Tag Archives: Aging

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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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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Mother’s Day

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Mother’s Day is about me as a child and my mother as the celebrated one.  The one day when we muster up $5.00 for a card and still she did the dishes.  Ok, I am living in the past.  The past is easier; ok, only when nostalgia wipes away the discord and the angst.

So, POB (partner of blogger) and I are the moms of our generation (note that I didn’t say “mothers” — the connotations can be so tragic).  And like our mothers before us, we got cards and did the dishes.  This is how you make people feel good about dishes, you call it a “tradition”.  SOB (sister of blogger) tried to convince POB to have take-out.  POB, in tribute and in astonishing similarity to MOPOB (mother z”l of POB), refused take-out.  POB opted for a horrendously, complicated — and delicious — dinner. (Note to self: block the Epicurious app on her iTouch.)

Between POB’s thinking of MOPOB and my thinking about MOB (mother z”l of blogger), we made quite a pair.  Being a mom is the best thing I do; it is just that I want my mom in the world.  Ok, enough self pity (for now; check back later).

So, we had most of the usual complement of family for Sunday night dinner.  Notable exceptions were a Cousin Hockey Player, and Cousin Gentle who visits his mother’s grave (MOCG) on Mother’s Day.  The warning was clear: be there or be talked about.  Email me if you want the minutes of the family meeting.

FOB (father of blogger) is turning 90 this year.  In an effort to have an intimate setting, the guest list was cut off on a generational level.  Grandnephews and nieces are not invited.  However, my father felt bad about certain members of that generation not being invited.  So, I was designated as the most direct and “Larry King”-like child to dispense the news.  FOB had to use the “facilities” as a ruse to find out whether I told his grandniece that he loved her but, in the interests of familial harmony, needed to exclude her from the celebration.  Meanwhile, I wondered why I was escorting FOB to the bathroom because I am not the MD in the family.  Does anyone else have this family or are we just nuts?

Back to dinner.  Dear Cousin Gentle: HOSOB (husband of SOB) is winning the race for who can eat the most.  He had two helpings on two different place mats (I won’t delve into that):

And there was your plate, sad and empty:

And did we mention the wine and the dessert?

Because you had a good reason for not coming (you were visiting MOCG), we didn’t talk about you — too much. But where were you for the bird walk lead by HOSOB?  Two family gatherings missed.  I understand through the family grapevine that you are alive and well (mother and father of Cousin Hockey Player), so HOSOB promises to let you even the score next time in the food eating contest.  You know that I need to know you’ve had at least one home-cooked meal a week.

Oh, and Cousin Hockey Player, I talked to your mother today.  Yes, I did.  But since you weren’t here last night, you’ll just never know about our conversation. Be there or be afraid.  Very afraid. (Ok, don’t be afraid; I didn’t rat you out as the incredibly hung-over Cousin in an earlier blog.   Ooooops.)

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My Gynecologist, Dr. Jew

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No joke.  My doctor’s last name is Jew.

If only his first initial were A., it would be “A. Jew, M.D.”  That would be the culmination of two generations of Jewish humor.

Except that Dr. Jew is Asian.

Actually, that makes it a satirical culmination of two generations of Jewish humor.

The whole point of the visit was to talk about hormone replacement therapy.  I am not loving some of the effects of aging and since, in this day and age where we think we can cherry-pick out the good from the bad and have it all, I think why not ask?   And besides I read about it in the New York Times Magazine.  The article says it is safer now.  Ahhhh, the Times.  The word from on High.  I know, I know, I know.  Think Valerie Plame scandal.  Think slanted reporting in the run-up to the Iraq War.  Ok, so the Times is almost as reliable as a comic book.

Dr. Jew was so very gentle and courteous when he suggested to me that doctors tend not to base their medical judgments on New York Times Magazine articles.  They like to rely on clinical tests and multi-year studies, like the kind you find in the New England Journal of Medicine.  “That rag mag?” I thought, but did not say aloud.

Look, I get my news from the Daily Show with Jon Stewart.  So, it isn’t a stretch for me to get my medical information from comic books.  Thank G-d I am not a doctor.

And Dr. Jew?  He is a good (Jew) doctor.

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The Circle Game

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My friend’s father passed away gently the other night. He had been chronically ill for three years and then, as it often happens, he deteriorated at a rapid and startling pace.

I read his obituary.  I was stunned.  The jovial, good-natured man I remember from my college years and my friend’s wedding was a marine in WWII.  The things he saw at such a young age could have shattered a person forever.  And then he joined the FBI, in counter-intelligence. He must have had a gun, although this image is totally incongruous with the person I remember.  Maybe he was the slightly rumpled government agent, world-weary yet a never-failing optimist — the quiet hero of our dreams and aspirations.  Maybe it doesn’t matter.  All I know is that my friend loved and respected her father and that makes him a hero.

