Old Age Day by Day April 30, 2010

Visiting my daughter, son-in-law and granddaughter brought up memories of my hectic life working and taking care of four kids. They both teach, and their daughter has two different play/babysit arrangements, and inevitably you have to jump start a child who just wants to dawdle. She's happy to see her friends, but the stress is on her parents to keep that happiness first and foremost.

It's challenging, to say the least. I, fool that I am, went to graduate school two times, the first in my twenties with a one year old and the three year old, then a second time in my mid thirties, with three kids and at the time of graduation three months pregnant with the fourth. I know, crazy beyond belief. I no longer remember how I did it. I know I wrote my thesis from nine to ten every night, right after the kids were put to bed and right before I collapsed. I know my husband came back from his grad school for dinner and to get the kids to bed, then went back from nine pm to 2 am to do his research in the lab. And somehow we went on hikes to hear the elk mating calls, attended soccer games, bought new boots, cooked dinners and went to parties and poetry readings. We also belonged to a nuclear disarmament network and spent some Saturdays protesting in front of power plants. I have a newspaper photo of all of us, baby in stroller, waving placards and passing out fruit rollups to our kids.

I don't have that kind of energy anymore, but it feels like around our kids, we all just do it, and we just did it before Nike co-opted the rally cry of the beleaguered parent. I remember the strange little house on the prairie dress I wore for my MA reception, which was hiding child number four, and how I was the only one graduating with any kids, much less a herd. They had no idea what I did to get to class, teach two classes, and turn in every single paper on time. I was also trying to rescue my alcoholic brother, write a novel, and make sure our vegetable garden didn't die. I was Grounded. The real world had me in it's embracing, relentless arms, and the academic world was one I put second, but with focus that served me well.

Now I see my kids in two worlds as well, balancing, tipping over, pushing themselves upright, going on. Just do it. Because anything else is not real life.

Old Age Day by Day April 29, 2010

Well, I returned last night from my week visiting my granddaughter and it was delightful. A two year old's world is magic, and it is an honor to participate. We played "trip" with her little chair and an ottoman behind it, and she loaded up the car, looked at the "map" and drove us to the science museum, the zoo, and to see a moose, zebras and flamingos. My job was to place myself where instructed, and "see" the animals. When we got out of the car I followed dutifully behind. What enchantment, to see her work out a real trip she and I were going to be taking on the train. It was a challenge to get her and all the paraphernalia on the train (carseat, suitcase, diaper bag, my purse, bag with books, crayons, babydoll, blanket, stickers, snack bag, etc). It took a village, but I met some wonderful, kind people who helped and talked to my granddaughter. She was great at my friend's house, and we spent an hour each day just walking around the block. We had to stop, pick up rocks, blow dandelions, backtrack, look at flowers and garden ornaments, and urge her onward, onward, to get her to move forward. She was always happy stopping right where she was on the sidewalk, and looking, touching, and finding tiny bugs and leaves.

Getting her to take a nap was beyond my capabilities, but with some timely car rides, she did get an hour or more each day, and was so tired when it was bedtime that she could be placed in the portacrib (no I didn't have to bring that along, fortunately my friend had one and a high chair and a booster chair). Naturally, we visited my friend's adorable six month old granddaughter, and basically basked in worshipful grandmotherhood.

Ah, this is the life! If old age is what allows such experiences, I'm all for it!

Old Age Day by Day April 20, 2010

This is my last blog for a week. I'm going to visit my daughter, son-in-law and granddaughter. It will be the granddaughter's second birthday. I'll also see my best friend and maybe a couple of other people I know. I haven't been on a trip since last October. We're trying to budget to get used to retirement when it comes, and we've been busy with the holidays and singing rehearsals and the usual small details of life. And as the cliche goes - time flies. In fact it hurls past as I attempt to catch a glimpse of the moment, to be in it. There is a definite acceleration. That's why meditating is so useful. It's an emphatic braking. Whoa, now, slow down a minute and let me catch up and notice what is flitting through my mind and what my body is feeling.

