Archive for the ‘Being 45’ Category:
Mom’s night out
I’m surely not livin’ the dream, but I reside in a picturesque Midwestern town with award winning schools, a quaint downtown and friendly neighbors. It’s ethnically diverse, has a commuter train station and a gorgeous new library. People stop their cars when you cross the street and wave when you walk by.
But…
For a single, 45 year old mom with two teenagers, it’s b o r i n g. Girls Night Out means home by nine — if I’m lucky and not home by 8. Conversations revolve around dads who are babysitting for their own kids, and the havoc that will be wreaked without mom at home. There’s talk of multi-family getaways, three-story additions and the perils of country club assessments. There are no single parents at all — or anyone without back-up or tee-times, no classes to take (don’t even mention it), no clubs to join and nothing for Jewish singles within 50 miles.
So, as daunting as it is that my kids are now a Senior and a Freshman in high school — it also means I am that much closer to moving somewhere else – ANYWHERE ELSE - perhaps where coffee shops with wifi are open late and there is more than one bookstore within a 30 minute drive. Heaven forbid — there might be other single adults and yes, maybe even a class or two. I’d bow down if I had a mall to meander, but alas, the only mall nearby is desolate, anchored by Posters-R-Us and Sears — and has been under construction for the entire decade I’ve lived here.
I’ll give credit where it’s due. It’s a tight knit community and I have steadfast friends who make me laugh. If I sent out an SOS in the middle of the night I would have more help than I knew what to do with. So, a while back, when a casual friend’s father passed away, I didn’t think for more than a moment whether or not I should attend the Shiva (the mourning ritual for Jews). It’s never wrong to attend a Shiva. Never wrong to show support with a plate of cookies and a hug.
And anyway, who was I kidding? I got to go out! On a Tuesday night! There would be adults! And food! Everyone would talk! I’d have to look nice too – you don’t show your respect in cut-offs. This would indeed even include mascara. Maybe even a spritz of perfume!
So off I went. I was where I should have been. It was a sincere gesture on my part, tainted only slightly – and stealthily – as I asked about the health and well-being of some old people chatting in the corner.
Dirty Dancing from the olden days of 1987
In 1987, at 23 years old, I went to movies without really knowing what they were about. I mean, there was no internet - at least not as far as I was concerned. We learned about movies from TV commercial and GASP — newspaper advertisements. Those usually black and white ads lead us to search the paper for times and theaters nearby. I think I chose movies with a ‘why not’ philosophy. I do know that I went to see Dirty Dancing with no idea at all what it would be about.
So my sister-friend and I drove to the movie theater (that is now a Target, I hear) — probably in a tiny white Datsun — and drooled and hyperventialted smiled and bobbed and tapped our feet for an hour and a half. And like gazillions of others that movie became one of my all-time favorites and not only an roadmap for dancing (as if!) but a touchstone for all things romantic.
I’ve never been to the Catskills but, face it, does that matter if you can sing the Kellerman’s anthem? Since that day I’ve watched the movie countless times on TV — it’s the kind of movie that makes me put down the remote control and pay attention no matter where in the 105 minutes I happen to land.
Especially here. Really, do we even need the rest of the movie? Yes, we do. I’m on a cyberhunt to secure my own copy…and will review it ad nauseam for the sake of history and in memory of Patrick Swayze.
Oh right, and Jennifer Grey’s nose.
My sixth sense
I see…old people.
They’re everywhere. You might be one of them, I don’t know. What I do know is that all-of-a-sudden, from out of nowhere, they started appearing to me, not in my dreams, but in a place much more frightening.
My age category.
I answered my land line a few weeks ago and took an automated survey by new cell phone company.
What is your age?
Are you under 18? Press 1
18-20? Press 2
21-24? Press 3
25-29? Press 4
30-34? Press 5
35-39? Press 6
40-44? Press 7
45-49? Press 8
EIGHT? I had to wait until EIGHT to push the number for my age group? What happened to the 40’s being the new 30’s? Guess no one told A.T. and T.
