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The Becoming I’m Not Scared Stiff Of

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Department Of The Most Stupid Prejudice Of All

What is the one thing every person on this planet – regardless of gender, ethnicity, political persuasion, intelligence, religion/worldview –  is going to become?

Older.

 

 

And most of us, according to antiaging activist Ashton Applewhite, are “scarred stiff” at the prospect, despite the fact that so many of the fears we have about aging are wrong:

“How does that word (older) make you feel?  I used to feel the same way.  What was I most worried about:  Ending up drooling in some institutional hallway. And then I learned that only *four percent* of older Americans are living in nursing homes, and the percentage is dropping.

What else was I worried about?  Dementia.  Turns out that most of us can think just fine until the end. Dementia rates are dropping, too. The real epidemic is anxiety over memory loss.

I also figured that old people were depressed, because…they were old, and they were going to die soon.
It turns out that the longer people live, they less they fear dying, and that people are happiest at the beginnings and the ends of their lives.  It’s called the U Curve of Happiness, and it’s been borne out by studies around the world.”

 

 

Wouldn’t it be smart(er) to have aging – this fact-of-life inevitability –  unite rather than divide us? 

Have you had well-meaning staff, from grocery clerks to salespeople to movie ticket-takers to hospital workers, speak “old” to you (as in, talk down to/patronize you), using pet words or phrases to refer to you (“honey, sweetie, darling,” etc.) which you have not given them permission to use?  Chances are, if you’re over age 55 you’ll begin to notice that people are starting to treat you like you’re getting old.

Even worse is when you don’t notice the change in treatment, or accept it as inevitable, or become numb to your same-age peers adopting the negative social constructs and constraints of aging:  they will say that they are getting old, and attribute any ache/complaint/physical or mental mishap to aging. You’ll see them giving up on making healthier choices in their lifestyles and activities ( “It’s too late/I’m too old/you can’t teach an old dog new tricks” ); they’ve resigned themselves to the supposed inevitabilities of physical and mental decline, and thus, such declines become self-fulfilling prophecies.

 

 

Those self-fulfilling prophecies “harm our health and constrain our futures,” but we can take a critical step to fight this – first, by becoming aware of the ageism all around us. For example, how do you refer to yourself, and others of a certain age?

Even self-deprecating jokes betray ageist prejudices:

“Sorry I’m late; I had a Senior Moment – forgot where I left my shoes.”

How many forgetful/scatter-brained incidents did you have when you were a child or young(er) adult?  Innumerable, is my guess, but when my high school friends (or my now young adult offspring) forgot where they left their keys, they did not chastise themselves for having a “Junior Moment.”

How can we all stop doing this, when it seems to be almost a knee-jerk reaction, when the simple fact of aging is treated as a disease, instead of as what it is – life?

Antiaging activist Ashton Applewhite, author of This Chair Rocks: An Anti-Aging manifesto,    [1]   has at least a partial solution.

“It’s not the passage of time that makes it so hard to get older. It’s ageism, a prejudice that pits us against our future selves –  and each other. Ashton Applewhite urges us to dismantle the dread and mobilize against the last socially acceptable prejudice. ‘Aging is not a problem to be fixed or a disease to be cured,’ she says. ‘It is a natural, powerful, lifelong process that unites us all.’ “

Listen to Applewhite’s TED Talk, Let’s End Ageism.

 

 

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Department Of On A Related Point…

Moiself  loves the stuttering defiance of The Who’s song, My Generation.

 

 

I can’t help but wonder if Pete Townshend, who wrote the brash youth anthem when he was 20 years old and who is now still rock ‘n rolling at age 80, would care to rephrase the song’s infamous, lyrical/primal scream declaration, “I hope I die before I get old.”

 

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Department Of What’s The Point Of Asking, Then?

Dateline:  Monday; circa 10 am; listening to one of my favorite podcasts.   Ologies has been described as a “comedic science podcast;” host Alie Ward interviews experts in various scientific fields, exploring a different field of study (“ology”) in each episode.  Ward and her guests take an amusing *and* enlightening approach to their subject du jour, with the aim to make obscure science interesting and comprehensible to professionals and laypersons alike.

