What's going on? Age, they'll tell me — that's the answer to everything I question, whether it's physical or mental. Age is always the answer.
Why is my hair falling out? Age.
What about my eyebrows? I used to have a complete set, and now I only have the first half of each and I have to pencil in the second half. And trying to get them to match is no easy task. Sometimes I ace it on the first try. Sometimes one is much darker than the other, so I have to wipe that one off and try again, and because I wiped it so hard, I pull out a few of the treasured hairs I've got left. Plus, the skin all around it is bright red, and how am I supposed to work with that situation?
I'm late for things and people think I might have overslept, but no, I've been up since dawn trying to get my eyebrows on correctly. Besides sometimes getting one darker than the other, another hazard to wrestle with is getting them where they belong. It isn't always easy. If you make a mistake on one and make it a little higher than where it naturally belongs, then you're stuck with trying to get the other one to be on the same plane, but you risk ending up like Emmett Kelly without the big red nose.
Why is my memory not so, to put it into scientific terms, hotsy-totsy? That one I know: age. At least I think I know, but sometimes I forget.
I know about liver spots, wrinkled skin, and the loss of elasticity. That's easy. And where did this stomach come from? I've suddenly got this belly, although my weight hasn’t changed in years. I used to have more of a rear than I have now, so I suppose whatever I had in back meandered to the front. Why? Age. Perhaps long-sleeved caftans will come back in style.
Everything I eat gets caught in my teeth. When I was a kid, the only thing that stuck was Oreo cookies, but now I could have an afternoon snack with all the colorful detritus clinging to my enamel. So that means either I have to excuse myself from the table and go to the bathroom to pick or floss, or sit there talking and laughing with my mouth closed. Not easy.
And what's with my posture? Yesterday I was going to be a ballerina and today I slouch. Is that age?
Then there are my legs. Name a color, it's there. Purple veins, blue veins, brown spots, red patches, green bruises: a palette for Jackson Pollock. I see these young women in their summer dresses and am taken aback when I notice that their legs are all one color. Wow, I think, that looks nice! And then I remember that it's called youth.
Let's hear it for leg cramps! Age.
But the newest wrinkle is that now I find that I'm talking to myself, out loud, in public. I never did that before. Age. Really? I don't get it. I walk around town talking out loud and cracking myself up because I can be funny with me. So here's this woman, trying to find her car in the large parking lot in the village, talking and laughing and having a grand time, and no one's there with her. I sing, too — songs from movies, from shows, love songs, all out loud. Every once in a while, I catch myself and I admonish myself. "Think it! Don't say it! Think it, don't say it!" But that only lasts a couple of minutes and soon I'm right back at it.
"Oh damn! I forgot to stop at Jack's! Okay, stay calm, you'll go to Starbucks today for coffee. No big deal." Do passers-by need to know this? My only hope is that someone hearing me might think I'm on the phone — you know, the kind where the wires don't show.
Another beauty: I'm walking down the street on a perfectly beautiful day, feeling on top of the world, when tears begin to stream down my face and splash onto my chest. And of course, once the eyes start, the nose follows. And it's not as if there's any feeling of having to blow my nose; no, it's as if some hidden hand has turned on the nasal faucet and water just flows out, unbidden. I'm never without a wad of Kleenex, but sometimes I can't access them quickly enough. I've dripped on some pretty nice floors, tables, and of course, myself. It's a look. Some people who see me look at me with a furrowed brow and give me a concerned look, while others turn away in disgust with a look that says, "You shouldn't have left the house today, lady!" It's a fun condition. I asked my eye doctor what causes it and was told it's called dry eye, and that it comes with age. I could have guessed that.
You know what else? This is a good one: I veer. I'm walking straight down the sidewalk and all of a sudden, I find myself heading for the curb. You have to love it. There's the occasional stumble as well — very amusing. There was a time when I'd race down the street in stilettos, and now I find myself walking slowly, looking down for fear of potholes. Why is that? Didn't they have potholes back then? And what about stairs? I used to bound upstairs and now I lumber. Age. I stagger, I list, I stumble and lurch. I've got to get back to the gym.
—
Leah Sklar, a resident of East Hampton since 1973, has been a writer and visual artist all her life. She is the author of a memoir and numerous short stories and is currently working on a collection of essays. In addition to being a real estate broker Ms. Sklar is also a traveler, with many cherished stamps in her passport.