Fiber, Fountains, and Fortysomethings

I’m not quite sure when it happened, but at some point along the way, I became the kind of person who carries Tums in her purse, keeps nourishing moisture hand cream on her work desk, and Metamucil Fiber On The Go packets scattered everywhere in between. I became (cue suspenseful music)…old.

Old age has crept in quietly, yet all the signs are there. In abundance. Have I just not noticed until now? It just can’t be ignored anymore. I mean, I just broke a molar while eating a soft peppermint. Soft! At this point, my dentist has added a new wing to his practice, hired another dentist, and added a second bathroom to the building. I’m pretty sure my fragile, aging, delicate dentition funded this. My teeth seem to be decorative, not functional, since they break if I challenge them in the slightest. Am I destined for a mechanical soft, or even more frightening, puréed diet?

And that molar-breaking soft peppermint? Well, eating that likely sent my daily caloric intake to 50 so I’ll gain 16 pounds by tomorrow. Since when does my body only need 28 calories per day to function?

Standing up after a 30 minute therapy session at work requires grabbing the arms of my chair for stability, as I silently say a prayer to the Gods of Joint Health that things won’t snap or crack as I make my way out the door, herding my group of middle school aged children back to class. “Slow down!” I call out to them in vain, their backs to me as they glide effortlessly down the hallways. “We’re not even going fast!” And they disappear around a corner. Show offs. My watch alerts me that my heart rate is rising, and asks if I’m exercising. No, I’m not exercising. No, I do not want to start an Indoor Walk Workout. I huff and go back to my room.

Once upon a time, I was young, spry, and athletic. I could kick a soccer ball without my ankle breaking, run laps without feeling the need for an oxygen mask, and zip up and down steps with ease. I could sleep on the ground camping, or in someone’s living room on the floor, or in the back of a truck, and still be able to walk the next day without lower back spasms.

Ping. Messenger. “Good morning! Did you have your old fashioned oats yet for breakfast??”

Ugh. Jamie. My “Fiber Friend.” Did you know there’s a Facebook group supporting everything in life? Even a Fiber Support Group to match you with a Fiber Friend to keep you Fiber Accountable. Sorry, Jamie, it’s been two days since I’ve last included fiber in my diet.

But I lie.

“Yassss, girl! You know it! We gonna slay that fat away!” I hit send and roll my eyes. It’s exhausting being health conscious. Now I know why ancient explorers sought the Fountain of Youth. Can I just roll out of bed one of these days without bags under my eyes, pain in my hips, and knees that fight me every step of the way?

Speaking of steps, did I reach 10,000 yet? Do I need to walk in place as I drink more water? I don’t think I’ve had nearly 10 full glasses yet.

An ad pops up on my phone as I’m scrolling socials for Skechers Slip-on sneakers. Yes. Fine! I’ve been Googling them! After I nearly pulled a hammie wrestling on my cool Nike’s the other day, I thought there must be an easier way. No, I didn’t order them. Yet.

I take out my lunch to eat at my desk. A sandwich bag without a sandwich. Because bread is too carby, jelly is too sugary, and peanut butter is too fatty. So instead, I break open the ziploc seal to my bag of lettuce. Mmm. Lettuce. Romaine. It tastes of unhappiness and longing. Longing for flavor, for substance. It was probably watered with the tears of a thousand dieting women.

The modern search for the Fountain of Youth is a scavenger hunt of items that social media insists will make you look younger, slimmer, and sexier. I wonder if there’s an Old Age Bingo Card where you can dab the items you currently have in your age defying arsenal? Free space, melatonin, fiber, protein shakes, chia seeds, and more? Until I got old, I thought chia seeds were solely used to grow “hair” on a terracotta head. Oh, how times have changed. But, if hope can spring eternal, why can’t youth? In the form of a shimmering marble fountain with collagen-infused elixir that can negate all the effects of time?

Actually, maybe it isn’t the Fountain of Youth I need. Maybe it’s the Fountain of Estrogen. Who knew that my body would turn against me and want to shut down completely when my child-bearing egg-producing days dwindle? Hot flashes like Hell fires melt my flesh and seem like punishment for not being pregnant. Insomnia and restless nights from hormone and cortisol surges make sleep near impossible. But who needs sleep when my mood is so regulated throughout the day, right? No emotional swings or waves of unfounded anger to worry about here. The Fountain of Estrogen seems more and more desirable.

Or maybe even better, the Fountain of Testosterone, since men don’t have these problems. A golden chalice, dipped into the Fountain of Testosterone, will automatically turn a perimenopausal body into one that can sleep through every night, have energy for every day, and emotional stability! Legend has it, many men can even eat what they want, accompanied by a non-water beverage, and not tip the scales the next day. And I’m talking eat whatever they want plus dessert. Happiness in a heaping helping of far from healthy hot fudge topped ice cream. Don’t mind me, I’m just pulling a wadded tissue from my cardigan sleeve to wipe the drool sneaking from my mouth.

Oh, great. I have a new message from my health care provider. What now, doc? What now? I open the message and see that Doc Roberts has suggested medication to control my rising cholesterol levels. He understands that I’m fighting an uphill LDL battle, given the familial history of Hypercholesterolemia. I sigh. Fine. Give me all the meds. Is there an Old Age welcome basket with a pill sorter and health condition bracelet? I’ll have to look into that.

And in the meantime, I’ll drink my water, eat my fiber (ok, Jamie??), exercise regularly, and medicate as needed. On the bright side, I made it this far. And I’ll never be younger than I am today. In 30 years, I’ll likely look back on the me of today with envy. So I’ll take my Sudden Onset Old Age in stride, because it could definitely be worse. Maybe I will make a Facebook Support Group for others like me: “The Sudden Onset Old Agers.” We can share the old age lingo, like explaining that when we hear “cheaters”, it refers not to extramarital affairs, but to glasses that make words bigger. Like your prescription label, so you don’t take 8 instead of 3 pills.

I already lean on the support of friends when I can’t remember things. Like that guy in grad school who got a job two towns over and was at the same continuing education seminar as me. A quick picture on the sly as he grabbed a complementary danish, send to friend with the question of where I know him from, and mystery solved. “That’s John, he was our year, then transferred, but still lived on campus. Ashley dated him, they broke up, now he is on his third wife with two kids. We were at the same kid birthday party a month ago.” Collective memory at my age is crucial. It’s like we have a shared Google doc of memories, but I can’t always access them, so friends do. Time to make that Facebook Group, before I need to drink more water. Now, where did I put that fiber packet?