Tag: middle age

Mid Century Mama

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Folks that know me – or knew me in the life that preceded this current one – will know me to be a most enthusiastic fan of all things mid century. I cherish the Eames chair in my living room (although I admit it’s a vinyl knockoff – but it’s still gorgeous), and I lament the loss of that stunning, five level ranch home in South Evanston that some may remember from those once-famous Christmas parties. I still have a few mid century things in my life, and in fact I’ve created a rather pleasant look in my home here by mixing early American with modern pieces. What I have satisfies my desire for beauty – it still ‘scratches the itch’, as my ex and I used to say. But day after tomorrow, mid century will come to mean something entirely different in my world. Finally, after much ambivalent anticipation I myself will be ‘mid century’.

Honestly, that’s not a big deal. The bulk of my friends are already past that landmark. I’ve done enough rumination on it to be able to move on. Or have I? Ok. So maybe it is a big deal. There are still a couple of things on my mind at the doorstep of this birthday: I’m alive, many of my dear friends are not. My parents are alive, many of my friend’s parents are not. I’m healthy, many of my friends are not. I have my beloved son with me every day. Many parents do not have their children with them. So – there’s the half-full glass take on it. And that’s my overall, bottom-line assessment of this landmark. However, in the spirit of complete honesty, I feel the need to vent just a teeny bit (I am secure in the knowledge that I am putting a voice to the feelings of many in this forthcoming mini-rant…)

Here goes: Not happy with the funky neck skin (which literally seemed to appear over goddam night just a few months ago), nor the crazy new chin hairs (some white!), nor the now full-time creases around my eyes, nor the deeper lines from my nose to my mouth (when acting in high school plays I’d pencil in these lines to appear older – the way I look now!), nor the way the arthritis in my hands is causing the joints to become grotesquely oversized, nor the strange way in which the skin on my thighs and butt is more crinkly than seems fitting for my age, nor the way I just can’t lose those last ten pounds, nor the way I now need readers – and no longer can I blow off the regular glasses when heading out…

While not a one of these things came on all at once, and certainly no one thing just up and happened in my fiftieth year specifically, I can say that I didn’t really notice any of this age-related activity in my forty-eighth year. I can honestly say that a whole bunch of stuff really came to the fore just this past year. All of a sudden I had a head of silver when just a year ago it was hardly noticeable. My neck? Just fine and dandy – til recently. I’m sure all these changes happened incrementally, but they seemed to hit a critical mass of sorts this past year. When in my mid forties I still felt I looked pretty good, and felt good, too – I didn’t really see what all this talk about aging was about. Overall, my forties were fine (except for a little divorce-related weight gain). But all of a sudden I really feel that I look my age. The jig is up, the charade is over, the cards are on the table. So I’d better quit my bitchin and proceed with a little class and composure. I don’t need to go on and on about the disappointments of growing old when Nora Ephron, bless her soul, so eloquently expressed all of her aging-related predicaments in “I Feel Bad About My Neck”. If you’re a peer of mine or older, read it. She brings such humor and humanity to the experience.

I remember a moment once, when a new awareness washed over me – clarity and perspective came to me in a flash. I can remember being in my bedroom in my beloved Evanston home, looking through the branches of our backyard tree towards the afternoon sun… I was contemplating what it meant to be turning 42… I considered that if I had a life expectancy of 84, that I was now halfway there. That I was, more accurately, on the downslope of my life: I had passed all those years of youth, and before me was nothing but the process of aging… In that moment I realized that I’d had a general sense of hope and expectancy that had been me all my life and which had been driving me forward… to that next moment of satisfaction, then the next one, and then the next… yet where was the destination? What was that ultimate, one experience that I still ‘hoped’ for? Cold fear grabbed my chest – had I been on a fruitless, vain search for something I’d never find? Or had I already found it – and didn’t know that I’d found it? I’d enjoyed my life – all of it, as best I could, I’d always been aware of my good fortune, and yet, there was always a tiny nudging from inside to move toward something not yet achieved… As endless as the process had always seemed, a certain end was, in fact, coming. To me.

In that moment, I understood – in a way that even evades me now – that I was going to die. Not sure how else to explain it. But I got it for a second. I also got that nothing was to be taken for granted, I got that I was somehow not exempt; that I too, if all went well, would one day be an old woman. That’s mighty hard to truly get when your skin is smooth, your joints flexible, your eyesight perfect… but I got it. For a few moments I think I not only came to know that I was going to be old one day, but in some way I made peace with it. But then life overtook me, vanity returned, the sense of being somehow immune to fate – all of that settled back in and had me forgetting again; living as if things would always be thus.

But these days, now that the physical evidence is mounting, I am beginning to learn a little humility. But man, I’m not very good at it. Yet. My aim is to age with humor and dignity. I need to do this well, if for no other reason than as an example for my son. I’ve got to find a way to sink into this new body without that nagging sense of sorrow and loss. I know I enjoyed my youth – I surely did. So I have no regrets – and that should free me up to really embrace this new chapter. It’s liberating not to care so much about the trappings of vanity. I like that my priorities have changed. I’m looking forward to learning things now in a way I never had the time or interest to before. So while I might continue to bitch and moan about stuff, truly I’m coming from the half-full place. Just might not always behave like it. As I’ve said before, it’s a balancing act.

