There are still many simple pleasures in our seventh decade. The other day I had lunch followed by delightful shopping with a long-time friend. We first met when we were both back-to-college moms—I thought I might be the only older student there, and she probably thought the same. Then we were seated next to each other during a break one day and revealed our backgrounds. She had a daughter about 12 or so, a year older than one of mine. Since then, through the years, we’ve met for dinner or lunch occasionally. But our hectic schedules were out of sync, and months—years—would pass without any contact.
We connected again on Facebook (it does have its advantages), and started making plans to get together. She’s newly retired, and I’m semi-retired, so we felt like ladies of leisure when we met recently to have a slow-paced meal with more chatting than eating. Since my next “obligation” was a 3:00 hair appointment, I had time to show her my favorite shops, and we commiserated over all the expensive things we’d like to buy if only we could count on the stock market keeping our retirement funds intact. (Insert laughter here.)
We found it hard to believe that it was over 35 years ago since we were both wondering if we could blend into academic life after seeing our girls through their early years. Now, it’s as if we got reacquainted as very different people. We’re now grandmothers, we’ve pretty much run out of the energy we had when we were in our 30s and 40s. But with that energy also came some very low lows—tying our fragile self-esteem to what others did or said to us.
We’re not completely self-assured now. But we are comfortable. Sure, we commiserate over eyelashes that are getting skimpy, bags under our eyes that are getting baggier, and having to make that dreaded call to Medicare—the one in which you’re shouting into the phone “Enroll in Part B!” and the automatic system starts running a long spiel about Part D. But we’re also relaxed and happy that our daily commuting and work stress are behind us.
I wish I could end this with a funny line or twist, but I’m still basking in the glow of friendships—old and new.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Saturday, July 3, 2010
Under the big top
Have you noticed the tops that are fashionable now, the ones that billow out below the bustline—sort of like maternity wear of yore? Some even have those cute puffy sleeves like my old maternity tops. The availability of these styles is good news and bad news and good news:
The good news is that the loose, flowing fabric can cover a multitude of your ingestive sins, such as the bag of pita chips that disappeared while you were watching “The Good Wife.”
The bad news is that, unless you sport a perfectly flat belly, these loose-across the stomach styles can make you look pregnant.
The good news is that if anyone mistakenly asks you, “When are you due?” you can bask in the glory of knowing that at least one person on Earth thinks you may be young enough to actually get pregnant. This poor misguided soul thinks you haven’t gone through menopause yet.
My own reason for wearing one of these tops is that I’ve been enjoying food too much these past few months. While a hearty appetite can be a sign of good physical and mental health, my jeans and cropped pants don’t agree. In protest, they pinch and strain, displaying a more rounded belly than I remember seeing last year. My only recourse is to wear the big top that flowingly covers my bulge. And bravely risk looking pregnant.
The good news is that the loose, flowing fabric can cover a multitude of your ingestive sins, such as the bag of pita chips that disappeared while you were watching “The Good Wife.”
The bad news is that, unless you sport a perfectly flat belly, these loose-across the stomach styles can make you look pregnant.
The good news is that if anyone mistakenly asks you, “When are you due?” you can bask in the glory of knowing that at least one person on Earth thinks you may be young enough to actually get pregnant. This poor misguided soul thinks you haven’t gone through menopause yet.
My own reason for wearing one of these tops is that I’ve been enjoying food too much these past few months. While a hearty appetite can be a sign of good physical and mental health, my jeans and cropped pants don’t agree. In protest, they pinch and strain, displaying a more rounded belly than I remember seeing last year. My only recourse is to wear the big top that flowingly covers my bulge. And bravely risk looking pregnant.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Beam me up, please
You know those exercises described step-by-step in magazine articles? For those over sixty, a vital step may be missing from the instructions:
Step 1. Get down on your hands and knees.
Step 2. Straighten your left leg.
Step 3. While straightening your left leg, raise your right arm.
Step 4. Hold for six seconds, lower, and repeat 10 times.
What’s missing? Step 5, telling you how to get up, sub-step by sub-step. For example:
Step 5a. Look around you to see if anyone is watching. (That is, anyone who would make fun of you while you struggle to get back to a standing position.) Alternative Step 5a: Look around you to see if anyone with a kind, understanding demeanor can help you if you are unable to follow the next sub-steps.)
Step 5b. If the coast is clear, press down hard on your hands in an attempt to boost yourself up. Try to squelch the “Ooph” and “Oy” and “Arghh” that will involuntarily escape from your voicebox.
Step 5c. Move your left leg from the kneeling position and place that foot firmly on the floor.
