Last night my husband and I watched Gone With the Wind. We hadn't even been born in 1939 when the film was released,and wouldn't be for a few more years, so I never saw it in the theater, and have only watched it four or five times in my life. I do distinctly remember stealing my mother's copy of the novel when I was twelve and racing through, looking for the juicy bits. I no longer have any idea what I thought of the book then, except Rhett Butler was sexy and Ashley was a wimp. I was living in the South, in Virginia, at the time, but my sympathies were all Yankee, as were my parents'. I doubt I was able to see myself in either Scarlett or Melanie. Neither character has much I can relate to in my life. But I understand them better now. I must say, if I identified with anyone, it was Rhett. He was the truth teller, and his bluntness was something I and my father shared. But the thing is, my husband and I were able to watch the whole long melodrama with the dogs, and then sit up until eleven pm discussing the merits of Scarlett or Melanie, the miscasting of Leslie Howard as Ashley, and the goofiness of having the male leads both older enough to be the fathers of the female leads. Olivia de Haviland was only 23 when the film was made, and Vivien Leigh 26. Ashley should have been a Brad Pitt type, not a veteran of the Scarlett Pimpernel. I see Scarlett as a teenager with raging hormones and no ability to choose wisely. Ashley needs to be a hunk. Otherwise no one can stand his moping. Feeling sorry for oneself is not a noble virtue.
We went to bed, then further chatted until almost one am, and it was fun. Now that kind of mind mannered activity wouldn't be interesting to our kids, but when you get to be our ages, a critique of a movie can have the fascination that clubs and djs do not. We analyzed how the perception of what is racist and what is not has changed, what we'd felt about the Civil War when we studied it in school, and who had the better career - Olivia de Haviland or her sister Joan Fontaine? It's old folks talk, but I like it. I enjoy a nice, comfortable relationship of enough decades that you can ramble off topic and your partner doesn't correct you. We bounce from tangent to tangent and it's a delightful ride all the way. And heh, we're still young enough to watch a four hour movie and stay up discussing it. We ain't dead yet!
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Friday, February 26, 2010
Old Age Day by Day February 26,2010
This week my husband went to the eye doctor. It had only been nine years since his last checkup. Surprisingly, (to him), he needed new glasses. Also, he has tiny cataracts. I'm less than sympathetic, since I have almost all the known eye diseases and had cataract surgery in both eyes in my forties. I blame it on cheap sunglasses and living in Colorado for years. Every friend I have is also seeing through cataract blurred lenses. Unless you are driving at night and trying to read street signs, the murkiness of cataracts adds to the ambiance of our world. There is a kind of aura not seen since the sixties, and everything you view becomes a Luminist painting by Whistler. Or Monet. Nature becomes swirly and blended like a strawberry orange milkshake. Those nasty edges that bring us harsh reality are softened, and everyone looks younger and lovelier than you'd expect given their ages. My husband, for instance, is farsighted, so when he removes his glasses I am a vision of youthful beauty. No age spots, no sagging skin, my hair seductively tousled instead of in need of a major styling. At least I tell myself this is what he sees. It gives me confidence.
And what do you say when your eye doctor says it would be better if you were never in the sun again? Travel back and forth from the North to the South Pole? Live in a cave and come out at night? Light is good for the spirits, sun warms the cockles of my heart, and each year I breathe a sigh of relief when the days get longer in January. Whew! Made through the Fall again! As it is, you will recognize me in Trader Joe's as the woman with sunglasses on, though I'm inside. Those suckers are so glued to my face I forget that not everything has a greenish tinge. I wear hats whenever I'm outside, and as I am five feet tall, I look like an animated mushroom. Maybe Scarlett O'Hara could look good in a hat, but I resemble nothing remotely feminine. Maybe an extra in The Good Earth. I mean, what the heck, none of the other actors were Asian, I could have been hired. If I was even more ancient than I am. But I am old enough that in school we were required to read Pear S. Buck. Who reads her now? My grown kids have no idea who she was.
At least glasses give you an opportunity to make a statement. I had my James Joyce glasses, my granny/hippie glasses, my Buddy Holly glasses, my tortoiseshell teacher glasses. I've had red, purple, green and pink glasses. Big lenses and small. I've accumulated four pair I choose from depending on my mood - intelligent, rebel, pensive, and bug eyed. I know, bug eyed is not a mood, but the red lenses are huge, and I feel protected when I wear them. Why am I making a statement with glasses? My body is in no shape to be talking, and it's better if viewers are stuck at the eyes and travel down no further. See - I've thought this all out carefully.
My husband says he picked out new frames. He hasn't gotten them yet, and there is an undercurrent of terror in my imaginings of what he's chosen. His sense of style is no style. His current glasses, which I've been staring at for nine years, are crooked, tinted and the lenses keep falling out while he's sitting or talking. They never break. I can't tell you how many times I've prayed they'd break. But at least it will be a new him, like when he shaved his beard off and I didn't recognize him. Even a long marriage can use an occasional shake up.
And what do you say when your eye doctor says it would be better if you were never in the sun again? Travel back and forth from the North to the South Pole? Live in a cave and come out at night? Light is good for the spirits, sun warms the cockles of my heart, and each year I breathe a sigh of relief when the days get longer in January. Whew! Made through the Fall again! As it is, you will recognize me in Trader Joe's as the woman with sunglasses on, though I'm inside. Those suckers are so glued to my face I forget that not everything has a greenish tinge. I wear hats whenever I'm outside, and as I am five feet tall, I look like an animated mushroom. Maybe Scarlett O'Hara could look good in a hat, but I resemble nothing remotely feminine. Maybe an extra in The Good Earth. I mean, what the heck, none of the other actors were Asian, I could have been hired. If I was even more ancient than I am. But I am old enough that in school we were required to read Pear S. Buck. Who reads her now? My grown kids have no idea who she was.
At least glasses give you an opportunity to make a statement. I had my James Joyce glasses, my granny/hippie glasses, my Buddy Holly glasses, my tortoiseshell teacher glasses. I've had red, purple, green and pink glasses. Big lenses and small. I've accumulated four pair I choose from depending on my mood - intelligent, rebel, pensive, and bug eyed. I know, bug eyed is not a mood, but the red lenses are huge, and I feel protected when I wear them. Why am I making a statement with glasses? My body is in no shape to be talking, and it's better if viewers are stuck at the eyes and travel down no further. See - I've thought this all out carefully.
My husband says he picked out new frames. He hasn't gotten them yet, and there is an undercurrent of terror in my imaginings of what he's chosen. His sense of style is no style. His current glasses, which I've been staring at for nine years, are crooked, tinted and the lenses keep falling out while he's sitting or talking. They never break. I can't tell you how many times I've prayed they'd break. But at least it will be a new him, like when he shaved his beard off and I didn't recognize him. Even a long marriage can use an occasional shake up.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Aging Day by Day February 25, 2010
My voice teacher suggested that I give a retirement party for my husband in a few months and sing my repetoire then. I was stunned, first because it had not occurred to me to do such a thing - give a party for him - and I felt immediately very guilty. What kind of wife am I, anyway? Well, I know what kind, but did she have to rub it in? And secondly, would I, in my old age, turn out to be one of those people who bores guests with "entertainment"? I might as well be contemplating slides of my granddaughter. Does my teacher think I've sunk so low? Well, obviously.
No, if I need to belt out When I Fall in Love, Brush up Your Shakespeare, I'm Always True to You Darlin in My Fashion and I Hope that I Don't Fall in Love with You - if and irresistable urge overcomes all wisdom and sanity - and I want to expose myself for the talentless Ethel Merman that I am - I'll just sing in the subway. It's way more dignified, and only strangers will witness my degradation.
Now, it's true, that when each of my older two kids was marrying, I sang a little song for them at the groom's dinner, and it's a fact that my clothes were so wet with sweat that I might as well have been belting out "Singing in the Rain", but that was a time of crazy euphoria and it was long ago, and the weddings were within three months of each other, so I feel I can be excused. It was right before and right after 9/11. Need I say more? Something was in the air.
I mean the thing about being older is I can work on something for NO PURPOSE WHATSOEVER. I can just sing, and at least my teacher is being paid to listen, so I don't have to feel too bad. I'm singing with no judgment, no goal, no audience, no future. Right here, right now. It feels great.
No, if I need to belt out When I Fall in Love, Brush up Your Shakespeare, I'm Always True to You Darlin in My Fashion and I Hope that I Don't Fall in Love with You - if and irresistable urge overcomes all wisdom and sanity - and I want to expose myself for the talentless Ethel Merman that I am - I'll just sing in the subway. It's way more dignified, and only strangers will witness my degradation.
Now, it's true, that when each of my older two kids was marrying, I sang a little song for them at the groom's dinner, and it's a fact that my clothes were so wet with sweat that I might as well have been belting out "Singing in the Rain", but that was a time of crazy euphoria and it was long ago, and the weddings were within three months of each other, so I feel I can be excused. It was right before and right after 9/11. Need I say more? Something was in the air.