The episode I had on was Literary Olfactology (the Politics of Smell), with guest Dr. Ally Louks.  Here’s the episode’s description from the podcast website.  If you’re an obscure-science-stuff aficionada like moiself, this should grab your attention:

“Smell and culture. Scent descriptions in novels. Fragrances and class. Stink and stigmas. We cover it all. Scholar, author, and Literary Olfactologist Dr. Ally Louks burst into the zeitgeist in 2024 with her PhD thesis ‘Olfactory Ethics: The Politics Of Smell In Modern And Contemporary Pros,’ and we finally got to sit down and talk about the intersection of art and smell and culture. Breathe in the foul, the fragrant, the peppermint, the tobacco, why motel rooms smell the way they do, the forgotten organ that could control your love life, spices at the root of xenophobia, perfume ads that cruised a movement, obscenity trials, explosions, following your first love and getting the last laugh.”

 

Daughter Belle’s olfactory politics: her solution to her objection to the aroma of her mother’s roasting curry spices.

 

Once again, I digress.

The what’s-the-point-of-asking issue:  Ologies Host Alie Ward – moiself  loves most of her hosting style, despite (what I see to as) the irritating and unnecessary-but-seemingly-obligatory ritual adopted by certain folk on the Far Left®   [2]  –  begins the podcast as is her custom, introducing the guest(s) by having them introduce themselves and state their preferred pronouns.  Which, Dr. Louyks did thusly:

“Ally Louks, and I use she/her pronouns.”

Later on in the podcast, after pausing for a commercial break, Ward reintroduces her guest, describing Louks’ interests and accomplishments using the pronoun, “they.”  Several times.

 

 

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Department Of Movie Quote Of The Year  [3]

“She had a butt that had a way of saying,
‘Look at me, I’m a talking butt.’ ”
( Liam Neeson, playing Lt. Frank Drebin Jr., The Naked Gun )

 

 

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Department Of: Yeah; This.

From Daily Calm meditation app, 8-6-25, Shedding:

“A student once asked his teacher, ‘What have you gained from meditation?’
The teacher replied, ‘Nothing.  However, let me tell you what I lost.  Anger; anxiety; depression; fear of old age, and death.’

We sometimes focus on what we can get from a practice; we look for progress through measurable signs – the number of breaths we can stay present with, or how long we can sit without fidgeting.  But as our practice deepens, we discover that the gifts we perceive are not only measured in what we gather, but also what we discard.”

 

“Meditation is not evasion; it is a serene encounter with reality.”  attributed to Thich Nhat Hanh

 

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Freethinkers’ Thought Of The Week     [4]

 

Pema Chödrön is an American-born Tibetan Buddhist author, meditation teacher, and ordained monk.

 

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May you remember that you’re the sky and not the weather;
May you appreciate what you’ve discarded as well as gathered in life;
May you be grateful for the privilege of being alive (i.e., aging);
…and may the hijinks ensue.

Thanks for stopping by.  Au Vendredi!

*   *   *

 

[1] I’m ordering a copy.

[2] For lack of a better descriptor.

[3] Not to worry, there’s a lot of the year left.

[4] “free-think-er n. A person who forms opinions about religion on the basis of reason, independently of tradition, authority, or established belief. Freethinkers include atheists, agnostics and rationalists.   No one can be a freethinker who demands conformity to a bible, creed, or messiah. To the freethinker, revelation and faith are invalid, and orthodoxy is no guarantee of truth.”  Definition courtesy of the Freedom From Religion Foundation, ffrf.org

The Secrets I’m Not Publishing

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Department of IF ONLY

Dateline: Tuesday, April 25, 8:31 am. I turn to the last page of the New York Times Arts section, only to have my eyeballs unexpectedly and viciously assaulted [1] by an enormous, surgically-stiffened nightmare of a visage – it is an advertisement for a “book.” The “face” to which I referred currently belongs to a particular offshoot from a particular celebrity-mongering hominid tribe. The ad takes up the entire page

The entire fucking page.

