Regrets, I have a few...

As I reflect on my life, I can’t help but revisit the things I wish I hadn’t eaten, breathed in, practiced, and gave in to during those younger, formative years.

Unhealthful things I wish I’d known were bad for me:

• All those times I ate my grandmother’s concoction of eggs, onions, chicken fat, and chicken livers. Mmmmmm. Clogged arteries.

• All those years I breathed in my parents’ cigarette smoke. (But, realistically, where was I going to go at 8 or 9?)

• Every candy bar (full size—no “fun” size available then) I stuffed into my mouth between meals. I couldn’t hide this fact from my mother because, being a good little citizen, I refused to throw the wrappers on the ground and I stuffed them in my pockets.

Things that turned out okay but might not have:

• Jumping off the rocks at one of the northside beaches and landing on a sandbar. The water was deep all around the sandbar. It wasn’t until that point that I realized I couldn’t jump back up on the shore. Not being a swimmer, I humbly let some friends pull me back. Why did I take such a foolish risk? All the other kids were doing it...

• Letting my friend talk me into getting into a car with two guys—strangers—we met on the miniature golf course. Nothing bad happened, but it sure could have.

• Allowing my mother to persuade me to switch my college major from pre-journalism to elementary education. The practical "wisdom" of the day was that teaching was the ideal profession for a woman: "You'll have the same hours and work days as your kids!" I ended up getting married, getting pregnant (we did it in that order in those days), and dropping out of teacher's college. But when I was ready to go back to finish my degree, I chose English—not quite journalism, but certainly closer. Where would I have taken it if I'd continued on my first path? Who knows? But at least I'm doing a lot of writing (mostly at work).  

These are just the ones I can recall—or care to write about. But don't let this wistfulness fool you. Everything's worked out so far (knock on wood), and I'm going to make damn sure that continues, for as long as I can. 

Trivial kvetching

There are a bunch of petty annoyances that don’t matter much in the larger scheme of life but that I enjoy complaining about anyway:

• The Terms of Agreement that some websites and online groups make you click "I agree" to before giving you access. You click on the link to the terms, hoping to scan them quickly and agree so you can get on with whatever you want to do. The site comes up. You start scanning...but then you spot this line at the bottom: "Page 1 of 35 pages." Are they kidding? They know perfectly well that nobody, except a bored attorney, will read all 35 pages. So you just click "I agree" and hope that it doesn't come back to bite you. So far, so good. But it is annoying.

• Toilet paper in public bathrooms that can give you a paper cut…and in a very sensitive location. Come on, businesses. Be kinder to your customers. Spend a little bit more and get the softer stuff! And two-ply, please.

• That pesky mail from major banks that have at least four pieces of paper with my name and address on them. Checks to consolidate balances, offers for new credit cards, and more. Shredding them isn't hard, but what if I don't feel like going upstairs and plugging in the shredder? (I complained to Chase, where I bank, and they made a change in my profile but warned me that it may take 90 days to take effect. I'm still in 90-day limbo.)

• The fact that with hundreds of cable channels, and a hefty bill to prove it, there are still times when there's absolutely nothing to watch. (And I have pretty eclectic—and not always sophisticated—taste in TV shows.)

• Drivers who think it's not cool to use their turn signals. I've been surprised many times when a car in front of me suddenly slows and turns right while I, foolishly, assumed it was going my way. I give my "you selfish moron!" look, but they're long gone, so it's of no use.

• Cashiers who engage in conversations with coworkers while they're checking out your purchases. I'm pleased to see that this is rarer today. Companies must be doing a better job at customer service training.

• Mothers out for a stroll with their babies or toddlers and on the phone, gabbing away. Wouldn't it be nice if they paid some attention to their little ones? I accept that sometimes it's necessary to take or make a call. But engaging in a long non-emergency conversation when you're supposed to be spending quality time with your children? I even saw one mother crossing the street, little one in hand, having an engrossing conversation. The one is beyond petty annoyance for me. It's dangerous and wrong! (Having said that, I'm glad that cell phones weren't invented when my children were small. I'm sure I wasn't fully engaged all the time. Motherhood is a challenge!)

