I'll never tell........

To tell or not….to tell.

I did for a while; I was proud of the fact that I was over 60 and was still a viable, vibrant woman, especially since I learned to dance, putting me in touch with movement and thus,  my body.

I piped up immediately, if someone asked how old I am. The reaction changed, however, as soon as I hit that 6-0 response. No longer did I hear, “What! You don’t look 60!” (I heard that at all ages, right up until this one. At 30, at 40, even at 50. But some key was turned as soon as the big 6-0 carried my birthday cake in, aflame with candles.)

And if a woman happens to be single at 6-0, for whatever reason (and there all kinds of reasons, believe me), heaven help her. Men’s eyes glaze over at the mere mention of a six before ANY number, even the zero. My unfortunate experience with dating sites has proven their point to me: they are for young women.

Not young men, though. Men of all ages, even those with the next digit in THEIR age, have no qualms about filling in that profile page with all kinds of fluff and a photo at least 20 years old (and 20 pounds lighter), knowing all the while that they are looking for a young woman to help them believe their own profile.  Any woman taking their bait who happens to be over 6-0 hears a lot of…… silence. A computer screen is an effective barrier when someone wants to use it that way.

A friend of mine, a woman in her 90s, chided me once for blurting out my age when someone asked. When anyone asked. I thought I could show the world that being a “woman of a certain age” did NOT mean a “shriveled, incontinent, unproductive,  drain on society.” I work out a couple of times a week, I lift more weight than women (and some men) much younger, I work, I dance, I write, I contribute. I am not done yet. Not even close.

But none of that seems to matter. So, I am following my friend’s advice and keeping quiet these days, at least about my age. (I don’t keep quiet about much else, but you already know that, right?)  I can’t unspeak it from all the times I blurted out those digits, but I can hope that people will forget.

Happy birthday to me! And, no, I’m not going to tell you which one it is, either.

The headliner........

You should be the headliner in your own life.

Just picture it: Your name in lights!

Yes, you. The woman with her arm draped over the frig door, contemplating one more meal for the hordes who drift through your house (some of whom actually live there), eating, traipsing dirt into your living room, dragging dirty sports paraphernalia behind them like aliens stuck to their backsides. And then eating again. That arm is actually holding you up, isn't it? Your energy is gone, your food, too--and so are the dreams you once had for yourself.

To write.

To sing.

To paint.

To dance.

To soar.

But you refuse to add your own name to the calendar. Everyone else's lives are there, dates marked in red. The kids, your spouse, your family, his family, the pets. But not you.

"I'm not sure what [person A] will need on Friday, so go on ahead to the art show without me. It's OK."

"No, I can't plan anything with the [girls' night out group, the sorority, the reunion planning committee]; the cat has a vet appointment."

"Sorry......I can't."

"Not sure....."

"I'd love to go, but....."

Goals? Dreams? How about just one night out to do what YOU want to do? Do you even remember what that is?

 What's wrong with using that red pen to schedule an art class, a writing group, a hot bath behind a locked door?

No one else will do it for you. They're too busy eating.

You only live once, but if you do it right, once is enough. 
― Mae West

Shock and awe.......

 “I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I needed to be.”

Douglas Adams

As a woman who is aging to perfection, steeped in the wine of time, I am still often shocked--well after I thought there was nothing left to rattle me--as well as in awe of the vagaries of the human race. Some things I know.......

• New jeans with holes up and down the legs, hanging on the rack in the department store, must be an attempt to make us look mindless. 

• When we were 16, a boy who was even 5 years older was taboo. That chasm was huge and not to be crossed on penalty of irate parents, scandalized neighbors, and the law. By the time we were 25, those 5 years had shrunk and they no longer made much difference. In fact, they added a bit of texture to a relationship. But I bet you didn't know that the same 5 years stretch again at the other end of the age spectrum, causing all kinds of mischief for us in our 60s, 70s, and older. Take my word for it.....it isn't pretty. Because.......

•   ....men of all ages want younger women. They just do. The problem is that those men hanging onto the right end of the timeline have difficulty keeping up with a woman younger than they are. In many important ways. And men younger than that same woman aren't interested, because--remember?--they want someone younger, too. Where does that leave me? I'll tell you where: women of a certain age who want a full, true relationship are stranded on that timeline, searching both ends of the spectrum. Alone. 

• Which leads me to this: I should have protected, nurtured, and cherished some of my earlier relationships so I wouldn't be stuck on this darn timeline at all.

• You can enjoy gospel or religious music without believing a word of it. There's just something joyous about it, isn't there?

•  I refuse to listen to any song that has the word "chainsaw" in it. It's just not right.

•  Why do many men refrain from using poor grammar until AFTER you've become invested as a couple? Maybe it's a sign they are truly comfortable with us, their new love. I could stand a little less comfort. Please.

•  When a man agrees in advance to "talk about things that bother us" as you launch a new relationship, his mouth is merely moving.

That's what I know.....at least for now!

Bringing home the bacon.....

Murky, murky, murky. Life just gets less and less transparent as the years go by. Highly inconvenient, I must admit.

I might have thought....if I had thought about it at all.....that age and the accompanying maturity would lend itself to knowing the answers a litte faster or easier than when we clattered around in our 20s or 30s. Maybe even longer depending on some folks' inability to learn from mistakes.

