I’m Officially Waaay Over the Hill & Descending Fast

This past weekend, while putting away the laundry, I finally admitted to myself I was an old fart. I’ve said it in jest before–to my husband or a few friends or maybe even in a blog post–but I never really meant it until now. Why, you ask? What suddenly changed?

It’s just that the evidence finally sunk in. I reached a critical mass, and reality had its way with me.

Blame it on the bedsheets

About a month ago, I gave up trying to fold king-size bedsheets at my husband’s suggestion, and just stuffed them in the big drawer built into the foot of the bed. To my credit, I continued to fold the pillowslips and stack them on top.

The sheets, which are wrinkle resistant, seemed to smooth out for the most part once we made up the bed. “And all you do is roll around on them in your sleep anyway, right? How bad can they look?” he said.

I had to concede he was right. And I know he suggested it to save me the effort and save himself from hearing me complain about it. A year ago, I wouldn’t have taken his idea seriously. But now that I have, as I stuffed them away for about the third or fourth time, I realized I’d reached the threshold of old-ladyhood and had, indeed, crossed over.

Other laundry woes-is-me

We’ve decided that as soon as our current mega-dispenser containers of liquid laundry detergent, fabric softener and color-safe bleach run out, we’re switching to pods. Why? Because it hurts my arthritic shoulders to lift heavy containers.

We’ve always bought the largest container available to help the environment, but eventually I couldn’t lift them. So we saved a small jug and refilled it from the bargain-sized one. In this house, Mr. Mega-Jug had to be stored in the garage so high I couldn’t reach it, which left hubs on refill duty.

If instead I’ld only thought to use the filled jugs as weights 30 years ago and exercise with them, maybe I wouldn’t be in this position now. I’d still be the same AGE, of course, but maybe I wouldn’t feel it so much.

We’ve had a front-loading washer and dryer on pedestals for more than 10 years to make clothes easier for me to put in and take out. It spares my arthritic back all that bending. But as if that wasn’t enough, I have added a chair so I can sit down while sorting, folding and hanging.

And still I forget and leave wet clothes in the washer and fail to fold the dry ones until they’re re-wrinkled. Alas, that’s what the “touch-up” steam setting is for, right?

Dusting no longer a must

I seldom dust and I don’t care. I used to dust every piece of everything in the house with a cloth and the appropriate cleaner, every two weeks. I can’t even remember the last time I tried that. Instead, every few weeks hubs gives all that stuff what my mom called “a lick and a promise” with a duster.

It was revealed to me this very morning just how far I’d fallen off the household duty roster and how a duster won’t do it all while turning off the lamp on my bedside table. I thought the color looked funny, so I touched it and pulled away a thickish stripe of dust.

The under-color did look better, so I followed my first swipe up with a few more, to get at least the front side of the lamp looking better. Dust flew every which way. I left it where it landed.

My mother must be turning over in her grave. Sigh…

Holey moley, baloney!

Our cats have scratched two holes in our bedspread and holes in each of our two sets of sheets, and I don’t care. I’ll just let them unravel more before I worry about it.

I feel a little bit like Scarlett O’Hara: “I can’t think about that right now. If I do, I’ll go crazy. I’ll think about that tomorrow.”

To make it worse, my kitchen towels of 13 years are ridden with holes, too–these from wear, but again, I don’t care. I like these towels. They’re nice and soft and still absorbent.

Besides, we only use them to mop up the counter and dry a few things that can’t go in the dishwasher, though more and more, we wash and dry everything in there whether we’re supposed to or not. (Manufacturers’ recommendations be damned!)

If the truth be known, I’m actually kind of proud I’ve made those towels last this long. Even mom would reward my thriftiness.

Wait, there’s more…

A basket on our kitchen table now contains all of our medicines neatly arranged for the week in pill organizers, so we remember what to take when, plus the salt, pepper, hot sauce, toothpicks and Benefiber necessary at every meal so we don’t have to get it out and put it away (too much effort). Just like at mom and dad’s and mom- and dad-in-laws.

It’s also become too difficult for me to reach across my desk to adjust the cords on the blind behind it, so hubs created a cord extender. And I don’t even care anymore that it looks kind of goofy. I’m just glad it works. Because some nights when I can’t sleep I work on my laptop, and I don’t want anyone driving by seeing the saggy-breasted old-lady insomniac in her worn-out PJs tapping away.

I’m just soooo done with decor

Coming from someone who for 10 years or so published a home decor blog, that’s saying something. What’s the point of straightening up the sofa anyway unless someone comes to visit, which is getting more and more rare. (And they’re all old, too, so they understand.)

Gone is my desire to switch out the decorative throw pillows on the bed, chairs and sofa. And when the ones I have start looking too shabby, I’ll send them to Goodwill and not replace them.

Who would have thought I’d ever get over a fresh set of fringy, plush throw pillows? Not hubs, that’s for sure. He’ll finally get his wish of not needing to move so many so he can sit down. I’ve even succumbed to his turning the end table and coffee table into his own personal snack zones.

After all, he works hard making life easier for his poor OLD wife. It’s the least I can do for him.

& {sometimes} WHY