Of course, it's raining today and I have a few errands to do before I leave, and a doctor's appointment and some phone calls to make. I'm still HERE not THERE. Transitions are tricky, as I tend to jump the gun and imagine myself there before I am. I'm excited, and nervous, and sort of running through a mental list. I can't decide between a cotton coat on the plane or a warmer down vest. I can laugh at my preoccupations, and yet it's difficult to erase them. Travel is unsettling. It shakes us up, and we need that shaking, no doubt, but I try not to forget it's not easy either.

Old Age Day by Day April 19, 2010

You never give up the need for mentors, as far as I can tell. I have friends who are a bit older than I am, and they guide me towards the possible futures. I see how they deal with retirement, with health issues, with grown kids and their problems, with travel, with the death of partners. They are blazing the trail, and I'm asking questions, observing, and mentally taking notes. So Saturday's big birthday bash for a dear friend who is turning eighty was fun and a revelation. First of all eighty plus folks can DANCE. They can cut a rug! Such a relief, because I love dancing. There was live Cajun music and we got down and dirty. Here we all were - from great grandchildren to their great grandparents, shuffling or bopping, but moving those feet. Is there anything more joyous?!

They forget to tell us we can still have fun when we're old. It's not the aged living brochure sentimental crap, it's the real thing. My friend sang "I Walk the Line" with new lyrics about her eight decades of parenting, loving, activism, working and partnering, and it was a celebration of all the goofy and sad and delightful and passionate parts of our lives. And there were all the young ones, seeing first hand what "old" looks like. But those of us a just a bit younger also were learning. I swept out of the front door after six hours and thought to myself - what am I going to do for my 65th? The possibilities are endless. The whole world opened up beyond that door, and my husband and I tread carefully back to our house through the dark streets (mindful of fragile bones and eyesight issues) and felt hopeful and excited. It's all doeable, really, just one step at a time.

Old Age Day by Day April 16, 2010

Well, I finally decided and bought our granddaughter's birthday present yesterday. Unfortunately, in order to get it up to her place, I had to buy a huge duffel bag to get the two sets of blocks in something, and will have to pay for an extra bag on the flight. I have a constitutional inability to pick a gift early, and seem to need a sign from the heavenly spheres to commit. Thus, I end up lugging a bag that I could comfortably rest inside, and if somehow I get delayed, I guess I'll take out the blocks and zip myself up for a nap. Packing light has ever been a concept that evades me. If I go for a week, I'm proud of myself if I only pack three pairs of shoes. I have to have the rain gear, the cold gear, the warm weather gear the extra pjs, the books in case I run out of reading material. I need a Sherpa when I go anywhere. Even Hawaii, where a swimsuit and tee shirts and shorts out to do it, is challenging. I'm like a turtle who needs to take his whole house with him.

Nevertheless, I usually forget something. On the last four day trip I had to socks. I had enough outfits for twelve weeks, but my feet were freezing, as it was rainy three out of four days, so we made a romantic trip to the grocery store to buy socks for me. My husband offered me his, but I don't think I could have stuffed them in my shoes. One time in northernmost Italy, I had managed to leave my cosmetics bag at the airport, so I was forced to attempt to transact a conversation about sunscreen and toothpaste in my non-existent Italian. It's still uncertain what I was brushing my teeth with or spreading on my skin. I probably mixed up the two. My husband forgets things also, but that is because I pack for him. He had no hat in Hawaii, and has gone with no belts or shoes. Well, the shoes are because I don't pack him any. His shoes weight too much and he never wears but one kind anyway. Wee, I can be ruthless when it's not my own bag.

My grown kids are amazing packers. Perhaps I served as a warning to them. I've watched my daughters get everything in a small backpack and travel for months at a time. How do they do it? I feel there ought to be an Olympic sport for packing, and I have to tell you, my daughters would be bringing home the gold.

Sometimes I believe it was having four kids that forced me to give up the idea of packing light, and I still feel unready to leave until the combined weight of myself and my luggage has reached five hundred pounds. I COULD pack lightly now, but what exactly would it feel like? Free hands? A back not aching? No waiting at baggage claim? I can't quite imagine it. It's just not me.