I am now pettied out. For a day or two. If I think of more ways the world can get my goat, I'll write about them later. If, when you read this, you find my whining about the small stuff irritating, don’t tell me. I would find that very annoying.

Four useless eyes and a phantom spider

You would think with two of us in the house—and one of us (not me) nearly 4 years younger than the other—one of us would have decent eyesight. It's not the case. Last night, just as I was about to turn out the lights and try to sleep, I looked over to see my spouse staring up at the ceiling.

"What?" I asked, a little fearfully.

"There's something up there..."

I looked up. And jumped up. It looked like a spider, on the ceiling, right over our pillows! But neither one of us was sure. Our aging eyes don't work the way they used to.

I've mentioned before that I don't like creepy crawly things (or hopping and slithering things for that matter). I'm especially queasy about spiders. To illustrate just how much I can't tolerate the creatures, I'm not able to download the Spider Solitaire app to my iPad. I did for a day, but every time I opened my iPad, its logo, a big, black spider, stared back at me. I didn't bother learning how to play the game and just deleted it.

But now we had a dilemma. This thing was hovering over our sleeping space, and there was no way I was going to lie down in that bed again until I knew it was gone...from the ceiling, from the room, maybe from this life. One problem? Our ceiling in the master bedroom is very high.

"Get rid of it," I pleaded.

"How should I do that? Even if I stand on the bed, I'm not going to be able to smack it." He thought for a second and then went downstairs to get whatever he needed for his bright idea. Waiting for him, I kept staring up at the thing, making sure that if it went somewhere else, I'd know where to find it. It didn't seem to be moving, but maybe the sound of humans carrying on like idiots immobilized it.

It didn't budge, and I was beginning to think that it might be a dust bunny (a creature I don't mind...). And, you know how when you stare at something immobile for a while it looks like it might be moving slightly? Especially if you're nearsighted? I began to be less and less sure it was a spider, but I wanted to be absolutely sure it was not.

My hero returned to the bedroom with his weapon of choice. A Swiffer mop! He marched over to the bed, slammed the flat bottom of the mop hard on the ceiling and...nothing happened. No insect scurried away to get out from under the mop. And when he finally took the mop down from the ceiling, nothing was on it. If it had been a spider, it would be somewhere—on the mop, on the bed, scurrying across the ceiling to get away from two lunatic murderers...

I have no idea where the dust bunny went, and I don't much care. As long as both of us were convinced there was no spider, we could get some sleep.

Rather than complain about the fact that neither of us can see all that well, I am grateful I have a compadre who's going through the same challenges of senior(ugh)hood. If nothing else, it makes for an amusing story.

Better [Vegas] late than never

Last week I met a group of my high school alum chums (some from elementary school on) in Las Vegas for a mini-reunion. There were some who had been good friends back then and some I had known in school but not well. Spouses were included.

This was my—and my spouse's—first time in Vegas. (Yes, you read that right. In our upper 60s and never been to Vegas!) I had a great time, mainly because of the interaction with the friendly and welcoming group of grads and their partners, but I came to these conclusions about this vacation destination:

I liked...

The late night hours of the restaurants and shops. Even though we rarely stay out late anymore, it's nice to know something's available if needed or wanted.

The over-the-top decor in the hotels and casinos. No cheap materials used in the mosaic-tiled and marble floors, leather wall coverings, blown glass chandeliers. Lovely to look at, even if I wouldn't necessarily use these in my own home.

The availability of so many shows nearby, with top-level stars. But if you want to see more than one, you might have to cash in one of your CDs.

The fact that I got my share of exercise because, as I heard about ten times during this vacation, "Nothing is as close as it looks."

I didn't like...

The smell of cigarette smoke—and stale cigarette smoke—in and around every single casino. Didn't Las Vegas gamblers get the message that smoking can kill you?

