if we are starting over and new to the scene, single by force or divorce and daily belting out a tear-filled version of “All by Myself” in the shower, or a well-practiced single by choice and like it that way, things are more challenging now.
I don’t believe that we were meant to live life alone. We are physical beings created with parts that fit beautifully together yet somehow we don’t seem to be plug-and-play. Some of those parts don’t look so good or work so well anymore. Hair falls out where it should be and grows where it shouldn’t (this applies to both sexes). Men worry about balding and performance, and women are obsessed with menopause, wrinkles, and sagging, but I happen to think that expiring might be more fun if it’s shared.
Sometimes I get up in the middle of the night and sneak up on my refrigerator. I open the door real fast just to make sure that that the dates on my food aren’t expiring while I’m sleeping. Then I sneak a peek in my bathroom mirror on my way back to bed to make sure that I'm not.
That Little Voice: I guess you can panic, become desperate, and let your date stamp (or “L” sign) flash in neon lights. Or you can relax, enjoy, and have a sense of humor and a large dose of acceptance in the process of living (and learning) and dating at this age. A little reassurance that you are still beautiful will go a long way. A compliment lasts a lot longer than a vial of Botox (plus it’s cheaper, smiling is nice, it helps to move your mouth when you talk, and you should avoid sucking your meals through a straw as long as you can). And whether a man is packing a pocket of blue pills or just happy to see you, I think you still might be in for a good time. Oh, and throw away anything that really starts to stink.
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