Losing It

Losing it is what people in their 50’s fear most –more than an extra five pounds or a notice from the IRS or anthrax. “It” can be physical stuff like a wallet or a corkscrew or your favorite golf socks or “it” can be mental stuff like a computer password or your neighbor’s name or the reason you went into the guest bedroom.  I’ve found that, by the time you reach your 60’s, these losses and lapses are everyday occurrences and provide bonding experiences for you and most of your friends.

I have a pretty good repertoire of coping skills.  I keep lists of everything I need to remember (see my post “Getting It Together”) although when my steno pad of lists disappears, it’s a bad scene.  I eliminated the problem of lost reading glasses with a visit to Walgreen’s where they sell three pairs for $10.  Keeping multiple pairs of gloves has been helpful but not completely satisfactory- I currently own three lefts and no rights.

Locating a missing cell phone doesn’t require great detective skills if you also have a land line, and the phone is somewhere easy like the pocket of the fleece vest you’re wearing.   It’s a different story if the phone is in an unusual place like the refrigerator.  Recently I knew my errant phone was in the house but, when I dialed the number, I couldn’t seem to track down the ring.  After about eight attempts, I got a little panicky knowing that, once the phone was out of juice, I was out of luck.  Finally, in an effort worthy of Sherlock Holmes, I did find my phone in a closet, deep inside the pocket of my winter coat.

 My most challenging lost and found problem, “The Case of the Missing Golf Jackets,” lasted for an entire year.   From one spring to the next, three different golf jackets disappeared from the big side pocket of my new golf bag without a trace – no fingerprints, no bloodstains, no DNA, nothing.  I was annoyed at the thought of buying yet another golf jacket and I was also annoyed that, for some reason, it kept getting harder and harder to fit my golf clubs down inside my bag properly.  Guess what? That big side pocket opened into the center of the golf bag so the jackets I put into the pocket had quietly migrated out.  When I finally stuck my hand through the pocket and into the center of the bag, out came the missing golf jackets– first navy, then royal blue, then sea green - like colorful silk handkerchiefs pulled out of a magician’s sleeve. My golf clubs once again fit into my bag and the mystery was solved.

Of course, as with so many other things, Paul and I have different approaches to finding lost items.  I generally follow the “Mary Had a Little Lamb” school of thought – that is, leave them alone and they’ll come home.  When something is missing, I do a reasonable search but I don’t tear the house apart again and again or miss a meal or lose sleep if it doesn’t turn up right away.  Often the best thing is to stop looking and pretend you’re not even interested in the lost checkbook or can opener or DVD.  Better yet, replace it.  Next thing you know, it’s back!  This works every time and has been particularly successful with my favorite sunglasses (above left), which cost $3 at the neighborhood Exxon station about 20 years ago but are still the most comfortable shades I’ve ever owned.  Over the years, they’ve had many adventures without me; but they’re never permanently lost. Actually, they’ve been on a sabbatical for the past three months but I expect them to return any day now.

On the other hand, Paul’s approach to lost items combines the techniques of Hercule Poirot and Inspector Javert with the determination of a faithful bird dog.  When something is lost, he leaves no stone, rock, boulder, pebble or dust mote unturned until it is found.  He is relentless and he would NEVER just go and get more car keys to replace the missing set.  I must admit that he is eventually successful.  For example, the day we helped harvest vegetables at Michaela Farm, he recovered my gas station sunglasses from the middle of a big washtub of beet greens after everyone else had given up, although I also called in St. Anthony on that one.  (I’m not Catholic but a lot of my friends are. If “Tony, Tony turn around, something’s lost and must be found” works for them, it might as well work for me.)  The good news about having a professional finder in your family is that things do get found.  The bad news is that no one gets a moment’s peace until then which is why, when the boys were growing up, we only reported missing items to Paul as a very last resort.

The same two approaches can be applied to memory questions like “What am I doing here?” or “Who is that?” I’ve always been good at names, but I’ve slipped a little in the past few years. When I’m stumped, I just think about anything but the nameless person and “Voila!” the name pops into my head. Paul, on the other hand, has always had and still does have trouble remembering names. When he sees a patient at a ball game or the theater, he mentally runs through the alphabet forward and backward as many times as it takes to get the right name.  He did admit defeat, however, over the names of our growing assortment of great nieces and nephews.  “It’s too hard to remember them all.  Why can’t they have easy names?”  Like what? Maybe they should all be named Paul or Jill?  

