Live to be 150?

           I’ve seen several articles on social media, about various scientists who think they can help mankind live to be 120, 130—even 150.  These people are all beaming, thrilled with their ingenious ways to do this.

          Some of them manipulate genes, even using worms with whom we apparently share genetic circuitry (yikes). Some speak of rewiring with a gene oscillator, mitochondria, and other paths which make these experts “very optimistic.”

          BUT… has anyone interviewed old people to see if they even want this?  There’s more to this adventure than merely extending good health. I took a casual survey and not one of my elderly friends wants to participate.

          They cite technology as one of the worst inventions ever—they can’t even turn on their TV or use their phones without a tutorial. Modern music is awful, young people have terrible manners, parents are too busy to raise polite children, everything costs too much, and all the shows and movies use gutter language. “The world is going to pot,” one said, and then added, “quite literally!”

          One thing the scientists never address is how these seniors will get by—  will people be eager to hire them?  And, if not, how will their money last that long? Or will our taxes pay for 50 years of extended living centers, meals, health care, and transportation?

          Most people in their golden years have already reached their goals, or given up on them. Should they plan what can literally be a second life? Soon we’ll have great-great-great grandparents, and who wants to invite that many relatives to Thanksgiving dinner?

          I’m not against medical progress. I just think we need to consider all the ramifications. Like Jeff Goldblum said in Jurassic Park, “… your scientists were so preoccupied with whether or not they could, that they didn’t stop to think if they should.”

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Let the Good Tans Roll

           This is the season when pale people everywhere try to get a tan. The palest of us try to spend time outdoors, but our dermatologists have warned us to slather our bodies with sunscreen, so we return as pasty as we started. Science can be a real party-pooper.

          We’re the ones who have to guard against skin cancer. I had a mole removed (turned out to be benign) from the back of my neck last week, and I told St. Bob he was now on Wound Watch. “It’s the same as Baywatch,” I said. “Except it stars old ladies.”

Some people get a spray tan. BUT… I tried this once and the brown mist gathered in my wrinkles and emphasized my crow’s feet.

Many of us rub tanning gel over our exposed parts, and this works until you exfoliate in the shower, and you have to start all over again.

            My only hope is that society will circle around, as it sometimes does, and worship pale skin again, like in those Victorian Era paintings. In those days, paleness meant you had a life of leisure, never needing to work outside in the blistering heat.

Today, a tan indicates the same thing—you have all kinds of free time to lie around and bake your body to a dark tan, while the rest of us are working away indoors.

You just never know when the whole world is going to flip a coin.

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JUST RIP IT OUT!

           Bold words, my friend. But I’m telling you, you can do this. Just rip out that useless lawn once and for all (No more mowing! No more guzzling all that water!) and replace it with flowers.

          Nobody picnics on their front lawn. Nobody just sits there, enjoying the greenery.  Nobody plays games on it. All this stuff happens in the back yard, or in a park. 

          It’s as if we’ve agreed to be sheep, and just follow the crowed without thinking. Everyone else has grass out front—we must have a lawn, too.

So, I did it. I hired some strong guys to take out the lawn.

          Then I covered the dirt with cardboard, then new soil, and then planted a design of new stuff.  A little purple here, a little yellow there, all perennials so I won’t have to replace them.

          I love berms, so I made a few mounds for variety. Granted, until they were covered with flowers, it looked like we’d lost one dog and two cats, and chose to bury them in front of the house.

          I put in a rock footpath so I can access each area if I want to trim or make a bouquet. We strung a drip system so everything gets watered. I added low-growing groundcovers which, when they’ve filled in enough, will hide all the empty spots.

          And… ta-da!  This lifts my heart. Every time I go outside, I smile. I see all the bees and butterflies having a ball, and I finally have the English (or French, whatever) cottage look I’ve wanted.

          Anybody want a mower?

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Give Mia Break!

           Oh, no. It’s another Lucy episode. I wish they’d stop filming these; I don’t even get paid.

          This time I was at the nail salon. I’ve been going there for years, where Ethan does my nails in 30 minutes flat. We usually chat, usually about his darling 4-year-old, Mia.

          Only this time, I saw a cooking show on his cell phone and we started talking about food and recipes. Before you can say, “The oven timer’s done,” he was finished, at which point I paid and made a new appointment.

          I was standing up to leave when I remembered his daughter and said, “Give Mia a hug.”

          He came around the table, squeezed my shoulders, and I left, puzzled.

          ONLY THEN DID I REALIZE THAT HE THOUGHT I SAID, “GIVE ME A HUG!”

          This is a DISASTER! Too mortified to even go back in and explain, I got in the car and peeled out, totally embarrassed. Yes, I know I should have handled it right then, but I didn’t.

          I went home and wailed to St. Bob.

          Ethan probably thinks I’ve turned into one of these flirty old women who snuggle up to men and wink at them. EWWW!

          Now I have to summon the courage to bring it up again when I go there next, and explain the misunderstanding. WHY DID HE HAVE TO NAME HIS KID MIA? THIS IS A CATASTROPHE JUST WAITING TO HAPPEN!

          Mama Mia.

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Bubble Heads?

           The other day, my buddy Cori and I were speculating about what it will be like in heaven.  I was telling her about all my joints that need replacing. Both knees and both hips. So far. Hypermobility does this to you.

            And I said, “What I also need is a neck replacement, but I can’t quite picture how they’d do that.” Maybe that's why you never hear about it.

We agreed that the next life would be pain free, and imagined me without a neck (and hence without a body) just bopping around as a free-floating head. I mean, I use it so much more than I use the rest of my body.

          In fact, there could be a whole area for this, where we just park our bodies and enter a special Head Zone where our heads are encased in clear bubbles. We could transport them anywhere we want to go.

          But no soccer players allowed.

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