Tag Archives: Aging

Non-bloggable moments

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College friends were in town this weekend and those who were in town on Friday came over at our house for a late bite.  We were all catching up on each other’s news, and I was telling a story, and my dear, dear, friend, let’s call her DCFOB (DC friend of blogger), exclaimed, “this story isn’t on your blog!! I thought everything was on your blog!!”

Dear, dear, DCFOB, not everything can be on my blog.  Then, no one would talk to me.  So, yes, there are wild and crazy stories — just ask IFOB (Italian friend of blogger) but there need to be blog-free zones.  In fact, one of our dear friends prefaced one conversation this weekend by stating, “this is a blog-free conversation!”

So, everyone, I try to be tactful where others are concerned.  I am not always (or often) successful, but I do try.  Really, really, hard.  And some stories . . . well, I think I have shown exceptional restraint.  But, when senility starts to eat away at my discretion, just hope that the memories get lost too.  Otherwise, be afraid.  Very afraid.

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High School Reunion

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THIRTY YEARS.

Thirty years.

Thirty YEAHS (said like a New Yorker).

It isn’t as if we were celebrating 30 years of marriage or a career.  We were celebrating surviving for 30 years since we last saw each other as a group.  “So, whatcha been doin’?” would require days, if not weeks, with every classmate, in order to catch up.

But we only had a few hours.

I was the class nerd whose parents couldn’t afford to have me keep up with the clothes and accessories of the others.  So, I always felt I was on the outside looking in and, sometimes, some of the girls were mean.   And, of course, I had an inkling that I was different somehow (later, to realize I was gay).  I think it manifested by not understanding how to connect to the other girls; I was always at home talking with the guys.

So, this is was a loaded event for me.  But I had a plan:

look thin and prosperous.

Except I hurt my arm 10 days ago and hadn’t been to the gym.  And, POB (partner of blogger) is no longer employed.

Great plan; bad execution.

So, I was bloated and feeling unprosperous.  And yet I am a lucky person in life and I am really happy, so, Saturday, I had a new plan:

Just make sure the make-up is flawless and the lipstick color is awesome.

So I put on comfy clothes and went.  There was a small pre-party at a classmate’s chocolate shop, with people who were always quirky and kind enough to accept my bizarro-ness and eccentricities even then.  Immediately upon entering the chocolate shop, all trepidation disappeared.  And the years melted away in such a warm and wonderful way.

[Just a side bar about the chocolate shop: Bond Street Chocolate, www.bondstchocolate.com, a tiny, fabulous place that is worth the schlep to East 4th Street; it isn’t actually on Bond Street].

Everyone was instantly recognizable.  Same laughs, same voices, same cadences and same energies.  Some looked so fabulous that I just know they have their own Dorian Gray-like pictures in their closets.  They were AGELESS.  And no scalpel touched their faces.  (Maybe some hair coloring and under-eye cover stick but that was it and we are 48!!)

We all arrived at the official party.  The turn out was amazing.  And, again, people were instantly recognizable.

Life has tread on all of us.  We lost our harder edges.  The mean girls weren’t mean anymore.   Those old distinctions didn’t matter anymore.  We all had happy times, disappointing times, scary times, and sad times and that makes us all a lot more grounded than teenagers spending grades 7-12 together in a tiny Upper East Side private school.

I left grateful for the occasion to reconnect with people who share some of my past and, I hope, part of my future.

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Older? Yes. Wiser? Hmmm.

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I thought that wisdom came with gray hair (and wrinkles).  A cosmic consolation prize for an aging gameshow contestant.

My parents got wiser and smarter as they got older (well, until they started to forget everything, so let’s leave that).

So my point is that I was expecting to feel a growing serenity — that you’ve-seen-enough-of-the-world-to-know-that-things-work-out-and-you-can-roll-with-the-punches-of- life kind of feeling — by the time the wrinkles started appearing under my eyes (or would be appearing but for the daily slathering of face cream).  Actually, the wrinkles are there, but if you apply the hydrating cream, then put on make-up and never, ever, wear your bifocals when looking in the mirror, then the wrinkles just disappear.  (Is this too much back story, here?)

Instead, I feel more anxiety and less sure about the world around me.  (AND, I have gray hair and wrinkles.)

I will be seriously bummed if I bypass the serenity thing and go straight from high-anxiety to senility.  Actually, that may get me to about the same state of mind. 

Ok, never mind.

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Being 51

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Being 51 isn’t as hard as I expected.  (Ok, I am really only 47, but you would understand this all from prior blog entries.)

I can do things that any 47 year-old can do, only I look GREAT at it.  I was doing some unassisted pull ups at the gym and one guy came up to me and said he was impressed and that he doesn’t even see young women do that.

What do you think gave it away?  The gray hair, some wrinkles, that way my body imperceptibly (at least to me) changed with time and gravity?

I asked him, “What tipped you off that I wasn’t young any more?”