Old Age Day by Day April 15, 2010

I'm reading a gripping mystery. I read it through lunch alone at my favorite cafe of the great turkey sandwich, and upstairs throughout my husband's and daughter's work on her taxes, and it awaits me as soon as I do my exercise video, find the perfect present for my granddaughter's second birthday, pick up a gift for a friend's 80th birthday, vacuum the dog hair, and get inspired about what to cook for dinner. It's my desert island. Why mysteries? Well, if they are sophisticated enough, because you're mulling a bunch of questions and some of them never get answered, and the characters are forced to grapple with uncertainty. Uncertainty is the stuff of life. We spend a lot of time and energy denying our lack of control over our lives, but in a mystery I can let the protagonist take over the struggle, and play out that risk, adventure, and sudden twisting and turning that any life contains.

"Don't know" is the proper frame of mind for a detective, and her curiosity allows her to see what is obscured to others. It is safer to practice this openness in a book, obviously, and practice makes perfect. Does the doctor KNOW what will happen to you? He makes his best guess. Does what is happening today predict tomorrow? We get a lot of free fall vicariously: 9/11, earthquakes in China, the pedestrian hit in the crosswalk. Then we get the sudden heart attack of our mother, the stroke of a good friend, our child's illness that could turn out either way, the bad mammogram. We can never be fully prepared, especially for exactly what will befall us, unless it is death. And we don't know how we will manage our own death or anyone elses until we're there.

But we can understand we are not in control of anything but our attitude towards sharp shifts in our world. We can remember that it's the basic condition of our existence. And appreciate life this moment. Whatever comes, we are blessed to be in and of this world, however long it turns out to be.

Old Age Day by Day April 14, 2010

I have two doctor appointments today. Blauggggh! First to find out what to do about my bone density, the second an eye checkup for my degenerative eye disease. As my GP says, welcome to old age. I had a phone conversation with my health care provider, and it was useless. She seemed mighty uncomfortable, and the materials she sent I could have mailed her. I know about eating healthy and food groups etc. I eat healthy. But I have medications that slug me out, and a thyroid that now is acting lazy. I said to her, "Does this mean to lose weight I need to eat only twice a day?" No, no, no. Yes, yes, yes. I AM going to have to do some crazy diet to lose weight, and whenever I need to return to real life it will come right back. I can see the humor in it all most of the time. But when I feel guilty I get mad. I eat no sugar, no fried food, have lots of fiber and multigrains. I've decided a pear is the perfect dessert, and I have sparkling water instead of beer, and low fat string cheese instead of brie. Surely, no other sacrifices should be necessary?

I guess I can assume if I actually overate I'd weigh the equivalent of a small elephant, and that is supposed to comfort me. I feel like a lot of women my age: we're on the battlefield without the right weapons or a coherent battle plan. Is it too much to ask for a little help? I've read Dr. Oz, but Oprah eats with him, and she still can't lick this problem. She even has a cook to make her tasty nibbles on silver platters that have no fat, no calories, no salt.

Last time I was in the doctor's office, as I stepped on the scale, I said to the nurse, "I'd rather be shot dead". I know, she said, with big sad eyes. She's my age and weight. Knowledge is not always power. Sometimes it is a stick to beat us with. I have to remember I'm doing the best I can, my intentions are good, and my body just likes resting. It's had a long and arduous life, and it's not about to burn calories without a fight.

Old Age Day by Day April 13, 2010

My husband was telling me at breakfast today about a couple of bad dreams he had last night. My dream was about shopping for shoes with my younger daughter and a friend. I could hardly force myself to listen to my husband; I was so preoccupied with attempting to recollect exactly how the shoes looked. My daughter's were turquoise and shiny, with cream colored wedge heels and mine were thin strapped sandals in a browny maroon, also wedges. There were no prices and I was anxious about the cost, not to mention the fact that I shouldn't have been buying shoes. I have more than enough to last this lifetime. But they were so beautiful, and I was torn between practicality and desire. Somehow I doubt that my husband has ever had a dream about shoes, and certainly never woken up trying to cling to those shoes, by prolonging the view of them, the color, the feel. This is trivia taken to a higher level. I should win an award for frivolous dreaming.

