I entered my eighth decade recently, turning seventy. Nothing is that different except, well, there’s the increased intensity of the aching. And, well, the dying seems to be picking up speed—Sherry, Roberta, Sara, Frank, Darren.
Then there’s my feet. They’ve taken a hit. Once adorably small, now they are sea creatures, root vegetables. Bunions like barnacles bulge above the instep.
My toes are a haphazard family of midgets. Like goats, they nudge each other and ride up on each other. Such rude molestations. My big toes are bullies, big bullies. But, frankly, they’re innocent.
I’m also balding like a man. If I push my bangs back, there is nothing but a vast desert of scalp. My temples are absolutely naked.
Then there’s my hands. Veins like squat waterways web above the surface. And my fingers defy, resisting all direction. My pointers veer. My pinkies veer. My pointers lean into my middle fingers as if trying to talk them down from their rage.
At least I still have good biceps, the most youthful part of my body. Yes, I still lift, but only in the living room.
And the thing is, my muscles now bully me. Do you know what I mean? They cramp and jerk. At night I can feel them thinking about hard things, like fascism and cancer.
But the undersides of my biceps have given up. The musculature has turned into sacks, scantily filled—like unused backyard hammocks.
Overall, my skin is a pure linen dress after sitting all morning without smoothing my skirt.
At my fiftieth high school reunion, there was a wall of the dead. It was not a bulletin board; it was a wall. There was my fifth-grade best friend, my seventh-grade boyfriend, and the only Black girl in the school.
And Jackson Tokata, my high school’s first hippie. Jackson stole Marty Balin’s capo when Jefferson Airplane played at our school in 1967. I remember the principal wouldn’t even let us stand up for—let alone dance to—“White Rabbit,” even though everyone wanted to.
Swoon.
But one joyous thing about turning seventy—and it’s big—is that my skin finally let me move into its house. This is no doubt the plus side of the skin’s loss of elasticity.
For most of the past sixty years at least, I’ve been trying to live in my skin’s house, but I always had a leg or an arm sticking out or caught in the door. But then in August of last year, I got in.
I do love the color palette—all the reds and blues and purples. But there’s so much clutter in there. There are way too many dusty old habits and stale postures.
But I’m toasting. I’m toasting because I’m in. In my skin. For the win. I’ll clean it up later.
Leanne Grabel is a writer, illustrator, performer, and retired special education teacher. In love with mixing genres, Grabel has written and produced numerous spoken-word multimedia shows, including "The Lighter Side of Chronic Depression," "Anger: The Musical," and "The Little Poet." Her books include Lonesome & Very Quarrelsome Heroes, Flirtations, Brontosaurus, Badgirls, and Gold Shoes, a collection of graphic prose poems.
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Thank you Leanne for your clarity and honesty in revealing that I'm not alone in the astonishment of growing downhill, even though I'm finally comfortable in my old skin! Bravo!
rosiedwards | July 2023 | portland
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