October 5, 2006 Issue

Whoever it was who said that youth was wasted on the young, certainly got it right. Bette Davis is credited with saying getting old ain’t for sissies. Very very right.

In the prelapsarian days of my yesteryears, I tossed off minor ailments with nary a pause in my hectic schedule. I wouldn’t give a cold the time of day. Short of broken bones, illness rolled off my back. These days, the smallest of bacteria seem to find a good home in my body and settle in for a good long visit.

For almost two weeks, I’ve had this upper respiratory crud that will not leave. I have thrown both prescription and over the counter drugs at it, yet it persists. And I am not alone. Several other people have it and the one thing we all have in common is that none of us is young. Hmmm. In addition to the insult of difficult breathing and a 24-hour a day mucous factory, sleep is elusive because you are always coughing and blowing your nose. Kleenex stock prices have probably risen sharply, as I am going through them like water through a sluice.

In short, I feel ghastly and I apologize in advance for this column, which is not going to be up to my usual standard. I am having trouble thinking and I still haven’t found a place to live and I want to go to sleep and in general I am a mess.

Experiencing the small deteriorations of your body is almost like watching a movie unfold. Just what will the next scene be? Some scenes are bucolic and you wake, feeling like the day is one of endless possibilities and promise and you leap — OK, maybe not leap, but you would if you could — from bed happy to see what the day will bring. Other awakening scenes find you hurting everywhere and thinking seriously of not arising at all, which is not an option if you have a dog.

Mostly I know the experts are right. One’s life is supposed to be a combination of eating well, exercising, and hydrating. Why are those three simple elements so hard to achieve?

While I know that in general I would feel better if I simply planned some daily time for exercise, I don’t do it. I am so fortunate to be able to have a flexible schedule, you would think I would take 30 minutes a day and move my body around. I tell myself I will and then I don’t, even knowing I would be better off if I did. I don’t even try to rationalize my sloth anymore, which suggests acceptance of limited motion, a shortened life and feeling worse than you need to. There I am.

I suspect exercise has a mental component as well. On those days when you would happily lay down and die, I bet a regular exercise regimen would make those days fewer and farther between. Just speculation from the super sloth, but it would seem those with toned bodies have better mental health too. And of course, their immune systems are better, which means they slough off the kind of germs that have set up housekeeping in my chest.

I think I’m guilty of wallowing in my misery, but I can’t seem to help it. The only good thing about all of this is that food doesn’t interest me much, while all things liquid are fabulous elixirs. Now if I could just summon up enough energy to exercise, I might be onto something.
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For the first time ever, we stumped you on where to find The Dude. Don’t feel bad, I couldn’t find him either and I looked for days and days. Finally I swallowed my pride and asked the page designer to tell me where she put him and she did. Look inside to find the answer to this puzzle. And to all those who called with frustrated guesses, and the one person who was so close, (Marie Collie) keep trying.

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