He was embarrassed — poor guy — and took out his wallet and showed me his fat pictures.  I guess he felt he owed me.  Here is this young guy with a sculpted body who was a candidate for the “Biggest Loser” about 6 months ago.  Up close, I could see the faint stretch marks around his outrageously toned biceps and triceps.

I told the guy he could even call me old lady.  Of course, I didn’t say that I would smack him if he actually did.  Then again, with his new body, he wouldn’t feel it if I tried.

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Being Mom on Mother’s Day

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POB (partner of blogger) and I don’t exchange mother’s day cards, although TLP (our son, the little prince) must make two — one for each of us.

I still have a vague feeling that I have forgotten something on Mother’s Day, as if I should be sending a card to someone.

But, when we gathered for the obligatory lunch, I went through the mental catalogue:

  • Dad’s mother: May 1973;
  • Mom’s mother: June 1988;
  • Mom: January 2003; and
  • POB’s mother: April 2006.

Nope, no one to whom to send a mother’s day card.  Anyway, the postage for four cards from here to Heaven would probably break the bank.

Now, POB and I are the honorees.  We get the handmade cards that we will treasure for a lifetime even if the ungluing pink glitter is all over the house.

Even my brother called to wish us a happy mother’s day.  He must have that same sense of forgetting to do something — like sending a card to Mom.

I know SOB (sister of blogger) is having a good cry going through the family pictures in her photo album which we reverentially call “The Shrine”.

It just doesn’t feel right.  Mom, it is still your day. Always will be.

I love you.

 

 

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Another year, another synagogue retreat

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This year’s synagogue retreat didn’t provide as much blogging material as last year’s.  But I have a gift of missing the whole point of a spiritual retreat.  But someone said that G-d is in the details.  That can’t be correct; see below.

The retreat started the same as last year, with the welcome sign that dared me to wreak such havoc that the sign would be revised to read “Maybe we are blessed by your arrival”.

Next year, I hope to report back that my efforts were successful.

The theme of the retreat was “transitions”.  Actually, throughout the retreat, there were some really poignant and insightful observations as to certain life cycle and relationship transitions.  Even I have to admit (grudgingly) that the discussions and religious services did strike chords in me.

There was a specific emphasis on inclusion of members of the transgender community and their stories and issues.  Accordingly, our name tags listed our preferred pronouns, such as “she/her” “ze/hir” “he/his” “they/their”.   My selections were so ordinary:

We got an upgrade from our accommodations last year.  As you may remember, we stayed in a bungalow that the forest was in process of reclaiming.  Apparently, nature correctly recognized it as a compost before the retreat management did.  This year, our accommodations ranked a few levels above girl scout camp:

Ok, maybe just one level above girl scout camp.  But we did have a mini-fridge.

The camp keeps the Sabbath and maintains a kosher kitchen.  So, no coffee on the Sabbath.  A riot almost breaks out each year.  I heard someone offer anyone $1,000 for a latte.  That night, the same person was offering even more for a shot of tequila, right after everyone found out there was no wine with dinner.  Ok, the camp maybe “shomer shabbos” (Sabbath observant) but us visitors, well, not so much.

Also, the food was not so kid-friendly (cholent, quinoa with fruit and string beans, etc.), so one family broke the Sabbath and drove their kids to McDonald’s because the kids could find nothing to eat.  Hey, living by Torah means that you can’t let your kids starve.  (We packed enough snacks, yogurt and fruit so that TLP (our son, the little prince) would have enough to eat.  We also had to rely on this stash.)

But there are helpful reminders to everyone about religiosity, especially in one’s most private moments:

(Same sign as last year, but good material is good material.)

The camp is also a working farm, so we saw Hasidic Jews tending to the goats.  There was goatyurt for sale, “blessed” goat cheese, and other kumbaya stuff. In fact, the gift shop offered bottles of essence of peace of mind and women’s cycles.

Kumbaya, my Lord, Kumbaya. Oh, Lord, kumbaya.

I don’t know if POB (partner of blogger) can convince me to go for a third time.

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Closing in on 47

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I know that 47 isn’t a “big” birthday.

However, when I was 43, two people told me on separate occasions that I looked great for 47.

Adding the corresponding years, I must look great for 51.  And 51, I shall be.

That means I am one year overdue for that introspective, moribund deconstruction of my life.   [Cue:  music from triste French films of the 60s and scenes of deep, deep contemplative monosyllabic conversations with long pauses and spectacular sensual exhalation of cigarette smoke.]

Our discussion at Seder this year about free will made me think about choices I have made and wonder about whether they were in fact choices or dictated by my learned responses.  Does free will always have the caveat, “to the extent that your upbringing and life experience haven’t made the choice for you”?

That is a big question that I cannot answer tonight.

All I know is that my skin is not as radiant as it was last week.  But then again I was 46 last week and this week I will be 51.  I think that I just now understand the difference between accrual- and cash-based accounting.

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Georgia, long time passing

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Dear Georgia:

It has been five years since you gave POB (partner of blogger) your blessing and then left this world shortly thereafter.

It was characteristically non-dramatic and understated: you pronounced yourself satisfied with our first Passover and with the matzo balls that floated.

