Entropy: Unavailability of a system’s thermal energy for conversion into mechanical work - the degree of disorder or randomness in the system; The lack of predictability; gradual decline into disorder
My body is in entropy. All bodies are in entropy, I suppose. Brakeless freight trains hurtling toward destruction. Only the universe expands into the void seemingly endlessly. My personal entropy has, of late, knocked loudly and insistently on the door I erected and bolted to ignore it and keep it at bay.
“Things fall apart; the center cannot hold,” said W.B. Yeats in 1920. We learned this about nature in Biology class, and about civilization in History. Nothing material lasts. Stars ex- or implode. Washing machines go on the blink. Automobiles go kaput. The celestial endings take place too far away to impact us personally except, perhaps, in a full color National Geographic spread. The more quotidian mechanical failures feel easier to fix or accept than when our own bodies betray us and begin to break down. However emotionally we are to a car, or even a pet, we may mourn its passing but can ultimately live without it.
Our own demises impact us most severely yet are the only ones we cannot grieve. We are intimately and overwhelmingly entangled with our own bodies so that it is unsurprising that we feel so emotional they begin to end.
I am, actuarially, a long way off from death, and I hope that all the healthy lifestyle choices I’ve made over the decades situate me at the far end of the grim reaper’s bell curve, but there’s no escaping it.
Time, gravity, genetic predilections, and my own stupidity remind me of that daily:
I have to ask my sons to read the snippets of Snapple cap wisdom to me because I’m too lazy to get up from the table to get one of a dozen pairs of inexpensive reading glasses I’ve peppered around the house, the car, and in all my tote bags. Despite the collection of handy readers, I still get caught out by a washing instruction label or ingredient list in impossibly miniscule print, frustrated by the hardening lens-induced presbyopia.
Nora Ephron felt bad about her neck in 2008; fifteen years later, I get it. Mine has adopted the guise of a turkey gullet, despite the generous application of Vitamin C, alpha hydroxy acid, retinol, and collagen- filled cremes with which I cajole it. I’ve given up fighting the gray at my temples and instead embrace it as silver.
Hairs grow in places they oughtn’t and refuse to show up for work where they should. My sparse eyebrows now require pencil and powder enhancements to register on the radar screen at all.
On a more functional/structural and less cosmetic level, a recent self- (or stupidity-) inflicted injury caused not only exquisite pain (https://dianelowman.substack.com/p/a-pain-in-the-ass), but limited my range of motion and curtailed normal activities significantly. Getting in and out of the car, sleeping, and showering became Mt. Everests rather than bucolic hillocks.
I’m not alone: friends and family report debilitating and limiting back pain, a slower than expected recovery from ACL surgery, a dissected ascending aorta, and various cancers, just to name a smattering. Not to mention the periodic Ebenezer Scrooge ghost- like visitations from random, amorphous, and annoying generalized aches and pains.
The superficial erosion of the facade doesn’t bother me so much; I never thought of myself as, nor placed much value on, external beauty. I accept that my modeling days are behind me. I cleave to the overused cliche that it’s what’s inside that counts most, and I hope my innards are robust and generous enough to compensate for graying locks and gobbler’s neck.
It’s the creeping decrepitude’s stealthy stealing of faculties both physical and mental that troubles me most. I am a strong, stubborn, independent woman who has been on her own for more years than with someone. I don’t like to need or ask for help and generally don’t relish other’s intrusive opinions (“You should just…” is the most efficient way to get me not to listen).
I want to be able to buy lightweight chairs and wedge them into and hoist them out of my car without incurring close to two months of blackout (initially) to mild (now) pain requiring meds, physical therapy, and a fragile gait.
I crave lying on my yoga mat in full reclined pigeon pose without feeling like someone thrust an epee into my hip socket. And I certainly do not want to wait another eight weeks until I can do so.
But as Mick Jagger so presciently told me many years ago, much to my dismay, “You can’t always get what you want. You get what you need.” Sometimes that may be a generous, strong Home Goods employee and/or neighbor to cajole the chairs in and out of the back seat. Sometimes it may be a badass walking stick to steady you.
Only pain allows us to fully appreciate pleasure and ease. Only the loss of ability allows us to relish agility. I know I won’t be around forever; no one should be. I’d just like to be able to dance gracefully out, cognizant of the steps I take on my own, before they sprinkle what’s left of me on the shores of Compo Beach and the banks of the River Avon.
You should just….oh, never mind.