Delusional or Delightfully Deceptive?

In 1970, I served on the team that produced our high school yearbook. And, when I say "served,"  I mean that I went to meetings because my friends were there and we had a lot of fun. We also produced a product, mostly by sheer luck and the hard work of perhaps 2 people, neither of whom was me.

But we did create a theme which I loved, based on the Simon and Garfunkel song "Flowers Never Bend With the Rainfall."  Today, I'd like to revisit those lyrics because, amazingly, lo these 40+ years later, they still resonate, but maybe in different ways...
Through the corridors of sleep
Past the shadows dark and deep
My mind dances and leaps in confusion.
I don't know what is real,
I can't touch what I feel
And I hide behind the shield of my illusion.

Okay, then those lyrics were about the dreams I had while I slept, which when I was 17, I actually did every night. I had dreams then, actual dreams during the night. Since I no longer sleep, that sort of thing has evaporated. Today, the dreams happen during the day. They're easier to understand and I can tell what's real and what's not. It's not as much fun but now I control the things I dream about so they're easier to manage.

So I'll continue to continue to pretend
My life will never end,
And flowers never bend
With the rainfall.
When I was 17, I didn't have to pretend my life would never end. I believed that. Never considered mortality, it was no more real than the nightly dreams or nightmares. Today, I am actually pretending my life will never end, so these lyrics are more accurate today than ever.
The mirror on my wall
Casts an image dark and small
But I'm not sure at all it's my reflection.
Back then I looked into mirrors and some days I looked like the girl I wanted desperately to be -- the one with good hair and clear skin -- and other days I looked like someone I didn't want to be so I deluded myself into believing that maybe it wasn't me. What was inside didn't matter as much then because the outside mattered so much to the exclusion of everything else.

Nowadays, well, some days I do look like the woman I want to be  -- the one with good hair and clear skin --and other days... not so much. Some days I have no earthly idea who the old lady in the mirror could possibly be.  Some days, I can't see the mirror because I don't have my glasses on and on those days, I look fine. However, now I know, or at least I think I do, that my appearance doesn't make me who I am. Maybe it reflects who I am, or maybe who I am governs the way I look on any given day. But, I'm still reasonably shallow. A good hair day still goes a long way toward making me feel better. (Good skin days, I've pretty much given up on, as wrinkles, unlike acne, never clear up.) My image, overall, is still dark and small but most days I am sure it's my reflection, I just may not be that happy about it.
I am blinded by the light
Of God and truth and right
And I wander in the night without direction.
The meaning of this verse has changed the most over time. Now, I wander in the night with direction -- directly to the bathroom. Still seeking truth, God, and light, just seeking it on my way to pee.
It's no matter if you're born
To play the King or pawn
For the line is thinly drawn 'tween joy and sorrow,
So my fantasy
Becomes reality,
And I must be what I must be and face tomorrow.
This verse encapsulated our thoughts back then. We didn't know, we couldn't know, what we were born to be. We had soaring hopes and dreams. We also had a mischievous sense of humor. The cover of the yearbook showed the king and the pawn chess pieces casting long shadows. The image was cool, mostly because the pieces looked like hash pipes. We loved that the adults would see the king and pawn and we'd see the hash pipes as our inside joke. Or, maybe we weren't so clever and it was an accident ending in more coolness than we intended. I can't remember. But, I know this -- since those years I've learned and embraced what I was born to be. It's neither king nor pawn, but teacher, wife, mother, friend, daughter, grandmother, lover of music, runner, beach bum (okay, that one I knew even then), liberal, pseudo health nut, and more to come. And, I haven't seen a hash pipe in a whole lot of years so that's changed too. Plus, now I face today, not tomorrow. While I agree with Scarlett O'Hara about the value of tomorrow, today is enough for me now.
So I'll continue to continue to pretend
My life will never end,
And flowers never bend
With the rainfall.
The chorus speaks to me now more than ever. I continue to pretend my life will never end. I see no reason to stop and face the mortality reality any more now than I did in 1970. I know I'm delusional. I know I am deceiving myself, and still "hiding behind the shield of my illusion," but it's delightful to do so and it gets me through more days smiling than crying. Who's to say that's not good? Join me in this delusion. You'll be glad you did. Oh, and those flowers? The thing is they do bend with the rainfall, as do I sometimes, but as do they, we all rise again with the sun. Every day. As we were born to...

