I recently visited my parents. My parents are in their 80’s. They’re beginning to get old.
When people start getting old, things just go wrong with the body. When you ask the doctor why these things are happening, the doctor will look at you and say, “You’re old.”
I find the fact my parents are getting old to be selfish on their part.
Because it’s making me into a hypochondriac.
My Mom is waiting to have her second knee surgery. Due to this fact, I’m constantly imagining knee issues that I don’t actually have. Sometimes I run with a knee brace because my mom’s knee is hurting her. It makes no sense except it kind of does. If you don’t think hard.
My Dad had red lines on his arm that have since gone away but appear on my arm when I’m tired, emotional, and wearing a knee brace.
It also doesn’t help that whenever we drive by a funeral home, my Mom points out it’s a funeral home and whether or not it’s the one that my parents have purchased a burial program from. I know where all of the funeral homes in Riverton, Utah are. It’s a bit of trivia that’s fun for dinner parties.
The whole thing is freaking me out. And I’m too young to freak out.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get up and move around for a moment. My back is stiff from sitting in the same position for too long.
So this weekend I found myself in long johns under clothes under ski pants and a heavy winter coat with a ski mask and a hat, wool socks, heavy gloves, hand warmers and goggles sitting on a moving chair twenty feet above the ground with long, thin boards strapped to my feet feeling every centimeter of skin not covered in the 5 F degree weather.
The moving chair was taking me to the top of a mountain with no way of getting down it except sliding down. And I kept doing it. For three days.
(I want to take this time to personally apologize to my thighs for not doing enough squats before this weekend. My thighs have complained and I have heard them. I am doing a Jillian Michaels workout tomorrow. I’m pretty sure.)
When you think about it, skiing is insane. People get injured all the time and the highlight of my ski days is the hot chocolate. Midway through the day, I loosen my boots, warm up, drink hot chocolate and then go back out.
I actually enjoy this.
And I force my children to do it.
I know, my son looks completely tortured because I force him to ski.
I blame my Nordic Heritage. And my parents. They gave me that heritage. (Although, I may have been switched at birth and my actual parents live in the Bahamas; a secret redheaded Nordic settlement on Nassau.)
I’m at my parents for Thanksgiving. My kids like visiting because it’s their grandparents and because there is so much to do in Utah. 5 minutes from the house is an indoor waterslide community pool we go to every other day while here. I try and do laps part of the time until I realize that I don’t really know how to swim and get embarrassed.
I like visiting because my mom takes complete control. I don’t cook or do laundry. On the last day there, I clean the sheets and the bathroom, but the rest of the time, I can do nothing. (I even go home with all the clothes clean.) It used to bother me because I was the youngest and I thought this treatment meant I didn’t know how to do anything. Now, I don’t care if that’s what this treatment means because I don’t have to DO anything.
However, Thanksgiving comes and I can get some flack (from siblings who do not know how to milk the system) for not contributing to the meal. Nevermind that I drove 8 hours to attend, but everyone else brings something and if I don’t, comments are made. Alas, I’m staying at my mom’s. So I could buy all the ingredients for the green bean casserole, but by the time I awoke on Thanksgiving, it would be made. I could buy rhodes rolls and put them out to rise but mom would put them in the oven.
So tomorrow I’m buying some rolls some other people made and I think I’ll make a pie. But my mom will probably bake it.