Oh, well, some of us are not cut out for higher mental contemplation. My most repetitive dream is about moving into a house and attempting to get each room straight and the more I organize the more I fall behind. Basically, my real life housekeeping experience.

I was brainwashed into loving shoes. My mother and her friends would drag us daughters along when they went shopping, because it was a big event, and a lot of buying had to occur in one day, as the city was two hours away from our tiny town. I watched them plow through box after box, turning an ankle, stepping carefully to the floor mirror, buying pointy toed high heels and never thinking of the practical. No tennis shoes or ballet flats for my mother. Naturally, I slowly began to understand that shoes were terribly important, the crown of the outfit, the jewel of the Nile.

Shoes are kindly, too, as even if your clothes don't fit your shoes do. So forgiving. You need to put your best foot forward, best shod foot that is. My voice teacher was complaining recently about having to wear old lady shoes - and I understood her despair immediately. I don't wear spike heels or ankle turners, but I do like a colorful, slightly crazy shoe. I like my tootsies to rest in personality, not coffins. I may be old, but I'm not giving up, and my shoes tell the story.

Old Age Day by Day April 12,2010

A friend of mine gave me this silly movie "Thirteen Going on Thirty", and I watched the whole thing, since my husband was at a rehearsal and it was raining rivers and I was restless and unable to settle on any meaningful activity. I realized, while watching the film, that these kind of movies like "Big" plug into an authentic feeling people have. It's that looking into the mirror and feeling the disconnect between what your reflection shows and how you feel inside. For us oldies, I believe, from what my friends tell me, this happens a lot. Who is that old person in the mirror? I don't feel like a grownup, but look at me! Where's mom when I need her?

The problem is compounded by the way we're treated - sometimes as if we have all the answers to the world's great questions, sometimes as if we have dementia, sometimes as if we don't have sexual/doubting/lost kinds of feelings. I'm not sure looking in the mirror helps clarify anything. Because what seems more accurate is that we are all these people depending on the moment. I can feel as shy as a schoolchild, or confused about what's being said, or wise beyond measure or raunchy. I'm old, then young, then middle aged, then an infant.

Maybe that's the unique thing about us oldsters. We have lived all these ages and dilemmas, and we have instinctual empathy for other people because we have literally been there and done that. We are treasures, in that way, but hidden, because experience is so little valued in our culture. But if we let it, we can be gifted in empathy and compassion, and even if I'm just in the room with the bored teenager or the anxious mother, I can feel a kinship and choose to make a gesture. I am that other being in the room, noticing, acknowledging, and witnessing them. That's what we have to offer, and we should offer it silently, at the least. Even, when it's appropriate, a wink or small question or story. We are fairy godmothers - we know what you wish for.

Old Age Day by Day April 11, 2010

It's raining heavily and Alice in Wonderland is not playing any more in 3D, so it's difficult to figure out what to do with myself. Reading seems to be the order of the day. Or maybe just processing the previous two days. I do that a lot - allow myself time to reflect on something interesting that happened, but then I had to cook dinner and the phone rang and the afterward part slipped away.

On Friday evening a friend and I went to a goodbye lecture for an art history professor at the university who was moving on to a position at the Tate Modern in London. So she was in a reflective mood, and was expressing her appreciation for her years here. Her subjects for the talk were the artists Agnes Martin and Ann Truitt, both of whom died fairly recently, and who represented the art of minimalism. But the professor was also recognizing her goodbyes might be final, as, as an older woman, she was going far away and time feels fleeting at our age, and after all, our time with Martin and Truitt as live working artists feels fleeting as well. They're gone. You and I could be gone today or tomorrow. It's in the air for us.

