Category Archives: Aging

The 25th College Reunion That Was

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According to the new-ish President of the College, Dartmouth alums are different because we cry when we sing the Alma Mater.  I am not a sentimental type about my college years and it is hard to cry when part of a verse talks about having rocks in our brains (see below).

Dear old Dartmouth, give a rouse, For the College on the hill,
For the Lone Pine above her, And the loyal ones who love her [words omitted]
Though ‘round the girdled Earth they roam, Her spell on them remains.
They have the still North in their hearts, The hill winds in their veins,
And the granite of New Hampshire In their muscles and their brains.

Crazy, right? I cried like a baby.

It was good to be back on the Hanover Plain.  The campus is just beautiful and being in an environment with undergraduates reminded me of the gift of learning.  In the midst of this beauty with a diverse undergraduate body of scholar-athlete-artists, it can be hard to remember how racist and misogynist the campus was in the early 80s, but that, too, must be acknowledged.

And, that, and for a group of friends, who have known each other for 29 years, we celebrated our years there, and also 25 years of life since then and the friendship bonds that have sustained us. 

I think what makes us unique is how we celebrated.

  • First, we talked about deal breakers for new relationships (some of us are not married; and we also talked about when we are — G-d forbid — widowed).   One mentioned that her much older aunt was seeing this man who was terrific in every way (wait, he was really cheap – so not every way) but when they were both in the airport traveling east to see family, she said, “Watch my bags, I am going to the restroom” and his response was, “Oh, I don’t bother; I wear Depends”.  Thereafter, ensued a spirited conversation about medical versus recreational use of adult diapers as a bright line deal breaker.  [Blogger comment: we are 45 but we like to be ready for big life decisions so we start thinking about these things ahead.  Also, many of us after childbirth cannot sneeze without worrying about leakage.]
  • Second, we got teary-eyed about the meaning of our friendships and how we are each other’s go-to people in a crisis.  We laughed, we cried, we hugged and we clasped hands and celebrated being together. [Blogger:  some random people tried to break into these deep moments and change the mood and we wouldn’t let them.]
  • Third, some of us played beer pong until 4:30am just like in college.  Others of us, not so much.  [Blogger comment: Of course, everyone was tired because college beds and prison beds are not that dissimilar.]
  • Fourth, we really played it to the bone. We were direct with each other and with our other classmates.  One asked another, “are we supposed to be ok with your drinking this weekend?”  Another said to a surprise attendee, “You really need to apologize for [disappearing without a word for 23 years after his best friend asked him to be his best man].”  [Blogger comment: This was not for the faint of heart.  We asked and wanted answers.]
  • Fifth, we were each other’s memory-recall buttons and coaches.  One of our number kept asking us, “did I have a fling with that guy?” and we did our best to keep the record straight.  Another gave us a real teachable moment when, being introduced to someone, she said, “Nice to meet you” and he said in a slightly hurt (possibly belligerent) way, “we know each other”.  Then the friend remember the fling that happened more than a quarter-century ago.  The resulting advice was to say, “good to see you” to everyone and anyone.  [Blogger comment: This is in addition to the old standby, “Good for you!” Really, good, GOOD, for you!”.]

Next blog entry will be the crazy things that happened while we were there.

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A confession

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I have been strong and even-keeled about my 25th college reunion — ok, maybe the sheer number of blog entries suggests otherwise.

I have to confess that I have been working my triceps and biceps because CLEARLY I will feel less like a failure standing next to my classmates who are CEOs of Fortune 500 companies if my biceps and triceps are toned.

I mentioned this to a work colleague who said:

“Or you can either (i) wear long sleeves or (ii) keep your arms glued to your sides.” 

Now, that was brilliant.  She should go instead of me.  (It took me a while to realize that she wasn’t suggesting I actually glue my arm to my sides, which I also thought was a brilliant idea.)

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The seasons, they go round and round

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Today, my always capable, unflappable father gave me his power of attorney.

This may not seem like a watershed event at first glance but let me tell you about him.  He is a hybrid of the 1930s good provider and a modern-day sensitive man.  I use the 1930s as a benchmark because, as a child growing up in an immigrant home during the Depression, he always provided for his family ahead of himself.  No fancy car or fancy clothes for him, but for my mother and the kids, whatever was necessary — within reason.  True, he bristled (ok, more than bristled) at the conspicuous consumption of our classmates in high school (and our desire similarly to consume conspicuously) and at what my mother termed the “Gucci, Pucci and Fiorucci crowd”.  Ward Cleaver he wasn’t.  But he is a gentle man who adored my mother and who took care of her tirelessly and with love all through her long illness.  And, when I was a troubled 20-something, he would hug me and tell me to hold on tight to him and all would be ok.  Wherever “there” was, he would go there for his wife and his kids because he loved us.

