For those of you who are reading my blog for the first time, allow me to introduce myself. I am an American woman, retired, long since divorced, with two terrific middle-aged children, a grown grandson, two step-granddaughters, and even a step-great-granddaughter born just last month.

And I’m over 80. That’s years, not pounds . . . though I’m also well over 80 pounds, fortunately.

I had an excellent career in the legal field for most of my working life, and also branched out in later years into the international business arena, doing a couple of brief stints as an expatriate, first in Prague (1991) and then in Moscow (1993).

I’m fairly well educated, though I don’t have a string of initials after my name. I don’t need those; I have a sweatshirt that announces to the world: “That’s What I Do. I Read. And I Know Things.” And another that says: “I Am Silently Correcting Your Grammar.” I’m good with those.

I do have a couple of physical issues fairly typical of people in my age group. But, while I tend to take a few seconds longer to remember someone’s name or come up with the right . . . oh, what’s that word again? . . . yeah, despite whatever that is, my mental synapses are still firing pretty well for the most part.

So, what I’m saying is that I believe I’m quite capable of managing my own day-to-day activities. I must have been doing something right to have made it this far.

But, according to the internet, I’m f*cking stupid.

I keep running across these articles telling me that everything I’ve been doing for my entire life has been wrong. However, I beg to differ. You see, I really do read a lot. A whole lot. Not just books, but quite a few online news reports every day. And mixed in with the news is a boatload of other stuff — overblown ads, outright scams, and . . . my particular pet peeve . . . advice I never asked for, from people I don’t know, on subjects I was brought up to believe you shouldn’t discuss in polite company.

Yes, I know . . . times have changed. Things that were verboten a generation ago are perfectly acceptable now. But do I really need some self-appointed “expert” who is probably one-third my age telling me how many times a day I should go to the bathroom? Seriously — there are articles on how often I should pee, poop, bathe, brush my teeth, and wash my hair, and that I shouldn’t stick Q-Tips way into my inner ears. I think I’ve lived long enough to have figured that out by now. I’m not dehydrated, I’m not constipated, and I don’t smell bad. I’ve got this.

I saw an article yesterday — just the headline, actually, because I didn’t bother reading the whole thing — that professed to know how often I should change my bedsheets. Again, I’m over 80 and single; there’s nothing going on in there besides sleeping. I don’t perspire a lot. I don’t allow the dog or cat on my bed. I don’t eat in bed. I know when my sheets need to be changed: Not daily. Okay?

And do I really need some so-called “influencer” telling me what I should be wearing? I’ve lived with this body all my life. I know how tall or short I am, how slim or “curvy” I am, what my figure type is. I also know — after all of these decades of dressing myself — what looks good on me, what’s comfortable, and what suits my current lifestyle. I have a mirror; I can see myself, whereas you have never seen me. You have zero influence over me, so butt out.

And for God’s sake, don’t tell me how to arrange my closets, dresser drawers, or kitchen cabinets. Have you ever been to my house? Do you know how much space I have, or how much stuff has to be crammed into that space, or how high the shelves are? No, you don’t, because you and I have never met. And as for that woman — I forget her name now — who made a splash a few years ago by trying to sell people on the joys of decluttering and minimalism, I just want to say this: I like my stuff. I paid a lot of money for it. Much of it has sentimental value. My kids can get rid of it after I’m dead if they want to, but for now . . . hands off, lady.

By the way, to you health nuts out there . . . you diet diehards and exercise exponents . . . you can scratch me off your mailing lists too, please. I know there’s legitimate science behind some of your advice. But I didn’t get this old by living on fiber and probiotics. (Exactly what is a probiotic, by the way?) I grew up eating my grandmother’s and my mother’s old-fashioned, meat-and-potatoes, swimming-in-gravy cooking. And I have an incurable sweet tooth. At this stage of my life, if I want to eat pot roast with gravy and potato latkes with sour cream, and cap that off with half a pint of Haagen-Dazs, I’m going to do it. If I want an extra glass of wine or a shot of vodka, I’m not going to research this week’s wisdom on whether or not it’s good for my heart; I’m just going to have it. And all of your well-intentioned preaching isn’t gonna stop me. So I’ll only live for 94 years instead of 95. Big deal.

Now, I do know people who are totally into healthy eating, regular exercise, and even letting a “life coach” teach them how to be happier and more fulfilled. And they tell me they do feel better for all of that. To them, I say “Bravo! Good for you. I am genuinely thrilled for you.” And I mean it sincerely.

But it doesn’t work for me. I’m going to eat when I’m hungry, sleep when I’m sleepy, and go to the bathroom when Mother Nature tells me it’s time. So you exercise your right to free speech and keep publishing your articles if you wish; just know that I’ll be exercising my right to ignore you.

And now, that Haagen-Dazs in the freezer is calling my name.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
12/23/24