I mean the thing about being older is I can work on something for NO PURPOSE WHATSOEVER. I can just sing, and at least my teacher is being paid to listen, so I don't have to feel too bad. I'm singing with no judgment, no goal, no audience, no future. Right here, right now. It feels great.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Aging Day by Day February 24,2010
You know you're losing your edge when all you want to talk about is your granddaughter, and that's the only destination you really dream about. I'd rather see my granddaughter than go to Paris. How's that for pathetic? And my best friend won't budge to come here, as she's happily close by her granddaughter. Why should she bother to get away when she doesn't want to do anything but look in those big blue eyes? It's love at first sight, and second, and third. They are so fresh and new and curious and affectionate. They think you're funny, when no one else cracks a smile. They think going out to lunch with you is a treat. They assume you want to ride choo choo trains as much as they do, and they're right, if they are snug on your lap. I haven't seen my granddaughter in a couple of months and boy, do I miss her. Just talking on the phone with her gives me such a kick, and also makes me have to force myself not to get a plane ticket to go right there and bother my daughter and her husband. I'd love to be close enough to see her more often, but this way I get to shop for her more and keep the post office in business, and as you know it's tough times economically.
I was ready for grandparenthood a few years ago, and when a young friend died, and then his wife's mother died the next month, I asked his widow if I could help out with their 15 month old daughter. Make up for the lack of grandmothers in her life. And that has been such a blessing for me. I take her one day a week, and also show up for ballet class or gym class occasionally, or last year the Valentine's Day party at her preschool. We lunch giraffe's progress, we hit the parks and a nursery where we look at the plants. Now she's almost 5, so we go to movies (Yes, I have been to Alvin and the Chipmunks and other Oscar contenders) and we have our favorite places to eat (an ice cream-soda fountain, a place with mean burritos, and a diner with grilled cheese just the way she likes it).
She makes sure I keep a stock of jello, cheese sticks, vanilla ice cream and apple juice and lemonade. Let's see what's in the pantry, she says. For my away granddaughter you can find peas and also vanilla ice cream, and the pantry has tapioca, her favorite crackers, noodles, juice boxes, and canned lychees. I have hardly any adult food left, as they are much more enthusiastic about eating than I am. Gusto! Grandchildren are so full of gusto it rubs off on us jaded creatures. They reteach us the little joys that every day brings. I'm grateful.
I was ready for grandparenthood a few years ago, and when a young friend died, and then his wife's mother died the next month, I asked his widow if I could help out with their 15 month old daughter. Make up for the lack of grandmothers in her life. And that has been such a blessing for me. I take her one day a week, and also show up for ballet class or gym class occasionally, or last year the Valentine's Day party at her preschool. We lunch giraffe's progress, we hit the parks and a nursery where we look at the plants. Now she's almost 5, so we go to movies (Yes, I have been to Alvin and the Chipmunks and other Oscar contenders) and we have our favorite places to eat (an ice cream-soda fountain, a place with mean burritos, and a diner with grilled cheese just the way she likes it).
She makes sure I keep a stock of jello, cheese sticks, vanilla ice cream and apple juice and lemonade. Let's see what's in the pantry, she says. For my away granddaughter you can find peas and also vanilla ice cream, and the pantry has tapioca, her favorite crackers, noodles, juice boxes, and canned lychees. I have hardly any adult food left, as they are much more enthusiastic about eating than I am. Gusto! Grandchildren are so full of gusto it rubs off on us jaded creatures. They reteach us the little joys that every day brings. I'm grateful.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Aging Day By Day Februaary 23, 2010
When I was in my early twenties I read a lot of mysteries. Dorothy Sayers, Nagaio Marsh, and Agatha Christie. Then I decided I was not improving myself by doing so, and I stopped. I was embarrassed then to be caught reading a mystery. Now, in my early sixties, I am back reading mysteries, and really having fun. And, of course, I don't give a hoot what people think about it. I guess I've given myself permission to be trivial. Also, I've read enough heavy duty classics and complex novels, biographies and non-fiction that I can rest on my laurels. I adore Elizabeth George, Cara Black, Harlen Coben, John Lescroat, and new writers like Tana French and Cordelia Read. So is there a theme here? Was I preoccupied with death early on - and now I clearly know it's round the bend for me - I want to tiptoe around the subject of mortality? That may be rationalizing. I do think suspense fiction just gets better and better, and compares well with fiction. I must say, I like non-fiction reading the best. I like to hear a true story. Not crime, just people's lives and how complex and interesting they are, whether they are famous or not. Memoirs are great, because that allows non-famous people to tell their stories. I think I like to be part of a tribe. A tribe of imperfect, complex, struggling beings.
And at this time in my life, so many friends and aquaintances have died that it's becoming familiar territory. That is maybe one thing aging does for people, lets them slowly adjust to the inevitable. That's why we all feel the death of a young person as tragic. I had some death to face as a child - an uncle I adored, my grandmother, my first boyfriend at 12 - and perhaps that was the fascination with mysteries when I was out of college. I also think I loved drama more - the buzz of extreme situations and the thrill of danger. But since I was a wimp in real life, I lived vicariously through these books. Now I'm an older wimp, and I hope a wiser one. I don't wish drama on anyone, and appreciate the calm, balanced life of a careful intention. But that little glimpse of chaos beyond is somehow important to me. It's like touching a snake - delicately, with trepidation, but knowing the creature is in and around your life, and you share the earth with it.
And at this time in my life, so many friends and aquaintances have died that it's becoming familiar territory. That is maybe one thing aging does for people, lets them slowly adjust to the inevitable. That's why we all feel the death of a young person as tragic. I had some death to face as a child - an uncle I adored, my grandmother, my first boyfriend at 12 - and perhaps that was the fascination with mysteries when I was out of college. I also think I loved drama more - the buzz of extreme situations and the thrill of danger. But since I was a wimp in real life, I lived vicariously through these books. Now I'm an older wimp, and I hope a wiser one. I don't wish drama on anyone, and appreciate the calm, balanced life of a careful intention. But that little glimpse of chaos beyond is somehow important to me. It's like touching a snake - delicately, with trepidation, but knowing the creature is in and around your life, and you share the earth with it.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Old Age Day By Day February 22, 2010
We attempted, on the weekend, to find the source of a particularly hideous smell wafting throughout our downstairs. My husband crawled under everything possible, and we unscrewed the heating vents and looked behind the CD racks and underneath the stereo. Anticipating dead rats or worse, we searched and sprayed, searched and sprayed. The conclusion seems to be something died in the walls, which downstairs are solid wood. Our house is 100 years old, and it's a race to see which falls completely apart first, us or the house. I guess we'll be forced to call a pest control company, though last time we did that, they caught nothing and I went around asking complete strangers how to get rid of rats until someone told be of a concoction of peanut butter and anise seed. I'm a Buddhist, so this killing creatures thing is deeply troubling, but I wasn't going to catch rats and release them into the wild, as if there is a wild close by. But they were eating the water tubes on the washing machine (2 X), dishwasher (3 X) and refrigerator (2 X). I was going to be forced to divorce my husband and marry a plumber if the rat activity continued.
My suspicion is that this time it's squirrels. But a gang of racoons ate a large hole in our roof a few years ago, and with our luck, it's a gang of cats or hamsters maurading the neighborhood. I just wish whatever animal it was believed in cremation, because I hate to think of my house as a cemetery.
You probably think, given my lament about hating housework, that the rats are all my fault. But not true. In this city everyone has rat tales, and they are more prevalent than pets. The creek nearby doesn't help and also that we all have some fruit trees, and also that certain nameless neighbors have pets in cages in their back yard where grain falls on the ground like manna from heaven.
So, while everybody else is obccessing about H1N1, I'm reading up on bubonic plague and looking for bite marks on my dogs. Talk about your biblical references. Maybe it's time to retire to that brand new condo with no yard and no access for tiny creatures. New cabinets, new doors, and maybe the laundry in the basement. Yeah, like that's going to happen. The closest thing to a new house we've ever had is 25 years old. And even if we got a new condo, we'd be the wrong age for it. I don't think retinol is going to de-age us fast enough to look right in a new place. So while something in the walls is de-composing, we're trying to compose ourselves for a long siege of lysol, pinesol, Nature's Miracle and other de-stenchers. Which is what will probably kill us in the end. Oh, well.
My suspicion is that this time it's squirrels. But a gang of racoons ate a large hole in our roof a few years ago, and with our luck, it's a gang of cats or hamsters maurading the neighborhood. I just wish whatever animal it was believed in cremation, because I hate to think of my house as a cemetery.
You probably think, given my lament about hating housework, that the rats are all my fault. But not true. In this city everyone has rat tales, and they are more prevalent than pets. The creek nearby doesn't help and also that we all have some fruit trees, and also that certain nameless neighbors have pets in cages in their back yard where grain falls on the ground like manna from heaven.
So, while everybody else is obccessing about H1N1, I'm reading up on bubonic plague and looking for bite marks on my dogs. Talk about your biblical references. Maybe it's time to retire to that brand new condo with no yard and no access for tiny creatures. New cabinets, new doors, and maybe the laundry in the basement. Yeah, like that's going to happen. The closest thing to a new house we've ever had is 25 years old. And even if we got a new condo, we'd be the wrong age for it. I don't think retinol is going to de-age us fast enough to look right in a new place. So while something in the walls is de-composing, we're trying to compose ourselves for a long siege of lysol, pinesol, Nature's Miracle and other de-stenchers. Which is what will probably kill us in the end. Oh, well.
