This is the post I ran on my 50th birthday. Since then I've done some crazy things (ditched the family Thanksgiving dinner for a weekend at the beach-fabulous!), experienced some unusual events (so glad I didn't have to use that catheter on the Captain), and took off on some spur-of-the-moment adventures (Ghassan's for lunch, anyone?). This time around this post is for Lisa. There's still time to change the world. Fifty isn't fatal. It's a fantastic voyage. HAPPY BIRTHDAY!
Some of my friends are slowing down for 50. Not me. I'm hitting the gas and leaving three feet of tire marks and twenty dollars worth of fumes behind me. I'm not complaining about my life so far--I'm married to the man of my dreams who hardly ever looks at me like I've taken leave of my senses, and I have two sons who can play Guitar Hero like they were born with Stratocasters in their hands. I just don't want the next 50 years to be the second lap of the same race.
Sure, I'm slower. I'm slower to get angry. And I'm heavier. I’m carrying some wonderful memories along with me. But they don't have a parking space near the Pearly Gates reserved for those that are pokey and fat. So, God willing, I’m gathering myself up to forge ahead, full throttle, without thinking whether this 5-0 bump in the road will send me soaring into the blue or skidding into a ditch.
I'm going flat out, full speed, wide open and see where it takes me. Whether it’s around the next left-hand turn or into the pit, there’s a story waiting to unfold. I’ll have plenty of time later when I'm done with the race and waiting to see who comes in second to check out the rear view and see what I left behind. If I'm still interested.
I'm going to make as many people laugh as I can today, I’ll put off crying until tomorrow, and I’ll learn to dance the can-can without throwing out a hip.
I can hunt the liniment and bandages later. And maybe I'll color my hair. WalMart stays open all night.
Wonder if they’ll rotate my tires.
Laugh
Showing posts with label 50. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 50. Show all posts
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Monday, March 2, 2009
Dream Big But Don't Bend Over
I posted a sign above my closet that reads: “Caution: Consult your doctor before any change of clothing.”
These days my favorite aerobic activity is standing up to put on my pants. Seems like the older I get, the faster I do that little hokey pokey dance of trying to stuff my foot into the leg hole while hopping in circles like a flamingo on a hot sidewalk. If both feet accidentally go in the same side, I’ll spend the entire day shuffling around like the third man in a chain gang before I’ll attempt the Herculean task of redirecting the errant leg. It’s just not worth the risk to my health insurance.
My idea of Xtreme Sports is putting on socks. In the old days pantyhose installation was the troublemaker, but the fashion gods took stock of the nation’s legs and decided it was a nifty idea for a nation of people whose lower limbs resemble the untamed face of Everest to forego hosiery. Free of the pantyhose peril among us, I’ve resorted to socks, which are not in any way attached to each other and which require someone with the dexterity of Jack LaLanne to put them on.
Scientific studies of adults over 50 in my house who are opposed to stretching or bending for reasons of health or other forms of neglect, show that people my age can suffer acid indigestion or premature death from this sort of sudden exercise onset. Last Tuesday I tried to put on a sports bra and almost cornrowed my hair. I did manage to perform an emergency facelift. My eyebrows are still missing, but the birthmark previously on my temple is now a butterfly tattoo at the base of my spine.
Not long ago I saw an advertisement for a scarf that could be tied in different ways to make 19 different outfits. Thinking I couldn’t go wrong with a one-piece wardrobe, I dug out the piece of plastic that lets me live life on borrowed dimes and bought one. Before I got it out of the package it worked itself into a sort of fabric Rubik’s cube. I wedged it over my head and squeezed my arms through. These days I have to flex my left shoulder to lift my right leg. I need two assistants and an Eagle Scout with a Swiss Army knife just to walk up the stairs to my front porch. Every time I try to take a step, the back hem shoots up my back like Levelor blinds.
I thought about trying yoga to improve my flexibility. I popped in an exercise video, but by the time I dropped into the downward dog position, I required the assistance of a veterinarian. I found it rather humiliating to wear the satellite dish collar, but it worked wonders to keep me from biting my stitches.
