Talkin' to Myself

I found myself humming The Carpenters' "Rainy Days and Mondays" the other morning while struggling to open a jar of pickles. You know the line I mean, the one that sometimes feels like a whisper in our ear:

“Talkin’ to myself and feelin’ old Sometimes I’d like to quit Nothin’ ever seems to fit”

That last line, “Nothin’ ever seems to fit.” It’s a feeling I think many of us experience, a kind of existential low hum that accompanies this new chapter of life.

The Things We Took For Granted

No one really prepares you for the sheer volume of changes that arrive once the main act of raising a family or building a career winds down. It’s not just the big stuff; it’s the quiet erosion of the easy things.

The sudden, baffling difficulty of simple, physical tasks: twisting a lid, wrestling with a manual can opener, or simply reaching for that top shelf item. These are things we never registered as "effort," and now they demand focus, strategy, and sometimes, a little huff of frustration.

Then there are the aches and pains that arrive unannounced and take up permanent residence—the ones we can’t quite explain and certainly didn't sign up for.

The Weight of Loss and Transition

The physical changes are one thing, but the emotional landscape is another entirely. Getting older involves a profound amount of loss and shifting.

Our children are grown and gone, creating quiet houses and changing family dynamics.

We've downsized, or we're contemplating it, which means letting go of a space that held a lifetime of memories.

We miss the family we don't see as frequently.

We grieve the friendships that faded, either through death or simply growing apart due to distance or different paths.

This accumulation of changes, transitions, and genuine loss can leave us feeling adrift, like a boat whose anchor has been lifted. Sometimes, we just feel lost.

The Flow of the Creek

For a long time, my instinct was to block these feelings—to power through, to pretend they didn't exist. That never worked. It just created a dam, and the pressure built up until I felt truly overwhelmed.

What I've learned is that the only way through the emotions is acknowledgment.

Now, when those feelings of sadness, isolation, or loss surface, I stop and take a moment. I sit with them. I picture a creek flowing over stones. I gently place the acknowledged emotion—the sadness over a lost friend, the loneliness in an empty room—into the creek water, and I watch it flow by. It’s not about fixing it or stopping it; it’s about giving it passage.

Finding the Forward Motion

Acknowledging the emotional doesn't mean ignoring the physical. Instead of lamenting the things I can no longer do easily, I'm trying to pivot toward finding assistance and strength.

I search for ways to build back strength where I can, finding small exercises that help with balance or grip. I look for better tools—a quality electric can opener, a clever jar opener—to remove unnecessary daily frustration. And for the aches and pains, I am seeking help, researching what can be done, and learning how to manage this new body I live in.

This isn't about being "perky" or subscribing to some cheerful, airbrushed ideal of aging. It's about being real. It’s about accepting the transition, feeling the feelings, and then, finding the genuine, grounded ways to deal with the physical challenges so we can keep our feet firmly on the path forward.

Because while some days feel like "Rainy Days and Mondays," we still have a lot of life to live. And if we can talk about the messy, real parts honestly, we can certainly rock on.

Marge Farrington OWRO 11/8. 2025