A really big headline –  FINALLY, THE WHOLE STORY – menacingly looms above a really big picture of the product being flogged: the ironically and erroneously entitled, The Secrets Of My Life. Caitlyn Jenner.

 

 

 

No. No.  No. Noooooooooooooooooooooooooo.

 

 

 

If only such would truly be kept confidential – which is in fact what a secret is.  That title; that book; those people…. So wrong, on so many levels. Including that of basic word usage and definitions. How can there be any “secrets” about any member of that conniving clan of celebrity seekers whose only talent is self-promotion – a tribe who seemed determined to convince The Rest Of Us ®  that a colonoscope’s view into their every moment is warranted?

 

 

Back off, folks. Move along; there’s nothing here to see.

 

 

 

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Department Of Correspondence Re Dead Friends

Bay Area friends LH and DH, who are very much alive, were up for a visit last weekend. LH, a fellow UCD alum, had expressed her condolences re the death of my friend since college, Jim, the One Of The Nicest People You’ll Ever Meet ® (mentioned in last week’s blog).  LH has also experienced the recent passing of several loved ones, and we email wondered (e-wondered?) back and forth about the situations. Are we getting to that stage in our lives, or are these deaths just a wobble in the Circle Of Life’s orbit?

Here is what moiself mused:

 One of the things I’ve long admired about some of the Buddhist perspectives on life is that there is an admission, right up front, that life is tough! No one gets out alive (well, then there is that silly reincarnation crap….).

I wish I could remember the phrasing; I know it’s not the 4 Noble Truths or the 8 Fold Path (Buddhism is big on numbering things), but a few years back I came across a list of Buddhist observations that were as profound as they were simple. I kept the list in my office, and now I can’t find it (a cat probably barfed on it, and it got thrown out).

It forthright, yet somehow not depressing, and goes something like this:

It is in my nature to grow old;

– It is in my nature to contract illness;

– It is in my nature to have the cat barf on things that are important to me.

And so on. As you may have guessed, that third observation isn’t really attributed to the Buddha (but if he’d had a cat I know he would have been enlightened on the matter).

So, I guess it is in our nature to, as the years go by, be adding to our list of loss. That doesn’t mean I have to like it…

I guess it keeps me humble, how even the things I *know* are inevitable (like my mother’s and Jim’s deaths) and think I have prepared for still sneak up and kick me in the spleen. And I want to kick back SO HARD but there’s nothing to aim at. At least the MBSR (Mindfulness-Based Stress Reduction) course I recently completed is helping.

WAIT  WAIT – I FOUND IT! It is called The Five Remembrances (see, I told you about the numbers thing). The idea behind the Five Remembrances is this: when we deny the reality of life, we appreciate it less. There are several versions/phrasings; the following is attributed to Thich Nhat Hanh.

* I am of the nature to grow old. There is no way to escape growing old.

* I am of the nature to have ill health. There is no way to escape ill health.

* I am of the nature to die. There is no way to escape death.

* All that is dear to me and everyone I love are of the nature to change. There is no way to escape being separated from them.

* My actions are my only true belongings. I cannot escape the consequences of my actions. My actions are the ground upon which I stand.

 

 

 

 

 

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Department Of I’ve Always Thought My Dinner With Andre Was Overrated,
But Dinner With A Dung Beetle Is Spectacular

The lowly dung beetles – where would we be without them?   [2]  Dung beetles are some of the most unappreciated creatures on this planet, so I was thrilled to run across a short-but-sweet video clip about them, via the NY Times. Dinner With a Dung Beetle is a presentation about – a tribute to, really – these vital creatures.

Naturally, the dung beetle video got me to thinking about potluck dinner parties.

 

 

 

 

Yes, seriously.

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away (read: when our now young adult offspring were still living at home), we used to host potluck dinner parties for ~ 20 – 30 people on a regular basis. The parties always had a theme, and guests were encouraged to bring food to share that they could justifiably claim was appropriate to the theme.

