From a member of the booming generation that’s still going strong – and I’m talking about me, don’t ya know – I bring you my latest blog addressing the essential question that may also arise for you in the workplace every ding-dong day:

AM I the oldest employee at work and, if that’s true, WHY am I still here?

Through my unofficial research that is holding a number of roles over a number of years, I’ve noted some things about things, namely, conversational subtext as it relates to aging. Here are the four indicators – represented by five slides – that you just may be the oldest employee at work with a not-so-bright – nor lengthy – future. 😂

😂For more har-hars, pithy asides, and all-in-fun observations ➡️Check out BANGS ‘N’ BOTOX. 💉✂️👩🦳

When I think of distinguishing walks the one that really stands out for me is Marilyn Monroe’s. As Jack Lemmon put it so aptly in the movie classic Some Like It Hot, she walked “like Jello on springs.”   

 I don’t know that I’ve ever been known for my uniquely come-hither walk, but it sure wasn’t the case this past year when I was launched involuntarily into “limper” status by virtue of a mysterious injury.

 My walk was less an aspirational Marilyn Monroe gelatinous glide and more of a Martin Crane—the Dad on Frasier—shuffle-hop-ball-change.  

It all started with a knee twinge that quickly became a chorus of pain, joined loudly by a crabby sciatic nerve, fused lower back, and throbbing hip. This meant I wasn’t high-kicking like a Rockette when I worked out, but rather low-legging like an injured show pony as I struggled to modify my moves.

(Fun fact: The Rockettes have been around for about a century. Non-fun fact: I was walking and moving as though I’d been around for about a century.) 

Because I lean more toward a “If I can feel it, then I can heal it” way of thinking, I’m loathe to seek out medical advice absent an emergency, but even I knew I needed to get myself into the ballpark of a diagnosis.

Off I went to visit my very nice MD, who arranged for an x-ray confirming something I’ve suspected for quite some time. I’m ageing. This was apparent when he noted quite a bit of arthritis had found its way into my body. The kicker? This finding had zero bearing on why I was having trouble weight bearing without pain.

Fresh from my non-diagnosis, I set forth to solve The Mystery of the Body That Became Its Own Island of Pain by taking the path never traveled. Because I worked out frequently and rigorously doing the same things every week, I would incorporate more variety and workout even more. After all, if you’re in pain from what you’re doing, doing more of it is the way to go with a side of variety.

Off I went to implement my easy-peasy treatment plan that included CrossFit, yoga, dance, boxing, and weightlifting followed by rolling around on a contraption that is, essentially, a rubber bed of nails. This ticked off all the “wide variety of fitness pursuits” boxes that would lead to my body healing. Wrong on the last part. Not only did this regimen result in even more aggravation of my points and parts, but it ticked off my sciatic nerve even more.

Now I was full-out Zombie limping. Look out, everyone! I’ve got a lit torch and I’m coming to your town next! Time was of the essence, lest I mirror neuron my way to permanent limper status.

[CUE SOUND: 60 Minutes stopwatch – tick, tick, tick, tick.]

 I crab walked over to my computer, entered my symptoms—the whole kit and caboodle—into the search engine that, coincidentally, also rhymes with kit and caboodle. It was there I learned oodles about body inflammation and how fascia works.

 It was clear I needed corrective bodywork stat, so I made an appointment with a practitioner of a practice that shall remain unnamed. We began with a crucial consultation. Translation: I handed her $200.00 and agreed to do that repeatedly for the foreseeable future.  

During one of our sessions she poured warm oil over my head as she gently reassured me she’d see me on the other side. (I hadn’t doubted it, until she said that.) Though the treatments were calming, my sciatic nerve didn’t get the memo because what waited for me on the other side was the extreme stinging sensation I limped in with. Plus, now I had an irrational fear of cooking oil that has made frying chicken very unpleasant.

 I soldiered on, looking for the holy grail of healing through all manner of treatments. This included numerous rounds of physical therapy, several stretching and strengthening classes, a multitude of many-flavored massage therapies, and some, “Did you light those needles on fire before inserting them?” acupuncture sessions.

 I was at my lowest, literally, because I was now hunched over Quasimodo style, looking for a bell to ring. I swear my face broke out too.

Just when this situation was on my last nerve, I had an epiphany. All I was doing was self-diagnosing myself into another circle of hell. (Dante anyone?)

 If I was rocking a physique that was now a big ‘ole Temple of Inflammation, wouldn’t it stand to reason all this poking, prodding, and manipulating was now part of the problem? Maybe I needed to—oh, what’s that word? It’s on the tip of my tongue. Rest! 

