life

A Great Time to Get Old

The Postscript by by Carrie Classon
by Carrie Classon
The Postscript | May 2nd, 2022

"It's a great time to get old!" That's what my husband, Peter, says.

He's right. And getting old is -- as the saying goes -- better than the alternative. I was thinking this while waiting for my father to get a pacemaker.

My father had no idea he needed a pacemaker until two days before he got one. They had been monitoring his heart because he was suddenly so tired that he was getting winded going up a flight of stairs. My dad typically climbs a lot of stairs, so this was not a good development. The monitor revealed that his heart was beating much more slowly than it was supposed to.

"It's been a cold spring," I told him. "Maybe you're just going into hibernation."

The cardiologist did not seem to think this was the case. She told my dad that he should get a pacemaker.

"Not interested," my dad said.

My dad has avoided making major purchases since he turned 80 a few years back. He says he won't live long enough to get enough use out of them.

He has not replaced the come-along that is missing a few teeth. He claims it was entirely user error when the come-along failed to catch and he applied his full strength to it when he was pulling his Bobcat out of the woods. With no resistance on the winch, my dad flew over backward and broke a bone on his ankle.

"You need a new come-along," I told my dad.

"I'm not going to live long enough to buy a new come-along!" he told me. My sister got him one for Christmas.

So I was not surprised that his initial reaction to the pacemaker was that this was another extravagant acquisition he did not need. The cardiologist disagreed. She told my dad that it was no big deal. They could get him in the next day, and he would spend only a few hours in the hospital.

My dad relented. The procedure went without a hitch, and my dad's heart is now beating at a more chipper pace.

"It's a great time to get old!" I told my dad. My dad agreed.

I have noted that conversations with friends are now dominated by discussions of their latest ailments. It used to be -- before GPS and when my friends were younger -- when there was a lull in conversation, the favorite topic was: "The Best Way to Get There."

"You came up 35, huh? I always think it's a little faster to follow the river, and then when you get to ..." And so on.

I remember thinking this was the dullest subject ever -- comparing routes and trying to determine which one might shave 10 minutes off your driving time.

"You just wasted 15 minutes talking about it!" I wanted to scream.

Now there is little point in discussing navigation since we have relinquished those decisions to our phones. Instead, the most frequent discussions lately are entitled, "My Current Ailment."

"Yeah, I've had that, too. And lately, I've been getting pains in my ..." And so on.

Thankfully, I don't have a lot to talk about. And my dad is an excellent role model. He says, "Everyone is going to have something go wrong with them, eventually. It's just a question of what it will be."

When my dad left his meeting with the cardiologist, he asked what he should do differently before the procedure.

"Just try to act like an 80-year-old for a few days, would you?" she suggested.

I think she was kidding. My dad said he would try.

Till next time,

Carrie

Carrie Classon's memoir is called "Blue Yarn." Learn more at CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION FOR UFS

life

The Job I Want

The Postscript by by Carrie Classon
by Carrie Classon
The Postscript | April 25th, 2022

"Dress for the job you want!" was advice I heard from an early age.

I took this advice to heart. I was working a lowly job in a government office while applying for jobs in businesses around town. I had never worked in business, but I had a freshly minted business degree, so I bought some suits and, every day, I showed up for my job (answering the same boring questions on the telephone) dressed for the job I wanted rather than the one I had.

The day I got the call for an interview, I clearly remember I was wearing a lavender jacket with gray slacks and a striped blouse. It was not one of my dressier outfits, but it was still considerably dressier than what anyone else in the office was wearing -- other than my boss.

"I know this is short notice ... " the voice at the other end of my phone said, "but could you come in for an interview at 5:00?"

Since I got out of work a little past four, a change in wardrobe was out of the question. On my lunch break, I bought a little dragonfly pin and pinned it to the lapel of my lavender jacket. I arrived early to my interview with my dragonfly pin.

I got the job. I decided that dressing for the job you want was advice with some merit after all.

That was many years ago. My approach to dressing has remained more or less the same. Almost all the clothes I buy are used and, once I settle on an ensemble, I wear the same thing day in and day out.

When I went back to school for a degree in writing, the degree was paid for by teaching classes. Since I had never taught before, I figured I had better at least dress like a teacher. I chose a variety of full skirts and matching scarves.