I loved the way she placed herself, humbly, in the position of a woman whose body of work may grow in stature, or decline, but what matters is the process of it. Seeing while there is still seeing possible.

So I'd like to see my life as it happens, and understand that minimalism, in all it's forms, does not mean with little meaning. It is life scraped pure and clean, looked at lucidly, and recorded in the endless personal ways that we women mark our time on earth. My friend and I stopped a while in that knowledge, and honored the scholars, the artists and ourselves by doing so.

Old Age Day by Day April 10, 2010

I'm going to a tea party today. I am noticing, as my friends and I get older, that we like to do again the things we did when young: the zoo, art play, games, singing, gluing (collages are big) and tea parties. There is an appreciation for the simple activities that once brought us together with friends when we were children, without the corkage fee or potluck burden. There is nothing to prove any more. If you can't remember when I used to cook, oh well, think what you will of me. Yes, the symphony is always nice, but it might be even better to sit in the back yard and giggle. I feel I've shored up all these wonderful operas, plays and recitals, but I'm slightly bored with my role as the audience, and want to be active in my entertainment again. Let's face it, I've seen Madama Butterfly and listened to Vivaldi many times, and I can sit in a plumpy chair and recall the experience while saving money at the same time.

Tea is a celebration. And if I often don't approach it with the delicacy of the Japanese Tea Ceremony, I love "doing it right". Real china cups and saucers, cream, sugar cubes or crystals, the tiny sandwiches and sweets. Tea is served, and forges a connection between the participants. My friend wants to offer me something, and I want to accept it with graciousness and attention. This is always a good lesson for me, as I am one of those people who loves to give but is uncomfortable accepting gifts. I've taken all of the equations out of my mind by now I hope, and no longer worry about who did what for whom last. You can "do for me" anytime now, and I can thank you with dignity and gratitude.

So are little children practicing something secretly profound? My tiny granddaughter and I play tea and have since she was under a year old. She took the tea set I bought her with her to her new home. She likes to serve me, and for me to exclaim how "delicious" it is. We are perhaps practicing a rite that will mark us as connected in our hearts and souls. And you can never practice too much.

Old Age Day by Day April 8, 2010

I love a garden, but have a black thumb, you might even say a goth thumb, a Boris Karloff or Bela Lugosi appendage. I possess an underworldly ability to bring death to living plants by my gaze. My husband, being a biologist, is in charge of the house plants, yet he, too, is cursed in the plant arena. Rivulets of water run across our floors and under rugs after he's made his rounds. Death by drowning. Or rather, there is drought, then flood. Very biblical, but counter productive. He also operates the automatic watering system, which constantly needs tweaking, and seems to be almost, how shall I say it? Emotional. If the system is in a good mood, it gets most plants, but there are those out-of-favor bushes and flowers that must fend for themselves. It's a dog eat dog world after all.

I have enthusiasms accompanied by amnesia, during which times I buy dozens of primroses and a baby tree or camellia bush, enchanted by the picture of the flowers it will produce, plant them too shallowly and without enough potting soil surrounding them, and then forget about them until I notice they've transformed into dried flower arrangements. I can't keep my focus.

Do we have a gardener? Of course we do. But I live where my gardener earns more than I do, so I only can afford him a few hours a month. He does his best, and probably weeps at night when he thinks about our yard. We have so many trees, each not well pruned and dumping debris all over his blowing and raking. We're a jungle out there, and he does his best to hack away at the wilderness. Wisely, we do not have any grass, due to the utter destruction our two dogs inflict upon the back yard. We have a rule never to plant anything new in the back. We have a few planters with azaleas and rhrododenrons, but they are only safe as long as our female dog condescends to allow them life. If she's in a bad mood, she rips out a plant and tears it to shreds. It seems to calm her down and make her temporarily happy. We've tried reasoning with her, but, well, she's just not reasonable.

So all the hope for the garden rests with the small front yard, with is modicum of sun, and there definitely has been progress, because the gardener is now proactive and plants flowers on his own and then bills us, or maybe neighbors secretly water and drain when we're not around, to keep up property values. Or it could be it's just spring. But things are looking good, real good, if my husband and I can just keep a hands-off attitude, and we continue receiving occasional rains. As for the inside plants, pray for them. After all, at this point, we're too old to change our ways.

