Interlude - Between Middle Age and the Golden Years

Health used to be a simpler affair, and sometimes I miss the days when I actually had a life, before staying fit became my full-time vocation. Decades of research on the effects of nutrition, exercise, stress-management and quality of sleep have proven irrefutably that A) we can add years to our lives by making the right lifestyle choices; and B) living said healthy lifestyle will, over time, use up just about all the extra years we acquire.

True story, folks. The National Center for Health Statistics reports that the average lifespan in 1940 was roughly 62 years. Now, it’s jumped to almost 80. Thanks to our greater body of knowledge and the miracles wrought by modern medicine, the average American can expect to enjoy almost 20 additional years of cardio workouts, brain aerobics and fighting temptation when that Big Mac starts calling your name.

I believe these advances are largely due to television, which we all

know is the official guide for new doctors as they choose their approach to medicine. Way back in 1960, Dr. Kildare was told by his mentor that “Our job is to keep people alive, not to tell them how to live.” That tracks with my recollection of healthcare in my youth. Doctors mostly treated our symptoms back then and left a trail of happy consumers in their wake. Too much stress? Easy fix! Valium, popularly known as “mother’s little helper”, became the miracle drug of the day. It was the top-selling pharmaceutical from the late 1960s into the early 1980s, probably a direct result of the post-WWII baby boom, and a medical necessity as parents slowly went crazy while raising the largest and most rebellious generation in history.

No one was too young for the quick fix, either. When my mother stumbled into the doctor’s office, infant Me in her arms and her weary self on the verge of collapse, the kindly medico immediately diagnosed the problem. “You’re not getting enough sleep,” he told my mother. She explained that I still hadn’t learned to sleep through the night. He pulled out his handy-dandy prescription pad, gave her a fatherly pat on the back, and sent us home, confident that all would be well in suburbia that night. Sure enough, my mom got her first solid night’s sleep in six months once the narcotics got in my system. I’m told my sleep disorder disappeared from that day forward.

Healthcare has evolved in the intervening years, and contrary to the advice young Dr. Kildare was given, medical professionals can’t get away with simply keep us alive. No, today we expect doctors to keep us able-bodied, cognitively strong and emotionally thriving. They are our educators, counselors, advisors, nutritionists and lifestyle consultants in addition to being healers. No wonder the cost of healthcare has skyrocketed - we’re consulting half a dozen professionals at every office visit.

I was fortunate when my hypertension was discovered in its early stages last year, because I learned that the perennial nature-versus-nurture debate had finally been decided. Apparently, the genetic predispositions we inherit from our parents for conditions like heart disease, high blood pressure, and even some cancers, can be overcome with the right lifestyle. Hoo, boy! All I have to do is mute my addictive personality, give up the primary food groups (salty, greasy, starchy and chocolate), develop a sudden love for being sweaty and exhausted (remember, no pain, no gain!), and find a drug-free cure for the insomnia that returned as soon as my mother took me off the sleep meds almost 50 years ago, and I could conceivably live long enough to meet my great-great-grandchildren. Small price to pay for giving up french fries and doughnuts, right?

So much for the days of the easy fix.

But a long and healthy life is it’s own reward. Besides, the health craze is nothing new to me. Thanks to my addictive, obsessive tendencies, I actually lived a pretty healthy life at one point. As my doctor proceeded to list the changes I should make, I decided to make his life easier. “I used to be a body builder,” I told him. “I know what to do.”

“Then why aren’t you doing it?” he asked, genuinely curious.

“Well, duh,” I almost said. “I got old and tired, that’s why. Being healthy takes an awful lot of work.” Head hung in shame, because after all, I should have known better, I headed home to start the latest chapter in my life.

It’s never too late to get fit, according to every organization that exists for the sole purpose of helping us age well, live longer, and provide an economic boost to the fitness industry. If you’re in the same place, realizing the road behind you is suddenly longer than the probable years ahead and wanting to extend the journey, that’s your first step - set up a trust to pay for your improved well-being. You’ll have to invest in a health club membership at the least, or perhaps build an addition on your house for the treadmill, the weight machines, and the personal trainer who will come to torture you beyond human limitations, three times per week.

Evolving into the new, robust senior you were meant to be will also require a substantial time investment. Be sure to pencil in sessions of strength training to stave off osteoporosis, cardio exercise for stamina (not to mention the burst of endorphins), yoga for flexibility, tai chi for stress reduction, meditation for improved sleep and peace of mind, and tae bo, just because it looks really cool.

