New Products Not Made for Old Bodies

Is It Just Me, or have today's products driven old folks like me past our expiration dates?

First case in point: Toothpaste in a pump can. Wanting to save counter space near the bathroom sink, not long ago I bought a pump can of toothpaste gel that turns into foam when it hits your mouth. Perfect, I thought - that is, until I tried to use it. Almost immediately, I learned that repetitive strain injuries to my wrist and thumb, however slight they may be, made pushing the damn thing hard enough that getting anything out was not only painful, but virtually impossible. 

After two or three days of stuggling to get enough out to get my teeth clean, I gave up. What I wasn't willing to give up, though, was the toothpaste itself - after all, it wasn't cheap. Why not, I reasoned, pump all of it into a small container that had a tight lid, toss the pump can and dip my electric toothbrush into the container during my twice-a-day cleaning ritual?

That I did, taking frequent breaks from pushing the pump with the heel of my hand (at a not insignificant amount of physical discomfort). As I finally finished, I almost swelled with pride because I'd chosen exactly the right size container; the blue jelly mass filled it just enough to leave room for the lid. That evening, I said to myself, I'd be able to brush my teeth without pain shooting up my arm.

But pride goeth before a fall, and oh, what a difference a day makes. Did you know that apparently that gel stuff expands not only in your mouth, but when it hits air? Neither did I, and you guessed it: When I reached for the container to brush my teeth that night, one side of the lid had popped up and blue goo was all over the outside of the container.

Stubborn woman that I am (I'm an Aries, after all), I still wasn't about to lose all that expensive toothpaste. So I cleaned up the mess on the outside, scooped out enough gel to leave adequate headroom and slapped the lid back on. Mission accomplished (though I must admit that pushing hard enough to make that tight-fitting lid seal brings an agony all its own).

Thinking about repetitive strain injuries reminds me of another problem: After reading books on my Kindle as often as I do - it's not unusual for me to finish one over the course of two days depending on its length and my free time - it wasn't long before I started noticing a little pain and weakness in my thumb joint. Almost immediately, I suspected the right-hand push button that turns the Kindle pages might be the culprit - and a little online research revealed it's a relatively common malady called "Kindle thumb." 

Thankfully, that problem was solved when I received a Kindle Fire last Christmas. But that, too, didn't come without a bit of frustration; if I didn't remember to alternate fingertips when I tapped the screen to turn the pages, the one I used got a little bit sore. Solving that problem cost me about 12 bucks for a stylus, but now I'm waiting to see if I develop cramps from holding that in my fingers.

Don't even get me started on those "child-proof" push-and-twist containers that prescription drugs come in; especially when they're smaller than a couple of inches in diameter, it's impossible to get them open. But since I know I can ask my pharmacist for easy-to-open bottles, I'll give them a pass - in theory, they do offer a measure of safety to folks who have curious youngsters around.

But what about those foil-lined packs that require you to push the pills through to dispense one? That bleepin' foil must be industrial strength, because no matter how hard I push, the pill can't break through (or if it does, chances are it comes out in crumbles). It's so bad that I've resorted to keeping pairs of scissors in my purse and all over the house for just such occasions - having to fight for 20 minutes to get an Immodium out of the package when you need one (think in the bathroom in the middle of the night) isn't amusing in the least.

Then there's the can-opener challenge. I've had an electric model for years because my hands just aren't strong enough to use a manual version. But that doesn't help when I must open a large can, like the tomato juice I use as a slow-cooker base for chili or vegetable soup. They're too tall to fit under most electric can openers, so I've always grabbed a church key to punch a hole on opposite sides of the can, thus allowing what's inside to pour out easily.

No more. Can tops seem to have become punch resistant - and no regulation-size church key (the kind we use to use to open beer bottles) can make a dent. In fact - back when I had enough strength in my wrist - I've bent at least one almost in half trying to punch a hole that never did happen. My only resort was calling for reinforcement in the form of a husband, who sometimes - but not always - managed to get the job done.

Finally, I bought a monster church key - I swear it's a foot long and so tough Uri Geller would lose his mind trying to bend it. Now, at least most of the time, I'm able to get holes in the can tops that are big enough to allow the liquid inside to run out.

And so it goes; almost every week something new comes along that needs opening or closing that challenges my old body parts to their limits and beyond. Clearly, products today are designed only for the young.

Or Is It Just Me?

Home in My Beginning

Editor's note: This essay is written by guest blogger Joy Rector of Columbus, Ohio.

My father was the head of the family. "Is that still true of family life? The man of the house being the head of the family, the leader, the comfort, the strength?"

Those early years, the ones they call "formative," were more on the perfect side than any other part of my life. I want to paint a picture for you. Let’s see, what is the best part -- there were truly so many.

"Mom, what’s for dinner?" I yelled as I came in the door and tossed my books on the blue overstuffed sofa by the front room door. From the kitchen, she said, "Meat loaf and baked potatoes." I could just picture her in her crisply starched and ironed apron. I probably didn’t need to ask her what we were having if I had paid attention and sniffed the air a little more -- I would have known it was meatloaf. It’s aroma would have been just under the other aroma of baking apples.

Walking in the door that afternoon, and most others, the feeling of softness and warm comfort encircled me with each step through the open door. When I strolled through the dining room into the kitchen I saw that mom’s hair was still damp around the edges from her afternoon bath. Her clean and freshly ironed house dress, one-inch heels, fresh face powder and lipstick were signs that she was expecting my dad coming home any minute.

Mom said, "The plates are on the table -- will you put the silverware out?" I reached in the partitioned drawer where the silverware was kept. "Where are Sue and Carla?" I asked as I counted out six forks, six spoons and six knives. Our family was slightly extended from dad, mom, my sister and I to include my dad’s niece, Ginny, and her ten-year-old daughter, Carla. They had lived with us for about five years. Mom guided our daily activities while both Ginny and my dad were at work. "Carla is upstairs and Sue is in the back yard playing ball with Reggie," mom said. 

"We could put Reg on his leash and walk down to the bus stop to meet Ginny," I answered.

"Not now -- it’s to close to dinner and she should be on coming in the door any minute anyway," mom countered.

When I was putting the silver out, I glanced of the breakfast nook window and saw that dad was pulling the car into the garage. Dad worked two jobs. He was a city firefighter, on duty 24 hours and off duty for 48 hours and had a second job on his days off. That job changed from time to time, when he was a taxi driver, television repair person, meat cutter and cook in a fancy restaurant. In one of our family conversations he said, "I will always have a job to take care of my family. If it would mean digging ditches or flipping hamburgers, I will work."

In a few minutes, the back door slammed as dad came in with Sue and Reg following at his heels. At about the same time I heard the front door open and Ginny coming in too. Carla must have seen her coming as she watched out the upstairs window, because I could hear her running down the stairs.

"I’ll be right back -- I’m going to wash my hands and change my clothes," I shouted as I jogged from the breakfast nook. As I went through the living room I circled the coffee table, passed the bulky box enclosing the television set by the steps, turned at the twist in the stairs and went up the steps two at a time. About ten minutes later I raced back down the steps and joined everybody else, all of whom were heading in the same direction.

Dinner ready, and everybody was home from their activities, home for rest and family. It was time for dinner, time for conversation, catching up on each others days and bonding that would last a lifetime and beyond.