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”.

Blog Days

My Sunday “B” day has been temporarily moved to Monday because I had an expired license renewal sticker on my car. Actually I’ve had the new sticker for over a month but never bothered to put it on the car windshield. It was one of those “I’ll do it tomorrow” types of things. After all, the current one on the car didn't expire until the end of April.

So when I agreed to drive the car pool to Midlothian, TX for a Sunday afternoon rowdy game of Mexican Train with a wild bunch of librarians, I planned my morning quite carefully: Get up early, read the Sunday paper, have breakfast, walk the dogs, fill the gas tank, and get the car its semi-annual bath and grooming for the upcoming 40 mile drive. This would still leave me plenty of time to shower and dress and write my blog. So I thought.

With the car now spit-shiny, the expired license sticker loomed menacingly on the windshield, almost like it was just waiting to flag down the first patrol car it saw so it could embarrass me in front of my friends. No problem though. It’d only take me a minute or two to retrieve the new sticker from the glove box where I’d shoved it until it was time to apply it. I hadn’t counted on two things: one, the clutter in my glove box and two, the renewal sticker not being there.

New problem. When I had the laminated flooring put in a couple of weeks ago, I had to remove all my papers from the computer room. I hadn’t moved anything back yet (another one of those “I’ll do it tomorrow” things). This meant that I now needed to search through boxes and sacks crammed with very important papers to try and find my license renewal. Papers and cuss words flying about, I was determined to find that damn sticker as if my life depended upon it. And in a sense, it did.

We baby boomers pride ourselves on our keen minds. We can accept the sags, the wrinkles, and the aches, but we cling to the façade that our minds are as sharp as ever. I knew I had put the renewal sticker in the glove box, damn it! I remembered thinking that if I did ever pulled over by the police, I could pull it out of the glove box and say, “See, I have it right here.” I had to have put it there! Where else would it be? Then I remembered. Duh, I’d put it in my purse to put into the car’s glove box. So I hadn’t lost my mind; I just hadn’t complete the process.

Lessons learned? I still need to work on that clutter, I need to stop the “I’ll do it tomorrow” mentality and I need to relax more. My first blog happened to be posted on a Sunday morning so I made a rule that it always had to be done on Sunday morning or I might never do it again. Wednesday evenings also became a “B” evening as I now write a library blog and you got it, my first posting was on a Wednesday evening. Ah, the ruts we crawl into because of fear. Hurray for the ruts we can crawl out of if we allow ourselves to do so.

Spiders and Snakes and Poodles and Marigolds or the Perils of a City Baby Boomer Gal

No baby boomer blog today folks. I am too pooped out from protecting my castle and my rescue pups. My nerves are frazzled. My back is aching and I need to take a shower. You see, I just finished planting a flat of marigolds in the once-upon-a-time luscious but now barren flower bed near my back door. To plant these pungent annuals, I first had to dress for gardening: long pants, heavy socks, tennis shoes, long-sleeved t-shirt covered with a long-sleeved blue-jean jacket, a hat, and elbow-length rubber gloves. The temperature and humidly was already high this morning when I finally ventured out to the back yard carrying a shovel, a spade, a rake, a foam rubber cushion, and my cell phone.

A bit over the top you think? Not if you’re allergic to wasps and fire ants, suffer from arachnophobia, and had an encounter with Fred, the snake, this past week. Now I confess that I have a few phobias but fear of snakes isn’t one of them. As long as they aren’t poisonous. A major point as I’m not an expert on snakes so unless I see “red and yellow will kill a fellow”, I don’t know for sure if they are or aren’t. I also don’t like snakes well enough for them to be house guests. But nevertheless, Fred, the snake, was determined to be one this past Wednesday when I came home for lunch to let the pups out. We met almost face to face as he crawled up the brick wall by my back door. I screamed and ran. He stuck out his forked tongue and moved closer to the door. The door that I hadn't closed all the way!

I had to stop him, protect my pups and myself. But how? The front door was locked and he was blocking the back door. I did what I had to do. With my eyes glued to his, I inched along the opposite wall until I could reach the door knob and pulled the door closed. I ran again. The 3 foot plus long snake refused to take the closed door hint and leave. I had to get the pups to safety now and remembered the garage door opener in my car. I carried both pups into the house and saw my neighbor’s car. Hurray, Bill’s home! Being a good neighbor and fellow Midwestern, Bill came to my rescue and with shovel in hand, politely suggested that Fred move away from the door. Thank you, Bill!

Bill took a picture of Fred with his cell phone which I used to ask everyone what kind of snake he was. I was told that it was copperhead, a rat snake and red tail boa. It was finally confirmed by a snake guru that Fred is a harmless rat snake. I still don’t like him as he seems the pushy kind of snake who can still grow another 4 feet, I’ve been told. No one had suggestions on how to get rid of snakes other than moth balls which are poisonous to my pups. I read on the Internet that snakes didn’t like the smell of marigolds so I brought a flat that evening. They are finally planted and I’m rather proud of myself for braving the wild to do so. They probably won’t deter the likes of Fred but at least they will add color and beauty to the barren flower bed.

Now if I can find some way to deter that darn little poodle that chases me and my pups whenever we go for a walk…..

Moving Walls

Ah, the joys of remodeling. It was supposed to be a simple job. “It should take only a day to install them,” the contractor assured me when I ordered my new laminated flooring. In a perfect world perhaps, but then my world has never been perfect! They started on a Monday and finished on Saturday. (And no, it was not a full 8 hours each day although it seemed that way to me.) Between ripping up the old carpet, cleaning the cement, sanding, sawing, vacuuming, hours after hours of the smoke alarms screaming at the top of their decibels, the sounds of continuous hammering along with nail guns shoot-outs, to say it was an ordeal for my five senses is putting it mildly.

End results? I hated my new floors. They were too dark, too rich-looking. They made the tile floors I’d been so proud of before now look drab and dull. And I was left with having to move everything back that I’d moved out—only after I cleaned off the inches of white dust frosting. I felt overwhelmed, exhausted, and depressed, my life seemingly in chaos and my decorating taste questionable.

That was last week. With major help from my dear friends David and Lesly, adequate rest and food, I love my new floors now. I’ve rearranged furniture, electing not to move everything back which in turn, makes me feel freer, less stressed. My walls aren’t closing in so much. I hadn’t realized how confining my world had become. Even my rescue pups had been too confined, their world being their crates and the front of the house. With the new floors, I’ve given them the freedom to roam the halls and explore my bedroom in the daylight with only the two spare bedrooms with carpeting off limits. Whenever I’m home, that is.

Who knew that getting new floors could move walls or give me and the pups a “get out of jail free card”? Too often I think I need to make major changes – get a face lift or change jobs or move – when in reality it’s the little changes that count. Hindsight, I’ve been making them already. I had my hair highlighted, cleaned out my closet, and even signed on an online dating service recently (for blogging research only, of course). And yes, I had my first date in thirty years this past week. (Probably won’t do that again anytime soon! Lol)

So what’s next? I turn 65 this summer. Up to now, I’ve been guilty of thinking like a teenager-- that becoming 65 will mean that I will really be old. But I’m also smart enough to know—only if I let it. So I guess I better get busy and get rid of some more clutter, both physical and mental, so that I can move more walls.