You’ll also need to invest time in actually preparing meals, not just dialing your local take-out place, and in addressing your mental and spiritual health, and maintaining strong social ties, all part of a healthy lifestyle. Admittedly, all these obligations may cause a bit of stress in your life, what with the days still having only 24 hours in them, so don’t forget to have fun! Participating in activities you enjoy is a great distraction from the sugar cravings, pulled muscles and possible financial collapse that are a normal part of your new lifestyle.

Way back in my 20s, when stress was a way of life, cholesterol was not part of my vocabulary, and I still thought I’d live forever, I heard a maxim that often comes to mind as I wait for my order at the fast-food pick-up window. It goes something like this. At 20, we have the health we were born with. At 40, we have the health we have worked for. At 60, we have the health we deserve. I don’t know about you, but I think it’s time to see the error of my ways, admit that I’m powerless over the dietary evils of this world, and seek redemption at all costs.

With all the knowledge at our disposal, the choice is simple, and you can bet your bottom dollar I’ll be redoubling my efforts toward a healthier lifestyle. Just as soon as I finish this doughnut...

It is well-researched by the best scientific thinkers in our country, some of them men themselves, that differences between male and female physiology are responsible for making us think and behave like two separate species. That pesky Y chromosome is the culprit, I think. Where the female’s pair of Xs tell her to nurture, the Y is a wildcard. It tells our guys to get out there, hunt some prey, be fruitful and multiply, and conquer the world.

The very fact that men are so different from us is part of their appeal when we’re young. Their randy, ready-to-rule-the-world energy emanates from them, a heady, seductive power that draws us in like iron shavings to a magnet. Little do they realize, however, we are ruled by a power of our own, one that compels us to nurture our little corner of the universe and put up a white picket fence around it.

Women love those white picket fences. Explorers and conquerors, not so much.

By the time rings are exchanged, a few buns have popped out of the oven, and we’ve sold our souls to corporate America and the mortgage companies, we’ve all come to realize that 1) we have exactly what we thought we wanted, and 2) we have managed to get it in partnership with someone who apparently hails from another planet.

The conquering hero looks at the angelic faces of the children, the loving wife, the pretty home with flowers bordering those damned pickets fences, and thinks, “I sure am a lucky fella...but it’s going to be tough to pack all this up when I jump on my steed and ride off to conquer the world.” Ever resourceful, though, our guys quickly tame that Y chromosome and channel the energy into conquering things closer to home. Like the business world. Or the golf course. Or the TV remote. It’s a stunning example of survival of the fittest.

We women, on the other hand, have done what nature programmed us to do, which is basically to nurture perfect little versions of our own genes to keep the world going. Those Mini-Me’s grow up and need us less and less, but the X chromosome doesn’t give us credit for a job well done. No, it compels us to keep nurturing perfection for the good of the species. So once the kids have flown the coop, there’s only one victim left on whom we can channel all that nurturing energy - on our golf course loving, remote controlling senior men.

Jeff, my own senior guy in training, came into my life when we were both a little past our prime. We didn’t have the benefit of a couple decades together during which he could get used to the sight of me without make-up first thing in the morning and I could get used to his ever-growing need to fart.

Don’t get me wrong. Jeff is a terrific guy, just like your own senior man. But let’s be honest, ladies. In spite of their many wonderful qualities, one has to wonder what the heck Mother Nature was thinking when she put them together the way she did. Their one major flaw, which explains all the others, is the simple fact that they don’t think like us women.

Take that “go out and conquer” mandate, for example. Sure, it came in handy back in the dark ages when food didn’t come in convenient Styrofoam packages. But in today’s modern world, the need to conquer gets twisted into odd behaviors that drive women nuts.

Jeff channels the quest to conquer into his hobbies. Fortunately, we share many passions. But even in shared endeavors, the lack of accord between the sexes often drives us to differences of opinion that lead to days of not speaking to each other and one of us sleeping in the garage.

Men are linear thinkers. They see outcomes. This laser focus has led the human race to accomplish feats that were once thought possible only in the realms of the gods. The older they get, the more focused they become, oblivious to everything except the task at hand. Jeff was already in the throws of this evolution when Susie, my late-life child, first met him.

