Compression socks & other signs of aging

(1 min read) - Aging isn't all bad, just puffier than I planned.

For my 30^th birthday, I took a trip to Istanbul. I could go into the symbolism of standing between two continents during that transitional week of my life, or the wonderfully metaphorical hammam bath I had at the very historic Cağaloğlu (I’m convinced I haven’t been that clean since the day I was born) but that’s not what this is about.

On the flight there, I was 29 and in fine fettle. On the flight back, newly 30, I looked down to find my feet swollen like rising puff pastry in the oven. I couldn’t believe it.

As soon as I was back in town, I booked a distress appointment with my nutritionist, quietly hoping it wasn’t as bad as I feared. She nodded solemnly and spoke of edema, inflammation, poor circulation.

“It might not be a bad idea to consider compression socks for your next flight,” she said gently.

Sirens rang in my mind as she recommended brands she used personally, and I pretended to listen, locking the encounter away like a bad memory.

Now, a little more than a year later, as I prepare to fly again (I’m not a frequent flier, much to my dismay), I’m faced with a dilemma. Do I order a pair of compression socks, or find some elusive elixir that will turn back the clock and keep me perpetually 29?

I remember my parents pulling on compression socks before take-off. If they ever forgot, their legs would swell into tree-trunk-stumps by landing time. I’d poke their legs and giggle at the dents, never imagining a future where it would one day happen to me.

Then again, I never thought I’d see white hair sprouting from my head. Or I would peer at a screen with my glasses perched at the tip of my nose, head tilted back for focus. I never imagined I’d care how fresh a tomato really is or feel a little thrill at the sight of blooming broccoli.

Age seems to be creeping up softly, like dew gathering before dawn. One day, you’re a child full of dreams, and the next you need a nap after a heavy meal. You hear your mum’s words coming straight out of your mouth. You catch glimpses of her when you look in the mirror.

I know I still have a long way to go (theoretically). My father only lived fifteen more years from where I am today, and the thought of maybe surpassing that is one that meets me with hope and gratitude. How wonderful it would be to age. How I wish he did.

Lately, I’ve been thinking more about my childhood – connecting with the chubby little girl who loved to read, write, get lost in Disney and Bollywood movies, and pick up the newspaper to check out the obituaries. I don’t think as often about the woman I’m becoming, even though she might be doing exactly that with all the grace and unruly greys.

I am excited to meet her – even if I must buy compression socks to get there.