Friday, February 19, 2010
aging day by day February 19, 2010
You know, being technologically challenged, as I and so many of my friends are, does have it's advantages. We're so ancient we have land lines as well as cell phones, and now that they've determined the phones pressed against the ear are disintegrating brain cells right, left and center, we may end up very wrinkled but able to rule the world by superior brain strength. Unfortunately, I doubt we'll do any better than the current crop, some of which are geezers themselves, but probably feel forced to use cell phones to look cool and hip. Cell phones have lots of wonderful uses, but some advertised advantages, let's face it, have not proven to be true. If you try to use your cell phone during crises like earthquakes and floods, the whole system goes down and you can't get a dial tone. Try 911 from a cell phone and prepare to die. Lost in the woods? The battery will be dead. Need a number? The cell won't work and you can't even access the numbers if you're standing next to a regular phone. Better hope information is up and running, ha, ha, ha, that the number is listed, and remember, phone books are nowhere to be found. Telephone booths looking pretty good right about now?
Then there is the fact that if the decline in brain cells doesn't do you in, an SUV driver screaming and gesturing will crush you like a bug. Yeah, I know, it's against the law in my state too, and every erratic action I see on my forays out into the world of jungle madness is a person texting or talking. What happened to the good old days when it was alcohol or drug abuse? This is way more terrifying. Pedestrian deaths are way up in my area, and we've all seen some driving that reminds me of the saying "Weebles wobble, but they don't fall down". They just hit everything in their path.
Then there is this idiotic caller ID. That lasted a long time. Everyone who calls me now is a PRIVATE CALLER. It reminds of of the song by Tina Turner, but I don't think it's her. And call waiting doesn't work half the time, and, well, I could go on. So I will continue to have my cell phone off 90% of the time, though it drives my kids crazy, and use that thing connected by a wire to that box thing. It works. All the time. And remember, I'm holding on to all my brain cells as long as I can. They have to compensate for the hearing loss, aches and pains, and crumbling of the infrastructure.
Then there is the fact that if the decline in brain cells doesn't do you in, an SUV driver screaming and gesturing will crush you like a bug. Yeah, I know, it's against the law in my state too, and every erratic action I see on my forays out into the world of jungle madness is a person texting or talking. What happened to the good old days when it was alcohol or drug abuse? This is way more terrifying. Pedestrian deaths are way up in my area, and we've all seen some driving that reminds me of the saying "Weebles wobble, but they don't fall down". They just hit everything in their path.
Then there is this idiotic caller ID. That lasted a long time. Everyone who calls me now is a PRIVATE CALLER. It reminds of of the song by Tina Turner, but I don't think it's her. And call waiting doesn't work half the time, and, well, I could go on. So I will continue to have my cell phone off 90% of the time, though it drives my kids crazy, and use that thing connected by a wire to that box thing. It works. All the time. And remember, I'm holding on to all my brain cells as long as I can. They have to compensate for the hearing loss, aches and pains, and crumbling of the infrastructure.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
aging day by day
One of the many changes about not working is how being around the house a lot has you noticing little things like the dust, the hair tumbleweeds from the dogs, that every bush and tree needs constant pruning. Paying that much attention is not a good idea. I try to counter by not wearing my glasses a lot. Now, of course, another solution would be to clean more often, but what kind of retirement would that be? And having a cleaning lady means I would have to go somewhere to get out of her way, and take two dogs with me, and after all I have not much income, so that makes no sense. Going to movies in the daytime is helpful, and mostly you do not see any dust in houses depicted in movies,and the floors are newly polished and fresh flowers are in vases scattered throughout the abodes. (As you can see, I do not watch horror films) And at the same time you can drop popcorn on the floor and leave a veritable garbage dump by your seat - not that I do. I don't like to litter except within my own home.
I am now acutely aware that the inside and outside of the house need painting badly, and the floors redoing and on and on. I check the cracks in the ceilings as I sit reading, and have noticed wallpaper curling away from the wall. But I'd rather take a trip or buy a new book that properly maintain the house, and my husband is fearful we will sink into poverty the minute he retires, so it's hard to battle his end-of-the-world scenario. Wait until he's home a lot, which will begin in June, when he retires. We'll have to drape the walls with sheets and wear sunglasses inside.
I trace this lack of housewifely zeal to my job during college of being the housekeeper on a large estate. My husband was the gardener, and for our work we were able to live in a studio apartment over the garage. Me and Sabrina. The house had fourteen enormous rooms, some of which were as large as my whole house now, and seven bathrooms. And the owner liked the floors of the tiled kitchen, breakfast nook and pantry washed by hand. No floor polishers for her, no sir. She also sometimes left the three young children in my care while I was cleaning on my day. Thursday. I still remember. It was a beautiful house, with an enormous library I coveted, but the dusting and vacuuming was endless, and so were the toilets. I believe I completed all of my cleaning hours for a lifetime during that period, and have remained unmotivated ever since.
Yes, I guess I will have to hit the streets more often, and that kills two birds with one stone. I'm not messing up the house or stirring up dust, and, more importantly, I can't be a witness to the decay.
I am now acutely aware that the inside and outside of the house need painting badly, and the floors redoing and on and on. I check the cracks in the ceilings as I sit reading, and have noticed wallpaper curling away from the wall. But I'd rather take a trip or buy a new book that properly maintain the house, and my husband is fearful we will sink into poverty the minute he retires, so it's hard to battle his end-of-the-world scenario. Wait until he's home a lot, which will begin in June, when he retires. We'll have to drape the walls with sheets and wear sunglasses inside.
I trace this lack of housewifely zeal to my job during college of being the housekeeper on a large estate. My husband was the gardener, and for our work we were able to live in a studio apartment over the garage. Me and Sabrina. The house had fourteen enormous rooms, some of which were as large as my whole house now, and seven bathrooms. And the owner liked the floors of the tiled kitchen, breakfast nook and pantry washed by hand. No floor polishers for her, no sir. She also sometimes left the three young children in my care while I was cleaning on my day. Thursday. I still remember. It was a beautiful house, with an enormous library I coveted, but the dusting and vacuuming was endless, and so were the toilets. I believe I completed all of my cleaning hours for a lifetime during that period, and have remained unmotivated ever since.
Yes, I guess I will have to hit the streets more often, and that kills two birds with one stone. I'm not messing up the house or stirring up dust, and, more importantly, I can't be a witness to the decay.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Aging Day By Day February 17, 2010
Another beautiful day, and I am having lunch with a dear friend. It's as good as it gets, in my book. A great thing about aging is you have all these friends you've had for what feels like centuries, and they've known you in all your manifestations, and they call you on any nonsense you try to spout. Honesty really does seem to be easier now than ever before. Not hurtful, blunt edged honesty, but a transparency of trust. I allow people to to see me. My defenses are down, as Betty Hutton sings. I used to believe that I was building myself up - I was this structure, immutable and solid, and I was plastering on these additional embellishments to make myself more interesting, educated and fulfilled. Now I see I was like a fluid through which experiences flowed , and there were always so many choices, each one of which would have changed my life, but very few of which would have mattered. Which universe are we in? Does it matter if it's the one we've been taught, or an alternate? Not really. And most people seem to go through such similar stages that it can't matter which life I'm in. No one escapes pain and suffering, doubt and fear, and everyone has moments of transcendent happiness and peace. It only matters to be noticing these moments. And that is achievable by all.
With some friends we pursue art, with others we often see a movie and discuss it, still others we yak. I don't judge any of these experiences any more as high or low. I'm connecting. That's all that counts to me. And connecting doesn't just mean people. When I'm in the mountains it's to the earth,with it's winged and furred creatures. The sun on a rock, heat through my butt (true enough, butts can be sensitive), makes me understand the treasure of the sun that all beings, sentient or not, share. Last summer I was out in a canoe in the middle of a lake, and for two hours I watched the Ospreys dive for fish. I could almost see the lake from a great height, feel the pressure of the dive on my chest, touch the water on my skin. I felt included in their activity, because they allowed me to not disturb their concentration. I was witnessing their prowess, and gaining some relational experience of what such skill might feel like.
So if today it's deciding between tuna salad and grilled cheese, I won't call that trivial. I appreciate the food, the company and the body in which I am still lucky enough to be able to experience these moments. A little laughter, which is sure to occur, doesn't hurt any either.
With some friends we pursue art, with others we often see a movie and discuss it, still others we yak. I don't judge any of these experiences any more as high or low. I'm connecting. That's all that counts to me. And connecting doesn't just mean people. When I'm in the mountains it's to the earth,with it's winged and furred creatures. The sun on a rock, heat through my butt (true enough, butts can be sensitive), makes me understand the treasure of the sun that all beings, sentient or not, share. Last summer I was out in a canoe in the middle of a lake, and for two hours I watched the Ospreys dive for fish. I could almost see the lake from a great height, feel the pressure of the dive on my chest, touch the water on my skin. I felt included in their activity, because they allowed me to not disturb their concentration. I was witnessing their prowess, and gaining some relational experience of what such skill might feel like.