My paternal grandma and my maternal great aunt both lived to be a hundred. So, if I’m to live as long as Bessie or Helen, then I’m right smack in the middle. And I’m ok with that. After all, I’m a mid century mama.

T Minus 29

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I know I’m making far too big a deal of this. My fiftieth birthday is one month from yesterday. Most of my friends have already been there, done that and most likely can’t get too worked up yet again about another person’s 50th. For those who’ve passed the mark, it’s simply their reality. It’s history, old news. Some like to tell you to ‘get over it’ or admonish ‘it’s just a number’… But it’s not so easy for me. I’m getting sentimental about it; I’m missing an era in my life that is quite definitely over.

To be more specific, there are two main reasons I’m ticking away the moments of my final forty-something year with a mild sense of ill ease: one is, of course the obvious; the irrefutable evidence that my body has passed its aesthetic prime. It’s a for-sure thing now. There’s no going back. Like Nora Ephron, I too have begun to hate my neck. I pinch the skin under my chin and rather than see it spring back to its resting form, it stays pinched. This is quite shocking to me. This is the crepe-y sort of skin that belongs to an ‘older woman’ –  my mother, or one of her peers… but certainly not me. This new discovery isn’t making me feel very good ‘in my skin’ as they say. It feels like someone else’s neck is on my body. It’s a new phenomenon, it’s disturbing, and I don’t see it getting any better with time. That’s sadly the truth.

The second reason for my ill ease: I’m not in Chicago at the time of this event. Rather, I’m here in Greenfield, where I simply haven’t got a whole lot of friends with whom to mark the day. I’d like to throw out a post on Facebook and have my Chicago peeps meet me at Dave’s Italian Kitchen and call it a day. The way I did when Fareed and I had our rehearsal dinner. The way we did when our son was born. The way we did for my fortieth. And so many other celebrations throughout our lives… Yeah. I wish I felt that I was home for this big one. But I suppose in a way, I am.

It is of course because of my parents that I’m even here to celebrate. And they’re just next door. So maybe I’ll just call the few friends I do have here and have em over to my parents. My dad never gets out, he might enjoy it. Mom’s a natural host with few opportunities to do so these days… It’s worth considering I suppose. I just feel like the date’s coming closer and closer and I have made no preparations – none mental, emotional nor logistic. (It’s my son’s 10th birthday on April 28th which takes priority!)

I just finished watching a movie called “Melancholia” in which a planet collides with Earth and ends everything. It was stunning how the film created that reality… one moment the planet looks like a benign second moon lighting the sky, the next day it’s a huge orb taking up half the horizon… And it sorta feels like my fiftieth birthday is that rogue planet, looming closer… nothing much one can do to prepare. But at least it might be worth having a really good party. Right?

Atkins, Six Weeks In

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Could it be only six weeks? My immediate impressions are thus: I feel like I’ve been on this ridiculous, low carb diet for years (yes, it gets very boring), and secondly? I am pretty happy with my success. So onward I go…

I have lost ten – maybe even eleven – pounds so far. My scale’s not terribly accurate, nor can I quite see the needle from five feet above. Several people have told me this week that they can see a difference in my face. These unsolicited remarks have given me just the bit of evidence and morale-boosting I needed. That, plus the ability to finally get into, zip up and actually wear a pair of my ‘in between jeans’ (from my collection of not quite fat, yet not quite skinny clothes). I’m wearin’ em now, in fact. And I’m sitting in them too – that, for me, is the true test of whether I’m truly in the next size down or not. Yup, last night I was finally able to zip up three new pairs of pants that I haven’t been able to even consider wearing since shortly after I moved here, four and a half years ago. One might then go on to question the fashionable relevance of these garments in 2013, but not to worry. It’s all kind of era-neutral stuff that will work just fine. I think.

What might not work fine a month down the road are my bras. Whoda thunk? I guess I never really and truly believed that I’d get smaller again – I’ve just been doing the old ‘fake it til you make it’ thing these past few weeks. Now that there’s proof that I just might get into the old ‘skinny’ clothes after all – I’ve got a few things to address. I don’t need to run out and spend money I don’t have just yet – I’m still doing fine in my old undertogs. But they are a decade or more old (buying things for me virtually came to a stop when Elihu was born). Regardless of weight, my spirit seems to crave a few nice, new underthings. All part of this chrysalis thing. Slow and steady…

Although I really miss crunchy, salty snacks and some good, hard-core sweet stuff now and again, I’ve learned something pretty amazing for me: a very tiny amount of the craved foot can really hit the spot. ! Just two potato chips, for example. I know, I know! You don’t believe me! Hell, I wouldn’t believe me! But just a bite or two sates me, calms me. It reminds me of the flavor and crunch. And just two dark chocolate-covered pomegranate seeds can take the edge off a sweet craving. In eating less of these foods, when I do have them, they’re much ‘punchier’; saltier, sweeter somehow… Plus now that my goal seems closer, it’s easier still to keep it to just a quick taste. Course I can then enjoy a burger pattie for supper, so that takes the sting off. Yeah, for as boring as this Atkins thing is, it does make dieting so so much easier. And in the future, when I disembark from this carb-less routine, I will be so much more aware of what I eat. Much more aware of gratuitous eating and empty calories.