The fact that the hotels usually do not have the expected comfortable lobbies, with sofas, chairs, and free WiFi. Of course, they don't want you to sit and schmooz or access your emails. They want you to gamble, gamble, gamble.

Gambling. It's just not for me. Yes, I like hitting a button and watching my investment of a dollar grow to nine or ten dollars, but I really hate seeing it plunge to zero.


But the reason for the gathering was to get reaquainted with our childhood friends and memories. People our age get so mellow and appreciative when we visit those who shared our formative years, and these few days were a love-fest. After reminding each other of the silly, even embarrassing things we did and misconceptions we had in school, we decided that we need to stick together. After all, together we make up one solid memory bank. We need each other to fill in our blanks.

The comeback kid (with a few changes)

From time to time, I assess the qualities in myself that I would like to change but know I won’t. Especially now that I’m of a certain age.

It’s not that changing one’s basics is always impossible at a late age, but we have to be realistic and admit we will probably go on being what we’ve always been. And then there are the attributes we can’t change, like body parts and organs. (Granted, modern medicine makes almost anything possible, but I'm not sure I'd take the risk.)

So I play the game of “If I’m reincarnated, here’s how I’d like to come back…” This is assuming I’d still be a Jewish girl from Chicago. Here’s my wish list:

• Thin thighs—not too thin but pleasingly curvy
• Thick, straight, shiny hair that’s easy to style, doesn’t frizz in hot and wet weather, and looks great windblown
• A passion for sports or at least an appreciation of football, baseball, and basketball so I can watch games with the in crowd and enjoy Super Bowl Sunday parties
• Organization skills...not to be scary organized, like someone who alphabetizes items in their medicine cabinet, but able to stay on top of bills, appointments, and deadlines with ease
•  A little more of me on top and less on the bottom. Now that I know that being pear-shaped is healthier than being apple-shaped, I'm more appreciative of what I've got. But can I request hourglass-shaped?
• Much less concern about wrinkles. Not the ones that are slowly making their appearance on my face and neck—and arms. Clothing wrinkles. I refuse to travel with linen and choose everyday items based on the material (wrinkle-free, packable, patterned so wrinkles won't show, or ruffled or otherwise textured so wrinkles don't have a place to land). I worry about how I'm sitting before I get to a party. Heaven forbid I walk in with big creases on my lap and backside. I will give myself credit, however, for not giving wrinkles a thought once I arrive. It's just the prep that has me in a neurotic grip.

There's more on my wish list, but what's the point? I'm probably not coming back. I never did believe in Bridey Murphy and others that followed.

And here's a disclaimer: I'm really quite satisfied with who I am, most of the time. But it's great fun to think about this. I can even work on these wishes to get closer to my ideal. Except one: I'll never love sports.

Random Musings

I have thoughts. Sometimes they're not very deep. (Did I say "sometimes"?) I've gathered some of them here for no particular purpose—except to amuse you or make you murmur "and she used to be so much more interesting..."

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Are we obsolete? We have lived so many decades and learned so much. But is anyone still using what we've learned, and perfected? The first thing that comes to mind is cursive writing. I read recently that some schools, or maybe it's most schools, are not going to teach it anymore. Hardly anyone writes in longhand. But I can't really get on my soapbox and lament the passing of this art because, since I've begun writing everything on the computer, my handwriting has gotten so bad, I can't read what I've written just a few days ago.

And what about grammar? I still care, but does anyone else? By that I mean anyone else in Gen X or Gen Y.

And don't get me started about manners and civil behavior. I wouldn't for a second want to go back to the repressive 50s, when you didn't dare speak up or dress out of the norm. But does anyone else remember being taught to respect others?

Then there are traffic laws. I don’t really fit into today’s society because I try very hard to obey all traffic laws. Okay, I drive from 5 to 10 miles over the limit, but I swear everybody else is passing me by. I don’t get into the left turn bay until I’m supposed to (that means no driving over the road divider for several car lengths), even when it means I’ll probably miss the green arrow. I also use my turn signals. Today it seems that letting other drivers know what move your vehicle is going to make next is out of style.