I'm a very independent woman, a state that is a result of both my personality as well as the circumstances of my life. Raising children on your own will do that, believe me. You learn quickly that there are few people you can truly rely on, maybe even having the axiom, "If you want something done right, do it yourself" stenciled on your living room wall. In bright red.

But the longer you live within that bubble of self-sufficiency the less it appears that you need anyone else or their help for anything at all. Many women build walls that are strong and often tower over those (and I mean men, of course) who get too close, either inadvertantly or with good intentions of being useful.

Soon we begin to believe it ourselves, the fact that we don't need anyone, we can take care of ourselves, thank you very much, so everyone needs to stand back behind that solid concrete wall, that one that we erected over the years for protection.

But the problem is that we DO need each other in lots of ways that have nothing to do with one gender being "weaker" or "stronger."  It has to a lot to do with the undeniable symbiosis inherent in being human in our culture, and less to do with gender inequities that still exist whether we like to think so or not.

I can carry on successfully by myself.....if we're measuring success by dollars and cents. Our culture, though, sometimes traps both men and women into identity roles that we don't even notice after a while. We're so used to clutching either our independence or our deeply ingrained sense of role tightly to our chests that we miss each other completely. The fact that I could support myself was not the same as not needing anything.

I didn't need a man to pay my bills or "bring home the bacon" but I did need someone to support me emotionally. Life is hard, and it is nice to have a shoulder to cry on or a hand to hold as we face the storms together.

Rather than being constrained by the male/female roles of weak vs strong that still slither around the edges of our society, maybe we should just all relax and be human instead. I can ask for help without threatening my independence, and it can be offered without fear of being rebuffed as sexist.

I used to think this was all so clear.

"Limits exist only in the mind."

 

Baggage claim.......

I've got some.

You've got some, too.

Everybody has a bit to lug around.

And if they say they don't, they're deluded.

But my personal favorite is people who expect you to deny your own.

What the heck am I talking about, you ask?  I'm talking about the baggage we all have.


You know....that baggage that you're lugging along behind you, some of the contents spilling out all over the sidewalk as you desperately try to ignore them. The suitcase that has gaudy stickers all over it with the names of all the places...well, actually, people.......who have wandered in and out of your life, creating messes that you've had to clean up or run away from. You've tried to peel those darn things off the trunk with your fingertips, but no such luck. Little corners tear off here and there, but the glue sticks to your fingers anyway, leaving the residue behind. And the rest of those stickers just stay stuck anyway, refusing to be removed and insisting on remaining part of your life no matter how hard you try to ignore them. We just can't seem to get rid of the mess.


I met a man at a Japanese restaurant for lunch a number of years ago. It was our first meeting, the one where you size each other up, trying to envision if there is any future for the two of you. Usually not, but we are eternal optimists, aren't we? We ate funny looking food, we shared information about ourselves, he kept aligning his napkin perfectly with the edge of his knife. (I should have known right then.) Finally, he looked at me and said, "I'm not looking for anyone who has any baggage."  I smiled as I lied and assured him that I had no such thing, my luggage was safely stowed away at home, behaving itself. I mean, what did he expect me to say to that, anyway?


In reality, as all sane people know, those bags hold our lives, both the good stuff and the bad. We can't deny that, or expect others to deny theirs.

And by the way.....that man turned out to have a steamer trunk of his own, filled with enough neurosis to sink the Titanic. My advice to younger women is this: If he asks you if you have baggage, stand up tall, say, "Of course! And it's made me the woman I am today!" and then RUN.

 

No matter how far we travel, the memories will follow in the baggage car. 

August Strindberg

.

Dazzling.....

“Begin doing what you want to do now. We are not living in eternity. We have only this moment, sparkling like a star in our hand-and melting like a snowflake...”

Francis Bacon

Francis Bacon knew a thing or two, didn't he? Even if he was old......

Oh, wait....my whole reason for Aged to Perfection, and taking all of you along with me, is to celebrate the fact that we do get better as we move along the earthly time continuum.  I know the younger you are, the less you believe that. But you will someday.

Plus, the learning process just never stops. Here's something I have learned about myself in the past few years: I like to sparkle.

I am drawn to clothes that glitter. I want my hair to sparkle, even if I have to sprinkle glitter through it.  My nails are always polished to a high gleam.

But most importantly, my face shines, reflective of the glitz that is going on inside these days.  My adventures this year have brought new passion into my life, a regenerated state of being that shines through me each morning. Sometimes I feel as if sunbeams shoot from my fingertips.

I smile from my soul, even as I approach my 63rd birthday next week.

So, to all my younger friends, and especially to my daughter, I say this:

We're never too old to be dazzling!









Saving face or saving money?

The cashier hit at least 50 buttons on her register, looked up and said, “That’ll be 25¢.” Her eyes slid past me to the jeans-clad boy in line behind me, his macho-ness skipping over me to envelope her in his studly grip. She smiled at both of us, me by default, as I said, “Excuse me? 25¢?”

“Well, that IS the senior price!” she huffed, as if I was questioning her math.

Ouch. She had immediately pegged me as one of that class of folks over whatever her company’s “senior” age break happened to be. What about all the money I spend on hair color and highlights? The expensive anti-oxidant oil for my face, applied faithfully twice a day? Good heavens—the HOURS in the gym? Everybody around me tells me I don’t look my age. Are they all lying?

Don’t answer that.