These days (as opposed to during our growing up years), he makes few demands on his kids and is happy just to be around us.  Of course, the quid pro quo is that we have to listen to the same stories and opinions that haven’t advanced since the 1980s (ok, maybe 1990s) but, to be honest, he is a lovely, lovely man who is heartsick at the prejudices and other cruelties that still exist in the world.

Up until recently, convincing him to change a habit was hard because he is a fiercely independent spirit, even as his aging started to make us worry about one thing or another.  SOB (sister of blogger) and I had to enlist POB (partner of blogger) to talk to Dad about many different things over the years, because (1) Dad adores POB and (2) if we talked to him about it, you could see the indignation in his face and hear it in his voice as he asserted that he, as parent, was not to be questioned.

So, today, my father, aged 90, handed over control to me.

I am moved so deeply that he trusts me and I am so afraid that this means that my incredibly strong, independent father thinks he needs help on big picture decisions.  I prefer to think that he has gotten to the point where he thinks (in quintessential Dad language), “hey, if I can delegate the senseless paperwork to my daughter and not worry about it, I am way ahead of the game!”  So, Dad, on that theory, I accept the power of attorney, only so you have more time to sculpt and paint.

Because I cannot today imagine a world where the man, who kept me together and helped back on my feet when I was in my 20s and fragile, is slipping away.

Stay strong, Dad.

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A Note to My Sister

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Dear SOB (sister of blogger):

I really appreciated your notes of appreciation (“you’re a saint” — but we are Jews, for G-d’s sake) and helpful hints (“take care of [my husband] while I am gone”) this week.

It was epic to set up Dad’s computer and bring him into the 21st century, especially when he was so comfy in the 19th.  He still can’t access email even though I made it as simple as possible.  (I think the double-click is the problem.  He remembers to click once but not twice.  How do you teach a 90 year-old reflexes of the computer age?)  I guess sainthood — or beatification at least — is indeed warranted.

I am sorry you missed Sunday night dinner, but HOSOB (husband of SOB) carried on valiantly.  I appreciated your email reminding me (threatening me?) that HOSOB could only have one dessert serving.  Good thing we had a big enough plate:

 

Just kidding.  He had a small piece and some fruit to amortize the artery-occluding stuff in the chocolate cake:

 

ReeeLAXX, will you?

HOSOB and Cousin Gentle played with SOPOBAB (son of partner of blogger and blogger) and we all learned a lot of things about playing together.  Don’t worry, it was SOPOBAB that did most of the learning.  HOSOB and Cousin Gentle offered helpful hints, like “incorporate everyone’s imaginative story lines” and “don’t drop your pants until you’re in the bathroom, the light is on and the door is closed”.  These are important things that the bigger guys need to say to littler guy.  Lesbian moms just don’t have that authenticity when it comes to bathroom and trouser-dropping etiquette.

FOB (father of blogger) had a little too much wine, but what the heck, at 90, he can live a little.

He is coming over to my office tomorrow so we can go over “some papers”.  Um, BOB (brother of blogger), aren’t you a lawyer, too?  I think I may have to conference you on the phone so you can share these tender moments of wrapping up Mom’s estate and dealing with FOB’s talking about the end of his life.  [Imagine my putting my hands over my ears and making crazy noises to block out the conversation.] Ok, here is the deal:  I may be strong enough to put FOB on the internet, but I am wholly too young and immature for the rest of it.

FOPOB (father of POB) also came.  I think he had a good time, even with a large complement from our side of the family.

Cousin Gentle recounted his tour yesterday of Revolutionary War-era New York.  SOPOBAB was quite taken with the subject and Cousin Gentle needed to make up stuff to satisfy the boy’s endless curiosity.  I had to throw some curves into the conversation to give Cousin Gentle some time to come up with a plausible story line about the slave trade during that time and other assorted information that SOPOBAB needed to know.  FOB was so taken with SOPOBAB’s curious mind that, together with the extra wine, he was pronouncing our child Einsteinian.  Ok, I have to say that SOPOBAB’s questions were impressive in that they were probing and based on some knowledge he has gleaned from videos and books — more than I will ever know about that historical period, I assure you.

Also, Cousin Gentle bought Reddi-Whip after having it at your house.  He served it to a guest at his house.  He said it wasn’t as good as your supply.  Do you have private label Reddi-Whip because you buy it in bulk?  That was also a conversation topic.

Now you are caught up.

