For me, summer isn't summer without at least one dip in a pool. There's something about that moment when I dunk below the surface and that coolness of the water and hint of chlorine combine to bring memories of childhood summers rushing back. This past weekend I made my first trip of the season to a local pool and, sure enough, I was transported.
Lying on my chaise lounge (does anyone call them that anymore?) soaking up some summer, I hear, at the top of the hour, the long lifeguard whistle signaling the 15 of each 60 minutes that literally separate the girls from the women: Adult Swim. Children begrudgingly exit the pool while adults - mostly a little older - heed the herald of pool time without being water bombed by cannonballing kids or whapped in the face with a pool noodle. What a difference 40-plus years make. As a kid, the only good thing about Adult Swim was the prospect of mom, eager to get into the pool before time ticked away, succumbing to pleads for snack bar tickets. There, with friends, all wrapped in soggy towels and resting under the shade trees, we could enjoy an ice cream pop or fries, whiling away the never-ending minutes until we could get back to our games of Marco Polo or Shark Versus Minnows. Inevitably we'd end up sitting on the pool stairs, slowly dipping our way further into the water, avoiding the watchful eye of the lifeguards. We'd watch our parents and their friends bobbing along, our moms trying to keep their fluffy hairdos dry, our dads chortling over some grown-up joke. Adult Swim was just another show of that special club we couldn't join, with its knowing glances and secret language. And it lasted f.o.r.e.v.e.r. Now, as a bonafide member of the Adult Swim club, I have to admit, I get it. Though I'm usually at the pool alone and don't really mind getting in during the wild and wooly 45 minutes with kids, I appreciate knowing I can float along without threat of attack, or hang onto the side, kicking my legs, my face raised to the sun, without too many jolting youthful shrieks (for someone who spent so much time in front of a stack of Marshall amps in my 20s, I've grown surprising sensitive to sharp, loud sounds). And, of course, now that 15 minutes just fly by. Isn't it a blessing to be able to experience both sides of life's equations? And, here on the farther side, I can truly appreciate both. If I could only convince them to limit the incessant pop music now blasted over the PA to the 15 minutes the kids are actually listening to it. That would be heaven.
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Let me begin with the obligatory disclaimer: I am 100 percent against any slang term that degrades another human being. The N word, the F word, those need to go and stay away. But, lately, it has come to my attention that a couple G words are now considered politically incorrect. I'm talking about "Girl' and "Gal". And I have a bit of a problem with it.
I think I get from where this comes. For African American (or Black, whichever is more preferable or correct to whomever might read this) women, "Girl" has a negative connotation dating back to slavery. So, of course, that is disallowed. Done. And I think for some women, "Girl" or "Gal" is considered a gender slur harkening back to a time when women in the workforce were treated as less than their male co-workers. And I get that too. My problem is that now, while it's not OK to use those G words, it's somehow OK for women to now refer to each other as "Bitches." I was raised with that B word as derogatory (not to mention its also-popular sister "Slut"). It was used in anger to describe a woman with whom someone had a major difference of opinion, to say the least. Or, in referring to a female dog. As much as we love canines, I don't think calling someone a Bitch is a term of endearment. Meanwhile, as someone who spent years in the South, I can testify that calling your friends "Girls" is a term of endearment. It isn't age related nor does it have anything to do with your intellect or abilities. It's just what you call each other. Let's face it - we call our breasts our "Girls" and that, in and of itself, is not a dis. I doubt Lena Dunham titled her HBO series about four young, strong-willed NYC women Girls to mean they were half-witted second-class citizens. As far as "Gals" I have no problem as long as I'm free to refer to men as "Guys". Other than the snarky definition of GAL as an acronym (get a life), I think Gal is endearing as well. Who could have qualms with "gal pal?" And, though I know the origin is different, let us not forget the current Wonder Woman's real name is Gal. I know I'm a product of my generation, and as much as I hate to be the one to cry "kids these days," I'm really mystified by women who prefer to call a friend "Bitch" over "Girl". Unless she means her friend is heroic, like Lassie (and OH the field day I'm sure they'd have over THAT word). If using the G word over the B word as a friendly reference makes me politically incorrect then so be it. I bet there are plenty of gals out there who would agree. I'm lying in bed on a Saturday morning. The sun is out, the temperature fine. And I feel like I've been run over by a truck. I'm not sick. Just tired. Two cups of coffee and 9 hours of sleep and I can't get motivated to rise and shine. Yet I'm having trouble relaxing and allowing myself to do nothing. Some might call this response FOMO - Fear Of Missing Out. But at 57, I think it's something different: FOGO - Fear Of Getting Old.