On the other hand, 25¢ for a full-sized cup of coffee is hard to refuse on the principle of “I didn’t ASK for the senior price, did I?” Retired or not, money is tight for all of us and a quarter saved is, well, a good thing. And heaven knows I understand the value of saving money, having had to pinch every penny that has ever passed through my wallet. But should that be at the price of a teenager snapping her gum and stamping me with the “OLD PERSON HERE!” label, without even blinking twice?

However, I bet this same child, the one masquerading as the store’s assistant manager, has had others chew her out for not mentioning the “senior” discount to them. I waited in line once, tapping my foot impatiently, as an elderly man took 10 minutes to decide whether he wanted the chicken sandwich or a cheeseburger, vacillating first this way and then that, as if it was an expensive cut of steak he was debating. His indecision was infuriating to everyone witnessing it. He finally made the choice and paid his money. Not until he got his change back did he say, “Did you give me the senior discount, honey?” I thought honey was going to leap across the counter and throttle the guy, old or not. She probably made a mental note after she calmed down  that she would never allow that to happen to her again. Just give ‘em the discount if they look as if they might qualify. Who at corporate would ever know anyway?

I have an idea. Let’s redefine the term. Maybe that will be less offensive to those of us in this quandry. Instead of “seniors,” how about “those with magnificent wisdom,” or “beautifully retired,” or “captivatingly mature”?

Just smile sweetly at me when you say it and then give me the darn discount.

“Old age ain’t no place for sissies.”

Henry Louis Mencken

How did you DO that??

"How did you know you could do that?" 

The question hung in the air for a beat before I could answer it. How DID I know I could cut down a tree with a chain saw 10 years ago when that ugly tree was dying over my roof?

How did  I know how to replace the seal under my toilet when I finally figured out where that damn leak was coming from?

How did I get that 6 foot glass top to my new dining set out of the equally big box by myself?

What possessed me to start my own company with nothing but a business license and a lot of disparate information rattling around in my head?

For people like me, I guess the answer is: I didn't know that I could do it. All I did know was that those things needed to be done, and I was the only person on site to take action.

I was a single parent, working two jobs, with a very active daughter to raise. Money was tight, to say the least, but I also have a wide independent streak and believe that there isn't much I CAN'T do. We could delve into a psychological study of women like me who have some control and trust issues and an A type personality, but that would bore everyone to death, wouldn't it?

So, what did I do this month for the "thing I've never done before," my year-long journey of rejuvination that has turned out to be so much fun?

I tiled the back splash in my kitchen. About a year ago I pulled off the fiber board that has been fulfilling that purpose for over 20 years, and I just hadn't found anyone to put up some pretty white tile yet. I had the tile, the grout, the caulking.....it was all sitting there on my porch taunting me. "DO ME, DO ME!" it said every time I walked by. 

My mother didn't think I could do it. You know how mothers can convey messages without uttering a word? It's all in the body language, and hers was shouting loud and clear: YOU DON'T KNOW HOW TO DO THAT!! YOU'VE NEVER DONE IT BEFORE! YOU'LL RUIN IT!!"  Some friends said they would do it, but everybody is busy with their own stuff and it just never got done.

So, when my mother left for an overnight trip, I cleared off the kitchen counters and I tiled and grouted and caulked the night (and half the next day) away. Yes, it was hard, especially the caulking for some reason, but I just tackled the job.  Because it needed to be done.

Maybe that's not on par with my past months of new experiences.....hookah bars and driving Zs and taking a dance lesson......but it WAS new to me, something I've never attempted before.

And nobody had to tell me I could do it.

Indulge me, it's Mother's Day.....

She is bright and talented. She is energetic and resourceful, at least once she stops worrying about everything. She is beautiful and strong.

She is my 27 year old daughter, the child I had when I was 35, after proclaiming for years that I never wanted children at all. My first husband and I both wished to be childless. He still is. But at age 30, a different beat began in my soul, starting as a soft wordless chant that became louder as the years passed, until my body fell into step and I knew it was time. There was no denying it.

I married again to follow that need. I know that now. I didn't want to admit then that my desire for a child was the reason for that second walk down the aisle. Today, women routinely forgo the walk while still fulfilling their need for children. I'm sometimes a rebel today, but not so much in the '80s. The marriage lasted four years. I got what I wanted.

So there I was, chasing a toddler around as I turned 40. And she ran as soon as she could walk. Everywhere. I took her to the mall often, not because I had any money to shop (I didn't), but she could run there without curbs or potholes to trip her up. I could follow along without losing sight of her, at least not often. She ran through T-Ball and soccer, basketball and softball. She ultimately ran on to college still chasing a ball tied to the strings of a scholarship. She fell often, jumped up and dusted herself off.....and ran some more. She wore me out.

It wasn't easy having a teenager in the house when I was in my 50s, one that entered puberty at the same time I hit menopause. Too bad we couldn't exchange hormones. I was destined to wait, though, to honor my earlier commitment to be childless when most women are happily pregnant in their 20s. My child needed me to be older for some reason.  And it has filled my spirit beyond belief.

Today I am careful to respect her natural need to be an adult with a life set by boundaries between us. Painful, yes....but necessary for her. It thrills me when my phone rings each day and she chats me up about her day, all the good and the bad and the mundane. She listens to my advice. I know she does. Sometimes she even follows it. And she knows that I am always here for her. As the teenagers I once taught put it, "I have her back." She knows she can rely on me for whatever she needs, as much as I can provide it, without question. And if I can't provide it, I offer ways she can get it herself.

