Saturday, July 23, 2011

The Fountain of Youth

Baby Boomers, in general, do not enjoy aging. Though I refer to myself as a “gracefully aging Boomer”, there honestly isn’t a graceful thing about it. I hate the wrinkles and brown spots that have invaded my body. I cuss the aches and pains I feel each time I go from a sitting to a standing position. I do my best to cover the gray, and I visit my local Curves five times a week in an attempt to shed my love handles.  And it certainly doesn’t help that I have one of those tall, skinny boyfriends who doesn’t show his age.

I find myself squinting more and seeing less. I have to say, “Excuse me, can you repeat that?” more often than I like. I can no longer wear spikey heels and most of my tops hang loose as opposed to getting tucked in. I keep trying to hold back this freight train called aging, but it is picking up steam every day.
The average Boomer medicine cabinet is chock full of anti-aging products.  There are creams, lotions, and gels that profess to keep the skin smoother. There are capsules, liquids, tablets and green teas flush with anti-oxidants. Teeth whiteners, age spot removers, slenderizers, tenderizers and mending implements.  If you have seen it on an infomercial, chances are we have purchased it. It’s a billion dollar industry.

Put away your wallet, throw away the creams and get ready for some exciting news. I have learned the secret to feeling young. My honey and I discovered it quite by accident on a recent road trip. We found our fountain of youth in Bethlehem, PA, but there are hundreds of them dotted across the country.  They are easy to find, they are fun and you can get in for free. The minute you walk through the doors, you will instantly feel more youthful. They are called casinos.
You think I am kidding, but I swear the moment we walked into the Sands Casino in Bethlehem, we looked around, then looked at each other and said, “We are the youngest people in here.”  The men all appeared to be in uniform – plaid Bermuda shorts, strange colored golf shirts, white tube socks and athletic shoes with an orthopedic look to them. The women had beauty parlor hairdos, elastic-waist pants and gobs of brightly-colored, but tacky, jewelry. And lots of red lipstick. Some were in wheelchairs, while others dragged oxygen tanks behind them. I have yet to figure out how being in a room that allowed smoking was a good fit for them. They were seated at penny and nickel-slot machines, pressing buttons and pulling levers. The sad thing is, no one was smiling. They appeared almost zombie-like. Even when their slot machine rang up three cherries and erupted into the sounds of bells and clanking coins, they appeared motionless.

I am going to continue with my regimen of exercise, eating right and slathering anti-wrinkle creams on my face. I am going to continue to put up a fight against this freight train of aging. But when I get into a slump and need a boost to make me feel like I am not an old lady, I am gathering up my quarters and heading for the slot machines. Hey, we do whatever it takes.  

1 comment:

  1. You do realize that the boomers aren't the first generation to go through this. I don't worry about it.