It’s that time of year you want to throw open your closet doors and clear the sucker out. Get rid of the old crap and see the back wall for once. [Read more…]
“It’s still the one area where you can totally discriminate against somebody…” [Read more…]
I just realized I’ve been applying hair color for almost 45 years. That’s a lot of goop and money. [Read more…]
Yes, this post is all a little dark, but there’s a silver lining at the end, so stay with me.
All through life, regardless of age, you wonder how to live your life. Should you be more understanding, patient, and loving, or less? What is your duty to others, as opposed to yourself? Should you take that job overseas and break your mother’s heart, or stay in your hometown close to the relatives? [Read more…]
Mom’s almost 90. She’s bright, independent and social. She’s also frail and tiny. On the rare occasion she goes out in the evening, she lets me know ahead of time. This is because everyone, from local family to relatives from back east, will call me worrying if they can’t reach her after dark.
So when I called around five on Sunday night and she didn’t answer, I figured she was indisposed and would call back. She didn’t. An hour later, she didn’t answer either her cell or landline, so I drove over to her house (four blocks away). Her windows were dark but the porch light was on. I figured she went somewhere with her friends and forgot to tip us off.
Over the next couple hours, I phoned a few more times, and then let my sister know. Karen was concerned. “Have you gone inside her house?” she asked. Feeling like a jerk, I let myself in and checked every room and closet. The car was home, so I checked inside that, too. Looking out the patio slider, I was grateful to note she was not lying in a crumpled heap outside, and in fact, the door was locked, further evidence she’d gone out. As I drove back home, I noted a Christmas program going on at the Lodge, which is the clubhouse for our 55+ community. Probably she was inside, I told Karen.
It was unlike Mom not to keep us posted. She’s very responsible and thoughtful. Over the next few hours, Karen and I called and left a few more messages. Nothing.
Pretty soon it was 9:30, and I called Karen back. “What are we going to do if she hasn’t turned up by 10 when the Lodge closes?” I asked. Karen said, “Why don’t you go inside and see if she’s there?” Smart, but risky: if I showed up at the ballroom, Mom would think something horrible had happened to a family member. Then, when I told her why I was there, she’d be embarrassed in front of her friends.
But maybe I could sneak in, see if she was there, and split, undetected. I put my bra back on, as well as some decent slacks and a dab of lipstick. It was now 9:45. At the Lodge, I parked in front and headed toward the ballroom.
Great timing. The party was ending and a crowd flowed toward me. There she was: the shortest person in a sea of elders, her auburn hair barely visible over someone’s shoulder. I fled to the car, leapt in, and drove down one of the parking aisles, where I shut off the lights and waited to make sure it was her. It was dark, but her walk is distinctive after that broken leg of three years ago, and she has a slight hunch from osteoporosis. Then I saw the glint of her cane, and knew I could relax.
I called Karen. “Found her!” I said, laughing at my sneakiness, all for the purpose of ensuring Mom’s safety without her feeling impeded. Karen asked, “What is she doing now?” Suddenly angry, I said, “She’s crossing the parking lot with her old biddy friends!” I was mad with relief. Then I got the idea to race over to her house and watch to make sure she got in okay. I parked on her street, stalking her again, feeling like an inept spy.
She never showed.
I drove around back, thinking she might have gone in through the garage. Nope. I circled her neighborhood for a few fruitless minutes, but assumed she went over to a friend’s house for a snack. I drove home, mumbling and cursing to myself. And there she was, in the back seat of her friend’s little car. They were on my street, looking at Christmas lights. I managed to get inside my garage undetected.
It was after ten. I went to bed. “She okay?” mumbled Bill from under the covers. “Fine. She’s out partying.” It was, after all, my fault and my success that Mom had come to this. I was the one who lobbied hard for her to move to my community. “You’ll have friends,” I’d said. “There are always activities at the Lodge. You’ll never be bored or lonely.” Now, three years after moving away from her beloved home in the high desert, she was thriving, independent, and social.
And her kids were freaking out, acting like they were the parents.
The next day, she was slightly defensive. “I figured you wouldn’t call,” was her argument, but we both know that’s a load of hooey. I said I was glad she had friends and a social life, and that we kids put her through more than this when we were teenagers. We laughed and changed the subject. She’ll never know how upset I was. If my elderly, fragile mother is capable of independence and self-determination, and has all her marbles, I’ll stay out of her way.
Even if she does drive me apeshit.
We often discuss the idea of purpose, particularly after midlife, because that’s a time for new directions. The theory is, you’ve done the required stuff in the first half of your life. Now, hopefully, you have more choices. What direction now? Will you start a new business, volunteer, or enjoy some well-earned rest? The answer depends on what drives you.
I’m driven by a love of writing, and a desire to share my perspective on positive aging. A friend is driven by a passion to help others, and she spends so much time running a community pantry (as a volunteer) that she traded in her sedan for an SUV that would haul neighborhood donations. Another friend volunteers on so many boards she’s about to have a nervous breakdown. One friend golfs four days a week! She is living fully, according to her own definitions, and is happy. We are all driven by different experiences over our lifetimes, and different needs.
Even though Angelina Jolie is a bit young to be featured in AnyShinyThing, she fascinates me as to purpose.
This woman could do anything or nothing. She’s famous, rich, married to Brad Pitt, and has lots of kids to keep her busy. So what’s she up to, in her “spare” time?
Jolie is a special envoy of the United Nations high commissioner for refugees (UNHCR). My old job, as Bill Maher would say. She is tasked to expand the advocacy campaign of the UNHCR and engage in high-level mediation in complex emergency situations. She travels constantly to war-torn places in the world, to help and observe displaced populations. She has gone on more than 50 missions to refugee camps, and “traverses the same perilous dirt roads that relief workers and doctors and foreign correspondents do. In these settings, there are no red carpets, no Donatella Versace gowns.” (I’m quoting Janine Di Giovanni, the war correspondent who profiled Jolie for the December issue of Vanity Fair magazine.)