Step 5d. Look around again to make sure nobody is watching this. Be especially vigilant for anyone holding a digital video camera or cell phone—and who knows how to post on You Tube.
Step 5e. Placing all your weight on both hands and your left foot, and using all the strength you have left, elevate yourself to a standing position. Try not to stagger once you’re upright.
Step 5f. Vow to stick to walking and lifting 3-pound weights (from a standing position) ever after.
Step 1. Get down on your hands and knees.
Step 2. Straighten your left leg.
Step 3. While straightening your left leg, raise your right arm.
Step 4. Hold for six seconds, lower, and repeat 10 times.
What’s missing? Step 5, telling you how to get up, sub-step by sub-step. For example:
Step 5a. Look around you to see if anyone is watching. (That is, anyone who would make fun of you while you struggle to get back to a standing position.) Alternative Step 5a: Look around you to see if anyone with a kind, understanding demeanor can help you if you are unable to follow the next sub-steps.)
Step 5b. If the coast is clear, press down hard on your hands in an attempt to boost yourself up. Try to squelch the “Ooph” and “Oy” and “Arghh” that will involuntarily escape from your voicebox.
Step 5c. Move your left leg from the kneeling position and place that foot firmly on the floor.
Step 5d. Look around again to make sure nobody is watching this. Be especially vigilant for anyone holding a digital video camera or cell phone—and who knows how to post on You Tube.
Step 5e. Placing all your weight on both hands and your left foot, and using all the strength you have left, elevate yourself to a standing position. Try not to stagger once you’re upright.
Step 5f. Vow to stick to walking and lifting 3-pound weights (from a standing position) ever after.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
If there are Senior Olympics, I’m not entering.
One day, while showering, I emitted a snuffle/breath that came out like a whistle. My unconventional reaction? I thought, “I can still whistle!” Why I assumed that a relatively useless skill (for me) like whistling would fade with age, I’m not sure, but I was glad to see that something of the old me (who, truth be told, rarely whistled) was intact.
Being habitually negative, I started to think about what I can't do anymore. I can no longer—
• Get up from sitting on the floor without thinking about how I’m going to balance weight on my hands to push myself up semi-gracefully. (Note: This can’t really be done with any gracefulness. And it’s usually accompanied by a grunt.)
• Sit anywhere for longer than 15 minutes without feeling achy—and making crackling noises—when I stand up.
• Fold the Chicago Tribune neatly while I’m reading it, despite the fact that it has shrunk considerably in the past year.
• Lift my packed suitcase, no matter how much I rely on lightweight Chico’s Travelers clothing. Thank goodness my new bag has spinner wheels. And I must always travel with my husband so he can hoist the bag onto the platform when we’re checking in. Similarly, I need him to lift the bag off the carousel when we arrive. (Fortunately, I also like traveling with him.)
• Remember the name of someone I’ve recently met, even if it was ten seconds ago.
• Digest broccoli gracefully. (This needs no further explanation. If you think otherwise, you’ll have to tap into your own gastrointestinal anecdotes.)
If there were true Senior Olympics, the games would include all of the above efforts, with the gold medal going to anyone whose dexterity (and inner health) matched that of a fifty-year-old. For me, even earning an honorable mention is a pipe dream. But I can still whistle.
Being habitually negative, I started to think about what I can't do anymore. I can no longer—
• Get up from sitting on the floor without thinking about how I’m going to balance weight on my hands to push myself up semi-gracefully. (Note: This can’t really be done with any gracefulness. And it’s usually accompanied by a grunt.)
• Sit anywhere for longer than 15 minutes without feeling achy—and making crackling noises—when I stand up.
• Fold the Chicago Tribune neatly while I’m reading it, despite the fact that it has shrunk considerably in the past year.
• Lift my packed suitcase, no matter how much I rely on lightweight Chico’s Travelers clothing. Thank goodness my new bag has spinner wheels. And I must always travel with my husband so he can hoist the bag onto the platform when we’re checking in. Similarly, I need him to lift the bag off the carousel when we arrive. (Fortunately, I also like traveling with him.)
• Remember the name of someone I’ve recently met, even if it was ten seconds ago.
• Digest broccoli gracefully. (This needs no further explanation. If you think otherwise, you’ll have to tap into your own gastrointestinal anecdotes.)
If there were true Senior Olympics, the games would include all of the above efforts, with the gold medal going to anyone whose dexterity (and inner health) matched that of a fifty-year-old. For me, even earning an honorable mention is a pipe dream. But I can still whistle.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Bite me
I read a tip on Real Beauty's web site about how to get that “almost bitten” look for your lips. Are they kidding?
