Age Is the Rage 7-29-12

One day last week, we got a voice mail at work, “Do you have a place where I can pump breast milk?”  (I am not making this up.)  After telling my boss that she really did not want an answer from me who had not had any coffee, I gave my considered opinion.  That essentially was, ‘Wherever you feel comfortable flipping one out, go for it.’  

Of course, I got to call the woman back and I let her know where we have comfy couches and that the children’s room’s bathroom has a changing table. (I suggested she might consider putting a receiving blanket over herself.)  So then came the real question: Don’t you have meeting rooms that I could use?

Which got me to thinking that our online calendar could become pretty wild if we did allow that type of individual use.  Monday: Pumping Breast Milk Group (must bring own pumps).  Tuesday: Sexual Surrogate Therapy Session (not open to the public).  Wednesday: The proper way to inhale. Electronic cigarettes only.  Thursday: Attorney Trying to Discover How He Feels About Ethics.  Friday: Party, Party, Party!

It’s always amazing to me how people act over the use of these rooms. There are two rooms, one holds about 20 people (squished) and the other (which is being renovated) holds 100 people.  We have some small fees if the person is having a recital or a party or they are charging money.  The recital (free use of a baby grand piano) is $50 for a whole day if you wish, plus two free rehearsals.  What used to get my goat was the wealthy woman a few years ago – when the fee was $20 – who had a daughter with two piano teachers.  She felt that even though there would be two separate recitals, she should only pay one fee.  Don’t ask me why. But every year she would try to get out of the second $20 fee.  Mercifully, her kid graduated and we don’t have to deal with her any more.

My all time favorite is when someone is trying to book a room for a group that charges a fee or is doing fundraising.  When I tell them there is a fee (sometimes as little as $20 for the smaller room), they hiss at me, “We’re a non-profit!”  That’s when I smile sweetly and tell them so are we.  

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I went to see the Marigold Hotel last night.  I know there’s more to the name of the movie, but I can’t remember it.  I’m old.  And that’s the whole point of the movie.  I guess “aging” is the new thing.  We recently had the Ko Festial here and the whole theme was aging and the process.  (My coworker, Ralph, won a prize for best story in a story telling workshop.  His story talked about his becoming of age, when he first got heartburn at age 16 after eating gefiltefish for breakfast. He knew he was a man like his father then.)

Now that all of us Babyboomers are aging out, I guess we’ll see more of this treacle.  Don’t get me wrong, I loved the movie. However, some of the endings (which I won’t reveal in case you haven’t seen it) are a bit far-fetched.  The movie is basically about a bunch of English senior citizens who just can’t make it financially in jolly old England and they decide to go to the Marigold Hotel in India which is to be a spa for the old folks. 

I can see myself going to India – with a tour group with an air conditioned bus, air conditioned hotel, and lots of antacids in my suitcase for a week.  But I can’t see myself going to LIVE there!  I thought about retiring to Honduras for about 30 seconds when I was there.  After all, for about $350 a month, I could live well and have a maid!  Then I remembered the policia with machine guns at the exit of the airport and how it’s a game of chicken at high speed with trucks and buses on the windy mountain roads.  And I realized that there I would be wealthy compared to most and the best bet for thieves.  So, no thank you, I’ll stay in the good ole’ USA.  (The Christian hospital would be close by, but most of their equipment is as old as I am.)

But coping with this aging thing is beginning to be a pain.  Mentally, I’m stuck in my undergraduate years.  Physically, I should be dead.  Well, o.k., that’s a bit of hyperbole.  And maybe I’m just emotionally stunted.  But I do still like rock music and Janis Joplin and James Taylor.  I like really witty repartee on the radio (think: NPR).  And I still like to dress a bit outrageously.  (The other day, when I wore my red spangled blouse to work, someone said I looked like Christmas. That may have been the day I had a gold lame rose in my hair. I didn’t look up and said, “I’m channeling Palm Springs.”  It was true.)  I still have a sense of wonder at something new, I love learning, and I want to keep experiencing new things as long as my body will let me.  

Every time someone sends me one of those ‘You Know You’re Old When ….’ I pretty much ignore them. After all, I’m not old – I’m piling up wisdom.  Yup, that’s the ticket: Wisdom.  I think that’s why we laughed at Lucy so much.  We all thought she was old enough to know better – she lacked wisdom.  It’s a concept that we do not revere in this country as they do in other countries.  But it is true that most of us, as we age, gather wisdom as part of our personalities.

Let me share some of my wisdom:

·        If you wake up at 3 in the morning and can’t go back to sleep – chuck it! Go play a computer game.  Coffee will keep you awake at work.

·        Only do housework when you have to. If you haven’t had to do it for more than two months, invite someone to dinner to give you a reason to clean.

·        Be sure to fertilize your weeds well. When they are as tall as you, they have become decorative landscaping.  Name their flowers something exotic and soon your neighbors will want transplants.

·        Don’t empty your mailbox every evening.  That way you’ll get more exercise in the morning because you can’t remember when you last emptied it.

That’s it. I’m tapped out of wisdom.  Guess I have to age some more.

 

(Oh, by the way. I think my hearing’s going with age.  I sit at the computer here with the TV on in the living room. When I thought I heard “This Old House” talk about asshole driveway, I knew something was up.  They said, “asphalt driveway.”  Phew.)