February 12, 2013--Snowbirding: Old Jew

“You know what’s happening?” I was driving and didn’t respond. “I’ll tell you what--you’re turning into an old Jew.”

Rona had been criticizing me about my driving, especially the way I was slowing down when making left turns off and onto busy avenues, even when aided by green arrows, and saw this as symptomatic of how I was aging. 

“What would you prefer? That I turn into an old goy?” 

My little joke didn’t register. She was dead serious and under her breath muttered, “You should only be so lucky.” 

We’ve been having a lot of these kinds of exchanges lately, about Rona’s frustration with my alleged decline. I say “alleged” since I don’t see it that way. When I tend to drive in the right lane of the four-lane I-95 and leave a hundred yards between us and the car ahead, I can feel Rona tensing up as if to get us going faster to close the gap. 

So, preemptively, I say, “The driving’s crazy here in Florida with all the young people on drugs and texting while driving. So I like to leave enough space in case we have to brake hard.”
“And,” Rona has recently been adding, also under her breath, “And because of all the old people who should no longer be allowed to drive.” 

I of course wonder if that includes me; and know, in her mind, if not now, it soon will.

“Don’t you remember from Drivers Ed that you’re supposed to leave one car length between you and the car ahead of you for every ten miles an hour?”

“How much space should you leave when you’re driving 55 when the speed limit’s 65?”  She would, with this, be fully looking at me since she wanted a serious answer. Which I tried to provide.

“We’re only going five miles, to Glades Road, to Whole Foods, to shop for dinner. So what’s the rush? If I speed up, and put our lives at risk, we’d save what? Maybe two minutes? If even that much.” This sounded persuasive to me.

“Whatever,” Rona said and, giving up on me, commenced looking out her window at nothing.

But I’m sure she’s right. It’s hard down here not to age a little faster than up in New York—though up there, downtown, where we live, everyone is 25 or younger and I feel, when walking on Broadway, like Methuselah. I mean every shopping plaza here includes a hearing aid store, an optometrist, and a place to get a colonoscopy or an MRI. It’s not easy not to think about mortality when half the population is finished with dinner by 5:30. And this causes one to make those left turns carefully.

So, like her, without telling her or anyone about it, surreptitiously, I’ve been exploring a few of my own ways to measure decline.

For example, hair.

Remembering a comedian’s joke from years ago about facial hair—which somehow stuck with me—about how one day, as he approached middle age, when he looked in the mirror one morning, he saw, as if miraculously, overnight, that he had a hair growing out of his ear that was a foot long.

Well, my ear hairs are not getting that long, but they are growing vigorously. From one day to the next, but at most maybe two inches. And, in the spirit of candor, they are getting to be as coarse as bristles.

So I’ve taken to mowing them with one of those battery-operated nose and ear trimmers. It works pretty well; and since I do this early in the morning, before Rona gets up, I think I’ve been able to keep this from her; though just last week she took to keeping a razor in the glove compartment and, when we’re stopped waiting for the left turn arrow, she’s been reaching over to shave the tip of my nose, which also has begun to sprout hairs where previously there had never been any. But at least they’re not anything like the Brillo flourishing in my ears.

When I wince and try to turn away, making a mental note--if I can remember it--to do my own nose-tip shaving, Rona mutters, “I have to look at you,” as if that’s all the explanation I deserve or she is willing to provide.

Things are still OK with us. Truly. Rona knew the deal when we hooked up 35 years ago and eventually married—that she’s 18 years younger than I and, thus, actuarially, is likely to live on for many years after I’m gone. But, again, because of all the vivid evidence in Florida of decline and worse surrounding us, there is extra strain on our reality and relationship.

It’s not that I’m pushing for us to look for early bird specials at the local Chinese restaurant—though it is a good deal: at no extra cost they include a cup of soup or egg roll and ice cream—but I know something is changing within me when I am even tempted to think about suggesting that we give it a try. Eating early, I read--I think in the “Science Times”--is good for digestion and helps assure a good night’s sleep.

About that—sleep—we’ve been spatting about that too. For decades I tend to fall asleep at the movies, no matter the time of day, as soon as they turn down the lights, which Rona has managed to get used to; but I, and of course she, have been noticing that I am trending to want to go to bed for the night on the early side. The other day, for instance, I would have been happy to have gone to sleep by 8:45 or, as Rona claimed, 8:30.

“I can’t believe we’re arguing about 15 minutes.” I rolled my eyes, attempting to change the subject from my inclination to want to get more sleep than in the past—more evidence of decline—to a disagreement about the exact timing of when I turned in. Something less emotionally fraught.

“OK,” she wasn’t going to take me off the hook, “for argument’s sake, let’s agree that it was 8:45. Still, what kind of time is that for someone your age to want to go to bed?” She paused for a moment, then added, “Actually, for someone your age it’s exactly the right time to go to bed.”

“What?”

“You can’t hear me, right?”

“What did you say? I can’t hear you.”

Now shouting, “Wasn’t it two years ago when I forced you to have a hearing test?”