So, one day closer to 60. It's okay as long as I can pretend.

Warning! This Post Contains Foul and Funny Language!

We're about to become grandparents. And when I say about to, I mean truly, any minute now, our first grandchild, a grandson, is rolling out. This brings two questions up fairly frequently and they both have to do with names.

First, people want to know what his name is going to be. Yes I do know it, but I am sworn to secrecy. The second question is easier to answer, but involves a funny story. (My favorite kind.)

"What will he call you?" my friends want to know.

It seems that people of my "Boomer" generation make a big deal about the grandparent name they plan to use. Should it be "Grandma" (too old)  or "Bubbie" (too ethnically Jewish)? "Nona" (too ethnically Italian) or "Grandmother" (again-- too old-sounding)? "Nana" (only works if you knit) or "G-Mom"? (only works if you work for the FBI). My childhood friend had two grandmothers. One she called "Nana" and the other she called "Grandmother Greenland." (the grandmother's last name.) I always wondered if Grandmother Greenland could tell from that name that she was not the favorite grandma. Seemed obvious to me.

Other than that, I've never thought about what one calls their grandmother. I didn't have one, I've never been one; this has never been meaningful in my life. Well, until last year when a friend who was an impending grandma asked me to develop a list of names she might like for her grandchild to call her.

I had no idea this was a thing. I figured the baby is born and magically, when he starts to talk, he figures out how he feels about you and calls you that. (In which case, he's likely to call me Cookie because I plan to take up baking oatmeal raisin cookies and giving him those.)

But, since I had to answer the question, I decided to spend some time carefully choosing my grandparent moniker.

Which brings me to the story...

A few years back we met a family (friends of our friends) of three generations. The grandparents, the parents (who were my age) and their kids. The grandchildren all called their grandparents Bubbie and Dick. This wouldn't have been funny except that:

a. Bubbie, the Jewish name for grandmother, is what they called the grandfather. And, these folks aren't Jewish.
b. Dick is what they called the grandmother.

Dick?!!!

So, after a while, we had to know the origin. We asked our friends to ask their friends how this "unusual" name came about. Here's the explanation they returned brought back.

When the first grandchild was born, she tried to say "Grandmother" but it came out "Dick." And it stuck!

But, my husband said, couldn't have they just said, "No, it's not Dick. It's "Grandmother,"... or Nana...or Bubbie, or Nona, or pretty much anything better than "Dick.'"

To what would they have said "No"? What if the little girl tried to say "Grandmother" but it came out "C___sucker"? Or "Motherf___er"?  Would they have let that stick?

So, my husband suggested that when we became grandparents, we were drawing a line somewhere. If it came out "Schmuck" or "Douchebag," okay, but anything worse and we would just say NO!

When I shared this story with my friend Patti, grand arbiter of all things funny, she cracked up. When she found out we were expecting a grandchild, she sent me the pack of gum pictured here.

 So, clearly, we're not so original. Someone else thinks "Douchebag" is an acceptable name.

Which brings me to my grandmother name of choice. I'm going with "Grammy."

I hope.

Just Don't Call Me Late for Dinner

A few years back my husband Ned bombed a job interview with one word. The word was "elderly." It was an interview for a principal's job and they asked him something about the best way to keep a staff energized, and in answering, he wanted to speak about how he'd inspire the teachers who had been around the block several times, despite their many years of teaching. In giving a great answer, though, he referred to those folks as elderly. 'Nuff said. Next candidate, please. (The correct term he should have used was "veteran teachers.")

Elderly isn't a pretty word. Nor is "old." "Veteran" sounds too much like we served in World War II and let's face it, if we did, we're most likely more aptly described currently as "dead." And, since I'm heading to "old" pretty soon, what with turning 60 in five months, I think it's time to find the perfect term, the "bon mot" if you will, (good word in French, I'm feeling worldly today) for describing someone "of a certain age." (another term I can't stand... what age is that certain age?) And, that's when it occurred to me. Why do I need a word? What not use the actual number?