It is Mother's Day today. I've often said that being a mother has been the most delightful, rewarding role in my life.

But that's a lie, I have to admit.

The truth is that being the mother of this child is why I was brought into existence myself. It's that simple and that exquisite.



Do you need a writer? A workshop presenter? A trainer? You need ME! Visit http://www.deborahhansen.com/

Oh, sleep, knits up the ravell’d sleave of care.....

The little things we enjoy in life transform themselves into epic events when we lose them.

            Like sleep. I understand all about hormone imbalances that occur as we age, along with increased levels of stress over getting older in a society that offers no honor or value to the “elderly.” None of that matters, though, when my eyes pop open at 1 AM and I realize at 2 that I’m going to struggle with regaining that elusive state of sleep I fell out of without warning. Falling asleep is normal. Falling awake, and staying awake, when your eyes are still gritty and sore with exhaustion….that’s something else indeed.

            At 3 I decide to read for a half hour and then try again. Nope. At 4 I decide I might as well get something done so I fold laundry or empty the dishwasher or some other mundane task that makes me sleepy during the day….but not in the tiny hours of the morning when I want that to be so. At 5, it’s almost time to get up anyway, so I just drop into my day and off I go. Of course, at 6 my eyes won’t stay open, and that’s the joke my body is playing on me. Not funny.

            I’ve slept in my recliner, at the other end of the bed, on the floor, even outside on my patio. I’ve sampled enough herbal tea to float an ocean liner. I have tried over the counter sleep concoctions that make my heart pound and my body go on overdrive. I've soaked in my hot tub until sleep is just there within my reach, my consciousness drifting a bit in the heat....until I climb back into bed.

            I started experiencing insomnia to various degrees in my 40s when I was still teaching. Try managing, much less teaching, a roomful of 13 year olds on 2 hours of sleep. Add to that the fact that my own child was born when I was 35 years old, so I was chasing a toddler around……as a divorced single parent. I get tired thinking about it now, coming up on 20 years later.

            One would think that I would have fallen into bed at night and pass out. And some nights I did, I’m sure. But there were more and more occasions when I would wake up for no apparent reason and stay awake until it was time to start all over again. Talk about stress.

            Today, my life has become purposefully less stressful. Some of the changes were the results of the natural progression of things: My daughter is an adult and on her own. Other changes were made to reconfigure my life into something more workable for me: I made the difficult decision to walk away from a tenured position as a teacher with benefits. I started my own business, still educating others in topics I think are critical. Most importantly, though, I am doing what I should have been doing since I was a young adult: I’m writing. The stresses (and there will always be some) are manageable and of my own choosing. That’s important. We can handle the difficulties in our lives when we feel we have control over them.

            Physically, I’m probably in the best shape of my life. (Well, maybe not when I was 25, but I can hardly remember that far back so it doesn’t count.) I exercise often and strenuously, and I’m adding some new types of movement to my repertoire. Emotionally, I think I’m healthy, too. I love my life the way it is and I am better at expressing myself honestly to those who matter around me.

           

My formula for living is quite simple. I get up in the morning and I go to bed at night. In between, I occupy myself as best I can. (Cary Grant)

            The trick is in occupying yourself the BEST you can, no matter your age. Perhaps, then, sleep can return as a "simple" thing in our lives.

Do you need a writer? You need ME! Visit http://www.deborahhansen.com/ for more information.

HOT CHICK, you said?

It’s been a long time since I’ve been called a HOT CHICK.

And why would it matter to me, anyway? Aren’t I past all that?

Well, no. It seems not. I heard through a friend that those words were used by a stranger to describe me a few days ago when I had occasion to be in their workplace. My spirit was lifted for several hours. Well, maybe a little longer than that, if I’m being honest.

And to make it even better, the person who knows me told this stranger that the HOT CHICK is over 60, which didn’t seem to matter to either of them. I was still a HOT CHICK.  

Which wasn’t the case a few years ago. My gym membership card had a thick layer of dust on the plastic cover, if I could find it at all.  My closet had a dual personality, too. The larger sizes were in the front where the good light was, while the smaller ones cowered in the dark in the back. It was like two women lived in my house. And the smaller one didn’t appear to be coming back.

Full length mirrors had become my enemy. The pressure of my life pulled the corners of my mouth down into a perpetual grimace. I had weight everywhere, body and soul. No hot chick lived in my house, that’s for sure.

Then I attended a party one evening, a wonderful gathering with friends. One of them had a camera. Not only were photos taken, they were posted on Facebook. I truly didn’t recognize myself. How does that happen, our bodies taking one fork in the road, while our minds refuse to follow?

I had my butt kicked by a picture. It was that simple 

And today, I’m a HOT CHICK.  Forgive me as I gloat a bit.

 If you want to look young and thin, hang around old fat people.

Jim Eason

Body blows....and no necks

I used to have a neck. When I was in college, admittedly a long time ago, I sported lots of turtlenecks. Even then, my neck still had a bit of skin showing above the folded turtle, if that’s what it's called.

A few years ago, I began to notice that same fold was pushed up against my jaw, making me squirm with the touch of claustrophobia that runs in my family. But mine seems to be completely gone now.

I now wear lower necklines, if only to breathe easily.