Then yesterday while surmising out how to safely remove a panty girdle without friction burns that took care of unwanted hair better than a series of laser treatments, I thought back to the popular movie, The Bucket List. Suddenly I realized that if I were to name the one thing I wanted to accomplish with my life before that final stroll through the Pearly Gates, it would be to dress myself without the need for a pictorial directory of the human anatomy, an emergency responder team, or the jaws of life on standby.
My half century of life has taught me an important lesson. When you dream, dream big. But don't bend over.
These days my favorite aerobic activity is standing up to put on my pants. Seems like the older I get, the faster I do that little hokey pokey dance of trying to stuff my foot into the leg hole while hopping in circles like a flamingo on a hot sidewalk. If both feet accidentally go in the same side, I’ll spend the entire day shuffling around like the third man in a chain gang before I’ll attempt the Herculean task of redirecting the errant leg. It’s just not worth the risk to my health insurance.
My idea of Xtreme Sports is putting on socks. In the old days pantyhose installation was the troublemaker, but the fashion gods took stock of the nation’s legs and decided it was a nifty idea for a nation of people whose lower limbs resemble the untamed face of Everest to forego hosiery. Free of the pantyhose peril among us, I’ve resorted to socks, which are not in any way attached to each other and which require someone with the dexterity of Jack LaLanne to put them on.
Scientific studies of adults over 50 in my house who are opposed to stretching or bending for reasons of health or other forms of neglect, show that people my age can suffer acid indigestion or premature death from this sort of sudden exercise onset. Last Tuesday I tried to put on a sports bra and almost cornrowed my hair. I did manage to perform an emergency facelift. My eyebrows are still missing, but the birthmark previously on my temple is now a butterfly tattoo at the base of my spine.
Not long ago I saw an advertisement for a scarf that could be tied in different ways to make 19 different outfits. Thinking I couldn’t go wrong with a one-piece wardrobe, I dug out the piece of plastic that lets me live life on borrowed dimes and bought one. Before I got it out of the package it worked itself into a sort of fabric Rubik’s cube. I wedged it over my head and squeezed my arms through. These days I have to flex my left shoulder to lift my right leg. I need two assistants and an Eagle Scout with a Swiss Army knife just to walk up the stairs to my front porch. Every time I try to take a step, the back hem shoots up my back like Levelor blinds.
I thought about trying yoga to improve my flexibility. I popped in an exercise video, but by the time I dropped into the downward dog position, I required the assistance of a veterinarian. I found it rather humiliating to wear the satellite dish collar, but it worked wonders to keep me from biting my stitches.
Then yesterday while surmising out how to safely remove a panty girdle without friction burns that took care of unwanted hair better than a series of laser treatments, I thought back to the popular movie, The Bucket List. Suddenly I realized that if I were to name the one thing I wanted to accomplish with my life before that final stroll through the Pearly Gates, it would be to dress myself without the need for a pictorial directory of the human anatomy, an emergency responder team, or the jaws of life on standby.
My half century of life has taught me an important lesson. When you dream, dream big. But don't bend over.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
50 Is Not A Speed Trap (It's My Birthday!)
Some of my friends are slowing down for 50. Not me. I'm hitting the gas and leaving three feet of tire marks and twenty dollars worth of fumes behind me. I'm not complaining about my life so far--I'm married to the man of my dreams who hardly ever looks at me like I've taken leave of my senses, and I have two sons who can play Guitar Hero like they were born with Stratocasters in their hands. I just don't want the next 50 years to be the second lap of the same race.
Sure, I'm slower. I'm slower to get angry. And I'm heavier. I’m carrying some wonderful memories along with me. But they don't have a parking space near the Pearly Gates reserved for those that are pokey and fat. So, God willing, I’m gathering myself up to forge ahead, full throttle, without thinking whether this 5-0 bump in the road will send me soaring into the blue or skidding into a ditch.