On our recent ski trip, we had a little memory drama with a happy ending.  Willem and I were waiting for everyone else to leave for the ski slopes one morning.  David, Megan and John had on all their layers and were booted up, but Paul couldn’t find his ski claim check.
“Where’s my ski check?”  No response.

“It was right here on this table – did anyone see it?”  No response again.

“Someone must have it.  I know I left it here.”  The sound of pockets unzipping and flaps un-velcroing on his ski jacket and pants.  No luck.

I tried to help by saying, “There aren’t many skis in the ski check – they’ll probably just let you take yours without the claim check.” What WAS I thinking?  Paul could no more walk out the door without finding his ski check than he could walk out the door wearing just a bath towel.  More shuffling and re-examination of pockets, gloves, hat, etc.

Then I saw it - a little green plastic disc with the number 23 attached to a little green elastic band around his wrist. YES!!  I was happy to find it and beyond happy, all the way to ecstatic, to know that someone besides me had had a seriously forgetful moment – a moment that earned Paul a big kiss, right through his 6 layers of sunscreen.

Everyone I know has his or her favorite “Losing it” stories.  The video link below captures many of them perfectly –if nothing here is familiar to you, don’t tell me about it.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_detailpage&v=HzSaoN2LdfU

The Family That Skis Together . . .

We loved the idea of taking kids downhill skiing, even before we had kids.  On our first real ski trip to Michigan’s Schuss Mountain, we were charmed by the Elf classes –adorable little skiers wearing brightly colored ski suits and following enthusiastic, peppy young instructors in a snaky line down the hills, like baby ducks.  After I had kids of my own, however, I did wonder what medication those instructors used to stay perky and energetic even at the end of the afternoon as they helped the Elves out of their skis and herded them into the lodge for the fifteenth bathroom and hot chocolate break with the admonition, “Even if you don’t have to go, you have to try.”

We took several adult ski trips to Michigan where Paul worked on his skills and I worked on my attitude.  After awhile, I stopped having heart palpitations each time I started down Mellow Yellow or Chicken’s Choice, which were supposedly the easiest runs at Schuss but were actually the Swiss Alps in disguise.  I couldn’t figure out why my hands were the sorest parts of my body after skiing until Paul suggested that the death grip I kept on my ski poles might be to blame.

Eventually Paul convinced me we were ready for a Western ski trip - a week in Aspen, Colorado that could have been titled “Profiles In Courage.”  While we waited to board the small plane that would take us into Aspen, we watched the deplaning passengers going home from their ski week with an assortment of slings, casts, crutches, and wheelchairs like some medical suppliers’ trade show.  That shook my confidence a little.   An attack of altitude sickness brought on by a huge pasta dinner, plenty of red wine and, of course, the altitude, was my next surprise.  Once I recovered enough to actually ski, I had to face the fact that, in Colorado unlike Michigan, when you get on the chairlift, you can’t see the top of the mountain and, when you get off the chairlift, you can’t see the bottom of the mountain. All you can do is head downhill and hope you end up where you started.  It didn’t take long for me to understand why we smelled a lot of marijuana on the lifts and saw a lot of people drinking from wineskins in the middle of the ski runs.

By the end of that week, however, Paul and I had both found hills where we could ski comfortably in Aspen.  He explored the more challenging runs with some Cincinnati friends who were experienced skiers. I discovered the Colorado equivalent of Chicken’s Choice, accessible by a long, gentle chairlift ride in the sun, which had the added plus of allowing me to take an after-lunch nap on the way up.  (Just because you’ve never heard of anybody napping on a ski lift doesn’t mean it can’t be done.)  Best of all, we didn’t bring home any orthopedic souvenirs from that trip although we met plenty of people who did, including one guy who broke his shoulder in a lift line fall and another who injured his knee climbing into the hot tub.

