I was six years old when I heard Rosemary Clooney belting out "This Ole House."
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lNgOUxtOUNQ I thought it was wonderful. An esoteric, humorous idea that could never happen to me because my father had built us a brand new house.
This ole House is feeling creaky, this ole house is getting old.
This ole house lets in the wind, this old house lets in the cold.
Bette Midler sings a new version that lacks the guts of the original, or the soul of Tennessee Ernie Ford, but when is a cover song ever as good as the original? It’s an
I never thought that one day that ole house would be a metaphor for my body.
I realized it last week while I was on my therapeutic masseuse’s table, being kneaded and elbowed. Every week I return to endure her torture, and every time, I rise more buoyant than the week before.
She’s also a life coach and she tries to sneak in suggestions, but I’m never sure an unmarried girl in her 20s has answers for my life. Well, maybe a few. At her suggestion I added shea butter to my skin regimen, mixed with a few drops of essential oil. And there’s the homework. Every week I have a couple of take-away changes that I implement.
But—really! Comparing my aging body to an old house? If my husband dared make the comparison he would be in trouble.
But think about it—pipes get rusty. They wear out and leak. Screws get loose. Snow on the roof and all that it implies. Wood gets dry and squeaks. Doors and windows get tight and need a little lubrication. Heating and cooling problems. Faded paint. Couldn’t the list just go on and on?
My masseuse would agree.