So if today it's deciding between tuna salad and grilled cheese, I won't call that trivial. I appreciate the food, the company and the body in which I am still lucky enough to be able to experience these moments. A little laughter, which is sure to occur, doesn't hurt any either.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
aging day by day February 16, 2010
I took a break from blogging yesterday. I'm still trying to adjust to this routine, and I haven't kept a journal or diary in many years. And when I did, the entries put ME to sleep, so I obviously am no great diarist. Yesterday I spent my valuable time walking, as it was unseasonably warm and sunny and reading a thriller about a huge saber toothed tiger that is unfrozen in the arctic and starts to eat the scientists. It's very intellectual. Then I watched a bit of Antique Road Show and also part of Big Brown Eyes with Cary Grant and Joan Bennett. I had a long phone conversation with a friend, and went to bed. I lead a very exciting life. But every night, listening to the frogs in the creek makes me so delighted to be alive, that I suspend judgment on myself. I don't think judgment gets anyone very far, and I've given myself permission to deactivate the practice. Thus I no longer do an overview of the day in my head, because the day had billions of tiny moments that cannot be summed up, and labeling is unhealthy. Instead, I marvel at another day on earth. I'm still here.
Today I'm going to my voice lesson. When I was a kid I loved to sing, and was in school choruses and church choirs until I graduated from high school. I went to music camp in the summers. When I was a senior, I auditioned for a part in Gilbert and Sullivan's Trial By Jury (our high school was 5,000 students), and to the shock of my chorus director, I won the lead. He had brought in an outside conductor to make the casting choices, but he favored his star sopranos, who all had private voice lessons and encouragement from him. I was an alto, so Angelina wasn't even supposed to be in my singing range. Also, I think he was annoyed that I was dating one of his twin sons. He was also the director of our church choir, but he'd ignored me right along. I was pretty stunned myself to win the lead, and my parents didn't know what to do, and how to help me prepare, so at the first rehearsal the director blasted me in front of everyone because I didn't have the songs perfectly, and said one his favorites was my understudy and she was going to get the lead one night and me the other. I didn't understand I needed a temporary voice coach. I carried that wound with me and never sang in public again. Until four years ago, when I sang in a chorus for over 50's, and loved it. Now I have just begun private lessons with that director, after doing group lessons for three years. I'm loving it. Right now I'm singing When I Fall in Love, Why Can't You Behave, Brush Up Your Shakespeare, I Hope I don't Fall in Love With You and The Book of Love. It feels great.
When we're young we let people tell us who we are and evaluate us. Now I look back and could kick myself for letting an incident like that take me away from something I loved. My inner core wasn't strong enough, I guess, but ain't life grand? It's never too late to fix most things. Oh, okay, I may not rival Celine Dion, but I never wanted to be a singer, singer, I just wanted to keep getting better. I still sang every day, and to all four kids and now to my granddaughters. And belting out "She'll Be Comin Round The Mountain" feels liberating. Hi, Babe, Whoa Back, Scratch, Scratch, Yum, Yum, Toot Toot!
Today I'm going to my voice lesson. When I was a kid I loved to sing, and was in school choruses and church choirs until I graduated from high school. I went to music camp in the summers. When I was a senior, I auditioned for a part in Gilbert and Sullivan's Trial By Jury (our high school was 5,000 students), and to the shock of my chorus director, I won the lead. He had brought in an outside conductor to make the casting choices, but he favored his star sopranos, who all had private voice lessons and encouragement from him. I was an alto, so Angelina wasn't even supposed to be in my singing range. Also, I think he was annoyed that I was dating one of his twin sons. He was also the director of our church choir, but he'd ignored me right along. I was pretty stunned myself to win the lead, and my parents didn't know what to do, and how to help me prepare, so at the first rehearsal the director blasted me in front of everyone because I didn't have the songs perfectly, and said one his favorites was my understudy and she was going to get the lead one night and me the other. I didn't understand I needed a temporary voice coach. I carried that wound with me and never sang in public again. Until four years ago, when I sang in a chorus for over 50's, and loved it. Now I have just begun private lessons with that director, after doing group lessons for three years. I'm loving it. Right now I'm singing When I Fall in Love, Why Can't You Behave, Brush Up Your Shakespeare, I Hope I don't Fall in Love With You and The Book of Love. It feels great.
When we're young we let people tell us who we are and evaluate us. Now I look back and could kick myself for letting an incident like that take me away from something I loved. My inner core wasn't strong enough, I guess, but ain't life grand? It's never too late to fix most things. Oh, okay, I may not rival Celine Dion, but I never wanted to be a singer, singer, I just wanted to keep getting better. I still sang every day, and to all four kids and now to my granddaughters. And belting out "She'll Be Comin Round The Mountain" feels liberating. Hi, Babe, Whoa Back, Scratch, Scratch, Yum, Yum, Toot Toot!
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Aging Day By Day February 14, 2010
Well, it's the big day that I don't celebrate. I did give something to my granddaughters, but otherwise, I'm a little too old and stubborn at this point to be manipulated by Hallmark. My dear husband brought me flowers yesterday, and a card, but we will not be dining and dancing by moonlight, or doing anything "special". After 36 years together, just being alive is special, and we have no need to get away, since there are no kids in the house. Well, we could get away from the two dogs,I guess, but I don't feel the urge. The most romantic things I've done have been spontaneous and usually more like the amazing talks we've had or the compromises we've made just to make the other happy. None of these events have happened to fall on Valentine's Day - the pressure is too much.
You must understand, my husband and I met and married when I already had two toddlers from a previous marriage, so even the day we married, we drove right back home with the kids because we were afraid they'd be too traumatized if we left them overnight. Instead we drove his father and sister around to see some of the area on our way back, and the next day he went to work and I drove his father and sister to the airport. I didn't care. We were making our long life together, and this was just one day or one week in it.
What is romance? Is it lingerie and chocolates? Fine. Been there and done that. If you tried to put me in a thong now, I'd probably have cardiac arrest. And so would my husband when he saw me. Chocolates? Well, they'd have to be sugar free in my case, and the sugar free kind have the effect of ExLax. Not too romantic. Champagne? I like it, but we could go down to the basement and dig out a bottle and have it while we watched Day After Tomorrow. It's not that special. The hot tub, the mud baths. We've done that, too. Romantic now for me is sticking out this roller coaster of a thing called marriage, when one minute I want to kill him and the next hug, and we are constantly having to work, work HARD, on this relationship, and we've carved out our spaces, set our boundaries, forgiven enough mistakes for an ocean of tears, and still, we treat each other with respect 99% of the time. It's a damn miracle. And that's my idea of romantic. So there!
You must understand, my husband and I met and married when I already had two toddlers from a previous marriage, so even the day we married, we drove right back home with the kids because we were afraid they'd be too traumatized if we left them overnight. Instead we drove his father and sister around to see some of the area on our way back, and the next day he went to work and I drove his father and sister to the airport. I didn't care. We were making our long life together, and this was just one day or one week in it.
What is romance? Is it lingerie and chocolates? Fine. Been there and done that. If you tried to put me in a thong now, I'd probably have cardiac arrest. And so would my husband when he saw me. Chocolates? Well, they'd have to be sugar free in my case, and the sugar free kind have the effect of ExLax. Not too romantic. Champagne? I like it, but we could go down to the basement and dig out a bottle and have it while we watched Day After Tomorrow. It's not that special. The hot tub, the mud baths. We've done that, too. Romantic now for me is sticking out this roller coaster of a thing called marriage, when one minute I want to kill him and the next hug, and we are constantly having to work, work HARD, on this relationship, and we've carved out our spaces, set our boundaries, forgiven enough mistakes for an ocean of tears, and still, we treat each other with respect 99% of the time. It's a damn miracle. And that's my idea of romantic. So there!
