Brace yourself— we’re about to take a wild ride through the uncharted territory of turning 70. Hold on tight, shits about to get real.
Early Morning Insanity
It’s the ungodly hour of 4:30 AM, and I’m wide freakin’ awake. Why, you ask? Hell, if I know. Back when I had those two adorable munchkins standing over my bed at 5:30 each morning, all I yearned for was a lazy morning in bed. But now, when I could actually sleep in, my body decides it’s party time at the crack of dawn. The irony, right?
In my desperate attempt to cling to some semblance of sanity, I decided to kickstart the day while waiting for the sun to make its grand entrance. So, I brewed my coffee, nibbled on half an apple cut up in a bowl of 1/3 cup of Fiber One (I measure that down to the millimeter, Virgo style) with almond milk. This is my go-to breakfast when I’m not dabbling in intermittent fasting. My gastroenterologist swears by it. He claims 1/3 cup of Fiber One keeps your plumbing in order.
Normally, things in the “movement” department get sorted out (wink, wink) before I head out for my morning stroll. But today, impatience was my middle name. I wanted to hit the pavement before the sun became too intense. So, I slathered on sunscreen, donned my oversized hat, shades, AirPods, strapped on my fanny pack, and zoomed off to Coronado for a brisk walk on the boardwalk of the famous Del Coronado Hotel.
Inspiration in Headphones- Conquering 70
Today was all about conquering the mental hurdle of being 70. I needed some inspiration to figure out how to stop being squeamish about becoming 70 and focus on my rock-solid health. To get in the groove of embracing this new decade, I tuned into my new favorite podcast, “Wiser Than Me,” with the uproarious Julia Louis-Dreyfus. I mean, who better to guide us through life’s ups and downs, right? And her guest? The legendary Jane Fonda herself. I figured these two fierce ladies might help me tackle 70 with style, grace, humor, and a pinch of rebelliousness.
Jane shared some truly inspirational nuggets. She spoke about reassessing her life before her 60th birthday. She said she shifted her focus to finding happiness and great health for the next 30 years. She was hopeful she would reach 90. Well, Jane is 85 and still rockin’ it.
While listening to Jane and Julia, I realized that my fear of 70 was more of a mortality fear. In 20 years, I will be 90. That is not that far away. Yikes! The thought of maybe not being here one day is unfathomable to me. I realized that I have severe FOMO (fear of missing out). I understood why 70 was throwing me off, and a weird sense of relief washed over me. I continued to listen to Jane, who was dropping wisdom bombs left and right. At times, these two fabulous women had me laughing out loud. I began to have a lighter heart. Be sure not to miss this podcast!
The Urgent Predicament -Clutching onto Dignity
As I continued on my inspirational walk, a light drizzle made the air feel even more refreshing, and then it happened, out of the blue – my stomach rumbled. I thought nothing of it at first. But then, the urge was back! This time, it felt like a huge wave with an uncontrollable undertow. I needed to take a dump – now! A public bathroom was nowhere in sight. I thought about knocking on one of the private homes and asking to use their bathroom. But with my newfound self-love attitude, I assured myself that I could make it back to the Hotel Del. I tried to concentrate on the podcast, but one of my AirPods fell out, my hat went flying, and my keys tumbled from my fanny pack as I bent over. My sphincter was no longer under control.
I clenched for dear life, determined not to let chaos break loose. I pieced myself together and kept speed-walking as if I had a steel rod up my behind, all the while chanting, “You can do this, Ellen. You’re still young. Your sphincter is a fortress!” Finally, I reached the bathroom at the Del Coronado Hotel. Miraculously, it was empty. I had done it! I was sure that I had NOT crapped my pants. With a sense of triumph, I peeled off my new chocolate brown leggings… only to discover they were a sh*t-stained mess.
The Clean-Up Operation
I was covered in crap. It was at that moment I realized that I reeked. I was convinced the few people I passed had seen my epic poop-splattered leggings and caught a whiff of my misery. But, no time to dwell. I had to think fast. I grabbed the pitiful one-ply toilet paper (seriously, can we ban this stuff already?). It was clear that this flimsy excuse for TP wouldn’t cut it. My only option was to use the toilet seat covers hanging behind me. Thankfully, the dispenser was stocked. With wads of toilet seat covers in hand, I scrubbed myself clean while breaking into a sweat. Panic set in – I was sure a legion of microscopic bacteria had invaded my usually pristine lady bits and would result in a raging UTI. Panic set in as I realized I had to drive home in my pants, which were still damp and smelly!
My estrogen-fueled problem-solving skills kicked in, and I snatched another 20 toilet seat covers, meticulously stacking them one atop the other. Sheepishly, I marched to my car, all the while aware that if anyone spotted me doing this, they’d probably think I’d lost my marbles. Fortunately, it was 7 AM, and only a handful of early birds were out and about.
The toilet seat cover fortress worked like a charm. When I returned to my condo, there wasn’t a skid mark on the car seat – just on the toilet seat covers. I breathed a sigh of relief as I rode the elevator alone, fleeing it like it was on fire when it reached my floor. I bolted to the bathroom, shedding my soiled clothes. What a mess! My clothes went through the sanitizing cycle four times. I wanted to jump in with them, but instead, I hopped in the shower, unleashed a torrent of soap and hot water on my violated regions, and scrubbed until I was raw. I’ve never been this obsessed with cleanliness in my life. My nether regions were spotless like they’d never seen a day of action.
Seeking Sisterly Love
As I sank into my favorite chair, emotionally and physically drained, I reached out to my fellow sisters. I called my friend, who’s hitting 70 a week after me. Even though we’re miles apart now, we’ve been friends since our kids were in kindergarten together. After recounting my entire saga, she dropped this bomb: “Maybe it’s symbolic, Ellen. Age is just a number. You’re just a baby who’s still having accidents.”
Did I mention she’s a therapist? People actually pay her for this crap.
Gotta go now and pluck my chin hairs.
My Motto: Suffering in silence is OUT! Reaching out is IN!
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