I do not see an old person when I look in the mirror nor when I look at my friends who range in age from thirty to sixty, with the preponderance falling between 45 and 55. But show me a photo of people who are 45-55 whom I don’t know - and man, do they look old! I asked a friend once if we looked like the scores of happy, hugging groups of strangers we come across on Facebook. You know, the women who look a little weathered with a bit too much undereye makeup and a strange tan for Kansas in January and the men who are gray, balding with a little extra skin around the jowls?
She assured me, we do not.
A friend of mine in her 40’s married someone seven years older. That makes him 55. I have fun spending time with them as a couple - she’s one of my local BFFs and he’s a fun guy. When together, it seems like we are all the same age.
I’m headed to a wedding reception this weekend for a 50-year-old friend who is marrying her long-time love. He is 63. I have never met him, but my friend certainly is not old to me.
Yet, I went out with men in their 50’s this summer.
THEY’RE OLD!
The only upside is, that to them, I am decidedly young.
Maybe with friends, it’s the familiarity, the history (looong histories sometimes)that means — although we know them best, we see their faces through rose colored reading glasses. I look at the faces of my friends from long ago and see the child within. I hear a school yard chant in their present-day wisdom. In the friends I’ve made in the decade I’ve lived in my current home, age only seems to matter when there is a milestone to celebrate and a party to plan. Their faces look like mine. Unchanged from ten years ago if only to us. Maybe it’s the effect of seeing people often and not noting subtle shifts. Maybe it’s the lake effect breeze.
We see only the best parts of ourselves and our friends. I guess that’s as it should be - holding a steady course of aging with those around us certainly softens the appearance of fine lines and wrinkles.
But, when we feel a distant, gnawing sense of familiarity looking into the faces of strangers, our own reflection — for just one second — becomes a little bit scary.
Been there done that
In fourth grade I was on a class trip to Pennsbury Manor. My memory is clear. We were walking around a big room and on one side there was a smaller room set off from the main space. I looked into this room and had my first feeling of deja vu, although at age nine, I didn’t know what it was. I just knew I’d been there before. I got a cold rush of familiarity that jarred me. I have not forgotten that in 36 years.
Therefore, one would think, that keen powers of recall of things that happened, and even what might have happened, would prevail as life continued. Or one would hope.
On Saturday night I hunkered down to work on a project that is on a deadline. I often review and revise my work several times, so on opening the Word Doc it did not surprise me to see my own marks and comments. I continued my work all the time the changes were minimal. I’m gooood, I thought. After about two hours of this - with intermittent Facebook breaks (it was Saturday night), I decided to check another set of notes on the same project.
Been there done that.
I’d already finished these pages. I was doing work I’d already completed and sent off to my editor.
So this Sunday morning, coffee in hand, I’m ready to do work I haven’t done before.
But not without double-checking a couple dozen times.
Should I be part of the chain gang?
It’s no secret that I always wanted glasses but I was pleased I didn’t need them until a month before my 44th birthday. It’s also no secret I’m a glutton for punishment when it comes to accessories. I love jewelry and scarves, purses and capes, and yes even glasses. A multipurpose add-on, like a purse - glasses add function and fashion. Plus with the addition of the frames to my face I was convinced I looked really smart. Well, smarter, you know.
So it didn’t bother me much when, by the time I was almost 45, I needed upgrading and intensifying. One pair of singular prescription glasses for the computer — and a pair of heavy duty progressive three prescription babies for everything else. Although I don’t have to wear them all the time — I wear glasses for reading, writing, computer time, TV watching and driving. Doesn’t leave too much else. I often wear them at the gym, since I must either listen to a book or podcast (which requires pushing small buttons and/or spelling) or watch TV while I sweat. Sometimes I take them off in a department store because the multi-lens thing can give you a psychedelic experience. I change glasses at my desk, remove them to dry my hair and put on make-up. I lay them on the table when I eat and on my night stand when I sleep.
And I lose them.
Or more accurately, I misplace them on a regular basis. And these puppies were quite dear with their invisible progression and special super sonic non-reflective coatings. And the frames? Let’s just say they weren’t in the “A” category of frames. No sirree. We were meandering somewhere around “M” when I found them.