After another year or two, I had graduated from the easy Green Slopes to the intermediate Blue Slopes or at least Blue Slopes that weren’t too narrow or too bumpy or too full of trees or people.  We decided it was time to take the boys skiing in Michigan with our friends Lynn and Katherine and their kids.  The ski resort brochures enticed us with images of happy, glowingly healthy families having fun in the sparkling snow under sunny, blue skies – the perfect vacation for everyone from adults to toddlers. Who wouldn’t want to be part of that appealing picture? Later we found out what the brochures had omitted - the runny noses, the whining, the ski-hat hair and the kid who had to be retrieved from the mud because he forgot how to steer.  John, who was too young for Ski School, found the nursery to be on a par with Devil’s Island, and David slid off the chairlift into a snow bank, but we still had a great time. It turns out that, for kids, the key elements of a successful ski trip aren’t deep powder or nicely groomed ski runs or the view from the top of the mountains.  It’s all about hanging out in a cool condo, preferably with a bunch of friends, soaking in a large hot tub, preferably outdoors, and downing plenty of hot chocolate, preferably with whipped cream.

On subsequent trips with other families to Michigan, Colorado, Wyoming, British Columbia and Utah, David and John learned to love downhill skiing and to ski well down steep slopes, through trees and over moguls (the bumps made by other skiers as they carve through the snow.)  In addition, they learned to start the day with a Mighty Skier Breakfast of Coke and Oreos like our radiologist friend, Kay.  They learned from one of the kids who skied with us that if you race down the hill at top speed, you end up with your skis, poles and boots scattered everywhere and yourself on your back with your sock feet waving in the breeze.  They learned that   climbing up a spiral staircase to the ski condo loft while wearing ski boots is harder than it looks.  And, after skiing, they learned to go back and forth between the hot tub and the surrounding snow banks, just like some crazy Norwegians. Incidentally, they also learned to like cross country skiing since they could scream down big hills with no lift lines and NO SKI PATROL.

Once the boys were out of grade school, the hardest part of a ski trip was finding an acceptable and plausible reason why they had missed school.  We knew we couldn’t expect many teachers to believe that 4 days in bed with the flu left a kid with a ski goggle, raccoon-like tan so they slathered on the sunscreen.  One time David took a fall and scraped the entire left side of his face on the ice (Photo at left.) He spent the rest of the weekend working on a cover story; but, before he could tell it to his homeroom teacher, she said, “Where were you? Skiing?”  You can’t fool a fellow skier! Fortunately she didn’t rat him out.

The best part of skiing as a family is that, even in the surly teen-age years when your kid refuses to go anywhere with you, he may agree to a ski trip.  And, now that David and John are adults and Megan has joined our family, the fun of family ski trips has continued. All of us, including nine-month-old Willem, spent last weekend in Park City, Utah; and it was great.  I would have been contented to spend the entire time in the condo with Willem as he set records for speed-crawling, drooled over and licked the leather couch, learned to climb stairs and demonstrated his yoga moves.   As it turned out, I had lots of time with him and I got to ski as well.

Of course, I started by telling the guy at the ski rental shop that I was a CAUTIOUS Intermediate skier who NEVER skis fast and that I wanted reliable, FRIENDLY skis.  I wound up with skis that barely came up to chest height.   Paul laughed at them; and whenever I took them out of a ski rack or loaded them onto a gondola, people looked around for the little kid who they belonged to.  So what.  They were PERFECT for me – I couldn’t have asked for any more congenial ski gear. Those little fidget skis got me down some steep hills (at least they were steep for me), through some thick piles of snow and safely back to the base of the mountain every time.

The last afternoon, we all were dealing with some sore muscles.  David explained his aches and pains by saying, “Well, the last time I skied, I was in my twenties.”  Yeah – and the last time I downhill skied, I was in my fifties. The best part is that, at 60-something, I can still do it!  No, I don’t ski with those graceful, fluid motions that come so naturally to David and John. I can’t ski from the first lift in the morning until the last lift in the afternoon like Paul.  I’m always the last one to get to the end of the ski run, even when I have a head start and someone makes a bathroom stop along the way.  In fact, when I was younger,  fresh snow and ideal ski conditions occasionally convinced me to try skiing a Black Diamond (the steepest, narrowest, bumpiest, baddest ski runs), but that part of my life is officially over. I know I could probably get down any ski slope, including a Black Diamond, safely, given enough time and the right skis, but I don’t want my tombstone to read: “She died of old age while picking her way down the mountain.” 

Even though Paul had thought we could  fit Willem into a ski boot and just shoot him down the mountain, he didn’t hit the slopes on this trip.  By the time he is ready to ski, I hope I can find the right combination of friendly skis, gentle ski runs and Advil to be a part of the picture.