We've spent all this time learning how to get along in society, and then they go and change the culture on us. I'm not sure who "they" is, but can't we have any influence on them?

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Sometimes I have this disturbing thought: Am I starting to act more like my parents because they had so many years of influence on me? Or is it because I inherited some of the genes that make me mimic the things I definitely do not want to do?

If it’s the former, I can vow to change and then try to catch myself and reverse the activity. But if it’s the latter? I’m doomed…

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My husband and I are aging together, although not necessarily gracefully. As ungraceful agers, we can be heard uttering these words and phrases, more often than I should admit: Watchamacallit. (As in, "Switch the watchamacallit from my car to yours.") What's-her-name. (As in, "Didn't we see him at What's-her-name's party?") That thing. (As in, "Can you hand me that thing?")

It would be better if one of us could remember the nouns, proper and otherwise, that belong to common utensils—or the TV remote—or people we worked with long ago. I call it our "un-noun territory." (Groaning is appropriate here.)

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That's all for now. Time to play Boggle and stop thinking so much.

Eye yi yi yi...

I've learned that impulse buys are not just the Reese's Peanut Butter Cup you grab while you're waiting for the cashier to count the hundred pennies the customer in front of you just handed her. An impulse buy—if you're me—can be something as important as contact lenses.

Yes, I may have contact lenses to add to my list of things labeled "What Was I Thinking?" Here's how this took place.

At my annual checkup with the opthamologist, I found myself saying, "I think I'd like to try contacts again." This was probably a bad idea for so many reasons.

Although I wore contacts years ago, they were gas permeable (hard) lenses. Fewer companies are making those anymore because soft lenses, especially disposable ones, are so popular. I have no real experience with the soft ones. My only minor brush with soft lenses was an earlier attempt with a different eye doc, and it was a disaster. I wasn't able to put them in and gave up.

Gas permeables are not a good option for me because I plan to wear my new contacts only when going to a big party. Big as in a ballroom, like my high school reunion or the company holiday dinner dance. Occasional wear calls for soft contacts, especially for women of a certain age who, usually, have dry eyes.

They must be distance-only lenses, so the contacts would be useful only at places where I didn't plan to read or type anything.

Basically, this was not a logical decision. I just decided to try something new (or something from a long time ago that I wanted to resurrect). So we set up an appointment for the fitting.

As I sat down in the chair for the appointment, I was certain that soft contacts had improved, and I woudn't have the problems I experienced earlier. (That silly little watery disc seemed to disappear on my finger or fall into the sink, and by the time I got it into my eye, my mascara was dribbling down my cheeks.) No. That wasn't going to happen this time. Modern technology would save the day!

After a couple of attempts, I got them into my eyes. I was proud. Then it was time to remove them. I swear I grabbed and pinched and flexed my index finger until it ached. Eventually I got them out, but I was uneasy. What if I was at home and couldn't remove a lens? What if it was during the medical office's non-working hours? Would I have to go to the emergency room? Silly thought. Or was it? The nurse who was working with me told me she once had to call the doctor and have him meet her in the office on his day off because she couldn't remove one lens. Great. Then a good friend told me that, during her only experience with soft lenses, she was ready to go to the ER when she finally got one out.

Now I was spooked. And the lenses have been sitting in my cabinet since then, untouched. What was I thinking? I'm willing to try them again, but shouldn't I wait until I'm sure someone is in the office to help me if I need it?

On the day of my eye checkup, I was thinking vainly, not clearly. The proof? I also asked the doctor about getting my eyelids done, and he handed me a business card for a plastic surgeon. Fortunately, I misplaced the card and don't plan to make an impulsive phone call. I also concluded that I could take the money I would spend on contacts, and possibly elective surgery, and buy several pairs of youthful eyeglasses. And as a bonus, the frames would hide some of the crows feet and undereye bags. Now there's a plan.