I'm going flat out, full speed, wide open and see where it takes me. Whether it’s around the next left-hand turn or into the pit, there’s a story waiting to unfold. I’ll have plenty of time later when I'm done with the race and waiting to see who comes in second to check out the rear view and see what I left behind. If I'm still interested.
I'm going to make as many people laugh as I can today, I’ll put off crying until tomorrow, and I’ll learn to dance the can can without throwing out a hip.
I can hunt my walking stick and liniment later. WalMart stays open all night.
Wonder if they’ll rotate my tires.
Sure, I'm slower. I'm slower to get angry. And I'm heavier. I’m carrying some wonderful memories along with me. But they don't have a parking space near the Pearly Gates reserved for those that are pokey and fat. So, God willing, I’m gathering myself up to forge ahead, full throttle, without thinking whether this 5-0 bump in the road will send me soaring into the blue or skidding into a ditch.
I'm going flat out, full speed, wide open and see where it takes me. Whether it’s around the next left-hand turn or into the pit, there’s a story waiting to unfold. I’ll have plenty of time later when I'm done with the race and waiting to see who comes in second to check out the rear view and see what I left behind. If I'm still interested.
I'm going to make as many people laugh as I can today, I’ll put off crying until tomorrow, and I’ll learn to dance the can can without throwing out a hip.
I can hunt my walking stick and liniment later. WalMart stays open all night.
Wonder if they’ll rotate my tires.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
25 for 50 More
I’ve been tagged by a mob of folks (3) to share 25 things about myself that will astound my friends. I’m supposed to do this on Facebook, but I haven’t figured out how to do that even though Carolyn told me. Also, since I a) don’t have any friends and b) already astound those who know me, but not necessarily in a desirable way, it took me some time to consider this proposition. But in the light of c) I need a blog post for my birthday month, I thought I could join in the spirit of the thing and spew some information. Much like projectile vomiting of vital statistics. Enthralled? Aghast with anticipation? You’d rather exfoliate your face with a hedgehog? Great! Let’s see how big a mess we can make.
1. I graduated college in the days when computerization for the common person seemed almost as possible as the invention of fat-free cheese. And look at us now.
2. I majored in English. And graduated with honors. That and the senior citizen’s discount at Jack in the Box will put you in debt for a cup of coffee.
3. I hate coffee.
4. I didn’t pursue a degree that would result in a job because 1) I am passionate about literature and b) I planned to marry a rich entrepreneur who would supply me with chocolate covered cherries and books for the rest of my carefree life.
5. I love chocolate covered cherries.
6. I love books.
7. Life is not a novel by one of the Bronte sisters. Or one the kind featuring Fabio with flowing hair and a ripped bodice on the cover. God often finds your plans for life amusing. Which may not seem to go with the other statements, but really does.
8. My parents agreed to pay for my education as long as I was not married, because after that I would be officially On My Own.
9. I hold a Bachelor’s Degree instead of a Doctorate. If I’d remained a bachelor, I’d be a Doctor today.
10. I got married because I found a man that, at the age of 19, seemed destined for a future that would supply my needs. (See number 4.)
11. I discovered that truths you hold at 19 don’t necessarily write checks on the account of Mature Thinking payable in chocolates and book club memberships.
12. I gave birth to two sons.
13. I discovered that you cannot change the gender of an unborn child by buying frilly baby dresses. You can, however, create stories that your friends and family will tell at your expense for generations to come.
14. I got divorced because he jumped out of the way when I threw the jewelry box, thereby damaging a perfectly good jewelry box, a six-inch square section of the bedroom wall, and sixteen beaded bracelets that I got at a yard sale. Prosecution rests.
15. I spent two years as a single Mom.
16. I discovered that sometimes it’s all right to give the kids cereal for supper, and that if it takes all your energy to do that, it’s okay to call for early bedtimes all around.
17. I married Bill, a dear man who decided it was easier to get married than to make a six-hour round trip every weekend to empty my trash and cut my grass.