She ran to me in tears one day. “He scared me,” she said of Jeff, hard at work during a Senior News deadline. Sure enough, his intensity was awesome to behold. Even I thought he was pretty scary.

“He’s not scary,” I lied to console Susie. “He’s just ‘in the zone’.” And that was her introduction to the chasm between the sexes. Now, with typical almost-teen self-confidence, she simply rolls her eyes when confronting Jeff’s single-minded concentration and all the ferocity that accompanies the task of conquering. “He’s in the zone again,” she warns me off-handedly, not the least bit phased by the grunts and growls coming from his work space.

Women, on the other hand, see the big picture. The goal is only the centerpiece of a very broad tapestry. We paint mental pictures of all the possible repercussions. We make lists and draw flowcharts and think about how our approach might make other people feel. Then we want to talk it to death.

Meanwhile, Jeff is chomping at the bit. “We’re wasting time,” he growls. “Let’s just do it.” So then I consider how our previous attempts to “just do it” often resulted in unexpected glitches, more money spent on parts during the half dozen unplanned trips to the hardware store than a third-world nation spends on food in a given year, and the previously mentioned nights in the garage.

“Maybe we should talk about it some more,” I kindly suggest. Which results in his blood pressure spiking and his eyeballs bulging a little from their sockets, which results in my fight-or-flight response kicking in, which sometimes hastens the path to a cold and lonely bed come evening.

Talk, apparently, is a dirty word in the senior man’s vocabulary. Women have a physiologically programmed need to interact verbally, while men are more like Nike - just do it. They will go to any lengths to avoid discussion. Don’t let your senior man fool you. Selective listening is much more rampant in this country than loss of hearing, contrary to what they would have us believe. In fairness, I’m not quite sure if their selective hearing is a weapon they use against us, or a finely honed survival mechanism that allows them to keep loving us in spite of our female genes.

To men, talking is just a vehicle between here and getting things done. It serves a purpose, nothing more. For women, talking is the primary path to the kind of storybook, happily ever after ending we were brainwashed to spend the rest of our lives seeking. Talking is the artery that keeps the emotional energy flowing.

Picture this. It’s a perfect summer Sunday afternoon. We’ve had a busy week full of conquering (Jeff) and nurturing (me), and we decide it would be nice to spend a little time together during the quiet lull. For the unaware, let me translate. To women, being together means talking about being together. To guys, being together means...being together. Can you see where this is going?

We settle into our chairs on the shaded patio, surrounded by our gardens, the bees buzzing and the birds chirping and a gentle breeze caressing our skin. Life is good.

“Some week, huh?” I begin, happy for a chance to close the gap and reconnect.

“Yep,” he says, gazing placidly at the scenery.

“I think this was the busiest week we’ve had in months,” I prompt, angling my chair so I’m facing him. I gaze into his eyes, which continue to scan the landscape. I’m longing for connection. He’s being with me.

“Yep, pretty busy” he says. Patiently, I wait for more. It is not forthcoming. The gap between us is starting to seem like the Grand Canyon.

“Can you talk to me, please?” I plead. Panic is setting in due to the fact that the intimacy artery seems to be clogged and an emotional heart attack is in progress.

“What do you want to talk about?” he asks innocently.

“US!” I respond, feeling like I’m fighting to save my life. “Our relationship! Our thoughts! Our feelings! Why don’t you want to be with me?” He looks at me as if I’d suddenly grown two heads. I look at him as if his evil twin has replaced my otherwise wonderful partner.

“I am with you...I think,” he says, looking confused. Which leads to me storming into the house, feelings hurt, love tank on empty, wondering why women haven’t learned to live without ‘em since it’s patently clear that there is no possible way to live with ‘em. Which further leaves poor Jeff to wonder why he made a lifetime commitment to a person with A) infinite anger management issues, or B) a very important screw loose. Which often leads to even less talking, this time initiated on my part. But I’m a woman; it never lasts very long.

We are getting better, the older we get. While we may never be on quite the same wavelength, in all the ways that matter, we’re learning to appreciate the strength our differences bring to our lives more than we bristle over the conflicts they create, to focus on the positive, to step past anger (and out of the garage) and meet somewhere in the middle. Maybe that’s part of the joy of growing old together. Once you realize the farts and the scary morning face aren’t that important, you’ve always got someone you can count on. Vive la difference.