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Aging Day By Day February 13, 2010
My husband is off walking the dogs and it feels like it did the times he took over with the kids when they were little. First I was exhilarated that they were gone and I was free, free, free and then I tried to figure out what to do with myself. My weekday routine includes walking the dogs as the first order of business, so here I am after ten am with no fresh air in my lungs. Thus, the brain doesn't function well, and I feel at loose ends. You know that thing about dogs looking like their owners? I'm afraid I have begun to resemble a lab, a grey wolf lab mix, maybe. The neck. Oh, dear. I have practically as many layers as they do. I wish my neck was covered in soft, chocolate brown fur. Yeah, I could do the scarf thing, as Nora Ephron writes so brilliantly about. But you see, I don't really have a neck to get a scarf around. The chins are folded upon the shoulders, and if I try a scarf, it ends up covering my nose and chin like a bandit. I've even attempted the instructions on scarf tying in the magazines, but no luck. And since I'm only five feet tall, there is definitely a danger of that Isadora Duncan thing happening. I need a super short, super thin scarf - but no, then I'd look like Scarlett O'Hara morphing into Whatever Happened to Baby Jane. I need to distract the eye upward, but to what? My glasses? A large, bucket shaped hat on my head? I can't wear hats either. Though due to fear of skin cancer I wear hats, but the brim kind, which further sink me down and leave little visible except my lack of a neck. These are the kind of problems the elderly have that we must waste our educations and experience trying to solve. How low can you sink? I'll let you know when I hit bottom.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Aging Day by Day February 12, 2010
There was lots of gossipy news today in the two newspapers we get each morning. John Edwards, Patrick Kennedy, Jaycee Dugard, and other scandals, plus Clinton's surgery (he always fits nicely with any gossip) and a raft of feel bad news. I sort of skim through to movie reviews and art openings, and skip the rest. I do the same on my home page for the NY Times. There are exceptions. But, here's the thing (as Monk would say), I've reached that age when history seems cyclical. What goes around comes around. What swings up will swing down. Yes, the swing to the left only seemed to last about two and a half seconds, but there was a swing. You can't make real progress happen in any dramatic kind of way in a single lifetime. But it is happening, very slowly. Women have the vote, slavery is uncool, us Native Americans have a won a few court battles and settlements. But meanwhile, the same old crap just happens over and over, and, like a hamster on a wheel, you can't stop it. And there is absolutely nothing interesting about watching that hamster. He may look different, but it's the same behavior. Boring. We get shocked that the U.S. Supreme Court seems politicized. Hello?! It always was. It's like discovering that politicians like to give speeches. It may be big news to some folks, but to us geezers, it's ho-hum.
As I get older, the world seems more complicated, and TV and news media don't reflect that, so I'd rather read a biography of a politician, a general, an activist, and see the messy reality behind the sound bites. But because of my age, I have a deep nostalgia for print news, and also Walter Cronkite. Mr. Cronkite is sadly gone, so that leaves newspapers. I'll be supporting them as long as they or I am around, but I stick to Cal Sports and the Oakland As, local events and movie listings.
I do see the waste of paper issue, and I love trees. Some of my best friends are trees. I have a huge Atlas Cedar in my back yard and an Incense Cedar in the front, plus a lot of other trees surrounding the house. So I feel a bit guilty, when I can get everything online, but I'm old enough that me and guilt are good buddies, quite comfortable together, and we don't beat ourselves up for a few transgressions.
I'm also old fashioned enough to not want a lot of disturbing images stuffed in my overstuffed brain. I protect myself. Younger people seem to be fine with gory details and quotes from survivors, but those kind of things haunt me. I am the person who was told about the movie Psycho as a teenager by two older teens, and never has seen the movie and never gotten it out of my mind. I was talked into seeing Silence of the Lambs by my husband, and had to spend $80 to see a therapist about it. I scare easy. And I have a lot of stories that are troubling rolling around in my mind. I was, on and off, a battered womens' shelter counselor for 12 years, so I already know that truth is stranger than fiction, that a little truth goes a long way, and a lot can make you crazy. So yes, I'm also protecting myself. If I don't who will?
As I get older, the world seems more complicated, and TV and news media don't reflect that, so I'd rather read a biography of a politician, a general, an activist, and see the messy reality behind the sound bites. But because of my age, I have a deep nostalgia for print news, and also Walter Cronkite. Mr. Cronkite is sadly gone, so that leaves newspapers. I'll be supporting them as long as they or I am around, but I stick to Cal Sports and the Oakland As, local events and movie listings.
I do see the waste of paper issue, and I love trees. Some of my best friends are trees. I have a huge Atlas Cedar in my back yard and an Incense Cedar in the front, plus a lot of other trees surrounding the house. So I feel a bit guilty, when I can get everything online, but I'm old enough that me and guilt are good buddies, quite comfortable together, and we don't beat ourselves up for a few transgressions.
I'm also old fashioned enough to not want a lot of disturbing images stuffed in my overstuffed brain. I protect myself. Younger people seem to be fine with gory details and quotes from survivors, but those kind of things haunt me. I am the person who was told about the movie Psycho as a teenager by two older teens, and never has seen the movie and never gotten it out of my mind. I was talked into seeing Silence of the Lambs by my husband, and had to spend $80 to see a therapist about it. I scare easy. And I have a lot of stories that are troubling rolling around in my mind. I was, on and off, a battered womens' shelter counselor for 12 years, so I already know that truth is stranger than fiction, that a little truth goes a long way, and a lot can make you crazy. So yes, I'm also protecting myself. If I don't who will?
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Aging Day By Day February 11, 2010
I know I'm old, because I seldom listen to rock and roll, and like Hawaiian music and opera better than jazz and pop. I have every album of Israel Kamakawiwo'ole. I know "White, Sandy Beach of Hawaii" by heart and I often attempt the hula if no one's around. I also dance to opera, and I no longer care what they are saying or the storyline or who is singing. I just love the belting out thing. I'm turning into Ethel Merman in my old age. I went to a wedding last year and they played one of Iz's songs as they came down the isle (Yes!). They are my age, so I suppose this Hawaii thing is a metaphor for heaven, a kind of heaven us degenerates can imagine.
I have been influenced heavily by my kids, and due to them, I listened to The Cranberries, Dead Can Dance and Radiohead (okay, I still love Radiohead). Our younger son introduced me to Magnetic Fields' "69 Love Songs" and I can sing the complete lyrics to "Rodeo", "The Book of Love", and "There Will Be Time Enough for Rockin When We're Old". Check them out. I also have a soft spot for Hootie and the Blowfish, especially the songs "I Hope I Don't Fall in Love With You" and "I Go Blind".
But otherwise, my music tastes have changed. Oh, wait. Musicals. Yes, I have been super faithful to musicals, especially the Howard Keel kind. I love Kiss Me Kate, Kismet, Annie Get Your Gun, Calamity Jane, and other gems of the screen. I know, they're sexist, sometimes racist, politically incorrect, and historically inaccurate. If the songs are terrific enough, you forget to care. My father had to travel a lot, and the first musical I remember seeing in a movie theater, with my Mom and brother, on a Sunday afternoon, was "Lili" with Leslie Caron. But I might have seen ones before on TV. I'm unclear on that. My Mom had records of various musicals, and she and Dad would go some distance to see them. She was famous in our family for falling asleep during My Fair Lady with Rex Harrison and Julie Andrews. They'd taken the train up from Virginia to Manhattan just to see it. My parents occasionally took me to musicals in San Francisco, when we lived in the Bay Area, and I remember seeing "Bye, Bye, Birdie" and loving it.
The era of musicals is way over, and I was disappointed when I saw "Chicago", and didn't bother to see "Nine". Even though I have a crush on Daniel Day-Lewis. Yes, the elderly have crushes, too. Quite a distance from Howard Keel to Mr. Day-Lewis. But there you go. Aging is a journey, and a strange one, too.
I have been influenced heavily by my kids, and due to them, I listened to The Cranberries, Dead Can Dance and Radiohead (okay, I still love Radiohead). Our younger son introduced me to Magnetic Fields' "69 Love Songs" and I can sing the complete lyrics to "Rodeo", "The Book of Love", and "There Will Be Time Enough for Rockin When We're Old". Check them out. I also have a soft spot for Hootie and the Blowfish, especially the songs "I Hope I Don't Fall in Love With You" and "I Go Blind".
But otherwise, my music tastes have changed. Oh, wait. Musicals. Yes, I have been super faithful to musicals, especially the Howard Keel kind. I love Kiss Me Kate, Kismet, Annie Get Your Gun, Calamity Jane, and other gems of the screen. I know, they're sexist, sometimes racist, politically incorrect, and historically inaccurate. If the songs are terrific enough, you forget to care. My father had to travel a lot, and the first musical I remember seeing in a movie theater, with my Mom and brother, on a Sunday afternoon, was "Lili" with Leslie Caron. But I might have seen ones before on TV. I'm unclear on that. My Mom had records of various musicals, and she and Dad would go some distance to see them. She was famous in our family for falling asleep during My Fair Lady with Rex Harrison and Julie Andrews. They'd taken the train up from Virginia to Manhattan just to see it. My parents occasionally took me to musicals in San Francisco, when we lived in the Bay Area, and I remember seeing "Bye, Bye, Birdie" and loving it.
The era of musicals is way over, and I was disappointed when I saw "Chicago", and didn't bother to see "Nine". Even though I have a crush on Daniel Day-Lewis. Yes, the elderly have crushes, too. Quite a distance from Howard Keel to Mr. Day-Lewis. But there you go. Aging is a journey, and a strange one, too.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
aging day by day February 10, 2010
Every morning I walk the dogs, check email, then do a 40 minute cardio exercise video. These 30 something cuties in bra tops and black leggings have no idea somebody as decrepit and unkempt as me is following along nicely. But not to meet guys at the gym, as one video says, but to keep the ole pump working. It's nostagic for me, too. There was a time when I, too, bought tiny outfits and cross trainers and brought my towel to the gym. I stared at myself in the mirror and noticed I was shorter than everyone else and my hair never stayed in a ponytail, or band or any container. I COMPARED myself. I felt, too, that it was my moral obligation to be sexy for my husband, and it didn't hurt one little bit if a few other guys also sat up and noticed.