All of those carbs are going to taste so much better ten more pounds from now, I just know it. And hopefully, I’ll be able to enjoy my life just fine with fewer of em.

Gray Area

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A few months back, I posted a question on Facebook: to color or not to color? I was wondering what the current cultural concensus was about covering up the gray hair. My young son had been hoping that I’d give up coloring my hair for two reasons; first, because of the potentially dangerous chemicals, and second, it was not natural. If my hair was now turning gray, that was how it should be. To Elihu, interfering almost seemed like questioning a divine natural plan. He really wished I’d just leave it be and accept the change… And so for several months I have let it be. I’ve entered into the experiment with an open mind. And after all, winter is a good time to go into chrysalis mode and try things out; grow out hairstyles, lose a few extra pounds, rethink the wardrobe… But each day, when I take a peek into the rear view mirror and see that ever-lightening pate of mine, I wonder. Am I big enough to do this? Am I laid back enough, accepting enough, natural enough? Can my ego handle this, I mean, really? At first I was invigorated – just think how free this will feel! No more roots to stay on top of… my look would be proud, natural, all me… I was beginning to see it… and wouldn’t ya know, there were even folks out there cheering me on! Just not the women.

That Facebook tally? Just about half and half – out of dozens upon dozens of responses, it really was split down the middle. Surprisingly, all the men voted for going gray. And all but just a couple of women voted to keep on coloring. We women just can’t seem to give it up. The thinking is, as best as I can understand, that if we have the means to look younger, and if culture is accepting of our doing so… then why not? Hmm. Well, I guess my kid came up with two good reasons not to. But the more I look at the top of my silvering head in the rear view, the more I falter…  I can understand why the men vote for going gray and the woman don’t; our culture doesn’t really support men dying their hair, so they’re more at peace with the idea of turning gray. (Hell, many of em have to deal with losing all of their hair! Makes going gray seem easy.) When you see a guy whose face says 70 but whose hair is a rich, dark brown – don’t you wonder about him? Don’t you kinda wonder if he thinks it actually looks good? I mean, does he think he’s fooling us? But then again – look at his wife. She’s the same age, and her hair is also an unnaturally dark and even color. But we allow that – and think little of it. Interesting. We’ve definitely got a double standard going. So why would I want to play into this whole charade? Am I really so shallow?? After living with my witchy gray hairs for a few months, I can now answer that question with a definitive ‘yes’.

Another thing about growing out your gray is that it can take a long time. My hair grows terribly slowly, so it might take four years to get to the length it is now. And I really don’t want to wait that long for the ‘complete’ look, nor do I want to cut my hair off. I’ve given this lots of consideration. There have been days when I’ve worn my new gray proudly, but in the end, it aint working for me. There are those for whom the graying process turns into quite a boon, resulting in a gorgeous new look for later in life – but that’s not my story for sure. I am not aging like Emmy Lou Harris here. I had a dear friend who once said that ‘men go gray, but women go silver’, yet despite that gentlemanly thought – and despite my own son today laughing with delight at the way my ‘silver’ hairs sparkled against the dark ones… I’m not feeling it. So I’ve decided that when I’ve lost 15 pounds, I will allow myself the royal treatment; a professional cut and color. And if my wallet can support it – maybe even a blow out. Whoo – gawd that’s gonna feel good. And I’m not a spa kind of gal. Never once in my life had a manicure – never mind a pedicure. Had a massage once, when I was eight months pregnant. No, I don’t spend money on extras like that. But it’s time. I’ll be fifty in May, and my fragile ego needs a good send-off into the second half of the century. A good cut and color should help – and since God apparently means to have me age in the usual way (although I still think there’s been a huge mistake here somewhere), I’m going to need to do what I can to soften the transition. 

So how jive is beauty that is so ill-gotten? Can one have a somewhat manufactured sort of beauty and still maintain one’s integrity? I struggle with this still, but have come upon a few more clues to help me sort it all out… The Waldorf School presents the perfect, supportive environment in which to ‘grow out ones grays’, and yet there are more than a few women there who continue to color – and who make no bones about it, either. We all know that Dolly Parton has been nipping and tucking for years – and has never been anything less that honest about it. And does this woman not have integrity? Good Lord I should say so. Integrity – and wigs, too. That’s a whole ‘nother level altogether.

So I guess I’m feeling better about my decision now. I feel empowered just imagining how I’ll feel with fifteen pounds shed and new, beautiful hair. And quite honestly, I’ve been feeling just about anything but empowered these past few years. I could use a little boost. A little pretty time. So after a good deal of thought on this subject, it’s with great relief that I can now say it’s no longer a gray area for me.

Or is that grey area? Hmm…

Ended for Now

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Feb Colon 2013 001

Well if my morning at Saratoga Hospital wasn’t just the most pleasant day excursion I’d had in months and months… it was right up there with having a crown put onto one of my molars not too long ago. And I, dear readers, am FAR from being sarcastic. Yes, I do love medical care. As I said probably one time too many to the very kind and caring staff today – in my opinion, hospitals, doctors’ and dentists’ offices seem to offer an experience something akin to what I might guess a spa provides. After all, it’s about everyone being in service to you, your needs, your comfort.  Everyone is all so very kind, everyone’s ready to assist in any way, ready to make sure you’re as comfortable as possible … they all have the patient’s best interests at heart and they’d do just about any little thing I might ask of them. Bless em all – down to the gal I heard coming in as patients left, so that she could re-make and re-fresh the bed for the next patient to arrive. Not a crabby word was heard as I lay there…. and lay there…. and lay there… But that, is another story, and one entirely of my own fault.