To quote a Vice President of Circulation I once worked for when I worked at a newspaper, "The number is the only thing that matters!" (If you bang on the table with your fist while you yell that at the top of your lungs, you'll have almost the perfect picture of our Monday morning marketing meetings. If you throw in the F-word while you bang and yell, you'll have the exact picture.) But, as profane as he was, he was also right. The number is the only thing that matters. After all, when you are talking about someone's age, or stage of life, you are only referring to the number. Each person defines his or her own number and that's my point.

The number itself has gotten a bad rap, which those of us who are living to defy it, know already. So what if I'm FILL IN THE BLANK HERE WITH YOUR AGE? Don't judge me by that number. I should be able to shout the number with pride without adding an adverb or adjective. "Old" or "elderly" conjures a visual of a shrinking person with thinning hair and thickening waistline. But, look at me when I tell you I'm 60 (Okay, not yet, but soon, and it fits this post better than 59 which sounds way younger, right?) and you'll see that this is what 60 looks like.

Here I am with my daughters. It was last week, a great day in which we celebrated the new teaching job of the youngest child. So, yeah, I'm 60,  you may think of that as "old" but do I look it? (Rhetorical question, I hope. If you don't agree, feel free to yell "Hell yes you look old." I won't hear you and I can go on thinking I look amazing.)

So, folks, here's the thing about today's rant about those of us who are 60-ish. We're old...er. We're also wise..r and calm...er. Don't live by the adjective. Live by the number and then fashion that number to fit your own style. Don't be boxed in by anyone's idea of what your life should be based on the adjective which describes your number. Live the adjective you want to describe your number. And, when someone asks your age, proudly announce your number. (Or, just for fun, add 10 years and they'll immediately tell you how good you look. If they don't, that's a problem you may need to attend to.)

My Wellness is Paying Off!

These are words I never thought I'd write -- I love my healthcare insurance company. Today I got a check for $25 from them. In the memo part was succinctly written just one word -- Wellness. I have no idea why my wellness made them want to pay me $25 bucks but I'm not complaining.

I thought that perhaps word has reached them that I am headed swiftly toward 60 and I've stated on this blog and elsewhere that I plan to not go gently. I'm kicking, screaming, dancing, singing, running, drinking (hey, it can't all be spartan!), and laughing my way there. So, maybe the insurance company agrees with me that the best way to age beautifully, inside and out is to take action. And, for some reason, they've decided to reward me.

The thing about wellness is that it's usually its own reward. No one thanks you for taking good care of yourself. You have to reward yourself. (And I do, frequently and often.) You can't take good health for granted. It's incredibly hard work to live in a healthful way. It's way more fun to drink and eat and have fun with no boundaries than it is to take the time to reign in your wildest instincts.

So, I think I should spend this $25 bucks wisely. And by wisely I mean exactly the opposite -- not wisely at all. I love found money in that it isn't already spoken for. The mortgage doesn't call its name, the utility company is not insisting I use it to pay them, you get the idea. This $25 bucks should have a fun use, maybe even something wellness related.

Thoughts?

Oh, and by the way, by tomorrow I will no longer be in love with my healthcare insurance company. By then the reality will come sweeping swiftly back to me that each month I pay them a boatload of money to be covered. I will remember the annoying co-pays that always seem higher than they should be and I will recall that no prescription drugs are covered, either, nor dental. So, no need to remind me of the demon that is my insurer. For today, I'm enjoying their "largesse" (sarcasm included there) and celebrating my found $25 bucks.

Is getting my hair done a good way to splurge?

Wellness... it's a beautiful thing.

A Funny Thing Happened Today on My Way to 60

So, there I was, minding my own business on my 5 mile run/walk this morning. I was listening to India Arie's "Video" and thinking about what a great message that was for women. (Men too, really.)

