Aging ungracefully

My mother loved Maxine comics. She (Maxine, not my mother) is the crabby old lady who says funny things about aging. Mommy had one on her refrigerator for years that said something along the lines of “Getting old is not for weanies.” I always laughed along with that until it became reality.

Ben and I are approaching elder status. We were actually called “elderly” a few years ago by a young whippersnapper on one of our ministry teams, and we protested vehemently. But just this month I signed one of us up for Medicare, so there’s no denying the advancing of years anymore.

For a long time we’ve each had our own health pet peeves that we try to convince the other of, and for all that time we have each successfully blown the other off with eye rolling and pfft-ing. But sometime in the last two years we’ve become that couple who goes to each other’s doctor appointments so there are two sets of ears and two people to ask questions. And in my case, someone to hold my hand while I have a panic attack and fall apart in the exam room.

But just this week we have each had to bite our tongues and admit to the other that they were right and maybe, just maybe, we should have listened.

As long as I’ve known him, Ben has denied that he needs sleep. He has said all manner of kitschy things like “Sleep is for the weak” and “I’ll sleep when I’m dead.” Somewhere along the way he actually quantified his super-humanness by declaring that he only needed 6 hours and 20 minutes of sleep at night. He has said this for literal decades and I have rolled my eyes (mostly) inwardly every time I hear it because after his 6 hours and 20 minutes, he will take three power naps every day. How’s that 6/20 working out? Since I started doing all the driving a few years ago, the passenger seat is his favorite place to snooze. We even keep a little pillow in the car for just such occasions.

Then a friend of ours recommended a book called Outlive: The Science and Art of Longevity by Peter Attia, MD, and Ben actually called me from Ukraine to ask me to order it. He’s been devouring it since he got home and reading me quotes daily (I love that).

Amazingly, there is a whole chapter on the necessity of quality and an appropriate quantity of sleep, which, it turns out, is greater than 6 hours and 20 minutes. Who knew? (Not answering that.) So, now that we’ve read it in a book recommended by someone outside this family, sleep is now a priority on the Sargent farm.

But lest I get in trouble for being one-sided (known around here as being a diode), I must also tell on myself.

I inherited a lot of wonderful traits from my mother, but just to keep me humble, I also inherited her feet, namely bunions. Contrary to popular belief, bunions are not caused by wearing shoes that are too small. They are 100% hereditary (or herditerary if you’re my grandmother, but I digress). Mine began showing up around age 13 and they’ve been a thorn in my side since then.

Without going into gross detail, the combination of this malformation and high arches makes my feet develop callouses right under the bunions. I’ve dealt with them the way any good nail tech does: a good soak and the mini cheese grater. If you’ve had a pedicure, you know what this is and how well it works.

But this past summer, I was a little busy with other life events and did not take care of my feet as I should have, and the callous on my left foot got so bad it cracked and demanded attention. I soaked and grated. Trimmed what I could. Slathered it with beef tallow. (Don’t laugh—beef tallow is incredibly healing for skin, and it was definitely helping.) I just wanted to get ahead of it before next summer (aka freedom-for-feet season) rolled around.

So I went to the podiatrist this morning, knowing he had the tools to hack that baby into shape posthaste. I felt my apprehension rise when I walked in the office and saw this sign near the front desk:

(I actually Googled and found that this particular misspelling is not even in the top ten misspellings of this word, so at least my podiatrist’s office manager is a maverick in butchering English.)

I was shown to an exam room (no panic attack, praise the Lord) and sat in the chair of doom to wait. Eventually a 12-year-old boy came in and introduced himself as Dr. C. This is one way you know you’re getting older—all of your healthcare providers are young enough to be your grandchildren.

But Dr. C was a professional, who listened carefully to my cracked-callous saga, as well as my complaint of random pain on the top of my left foot. He performed a careful examination of my feet and announced that, not only did I have bunions, but I also had very high arches, which I’ve known as long as I’ve been old enough to know what arches are. He explained that my high arches contribute to callouses, because the only parts of my feet that touch the ground are the heel and ball of my foot, so they take all the abuse. He told me that callouses are my body’s way of making another layer to protect the foot bones.

Dandy.

Then he asked what kind of shoes I wear and I proudly said, “I wear Brooks for exercise.”

He confirmed that Brooks were great shoes for high arches since they have good support. Then he glanced around the side of the chair where my fur-lined Crocs sat on the floor, raised his little-boy eyebrows, and asked, “Is that what you wear the rest of the time?”

Yes. Yes it is. Have you ever tried to find comfortable shoes for feet with bunions and very high arches, Dr. 12-year-old? Plus, all the cool people (at least in Appomattox) are wearing them.

He inquired what kind of shoes I wore in the summer and I dove into an explanation of how I grew up on the Jersey shore, lived two blocks from the beach, and never wore shoes. I ended with, “At least I wear sandals now. But I wear good ones—Merrells.”

Dr. Child had the audacity to give me a smug look and said, “They’re so thin!”

I decided I was sick of being on the defensive, so I switched tactics.

“Listen, my husband thinks everyone should put on socks and workboots the second they get out of bed in the morning and keep them on until they get in bed at night,” thinking he would see the ridiculousness of this way of thinking.

No chance.

He said, “That’s not a bad idea.”

Whatever. Just shave the callous off and get me out of here.

As the old commercials say, “But wait; there’s more!”

While Dr. Little-boy was working on the callous, we switched to talking about my weird foot pain. Somewhere in the conversation it came out that I like to sit in my chair at the table with my left foot curled up under my right leg and he gave me that knowing, aha look that comes right before a lecture. Before he could open his mouth I said, “My husband said I should probably stop sitting like that,” and he started laughing.

He said, “Look, you can go home and tell your husband I said he’s wrong about everything, but sitting like that is what’s causing your foot pain.”

I thought about taking Dr. Baby up on his suggestion, but I decided honesty was the best policy. So I came home and told Ben he was right about the sitting thing and right about the closed shoes with good support. But here’s what I’ve learned in 40 years of marriage: compromise is king.

I will stop sitting with my left foot curled under my right leg at the table. But I will not wear sensible shoes. Sensible = hideous and fur-lined Crocs are bad enough. I will not give up sandals in the summer. I will keep a death grip on what little shoe freedom I have until I literally can’t walk. I will cut off my toes to spite my face. Whatever.

Why is it so hard to admit your spouse was right?

My mother was right. Getting old is not for weanies.