Without looking up, I nodded, knowing where this was going. And, I thought, what perfect timing. Just as I was ready to get some sleep.

“And what did you say when you saw the results? Not that either of us needed to see them.”  I shrugged as if not remembering. “That you needed them, right? Especially because your hearing loss was smack in the middle of the same range as my voice.”

I did remember that. At the time, we had both been amused—“No surprise,” Rona had said with a genuine smile. Now, she was no longer smiling. “So what did you do since then? During two years?”

And with that she stormed toward the living room, announcing, “I’m going to watch Sunday’s episode of Girls on On Demand.”

“I’m trying to like that show,” I said, shuffling after her into the living room.

“You hate it. All you want to watch is news, endless sports, and reruns of Hogan’s Heroes. And, honestly, I’d rather watch it myself because in five minutes you’ll be asleep and, with all your snoring, I won’t be able to hear what Hannah‘s up to.”

“But I don’t snore,” I insisted, knowing it was yet another thing Rona claimed she was noticing about me as time has gone by.

It was her turn to roll her eyes as I padded my way back to the bedroom. “Not that you could hear yourself,” she said to my retreating back.

As you might imagine, agitated, I didn’t get much sleep. There was a lot to think about. Aging, I told myself, if one is lucky, is relentless and there are things that inevitably happen to an older person that is no one’s fault. But, I had to acknowledge, there are things I can do to do better, not just give in to it. For example, I can drive a little faster and be a bit more aggressive when making turns. And though I hate the idea, I probably should give in and get a pair of those damned hearing aids.

What else? Surely when shaving in the morning I should check my ears, nose, and eyebrow hairs. I didn’t want to turn into an old codger who winds up looking like Andy Rooney with eyebrows, like his, covering my forehead and eyes.

“You’re still awake?” Rona asked when she was finished with the Girls.  “Finally a good episode. I was giving it one more chance to engage me and this one was pretty good. Something not annoying actually happened. You can watch it On Demand. You might actually find it interesting. It’s good to keep up with what the younger generation is up to.” Here we go, I thought. “Though these four girls are hardly typical. At least I hope not.” Maybe this wasn’t leading to further talk about me and my decline.

“I’ll check it out,” I promised.

“One more thing,” Rona said.

“What’s that?” I thought maybe she wanted to talk about our long-delayed canoe trip in the Everglades. I have been looking forward to that to present evidence of my remaining manhood.

“Coffee.”

“What?”  This was a new one.

“How you’ve been ordering it in the morning.”

“What?”

“You can’t hear me again?”

“No, I can hear you but I’m confused.”
“About?”

“About how the way I order coffee has to do with anything.”

“A lot.” I knew I was again in trouble.

“Go on,” I thought let’s get this over with. It was way past my bedtime.

“Just like our 89-year-old friend Sam.”

“What like Sam?”

“For years in restaurants he always orders his coffee in a way that annoys us. He says, ‘I want a cup of decaf . . . black. And fill it to the top.’ The waitresses always look at him as if to say, ‘We always serve it black. If you want cream and sugar you put it in yourself. And we never fill it to the top because it would spill when we bring it to you.’”

It’s true, that’s what Sam always says. We have been bemused by it for years. Both of us have seen it to represent one aspect of his aging. In some ways, how some behavior that is the result of decline can be charming. Like a tendency to utter malaprops and mix up people’s names.

“Well,” Rona persisted, “you too have taken to doing this.”
“I do not,” I insisted. “I’m willing to fess up to the cautious driving and the hearing, but not coffee ordering. This is going too far.”

Annoyed, I announced, “There’s no time like the present to watch that episode you recommended.” And with that I marched off to the living room. It turned out that Rona was at least right about the Girls. Maybe I will learn to like it and, as she suggested, it will at least help keep me youthful.

By the next morning, all seemed to be forgotten. We both got up on the proverbial right side of the bed.

“What a glorious day,” Rona said, stretching fetchingly in the sunlight. “This will be a perfect time to go to the Everglades. That is if you feel up to it.”

“I do,” I said hopefully. “You’ll be OK with me doing the paddling? The loop through the sawgrass is about two miles and with your lower back issues you can’t do too much of that.”

“Absolutely. I have confidence in you. You told me that many years ago you canoed in summer camp and were on your college rowing team. So let’s get some eggs for breakfast. We should eat something substantial before heading to where they rent the canoes.”

“At the Green Owl?”

“Sounds perfect,” Rona said, giving me an affectionate hug.

Rona ordered two poached eggs on a muffin and a cup of hot water for her chamomile tea. I asked for a couple of soft scrambled with potatoes and wheat toast.

“That should hold us,” I said.

Jen, the waitress, asked if I wanted my usual coffee. “Yes. Please. Caffeinated. And bla . . .”

I caught myself in mid-word. Nervous, I peeked over at Rona to see if she had heard. She clearly had. She has perfect hearing.

But this time, rather than turning from me in righteous frustration, she reached over and gave me a squeeze of understanding.