"I’m not the average girl from your video
And I ain’t built like a supermodel
But I learned to love myself unconditionally,
Because I am a queen"

I was admiring me because on most days I do love myself unconditionally. As my mother always said, "If you don't vote for yourself, why would anyone else?" (On the day I came home in 5th grade and told her I hadn't voted for myself for class president.)

So, visualize this: I'm out there running and not caring in any way what I look like. (Which is good because I do not look good in any way when I run. See my wellness blog post about that here. 
Here's a recent photo of me in my running getup. It's not today but let's just say today was even worse.

I'm enjoying the gorgeous day when a man pulls up beside me (from behind) on a bike. I live in a summer resort area and vacationers always stop people who look like locals to ask questions about the area. I'm happy to oblige. He looked a bit like the Monopoly guy but much taller. I like Monopoly.

He said, (these are direct quotes) "You look nice. Do you mind if I harass you for 1 minute?"

I figured he needed help or directions and he was right; I am a nice person, (sometimes) so I said, "Not at all. Take 2 minutes."

He said, "Are you here for the week on vacation?"

I said, "No, I live here."

This where I figured he'd start asking about where to find the liquor store. That is usually the first question, followed by "Where are the wild horses?".

But... NO!

He said, "Are you single?"

I was flabbergasted.

I don't get hit on/picked up often... or ever. And, I don't have a good history of picking/being picked up. At the end of a long first (and last) semester in law school in 1977, friends and I were at a bar celebrating our survival. I was married at the time but everyone else was single. My friend Fran was lamenting her total lack of a social life and admiring a hot guy at the bar. She wanted to hit on him but lacked confidence. I said, "No problem. I'll go get him for you." I had confidence because I wasn't actually the picker in this case. So, I approached the cute guy and said, "My friend over there would like to meet you. Are you interested?" He said, "Are you Debby? I think you used to babysit for me."

After that I never hit on anyone again, not for me, not for a friend. The last time anyone hit on me was in 1999. I was in a bar at a ski resort with my then 18-year-old daughter, Alexis. A guy came up and offered to buy us drinks. (We were drinking hot chocolate.) I don't think he cared which of us he picked up but I'm pretty sure I wasn't his first choice. He said something like, "What are you two sisters drinking?" After I stopped laughing, I explained that we were mother and daughter sharing a private moment.

And there you have it, my total history of hitting on.

Until today.

So, I said, in answer to his query about being single, "No, not even close. Happily married for 37 years. And, I'm almost 60 so I totally appreciate your attempt."

He simply jumped on his bike and rode away.

So, I ask you, what is this about? Was he really just looking for female company for the week he was on vacation? I "look nice"? What the hell was that? Keep in mind, he rode up from behind me and didn't even see my face! Does my ass make me "look nice"?

But, hell, I'm taking this for the compliment I'd like to think it is, rather than a horny stranger looking for a good time for the day with anyone female.

So I ask you, SOS sisters, when was the last time you hit on anyone or got hit on? How'd it go?

And, if you don't know the song, here's a musical interlude to inspire you to unconditional love of you!

To Whom It May Concern: I love you

Between now and when I turn 60, one of the new leaves I'm turning over is the saying of "I love you" to the people I actually feel that way about. I am not now and have never been an easy "I love you" communicator. Perhaps it goes back to that day long ago when my high school boyfriend Craig (who no longer remembers me or so he claims) sat next to me on the steps going from his parents' kitchen to the basement (how lovely and romantic) and leaned in after a kiss and said quietly, "I love you." 

And, I leaned in equally quietly and said, "Thanks." 

Well, I didn't love him and I didn't want to lie to him because I really, really, liked and respected him. Also, I was polite and "thanks" was the first genuine, non-insulting thing that came to my mind. The first thing that came to mind was "Oh, crap." But, that didn't seem appropriate.

