The Next Chapter

The urge to downsize, simplify, and consume less is upon me.

My accumulation days are over.

Janice brought a tiny calendar an insurance company had mailed her and held it up to the group.“Who can use this?” she asked.

Really? Is that her last remaining excess? I wondered. Good on ya.

We, in our 70s, are all preoccupied with our “stuff” — how to disperse it responsibly before we leave, how not to burden our children in their grief.

We talk about recycling properly. Does Got Junk haul everything straight to the landfill? How do we move through the world while using less packaging? We love and hate Costco for its bargains swaddled in layers of plastic.

PFAS. Microplastics. Do we microwave leftovers in glass now instead of Tupperware? Are our dishwashers slowly poisoning us?

After I made a spirited pitch for Huha Panties — comfortable and ostensibly healthy for whatever ails the vagina — Joanne announced that she now makes her own knickers. Then she showed us. Then I photographed her.

“Cost me two dollars a pair,” she said proudly. “And they fit me perfectly.”

“Save a penny, save a pound,” the Brits say.

We wonder why we need five T-shirts when one would do. We talk about Amazon returns ending up in landfills — or sold off in giant mystery bins you can buy sight unseen for a thousand dollars. Our throwaway culture horrifies us now.

We have become unlikely zealots in our 70s — thoughtful fashionistas devoted to repurposing, repairing, and upcycling.

                                         ***

At some point in every gathering comes the solemn accounting of friends, relatives, and acquaintances who have recently died.

In their 70s. Suddenly. Unexpectedly.

Shock. Disbelief.

Strokes, heart attacks, cancer — these seem to be the predominant exits. We all have stories to offer, anecdotes to trade. A chill moves through the room.

We are all susceptible to the same fate.

“She exercised, never smoked or drank, did all the right things…”

We too are doing all the right things. No one says it aloud, but we all understand: any one of us could go at any time.

This is new.

This is a 70s realization.

                       ***

Small luxuries come my way now, and I notice them.

The greatest is my bed, waiting for me at any hour of the day or night. When my energy wanes, I slip in for a half-hour recharge. If the day is open, I may stay for an hour. I stay up late if the mood strikes me or go to bed early and surrender to dreams instead. A catnap now replaces a 3 p.m. coffee, and my body thanks me for it. I can hear it.

If I feel chilled or achy, I draw a bath. Dinner can wait; the rules around here have relaxed. I lie in steamy water with a candle flickering nearby and let my mind wander. Sometimes I bring all my accoutrements — podcast, book, face mask, glass of wine, peanuts — and luxuriate shamelessly.

Exercise is no longer something rigidly scheduled on my calendar. Shall I do yoga? Swim? Walk? Or shall I skip a day and meet a friend at VanDusen Botanical Garden or linger over coffee instead? I feel like a child in a candy store.

                           ***

Then comes a day when my body and mind feel dull and unmotivated, not up for much. I feel fine enough — though my Protestant work ethic still niggles — but I tell myself it is perfectly acceptable to watch Netflix, read, and nibble away the day. Tomorrow will be different, I say, and it always is.

I no longer push through. My knuckles are never white.

My relationship with food has softened too. I eat what’s on offer and often choose celery sticks and carrots for lunch. Eating my first meal at noon suits my 70s body as I’m not out on the combine at dawn anymore. And if the stars align for bacon and eggs, I ask Yves to make me a plate and happily join him.

I eat what is before me. I stay somewhat mindful about portions and mostly avoid snacking between meals. I know gaining weight would make me uncomfortable. And when I overindulge, I let myself down from the cross.

I no longer count laps, steps, or calories. I stop when I’ve had enough and trust my inner monitors.

It is interesting that less discipline has made me more disciplined. Following my natural rhythms and trusting them has created a life gently suited to me — an individualized program designed by me, for me.

                       ***

I would like to say I no longer make assumptions or take things personally. That would not be true.

                 ***

As I slow down and notice more, my skin seems thinner somehow, and I feel slights more acutely. I hand out second chances easily enough and forgive — though not always forget — but I am less likely now to chase after someone, continue knocking, or be the first to suggest repair.

Perhaps it is simply about wanting less conflict and drama in the years I have left.

My friends are important to me, and I would not cut anyone off lightly. But neither will I sacrifice myself at their altar.

“Love me or leave me,” as the song goes.

I am in a new chapter now, rewriting the rules.