As I was moving my stuff into my little corner of the room, beginning to take off shoes and assess the gown situation, I pulled out my bottle of Saratoga water and took a swig. The nurse stopped me and asked, very concerned, just how much of that had I already drunk today? Now, in just about any other situation I mighta just shaved a bit off the truth, but I was trying to play clean here, and truly I did not take the “NO FLUIDS OF ANY KIND” warning on the prep info sheet to heart as I should – so I copped to some 12 ounces of water over the past 2 hours. This was, apparently a game changer. But I wasn’t ready yet to surrender this long-awaited appointment (made nearly 9 months ago) and so continued to prepare as if nothing had happened. I undressed, got comfy, had my IV put in, enjoyed another gorgeously warm layer of blankets laid gently over my body before the doc came in to tell me the news: I’d screwed up. They just can’t take the chance that I’ll spit it up – something to do with aspirating and messing up my breathing while under. Ok. Kinda get it. Get it enough to realize I’m glad I brought a book. Cuz he kindly offered to try and get me in after a couple of hours – the time it would take for the dangerous twelve ounces of water to work their way out of my system I guess. He cautioned that he was busy – and that I might not make it in today. I fairly begged him. I cited my calendar, single momhood – and my readers. !! Readers whom I “simply had to keep informed…” Right. Any way, I apologized for being such a dufus, and kept my hopes high that I’d make it in. All I could do was wait.

Glad I brought a book, and while I enjoyed a good bit of reading, I had other entertainments as well. During the 2 hours of laying there (very comfortably) in my curtained off ‘room’, I was privy to the conversations of many patients. It was interesting. Lots of folks do live with Afib, it seems (my mom’s new heart issue), and lots of folks have bad reflux. And hiatal hernias. (My ex mother in law spent the better part of 22 years telling us all about it, but doing next to nothing about it.) I began to feel pretty lucky. I can eat a horse (you heard right – eat a horse, not ‘like’ a horse) and drink a barrel of whiskey with little fall out. Ok, maybe half a horse and just half a barrel, but you get the point. (At least I could as things stood pre-procedure.) I’ve always been pretty cocky about my intestinal fortitude.

After two hours I was surprised that I really had to pee. Could twelve little ounces make me feel like this? That was weird. Then I realized: I was being hydrated! No wonder my nasty dry mouth disappeared and I had to pee… Holding my blanket about me and carrying my iv bag, I shuffled off to the common bathroom. It wasn’t too terribly much longer after I returned than a kind woman named Cheryl came and wheeled me into a small room just across the hall where the colonoscopy was to take place. I was interested to see the gear involved. They’ve gotta blow you up again now that your colon’s been emptied and it’s collapsed… I marveled over the detailed images the camera was able to see… the whole thing seems almost like magic to me. While I’d asked the doc earlier if I might leave here with an image of my colon – you know, for ‘the readers’ (hee hee), he wasn’t terribly committal about helping me out. Thankfully, the gals getting me prepped seemed on board, and sure enough, afterward I was handed a color copy of three little images. Ok. So it’s not the entire landscape in profile – hell, I could probably have cut and pasted any old image of an intestine here and you’d be none the wiser, but fear not. I’ve got the real stuff.

So, on to the procedure itself. To me, it’s always a very vulnerable feeling to know you’ve got this port into which someone can put just about anything… not that it’ll ever happen – this is a super-routine procedure – but there’s still a strange sci-fi element to this moment when she tells you you’re going to begin to feel something. My heart always races in the beginning – nerves, I think. Then, there’s that warmth. OOOOOHHHHhhhhhh. Yeeeeeaaahhhhh. II Reemmemmmber tthtiiisss feeeelliingg… Yes, this girl loves her some pharmaceuticals. It was so short – the time in which I was aware enough to enjoy the sensation… but the falling off was divine. I enhanced it by repeating a happy mantra, all is so well, everyone is being so kind……… and then OWWW! What the hell?? I’d thought I’d be UNDER under! I mean I know I told y’all to scrape away if you found something, but woah! I awoke in some nasty pain – sharp, sharp pains that had me doubling into myself… even in the midst of the pain, I was aware that I really didn’t want to mess up doc’s work, so I begged the gals to hit me please with some more of that stuff! Versed me out of here, please! I heard them tell me to calm down, and after a few minutes I disappeared again. Thankfully. Yeah, “You won’t remember a thing” they all say. Right.

What I do remember was how kind everyone was, not just to me, but to all the folks who came and went as I sat and waited. And something I’ll have to make a note to remember in the future is that I usually need a bit more meds to stay under. Hadn’t thought that was a point worth mentioning, but my mother thought so. Hm. I do know that my son took three times the usual amount of anesthesia as a toddler when he had his MRI; the apple doesn’t seem to have fallen far from the tree. And I myself have woken up during a couple of surgeries before. But I thought this was common. ? Doctor friends, sound in on this if you would. Don’t really matter in the long run, I guess if ya make enough noise they dial up the drip…

So, the upshot? The found a couple of little thingees – they liken them to skin tags. I can live with that. I know about skin tags. And of course, they’ll take the biopsies and have em looked at properly. (I too know this side well; I was a medical courier for years in Chicago and carried many a polyp in a cooler riding shotgun in my car on its way to the lab…)

Feb Colon 2013 003

Not to worry. I’m not. I’ll hear back sometime next week. I do not expect bad news. And if it is – well, we go from there. Til then I won’t fret.

