Life is tough enough as we start to grow older. We lose things — not just the glasses that are sitting right on top of our heads, but things we can’t control or replace, like hearing, coordination, strength, hair, or bladder control.

But with the concern during the past 40 or 50 years over consumer protection — not to mention the manufacturers’ need to defend themselves against litigious consumers looking for ways to get rich from someone else’s insurance carrier — we seniors have been overlooked in one very frustrating area: accessibility.

Oh, yes, we have ramps and lifts and push-button door openers. Those are major helpers (when they work). But it’s the little things. When, for example, was the last time you tried to open the safety cap on a bottle of over-the-counter pain killers with your arthritic fingers?

There are no small children in my household any longer, but I sort of wish there were . . . because they’re the only ones who can actually open today’s supposedly child-proof containers. I have one bottle of hand lotion that must be three years old by now because I’ve never been able to get the plunger to pop up no matter how many times I turn it counter-clockwise, and I keep forgetting to ask someone to do it for me.

Yesterday, though, it was the Aspercreme roll-on — a wonderfully soothing analgesic for those generalized aches and pains that always accompany a rainy day (and almost every other day). They make a cream formula as well, but I prefer the roll-on because it’s less messy. So when mine ran dry, I grabbed the spare from the medicine cabinet, placed my thumb and forefinger on the indicated spots, pressed, twisted . . . and uttered an unrepeatable oath when all I accomplished was sending my right thumb into spasms of pain. Even my handy-dandy jar gripper didn’t help, and I had to wait for a younger, stronger family member to come home.

Do you younger folks have any idea how much we oldsters hate asking for help? Do you, really? You tell us you’re happy to do these little things for us, and most of the time you even mean it. But take it from me . . . it is humiliating and depressing to have to depend for the simplest tasks on the very people you once taught to walk, talk, and wipe their own backsides after going poo-poo.

And speaking of poo-poo . . .

We’ve all had those God-awful bouts of stomach flu, or just eaten a bad shrimp or one too many tacos from time to time. So when was the last time you tried to break into a pack of Imodium tablets?

The outer package is not the problem. It’s the hermetically-sealed, individual little segments inside the box that can’t possibly be breached with your bare hands.

Trust me: There is no way — when you’re already weak and debilitated from losing ten percent of your body weight after those three trips to the bathroom — that you have the strength or the determination to find a way into those little encapsulated caplets without first searching the house for a pair of shears.

But let’s say you’ve got some scissors handy. You carefully snip the plastic front and cardboard back — both of which are tough enough to have been used on the space shuttle — alongside the edge of the very tiny Imodium pill, and proceed to pry the tablet out of its embryonic home with a fingernail . . . only to watch the little white treasure pop loose and shoot halfway across the room, finally landing in a pile of dust bunnies under the bookcase where the vacuum cleaner hasn’t reach in years.

And as you curse the Imodium tablet, the packaging, the manufacturer, and your own misshapen fingers, your digestive system tells you to forget the pills for now because it’s time for another trip to the w.c.

*. *. *

I certainly understand the need for keeping dangerous products out of the reach of curious toddlers: those drain de-cloggers, toilet bowl cleaners, laundry detergents, medications, and all the other common household items that are hazardous, or potentially even deadly, in their little hands. (Of course, when my kids were little, and we didn’t have tamper-proof containers, we simply kept those items in a locked cabinet. But apparently that’s too much to ask of parents nowadays.)

So having help from manufacturers in protecting our children is a good thing. But pharmacies are thoughtful enough to offer the alternative of easy-open bottles for our prescription medications. Why can’t producers of other goods do the same: provide safety packaging for people with kids, and easy-access containers for those of us for whom life is already a little harder than it used to be?

Maybe I’ll start a crusade. But in the meantime, I just heard someone return home, and there’s that bottle of lotion that needs opening . . .

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
12/5/25