Fast forward a mere many years and here I am, still not someone who says "I love you" easily to anyone who isn't my husband or my child. Maybe it's not the legacy of Craig that holds me back. Maybe it's the legacy of my parents who most certainly loved me but I'm not sure they ever said so. When my dad was dying of lung cancer, I launched into a long dissertation of love just after the doctor told us his prognosis. I told him in the most misty and loving terms what a wonderful father, grandfather, and man he was in his quiet and understated way. I assured him that the legacy he'd leave behind was nothing short of stunning. I went on for 10 minutes waxing poetic with the words I had never before spoken. I leaned in and gave him a rare kiss. 

He leaned in and said quietly, "Do you have a key to my safe deposit box?" 

So, if I'm a dysfunctional "I love you" person, you can see that I come by it naturally. But that moment of waiting to hear "I love you" from Dad taught me a valuable lesson... or two. First, you don't have to hear "I love you" in order to know you are loved. I know my Dad was crazy about me and my kids and husband. Two, it's nice to hear anyway and it's a gift you can give the people you love. It feels good every time.

But, a few years ago, Ned and I made some new friends in our new-ish hometown in North Carolina. When we left them at the end of a social event, we'd say goodnight or goodbye and they'd say, "Love you." It caught us off guard at first. Maybe we said, "Thanks" even, but I'm not sure. But after a while I realized these folks weren't just saying "Goodbye" with that expression. They actually were telling their friends how they felt about them. It was genuine and quite moving.

So, I stepped a toe into that strange water and started saying "I love you" to my friends when I left. I started with one of my oldest and dearest and then moved into my newer and dearest. It felt awkward at first but now it's growing on me. The first person I said it to was my friend C. (she may prefer being anonymous here) who was going through a really tough time. When we parted on our regular Tuesday get-together, I said, "Love you" and she said the same. It felt comforting. It seemed the exact right last thing to say so that would be the thought and feeling we'd take with us at the end of the evening.

I don't know why it took me almost 60 years to embrace this phrase but between now and December I'm going to use it often. 

Do you say "I love you" easily? Do you say it to friends or just to family? Do you say it in passing or only to those who resonate in your life? Do you think it loses meaning if you say it too much? Or is it like love itself and there's always room for more?

This post is for my friend Micki. She was the original "Scandalously Over Sixty" that I knew. When I met Micki I was in my 20s and she's about ten years ahead of me. I looked to her over the years to see what was coming in my next decade and she never disappointed. She took on each new year with a zest for life that most people don't have. I'm not suggesting she never saw hard times, because, like all of us, of course she did. But she met them with vigor and with an attitude that said she would (not just could but would) weather the storm and come out on top.

And she did. She is one of the reasons I never feared the passing years because I looked ahead and saw vitality. If I could maintain my attitude of looking at life like she did and if I could stay "full of wonder" about the world, things huge and tiny, then I could remain alive and happy. And, I could share that with the people I love. And that is what I continue to wish for everyone -- a life of wonder.

Being full of wonder is a whole lot better than some things I could be full of. And, let's face it, I'm full of those, too so at least the wonder offsets the lesser things I'm full of.

So, to Micki and to all the women warriors of wonder, enjoy this song (Wonder) by the amazingly fabulous Emeli Sande. It's going to be my theme for this year, as I move swiftly towards 60.

Here are the lyrics:
I can beat the night, I’m not afraid of thunder
I am full of light, I am full of wonder
Woah, oh I came falling under
Woah, oh I am full of wonder
Though our feet might ache, the world’s upon our shoulders
No way we goin’ break, ‘cos we are full of wonder
Woah, oh we came falling under
Woah, oh we are full of wonder
This light is contagious, go, go tell your neighbours
Just reach out and pass it on
This light is contagious, go, go tell your neighbours
Just reach out and pass it on ooh yeah
This light is contagious, go, go tell your neighbours
Just reach out and pass it on ooh yeah
This light is contagious, go, go tell your neighbours
Just reach out and pass it on yeah
Woah, oh we came falling under
Woah, oh we are full of wonder
When everything feels wrong, and darkness falls upon you
Just try sing along, this is a message from Cabana
If your heart turns blue, I want you to remember
This song is for you, and you are full of wonder
Woah, oh we came falling under
Woah, oh we are full of wonder

What is your hope for the rest of your life? What one attribute do you most want to have?