Camp HRC - False Advertisement!

Okay, I am making this my official charge of misrepresentation and false advertising by a local rec center. This summer I had decided it was time for me to get physically fit. Please note that I did not end that sentence with “again”. Not with my history of being one of the few to have flunked gym class in the 60’s thanks to President Kennedy’s national fitness program. No way could I do twenty-five pushups, five chin-ups and scurry up some darn rope back then! I’d lost most of my baby fat by the time I was in high school but my idea of exercising was turning pages in whatever novel I had my nose in or riding shotgun in a speed boat while everyone else water-skied.

When I studied the rec center’s catalogue of activities, I immediately vetoed the Energize Exercise class that promised that I’d like to exercise in the morning and feel energized all day because I knew I didn’t and wouldn’t. I passed on the Spin & Sweat class because I already have a problem with dizziness and no way do I like to sweat. It just feels yucky. The class for Active Independents sounded good but it was all daytime classes. Apparently the rec center hasn’t gotten the message most of us baby boomers can’t afford to retire so we need evening classes.

I finally settled on signing up for Camp HRC. The title sounded scary until I read the class description, “Do you have low back pain, feel sluggish, and just physically unconditioned? Exercise can prevent, treat and cure diseases associated with poor diet and sedentary lifestyle.” Hum…. I met all of the qualifications, so it must be the class for me.

Here’s where I got in trouble. I take things literally. Therefore, I assumed that if someone was leading a sedentary lifestyle, their exercise class should be fairly sedentary to start off with. Like musical chairs or a slow hokey pokey perhaps. So when I walked in and saw folks dragging out mats, huge rubber balls and weights, I figured I had the wrong class. “Oh no, you have the right class,” I was reassured by a group of very friendly folks about my age. “You better start with the light weights, one pounders.” So far so good. I knew some yoga and I figured I could handle the hand weights so I picked up the 3 and 5 pound ones as well.

“So what do you do with the ball?” I asked. “Sit on it while you do your hand weights?” “Yes.” Cool, I could handle that. “While you lay back on the ball facing the ceiling.” Huh? The darn ball was a size of a small planet. “So how do I get back up?” “We’ll help you.” At that point, I turned to run away, but they quickly locked the gym door on me. Class started and I immediately realized while the class was titled Camp HRC. Our instructor had to be an escaped drill sergeant from some military boot camp and HRC had to stand for Help me, Rescue me, and Crisis, I’m crashing!

After a ten minute warm-up from hell that caused me to sweat profusely and pant, we then proceeded to do pushups, crunches, planks, free weights, lifts, toe balances and squats. I was back in high school again, only this time with a 50-year older body. After class, these very nice classmates came over to me (probably to see if they needed to call 911) and reassured me that when they’d first started this class two years ago, they’d had the same problems! “After a year or two, you’ll get the hang of it,” they said. We’ll see.

Another Betty

I ran into an old friend yesterday while shopping. My hair was a sweaty mess, I had no makeup on, and I was wearing a sleeveless top that exposed my old lady arms and a pair of baggy jeans that drooped along with my rear. Isn’t it that way it always happens? Except—this was the way I looked, minus the sweaty hair, earlier in the day when I met two friends for breakfast. Ah, the joys of growing up.

I apologized with the customary, “Doesn’t it always happen this way – running into someone you know when looking a mess,” as I greeted Diane. We exchanged the typical “How have you been” and “how’s the kids” and “Gee, I’ve been thinking of you,” before she asked, “Are you still living alone?” When I said yes, she looked at me and smiled, “You like it, don’t you? Living alone?” Without any hesitation, I said, “yes, I actually do.” She nodded and said, “I thought so.”

Sitting this morning at the computer, still in my pj’s, my hair uncombed, wondering what to blog about and procrastinating the best I could, I played computer scrabble, then decided to check on what my favorite blogger, Dominique Browning, had written to see if I could get some blog inspiration. As always her blog was entertaining and thought-provoking. She sometimes has great links and I followed one this morning to where I discovered my future.

A blog entry in www.womensvoicesforchange.org written by Roz Warren titled The Library Witch starts off with “Betty wanders through the library muttering… In her 70’s with scraggly gray hair and a hard, troubled gaze, she resembles a witch, but in baggy sweats and faded T-shirt…..”

