Halfway Over the Hill
Celebrating Life with Humor
"I could not, at any age, be content to take my place in a corner by the fireside and simply look on." - Eleanor Roosevelt
"The secret of genius is to carry the spirit of the child into old age, which means never losing your enthusiasm." - Adolus Huxley
Editors: If you would like to carry Halfway Over the Hill in your publication, please contact Jena at 626-445-4566 or e-mail her at jball@thenatureofwriting.com discuss a price based on your distribution. |
About the Column
Unlike many of my friends, I didn’t find turning 50 upsetting so much as bemusing. “What,” I wondered, “was all the fuss about?” There I stood at the figurative crest of life with enough experience under my belt to look back on where I’d been with appreciation and forward with a bit of humility. “Life,” I concluded in a rare moment of introspection, “wasn’t always easy, but it was sure a heck of lot more interesting than the alternative.” In fact,” I concluded, as I began taking notes and jotting down ideas, “life could be downright entertaining and funny. Halfway Over the Hill is my attempt to capture life at its quirky best from the point of view of a 50-something journalist with time to kill. Within its pages you’ll find commentary on everything from tech savvy seniors to the health of the television industry. You’ll meet hairdressers and housewives, students and dentists, all going about the business of getting through their days. Throughout I’ve made a conscious effort to debunk the stereotypes that plague people of all ages (no not all seniors are senile, and not all teenagers are drug addicts), and to celebrate life with humor.
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Halfway Over the Hill
by
Jena Ball
Primetime Symptoms
Doesn’t it seem a little odd that you can’t turn on the TV between the hours of 7:00 and 11:00 p.m. without being bombarded by commercials for prescription drugs and expensive automobiles? To hear the drug companies tell it we’re a nation of overweight, undersexed, constipated, insomniacs who, when we’re not obsessing about our size, libidos, bowels, and sleep cycles spend all our time coping with heartburn, seasonal allergies, and clogged arteries. Naturally any one of these conditions is enough to raise your blood pressure or trigger severe depression, so they’ve got pills to relieve those symptoms as well.
The car companies aren’t much better. They’d like you to think that buying a pricey automobile with a shiny silver hood ornament, and a computer-controlled entertainment center built into the dash will solve all your problems. Picture yourself racing along picturesque back roads with a highly desirable member of the opposite sex sitting beside you, they urge. Or, for the more rugged types, who have always yearned to bounce through large ruts full of mud and haul loads of heavy equipment, they offer scenes of off road daring performed by sunburned, square-jawed cowboys who can downshift with the best of em. In reality, of course, anyone who purchases one of these vehicles will probably spend most of his or her time working overtime and sitting in rush hour traffic in order to make the monthly payments. And all that sitting is liable to elevate your cholesterol and give you a bad case of hemorrhoids to boot. That should make the drug companies happy. Do I sense a conspiracy here?
Part of my annoyance stems from the ways drugs and cars are peddled. Last night a chubby-cheeked older man sitting in a window seat of a plane glanced repeatedly at the lavatory’s “occupied” sign while the little jingle, “Gotta go, gotta go, gotta go right now,” played in the background. He was followed by two menacing black trucks that raced recklessly through steaming, empty warehouses, and a poor unsuspecting diner who instead of hearing the daily specials being recited by his waiter, was treated to a discourse on how acid reflux was going to eat away the lining of his esophagus.
Tonight, while my two friends and I were waiting for a movie to start, an attractive young woman in whites appeared on the screen and told us to “brace ourselves,” because she was going to talk about female plumbing. Beside me Sandra, who is a gynecological nurse, groaned. “Nothing like bringing your work home with you,” she muttered.
Next came a series of idyllic outdoor scenes filled with slow moving, dazed looking people whom we presumed had been taking the new anti-depressant the commercial was touting. The peaceful, nothing-to-worry-about voiceover informed us that, “Side effects include nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, excessive bleeding, and in some rare cases seizures and heart failure.” We all agreed that we’d rather take our chances with the depression.
To round out the evening’s entertainment we were treated to the sight of a sleek, silver sedan racing along empty mountain roads with the aurora borealis in the background.
“Well,” drawled Ellen on my right, “I’m gonna to have to rush right out and get me one of them thangs.”
“While you’re at it would you get the number of the driver?” said Sandra on my left. “He was kinda cute.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” laughed Ellen. “Anything you’d like me to get for you while I’m out Jena?”
“Yeah, can you pick me up some Pepto Bismal?” I asked. “I’m feeling a little nauseous.”
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Copyright 2003 by Jena Ball. All Rights Reserved.
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Halfway Over the Hill
by
Jena Ball
The Big Five O
Last week a friend of mine turned 50 and has been grieving ever since. Though I've tried to be sympathetic I have to admit that I just don't get it. At 50 years of age, she has a job she enjoys, a healthy bank account, a husband who likes to cook, and two great kids. She's neither overweight nor under-endowed, and is entitled to use a couple of fancy sounding letters after her name. In my book she's doing great, so naturally I thought we should celebrate. She, however, wanted to mourn.
I suggested cake and ice cream. She suggested cosmetic surgery. I looked at the laugh lines around her kind, gray eyes and wished I'd brought my sketchbook. She pushed and pulled at the skin of her face, trying to stretch out the creases, and discussed the pros and cons of Botox.
Defeated I left her to her fatalistic musings and went home to look at my own face in the mirror. If truth be told, I kind of like the faint shadows that have appeared beneath my eyes and the crevices that define the corners of my mouth. But then I'm a writer and we tend to see hollow cheeks, haggard lines, and weary eyes as merit badges. It's part of the image we try to cultivate, so maybe my opinion doesn't count.
Then I went to the store to pick up a loaf of bread and perused the magazine racks on the way through checkout. Within moments I was reminded that once you pass the age of 50 you disappear from the pages of popular media. Even the covers of the publications that cater to older readers feature photos of models in their twenties and thirties who obviously don't get enough to eat. No wonder my friend was feeling depressed. She just became invisible.
Personally, I'm relieved to have hit the point of no return. Hopelessly aged status means I no longer need to subscribe to women's magazines to keep up on the latest diets, exercise routines, or dating advice. This represents a significant savings in both time and money every month. Since I'm expected to be fat and flabby, I now feel free to dismiss telemarketers trying to sell me memberships to upscale health clubs with flip statements like, "Sorry, but at my age strenuous exercise isn't recommended." I can also justify the occasional cookie or two or three before bed because I no longer care what Jenny Craig thinks of my thighs.
I will admit that all the junk mail I've started to get urging me to buy cemetery plots, extra life insurance, and all manner of vitamins, minerals, herbs, generic drugs, and orthopedic supplies is a bit of a drag. But compared to the ad campaigns for make-up and dating services I used to receive, they're a piece of cake to ignore.
Finally, honesty compels me to confess that after years of trying to remake myself into the ever-changing model of an "attractive" woman, I've come to like myself at last. As audacious (some might even say arrogant) as that may sound, I know I've earned every color-challenged hair on my head and have no intention of washing the gray away. Nor am I interested in whitening my teeth, tucking my tummy, or sculpting my abs.
That said, I think what I'm going to do is give my friend a call and suggest dinner and a sappy movie. After all, there's nothing better than a Hollywood happy ending to put life in proper perspective.
Copyright 2003 by Jena Ball. All Rights Reserved.
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