Happy Birthday, Barbara

Time Thief??

A dear friend asked me why I didn’t post a blog last Sunday and I answered, “I didn’t have time.” That comment has haunted me ever since I wrote her that. Because it was true and it shouldn’t be. So….I want know who did it. Who stole time away from me? And don’t blame age. Age has nothing to do with it. In fact, now that I’m older, I should have more spare time.

After all, it doesn’t take me that long to do my hair in the mornings since I have so little of it now. It doesn’t take much time to put on my makeup since I’ve stopped wearing foundation after reading it shows the wrinkles more. And except for special occasions, of which there aren’t many, I don’t bother with eye liner either. I’ve noticed that my eye-hand coordination tends to be a little shaky lately and my eyeliner ends up looking like last week's stock market line graphs, bullish to my eyebrow and then bearish to my cheek bone.

It doesn’t take as long to clean house it seems or maybe it’s just that I don’t care as much as I used to. Even if I’m wearing my glasses, I tend not to see the dust bunnies or wads of dog hair until they attack bomber-style or I start having sneezing fits.

I still remember the good old days when I commuted to work, on a good day, one hour one-way, on a bad day, two to three hours one-way. I cooked and kept house for one husband, two teenage boys, two dogs and one cat while attending college night classes, the guys’ softball games, etc.

So what happened to all of my time? I still work, but my commute is 15 minutes one way. I only have myself and two little dogs to take care of, clean up after and feed. I exercise only two hours a week and try to limit myself to only one hour or so of TV time per night. So I ask ya, again? Where does all my time go for heaven’s sake? I still have the same 24 hours a day that I did years ago.

Hum….. Wonder if it could be all the time that I spend on the computer reading everyone’s blogs or the news or checking my e-mails or Facebook or playing games? Naw, it couldn’t take up that much of my time and energy, could it? After all, technology is supposed to make our life simpler, easier, right?

Blogging Well Refill

It’s been a dry spell for blogging lately. I’d told myself I was quitting when I hit the magical 52 weeks (equaling one full year of blogs) but I pooped out at 51. It just wasn’t worth it, I thought. Outside of my loyal and dear soul sister, I doubted if anyone even missed them so why bother. Plus I had better things to do with my time. Wrong on both cases.

First, I’ve realized that I’ve been blogging for myself all this time. It’s a way to keep my mind and fingers moving in a more creative way than playing Pogo Scrabble and keeps my eyes on the lookout for topics to write about. It’s a way to keep true to myself about where I really am in this life, this year, this week, and today. Without blogging, I’m finding that I’m in danger of becoming the proverbial ostrich with my long skinny neck and head in the sand.

Secondly, like everyone else, I do have lots of things to do with my time. Clean house, mend clothes, do laundry, weed, read, go for walks with the pups, shop, redecorate, paint, write, etc. And since I still work full time, I don’t have enough time to do those things and blog too. Ha!

I took my first full week of vacation in over ten years this past week. Guess what? I started off with a bang but by Wednesday I’d started pooping out. By Friday I was nearly comatose, prone on the couch watching TV in between naps. Now the pups loved it, I admit. But like most of us baby boomers, I was raised by parents who were raised with the Puritan ethics that only by hard work is your being justified. So instead of enjoying relaxing on the couch and the warmth of my pups, I mentally beat myself up for not getting up and doing something worthwhile which then sent me spiraling into a depression which then….

My vacation officially over, I will start work tomorrow well-rested and with a clean garage, a repaired wall where a previous pup had gnawed the sheetrock to the metal, clean and polished bottom kitchen cabinets, some laundry done, quality time spent with my son on a day trip to McKinney, a fun day out shopping with a girlfriend, and two very content and well-loved pups. Plus I’m back to blogging for another year. Maybe it was a productive vacation week after all!

Two-Stepping Back the Time

I went country-western dancing again last Sunday evening with a group of young savvy senior singles. Sundays are when the older set goes dancing, you know. It’s fun watching the old folks get out on the dance floor especially since they haven’t gotten the message that they’re old yet. Women still dress to please men at the dance club. One woman caught my eye as she colorfully two-stepped across the dance floor in her tight sequined pants and shimmering turquoise top. She looked good and she knew it. Another gal, an escapee from the Red Hat Society, stood out about the sea of heads with her red wide-brimmed cowboy hat.

It’s easy to identify the couples who have spent a lifetime together. They move as one on the dance floor. It was hard not to secretly sigh as I watched them, wishing I’d been able to have a lifetime of dancing with my loved one. I also wondered why I was there, especially since I’m not that good a dancer. Still, I accepted every request to dance, even being silly enough to get out there and do the twist. (My hip wasn’t too happy with me about that one the next few days.) But when I started getting out of breath, had to use my inhaler, and realized I couldn’t follow most of the gentlemen I was dancing with, I told myself that this is something I shouldn’t be doing again.