My massage therapist spent 15 minutes yesterday stretching my neck muscles. Not a pleasant experience, as it turns out. I know all about bone loss in the spine and realize that most of us do begin to lose a few inches as we age. That’s one of the reasons I’m so faithful about my weight-bearing exercises at the gym. But I think there is more to this neck shrinking issue for me, and maybe for lots of other women, especially.

We’re waiting for the next blow to hit.

I was divorced when my daughter was barely four, and for the next fifteen years, the two of us made our way alone. I taught school during the day, worked the counter at a dry cleaner after that job, and then tutored kids after that one. If something broke in my house, it either stayed broken or I had to find someone to fix it for free. And there aren’t a lot of handy people in our family. I drive cars until the wheels fall off, sometimes literally.

If I ran out of money before my next paycheck, well, too bad. There was no one at home to pick up the slack and write a check to cover the bills or buy food. When the school district I worked for “forgot” to tell me until May that I wouldn’t be paid over the summer due to some bureaucratic snafu, oh, well, suck it up and work two more jobs to keep the lights on and the roof over our heads. You do what you gotta do.

When a hobby shop refused to refund $20 hard earned dollars for a duplicate birthday present for my daughter, I had to pitch such a fit in the store they threatened to call the cops. But I NEEDED that $20, and I didn’t care that the darn box had gotten thrown away. (Not one of my finer moments, I admit.)

No one at home to help me, no one there to pat me on the back and console me. And every time something happened, I felt my shoulders hunch up near my ears, waiting for the next body blow to hit. I might as well have put my arms up to protect my head…it was such a visceral reaction.

And I don’t think I am unusual. There are many women, and dads, too, who literally have to fight their way through life. There are  millions of other people warding off body blows now as the economy beats us all up, with threats of losing our homes and transportation, food and gasoline prices skyrocketing out of sight. 

I'm 62 years old and still have to worry about just holding on to what I have. My work could disappear at any moment, poof! I have enough to last maybe two months without work. Retirement? Are you kidding me? 

No wonder we have no necks.

A spinning virgin no more....

I don't sweat.

A friend and I went to a gym together once and after about two minutes on the treadmill, she had sweat dripping in her eyes. Thirty minutes later I was still dry as a bone. Go figure.

Until yesterday. As the second installment of "doing things I've never done before" I signed up for a spinning class at my gym. A stationary bike in a separate room of the facility among about 50 others that go nowhere. Maybe it's the fact that these folks go into a room all their own and turn out the lights that has intimidated me a bit. I'm not sure, but in any case I've been a bit hesitant about sticking my head in to find out what the heck they're doing in there, much less joining them. I'm more comfortable doing my exercise routine alone, out in the main, well-lit room where no one can sneak up on me in the dark.

But I conquered my fear and did it yesterday as a celebration of ME, like I told you I would every month for one year. Yesterday was installment #2. (For my first adventure, see http://agedtoperfectiondeborahhansen.blogspot.com/2011/01/have-you-hookahed.html) 

I arrived early so I could make sure no gremlins hid in the corners when all the lights WERE on in the room, chose a bike, and hopped on as others dribbled in over the next 15 minutes or so. All ages, I noticed, but I also noted that none was extremely overweight. (I now know why.) These folks came in, chose a bike and adjusted the seat, the handlebars, chatted with one another, and then jumped on and slowly started pedaling. I guessed they were warming up, so I pedaled along with them. I've never been much of a chatterer with people I don't know, but maybe that will come if I spin with this group more often. I have heard shouting come from this room, too, once the lights go out, but I guessed I'd discover why soon. I would love to be that uninhibited around strangers, much like I'd love to be able to dance somewhere other than in my head. Maybe that can be another month's journey.

The instructor arrived, fiddled with all the sound equipment at the front, put on a headband (yes, she did), and then shouted out, "Is anyone here for the first time? Anyone need help?"  I'm not keen on having attention called to me, especially with about 100 eyes in the room, and no one else was raising their hand, either. So, I just kept slowly spinning away on my bike, head ducked in hope that no one would identify me as the lone "spinning virgin." She jumped on her bike, someone turned out the overhead lights, and suddenly all the white shirts and reflective materials on shoes glowed in the dark. I felt like I was back in college, with lava lamps and eerie lips glowing in black light splendor, Jimi Hendrix music throbbing in the dark, and other things going on we don't even want to discuss.

But she cranked up what sounded to me like current dance tracks (not waltzing, folks, get with the times here), and started shouting out instructions everyone understood but me. "Up to 2! About a minute, stay with me!"  "Go to 3! Hold it there!" Everyone was up on their feet, pedaling to the music, up, down, up again, sit (today my butt is sore in places I don't even want to consider,) drinking water while the music slows down for a whole 3 seconds, then they're all up again, cycling to nowhere as they increase the tension on the bike when she yells "One turn to the right, folks!" The music never stopped.

This non-sweating person was sweating within about 5 minutes. Yes, dripping in my eyes sweat.

After the second song I was just hoping not to fall off the bike and embarrass myself. I was told the class lasted 45 minutes, but I couldn't see the clock at the front of the room once we started. All I know is that I don't like to be conquered by anything, ever. This pesky trait has caused me great distress in life, and I realized this might be one of those times. But, I would not give up.

In fairness to the instructor and the gym folks, they did emphasize that we should take this at our own pace. We should slow down or even stop when we felt the need, no matter what everyone else was doing. I adjusted, I slowed, I DID NOT stop, and soon I began to get into a rhythm. I was able to stand up and pedal for longer periods of time (we're talking longer SECONDS at a time), then I had to sit down and focus on my breathing until I was ready to follow the instructions again. But I still couldn't see the clock.