In my younger, wilder years, I had no problem lying around all day. In fact, my weekend routine often consisted of lying on the couch watching HBO all day, then ordering pizza. One of just a few times I'd rise all day. Of course that was often preceded by a night of varying degrees of debauchery with my friends. My roommate would be up and out almost at the crack of dawn (OK, 9 or 10 am); I didn't care. No shame whatsoever. It never occurred to me that I was missing anything. All the fun stuff happened after dark back then, as I saw it. But with those days long out of my system, I cherish my days, particularly the ones driven by my own whims. The only time you'll find me laid out is when I'm sick. Otherwise, I'm enjoying the larger world around me, beyond the confines of a comfortable horizontal surface. Most workdays are fairly routine so I value the 48 hours I get to fill with whatever I please. Feeling exhausted to the point I can't get up and at it is scary. I imagine it feels more like 77 than 57. I'm too young to feel this exhausted. It's FOGO at its best. I'm not afraid of my age. I just don't want to feel it. For my dad's 90th birthday I gave him a card posing the question "How old would you be if you didn't know how old you were?" Inside I wrote "I bet you're like me and you still, in your mind, feel 24." And it's true. I don't want to be staying up all night like I did at 24 - God forbid. I just want to have the energy to do all the things I never did during the day back then. Maybe I'm trying to make up for that lost time. With a body well over twice as old. Maybe I made that choice a long time ago. But I hope not. A couple years back, I read Gary Chapman's The Five Love Languages. My beloved and I have grappled with certain differences of opinions for decades and, having heard about Chapman's theory, I thought I'd give it a whirl. Chapman proposes five different ways people show - and wish to be shown - love. I must say it was eye-opening and, I think, helpful to me in understanding how my spouse is different than am I, and how I might better speak his language in showing him he is loved rather than trying to show it in the language I best respond to. Recently, I traveled to Dallas to be with my parents and siblings in celebrating my dad's 90th birthday. Leading up to the trip, people asked me if I was excited about it; if I were honest, I would have said "somewhat" because my family, like many, seem to have a penchant for drama. And it crossed my mind it could be we all speak different love languages with each other. I'm not sure this is how it works, having only taken the love language test with regard to my marital relationship, but in applying Chapman's theory to my family's inter-relationships, I can see we might need to do some group love-language therapy. Before I arrived, I told my mom I'd help with her computer - an "Act of Service" in Chapman's parlance. I usually hear about some issue or another during our weekly phone visits that is difficult for me to solve over the line. Once I got there, however, mom brushed it off, not wanting to waste precious time fixing something, but rather talking about other things. I guess mom is more of a "Quality Time" woman when it comes to me. My sister, on the other hand, is definitely an Acts of Service person where mom is concerned. When I talked to her by phone upon arriving, she was quick to request I clean bathrooms, as she and her daughter tend to do when they visit from Houston. Meanwhile, my mom would love some "Words of Affirmation" from my brother, who is much more a "Receiving Gifts" kind of guy (he on the giving end). On the other hand, the last thing dad wants from anyone is Words of Affirmation which just make him cringe; I'd say he's definitely more an Acts of Service or Quality Time man. It seems none of us are really "Physical Touch" people, so I guess we have that going for us. Somehow we managed to survive this trip relatively unscathed even without understanding each other's love languages. Still, I'm glad I read the book and think it would be a terrific idea for Chapman to issue a family version to add to his editions focusing on children, singles and the workplace. You can only count on the benefits of "mellowing with age" for so long. In an earlier post, I talked about the many lives I've seemed to live, categorizing them by decade. I'm now in my sixth decade, hurling toward the Big 6-0 in a time I've come to characterize as "My Disappearing Act." Now my husband must have some serious love goggles on because he somehow still finds me attractive while I have watched my: • hair thin out • face melt down to my chest • chest melt down toward my middle • middle expand (must be all that other stuff melting onto it) • extremities losing muscle tone • hands wrinkle like the crypt keeper's • veins bug out Sounds horrifying, no? I do my best to keep it all together (owing much of this to the correct underpinnings and some deficit-hiding wardrobe witchcraft) but the truth is, it's hard to keep up with it all. And the world has stopped paying attention anyway. I remember how much I hated catcalls and lopsided attention paid to my physical assets back in my 20s. I still hate all that but it doesn't matter - there's none to hate at this point. Where I couldn't help but notice being noticed back in the day, now I'm virtually invisible. With the exception of older men which is something, I suppose. And I don't think it's all about appearance, really. I feel like as we age, we fade into the background more and more no matter what we look like. And if we don't it's likely because our attempts to recapture our youth have turned out badly. It's kind of a lose-lose situation. As our edges become less sharp, we just naturally blend into everything. With every passing year, it seems, we become the masses. And this is not a new thought - there are books about becoming invisible with age, articles about how it happens in the workplace. Actress Kristin Scott Thomas spoke about it in UK's Daily Mail: "Voicing the fears of so many women of a certain age, she said: ‘I’m not talking about in a private setting, at a dinner party or anything. But when you’re walking down the street, you get bumped into, people slam doors in your face – they just don’t notice you.’" I imagine men might feel the same, if they're the types to notice (or admit) it. What to make of this? I think I'll toss it into the bucket titled "It's what's inside that counts." As our exterior begins to fail us we're almost forced to focus inward. To pay more attention to what we're truly made of, and for. Move aside aversion to plastic surgery, and make room in that bucket for invisible me. We've all got work to do. My mother, at 85, has a new mantra: Accept, adjust and adapt. Sure, it's simple. But it comes from a woman who was born between World Wars, lived through the Great Depression, married at 19, gave birth to twins before scheduled C-sections were a thing, survived my 20s and STILL can find a way to make positive changes to her life. If she's got a brand new mantra, I'm all ears. Here's how she describes it.