But hey – this is a rare chance to learn a little bit about what things look like on the inside of a body! For those of us non-medical folks, this is an opportunity that we will seldom get in a lifetime. So, here goes…

Feb Colon 2013 008

So there are three locations marked on my large intestine here. Following are those same three points and their names – only now you’ll see actual photos of these locations inside my body. Wow! Kinda cool and gross at the same time. And interesting, of course.

Feb Colon 2013 009

Apparently, “this” (whatever that means) was a polyp that was removed. ?

Feb Colon 2013 010

And apparently, this is my appendix. Or at least it’s somewhere close by, dangling off the intestine. The appendix is what it’s name implies; it’s just this tiny afterthought of a little fleshy thingee that sorta sticks out. ? Still don’t know what part of this pic is the appendix, if it actually is visible here. ?

Feb Colon 2013 011

Well, now, we all know what this is about, huh? Still, no up, no down, I have no idea the frame of reference other than it’s somewhere inside and near the exit. !

Feb Colon 2013 013

The slimy pictures are kinda hard for me to look at, but THIS is just weird, right? No text precedes this strange sentence fragment… yeeps. ‘With a jumbo cold forceps’. They’ve been so kind up til now – why must the forceps be specified cold? Bad enough they’re jumbo….

Maybe that’s why the thank-you card as you leave. So you’ll forget all about waking up with a sharp pain during your procedure and having seen the words ‘jumbo cold forceps’ on your report…

Feb Colon 2013 014

Like I said, everyone I dealt with today was very kind and accommodating. Not a one of them made me feel rushed or unimportant – nor did they treat anyone else any differently. All in all, I was quite happy with my day at the spa. Er, I mean, at the hospital.

Feb Colon 2013 016

Prep Work

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Here it is. I’m about to experience a right of passage, a coming of age. My mortality seems even more real now, my increasing age can’t be denied. The young clerk at the convenient store has been calling me ‘Ma’am’ for years now – but even that hasn’t really phased me, as I’ve managed to ignore his unintentional slights. But the white hairs on my head have moved in permanently and remind me daily – as does the arthritis in my hands, the wrinkles on my face – and now this. My first colonoscopy is tomorrow morning. And in a few minutes, I will begin the dreaded “prep” procedure. My maternal grandmother died of colon cancer, and my cousin, at 46, is a survivor of the disease. It runs in my family, so I have to take it seriously. I need the screening, for sure. But I can still find humor in this, can’t I? I mean really. I’m about to ingest several quarts of a high-octane laxative called “Movi-Prep”. And I’ll be moving to the bathroom pretty frequently for the next six hours from what I hear. I’ve hardly had more than a scoop of egg salad over the past 24 hours, so really there aint much to get rid of. But I expect it will be dramatic. At least that’s what all the hype tells me. I’ve been hearing about people’s colonoscopies, or at least the famous “prep” that accompanies them, for years. Always kinda thought of it as something my older friends had to deal with. And even with my family history, I still kinda blew it off as something other people had done. But this year I face fifty. Time to prep for the future…

That’s kinda what my whole late winter/early spring has been about; assessing where I am now at this point in my life. How healthy am I? How unhealthy am I? Just what might I be able to actually do to ensure that I stay flexible and relatively vigorous as long as possible? I admit, I’ve put far less into action than I’ve intended, but I am making improvements. This is my fifth week of the Atkins diet, and I’m down eight pounds. Not crazy amazing, but it’s definitely something – and my intake of food is certainly no longer thoughtless, in of itself an accomplishment. And I don’t smoke. Or drink. All that is pretty major, considering the sad place I was one year ago. Behind my life was a continuing, low-grade depression which I self-medicated as best I could. I still self-medicate in a matter of speaking by procrastinating, allowing myself to follow distractions – all the usual human stuff. And I feel far more easily discouraged than I’d like to admit, but in the final summation, for the most part I think I’m taking care of my shit. As it were. ! Yes, pun intended. Couldn’t resist.

Seriously, I gotta drink all of this?? See you on the other side….

163 Years Old

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Well, they’re here. The three kings of Orient have reached the stable. The shepherds have finally found their way in from the fields, and the little drummer boy is doing his thing for the baby Jesus. Tonight is the real party. This is the day of gift-giving, the final day of Christmas. Tonight, everyone gets it. Tonight, we have an Epiphany.

And it’s also my mom and dad’s birthday. Though seven years apart, they both were born on January 6th. Imagine that! Dad was born in Passaic, New Jersey in 1928 (to a 45 year old mother who had been told she would never conceive a child) and mom was born in Fall River, Massachusetts in 1935. She would grow up in a household divided (uncharacteristically of the times) by divorce – seeing her father move out at just about the same age as Elihu did.