I leave on Thursday for my 25th college reunion.  I will blog from there — it will be like Anderson Cooper reporting from the field.

~ Blogger

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Letting the days go by, water flowing underground

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Letting the days go by/water flowing underground
And you may ask yourself
How do I work this?
And you may ask yourself
Where is that large automobile?
And you may tell yourself
This is not my beautiful house!
And you may tell yourself
This is not my beautiful wife!
Letting the days go by/water flowing underground

Ok, it is a little crazy to meditate on the words to a Talking Heads song Once in a Lifetime

I am just six days away from my 25th college reunion, and so I am in a slightly maudlin and definitely introspective mood.

I have 8 wonderful women friends from college and we have seen each other through 25 years of life’s highs and lows.  We have known each other for longer than we were alive when we met. 

We all know that each of us cherishes these friendships, but right now we are stressing about what to wear and whether we will be able to survive a few nights of dorm living.  Today, one of our number had a minor meltdown about only having fleece to wear as an evening cover-up (she is a suburban mom with three kids — what else is she supposed to have for casual eveningwear?).  She was planning to go to the local mall and feared that she would find nothing to wear to the reunion but come home with a new pair of khaki shorts and yet another fleece. 

Others of us are taking stock of the pounds gained and lost or of how our quarter century-old pounds are migrating toward our hips and tummies.  And in our own particular (and in my case, peculiar) ways, we are taking stock of the lives we have lived in advance of revisiting the place that gave birth to many of our dreams.  Life interfered with those dreams in wonderful, sad, humorous and sometimes mediocre ways.

As we are all giving into some vanities (I am working out my arms so that I look toned), and then:

One friend emailed, “I don’t want to brag but I can still wear the same earrings I wore in high school!”  

Thank G-d for friends who keep it real and help you keep your head on straight.

So, in response to Messrs. Talking Heads:

Yes, POB (partner of blogger) is my beautiful wife and we live in our home.  I got here by taming my demons and working hard and earning the love of POB.  And together we created a son (ok, with a little help) and a family. Yes, I am here and this is what I have done.  Unfortunately, the days go by too fast. And I still lose sleep at night over bills and the general state of the economy.

Now, that I have had that Frank Capra “It’s a Wonderful Life” moment, I am still going to work out every day until the reunion, and I spent a small fortune on skin moisturizers and wrinkle removal goop.   Capra would totally get this — even Jimmy Stewart’s character in that movie was perfectly coiffed while contemplating suicide.

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Hillary and me

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Today, I was walking near Times Square, dressed not exactly in a pant suit, but complementary bespoke pants and blazer.  So, I was feeling pretty good in my outrageously expensive clothes, made to my specifications in order to hide my — er — “lesser” qualities.

I walked past a Rasta guy hawking his CD and, as my eyes turned to him, he said in a sing-song-way-dontcha-know, “How about some of my music for Hillary Clinton?”  My eyes must have widened in the shock that someone compared me, a 46 year-old, to a 60-something year old.  As I passed by, in a “no-way-am-I-buying-your-lousy-CD” walk (which I learned from living in Morningside Heights — the positives of diversity), he yelled after me, “I meant Hillary in the best sense!” (I noted, he had no Rasta accent, so he was as phony a Rasta as I was a Hillary impersonator, but I digress.)

Ok, ok, ok, ok.  I love Hillary Clinton.  I think her intelligence and focus are wildly sexy.  I just don’t want to look like Hillary when I am AT LEAST 15 years her junior.  Whoa, what a reality check as to what I look like to the 20-something and 30-something set.  There is no hiding a woman’s aging process, unless you want to look like an extra-terrestrial (e.g., Joan Rivers).

I am ok with aging — more or less.  Except that I am fixated on my 25th college reunion.  But I will not color my hair or have unnecessary medical procedures.  I just want to look good for my age.  And looking like the over-worked, 63 year-old Secretary of State who endured at least 25 years of trials and tribulations both public and private, is not — can I be clearer? NOT — looking good for 46.

I hurried to the gym and worked out extremely hard, as if one day will make the difference.  I will probably not be able to get out of bed tomorrow.

If someone said I looked like Susan Sarandon or Catherine DeNeuve, I would be walking on sunshine.  But in the real world, where unfortunately my mirror and I must live, I have to get used to the idea that being compared to someone who is sexy if you like smarts and determination ain’t so bad after all.  If only, Hillary (or I, for that matter) looked a little more like Susan Sarandon . . . .

(Just remember to suck in the tummy during the reunion . . . .)

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Change of Venue

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SOB (sister of blogger) came back from visiting her in-laws and wanted us all to come over for Sunday night dinner at her house.  The usual complement of the family showed up.  POB (partner of blogger) was happy for the night off from cooking.