I was keeping an eye on you (for signs of approval) at that Seder and you looked like you enjoyed the ritual, the discussion and the food.  You looked comfortable and relieved that the traditions would continue for another generation.  Dare I say proud of POB?  I have told POB my observations over and over again so she could imagine it and derive solace from it.

Yesterday, POB and I recited Kaddish on this fifth anniversary of your death.  How is it possible that time speeds by?

I don’t know how close your final resting place is to us and whether you need a telescope.  So, I will catch you up a bit on life after you left.

POB ultimately found her bearings.  For a while it was too much for her gentle heart.  And, she and I, we have different ways of mourning.  I mourn out loud and POB mourns quietly, in a more dignified way.  But that also means so much was bottled up for too long.  I watched, unable to help.  With time, POB re-emerged, stronger than ever.  (We are now more able to navigate our times of stress and unhappiness in a way that brings us together.)

TLP (our son, the little prince) is a marvel.  Sometimes, he speaks like a character in a British novel.  I have to laugh; that is you in him.  I can draw a direct line in the family tree — no dilution in that gene.  He just put on some Persian rock music for me to hear.  He said he really thought the melodies and rhythms were cool.  Need I say more?

TLP and SOSOPOB (son of sister of POB) are deeply bonded and both are growing up to be sweet, smart boys.  That makes us all happy; two kids without siblings reaching out to each other as more than cousins — perhaps, brothers.

FOPOB (your husband and father of POB) is, as you used to say, “more so”.  His personality is getting distilled and some of it is too sharp to let roll off.  Of course, you aren’t here to soften his edges.  He tells other people how proud he is of POB.  POB would like to hear it directly, but I emphasize that the point is that the message gets delivered.

He dotes (to the extent he has that gene) on SOSOPOB and SOPOB (sister of POB).  I don’t think it is always easy for us because while we don’t need FOPOB’s generosity (to the extent that is a noun applicable to him), we would like him to be in TLP’s life.  Nevertheless, we are grateful for his interest in SOSOPOB.  And, the Blogger family is incredibly fond of SOSOPOB.

Your daughters are finding their grooves.  POB gets more fabulous each day.  And, she even looks more and more like you.

Georgia, your line continues, strong and resilient, older (and maybe a little sadder) but infused with your memory.  Please try to visit POB in her dreams.  I know she would like to see and hear you again.

~~ Blogger

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Remembrances of things past

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TLP (the little prince, my son) checked out a library book on fishing.  We had to read about each fish, length, weight, best bait and whether the species would put up a fight.  Also we had to go through the various baits (it WAS a how-to book, after all) and the only thing I could add was when we got to fly fishing.  I told him we could go on the Orville’s Fly Fishing School website (I silently prayed it had not gone into Chapter 11 or dissolved).

When it came time for me to read about a fish that was a pesky fighter, I recounted my family’s trip to San Francisco, circa 1968.  Mom and Dad took us to eat at the Fisherman’s Wharf, which — at that time — was an exotic dining destination.  My parents were dressed in evening wear, so I presume that after dinner we were being dropped off at the hotel with a sitter, but I can’t remember.  I do remember fishing for our dinner and Dad’s having caught a pesky, fighting fish that flailed in and out of his tuxedo jacket.  Mom and Dad must have eaten that fish (I think we kids stayed with hamburgers).

That was the first and last time we went fishing with Dad or anyone.  Too traumatic.  If TLP wants to go fishing, Uncle HOSOB (husband of sister of blogger) or Cousin Gentle will have to take him.  Thinking back 43 years ago, I am still traumatized.

 

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More tales from the City

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These past days, I have been lost in the old days and vignettes from childhood.

I remember that my parents often threw cocktail parties for my mother’s colleagues in the advertising and cosmetics industries.  My mother knew everyone’s cigarette preferences and she filled silver cases with the preferred brands and laid them on the coffee table.

And women had those tortoise cigarette holders that made smoking look so cool.

People drank Manhattans, Rob Roys and martinis (gin and very dry) and gimlets.  People drank blended scotch whiskey and Gordon’s gin back then.  I guess there weren’t that many other choices.  Twists of lemon, little onions and olives were in dishes, and there was a bottle (?) of bitters, ready to finish off the drinks.  My parents converted a closet in the foyer into a bar with an open front that faced into the living room.

A hired waiter passed hors d’oeuvres to men in slicked back hair and square hankies in the front pockets of their thin-lapeled suits and women (including Mom) who had Jackie Kennedy hairdos and dresses with shoulder wraps. No one dressed like Lady Bird Johnson.

We would come out in our matching pajamas and say good night.  And then Mom or Dad would tuck us in bed.  As soon as they were out of sight, we would creep back to the closed door closest to the “action” and listen and giggle until we were discovered and sent back to bed.

Only in retrospect, can I place the end of those heady days as around 1968.  I am guessing that it all ended as a result of social upheaval from the 1968 assassinations and the Vietnam War.  And because raising three children in the city was expensive.

Everyone tells me I ought to watch Mad Men.  But I prefer the memories.

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