What, Soap?

When my daughter turned thirty I received a phone call. 

You never told me I could expect grey hairs for my Birthday, she cried down the line.

 When she turned 40 the phone call was to tell me she had just found her first grey eyelash.

Bennie has announced this week that he will retire as age prevents him from performing his duties  effectively and we will soon be watching for smoke from the Vatican.

There are a lot of things about aging that nobody tells you.

We are a family that suffers from cramp and seem to need excessive amounts of salt in our diet. Good living purists and health freaks with whom I sometimes dine are appalled by the amount of white stuff that gets sprinkled across my dinner. 

Of late I’ve discovered that the cramps are far more frequently. 

I have imagined that I might have impending thrombosis, a cancer of some sort, some obscure tropical or African disease acquired in my travels and that both my legs would soon be in need of  amputation. I imagined what life would be like without my legs and whether I would be a good paraplegic and a potential Special Olympics contender. For a moment I envisaged myself as the South African  Blade Runner, but ’m glad that thought only lasted a second given his arrest in the last few days. 

In an effort at self diagnosis I have consulted Dr Google and learn that 70% of adults over 50 suffer nocturnal cramps. That figure was a surprise. 

And, it turns out my complaint can be treated with the simplest of remedies. I can have a spoon handy and place it on the offending cramp when it occurs; or I can sleep with a bar of soap under the sheets at the end of the bed. 

Since I don’t live in Ireland where playing with spoons is a mark of a good pub musician, the image of a mad woman continually tapping herself with an item of cutlery – particularly when required in public places - was just a bit beyond my eccentricities. 

So I have opted for the soap.

Instructions call for wrapping the soap in elastic bands and pinning it to the bedclothes so it doesn’t move. I’ve just stuck it under the bottom sheet and hoped for the best.  Mind you, I am worried that should I, by some sheer stroke of luck, or madness, happen upon an attractive and willing playmate, he will wonder what I am doing with an apparent urinal deodoriser in my bedclothes. Hopefully I will get enough notice of the impending event that I can whip away the soap bar before our passions overcome us and we are writhing around in ecstatic bliss.

…oops, where was I?

That’s right – the cramps.

So far the soap is working. 

I’ve been reading recently about the placebo effect and truth be told that may be what I am experiencing. Nevertheless, I am not now writhing about like I am having a fit when I awake or sitting bolt upright from slumber crying out in pain and frightening the neighbours. 

So whatever it is that is working, it’s working..

I’ve got options though should the remedy fail:

·       If the cramps return I am advised to throw out the soap and replace it with a new bar

·       I can decorate a spoon so that it looks like a fly swat and flip away at the cramps as they arise

·       Or, I can go back to reading Tom Stoppard who has already taught me that nothing is insoluble given a large enough plastic bag. 

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Art Work of the Week

 Some would call knitting Tea Cosies a habit that comes with aging.

Cool Running created after a conversation with the honey lady at the Tuggeranong Markets