Old Age Day by Day April 8, 2010

I'm going to a small art museum today with my younger daughter. There is an artist we both love - Hung Liu - and we're going to get an art fix. Liu takes things that are old, like photographs from long ago China, and makes something new and revealing out of the images. Art is forever synthesizing the old and the new, and thus my twenty something daughter and my sixty something self can share a moment of complete atunement. Both the old and the new have equivalent value. We're both seers, and united beyond difference.

This experience is far removed from the art market, where generally older is more valuable, though you can snag a Rembrandt more cheaply than a Van Gogh, and all the veneration in the world won't necessarily fly on a mug or scarf.

Art teaches us something about the attitude towards age in different times and cultures. You can see, in an art museum, that old age may be viewed as the receptacle for wisdom, or for character. Rembrandt's self portraits are more gorgeous as he ages, not less. Because more truth seems to be available through his face, more history. Artists find that appealing, and I wish people in our culture right now, could see past the botox urge to the allowance that something profound may have transpired in the face we decide needs fixing. Maybe it's the viewer who needs tweaking. The viewer is missing the view.

Old Age Day by Day April 7, 2010

My brother sent three boxes yesterday. Sounds innocuous, I know, but my brother's gifts send fear racing through our veins. He thinks it's amusing to send tasteless things: tee shirts with sexist messages, movies that are beyond B, they're about a U, and books nobody has ever heard of for good reason. Some of this has to do with having lived in Texas for so many years, but actually, from childhood, his taste was hideous. He was the kid who picked the dried snake or the fake dog poop. This time it was sculptured armadillo beer can holders (a must for every household), a three foot plaster painted fox, and a plaster little girl in pigtails who is supposed to be hung by on a tree upside down. You know the Chuckie horror movie ads - well, she's way scarier, with creepy blue eyes. I accidentally (really, I was trying to figure out whether she was hung upside down or right side up) broke one of her ponytails while getting her out of the box, and when my husband got home I made him put the creature in the garage. Normally we put stuff we don't want out on the curb, but I cannot be identified with this thing in any way. I cannot imagine a human being (other than my brother) who would want this. It's very twilight zone, which was my brother's favorite TV show as a kid, though he forced me to watch with him because he was terrified.

What is the message? Well, obviously, that he wins for most tasteless gifts of the century. He's tricky, though, because once in a while he sends beautiful books. This forces me to open every box, instead of tossing it whole into the garbage. The Tweety Bird pink and black fake leather jacket seven sizes too big for me still hangs in the coat closet in case I need a quick costume, and I have real Ed Wood movies and books that might be good if I dared begin reading. My brother dreamed of being Red Skelton or Red Buttons when he was a kid, and in his old age he has decided to test out his comic abilities. I just wish it was for an audience at a Texas steakhouse instead of me. But that might prove dangerous, even where he lives, and he has his reputation to consider. So I'm the recipient of the abundance of his humor, and there is no way to get him back, as even in the catalogs that come with the gifts, I can see he has already picked the most hideous selection available. Oh, well, I might hide the fox outside in the bushes, and the beer holders might be amusing to my younger son. But the swinging Chuckie, she needs to be buried, fast.

Old Age Day by Day April 6, 2010

I was waiting in line yesterday to buy my ticket for Tim Burton's Alice in Wonderland, and a man was behind me with twin girls about six years old. One of the girls came up to me and said hi, then asked "Are you old?" I said I guessed I was as I was 64. She then said "Are you gonna die?" and I said "Eventually, but not yet." I was fighting feeling bristly, but attempting to be kind, and I figured my gray hair was a novelty to her. There are a lot of children with no grandparents around, or any real contact with their elders. She was just curious, but I wondered at that moment if I should dye my hair or have surgery or dress younger. Then I relaxed, and got comfortable with my hot dog, popcorn and diet coke. They were in the same theater, a few rows up from me, and every time the little girl went out and came back she gave me a look. I could tell I was having more fun than she, and she wanted some kind of connection. Had death hit her recently, but she didn't know what it was? Did she need a female, and all she had was a clueless dad? It could have been any story. But as I feel so often these days, kids want something from us older folks. What is it?