By now I am lol when I should be wondering why I am laughing. The red cardinal who only visits me when I’m blogging or should be blogging raps on the still-clean window and Petie, my one-eye sweet pup, is pawing my leg to be picked up.

I continued reading. “..Bob, the man who brings Betty in (the library) isn’t her husband. We don’t know what he is. All we know is that he sits down at a computer and ignores her, leaving her to wander the library unsupervised…..What will become of Betty? She’ll probably continue to haunt our library until she manages to spark a conflict with one of crazy patrons…Betty will glance at Old Baldy the wrong way and the next thing you know, we’ll have a good old cat fight on our hands.”

This, of course, isn’t my future. It’s about another Betty, much older than me. All we have in common is our name and our love of libraries. So far. But as I enjoy living my life as I choose, dressing up or down as I like, reading and laughing out loud at something someone else might not find funny, while shouting and waving away a demented cardinal, I think I might consider making a few changes—starting with showering, doing my hair and makeup, and dressing up for going out for an afternoon adventure today with a girlfriend who is not named Bob. Yours truly, Elizabeth.

Happy Independence Day Everyone!

In the spirit of Independence Day and the typical Texas summer heat, I am celebrating the freedom that our forefathers fought for us in the comfort of my air-conditioned house with a good book and my sweet pups. I will still be enjoying the summer sunshine beauty (and the red Cardinal who is determined to keep knocking at my window) thanks to my freshly hand-cleaned and cobweb-free windows and screens. And no, I certainly did not do them myself. I am thankful that I live in a country that gives me the opportunity to work so that I can pay it forward by hiring someone to do my windows for me. It was always a Midwestern tradition to welcome summer in by taking down the storm windows, cleaning the window panes and hanging freshly brushed window screens. Come Fall, the tradition was reversed to welcome Winter. I have missed these coming-of-seasons rites since I moved to Texas many, many years ago.

And on this Independence Day, I have also decided it’s okay to celebrate our independence by accepting that maybe we can have too much independence, hence hiring someone to clean my windows. I’m starting to realize that it is not a sign of weakness to ask for help or allow assistance or even take shortcuts when necessary or desired. I didn’t do my blog yesterday for several reasons. One, it’s been brought to my attention that sometimes they are downers. Two, I didn’t think it would be missed. Three, I had a fun day planned with a friend and really didn’t have the time. Two proved to wrong! Hurray and thank you Soul Sister for letting me know that you missed it!

Today I am going enjoy my freedom in blogging by paying it forward again and directing you to two of my most favorite blogs (if I can get the links to work!) If not, the website addresses for both are as follows:

www.slowlovelife.com (Look for her June 30th blog. I really got a kick out of it.)

http://patriciavdavis.pnn.com/articles/show/48394-from-an-older-woman-to-a-younger-one (This one is a total hoot for all of us single gals at any age.)

Happy 4th everyone!

Choosing a Vice on Purpose

I honestly don’t have anything to blog about. Okay, that’s not quite true but if I wrote about what I’ve really been up to, then that just might be TMI for yours and my comfort. (Got your attention, didn’t I? lol!) I’ve been attempting to make a few changes in my lifestyle, hair color being one of them, and I’m now back to my nature color—that I had when I was sixteen. As thrilled as I am to still be on this planet and able to enjoy good health, a good job, and fantastic family and friends, I confess my upcoming birthday next month seems to be emotionally traumatic for me. I’m from the generation that considered anyone over 30 old, anyone over 40 really old. I now think anyone in their 50’s as young, and anyone 60 or over as in-between young and old.

I’ve been consumed with reading all the ‘how-to-knock off ten or twenty years from your age’ books lately which means I should be adding 10-20 more supplements to my armory of pills, toss out all the carbs and sugars from the pantry, and start exercising a minimum of two hours a day. I’m making some progress as one of the changes I’m considering is hiring a personal trainer – if I can find one who can promise to change cellulite into muscle in three or less thirty minutes sessions a week.