I didn't notice their similarity until one of my students said, "We call you 'the green lady' because you wear green every day."

But green is a good color for new beginnings, and that was what I was doing. It turned out that I didn't need to worry about dressing like a teacher anyway. I was so much older than my peers in the program that everyone assumed I knew more than they did. I did not.

During the pandemic, I nailed my "writing costume," an ensemble that consisted of black stretch pants and the same shirt in a variety of colors. One day I'm in teal, the next in purple, but the shirt is exactly the same. I'm still wearing my writing costume. Today my shirt is black.

But I'm starting to wonder if a change might not be in order.

My husband, Peter, and I recently returned from Mexico, and spending an extended time in a different place has made me feel different. I returned to a closet full of clothes that I hardly recognize and have no desire to wear. The clothes in my closet look stodgy. The clothes in my closet seem to think I'm an older person than I am -- no matter what my driver's license might say.

I thought of my old mantra about dressing for the job I want. What would I wear if I were dressed for the life I wanted right now?

I honestly don't know. But I'm wearing 13 bracelets all in various shades of blue, a leftover from my time in Mexico. They are impractical and a little silly and they are making me very happy. Maybe that's a start.

Till next time,

Carrie

Carrie Classon's memoir is called "Blue Yarn." Learn more at CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION FOR UFS

life

A Very Bad Smell

The Postscript by by Carrie Classon
by Carrie Classon
The Postscript | April 18th, 2022

Of course, we should have known something was wrong.

The nice thing about living in our new condo is that we don't have the responsibilities of a stand-alone home. There is no yard to rake, no snow to shovel. There is someone at the front desk who will take in our mail and even water our plants. We were so pleased that we could leave for an extended trip to Mexico without these worries. But then, we got a notice from our electric company that indicated our electric bill was very low. In fact, it was almost nonexistent.

"Well, we're not using any electricity!" I said to my husband, Peter, as he read the notice.

"The refrigerator would still use some," Peter said.

"There must be something wrong with the meter." I try not to invite unnecessary worries. Sometimes this leads to problems. This time, it did.

We were gone a total of 10 weeks. We don't know exactly when the power went out to the refrigerator, but our best guess is that is happened shortly after we left.

We arrived home late at night. "Something smells funny," I told Peter.

"I don't smell anything."

I did. There was a very bad smell. That's when Peter opened the fridge.

"Oh, NO!"

A giant, noxious wave of smell rolled out of the refrigerator. It was strong enough to make me ill, strong enough to make my eyes water, strong enough to make me run out of the kitchen in a panic.

We had frozen salmon and chicken and shrimp in that freezer. We had bags of corn and squash from the farmers' market, boxes of butter now covered in furry mold, bags of leaking liquid that had exploded from fermentation and poured from the freezer into the refrigerator. Sitting forlornly in the middle of this wasteland were several dozen ginger cookies that Peter had spent hours baking.

Peter closed the refrigerator door.

I don't think either of us slept much that night. All night, I dreamed I was being chased by a malevolent refrigerator filled with unidentified horrors. Everywhere I went, the refrigerator was waiting for me.

In the morning, my dreams came true.

Peter told the building engineer, Jacob, what had happened, and he gave us a trash barrel on wheels and several heavy-duty trash bags. I put cotton up my nose and a mask over my face, donned gloves, and set to work. We filled the bags, tied them tightly, and Peter brought them downstairs to poor Jacob, who caught a whiff and wheeled the barrel out of the building as fast as he could run.

"He was like a halfback running to the end zone!" Peter said, and I got my first good laugh since leaving Mexico.

Four hours later, after detergent and bleach and what felt like endless scrubbing, the fridge looked spotless. I took off my mask and removed the cotton from my nose.

The stench was terrible.

We ran a fan all night. We bought some spray that smelled like lime and sprayed it everywhere. We kept the windows open. That evening, Peter put some beans in water to soak, and we went to bed -- thankfully, at the far end of the apartment.

In the morning, Peter got up and started cooking beans and, when I rounded the corner to the kitchen, finally, I smelled something that wasn't terrible.

"It smells like beans!" I told Peter.

I wasn't even sure I liked the smell of beans cooking. But this morning, they smelled terrific. In fact, I think beans are my new favorite smell.

Till next time,

Carrie

Carrie Classon's memoir is called "Blue Yarn." Learn more at CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION FOR UFS

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