But two images from that night remain in my mind taunting this decision: An old man, back hunched and feet shuffling to a nearby table, asked a young woman to dance. She graciously accepted. His lined face broke into a wide smile and while his back remained rounded; his feet became alive when they hit the dance floor. A dance turned into an instant shot of youthfulness with little side effects. I saw another scene that made my heart warm, a woman obviously in her 80’s beaming as a young cowboy gently two-stepped her across the dance floor. When the dance was over, she leaned against him for support on their way back to her table, her face flushed with joy and youth. She now had a story to tell and something to dream about again.

Maybe if I take some dance lessons….

A Cool 65

I missed blogging last Sunday but I had a good excuse. No A/C in a record-breaking Texas heat wave tends to divert all creative thinking into strict survival mode. The week before that I suffered a computer virus. OMG! With the famine in Southern Somalia, the heat wave, and the computer virus, doomsday cannot be far behind, can it? Of course not but I will admit to having a full-fledge meltdown of “what if?” for a minute or two before I called the air conditioning repair man for the third time.

I also turned 65 since my last blog – a number I mentally was terrified of. Surprise of surprises—I didn’t vaporize into my grandmother as I feared. In fact, just the opposite. Unplanned and unexpectedly, I’m finding 65 to be freeing. All of a sudden, “what will they think?” has been replaced with “who cares what they think?”. So who cares if the adorable sleeveless top I fell in love with shows my old lady arms? It makes me feel pretty and that’s what counts. So what if I went boot-scooting last Sunday evening with friends and danced until I was breathless (which was about 2/3 through the first dance)? I had a blast and I didn’t have a heart attack. Who cares that I can’t touch my toes in my exercise class? I’m content to keep on showing up at class and so is the instructor.

Was I trying to find my youth by going to a Harley Davidson Garage Party to support a friend’s daughter’s marketing event? No way. But you know what? It was interesting, entertaining, and I saw a Harley Davidson jacket I really, really want. I attended a stimulating panel discussion on To Kill a Mockingbird this week so I think I have a healthy balance. Now if I can start eating healthy and keep on exercising and somehow stay cool in this Texas heat wave, I will keep looking for more opportunities to enjoy life at 65. It won't be fast lane but it's going to be enough for me to become a cool 65!

Summertime Blues Book Review

What does this baby boomer blog about when this baby boomer does nothing but goes to work, goes to two work-out classes from Hell, eats at Al’s Hamburgers on Friday nights, and has breakfast at the Neighborhood Café on Saturdays? Think I’m a rut? Lol. Hey, the exercise classes are a new addition and I order a grilled cheese sandwich at Al’s Hamburgers!

Getting back to my subject of nothingness, based on this past Saturday morning at breakfast with dear friends, we baby boomers sometimes find conversation challenging. Mr. D was being a bit peckish because his wife and I were discussing our health issues. He said we were talking “old folks’ talk”. Okay, so he's younger than we are--his day will come. It didn’t seem help either when I, trying to polite and include him in the conversation, asked about his next colonoscopy. I mean, doesn’t he watch the tv show, Men of a Certain Age? If you don’t either, you got to! Great insight to guys’ minds, gals. Talking about work was off limits at the breakfast table, and frankly, we were too bummed out over Oslo’s tragedy and the big boys in Washington playing “Blind Man’s Bluff”. And then there’s the heat! I think we are all really tired of hearing the weatherman tells how many days it’s been hot. We know that already! Even if we never ventured out into the front or back yard, our electric bill would tell us.

So as in real life, when it gets too intense for comfort, I turn to books. I just finished Lisa Scottoline’s latest novel, Save Me and I loved it. I’m surprised, too. Not because I don’t like this author, I love her, but because this particular novel starts off with a raging school fire. I escaped from a fire many years ago and once you’ve been through something like that, the senses never forget. But Ms. Scottoline had captured this reader and carried me through the flames into the main story – a woman who had to choose between saving her daughter or someone else’s. Rose does what we like to think we would do—manage to save them both.

Perfect ending? No, only the beginning of a powerful, compelling story of a woman who did the right thing and it backfired. She finds herself being sued and criminal charges filed against her for abandoning the child she carried to safety before going back for her own daughter, Melly. She can lose her home, her husband and perhaps even her freedom. As she struggles to find out what went wrong, why Amanda, the other little girl, went back into the burning school cafeteria, she also has to face her past and the secret she’s kept from everyone, even her husband.

Lisa Scottoline, a prestigious trial lawyer is unique author, one who can write women’s fiction that holds you capture until the very end and nonfiction that will make you split your sides from laughing. I didn’t discover Lisa until I saw her first nonfiction book, Why My Third Husband Will Be a Dog sitting on a shelf at Barnes & Noble. I normally don’t pick books just because of their title but come on, this was so different and I’m such a dog lover, no way was I going to pass it up. Her next nonfiction book, My Nest Isn’t Empty, It Just Has More Closet Space is just as warm and funny and fast-pace as her first. Lisa also writes a delightfully humorous weekly column that you can read on her website: www.scottoline.com

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.