Another change is that I’ve decided to add, okay, let’s be honest here, increase one of my personal vices—laziness. A friend at work pointed out last week that I had used the word “too old” at least four times as I was telling her why I couldn’t get out of my rut. Another time this past week I was talking to a potential new friend on the phone and I heard myself saying “I’m too old” at least half a dozen times. The saddest part of this scenario is that I’m starting to actually convince myself that I really am every time I say that phase.

So….. I’ve decided to slow down the aging process at the root of the problem. Every time I am about to say “I can’t ______ because I’m too old”, I’m going to say instead, “I can’t ______ because I’m too lazy”. Now before you say, “OMG, she’s losing her mind,” here’s my rational: I can change a vice like being lazy. I don’t want to change or halt the aging process in its entirety, just slow it down a bit. After all, getting older can be a good thing when it’s not being used as an excuse to live life.

Baby Birds and Father's Day

I thought I’d lost this picture, the only picture that I have of the father who raised me. I found it while looking for something else which is usually the way it happens with clutter. (It does seem that I’m becoming obsessed with this subject, doesn’t it?) So why do I have only the one picture of my adopted father amidst the paper clutter in my life? Maybe because of too many moves too early in my life and an apartment fire in Houston that stole everything but our lives, my childhood bible, a few pictures, and a folder of poems I’d written.

Regardless of all hype that a successful blog must have a theme, mine being the first of the baby boomer era, blogs are still online journals. Journaling, by nature, is a journey into one’s self and I think I just might have discovered the reason for my clutter obsession. Maybe I use clutter to hide the void for all that I’ve lost over the years?

This picture of my father, Harry, and I, was taken when I was six, our first summer together. I hope that I was scowling because the sun was in my eyes but I can’t be sure. The transition for both me and my new parents must have been a rough one. My father, a CPA, was 54 when I entered into his life. My husband, Eddie, had already become a proud grandfather by that age. I never knew my father was older than most parents of my friends. In fact, I didn’t learn his age until he died and I thought the newspaper had made a mistake when they wrote he was 64.

It didn’t take long for me to learn to love this new father though. His stern features in this picture, perhaps it was the sun in our eyes after all, masked his gentleness and giant heart. He spent many a frustrating hour trying to teach me math, the term dyslexia unknown to both of us at the time. He never raised his voice even though I’d stomp out of the room yelling, “It’s not fair! I knew the right answer!” And I usually did. Know the right answer somehow. I just couldn’t prove to him how I got to it.

He taught me the love for dogs and all living creatures—except for cats. (I still ended up being a cat lover as well.) He hated cats because they killed birds and he loved birds. I still remember him coming home one day, his broad hands cupped gently over a baby robin he’d found in the alley. He showed me how to nurse the baby bird with an eye dropper. He then showed me how to let the bird we had raised and loved so much go once it learned to fly. The robin returned the next spring, and the spring after that. We always knew it was him when my father whistled and the robin answered with a short song, then flew in low, glazed my father’s shoulder, then flew back into the trees. A few years later he found a baby sparrow and brought it home. I found a baby rabbit whose mother had been killed. He always made sure that once they were strong and able to survive on their own, that we release them back to their world. His time was cut short but he still managed to do the same for me. Happy Father’s Day, Dad.

In The Year 2525

I have never been a science fiction fan but I have always loved the 1969 hit song, In The Year 2525 by Zager and Evans. I occasionally hear it on the oldies but goodies stations and I always find myself tapping my feet, swaying my hips and singing along off-key with gusto. Not the best visual of a woman my age, I know and a dangerous one if I’m driving, which I usually am when listening to the radio.

I thought of this song again yesterday evening as I stood drooling in front of Barnes & Noble’s newest color Nook. I’d dashed over there to pick up the June issue of Whole Living, Body + soul in balance, a magazine that I love. I once gave a friend of mine a subscription to this magazine but never wanted to subscribe to it myself for one reason. It gave me an excuse to go to Barnes & Nobles at least once a month, my place of refuge and anti-depression therapy.

When the Barnes and Noble Nook representative showed me all the clichéd bells and whistles I started to hyperventilate. I had managed to resist the e-book reader so far thanks to my passion and dedication to books. Not only do I love to read, I truly love books: the feel, the scent, the beauty of them. I also am addicted to magazines, a trait I inherited from my mother. As the sales clerk continued titillating me with all the Nook features, I rationalized that I needed it to reduce clutter in my life. Fewer magazines stacked on chairs and floor and maybe a few less books on the shelves. "I might buy a color Nook next month as a birthday present to myself," I told her.