According to the article, “…she has no real diva side.
She often arrives at meetings early and sits quietly, waiting with a book or notes. There’s no entourage.
She packs lightly and often travels with one bag — a valuable lesson from working for humanitarian organizations and having to jump in and out of helicopters in remote locales. She is unfailingly polite and is loath to complain about being tired or feeling sick.” Jolie traveled to The Democratic Republic of Congo in 2013, shortly after her double mastectomy. “If she was in pain, you never knew it,” says a colleague who was there.
Why is she so driven? I wish I could ask her.
For whatever reason, this is what Angelina Jolie feels compelled to do, and if she, or I, or you, can’t explain our motives, it’s okay. The point is to live to your limits, regardless of age, gender, or life circumstance. Whether you’re stretching your mind or body, go at it with everything you have, with the greatest appreciation, gratitude, and utilization.
You only get one life. At the end, you can die happily, knowing you didn’t squander the gift.
You’ve dragged in the boxes of Christmas decorations from the garage, attic, basement, or storage unit how many times now? You’ve hiked around tree lots or unfurled the fake tree for how many years? Maybe it’s time for a change.
You may love the holiday hustle, but I’m getting lazier in that respect. I like decorating for the holidays, but I don’t want to go to as much trouble anymore.
Which brings up a side issue: have you noticed how useful it is to be able to say, “I’m too old to…” or “I’ve been doing that for so many years…” or “At my age, I don’t have to…” If you haven’t yet played the OPC (Old Person Card), I recommend it. Don’t be afraid to let your freak flag fly. It’s handy at times, if you’re not too proud to use it.
But I digress.
We graduated to a fake Christmas tree about ten years ago. Last year, I pulled it out of storage and it was so raggedy I tossed it. Bill and I decided not to replace it. We were giddy with our new freedom! Could we really have a house with no Christmas tree? Then we saw a logical reason: it would be smart to make that change before the grandbabies get old enough to expect one or feel sad about its absence.
So we strung lights on the patio, arranged holiday centerpieces on tables, and hung a wreath over the fireplace. It looked beautiful and was a lot easier to set up and put away. We even had Christmas dinner for eight, not counting the babies. Everybody had fun and nobody complained about the lack of a tree.
This year, I’m going to see if the Christmas tree lot has boughs they’ll sell or give me, and I plan to array them on my dining and coffee tables, decorated by ornaments. If they don’t have a big enough pine fragrance, I can always count on my candles. The most fragrant pine scent I’ve found is Frasier Fir by Thymes. Instead of smelling like Pine Sol, the candles have a nice undertone of cedar and sandalwood. It’s really rich. I love it. (Note to marketers: please don’t ask. I don’t do ads.)
So I’m turning into a holiday minimalist. I’m not a Scrooge. I’m just too old to go to a lot of trouble.
How about you? Have you changed the way you deal with the holiday season, now that, as an adult, you’ve enjoyed fifty or sixty of them?
Writing was my dream, but I had to delay it for almost forty years as I worked and raised a family. [Read more…]
We Boomers are a monster demographic. When I was in elementary school at St. Gregory’s, the nuns struggled to teach as many as sixty kids in a class. We’ve already changed the culture of this country. We can do that simply by our sheer size. There are so many of us, no matter what we do, a little bit goes a long way. Good or bad, yes, admittedly.
You’re old enough to remember the theory of The Big Lie; that is, if you say a thing long enough and loudly enough, people will start to believe it. Let’s try a few:
- Smoking is harmless.
- Cars will never get more than 20 miles per gallon.
- Saddam Hussein, yellowcake, WMD.
Well, how about we employ the Big Lie strategy to the promotion of this Big Truth:
It’s Good To Get Old.
You don’t have to think very hard to come up with benefits of aging. Sure, there’s all that stuff about having a more positive outlook and not panicking so easily, and having better control of your emotions and – oh, yeah! Bilateralization. That’s a biggie. (Last winter, I wrote four posts about the positive changes to the aging brain. You can start with the first one and scroll through.)
But on a simpler level, how about the fact that many of us get to cut back or stop working? My brother-in-law just turned 66 a week ago. Instead of full-on retirement, he now works a few days a week. If he feels like it. As a trucker, he’s had to be at work by 4 a.m. for years. Now, he can go in late and leave early, and the boss is grateful.
At midlife and older, many of us start small businesses, particularly women. Some of us are able to volunteer, helping out with causes we believe in. Or maybe we just do more for our families. It’s no biggie. As a grandmother, the little guys wear me out but I get to go home and sleep through the night.
At this age, my siblings, friends and I talk about what we’re going to do with our free time. It’s like graduating from high school. Back then, we were exuberant to think we could chart our own course, no teachers or bell schedule to answer to. I feel the same way now, a sense of rising excitement. Sometimes I work on my next novel, but other times, maybe I’ll go to a movie in the middle of a weekday. Even running boring errands is more enjoyable when everybody else is at work and you have the place to yourself. On the weekends, Bill and I tend to stick around home. We don’t want to fight the crowds.
And the other bennies: I keep going through my closet, weeding out the career outfits I no longer use, especially the heels. Even if they’re low; I don’t care for them. And if I don’t care for something, I can usually avoid it. I have that freedom now.
In spite of the physical stuff, old can be pretty cool. Unless you’re a slave to youth culture, which by now you should have the confidence to rise above. So, given that it’s true, not even a lie, how about we start talking about it? Just try not to gloat around the younger people. We don’t want them to feel bad about their age.