I started estimating how many songs had played and about how long each lasted. My calculations added up to nearly 40 minutes, give or take a missed song or two. Several other people had gathered their things and left already, which was a great comfort to me. (If I DID leave, I wouldn't be the first!) Finally, I couldn't stand not knowing any longer, so I hopped off the bike and peered around about 10 people between me and the clock.

I had been pedaling for 51 minutes.

I didn't fall off, and I didn't embarrass myself. I loved the music. And I might just do it again!

You can't go through life quitting everything.  If you're going to achieve anything, you've got to stick with something.  ~From the television show Family Matters

Mind toots.....

Which will go first: My mind or my body?

My morning sittin' spot offered no clues to this question. In fact, it only complicated things as I remembered (there's the mind thing) that tomorrow is the 28th of the month. My "do something I've never done before" day, the self-imposed Year of Renewal I shared with all of you a couple of months ago. Wish I hadn't done that.

Two weeks ago I was all set to go rock climbing at one of those indoor adventure places tomorrow, where I could belay up a beginner's wall. Well, actually, the machinery would belay me up. From what I understand there wasn't much I would need to do, just hang there all clipped in, sticking a toe here and there to make it look like I was climbing that rock. A perfect photo op, and I could post the pictures on Facebook and everything. I'm sure the helmet is spiffy, too.

So what happened out there by my little fire in the rising dew this morning? The best way I can describe it is that my mind is tooting. Not my body. My mind.

Follow me here: Tomorrow I have to teach a class of 4th and 5th grade peer mediators in the morning. It's only an hour but travel time is another hour and the actual teaching time is intense. Once I get back to my office, I have a writing assignment to complete, one that is giving me a bit of a problem. All of this is mind stuff, right? My body just follows along, following the mind's instructions: "Hey! Over here! Next stop!"

By the time all of that is done, my mind begins grumbling about being overworked, where's the union when you need it, mumbling, groaning, looking for a soft spot to land, maybe with a beer in hand. Sigh.....

You want to do WHAT? Get up out of this chair, drive across town, and climb a wall? Are you kidding me, woman?

My body retorts, "I haven't had any fun today, bucko....you controlling *&%^*! It's time to get movin' here, achy bones and all. It's good for you! GET UP!"

I'll let you know who wins tomorrow.

Age is strictly a case of mind over matter. If you don't mind, it doesn't matter.

Jack Benny

Valentine's Day reviewed.....

I chose to wait a week or so to review Valentines Day, figuring most of you would be addled with an overdose of chocolate, delectable food, and wine. Hopefully you can focus again, now that it has all leached from your system.

For newer readers, a reminder: I'm a 62-year old professional, single woman, trying desperately to make sense of my life. I don't really know how I got here, either. Thus, I write about it, and take you along with me. Maybe it will help all of us, who knows.

Over the years, I've enjoyed some very traditional Valentine's Day celebrations with "the man in my life" at the time. Hearts, candy, beautiful cards, dinners over candlelight, the complete package. However, I also lived alone for long stretches of time, raising my daughter and attempting to keep food on the table and a roof over our heads. February 14th during those times was often marked with cards that we gave each other before we rushed out the door to daycare or basketball practice or one of my multiple jobs. And a jab of regret that I was alone.

And I'm alone again. My daughter is even grown now, celebrating with her own Valentine.

Last year I still longed for the red hearts and other flotsam of Valentine's Day, specifically from A MAN. Someone pledging his undying love, just for me. Without it, the day was empty and incredibly sad. At those times, all you can see is what everyone seems to have, except you.  Hearts can literally break into pieces, I learned first hand, jagged edges scraping your soul raw with pain.

It was different for me this year, though.  At some point over the past year, I had a chat with myself. I reflected on the love I've given and received over the years, some of it with great passion, all of it a gift in itself. There are people walking around who have never experienced great love, have never had any red hearts shared with them at all. I have also come to accept me, the person who looks back at me in the mirror in the morning, bedhead, puffy eyes and all.

So, what did I do this year? I made sure, in concrete ways, that important people in my life know they are loved, no matter how far away they are. As I worked that day, I reflected on my many accomplishments, my past relationships, all of them hard won and teachers in themselves. My 85-year old mother lives with me now, her Valentine of nearly 70 years recently gone. Her first year without him. I can't even imagine.

We had a wonderful, candlelit dinner anyway, complete with delectable food and drink. We celebrated with crimson hearts and silky ribbons, mouth-watering candy, and fragrant flowers. There was no sibilant whisper lurking in the shadows, attemping to convince me that I am somehow not enough.

And I had no regret.

Gracefully gliding....

I refuse to shuffle. I just do.

No matter that when I get up in the morning my feet want to stick to the floor. They don't cooperate as I make my way in the gloom of morning to my first cup of coffee, the luscious smell teasing me out of my stupor.

A friend of mine mentioned this last year. I don't even remember what we were talking about, when she suddenly inserted, "I shuffle in the morning!"  And she's ten years younger than me. Oh oh....

Is this something that happens to everyone? Watch older people in public sometime. Don't they kind of slide across the floor, looking like they might totter over if they dare to pick up their feet, even just a tad? Maybe they're so cautious about falling they figure if they don't actually lift their feet off the ground they can't fall. Not possible if they don't really walk.