That was one alternate universe. Now I could care less what men think of me, including my husband, although in his case it is because we have this level of trust that's pretty deep, and also he doesn't look like he used to either, so we're the mutual toleration society. I no longer bother with mirrors at all, and I do not change my clothes when I exercise. Too much trouble. If I have to, I slip out of my boots into these Clarks that seem pretty comfy. I don't do tennis shoes any more. Too much trouble to lace them up. Due to my advanced age, I am no longer doing any high impact moves, and try never to lift both feet off the ground at the same time. Also, I can't get my head lower than my heart, because of my eye disease, and I squat very gently, out of respect for my knees. My body may be neither a temple or a shrine, but it is an archeological site that needs preserving.
I feel proud of the fact that I even am able do these videos, and that they are fun, as they have music and it's a kind of dancing. I can kick back and no one in the whole wide world sees me, and the reflection in the mirror this time is these adorable exercise mavens, and I get to be them for a little bit each morning. Time travel. But with no self judgment this time, no punishing impulse, no resentment that I "have" to do this to compete. I am so done with all that. And what a relief it is. I'm at the age when I look back on my old photos and think: "I was pretty darned cute". I regret not enjoying the cuteness while it was there, but such is our culture. I tried so hard with both daughters to make them feel good about their bodies, but then, at puberty, the peers and the culture take over and complimenting them is mortifying - because you don't understand. They are too tall, too short, the breasts too big or too small, the legs not long enough (nobody but Barbie and giraffes have legs long enough for this culture) and everything is wrong, wrong, wrong! I was in my forties before I realized that my best friend in childhood was substantially less cute than me. I never noticed her fat ankles and crooked nose, I was too busy wishing I had her substantial breasts and huge lips. Guess where those breasts have migrated to now. We're programed not to be happy with how we look, and nobody escapes it. At least not until you're in your sixties and invisible, and all of a sudden, people listen to you more than look at you, and they judge you by your actions not your photogenic rating. It's freeing. And for the first time in my life, I'm really enjoying exercising for how it makes me feel. What a concept!
That was one alternate universe. Now I could care less what men think of me, including my husband, although in his case it is because we have this level of trust that's pretty deep, and also he doesn't look like he used to either, so we're the mutual toleration society. I no longer bother with mirrors at all, and I do not change my clothes when I exercise. Too much trouble. If I have to, I slip out of my boots into these Clarks that seem pretty comfy. I don't do tennis shoes any more. Too much trouble to lace them up. Due to my advanced age, I am no longer doing any high impact moves, and try never to lift both feet off the ground at the same time. Also, I can't get my head lower than my heart, because of my eye disease, and I squat very gently, out of respect for my knees. My body may be neither a temple or a shrine, but it is an archeological site that needs preserving.
I feel proud of the fact that I even am able do these videos, and that they are fun, as they have music and it's a kind of dancing. I can kick back and no one in the whole wide world sees me, and the reflection in the mirror this time is these adorable exercise mavens, and I get to be them for a little bit each morning. Time travel. But with no self judgment this time, no punishing impulse, no resentment that I "have" to do this to compete. I am so done with all that. And what a relief it is. I'm at the age when I look back on my old photos and think: "I was pretty darned cute". I regret not enjoying the cuteness while it was there, but such is our culture. I tried so hard with both daughters to make them feel good about their bodies, but then, at puberty, the peers and the culture take over and complimenting them is mortifying - because you don't understand. They are too tall, too short, the breasts too big or too small, the legs not long enough (nobody but Barbie and giraffes have legs long enough for this culture) and everything is wrong, wrong, wrong! I was in my forties before I realized that my best friend in childhood was substantially less cute than me. I never noticed her fat ankles and crooked nose, I was too busy wishing I had her substantial breasts and huge lips. Guess where those breasts have migrated to now. We're programed not to be happy with how we look, and nobody escapes it. At least not until you're in your sixties and invisible, and all of a sudden, people listen to you more than look at you, and they judge you by your actions not your photogenic rating. It's freeing. And for the first time in my life, I'm really enjoying exercising for how it makes me feel. What a concept!
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Aging Day by Day/February 9, 2010
Today is a beautiful day. It's sunny and it rained last night, so the air is fresh and everything is green and lush. I can hear the frogs from the nearby creek both night and day, and their chorus of joy makes me grateful to be alive and complaining about aging. So much of my family and my husband's are gone. We are the matriarch and patriarch, and it still seems like a bad joke. I assumed I'd have stronger opinions as I got older, but not so. There seems to be very little that is black and white - just a lot of gray areas like a broken TV. When one of our kids asks us for advice, my impulse is still to turn around to see who they're talking to. My parents were adamant that they knew what my brother and I should be doing, the choices we should make. It was like being sucked towards the eye of a volcano, and it was hard to pull away, and hold our own. I think I did a lot of dishonest pretending to be in agreement rather than go though arguments that never went anywhere. I quickly would lose my sense of self and feel self critical from their point of view. My mother died at 61, so I don't think she made any real transition to uncertainty, but my father, the few months after she died before he himself died (he was 65), was loosening up. He got curious, and seemed to want to see how the world looked from my point of view. Inching away from rigidity toward more acceptance and just settling for loving me, instead of attempting to direct my life. I often wonder what would have happened had he lived a bit longer. What talks we might have had.
Though that may be romanticizing the whole parent/child relationship. I don't think any of our kids is ready to share much of themselves with us. It may be natural, a protection against emeshment, or they haven't reached the age when they see us as ordinary human beings and get curious. I'm curious about them but don't want to pry, as my parents felt perfectly righteous in doing. What a delicate balance it all is!
It makes one me wonder about leaving a letter to each of the kids, tucked in our safe deposit box, saying all the things I want them to know I understand about them, and their lives with us, and wishing them well. I haven't done it yet though. That would be quite a letter, and I can't get over the thought that it would have to be perfect, and I don't yet know what that perfect is.
But when my parents died, I so much wished I had letters or some writing from them. There was nothing. They had cleaned out every card, letter, personal item. To see their signatures even, I had to look on their driver's licenses, passports and tax returns. I miss their handwriting. I wonder why they saved nothing we wrote them. It can't really be interpreted, as there are simply no clues. But they were never sentimental, either one of them. My mom had a bureau drawer full of a hodgepodge of photos, some baby rings and a pair of baby shoes. There were a couple of elementary school report cards of my brother's. That was it. They didn't save cards from their four grandchildren, or their siblings, or their parents. If I hadn't had an uncle who gave me his old photos of him and my dad and their family, I'd have no photographic evidence of their existence.
Maybe that's best. But as you get older you realize there are all these choices. And each decision is open to endless interpretation after you're gone.
Though that may be romanticizing the whole parent/child relationship. I don't think any of our kids is ready to share much of themselves with us. It may be natural, a protection against emeshment, or they haven't reached the age when they see us as ordinary human beings and get curious. I'm curious about them but don't want to pry, as my parents felt perfectly righteous in doing. What a delicate balance it all is!
It makes one me wonder about leaving a letter to each of the kids, tucked in our safe deposit box, saying all the things I want them to know I understand about them, and their lives with us, and wishing them well. I haven't done it yet though. That would be quite a letter, and I can't get over the thought that it would have to be perfect, and I don't yet know what that perfect is.
But when my parents died, I so much wished I had letters or some writing from them. There was nothing. They had cleaned out every card, letter, personal item. To see their signatures even, I had to look on their driver's licenses, passports and tax returns. I miss their handwriting. I wonder why they saved nothing we wrote them. It can't really be interpreted, as there are simply no clues. But they were never sentimental, either one of them. My mom had a bureau drawer full of a hodgepodge of photos, some baby rings and a pair of baby shoes. There were a couple of elementary school report cards of my brother's. That was it. They didn't save cards from their four grandchildren, or their siblings, or their parents. If I hadn't had an uncle who gave me his old photos of him and my dad and their family, I'd have no photographic evidence of their existence.
Maybe that's best. But as you get older you realize there are all these choices. And each decision is open to endless interpretation after you're gone.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Aging Day by Day February 8, 2010
I know everyone talks about this but the way time flies as you get older is downright dizzying. Now the weekend is gone, and since I have practically no memory left, I don't even know what happened yesterday, much less the day before. I don't wait for anything - instead I'm playing catch up. And I don't really have my heart in any of these holidays any more. Yes, I send cards and gifts to my granddaughter, but all of it seems deja vu. I must show up and be enthusiastic if called upon, but I wish sometimes that holidays like Valentine's Day and President's Weekend and Easter would slip away silently. they ought yo be ashamed of themselves, for causing so much pressure. I never did anything but candy and a card for my kids for Valentine's Day. My husband and I ignored it, with a couple of exceptions, when either he or I gave flowers, a card or a small gift. I had too many memories of my mother furious at my father because he hadn't done enough. I just wanted to avoid the whole thing. Even kids giving cards can get nasty - feelings get hurt and it becomes a parent lecturing the child on not leaving any of the children out of the loop.
President's Weekend can make you feel bad if you aren't off skiing or on a quick trip to Santa Fe or golfing in Phoenix. We've never done anything for the four days, but I admit to feeling jealous when other people relate their adventures. Now that we don't ski anymore and the economy is depressed I feel excused from having to have fun. It's a relief.