As I was helping my sister, I had occasion to open her refrigerator.  This is what I saw:

Nothing else on that shelf in the refrigerator.  Without these cans of non-nutritive and non-food particles, you could sleep in that refrigerator.  I was amazed and therefore, I had cause to investigate further and I found this in the freezer:

I was a little shocked to see all of this ice cream and sorbet especially when she said she went out especially to buy vanilla ice cream for my son.  Really?  Really? You mean you didn’t pick up vanilla by accident while you were buying in bulk??  Or maybe the neighborhood store threw a vanilla in your order because as part of a customer rewards program? In all that ice cream and sorbet, there wasn’t already vanilla?

Then SOB said something that completely blew my mind, as a 46 year-old listening to her 50 year-old sister:  “you can’t imagine how quickly we go through this.” Doesn’t HOSOB (husband of SOB) have a cholesterol issue?  Doesn’t SOB have high blood pressure?

AND, AND, to add insult to injury, SOB is the doctor in the family.  She is supposed to know better.  Because she is an M.D. and has mastered that air of authority, she can get away with saying crazy things.  I loved her comment, “eating fat-free whipped cream is like eating nothing”.

For the sake of family pride, I feel compelled to mention that she went to excellent schools and has incredible credentials.  Because even I, the juris doctor, know that what she was saying was just nuts (which, by the way, you could have had on your ice cream with whipped cream).

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Justice, Souder and me

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http://m.yahoo.com/w/ynews/article/topstories/10?url=http%3A%2F%2Fxml.news.yahoo.com%2Fus%2Fnews%2Frss%2Frichstoryrss.html%3Fu%3D%2Fap%2Fus_congress_souder&.ts=1274229436&.tsrc=yahoo&.intl=us&.lang=en

Representative Souder, a G-d fearing family values man, joins the Rogue’s Gallery of the sanctimonious hoisted on their own petards.  I am not gleeful.  I don’t relish another’s embarrassments and defeats — even those people who would deny me my civil rights.

Each one of these holier-than-thou sinners begs for forgiveness and feels entitled to redemption because aliens must have inhabited his body in order for him to behave so.  Do we as a society enable the hypocrisy by forgiveness and opportunities for redemption?  What if we required that each one of these-who-have-fallen-THUD!-from-Grace accept that he is not the interpreter of G-d’s wills, G-d’s ways and G-d’s Bible?  [That is a way lot of “G-d”s for a religious conscientious objector like me.]

If pride goeth before the fall, then humility will come after it but only if we demand it of those whom we forgive. Humility and a quest for understanding of our common humanity. And maybe we will achieve peace and justice for all.

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25th Reunion

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I have 5 weeks until my 25th college reunion.  I have 5 weeks to be slim, prosperous, toned and, maybe, un-gray.

Nothing like waiting until the last minute.  I was a crammer in college — I was still buying the books from the class syllabus three days before the final exam.  (And my GPA showed it.)

I am 46 and, with 5 weeks to go, here is my status:

Slim:  I am much slimmer now than I was in college, even though I have gained “more than a few” pounds in recent years.  I call it the Recession 8.  Better than the Freshman 15.  (I had come in with the pre-Freshman 30, so I don’t have college to blame.)  But, in truth, I look pretty slim.  So, √ in that box.

Prosperous:  Ok, things were better a few years ago, before people on Wall Street got stupid and greedy. But, while I don’t stack up to the crazy high-profile entrepreneurs in my class, I am really fortunate.  So, √ in that box.

Toned:  I want to be buff.  I don’t look bad, although there is a certain sag to the skin on my legs from my fat days.  And gravity does “weigh down” some erstwhile perky parts.  So no short shorts and no tank tops for me.  Anyway, after a certain age, a person looks ridiculous in that kind of outfit.  I lost this last week to having injured my hip and back (a little arthritis in the hip leads to compensating with other muscles that spasm which leads to crippling pain), and so I think buff is out of the question, but quietly toned is still possible.  So, X in this box (with an “*I don’t care anymore because I am not so shallow” followed by “**Does anyone outgrow that infantile sour grapes attitude? Surely not I”).

Un-gray: I am unconvinced on this.  Covering the gray requires upkeep even after the reunion. That is a huge commitment.  Still under advisement.  So put a ? in that box.

My son just walked in and kissed me.  He really wants to use the computer, but the kiss was also real.  That’s the things with kids — they take you as you are and they don’t put on the artifices that we adults do as naturally as we get dressed in the morning.  POB (partner of blogger) calls out to me and wants to know what we want to do for dinner tonight.  I remind her to call her dad about coming over for dinner tomorrow night with my dad and assorted relatives.