My dad is going through a process of dementia these days. For the most part he is still very recognizable as himself; he is present, there is a twinkle in his eye and he knows what’s going on around him. What he’s not always clear on, however, is when he is. He often slips back into his years as a boy in Passiac, and will reference his old house, his old neighborhood, tell us that mother is coming by soon… This all somehow blends in very naturally and seamlessly with his present, and when you tell him that it’s 2013, and we’re now in upstate New York, he agrees, he gets it… he adjusts. Nevertheless, he does seem to slip a little further into the great sea of his past just a bit more with each passing month… Not always noticeable to me, but old friends who come to visit will often be a little taken aback. Good thing that it doesn’t happen all at once, I guess. Kinda like being pregnant. Got some time to prepare, get used to the new way of being…

My mother has not enjoyed being referred to as my ‘aging parent’ in my ‘about’ page on this blog. Many times, in what I still cannot quite ascertain as either a passive-aggressive or merely humorous remark, she has described herself as my ‘aging parent’ when speaking about herself in a conversation while I was present (I recently re-wrote the page. I may offer her that tonite as a gift!) Well, I cannot believe any more than she can that she is 78 today. I am not good with change. I can’t seem to fully grasp it. In my mind she is a perennial forty-something (I am a perennial thirty-something, go figure) and dad is just a bit older than that…  When I was growing up, I can’t ever remember being too terribly aware of just how old my folks were… that is, until they became ‘old’. !

In a few minutes I’ll go over to their house for supper. Seems like it really should be me making dinner, or at least taking them out. But in reality, feeding people is my mother’s creative expression in the world, and she just doesn’t delegate that role. Besides, just getting dad in and out of a car or a restaurant – much less in snowy weather – is not a simple task these days. Dad himself, while summoning the focus to find his next step forward across the floor, will often remark that as a boy he used to look at old men like him and think that he’d never be one himself. Don’t we all. Dad didn’t really begin aging so dramatically until he stopped driving, about two years ago now. I understand. He doesn’t go out, except to doctor’s appointments. His world has contracted, and these days he really hasn’t much to live for. I don’t mean to sound dramatic, but it really feels it. He doesn’t even play music anymore. Getting through a simple Scarlatti sonata isn’t possible for him now. This Christmas was his first visit to our house when he didn’t even venture to the piano. I try not to notice, but it makes me sad. Dad always played the piano while mom got dinner ready, and the house lacks a certain livelihood without it. Tonite I’ll take up his chair for a bit, just to keep the place a bit more spirited for their birthday.

It seems like a good year. Their age matches their street address, and I myself was born in ’63. So I like the look of the number. Mom heard somewhere that good things happen in odd years, so maybe 2013 will be a good one. I hope. We Conants have humor on our side, if nothing else. And it seems to me, that humor might make it a little easier to be an ‘aging parent’ (sorry, mom). So here I go, off into the wintry night to mark a 163rd birthday. That is certainly something to celebrate!

Upkeep

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It’s not without some guilt that I watch my beloved cable show “What Not To Wear”, because I’m often watching the show while wearing my high-rise mommy jeans and an ancient, cap sleeve t shirt with the slogan “Women who behave rarely make history” on it (ironically showcasing a slutty wild west sorta gal striking a less-than-liberated come-hither pose). I top the t with a unisex sweatshirt that I bought at a Walgreens in Evanston over a decade ago. I wear these two tops to bed just about every night. After I get out of bed, I’ll swap my nighttime sweatpants for the mommy jeans, but leave the tops on as I go outside to tend to the chickens. Then, what the heck, I’ll probably end up staying in the same outfit for the duration of the morning while I wash the dishes, tidy up and get the laundry done. I’m most likely still in this jeans/pajamas combo by lunchtime, which is when I pause to watch the show. Feeling guilty, I eat my sandwich and wonder if they’d at least let me keep my beloved barn jacket. I mean, I am a chicken farmer after all. This I need. But the high-waisted 80s jeans I am just plain ashamed of. They’d go in the can for sure, and I’d be glad of it. The only reason I even still have em is cuz nobody’s come around with $5,000 and a card ‘with my name on it’ for me to go and replace em with something nicer. And besides, they fit. Honestly, they’re all I have left from my old ‘fat’ clothes. (Feeling the euphoria of having lost 55 post-baby pounds, I stupidly tossed all my ‘good’ fat clothes. It kills me to think of the items I’d tossed which I could so use today.) The way I see it, every day I spend wearing these embarrassing togs brings me one day closer to the day when I’ll absolutely need to replace them with something better. Til then, I’ll pull my pants way up, my coat way down, and I’ll slink around town emitting my best possible ‘I’m invisible’ vibe… (btw – I do have a couple other pairs of jeans. Only problem is – over the last two years I’ve grown too big for em. Still can’t face it. I guess you could say I’m at a self-inflicted stalemate of sorts.)