Then there is Easter, which used to consist of Easter Egg Hunts and picnics in parks. Now we avoid the whole day. Just do our usual - walk the dogs, read, watch a DVD. Once in a while one of our kids calls and asks what our plans are - but we never have any, and I fight the guilt that I should be making a big ham and have a coconut cake with a dyed green nest and jelly bean eggs. My mom did that, and of course we went to church in the morning, and sometimes I went to sunrise service, but the meaning behind all that is gone for me, and I couldn't duplicate it for my kids. We tried the Unitarian Church for a few months, but it felt insincere and pathetic. But being religious does come in handy on Easter. Spring Solstice is the alternate holiday here, and I love the idea of it, but seldom actually participate in any activity around it.
So these holidays whizzing by me let me escape a bit of the old feeling of responsibility and guilt. I could skip 4th of July and Memorial Day and Labor Day as well, and we often do nothing different at those times. That leaves Thanksgiving and Christmas, which I still enjoy, and four kids birthdays, plus the birthdays of a son-in-law and daughter-in-law, a granddaughter, a foster granddaughter, our birthdays, and our anniversary. I can tell you that's enough celebration for anyone. So we have at least one event every month but May, June, and August. Trust me, I can barely get organized for the crucial dates.
This time of year is when we both worry about our anniversary, which is in March. We've been married so long - 35 years - that we've been everywhere reasonable and economic for our weekend away. A couple of years ago we tried Sacramento, but, trust me, there is not enough to do for a whole weekend. We ended up in Davis walking the path along the river observing the baby ducks. It was cute, but not particularly romantic. This year I've actually considered Chico, but I believe that would be unwise. My husband suggested blowing the budget and going to Hawaii, mainly because we went there for a week last year for our 35th, but I'd only have to hear about the credit card bill for months on end, so I'm not falling into that trap. Death Valley might be nice, but the connotations are just too grim, and Palm Springs and Palm Desert are probably not for us. We don't play golf or have gold jewelry and we both burn severely if out in the sun, so lounging by the pool is sort of like waterboarding for us.
At least Super Bowl Sunday is over. And I read a really good mystery while it was on.
President's Weekend can make you feel bad if you aren't off skiing or on a quick trip to Santa Fe or golfing in Phoenix. We've never done anything for the four days, but I admit to feeling jealous when other people relate their adventures. Now that we don't ski anymore and the economy is depressed I feel excused from having to have fun. It's a relief.
Then there is Easter, which used to consist of Easter Egg Hunts and picnics in parks. Now we avoid the whole day. Just do our usual - walk the dogs, read, watch a DVD. Once in a while one of our kids calls and asks what our plans are - but we never have any, and I fight the guilt that I should be making a big ham and have a coconut cake with a dyed green nest and jelly bean eggs. My mom did that, and of course we went to church in the morning, and sometimes I went to sunrise service, but the meaning behind all that is gone for me, and I couldn't duplicate it for my kids. We tried the Unitarian Church for a few months, but it felt insincere and pathetic. But being religious does come in handy on Easter. Spring Solstice is the alternate holiday here, and I love the idea of it, but seldom actually participate in any activity around it.
So these holidays whizzing by me let me escape a bit of the old feeling of responsibility and guilt. I could skip 4th of July and Memorial Day and Labor Day as well, and we often do nothing different at those times. That leaves Thanksgiving and Christmas, which I still enjoy, and four kids birthdays, plus the birthdays of a son-in-law and daughter-in-law, a granddaughter, a foster granddaughter, our birthdays, and our anniversary. I can tell you that's enough celebration for anyone. So we have at least one event every month but May, June, and August. Trust me, I can barely get organized for the crucial dates.
This time of year is when we both worry about our anniversary, which is in March. We've been married so long - 35 years - that we've been everywhere reasonable and economic for our weekend away. A couple of years ago we tried Sacramento, but, trust me, there is not enough to do for a whole weekend. We ended up in Davis walking the path along the river observing the baby ducks. It was cute, but not particularly romantic. This year I've actually considered Chico, but I believe that would be unwise. My husband suggested blowing the budget and going to Hawaii, mainly because we went there for a week last year for our 35th, but I'd only have to hear about the credit card bill for months on end, so I'm not falling into that trap. Death Valley might be nice, but the connotations are just too grim, and Palm Springs and Palm Desert are probably not for us. We don't play golf or have gold jewelry and we both burn severely if out in the sun, so lounging by the pool is sort of like waterboarding for us.
At least Super Bowl Sunday is over. And I read a really good mystery while it was on.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Last night I convinced my husband to watch Thirty Day Princess with Sylvia Sidney and Cary Grant (1932). As I age, I find it comforting to know that are a couple of dozen movies made before I was born. It makes me feel young. Though Sylvia Sidney looked so much like Drew Barrymore it was a bit confusing, and it was set in a depression - this depression or another? It gets so disorienting, the way history repeats itself but with a new cast. My parents were children when this movie was made, and they've been dead now about 24 years. My youngest kid doesn't have any memories of them, as she was three when they died. I realize that could happen to me, too, as my first grandchild is 21 months, and if we disappeared now she would never know us, though at the moment she thinks we're fun. You gotta love grandchildren - they think you're interesting and want to spend time with you - unlike the rest of the world. I also have a foster grandchild who is 4 1/2. She will, I believe, remember me. But her father died when she was 15 months old, so she will not remember him, and he was such an amazing, loving, funny young man. Life is not fair. Not at all. Do we ever get reconciled to it? I doubt it.
Memories are precious, and they slip through our fingers like sand. There is no container sturdy enough to hold them, and they float around drifting in and out of the atmosphere searching for homes. I think us older folk try to hold on a minute when they float by. We're like the volunteers in the baby ward of a hospital - holding the little fellow tenderly so he can know he's welcomed in this world - messengers for all the emotions and wishes and dreams of our race.
What else can we do - us old folks? I believe we are the masters of the incidental encounter with a stranger. That moment when you share an interaction with the lady in the volvo waiting room tapping her foot as she waits for her car to be ready. She turns out to be from southern India and you've been there eight years ago and it's a small world and there you go. Life has happened in the midst of old Newsweeks and car brochures. A body clearing it's throat becomes a woman who lives in the next town and makes her own puris. Without us - the old people who notice humanity and have time to spare - life would be a lot of dead air.
We wink at children a lot. Their mothers aren't noticing, being on the cell phone and holding the kid's collar with the other hand, and the kid wants to be SEEN. The wink tells her - yes, it's a drag to be held back from running through the store like a banchee and what's the point of a perfectly good slippery floor, if you can't try sliding across it? We're old enough to know the best use of our feet at that moment would be something that delightfully reckless, and if we were her mother we would take off her shoes and let her skate for the olympics. If we were her grandparent, we would pull up the rugs in our front hall and let her rip.
Memories are precious, and they slip through our fingers like sand. There is no container sturdy enough to hold them, and they float around drifting in and out of the atmosphere searching for homes. I think us older folk try to hold on a minute when they float by. We're like the volunteers in the baby ward of a hospital - holding the little fellow tenderly so he can know he's welcomed in this world - messengers for all the emotions and wishes and dreams of our race.
What else can we do - us old folks? I believe we are the masters of the incidental encounter with a stranger. That moment when you share an interaction with the lady in the volvo waiting room tapping her foot as she waits for her car to be ready. She turns out to be from southern India and you've been there eight years ago and it's a small world and there you go. Life has happened in the midst of old Newsweeks and car brochures. A body clearing it's throat becomes a woman who lives in the next town and makes her own puris. Without us - the old people who notice humanity and have time to spare - life would be a lot of dead air.
We wink at children a lot. Their mothers aren't noticing, being on the cell phone and holding the kid's collar with the other hand, and the kid wants to be SEEN. The wink tells her - yes, it's a drag to be held back from running through the store like a banchee and what's the point of a perfectly good slippery floor, if you can't try sliding across it? We're old enough to know the best use of our feet at that moment would be something that delightfully reckless, and if we were her mother we would take off her shoes and let her skate for the olympics. If we were her grandparent, we would pull up the rugs in our front hall and let her rip.
Friday, February 5, 2010
The thing about aging is the table conversation at home revolves around an inventory of aches and pains. As my doctor says - welcome to old age. Yeah, I know, he's pretty sarcastic, but at least he believes in yoga. Recently, every morning my husband sits down at the table, turns towards his right and twists something, yells, lifts out of his chair and says he hurt his back. This has become a ritual. He's always surprised, and I haven't any sympathy left in me. He blames it on our chairs, but I'm not likely to serve him breakfast in a barcalounger, which we don't own anyway. Now, his doctor has given him handouts of exercises to do, and he has those rubbery things that stretch something, and hand weights, etc. He has had all this information for going on 15 years. But he still gets surprised. That's what old age is all about. The surprise of it. How did we get to be this old, we ask each other. I thought I'd be dead by now, my husband said the other day. Me, too, I replied. We are not adequately prepared. We don't have enough saved. We have no ideas about what to do at retirement. Which for my husband is next June. I mean, first there was 1984, then 2001, and now there is a black president, and we weren't even supposed to be alive for the digital age. I'm beginning to think - AMAZING THOUGHT - maybe I'll live to see a woman as president. It just gets weirder and weirder.