Now, I think, do I care if I am thin, prosperous, toned and un-gray?  Yes, but not because of reunion.  I am happy and I don’t envy anyone or want to be envied.  I simply want my family to be happy and healthy and safe.  I have that.  Add new box and put √√√ in it!!! (with an *”still would like to be slim, prosperous, toned and less gray”) .

[break for dinner out during which my son has a mother of all melt-downs and tests my resolve against spanking as a disciplinary tool.]

Ok, so my son was temporary invaded by an alien life form, and all because we cannot go to his choice of local restaurants (there were no tables available).  This is not my son (usually).   The following race through my mind: (i) aliens are clever, (ii) my parents grew up poor and would not abide such behavior in us, (iii) we knew not to exhibit such behavior and (iv) what have I done to create this monster?

Am I still happy and blessed?  Absolutely.  Am I pissed?  You betcha.  But keep the new box with the √√√ in it, and don’t forget the all-important asterisk.


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If you love someone

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If you love someone, then don’t make him or her executor of your will.

It is one of the most thankless jobs.  Sifting through the detritus of someone’s life is bad enough (you simply don’t need to know some things), but, then, you have to file tax returns and speak to the IRS because one never really leaves one’s affairs in order.  And there are clerical errors and the wrong tax identification numbers are submitted and life gets complicated and you remember that you love this person who died peacefully knowing all was in your care, and you know he or she would never have asked this of you had he or she known what it really meant.  [SIDEBAR: Ok, that was one of those crazy long sentences reserved only for established writers who look elegant in smoking jackets and cravats.  I am just a journeyman lawyer.  If I were Hemingway, I would continue on: “That was a damn good sentence.  A f@#$ing good sentence.  They opened a bottle of wine — a damn good bottle of wine —  and took turns taking swigs from the bottle because they were too proud of that f$%^ing sentence to move from the table.”]

I live my life so government stays far away from me, even as I am willing to pay more in taxes for better education, health care, etc.  I believe in Obama’s presidency and what he wants to accomplish because all of my grandparents were immigrants who struggled to provide a better life for their children, my parents.  And my parents embody the American Dream.  And I represent downward mobility or “regression to the mean” (which means that subsequent generations will achieve the stupidity of Joe the Plumber).  I support the “system” because it really can work (witness my parents and their entire generation in our extended family); I just work hard not to rely on the “system”. Yet now I have to deal with the government for the taxes on the estate of a person whose life is now reduced to a spreadsheet of dividend distributions and capital gains.

Ok, worse is to be guardian of a mentally incapacitated person.  I know someone who took on that burden and I believe there is a place in Heaven waiting for her after what I hope is a long, happy and healthy life on Earth.  But I digress.

POB (partner of blogger) believes that, in light of all of this, we need to rethink our financial future so that we give everything away except for two nickels at the second in time immediately before our deaths. That way, no one needs to do anything for us except have a little shiva cocktail party and light a Yahrzeit candle every now and again.  But the two nickels are really important to her.   I think she never wants anyone to say that we didn’t have “two nickels to rub together”.  Which is why I love her so.  She doesn’t want a “pot to piss in” because that is too crass.  She also expects “a roof over her head” so that doesn’t factor in (although she would consider a reverse mortgage so that there is no fuss about the homestead when we “go”).

She picks her aphorisms and saws to conjure a picture that we timed it all with precision and aforethought.  And she wants to live — and die — by them.  Of course, being the disaster planner that I am, I need to have only “two nickels to rub together” but also a sack of gold just in case.  Don’t tell her I have an extra stash, ok?

I guess the point — and I do have one — is that I am one of the lucky few who can be generally self-reliant and avoid government.  And, I have no expectations of an efficient government because I believe that is frankly impossible to achieve and unrealistic to expect.  If we were looking for efficiencies, we would ascribe to the Wall Street model and we know how that turned out.  No, government is tedious, hopelessly inefficient, and sometimes catches the do-gooders in the web of bureaucracy.  It is easy to complain about government.  It is hard to defend government.  There is a lot of paperwork to get benefits, but remember you are asking for money from the government.  It should be hard to get.

So, SOB (sister of blogger), because I love you, I will relieve you of the executrix role.  You are asking, “no, really, why?” Ok the answer is: (i) you’ll torture me for it and I will never get the last word for ALL ETERNITY and (ii) Mom would not want this to come between her two girls.  I believe BOB (brother of blogger) is also protected because Mom would not stand for that either.

Did you think there would be a point to this? Are you a new reader?

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