Tonight I misplaced these glasses for three hours. I went out to dinner with friends who had a grand time reading me the menu making up dishes and prices. Luckily I CAN see without them, it just gives me a headache.
As I kvetched a little through dinner about always losing my glasses, I looked at my friend and said it might be time for one of these:
My friend is12 years older than me, but she rolled her eyes, threw her head back and laughed. But I was completely serious. I’d just wear it in the house and think it might save me a lot of time and angst and headaches in the future. Self-preservation is the name of the game folks and anyway…it totally looks like an accessory to me!
Oh, and just for the record, whenever you go looking for your glasses, don’t look further than under your own kitchen table.
I’m just sayin’.
Alone time
December 2002
The house was empty and silent, but not sad. When my ten-year-old son, seven-year-old daughter and both dogs left home embarking on their first weekend at “Dad’s house,” I thought the world would collapse and I would dissolve. I shut the door behind them - my kids, dogs and my ex-husband — and leaned my back against the closed door, the way a leading lady does in a romantic comedy when she’s just come home from meeting the guy of her dreams. I waited for tears, for a weighty sense of failure and longing for my role of irreplaceable parent. And then I waited some more, shifting my eyes from the living room to the dining room to the rug beneath my feet. I tapped my fingers on my thigh. Then I walked down the hall toward my redecorated bedroom. The bed was still neat, not a ripple in the quilt. The throw pillows were in place. The bones and squeaky toys were still in the dog bed. I plopped down and clicked on the TV. Nickelodeon. I changed the channel.
Thirteen years before I had moved from my parents house to my own with my husband, and since, had shared seven homes with a variety of familial and pet configurations. I had never ever lived alone — even for a weekend.
So far, I liked it.
To be continued…
Jumping through hoops
There was a time in my life when it was important for me to be part of the in-crowd, to have certain clothes and particular accessories, to read specific books or magazines and go to the right places to see and be seen. I did not want to miss out. I cared what people thought of what I had and where I was and how I behaved. I never followed anyone off a cliff, but at the appropriate time in my life all that integral to my existence. I think that was called high school.
Not any more.
What I do and where I go and what I have is done for me. I like nice things and have enough of them, but they are not used or worn to impress anyone — nor are the bargain basement items obtained for shock value.
I know adults who drink to get drunk, I do not. I’d rather stay away from that be around it at this point in my life. I know people who use illegal drugs and I stay away from that too — not really understanding the appeal and having no need to fit in to that niche.
Perhaps the forced separatism I experience because I’m a single mom has not only made me able to fix toilets in a single bound, but it has made me realize that actions and acquisitions are not the stuff that friendships are made of. If I have to do more than be kind and honest and generous to be your friend, I’ll pass. If I have to have certain things to be in your closed circle, then I’ll make one of my own.
It baffles me that adults — both men and women — strive to fit their square pegs into round holes. I guess it’s human nature to want to be like everyone around you, and to use metaphoric camouflage to do so. But I have found that if you look hard enough there are always people with whom you mesh in one way or another - however and whomever you happen to be for real.
Even in uncomfortable situations I am comfortable in my own skin. I don’t mean that I don’t think about what I’ll wear or say or whether I’ll be an outcast or the center of attention, but the outcome will be what it will be. I’m polite and certainly look for welcoming eyes when I’m in a room full of strangers. I do not force myself to be who I’m not. I cannot be coerced into something I don’t want to do or somewhere I don’t want to go. Ask anyone who has tried.
The appeal of running circles around myself to fit into a group holds no appeal for me — frankly the thought of it exhausts me. I watch with a sad sense of wonder when I see women elbowing their way into a group or obsessing over how to fit in.
I’ve come a long way since jumping through hoops in high school in the ’80’s - and maybe even college and the ’90’s. Maybe my marriage, divorce, kids, moves around the country, jobs and lifelong friends have enabled me to step back from it all and watch without being part of of the rigmarole. Maybe I have the secret ingredient for self-actualization. Maybe I am fully evolved. (Yeah, that sounds good.)
Or maybe I’m just too tired to jump.