Yesterday, I neglected an important aspect of my medicinal routine - the non-prescription drugs. In my case, currently, there is the seretonin (hair), eye vitamins (I have a degenerative eye disease, as does everyone else over 50), the calcium with vitamin D, and vitamin C. I've given up on the multi-vits and Bcomplex and a few other fads. It's like having 4 meals a day, but one of them causes you to burp a lot and feel strangely full.
One of the most challenging aspects of aging is that one's friends are also aging, too. And how do I keep track of dietary needs, deafness, terrifying passenger rides in vehicles manned by impulsive manics with cataracts, strange hair colors that I know I shouldn't comment on, and a bizarre emeshing with dogs and cats that used to be pets, but now one must send get well cards to and condolences when one "passes". All my friends have transitioned from interesting and maybe quirky to eccentric or downright psychotic. I'm sure this applies to me as well, but I can't see the forest for the trees. Not with these eyes.
One surprising thing is how our kids seem to think we have as much energy as when we were forty. They keep encouraging us to do trips that would have us hospitalized and think we can actually carry the Christmas decorations up and down from the basement. Well, technically we can, but the pain afterwards, the pain. Last time we flew to Morocco to see one of our far flung kids, my right thigh fell asleep on the plane and still has not awoken. And taking care of our grandaughter has us running around until we finally get her asleep, then collapsing ourselves at her bedtime. I must say, I always lose weight when she visits, but I'm a nervous wreck, because I KNOW I do not have the reflexes of her parents, and must compensate by focusing solely on her and trying always to have a hand to keep her from falling or be in front so she falls on me. She had one bad fall at the playground a few months ago, and when my daughter picked us up in the car after doing her errands, she was so busy reassuring me (I was bawling my head off) that we both forgot about the child in question. I'm too delicate for these bumps of life. I used to be tough, now I'm mush.
Yesterday, I neglected an important aspect of my medicinal routine - the non-prescription drugs. In my case, currently, there is the seretonin (hair), eye vitamins (I have a degenerative eye disease, as does everyone else over 50), the calcium with vitamin D, and vitamin C. I've given up on the multi-vits and Bcomplex and a few other fads. It's like having 4 meals a day, but one of them causes you to burp a lot and feel strangely full.
One of the most challenging aspects of aging is that one's friends are also aging, too. And how do I keep track of dietary needs, deafness, terrifying passenger rides in vehicles manned by impulsive manics with cataracts, strange hair colors that I know I shouldn't comment on, and a bizarre emeshing with dogs and cats that used to be pets, but now one must send get well cards to and condolences when one "passes". All my friends have transitioned from interesting and maybe quirky to eccentric or downright psychotic. I'm sure this applies to me as well, but I can't see the forest for the trees. Not with these eyes.
One surprising thing is how our kids seem to think we have as much energy as when we were forty. They keep encouraging us to do trips that would have us hospitalized and think we can actually carry the Christmas decorations up and down from the basement. Well, technically we can, but the pain afterwards, the pain. Last time we flew to Morocco to see one of our far flung kids, my right thigh fell asleep on the plane and still has not awoken. And taking care of our grandaughter has us running around until we finally get her asleep, then collapsing ourselves at her bedtime. I must say, I always lose weight when she visits, but I'm a nervous wreck, because I KNOW I do not have the reflexes of her parents, and must compensate by focusing solely on her and trying always to have a hand to keep her from falling or be in front so she falls on me. She had one bad fall at the playground a few months ago, and when my daughter picked us up in the car after doing her errands, she was so busy reassuring me (I was bawling my head off) that we both forgot about the child in question. I'm too delicate for these bumps of life. I used to be tough, now I'm mush.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Old Age Day by Day - Day One
It is difficult to choose which day to begin with, as I believe I realized I was old in the middle of the process, somewhwere between denial and horror. Yes, I saw this creepy being in the mirro, but I have a small mirror and I can't get close ot it due to the sink and I never wear my glasses when I look in it, so it wasn't really disturbing. I knew I was turning into a n apple shape the size of the Rockefeller Plaza globe, but there are ways to camoflage the lack of a wist: long black cardigans, raincoats year round, and clothes so big you look lost in them. i'm so short that i still fit into the large juniors and petites, so I told myself I was still a callow youth. Being forced into plus size might have awakened me sooner.
then there was the dermatogist. We became intimate friends. I was in her office so often I began giving advice about her daughter. Things grew on me. Really strange craters and hillocks and topographical countries. I realized if I was ever in need of having my body identified, there were so many markers I was in no fear of an unmarked grave. Things got burned off, scraped off, dug out, biopsied. Sometimes I could sense my dermatologist was excited when she dug something out, but I tried not to think what that meant - a talk at a conference with my slab of skin on a screen? Eventually, I had a basel cell carcinoma on my leg, which was the least worrisome form, but she'd nicked a nerve and on a visit to see our daughter in Manhattan, I was in acute pain for all the miles we wandered above and below ground looking for the right subway, or figuring out what streets were missing on the tourist map. Greenwich Village, by the way, is as convoluted as those corn mazes at Halloween. I once stayed in my daughter's flat to help my son through a surgery and though they were a block and a half apart, I turned the wrong way at the corner every morning for a week. Somehow I could get back easier, because there was a video store on the corner and I always knew I'd gone too far and backed up.
Where was I? Oh, yes. The age thing. There's also the medicine. THough taking it seems by the label warnings far more dangerous than getting a heart attack or stroke, I am now on a statin, a betablocker, an omega fish oil pill the size of a football, and my thyroid drug. When I get symptoms now, I don't know if it's the drug or a dread disease, and frankly, I don't want to know. I have an old age health book next to the bed, and I self-diagnose, and will continue my habit of not sharing any symtoms with my doctor until I am screaming in agony. Because what is he going to do? Add another drug to the cocktail. As it is I have to rest on a daybed in the bathroom as I'm swallowing my meds. I can't stand up that long.
Now, I'm not saying aging is all bad. there are the grandchildren, senior discounts, the possibility that your adult kid will pay for dinner (though that's iffy and I always go to the bank first), and the fact that makeup now makes you look like a corpse, so a swipe of lipstick is all you need. I never liked the grooming thin, and was terrible at it. I never dyed my hair, and now, if I did, I would look like Nancy Reagan. Enough said. So the gray in my salt and pepper blob (kind of like a bob only messier), is distinguished. Well, they say that aobut men, so why not women?
SO this blog will be a day by day report from the trenches, and you other soldiers out there will, I hope, empathize or at least realize you'll never walk alone (Sound of Music with the big nun singing in a suspiciously deep voice). WHen you age your voices goes down an octiave for every decade.
then there was the dermatogist. We became intimate friends. I was in her office so often I began giving advice about her daughter. Things grew on me. Really strange craters and hillocks and topographical countries. I realized if I was ever in need of having my body identified, there were so many markers I was in no fear of an unmarked grave. Things got burned off, scraped off, dug out, biopsied. Sometimes I could sense my dermatologist was excited when she dug something out, but I tried not to think what that meant - a talk at a conference with my slab of skin on a screen? Eventually, I had a basel cell carcinoma on my leg, which was the least worrisome form, but she'd nicked a nerve and on a visit to see our daughter in Manhattan, I was in acute pain for all the miles we wandered above and below ground looking for the right subway, or figuring out what streets were missing on the tourist map. Greenwich Village, by the way, is as convoluted as those corn mazes at Halloween. I once stayed in my daughter's flat to help my son through a surgery and though they were a block and a half apart, I turned the wrong way at the corner every morning for a week. Somehow I could get back easier, because there was a video store on the corner and I always knew I'd gone too far and backed up.
Where was I? Oh, yes. The age thing. There's also the medicine. THough taking it seems by the label warnings far more dangerous than getting a heart attack or stroke, I am now on a statin, a betablocker, an omega fish oil pill the size of a football, and my thyroid drug. When I get symptoms now, I don't know if it's the drug or a dread disease, and frankly, I don't want to know. I have an old age health book next to the bed, and I self-diagnose, and will continue my habit of not sharing any symtoms with my doctor until I am screaming in agony. Because what is he going to do? Add another drug to the cocktail. As it is I have to rest on a daybed in the bathroom as I'm swallowing my meds. I can't stand up that long.
Now, I'm not saying aging is all bad. there are the grandchildren, senior discounts, the possibility that your adult kid will pay for dinner (though that's iffy and I always go to the bank first), and the fact that makeup now makes you look like a corpse, so a swipe of lipstick is all you need. I never liked the grooming thin, and was terrible at it. I never dyed my hair, and now, if I did, I would look like Nancy Reagan. Enough said. So the gray in my salt and pepper blob (kind of like a bob only messier), is distinguished. Well, they say that aobut men, so why not women?
SO this blog will be a day by day report from the trenches, and you other soldiers out there will, I hope, empathize or at least realize you'll never walk alone (Sound of Music with the big nun singing in a suspiciously deep voice). WHen you age your voices goes down an octiave for every decade.
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