The good news is, I didn’t die. The bad news is that I’m old and I forget to do things—like not updating a Sun column about life as a geezer. It was the second of two columns on being old, written when I was 84 or 85. Both columns commented on lifestyle upheavals that dog the elderly like a pack of extended-warranty salesmen. I am now 87 and have completed an on-line course in memory enhancement from the Biden Institute of Estate Planning and Egg Coloring. My graduation certificate reminded me I owe you an aging report.
Cutting right to the cliché, aging sucks. But the alternative isn’t exactly visions of sugarplums. Getting old can be dealt with up to a point, and you must try.
I’m an example of the worn-out joke, “If I’d known I’d live this long, I’d have taken better care of myself.” One of my departed Michigan pals loved saying, “The Lord says treat your body like a temple, and I’ve treated mine like Six Flags.” A heart attack whacked him before he was 60. His ex got the Corvette, suggesting that chronological grownups be careful with their wellness jokes.
Why even talk about aging? Because we all age, just with differing rates of success. And it is possible to affect that process. My efforts have aimed at health improvement, because we geezers know that being healthy means you’re blessed. With that in mind, here’s my diet and exercise story. I’m not a doctor or a nutritionist; this is commentary, not medical advice, on feeling good and eating well.
Once upon a time, wife Susan and I spent two or three weeks a year in Paris. Our major activity was dining. I don’t blame my heart attack, at 66, on dining at enough legendary French restaurants to turn Audrey Hepburn into Lulu the Fat Lady, but we’d ingested enough calories on those trips to feed Tupelo for a week. After the cardiac unpleasantness, we made dietary but added more comprehensive ones two years ago.
We follow intermittent fasting: eating nothing between 9 p.m. and 1 p.m the next day. We consume two normal meals within the eight-hour gap and include fish, red meat, a trace of sugar, and so many green vegetables that the Jolly Green Giant qualified for our Medicare Advantage Plan. We’re essentially low-carbs and high-proteins with heavy Mediterranean Diet overtones and no processed foods. Does that work? My weight went from 235 to 190 and my waistline dropped four inches. My prescription medicines dropped from three to none.
The weight loss—and unmedicated blood pressure normality—can be attributed to exercise. On alternate days, I do 2.5 to 3.0 miles on my treadmill at 3.8 mph. About 2.8 miles in 45 minutes. On the other days, I do light exercises aimed at upper body strength, balance, and leg strength. I can sit and rise using only leg muscles.
For 10 years, I’ve whined about neuropathy, and I believe the walking and leg exercises may have stabilized the affliction. Stabilize is a useful word; it means, “Thank God, it’s not any worse.” I have macular degeneration in one eye, but not yet alarming. Hearing is not bad unless I’m at a noisy restaurant—where my ears might as well be duct-taped. All teeth remain in place.
Weight reduction and exercise mean independence. Along with better sleep, more energy, and no more shopping for clothes in the Tent Section at Tractor Supply. I no longer think, “Well, maybe,” when Big Pharma TV ads offer me weight-loss pills—the ones with side effects that “may include” brain damage, loss of hearing, unsightly warts, and insensitivity to pronouns.
Age unavoidably includes sadness, the worst being the ache that comes with losing those whose friendship meant something. The trick is not to let sadness turn into depression or show up for cocktail hour—speaking of which, my Dr. Mondavi’s Fact Remover intake has dropped like a bad share of stock, ending a lifelong crusade against moderation.
At four score and seven, I remain convinced that green, leafy vegetables and coleslaw alone won’t do it. You need to laugh out loud once a day—at a minimum—and don’t just make fun of things you dislike. Poke some fun at yourself. Say things like, “I moved to Arkansas and live in gasping fear of yelling, “Woo! Pig! Sooey!” in public. See? You’re feeling better already.
William Jeanes is, or was, a Northsider.