Aside from the calamity of my high-waisted mommy jeans, there are some other elements of grooming and style which are becoming more of a challenge than ever before. New styles I can study; attractive clothing I can possess to some mildly satisfying degree. But the matters of skin and hair are a much more nebulous territory and the ‘solutions’ aren’t obvious. Nor am I even convinced that there are any solutions to be had at all. Dr. Sebogh can kiss my Midwestern ass. His rare melon extract is not responsible for Dekalb sister Cindy Crawford’s amazing skin. I’m pretty sure good skin is in her genes. And you can stop trying to convince me too, Miss Bertinelli… I don’t doubt that a topical treatment here and there might help, but the process presses on, no matter the speed. I’m up early enough today to have caught the beginnings of an infomercial designed especially for me. I’d like to think I’m too cynical for this crap, but apparently not. They have me in their sights, and I’m greatly disappointed in myself for leaving the program on as I go through my morning routine of coffee-making and egg-packing…

My skin has begun to change only in the tiniest ways, yet it’s enough to have me thinking. Until very recently I hadn’t given too much thought to my skin betraying my age; as I’ve said before, I feel like I’m doing ok in that department. As a result, I have strongly and egocentrically believed that my skin would always remain lovely, that my hair would continue to be as it has been for the past three decades. I have never, ever – til just about now – truly believed that things would change too terribly much. (Other people turn into ‘old’ people… other people...) Things – that is to say, my skin, my hair, my body, have been fine for the past thirty years. No huge changes. Well, at least no quick changes. Skin care commercials always seemed to be about so much over-priced bullshit to me. I could never even see a need. But now, I begin to wonder. Did I miss some sort of essential prevention routine? Was I too hasty? Might there be something to all this anti-aging hoopla? Might I slow it down just a skitch? The voice inside me tells me no, there’s nothing to be done but drink more water and keep a good, grateful attitude towards life. I believe that’s the real answer, but still, I can’t help but wonder if I might be missing a simple serum that could help me recapture the glow that I think I’m missing all of a sudden…

For now I let it all go – because I certainly haven’t the money to dabble, and anyway I don’t have a real need to get super-pretty in my current life. Pretty enough is just fine, and for now my skin is what it is. I’m more concerned today about the hair situation – the hair on top of my head, that is, but then again there’s also the hair below the top of my head to consider as well. But not to worry – I’m on it. I keep a vigilant, daily lookout in the rear view window of my car each morning. I keep my eyebrows nice and tidy, and I do a daily sweep of the face for errant stragglers. How humbling it is the first time one discovers an unprovoked hair appearing in the middle of a cheek or chin. No warning. Just one day, woah! – there’s a hair sprouting from your face where none has ever grown before. I used to have a really impressive hair which would pop up a couple times a year. It would stick out sideways from my face a good two inches. And it was beyond my comprehension that the thing would literally grow overnight. My husband jokingly called it my ‘curb finder’. Cute. Haven’t seen it in a long time now – but if it makes another appearance, you can bet I’ll pluck that baby out before I even turn the car on. Hair patrol is dicey when you do it alone though. It’s nice to have someone around who can catch you before you leave the house with one lone chin hair blowing your cover… It’s nice when someone has your back like that. And that’s one thing I do miss about Chicago; my regular visits to the Pakistani ladies on Devon who could henna your hands and remove every unwanted hair in one stop. They would snap their heads, make that ‘tssk tssk’ sound and tell me not to worry. “We make you beautiful” they’d say as they sat me down in a chair. Between my favorite eyebrow threading (movie star eyes every time) to lip wax and whole face thread I would leave glowing. Yeah, partly because of the sheer pain involved, but partly because I was restored. Beautiful once more. What fun it would be to experience that feeling again. To open the door of that tiny shop and step out on to the street with a light heart and hopes renewed. Can you imagine all that good feeling, generated merely from the removal of some unwanted facial hair? Mm. Crazy.

Facial hair well in hand, I turn my energies to the crowning issue of the day: what to do with my hair color? For under ten bucks, I mean. Last spring I popped for a real color job at ‘my gal’s’ place – and while it was lovely, it didn’t last. Roots came soon after. The lovely color she’d created was never again matched just right, and before long I was back down the road of $3 box color from (my shame doubles) Walmart. (But seriously, $3? How can you say no? How?) I waved the white flag and bought a coupla boxes. I’ll try mixing em maybe. Want that nice, warm brown. Won’t be brassy if I just put a little more finesse into it. Hm. Ok, roots are lighter. That’s wrong. Google it. Ok. That’s known as ‘root burn’. I can fix it. Next week we’ll try again. Hair keeps coming out lighter and lighter. And while I notice that aging female celebrities seem to choose lighter and lighter hair colors, I myself have been doing so unintentionally. My ‘real’ color – not seen in perhaps a good seven years – was always quite dark. Almost black. Originally my son’s hair was lighter, mine darker. Now, we’re the opposite. So finally, I will right this wrong. I will change things back to the way they should be.

Changed it. Oops. My hair sure is darker. (Secretly, I really like it. I feel like I’m about to go on tour…) My kid tells me it makes me look masculine. Like a rocker. (Secretly love this even more.) My gray is for once completely covered. That alone feels like success. But the color is flat. Definitely a box color. A color without any class. No depth. At least it doesn’t shine plum-ish or blue-ish when backlit. Maybe I should count my blessings. But it’s gonna be kinda hard to focus on the good when I have to face the world this week with hair that’s radically darker than any I’ve sported the past six months. If I’m going to get attention, I don’t want it coming to me in double-takes and long looks as people inwardly assess the subtle change about me today… I can remember getting haircuts and people thinking I’d lost weight instead – or even losing weight and people thinking I’d cut my hair. Funny how folks notice changes – even if they can’t quite figure out just what it is about you that’s changed….