I concede that maybe this sexy, wicked look may work for someone in her early 20’s, and I know the writer was not even contemplating addressing someone like me. Besides, if I had that “almost bitten” look, the only message that would send is that I’m starting to show signs of dementia and couldn’t distinguish between my lips and my breakfast. Ouch.
I concede that maybe this sexy, wicked look may work for someone in her early 20’s, and I know the writer was not even contemplating addressing someone like me. Besides, if I had that “almost bitten” look, the only message that would send is that I’m starting to show signs of dementia and couldn’t distinguish between my lips and my breakfast. Ouch.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Fraidy cat
Have I mentioned before that I’m a fearful person? I’ve been that way for most of my life, although it’s been in remission at times. And recent studies show that some babies are born with thin skin when it comes to anxiety and fear. But I’m able to trace a few sources of my angst.
I was about 7 when I first experienced Frankenstein. My father took me to the movies to see “Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein.” You’re probably wondering what this wacky comedy has to do with fear. Remember, I was only 7. The jokes and slapstick shtick went over my head, but at first sight of that ugly, towering monster, I put my head down in my father’s lap, taking only occasional peeks at the screen. I insisted on having the hall light on outside my bedroom that night and for many nights after. Even today, I’m uncomfortable in the dark.
In my late teens, I went to see “Psycho” with a date. I had heard that it was terrifying, and I’ll never forget the scene when you find out what Norman Bates' mother really looks like. But the scene that stayed with me was the Janet Leigh character's brutal murder in the shower. Even today, when I’m alone in the house and take a shower, I lock the bathroom door and keep a phone handy.
As a little girl—little enough to be carried by my father—I was terrified when the tree near my grandparents’ apartment began to shed large caterpillar-like, creepy things all over the sidewalk. During that period, my dad had to carry me. I refused to walk for fear of stepping on those scary “creatures.” Fortunately, this one didn’t carry over to my adulthood. As long as I know they’re not alive, I’m OK with walking around them and even stepping on tree droppings. It’s the live stuff that makes me cringe: grasshoppers, crickets, dragonflies…and the bulgy-eyed cicadas that invaded a couple of years ago.
But not all my fears have links to early trauma. Or, if they do, I’ve repressed the incidents. I can’t consciously come up with reasons I fear small, enclosed spaces like elevators or MRIs; driving on snow; deep water; tongue depressors, and a few other things I’m too afraid to admit.
Roosevelt had it right. Fear itself is my worst enemy—along with the nightly news, daily papers, and radio reports. It’s like these media are taunting me:“You think you’ve got troubles? Wait’ll you hear what happened today!”
I was about 7 when I first experienced Frankenstein. My father took me to the movies to see “Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein.” You’re probably wondering what this wacky comedy has to do with fear. Remember, I was only 7. The jokes and slapstick shtick went over my head, but at first sight of that ugly, towering monster, I put my head down in my father’s lap, taking only occasional peeks at the screen. I insisted on having the hall light on outside my bedroom that night and for many nights after. Even today, I’m uncomfortable in the dark.
In my late teens, I went to see “Psycho” with a date. I had heard that it was terrifying, and I’ll never forget the scene when you find out what Norman Bates' mother really looks like. But the scene that stayed with me was the Janet Leigh character's brutal murder in the shower. Even today, when I’m alone in the house and take a shower, I lock the bathroom door and keep a phone handy.
As a little girl—little enough to be carried by my father—I was terrified when the tree near my grandparents’ apartment began to shed large caterpillar-like, creepy things all over the sidewalk. During that period, my dad had to carry me. I refused to walk for fear of stepping on those scary “creatures.” Fortunately, this one didn’t carry over to my adulthood. As long as I know they’re not alive, I’m OK with walking around them and even stepping on tree droppings. It’s the live stuff that makes me cringe: grasshoppers, crickets, dragonflies…and the bulgy-eyed cicadas that invaded a couple of years ago.
But not all my fears have links to early trauma. Or, if they do, I’ve repressed the incidents. I can’t consciously come up with reasons I fear small, enclosed spaces like elevators or MRIs; driving on snow; deep water; tongue depressors, and a few other things I’m too afraid to admit.
Roosevelt had it right. Fear itself is my worst enemy—along with the nightly news, daily papers, and radio reports. It’s like these media are taunting me:“You think you’ve got troubles? Wait’ll you hear what happened today!”
