Dog Years

In response to the folks who read my last post and tried to convert my age in dog years to people years, there really isn't a simple linear equivalence. Dogs are sexually mature at six months to a year, which might correspond to human of about 13. They're physically mature at two or three years, comparable to a human in their late teens or early 20s. They're mentally mature at, well, don't hold your breath. For either species. A dog might start to show its age at 7 to 9 years, like a human who can start taking advantage of the senior discount at the movies.

But it's not that simple. While small dogs tend to mature faster and live longer than large dogs, the relationship between size or weight and longevity isn't linear, either. Some breeds typically live longer than others of similar size. It all depends. If you're really interested, and not just trying to guess how old I am, here is a pretty good summary.

My conversion algorithm is proprietary, based on an imaginary giant breed with a mature weight in the neighborhood of 150 pounds. Among other inherited tendencies, the breed is prone to skeletal problems due to its bizarre tendency to walk on its hind legs. Which is to say, I just made it up. Truly, I don't feel a day over 435.

Aside from the birthday thing I wouldn't usually give my age that much thought, had I not picked up a webcam to use to try out a hands-free mouse. Those things are brutal! (The webcam, I mean, not the hands-free mouse. The mouse is kind of remarkable, about which more another time.) Seriously, I have never been under the impression that I look like Charlize Theron and I'm totally OK with that, but one of the advantages of rarely confronting oneself in the mirror was being able to imagine that I was aging gracefully, you know, along the lines of a Jessica Tandy or Jane Goodall. According to my new webcam, this is not the case.

But for 443, I look pretty darn good.

Forever Young

Why don't you ever hear anybody lamenting the fact that middle age is wasted on the middle-aged?

I just finished reading Best Love, Rosie by Nuala O'Faolain, a wonderful Irish writer with the coolest name I've ever heard. It's about a woman trying to figure out middle age. Being about there myself, it got me thinking.

I remember being startled the first time I heard a woman my age refer to herself as middle-aged. Wait... she's the same age I am. If she's middle-aged, that would mean... Really? Middle-aged? Me? How can this be?

I still feel young, which is clearly at odds with reality, and getting odder all the time. People must think of me as old. I've got gray hair, and creaky joints. I'm quadri-frackin'-plegic, for criminy sake. But I still think of myself as young. When does the inside catch up with the outside? Does it ever?

I don't think I'm particularly phobic about the prospect of getting old. I don't agonize over every line and wrinkle. In fact, I can't remember when I last looked in a mirror. I don't dye my hair. I wish I could do a lot of things that I can no longer do, but that's more an MS thing than a getting old thing.

I remember my grandmother saying, in her Yiddish accent, 'I'm getting younger and younger, every day.' I never really knew what she meant by that.

I still don't.

Old Friends, Old Friends

Last week, out of the blue, I heard from an old friend. The sinister people who orchestrate high school reunions -- you know the type -- have been looking through Facebook, tracking down people who were in our high school class. Not that I have any interest in going to a high school reunion; I can't think of anything I'd like to do less. But we were both caught in their net. Jumper and I went to kindergarten together, sometime back in the early 1600s. We were pals through elementary and junior high school, drifted apart in high school, and I hadn't heard from her since. Turns out, for the past 13 years, we've lived about 10 miles from each other.

We spent part of Sunday enjoying a spectacular late summer afternoon in Seattle, trying to catch up on many decades of life happenings. This was enlivened by the dogs' discovery of a huge caterpillar-kind of thing sticking out from underneath the house. I mean huge -- it must've been 6 inches long, maybe an inch in diameter, pale green -- I've never seen anything like it, and the dogs clearly hadn't, either. Ex-biologist that I am, I would've liked to get a closer look at it, but it seemed kind of rude. Scarecrow finally tossed it over the fence. I still wonder what the heck it was. Anyway, Jumper grew up to be exactly the kind of person I would've expected, from the girl I knew. I would have liked her, even if we weren't already friends. I'm looking forward to seeing her again. There are so many things I didn't have time to ask.

Meeting people I haven't seen in a while can be awkward. It's obvious that something is up. I can't stand, or walk, or move my arms, or use my hands. I use a power chair the size of a small subdivision. It's not like you wouldn't notice. If one were to look on the bright side, I suppose it's easy to pick me out of a crowd.

It's hard to suggest something we might do. Meet for lunch? I don't think so. It must be pretty weird, watching someone who has to be fed. My problem, I know, not theirs; but there it is. Meet for drinks?  I dunno. There's something so not-cool about drinking beer, or wine, or single-malt scotch, with a straw. Not that I've ever been any shade of cool, but there it is. Drinks that normally come with straws usually also have skewers of fruit and little paper umbrellas. So not-me.

This is somehow not such a problem with people I'm meeting for the first time. This is who I am, deal with it. It's harder watching people I haven't seen for a while process the fact that I'm not the person they expected me to be. I find myself resorting to the phone (I hate talking on the phone, but at least I sound normal. Well, as normal as I ever did) or the Internet (you can be a dog on the Internet) rather than meeting in person. My problem, I know, not theirs; but there it is.

Still, it was kind of fun talking to a real person, in person. I should think about doing it more often.

Is That Me?

I don't spend a lot of time in front of a mirror. In fact, I don't spend any time in front of a mirror. All the mirrors in my house are at standing-up height, and I'm always sitting down. This is not an accident, or a failure of planning. I like it that way. It's no inconvenience; I don't wear makeup, I can't brush my own hair anymore, and I don't need to look in a mirror when I'm brushing my teeth. I can go for long periods without seeing my reflection.

So when I do happen to catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I'm always surprised. It takes me a moment to realize that I'm looking at myself. I'm neither particularly gorgeous, nor particularly hideous. Kind of average-looking, and I'm okay with that. The person in the mirror wears her surprisingly gray hair tied at the back of her neck, a style that does not particularly suit her long, narrow face.(Scarecrow willingly brushes my hair and ties it out of my way, but styling and blow drying would be asking a bit much.) She could stand to moisturize more. Her hands look particularly crippy -- bony and wasted, clenched into fists, covered with age-spotted elephant hide. They don't look like they're good for much. (They aren't. But I guess a little hand lotion wouldn't hurt, either.) And that chair! Or is it a tank? (It's a tank. A Permobile C300 power chair. I'm sitting on it, so I guess I forget what it looks like. But hey, it's basic black.) She looks like she was poured into it. Why doesn't she sit up a little straighter?

It must be like going to a high school reunion, and finding that everyone else sent their parents. (My 40th would be this year, if they were having one, which they aren't, and I were going, which I wouldn't.) One of my best buddies when I was a kid sent me a recent picture of herself. I was gobsmacked. She looks just like her mom.

It's kind of like that. Every time I look in a mirror. The crippy hands and the power chair I can blame on MS. I think the gray hair and general decrepitude is just gettin' old. I guess I could spend more time on my appearance (Correction: I could have Scarecrow spent more time on my appearance.) But I really don't give it much thought. It's not a problem as long as I don't look in a mirror.

Just, please, don't tell me I look like my mom.

Scarecrow just stuck his head in to tell me we have an appointment to apply for SSDI next Friday afternoon. I'm so looking forward to this. Really. It'll be fun.