Words I Didn’t Know Yesterday

Every day it seems I stumble upon a new word or phrase I’ve never heard of, like this one from a Dear Amy advice column: “I don’t want to recreationally hurt his feelings by telling him I’m not comfortable with him anymore. . .” Is she hurting his feelings on the pickleball court?  Hard to know. (Not only do I learn new words from Amy’s column, but I also learn about new social trends, like brides wanting everyone at the wedding to wear the same color. It’s a new world out there.)

Along with the world changing too fast—social media, polarized politics, a warming planet, increasing prices in food and gas, TV shows that don’t make sense to a 74-year-old, and new trends in weddings–is language, pushed by social media where everyday speech must be evolving at a dizzying pace.  I say “must” because I don’t follow most social media. I’m not on Snapchat or X. I assume the words and phrases I find in my daily New York Times or New Yorker originate on these platforms or somewhere equally obscure to me.

As someone who spent most of her life devoted to language—writing, editing and reading—I feel overwhelmed by all the new words and phrases but also intrigued. I learn about our changing world through new language; I discover what people are concerned or obsessed about. I love doomscrolling, because it so perfectly describes our obsession with reading bad news.

I thought quiet quitting referred to leaving a job without officially resigning, like not showing up for work one day. But I’ve since found out it means doing the minimum amount of work. I can sympathize with workers who feel estranged from their corporate employers that don’t care or respect them. And we’ve all been ghosted, even if we didn’t have the name for being dropped unknowingly from relationships.  

The first time someone sent me an LOL, I thought the person was sending lots of love, which was a little strange from a person I didn’t know well. Still, I was pleased that she liked me.  I probably sent a whole lot of love to acquaintances before I figured that one out, but I’m sure the world has since moved on with a whole new repertoire of words that I will use wrongly and make a fool of myself.  I have to pause and think when a form asks if I’m BIPOC or Cisgender or which pronouns I want.

What if I choose wrongly?  Could I accidentally identify myself as a cat-hating, pro-Estonian witch worshipper and then get doxed? Have my address made public, so cat lovers show up at my house and pelt it with cat poop? Or sneak my picture on Facebook wearing a witch’s hat? It’s so easy in this world now to accidentally post something offensive and provoke someone or a group that exposes—doxes—you in social media.  

Language has always been touchy. I remember, in the 1970s, a heated argument at the liberal newspaper where I worked about whether Black should be capitalized or not. In the following years black and African-American were generally accepted. But now language is speeding along at the rate of a new meme daily. It’s taken me a long time to comprehend that word. When a friend who doesn’t own a computer asked me to define meme, I could only give him a few examples that may or may not have been accurate.

But I felt like I was reading a foreign language when I read a recent article in the New York Times about an influencer (that’s a whole other topic):

At her first full-time job since leaving influencing, the erstwhile smoothie-bowl virtuoso . . .

Although I have no idea what a smoothie-bowl virtuoso is, I find it intriguing that the writer combined the archaic erstwhile (from the 1500s—I looked it up) with a modern (I assume) phrase, although, as far as I know, smoothie bowl might be equally archaic.

Should I try to learn these new phrases, or will they pass as quickly as the next meme?

. . . wellness culture, a warm-blooded mood board of Outdoor Voices workout sets, coconut oil and headstands.

Others dismissed the workshops as out of touch, even appropriative.

Even though I found a definition for mood board (a collage of various items, as scenic snapshots, song lyrics, and mementos, used to evoke a desired feeling, style, or ambience for a project or event, and often fashioned as a starting point from which to create an inspiration board), I don’t know what the Outdoor Voices are saying. I guess I’m just another victim of an aging brain.

And I can guess what “appropriative” refers to, but not to a phrase used in another article: adaptogenic latte, although I have to wonder if I accidentally drank one.

Others I admire, like the puff of ashwagandha:

Still, her post count never slipped. So it was a shock to her fans and haters alike when, in a puff of ashwagandha, she disappeared from posting in 2019.

And did she ever come back, perhaps in a puff of Reishi mushrooms?

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Waiting for Dementia

When I visit my neurologist’s office, the assistant walks behind me and tells me to turn right up ahead and then go the second room on the left, the one numbered 7. Sometimes she’ll have me get on the weight scale and tell me to read the numbers. Because most assistants in other doctors’ offices lead the way, I’ve concluded that my neurologist is measuring my cognitive abilities. So far, I’ve passed, but it feels like, at my age, I’m being constantly evaluated. One day I’ll turn right instead of left, and it’ll be all over.

When I fumble at the grocery stand, I get looks from the checkers, like: ah, another old person who doesn’t know how to use her credit card in our new machine. Or when I can’t instantly remember my phone number, I get a condescending but patient response: She must be losing it.  Or has she already lost it?

Maybe it’s paranoia. When you think you’re being observed, or you have a fear of Alzheimer’s, any mistake can lead you to the conclusion that you’re going down the dementia path. If I were 20 and misplaced my keys, I would laugh it off. But now, I second guess myself constantly— like when I can’t remember the name of someone. It’s a common complaint as we age, but it’s easy to attribute it to something serious.