Perhaps the ticking clock I imagined hearing was telling me to slow the eff down.

So, I took a beat to relax. I forest bathed. I read. I meditated. I signed up for another three streaming services. I took time to recuperate. That’s when it happened. I got better. 

I now walk amongst the fully ambulatory, stable and fully recovered, which is more than I can say for my bank account. I do have one big takeaway from this experience that I’d like to share with you.

Acting as your own doctor can cost you almost as much as acting as your own lawyer. No joke.

[Warning! There are a number of numerical references throughout this column which may bring about ugly math class flashbacks. Use caution when reading.]

Fortunately, after 14,610 days, 6 hours, and… 38…39 minutes of marriage, my starter husband—who looks to be a finisher—and I still like each other. 

This is the case even after the life-changing event that occurred, slamming us together in unrelenting physical togetherness 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. (And, no, I’m not talking about the large worldwide event that rhymes with systemic.) 

The event to which I’m referring is…duhn, duhn, duhn…his retirement.

Yea, it has been approximately 755 days, 14 hours, and…12…13 minutes since my husband superannuated. While our union has not been without expectation, his retirement has taken it to a whole new “honey do” level.  

You see, initially, my significant other’s post-working-full-time plan consisted of focusing 100% on his music career rather than the previous 50/50 musician/social worker ratio he rocked—and, yes, rolled—for a few decades. 

While the man now has more gigs than you can shake a tambourine at, I feel his plan needs to include my honey do’s. Why? Because that 100% gigging seems to take up 25% of his time. 

I know this because I work full-time from home, so when I jog by his man cave on the way to my 3-second bio break he’s in the middle of a nap, watching golf or a combination thereof. Therefore, he has plenty of bandwidth for my daily specials. (That statement is actually excerpted from our conversation.) 

After our spirited discussion about “Honey Maybes” versus “Honey Do’s” we came to an understanding. But even I can admit my lists are daunting. There’s something else I can admit. They’re weird. 

While regular Honey Do Lists consist of household repairs or chores, mine are more—oh, what’s the word?—eclectic.

We begin every weekday—after all, I’m not a monster, my groom does need weekends off—with me creating a normal list. Even though I start with the most innocuous tasks, it spirals from there. I’ll show you what I mean. 

This is an actual list with actual instructions and commentary. I only provide the latter when needed, but you’ll notice “when needed” represents about 80% of my requests, give or take.  

1. Bury lizard. (You’ll find him laid out respectfully next to the bowlful of water on the indoor-outdoor turf where I found him submerged and non-responsive. Sidebar: We need more menthol-infused tissue.)

2. Change batteries in my magnifying mirror. (Note: It’s the 10x magnifying mirror on my dressing table, not the 5x magnifying wall mirror over the sink, nor the 25x magnifying pull-out mirror on the closet door.)

3. Artfully arrange new solar lights in the Yoga Hill garden area.

4. Untangle necklaces. (Remember: You’re in it to win it!)

5. Purchase lavender mint goat soap (Please…no substitutions.)

6. Cut the wrong-sized gel foot pad insert, so it fits into my purple trainers.

7. Water all sunflowers in the sunflower nursery. (Please sprinkle them with water as opposed to pressure washing them with the hose as though you’re removing paint from the side of a barn.) 

8. Check behind the greenhouse to see if there’s a snake. 

Update: It wasn’t a snake, but rather a very snaky-looking and stressed out lizard. Perhaps it was the brother of the RIP lizard for which we provided a beautiful species-friendly service. We can’t know for certain.

9. Locate stripy petunias like the ones I planted in the yellow and blue pots near the brick patio. (Please…no substitutions.)

10. Retrieve the purple plastic pitcher from the second branch of the peach tree. (Don’t ask.)

11. Find and purchase the melon drink I said I liked the other night when we were at that restaurant.

12. Remove wads of pine tree pitch from the bottom of my favorite flip flops. (Before you ask: I don’t know.)

13. Get my favorite shabby chic green vase off the kitchen shelf that faces the fridge. (I’m just asking: Might we stop placing this freaking thing on the highest shelf which makes me feel like I’m scaling Mt. Kilimanjaro when I try to retrieve it, both having the same potentially disastrous consequences for me? Signed, Your Sugar Mama.)

And in a stunningly thematic twist…

14. Buy local honey for allergy relief (Please…no substitutions.)

So, in conclusion…oh, no. Wait a minute. Is that a lizard the cat just brought into the house? Hold on, dear reader. 

I’m going to need to add this to my late-breaking, afternoon Honey Do List. 

“Determine the last known whereabouts of the lizard Mr. Snoodles brought into the house…” 

They’re impressive standing there all high, mighty…and alive. Wait, what am I talking about? My crop of sunflowers, of course.