18. I learned that sometimes a newly-emptied trash can says “I love you” better than a dozen roses ever could.
19. I got a cat. And a cat. And a cat.
20. I got a dog or three.
21. I attract stray animals like black pants attract extraneous lint and animal hair.
22. I learned that some men really do have that jaw muscle that twitches in their cheek when they are furiously angry. Just like in the romance novels
23. I learned that a wife that can’t say no to stray animals is a major cause of marital stress.
24. I promised not to take in any more animals. Not even the ferret who wandered down my driveway. I fed it, but I did not keep it.
25. I learned that my first 50 years was not just practice; it was really life. I plan to remember that during my next 50 years. Which will start Thursday, February 12. Feel free to encourage me on my journey with good wishes. And gifts.
1. I graduated college in the days when computerization for the common person seemed almost as possible as the invention of fat-free cheese. And look at us now.
2. I majored in English. And graduated with honors. That and the senior citizen’s discount at Jack in the Box will put you in debt for a cup of coffee.
3. I hate coffee.
4. I didn’t pursue a degree that would result in a job because 1) I am passionate about literature and b) I planned to marry a rich entrepreneur who would supply me with chocolate covered cherries and books for the rest of my carefree life.
5. I love chocolate covered cherries.
6. I love books.
7. Life is not a novel by one of the Bronte sisters. Or one the kind featuring Fabio with flowing hair and a ripped bodice on the cover. God often finds your plans for life amusing. Which may not seem to go with the other statements, but really does.
8. My parents agreed to pay for my education as long as I was not married, because after that I would be officially On My Own.
9. I hold a Bachelor’s Degree instead of a Doctorate. If I’d remained a bachelor, I’d be a Doctor today.
10. I got married because I found a man that, at the age of 19, seemed destined for a future that would supply my needs. (See number 4.)
11. I discovered that truths you hold at 19 don’t necessarily write checks on the account of Mature Thinking payable in chocolates and book club memberships.
12. I gave birth to two sons.
13. I discovered that you cannot change the gender of an unborn child by buying frilly baby dresses. You can, however, create stories that your friends and family will tell at your expense for generations to come.
14. I got divorced because he jumped out of the way when I threw the jewelry box, thereby damaging a perfectly good jewelry box, a six-inch square section of the bedroom wall, and sixteen beaded bracelets that I got at a yard sale. Prosecution rests.
15. I spent two years as a single Mom.
16. I discovered that sometimes it’s all right to give the kids cereal for supper, and that if it takes all your energy to do that, it’s okay to call for early bedtimes all around.
17. I married Bill, a dear man who decided it was easier to get married than to make a six-hour round trip every weekend to empty my trash and cut my grass.
18. I learned that sometimes a newly-emptied trash can says “I love you” better than a dozen roses ever could.
19. I got a cat. And a cat. And a cat.
20. I got a dog or three.
21. I attract stray animals like black pants attract extraneous lint and animal hair.
22. I learned that some men really do have that jaw muscle that twitches in their cheek when they are furiously angry. Just like in the romance novels
23. I learned that a wife that can’t say no to stray animals is a major cause of marital stress.
24. I promised not to take in any more animals. Not even the ferret who wandered down my driveway. I fed it, but I did not keep it.
25. I learned that my first 50 years was not just practice; it was really life. I plan to remember that during my next 50 years. Which will start Thursday, February 12. Feel free to encourage me on my journey with good wishes. And gifts.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
It Ain't Easy Being Lean
My body is the result of a strenuous conditioning program developed by a team of experts, Ben and Jerry, who have discovered through scientific study exactly what I need to maintain my biological unit in its present operating condition.
A Very Important Detail in my physical routine is that I am fully capable of chugging chocolate until the wax in my ears turns to cocoa butter, but that’s professional-level stuff and I don’t recommend it for everyone. Please consult your doctor or confectioner before engaging in any unusual activity.
However, given the fact the stretchy part of my pants is beginning to function more as a guardrail than a fashion accessory, I’m considering taking action before the overflow threatens the structural integrity of my Fruit of the Looms. But don’t be concerned; I have no intention of jumping on the current diet wagon. To me, a hamburger wrapped in a lettuce leaf is a steak dinner gone horribly wrong.