Accept - In the past few years, my mom has finally accepted she will never be a size 10 again. She will never wear heels, she might even need to walk, at times, with the assistance of a cane. She's coming to accept that her culinary skills, which have been a HUGE part of her identity, might be slipping. We all talk about accepting things, but do we really, really accept our limitations? I'm grappling with accepting that, at 56, working in a small market, I don't have the career choices I once had. It's a hard thing to accept the world is no longer your oyster. I can accept hot flashes; I'm told they won't last forever. But accepting the "forever" things - takes time and patience with yourself. Adjust - How are you going to move forward once you've accepted your limitations? This is a pivotal point in the mantra - the center, the fulcrum. Lean one way and you will sink into the mire of lamenting what was and will never be. You've accepted it but will you move forward in your new direction? In my mom's case it was choosing to clear the closet of anything that no longer, and never would, fit. Pitching the heels to make more room for flats. Laughing when a recipe she used to make to perfection is, today, somehow off. She literally got rid of what she accepted no longer worked in her life. How will I adjust to my own career reality? I have some thoughts, but I have to get the "accept" part down first. Adapt - So, you've made peace with where you are in life, you've chosen to rise to the challenge rather than staying stuck emotionally in the past. According to mom's wisdom, the third leg of the stool is to adapt to your new reality. Adjusting and adapting are similar, but subtly different. Adjusting is about making room in your life for change; adapting is living as a changed being. For mom it's walking directly to the right size rack, marching, albeit more slowly, right past the once-beloved heels, bringing more heat-and-eat meals home from the market. For me, I imagine adjusting my career perspective will lead to more clear direction on how I might spend the last 10 or so years of my working life. And, hopefully, peace. What could you do with the wisdom of a woman who has earned the right to face life with with whatever attitude she chooses but who clearly embraces what each new year brings? Accept. Adjust. Adapt...enjoy. I had my first child at 35. In 1996 that was considered a little late; I had sorority sisters who married right out of college so by the time they were 35, their kids were nearly in junior high. Now, many of my peers are grandparents, posting adorable pictures of newborns, toddlers and even older progeny on Facebook. And I must say, as much as we feel a biological clock tick during our childbearing years, I truly believe there is some sort of clock ticking once you become of age to be a grandparent. I started noticing this some years back, maybe in my early 50s - I'd see babies offering drooly smiles from shopping cart seats and I'd have to curb my instinct to reach out and coochie-coo them right there in the produce section. I didn't want to creep out their parents. But I couldn't help gazing almost lovingly at every baby that wheeled by. So am I ready to be a grandma. Or glamma, mimi, gigi, or whatever people call themselves these days? No way. It's not because I can't wrap my head around being old enough to have grandkids - that ship has sailed. It's because I want my 18- and 21-year-old children to be good at being single first. Then, at being married. Only at that point will I be ready. Not that I really have a say in the matter. But a girl can hope. With any luck I'll still be young enough to be good at it. Last month my husband and I celebrated 25 years of marriage. We took it in stride; because we'd celebrated early with a trip to England, on our actual anniversary, being unusually busy, we food shopped and ate leftovers. But I think I need to pause and process what a big deal this actually is. We started as friends and I think that's the biggest key to our success. In fact, when I finally realized he was "the one" I couldn't believe it. I'd been dating for 13 years and it was a coworker who became a friend and finally ended up being the love of my life when I wasn't even looking. We've had our hardships, but we don't blame or hold grudges. We were business partners for years - that alone could've put us under. We made some great decisions, and some...not so great. When our business had run its course it was hard. Really hard. I know we've done some deep soul searching over it and haven't always aligned on what we might have done differently. But we've both respected that we'd done our best and moved on. As two flawed humans, together - and that applies to everything. We put us first. That doesn't mean we're @*&%#s. Just that, while we exist as individuals, we work best when we consider ourselves as a unit. A family. A singular entity. Decisions have to be weighed against how it will affect us - combined - in the long run. That's where personal