Monday, April 26, 2010
Things I wish I could tell my mother
I now understand why, every time you were hospitalized, the first thing you said to me was “Bring me my tweezers and a magnifying mirror.” At my age now, I don’t think I’d want to be too far from those items for any length of time. Those wayward hairs seem to crop up out of nowhere.
Banded bottoms are back! I apologize for rolling my eyes while you wandered up and down the aisles of TJ Maxx or Carson’s complaining that nobody made tops with banded bottoms anymore. “That’s old,” I said. “Nobody wears those styles anymore.” Lo and behold: I can’t browse a clothing rack now without seeing those (I still think) unsightly banded bottoms. Sorry, Mom. But you must have known that everything comes around again…eventually.
I wish I’d listened more carefully to your stories of your childhood, my early childhood, and other memories. I have hundreds of questions I’d love to have answers to, and I can’t think of anyone else who would know.
I have a little more empathy now about your insisting on describing every symptom you had, even those that should remain in the bathroom… When I complained, you said “Daddy’s gone. I have no one else to tell these things to.” Now that I’m five years older since you passed away, I understand these concerns a little better (but I still wouldn’t describe them to my daughters).
I still have all the quarters you were saving for your mah jongg, poker, and Kaluki games. Someday I’ll spend them or take them to a bank, but right now they’re part of a shrine that includes many of your other collections I can’t yet part with.
You didn’t live to see the Great Recession of 2008-2009, and I’m grateful for that. Seeing your stock purchases—with which you were much more astute than I’ll ever be—nosedive would have made you crazy with anger. But now that I’ve experienced my own loss and worry over finances, I not only recognize your Depression-era frugality, as I always have, I can almost feel it. I apologize for laughing when you saved Styrofoam produce trays and every tie band that entered the house.
My anger and resentment evaporated in those last terrible days you were in intensive care, and they haven’t ever come back. Before that, I had an arsenal ready to bring out at the slightest push (yours) of any of a number of buttons (mine). My frequent internal arguments with you in anticipation of your disapproval of something I hadn’t told you yet disappeared. I’m sorry I didn’t develop the confidence to deal with you on an adult level when you were here. But I am confident you knew I loved you.
I have my hair highlighted with some pretty light streaks—almost blond in a few places. You nagged me to do this for years, but I always told you I hated that very-light-on-dark look. I am eating those words, and they don't taste so bad. I get compliments on my hair color, so I hereby state, much too late: You were right, Mom. About a lot of things.
Banded bottoms are back! I apologize for rolling my eyes while you wandered up and down the aisles of TJ Maxx or Carson’s complaining that nobody made tops with banded bottoms anymore. “That’s old,” I said. “Nobody wears those styles anymore.” Lo and behold: I can’t browse a clothing rack now without seeing those (I still think) unsightly banded bottoms. Sorry, Mom. But you must have known that everything comes around again…eventually.
I wish I’d listened more carefully to your stories of your childhood, my early childhood, and other memories. I have hundreds of questions I’d love to have answers to, and I can’t think of anyone else who would know.
I have a little more empathy now about your insisting on describing every symptom you had, even those that should remain in the bathroom… When I complained, you said “Daddy’s gone. I have no one else to tell these things to.” Now that I’m five years older since you passed away, I understand these concerns a little better (but I still wouldn’t describe them to my daughters).
I still have all the quarters you were saving for your mah jongg, poker, and Kaluki games. Someday I’ll spend them or take them to a bank, but right now they’re part of a shrine that includes many of your other collections I can’t yet part with.
You didn’t live to see the Great Recession of 2008-2009, and I’m grateful for that. Seeing your stock purchases—with which you were much more astute than I’ll ever be—nosedive would have made you crazy with anger. But now that I’ve experienced my own loss and worry over finances, I not only recognize your Depression-era frugality, as I always have, I can almost feel it. I apologize for laughing when you saved Styrofoam produce trays and every tie band that entered the house.
My anger and resentment evaporated in those last terrible days you were in intensive care, and they haven’t ever come back. Before that, I had an arsenal ready to bring out at the slightest push (yours) of any of a number of buttons (mine). My frequent internal arguments with you in anticipation of your disapproval of something I hadn’t told you yet disappeared. I’m sorry I didn’t develop the confidence to deal with you on an adult level when you were here. But I am confident you knew I loved you.
I have my hair highlighted with some pretty light streaks—almost blond in a few places. You nagged me to do this for years, but I always told you I hated that very-light-on-dark look. I am eating those words, and they don't taste so bad. I get compliments on my hair color, so I hereby state, much too late: You were right, Mom. About a lot of things.
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