When the sales clerk told me that they were reducing the discount rate for my membership card and that last year they had sold more Nooks than books, I swear I started hearing the lyrics to In the Year 2525. More Nooks than books? Does that mean that the day will come when there will be a Barnes & Noble in the cloud only with no physical store to stroll through and books to scan through? Will that become the fate of our libraries as well? With the 64% budget cuts made recently by Texas legislation for libraries, this could be sooner than we think.

In the year 4545, ain’t gonna need your teeth, won’t need your eyes. You won’t find a thing to chew, nobody’s gonna look at you.

I am a hermit by nature. And that is one of my biggest fears about retirement. That I will end up sitting in front of a television or computer screen rest of my life, never having to leave my house. Never have human contact.

In the year 5555, your arms are hanging limp at your sides. Your legs got nothing do. Some machine is doing that for you.

In 1969 we thought we’d never live to see these lyrics come to life. It was not in our future. But we’re ahead of schedule and it scares me.

In the year 6565, you’ll pick your son, pick your daughter too from the bottom of a long glass tube.

Now it’s been 10,000 years….. No. Maybe it's only yesterday.

Walking, Talking Oxymoron

Per Jane Glenn Haas’s column today, there are 77 million of us baby boomers who are reaching 65 and will be altering life as we know it in the United States. Wow! And here I thought I was unique – one of a kind. According to her, we baby boomers who have settled in the West and Sun Belt areas are part of the “silver tsunami”. I don’t appreciate being coined with that phase for several reasons. Most of us prefer to disguise the silver, men included, and more importantly, I can’t shake the mental picture of the horrific damages that the tsunami did in Japan and Thailand. Coming of age in the 60’s and 70’s, we wanted to change the world for the better, never destroy it. That hasn’t changed.

What’s changed for me personally is that I have become a walking, talking oxymoron. I have dozens of hair, skin, and wrinkle-reducing products lined up on my bathroom counter alongside dozens of makeup that I can’t apply without using the tripled-magnified mirror that does not dare answer “Who’s the most beautiful of all?” for fear of being shattered with one of my deadly glares. My medicine cabinet is stocked with supplements, herbs and minerals that promise to reverse the damage that I’ve done to my body throughout the years but I forget to take them.

I am currently multi-reading two books, Forever Young by Nichols Perricone, M.D. and 20 Years Younger by Bob Greene. In other words, I am obsessed with becoming young again even though I know it’s impossible. Turning 65 will do that to a gal. Yet, I balk at getting Botox, fillers, face-lifts, liposuction and exercise. Another side effect of coming to age in the 60’s and 70’s is wanting the “natural look”. I want to still be me and me is getting old so I tell myself, “deal with it. “ But I keep on reading.

I’ve also culled from my closet the clothing that no longer accents the figure that I no longer have, replacing them with flowing skirts that show off my still trim ankles. Suddenly I find I want to look more feminine when I didn’t want to when I was younger and had some sex appeal. I’m trying to add more color to my wardrobe of black that has filled my closet for years.

I signed up for an online dating service even though I am quite content with the unconditional love of my two sweet pups and good friends. It was a disappointment as I anticipated, especially when I realized that I was too old for the young cuties and way too young for the men my age. I am apparently still a teenager at heart.

I also complain about having to work full-time even though I know I am blessed to have a job. Yet, deep down, I dread retirement. To me, retirement is a synonym for becoming old. I went out to dinner a couple of weeks ago with a very nice man that I’d met online. Although he was a few years older than me, he looked younger than his age, was pleasant and had a nice sense of humor. But when he asked me for another date, I quickly declined. At first I thought it was because I either really didn’t want to date or I just wasn’t attracted to him (like I said, I’m still a teenager at heart). While both may be true, I finally figured out the real reason. It was all the “I used to ride horses” and “I used to have two dogs” and “I used to….” in his conversation that turned me off. I don’t think I want retire after all. Not if it will keep me from becoming a “used to”.