From a $3.99 packet of organic sunflower skyscraper seeds grew an ensemble of healthy, smiling sunflowers rambunctiously waving in the wind, defying all the gardening odds when I’m the gardener.

How could I have known the low bar I’d set for even one of these exquisite pieces of flora to survive would flourish into a bounty of 25?

Their heliotropic little faces tracked the sun and my movements every day as I skipped amongst them, dribbling water from my shabby chic watering can into each little pot.

They began to feel less like plants and more like children to me. Can you say, anthropomorphism? Yeah, me neither. That’s why I’m writing it down.

I felt as though I was running a low maintenance daycare, rather than gardening. (Snack time is so much easier when your charges are heavily into photosynthesizing.)

Then, things changed, or rather grew. That meant I had to implement what I call “growing rounds.”

What began as a general plan to cultivate one of my all-time favorite flowers because of the happiness quotient they provide turned into the proverbial labor of love. No, really. Lots and lots of labor.

I had lovingly placed a scientifically significant number of seeds into small growing containers and, lo and behold, they actually grew. That meant I had to concoct an “on the fly” second phase growing round, which found me transplanting 25 seedlings into pots large enough for them to thrive.

There was one problem. Okay, there were numerous problems, but here are the top three.

1.   I didn’t have any large pots. Not a one.

2.   When I went to purchase them they were expensive as all get-out, and the 25 I needed quickly catapulted me right on out of my budget.

3.   Even if I were to take out a small loan and purchase the pricey pots I couldn’t find 25 large enough for my soon-to-be-soaring sunflowers.

So, I got creative. I found cheap plastic vessels that found their way onto my husband’s massive daily honey do list under the heading of, “You’ll finally get some use out of that cordless, now priceless, battery-operated screwdriver when you drill holes in these.”

(This is why husbands of writers often ask rhetorically, “Is there any way you can write this down in 6 words or less?”)

He commenced to drilling, and I commenced to replanting. We had our work cut out for us, but we did it. There they were – 25 lithe plants of promise standing tall in their new plastic homes.

It didn’t take long before I was speed walking around the yard watering these stalks of sunshine and realized they had already grown several inches. Like overnight. That’s when it dawned on me how tall these potentially towering homages to nature might get, were they to live to full maturity. Against all odds, it looked like they just might. This meant there would need to be a third phase growing round with another repotting and more drilling of holes.

Off I went to score even bigger – if not better – containers that would herald the final growing phase because, quite frankly, I just couldn’t handle any more phases. I was already three phases over my personal best in keeping so many plants-sprung-from-seeds alive. No biggie. I knew the drill, and my husband had one.

Then the birds came. Who knew birds love eating sunflowers, sunflowers being a particular delicacy of finches? Well, color me educated now because I witnessed them tearing – tearing! – those precious teardrop-shaped leaves with their sharp beaks. I felt as though they were tearing at my own limbs, it was so painful.

Can you say, mirror-touch synesthesia? Yeah, me neither. That’s why I’m writing that one down too. Although it usually relates to people, not plants.

Now I needed to launch a sunflower decoration program in the form of tying shiny ribbon on all 25 sunflowers. I sallied forth, determined to protect my adolescent plants.

Imagine my delight when birds attempted to land and then reacted by flying away immediately as if to say, “Uh-oh. This may not be a scarecrow, but I’m still feeling the scare part. I’m out!”

Then graduation day arrived. My sunflower daycare seedlings were all grown up and lined up. I was fondly looking upon 25 gorgeous Jack and the Beanstalk-sized stems topped by bright yellow faces, grinning out at me. I got to have five joyous days before a new problem came up. They were coming down. 

One by one they all began dipping their heads in what I at first mistakenly thought was a reverent bow to my mad growing chops. In point of fact they had too much weight at the top. Not an issue I’ve had in my own life, but I’m mildly sympathetic.

That’s when I launched the Sunflowers At the Greenhouse Always (SAGA) relocation program. I moved 24 sunflowers – don’t ask why there’s one less…it’s still too soon – near the greenhouse, where they could really lean in. I doubt Sheryl Sandberg had sunflowers in mind when she came up with that inspirational imperative, but it’s a phrase I use when encouraging my sunflowers.

I counseled every sunflower to rely upon the greenhouse and their neighbor for support. I then trusted in the (new) process, went in the house, and put a cold cloth on my head.   

As we speak, my precious collection of sunflowers remain upright, and they’re taller than the greenhouse roof. Forever may their sunlight-seeking heads wave.

Or at least for the next 6-12 days when their growing cycle ends.