sacrifice comes in. But doesn't that usually make each of us better, regardless of our relationship status? I think so. I can't say there's a magic formula to a successful marriage. My mom and dad will celebrate 66 years of matrimony this summer and their relationship looks very different from ours. I can only hope I have a chance to look back 25 years from now and see that my thoughts here still hold water. I'm grateful I've had a partner to help make me a better person. To laugh with and worry about. To grow (older) with. To support through sad times and share joys. I will never know what it's like to go through life with only myself to rely on. I can't imagine the strength it must take. And, I guess, I'm glad I haven't had to. Hope I never will. I used to be a yes-woman. If someone asked me to help with something I had one answer - you know what it was. Maybe you were - or are - the same way. I know many women struggle with this because it seems so-called women's magazines run at least one article annually on how to say "No."
I think there were lots of reasons I was a one-answer woman. I didn't want to disappoint people. I didn't think I deserved to be less busy than another woman. Certainly when I spent three-years at home with the kids I felt it was my duty to pick up slack that working moms could not. But I'm over all that. I've finally reached a point in life at which I feel (almost) completely comfortable declining opportunities to spend my precious spare time. Oh, I still raise my hand for some things - just judiciously. I very carefully consider my "work-life-volunteering" balance when considering requests to pitch in. I'm not sure what brings one to this point - if I did I'd bottle it and make millions. Perhaps it's learned through years of volunteering. Maybe the opportunities diminish once children grow old enough to be fully responsible for the demands of their activities. Or it could be that people just stop asking past a certain age. Whatever it is, I don't really care. It feels great to be in command of the ability to accept or decline requests without being driven by a misplaced sense of obligation. It means when I do say "yes" I feel more fully committed because I'm juggling fewer such activities. As can be said of so many things: if only I'd known this when I was younger. In 1995 my husband and I took our first trip to Europe, spending two weeks in Italy. We'd spent the previous three years building a business and, having hired our first full-time employee, thought we'd take a special trip together to celebrate and kick start the business of building a family. It was glorious. We spent a week hiking through the Cinque Terra, then split the second week between Florence and Venice. We ate fabulous food and never gained a pound because we were so active.
After returning home we found out we were, indeed, successful on starting a family and, nine months later, I gave birth to the first of two children. For the next 21 years we traveled mostly as a family either by car or short flights to kid-friendly destinations. Now, to celebrate our 25th wedding anniversary, we will, once again, cross the pond, this time to England. Which got me thinking about how different it is to travel as at 55+ versus a young-married, stronger of body and, dare I say, mind. Planning 1995 - With the Internet in its infancy it was off to the library to pore over travel books. 2017 - I've crowdsourced my way to a wonderful inventory thanks to the magic of Pinterest. Booking 1995 - Thank heavens for travel agents! We could never have navigated booking our stays with language barriers and dealing with mom and pop hotels in small Italian villages. 2017 - To the Internet! I managed to book air, hotels and ground transportation all on one site covering various hotels all without speaking to a soul thanks to an online travel packager. Packing 1995 - Pack as little as possible for two weeks so we can feel more bohemian in our travel adventures, washing our things in the hotel sink. Don't forget the cute little nightgown! 2017 - Pack as little as possible so we can just bring carry-ons to avoid exorbitant checked luggage fees. Not to mention having to actually lug it all with older bodies. Don't forget the Aleve and BenGay. (OK, and the cute not-as-little nightgown.) Hotels 1995 - Book as close to all the action as possible. It even makes it a bit easier to stumble back home after a few (too many) glasses of vino. 2017 - Book away for all the action so we can get a good night sleep in the peace and quiet. Documenting our trip 1995 - Don't forget the travel journal, video camera and 35mm! 2017 - Make sure the phone plan works overseas and the charger is packed. We'll post it all on Facebook! The times sure have changed, but getting away with my paramour will always be a highlight of my life. Good thing I booked those steroid shots for my knees before taking off. |
d.a.meek
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December 2017
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