Past dinner party themes included

Cusina Obscura  [3]

*  White Trash Potluck   [4]

*  The PuPu Palace   [5]

*  Better Red Than Dead  [6]

One of our most memorable parties was held in the autumn of 2005, when MH, son K, daughter Belle and moiself transformed our humble abode into The Dung Beetle Café. The guests were encouraged to bring round or “roll-able” culinary creations, in honor of dung beetles but also to celebrate the Autumnal Equinox. Or, at least that’s how we convinced our guests to attend.

The real story behind what sparked the party theme was an evening several weeks prior to the party, when my ungrateful wretches darling offspring complained yet again about the exotic (to their middle school palates) meal I had once again served for dinner…which lead to them being treated to the following harangue serene clarification from moiself.

Do you know how lucky you are? You should be thankful we’re not…uh…a family of wolves. What if your father and I were wolves? Each night, after a long day of hunting, we’d return to the den, greet our pups – that’s YOU – with howls of, “We’re home – gather ’round, time to eat!” And then we’d serve you dinner by regurgitating the elk we’d eaten and partially digested.

Or what if we were…dung beetles, yeah! What if we were a family of dung beetles?  “Hey Mom, what are you making for dinner tonight?”  The answer would be the same, Every. Single. Time. “Good news, kids, it’s DUNG for dinner!”

 

While my kids counted their blessings I left the dinner table, scurried to my office and wrote myself a note about what would be the theme for our next dinner party. The rest is potluck party history.

 

 

 

Is this a great party or what?!

 

 

 

About a year or so ago MH heard someone tell a dung beetle joke – the first dung beetle joke MH had ever heard. Romantic fool that he is, he couldn’t wait to tell me about it. I was smiling the rest of the day, in awe of the joke’s masterful sublimity. I’m smiling right now, just to have this chance to share it with lucky y’all.

A dung beetle walks into a bar and asks the bartender, “Is this stool taken?”

 

 

 

The chicken doesn’t talk, either.

 

 

 

*   *   *

May you have many great remembrances of many friends;
May you appreciate culinary diversity in all forms;
May you tell me every dung beetle joke you hear, the moment after you hear them;
…and may the hijinks ensue.

Thanks for stopping by.  Au Vendredi!

*   *   *

 

 

[1]  I feel as if my retinas have been scarred. And it’s not like I was standing in line at the supermarket and caught a glimpse of a tabloid headline, and could then look away. I turned the page of a (formerly) respectable newspaper, and was ambushed.

[2] Answer: covered in manure.

[3] Foods of the “minor” cuisines, as defined by people’s familiarity with the cuisine and/or its availability in restaurants.  In other words, none of the usual suspects — French, Spanish, Chinese, Italian, Thai, Japanese, Indian, Mexican, German, Moroccan….  How about Gourmet Guyanan?  Savory Samoan?  Nouvelle Netherlands or Norwegian Noshes? Tasty Tibetan? Yummy Yemeni…?  

[4] White Trash Food was defined for the party as embarrassing comfort food. From the party invitation:  That is, food you (at one time) ate and even liked, but would hesitate to share with others. Are you ashamed to admit you loved your school cafeteria’s “Salmon Surprise?” Do you secretly crave your Aunt Erva’s liver/lima bean/cream cheese casserole, or have fond flashbacks re surviving college on Kraft Mac and/or Stouffer’s chicken pot pies?  This is your chance to share these goodies with others, in an atmosphere of mutual confession, acceptance, and acid reflux.

[5] Pupus, as in appetizers and “finger foods.” From the Hawaiian-derived term  pū-pū, which indicates a relish, appetizer, or hors d’oeuvre.

[6] Guests were asked to bring a Red Food dish to share.  There are the classics — Cajun red beans & rice; beet juice risotto; Red Hot Chili Pepper layer cake…. An imaginative interpretation of the theme was strongly encouraged, as we feared dining on nothing but cabernet and ketchup.