I plan to donate my figure to foundations.
It’s a common myth that proper undergarments will make a treacherous and unfortunate outfit as socially acceptable as a little black dress at a Kennedy cocktail party. This is simply not true. Some tasks are far beyond the abilities of even a long-line bra and panty girdle. Spandex does not have superpowers.
And while we’re on the subject, if the person that tells you that 50 is the new 30 is waving you on down the fashion fast lane with a thong and a stick-on bra, you’d better take the next exit that leads to a department store. There are some things that need full coverage, even if you’ve had enough plastic surgery to make a clever overnight bag with the leftover skin.
Fifty year-old cleavage should be kept locked up tighter than the family silver. I have a close friend, bless her heart, who insists on wearing the kind of top made to show off the designer label in her underwire. When she bends over, it looks like the tide going out over a coral reef. I shudder to think of what could get lost in the undertow.
And while we’re passing out fashion tips like door prizes at a Cosmo party, please keep in mind that when Mama told you pearls go with everything, she was not aware that a generation would come along who would spray on tans like she sprayed on Midnight in Paris, and who would sport pants that show more cleavage in the back than Joe the Plumber when he’s snaking the septic line.
Now they’re saying that hip huggers are hazardous to your health, so I’ve decided to just stick with my stretchy pants and hope the elastic holds out. According to a specialist (some guy on the radio), snug-fitting hip huggers could pinch a nerve and cause the outer thigh to tingle; a condition caused skanktrampitis. As far as I’m concerned Johnny Depp causes the same reaction without the Surgeon General getting involved.
The important thing to remember is that good taste never goes out of style. But if it takes a push up bra to lure a pirate to buried treasure, make sure there’s plenty of booty.
A Very Important Detail in my physical routine is that I am fully capable of chugging chocolate until the wax in my ears turns to cocoa butter, but that’s professional-level stuff and I don’t recommend it for everyone. Please consult your doctor or confectioner before engaging in any unusual activity.
However, given the fact the stretchy part of my pants is beginning to function more as a guardrail than a fashion accessory, I’m considering taking action before the overflow threatens the structural integrity of my Fruit of the Looms. But don’t be concerned; I have no intention of jumping on the current diet wagon. To me, a hamburger wrapped in a lettuce leaf is a steak dinner gone horribly wrong.
I plan to donate my figure to foundations.
It’s a common myth that proper undergarments will make a treacherous and unfortunate outfit as socially acceptable as a little black dress at a Kennedy cocktail party. This is simply not true. Some tasks are far beyond the abilities of even a long-line bra and panty girdle. Spandex does not have superpowers.
And while we’re on the subject, if the person that tells you that 50 is the new 30 is waving you on down the fashion fast lane with a thong and a stick-on bra, you’d better take the next exit that leads to a department store. There are some things that need full coverage, even if you’ve had enough plastic surgery to make a clever overnight bag with the leftover skin.
Fifty year-old cleavage should be kept locked up tighter than the family silver. I have a close friend, bless her heart, who insists on wearing the kind of top made to show off the designer label in her underwire. When she bends over, it looks like the tide going out over a coral reef. I shudder to think of what could get lost in the undertow.
And while we’re passing out fashion tips like door prizes at a Cosmo party, please keep in mind that when Mama told you pearls go with everything, she was not aware that a generation would come along who would spray on tans like she sprayed on Midnight in Paris, and who would sport pants that show more cleavage in the back than Joe the Plumber when he’s snaking the septic line.
Now they’re saying that hip huggers are hazardous to your health, so I’ve decided to just stick with my stretchy pants and hope the elastic holds out. According to a specialist (some guy on the radio), snug-fitting hip huggers could pinch a nerve and cause the outer thigh to tingle; a condition caused skanktrampitis. As far as I’m concerned Johnny Depp causes the same reaction without the Surgeon General getting involved.
The important thing to remember is that good taste never goes out of style. But if it takes a push up bra to lure a pirate to buried treasure, make sure there’s plenty of booty.
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