We should come up with a new name for it. The senior shamble. Geriatric gait. The rusty ramble.

Once I get going in the morning, my feet work the way they're supposed to. My fear is that I won't even know it when the shuffle lasts well into the day.

Oh, I know! I'll glide........

I am not feeling any better because I cannot stay in bed, having constant cause for walking.

Camille Claudell



Listening to the voices in my head....

The voices have gotten louder as I've gotten older. You know, the ones that whisper into our ears, hissing instructions like, "Oh, that doesn't look like a good decision, that one there you have your mind cemented around, maybe you should rethink it, YESSSSSS," reminiscent of a mother's voice guiding, advising, counseling....meddling.

There are times now when I am literally stopped in mid-step by such a voice, and I've learned that I'd better pay attention to that inner counsel. I realize now if I given it more consideration over the years, just a tiny bit, it would have prevented me from taking some unfortunate paths, paths that hurt me as well as other unsuspecting people along the way.

Like saying "yes" to a marriage proposal in a casino. What was I thinking? I seemed to believe at the time that I might not get another offer, so I pushed that voice down hard. Smashed it to bits and stowed it in my suitcase in a hotel room in Reno. It kept trying to crawl out, gasping as it tried desperately to grab my attention again. "Hey! Over here! LISTEN to me!" But I was intent on ignoring it, and did, and lived to regret it.

Or even my course of study in college. I went off to Tallahassee a budding, anxious novelist who wanted nothing more than to write forever, even if I did have wrong-headed visions of what writers did, creating mythical worlds in attic eaves and reaping a fortune in the process. Somehow, I veered off that path into the world of French, until I thought, dreamt, and read fluently in French. But couldn't speak a word out loud or write my novels in the language. Withdrawn, socially inept me, unable to make a mistake in front of others, because they MIGHT NOT LIKE ME. That inner voice knew all of that, tried to warn me, but I turned away, until I changed my major...to education, teaching kids history and geography. Literature, you thought? Not even then. The inner counsel lost out again. After all, I could always get a job teaching, right, so best to do something safe. Boring. Until nearly 40 years had gone by, so many years wasted not doing what I love.

Or the time I got in a car with a driver who was a novice to the Colorado roads, especially the one-lane, gravel track along the side of a mountain with a sheer drop off on one side. The voice insisted that I might want to get out before he started up that mountain, but I didn't want to appear silly, now did I? Soon, all I could see out the back window was....nothing. Space, open air, between me and the ground down there....way down there. Luckily, and probably only through luck, we made it down in one piece. But things could have turned out quite differently, just like the voice had been warning.

I took a job a few years ago, one that I wanted in order to escape from another bad work situation, and I knew as soon as I walked into the second interview that something was not right. I could feel it. I knew and admired the supervisor, and thought we would work well together. But my inner voice was frantic, insisting that I wait a while longer for a job, an untainted one, to come along. I didn't listen. I succumbed to expediency, the immediate need for relief from another uncomfortable spot. And the whole situation turned out to be so wrong. Just like I had been warned.

How many times a day does a voice whisper in your ear? Do you listen to it or do you tamp it down due to society's expectations, your family's desires for you (or for them), or just because you don't want people to think you're crazy?

Act crazy. Do what you love instead of what everyone else loves for you. And listen to that tiny, or sometimes very loud, cry in your soul that is trying to guide you. I now take different roads if something inside is telling me to take a detour and I avoid some people for no reason other than that inner sense telling me that it will turn out badly.

The voices are getting louder all the time. And I'm spending more time listening.

 

“Good instincts usually tell you what to do long before your head has figured it out.”

                                                 Michael Burke



Jiggles and wobbles....

I exercise. A lot. This isn't something new to me, either. I think I started when I was in my 20s and lived in Denver, at least that's my recollection. (I do remember living in Denver...I'm not THAT far gone yet.) I do think that's when I started going to a gym nearly every day, though.

They had a jacuzzi and a steam room, which are wonderful things to have access to when you live in a really cold climate, I can tell you that. So much so that I eventually bought my own hot tub, which now sits on my screened-in porch. My favorite time to get in that bubbly, steaming water is when it's as cold as it's going to get here in Florida, a throwback to my days in the Rockies. In any case, it's a great treat after a work out.

But to get back to the exercise thing. Someone gives me a workout routine and I go through the paces about 4 times a week amidst other really sweaty people, all trying not to get caught watching one another. I have attacked and mastered that torture machine that makes you climb steps until you know you MUST have reached heaven by the time it stops. I have worked up to over 150 sit-ups in various contortions, can lift more weight than any 62-year old woman has a right to lift, and my arms are toned and buff to prove it (even though the chicken skin thing spoils the buffness a bit). The whole thing has become an addiction for me, not that I'm complaining. There are far worse things I could be addicted to by this time. Believe me.

So, could someone please tell me why my thighs still jiggle and ripple with....well, whatever makes them jiggle and ripple?  I don't overeat, either, so don't even go there. (I changed doctors once over a remark about "pushing back from the table" without even asking about my diet. He just assumed I must be eating too much, the idiot with one less patient now.)

Ask anyone who knows me. I don't eat a lot! And I follow the program of a leading weight management company, one that helped me lose 30 pounds two years ago....and 4 years ago...and 6 years ago. That peskly 30 pounds that started tracking me down shortly after I turned 40 and is determined to hang out on my hips and thighs.