Both my parents had dementia, and one of my family members was just diagnosed with early Alzheimer’s. Will I be next? In surveys, Americans fear dementia more than any other health scare: cancer, diabetes, heart attacks. Unlike cancer, there is no remedy for dementia, only medications that might slow its progression.

Maybe I fear dementia because I’ve seen it up close with my parents. I clearly remember the time I handed my mom her toothbrush, and she asked what she was supposed to do with it. Her dentist had told us her teeth were in bad shape, and we needed to make sure she was brushing. But obviously she had forgotten how to do it or even what a toothbrush was for.

Or the time we were getting ready for a potluck dinner at my niece’s. When I was growing up, my mom cooked extravagant meals for a family of nine. But now, in her mid-80s, she didn’t know how to cook green beans.

To avoid or slow the progression of dementia, doctors advise getting more exercise, abstaining from alcohol, eating the right foods and getting enough sleep. I’ve done all of that. But I’ve come to realize that the best thing is to stop worrying and anticipating something that may never happen. We all need to prepare ourselves for old age: making sure our will is up to date and that plans and wishes for the last stages of life are recorded and made known to our loved ones.

But beyond that, we need to enjoy life, especially as our days are numbered. Worrying is not useful and distracts us from enjoying the company of friends, from noticing the sunset, from hearing bird songs. That’s what brings us pleasure, and research shows that being happy also helps avoid dementia.

Enjoy this day, I tell myself. None of us knows how many we’ll have.

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Lessons From My Grandparents

When I was a young girl I would watch, with fascination, my great-grandfather eat his dinner. This German immigrant, who grew up in poverty and deprivation in central Europe, licked his plate so clean, as family members said, it didn’t need to be washed. Even in this new country, where food was plentiful, he wouldn’t waste one bit of precious food.

It’s occurred to me that I’m part of the last generation whose ancestors—both grandparents and great-grandparents —were part of a mass migration in the early 20th century from central Europe, spurred by poverty and a search for a new and more promising life.

The son-in-law of my great-grandfather, my German grandfather (above, with my grandmother), came to this country at the age of 16 with $15 in his pocket, leaving behind his family, including parents who he never saw again. I know little of his life in what was then the Austro-Hungarian Empire, except that his family were peasants who farmed common fields outside of town and kept domestic animals in the rear of their house. There was no indoor plumbing, and I imagine life was hard and food was scarce.

For reasons I don’t know, my grandfather was able to escape this harsh life and find work in the nearest town as an apprentice to a tool-and-die maker. Did his parents scrape together enough money to send him there? In any case, he was fortunate to have a skill that would get him a job in America, because otherwise he would have faced the same fate as his four brothers who were all killed in World War I.

And where did he find the money to board a ship to America, the land of promise in the early 20th century? Where did he find the courage to leave his family and embark on a solitary journey to a place he had only heard stories about? What teenager in this culture and time could do anything like that?

My grandfather was able to establish a thriving business in Chicago that provided enough money for his three sons, including my father, to support large Catholic families. He and my grandmother lived frugally in a small apartment; his only indulgence was cars. Yet they managed to set aside college funds for their 28 grandchildren.

Both sets of grandparents survived the economic depression of the 1930s, but even into the 1950s and 1960s, when food was more plentiful and life was easier, they never forgot the hard times. I remember going to my Czech grandmother’s house and finding bottles of small objects she had saved for another possible bout of hardship, including small pieces of string that could be tied together if needed.

Today, recent immigrants from Mexico and other Latin and South American countries who have experienced their own hardships can appreciate the wealth of this country. But succeeding generations of my family and others whose ancestors came from the old country have no contact with the old ways, with the old generation that survived World War I, the Depression and World War II, who lived so close to the bone and never took for granted an easy life.

Succeeding generations don’t know, or only know through their history books, their ancestors’ lives of deprivation. They are far removed from the lives of their great-great-grandparents. Their parents or grandparents might share the stories they know, but it’s like history—long ago and not that interesting.  

Thanks to my grandparents and their struggles to build stable lives, they were able to pass on the little wealth they had to their children and grandchildren. I’ve lived a comfortable life, with enough food to eat and always a roof over my head. And yet the whisper of my grandparents’ lives haunts me.

When I consider a new car or clothes, a friend will urge me on: You can afford it. But the ghost of my grandparents and great-grandparents won’t allow it. I know of their suffering and their lives of simplicity, of never living beyond their means, of their generosity in wanting to make sure the next generation was taken care of. In respect for my grandfather’s courageous journey to a new world and my grandparents’ frugal lives, I won’t allow myself to use the money that I inherited from them for anything frivolous.

In their honor and thanks to them, I live my life in moderation, owning the same car until it breaks down, wearing the same clothes until they’re unwearable, rejecting anything that seems unnecessary or extravagant. I think they would have been proud of me, just as I am proud of them—my ancestors who bravely endured hardships that most Americans can hardly imagine.

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