I’ve been reading a lot of memoirs lately. I’ve always been fascinated with the many different ways in which people live and think. I surprised myself by checking out a book by Kathie Lee Gifford. She seemed to come from such a different planet as me, and the opportunity to learn just how different a planet was too much for my curiosity to pass up. In reading, I learned that she is not stupid, she lives a life with much love, humor and gratitude, and I also learned that staying young-looking is very, very important to her. I guess it’s her job, right? It’s also a fundamentally different way of approaching life. When I heard what was involved with the surgical skin treatments she’s undergone in order to keep her face looking smooth and young, I was taken aback. Maybe even shocked. She lightened the stories with charm and humor, as if to forgive herself for doing something so hard-core – and vain. Wow. I couldn’t fathom doing anything like that myself. Could I? And if I couldn’t, was it simply a case of money? Was my growing interest in the appearance of my skin just an infant stage of her full-grown concern? If I were a few years older, and a few dollars richer, would I do something like this too? Would I? I’d like to think not – I’d really like to think it’s not that big a deal to me. But still, this whole new chapter of aging has me just the teensiest bit concerned as to how I’ll navigate through it all. And I will admit to one and all right here and now: the ‘Lifestyle Lift’ appeals to me. A lot. I’m sorry, but there is nothing like a good jawline. Never had one to begin with – so it might be nice to go out with one. !

My entire professional, pre-baby life was all about the look. Now I’m just content to own a pair of good mud boots and a sturdy farm jacket. Last few years I haven’t had much occasion to get out. To represent, as it were. But now with Elihu’s new school, looks like I can’t hide the way I would have liked. So I’m trying to shift gears these days. Still don’t have a game plan, but I have a goal. I gotta get it together. Gotta find some pants that fit, gotta make sure my face is tended to, gotta make sure that I drink enough water and stretch in the mornings.

Gotta keep up with the upkeep.

Cyber Chase Begins

Posted in An Ongoing Journal..., Mommy Mind1 Comment

I’m too tired to start this post. Really. Not sure I’ll make it. Why am I pooped? Been typing and uploading and answering and thinking and creating my ridiculously un-me profiles on a handful of dating sites – the ones that specialize in hooking up single parents with each other. Now I’m on the verge of regret. Oh just why did I? It can’t hurt, I know. And not a thing will change if I don’t want it to. I would simply like to go out on just one fucking date with a guy who has the ‘oomph’ to match mine. Ya know? There are many things about Fareed that are straight-out fucked up, but there’s one thing he’s got going for him – and it still works with me – is that he’s fully loaded. He’s got oompf. Yeah, he’s full of some other crap too. Mostly bullshit, but even so, it’s entertaining bullshit. He’s ever the charmer. And he’s always fully convinced about whatever it is he’s preaching at the time. And I like a man with conviction. But just maybe not as much conviction as my ex. The kind of conviction that tells his lover that his wife’s “not the jealous type” as he prepares to plant his seed in her garden. That’s a bit too much oomph. Ya think?

So while I don’t necessarily want a super-oomphie mate for a date, I’d still like a fellow who meets me energy-wise. Someone who can be comfortably irreverent. Someone who verges slightly on the edge of asshole (girls, there’s no way around it, assholes are attractive), but who is too insecure or too kind deep-down to ever be truly mean. Just a bit of edge is all I’d like. Sarcasm works well. Just not too much. Not the mean kind – but the playful stuff. You know. So that’s the profile in a nutshell. And if the guy is handy – woo! And if he knows the birds by their songs… mmm. And… if he puts his hand on the small of my back as he ushers me through a door…. well. Nuff said.

Who am I fooling, I wonder. I’m the largest I’ve ever been in a non-pregnant state. I don’t feel good about the way I look these days. Certainly don’t feel very sexy. But at the same time, I don’t feel horrible. Just not the way I remember feeling about my body for the past two decades. And I suppose if I put my back into it and committed to riding up and down these ghastly difficult hills out here on my bike (as I did last week and thought I would simply die on the way back) I might be able to fight my way back to that body. But since I still can’t get my fight back on, I don’t see it happening, and I need to just settle into some sort of comfort with the fleshy package I got right now. Guess that’s in part why I sought out the single parent sites. Those men gotta be a little too busy helping with homework and shuttling the kids to soccer to be wrestling their middle-aged bodies back into thirty-something submission. I figure it’s gotta be somewhat of a level playing field. Kind of.

I’ve done what I can. I’ve dropped a lone glove on the ground behind me. The clever and driven suitor will find his way back to me with my lost article, and I’ll tell by the twinkle in his eye that this whole dating thing just might be worth another try…

Sunny Birthday

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Is it possible to write a post in less than ten minutes? It will have to be. Thanks all for your kindness in so many emails and FB greetings. I feel so blessed and lucky to have so many well-wishers. I send you my gratitude… It’s hard to understand that I am now embarking on my fiftieth year here. !

My day has been lovely and unstructured. It is a fine, sunny spring day here in Greenfield. Not warm nor cool; today exists in that minutest fraction of temperate perfection so seldom experienced on this planet of extremes. In a word – the weather today is perfect.

After venturing onto some long-abandoned properties and digging up what I could find of flowering spring bulbs, I have returned home covered in dirt. The bus will be here soon, and shortly after Elihu comes home I’ll grab a quick shower before my piano students come over. This evening my parents, brother and son and I will go out to dinner.

This is what a birthday should be. Lucky gal am I.