Kudos to the dad who took his girls not to a loud, violent film but something he thought his kids would like, and who didn't yank an arm or apologize to me. He figured I didn't need to be taken care of, I could handle it myself. A good dad. I had a dad who thought I could take care of myself. When I was seventeen and decided I wanted to check out different religions, he drove me to temples and churches and cathedrals, and never complained. He'd drop me off and pick me up after the service, and he acted as if it was natural to question what the world was about and my place in it. He never said a word about religion when I married a Muslim. He just thought I was too young (I was). He let me find out about the world without insisting he knew what was best for me.

When our older kids became conservative Christians for a while as teenagers, we drove them to church and back and let them feel their way around what they wanted and needed. We trusted them. We weren't so certain we knew what was right for them. It's better not to be certain, at least not certain about others' lives. Let them ask the questions, because the questions may be more important than the answers.

Old Age Day by Day April 5, 2010

Back to the real world. It was nice getting away, even with two rainy days and unseasonably cold weather. The morning we checked out we swam in the pool while the cold rain fell on us. In case you think we belong to the Polar Bear Club, I must confess that the water was around 110 degrees. They have to cool it down from the geyser or we'd all be poached dopes on floats. The steam rises from the pool and makes everything seem to be a Hollywood version of heaven, and you feel bouyant and twenty pounds slimmer. You drink cucumber water to cool off, made by the staff and looking so lovely in the elegant glass containers. I believe Martha Stewart designed the cucumbers. For me, who likes a really, really hot bath, the pool is the key to an altered consciousness. I other words, I forget to worry about the health of the dogs, whether Facebook is endangering my kids, or Dick Cheney.

We even had massages the day before, though I struggle with biting back apologies for my body, and thinking I need to tip twice as much because there is twice as much of me to massage. But I calmed down, and tried to be in the moment. But it's hard, with all those ocean waves crashing through the speakers, not to have an urge to pee, and after all, I don't meditate with my clothes off, so it's somewhat distracting. I found myself chattering a few times, but I realized it wasn't my job to make the masseuse feel comfortable. She was probably thinking of what slab of meat to barbeque for dinner, or her mother-in-law or something unrelated to me.

We tried to compensate for eating out by having toast and V8 in our cottage in the morning. We had salads for lunch a couple of days, and we didn't snack. So that meant only say 15,000 calories per day, and we did walk to the restaurants and swim, well, we moved our arms and legs to get around the pool as we flopped on the floats. I figured I'd only be up by a few pounds, but the goddess in her infinite mercy allowed me to lose a pound in three days. I didn't deserve it, but I consider it my most lovely (need I say only) anniversary gift.

Old Age Day by Day April 1, 2010

Yesteray was our anniversary so my husband surprised me with roses, dinner in the city and a diamond bracelet. April Fools!!

It really was our anniversary and we're going to a mineral springs this weekend,
but last night we watched double feature DVDs at home and ate shrimp salad, one bread roll and champagne. It's so romantic to lose weight together. Our movie selection was Toy Story II followed by The African Queen. Both great love stories. There's Woody and Boo and Humphrey and Katherine. First we were youths in love (and there were always a lot of toys around because I brought two toddlers to the marriage) and now we're "old girl" and "dear". Though Bogart was 52, and Hepburn 45 when the film was made, so they were still spring chickens compared to us. We were exhausted after the movies - it's so hard pulling the boat through the African everglades or whatever they were. Highly symbolic of the struggle of marriage, and also the rewards - you get to blow up a German ship - wait a minute, let me rethink this part.

So when we are in the pool this weekend, bobbing up and down like corks in a bucket, we can fantasize we're Bogie and Hep and ignore the extra poundage and age. That's what fantasies are for.