It's gone now, though, and I continue to work out. So, what it is about aging that insists on defying the torture we put our bodies through? Here I am with great arms, shoulders, and back...ripped, even....with this jello on my belly and thighs. Am I doomed to wobble on the bottom?

Well, I'll go to the gym and think about it as I climb those stairs....forever.

Where will you wake up today?

Getting "older" in our society isn't all bad. Really. There are some great insights that come with age, especially if we are paying attention to our lives.

Let's see....

A few years ago I looked around and decided that what I was doing for a living probably wasn't making much difference to the teenagers I was teaching. In fact, I wasn't sure I WAS teaching most days, considering the silliness that those in power have decided to insert into education. And for a teacher to face herself in the mirror and grapple with that demon is heart wrenching.

I had no one at home who could pat me on the back and say, "Honey, if you want to quit and take some time to find something else, it will be OK. I'll take care of everything for us." And since teaching was my second career, I didn't have enough years to walk away with those great retirement benefits many folks hold out for as they spend every waking minute counting the minutes until their company gives them a party and waves good-bye.

I own a small house, a car, I need to eat and stay warm/cool depending on the season. I'm a basic kind of person, but the basics sure do feel good, don't they?

When I was younger, I would not have had the courage to walk out the door of that school with no benefits, no salary, and no back-up person at home to carry the slack. When I was younger, my self-image was so weak that I couldn't handle anyone thinking I was a bit crazy for taking an action that had so many negatives.  But I did it at age 55, and the feeling of strength in myself was incredible. I walked out without any job and I went home to regroup. I did get advice from someone important to me on a way to provide some income until I found out what I wanted to do when I grew up. ( Houses provide more than a roof when some extra cash is needed, I learned.)

I think that comes with age for many of us. Especially women, perhaps. (I can't speak for men and won't even try. We'll go there another day, I promise.) We have enough experience at life to know our limits and those limits grow as we age. Today I am self-employed, doing what I love, and make a living for myself in the midst of the worse recession in years.

There are other things, of course. I now dare to leave the house without make-up and sometimes my socks don't match.  I've taught my daughter if someone judges us on those kinds of things, that person needs to get a life. I've also taught her to trust herself a bit more than I ever did at her age, and to take chances sometimes. Doing what everyone else thinks you should do should be of no concern to you. Listen to advice, yes. Then chart your course, call forth your reserves of strength, and follow the yearnings of your heart.

The only life you have is the one you woke up with today. Age has taught me to cherish the days I have left and I vow to follow my own advice.


.

The senior dilemma....

My 62nd birthday is next week. Some of you will stop reading now, because there is an widely believed stereotype in our culture that anyone over about 55 or 60 is a dried up prune of a person with nothing left to offer. I came across another example just today in something I was reading. The author of whatever it was listed groups of people who were discounted as unimportant, and sure enough, there it was: Seniors.

I'm not even sure what a "senior" is. I look at other women my age, and many are busy professional people, totally put together and well-groomed, fingers and toes shiny with polish, and nary a totter in their steps. Other 62 year old women have white tightly curled hair, slouchy cardigans, plastic shoes, and they hang onto arms when they go up 6 inch curbs for fear of falling.

This happened to me just recently. Not the falling part. The inability to identify someone as a "senior citizen." A woman I had been working with mentioned she was 65, and I nearly fainted. Is THAT what awaits me in 3 short years, I screamed inside my blonde streaked head? She looked closer to 75, I swear she did. The curler marks were still visible in her hair and she wore those baggy "pedal pushers" with blue keds with white laces, not the cool high tops but the low slip on kind. The ones that no one has worn in 20 years. Her attitude could be described as being done, finished with life.

So, I'm totally confused. Is a "senior" someone over a certain age? It seems to differ depending on what restaurant you're in, and who sets the rules in each company, anyway? Or is it a retired person (in which case, I have nothing to worry about, since I'll never be able to stop working)? A grandparent, maybe? I can't claim that one yet, either. Or is it a state of mind, a viewpoint, a way of accepting the erroneous fact that one has learned all there is to learn?

What is it??

And I have to say that I am no more sure of things than I was at 30, 40, or 50. (Of course, at 20 I thought I knew everything.)  As I have moved into "senior" status, all I know for sure is how little I know.

It's all very confusing to me. My life experiences have been legion and the lessons enormous. Often painful, but always imparting a list of things to do more carefully from that point forward. Or things to avoid by any means. Like don't get a puppy if you don't have a fenced in yard; ask questions before accusing your child based on anyone else's input; when a recipe calls for "shortening" make sure you know which kind BEFORE beginning; friendships are worth nurturing, but it is just as important to know when to let go; the sour-looking person in line in front of you has burdens just as heavy as yours. Maybe heavier.

I also know how I feel inside. I still have goals and dreams. There are places I want to visit and people I would love to meet and learn from. I know, too, that I have much to offer younger people, both within my profession as well as an independent woman who has succeeded in a world that was often not kind to a single, divorced mother. It's not that I am interested in any huge career moves, heaven knows. I'm happy with what I've accomplished, but I still welcome intellectual stimulation and challenges.

Life doesn't get any easier with age. I just know more about it now. But I don't know what designates one a "senior citizen."

And I bet you don't, either.

"Youth would be an ideal state if it came a little later in life."

Herbert Henry Asquith