He had sparkling eyes, was upbeat in nature, liked talking to people and was so proud of his daughter.  In my mind’s eye, I remember him as sitting with other parents at some graduation party, beaming and happy.  Of course, we, the graduates, were in a constant alcohol stupor and so the rest of the memory is a little vague.  Was it at the party my parents threw in one of the condo communities near the campus?  Those of you who might remember, please correct me if I am wrong.

A person lives an allotted number of years on earth and then, if you believe, abides in the hereafter.  A person also lives through that person’s impact on us — whether by DNA or nurture.  Whether good or bad, it is inescapable.  My friend resembles her father and, like her father, is kind and loves a good laugh.  He lives on in her (and her siblings) and her children (and their children).  I hope that my friend feels the portion of her dad’s soul that he put in her as he left this world.  I felt that happen when my mom died and she is an everyday part of me.

The hard part is after the rituals of death, when the world keeps moving and the carousel of time keeps spinning.  It is just brutal.

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120 is a stretch, but I won’t accept any less than 90

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My dad is 89 and 5 months.  As with young children, so, too, with the aged, the months matter.  89 is different than 89-1/2 which is different from 90.  The body ages as rapidly at that age as kids develop between the ages of 6 months and 3 years-old.

Today, after seeing my son’s Spring Festival performance, my father experienced chest pains, elevated blood pressure and dizziness and presented with a pallor suggestive of serious heart failure.  He had to be taken by ambulance to my sister’s hospital.  Of course, I knew that it had to be serious in order for my father to expose my son to this episode.  Still, as a mother, I thought, “you couldn’t catch a cab outside?”  Imagine my thinking my father should grip his heart in a state of distress and schlep out to Amsterdam Avenue to go to the hospital lest my 7.5 year-old child be exposed to trauma.  The power of motherhood is that you think these thoughts.  Fortunately, my psychotic moment gave way to remorse and the knowledge that if I didn’t repent, my mother — in Heaven — would send a lightning bolt to warn me to tread carefully.  (Our Seder theme this Passover is “where is there evidence of a loving G-d in the Hebrew Bible?”; however, wrath of G-d or Mom can really keep a person in line.)  Of course, my dad would never subject his grandson to trauma if he could avoid it.

My dad is ok.  I called my son (through his baby sitter’s cell phone) to tell him that Grandpa is okay.  “I was worried about Grandpa, E-Mom,” he told me, “but I really did a good job in the play!!”  I want to cry because my son can accept (and yet not understand) the simple and the complex simultaneously and in the same priority, in a way only children can (as long as they feel safe).

My dad has low thresholds of pain and discomfort so I thought this was one of those false alarms.  Still seething slightly from having my son subjected to an emergency, I kept in “radio-contact” with my sister, the doctor, who was in the ER with Dad, but I didn’t drop everything and run to his side, as I had done so many times before.  Then, all of a sudden, I thought, “I am being selfish and petty and he will die.”  As I was about to run up to the hospital, my sister called to say he was being discharged and it was something, just not a heart attack (even though my father is technically in heart failure).

I called Dad about 45 minutes later.  He was discombobulated; he hung up on me and then when I called back he didn’t realize what had happened.  I called my sister, who called him.  I waited.  I called again.  He was fine and he said, “I just spoke to POB [partner of blogger].  FOPOB [Father of POB] asked me to tell her that [insert random information].”  Ok, all is back to normal.  My Dad is my Dad.

SOB [sister of blogger] is calling BOB [brother of blogger].  Maybe he should come visit sooner rather than later.

When my Mom died in early 2003 at age 76, I made my father promise he would love until 120 (like Moses).  He would just have to make up the difference.  Life is unfair that way.  But I am starting to understand what that entails.  My father always tried to be there for his children, even if it wasn’t always what his children wanted or demanded or expected.  That is the way — we are the parents we always wanted to our children and our children will be the parent they always wanted to their children, and so on and so on.  Neither our parents nor we will be the parents that our children wanted.  That is the human condition.

If I relieve my Dad of his promise, will he think that he is dying?  Will he go more quickly because his promise is forgiven?  How can I tell him it is ok to let go when I really don’t want to lose him?  And it is not time for him to let go.  Life is more constrained than it was, but it is not the end game yet.

So, now I hope he makes it to 90 in good health.  Ok, Dad, just 90.  120 is negotiable.  But less than 90, that is a deal-breaker.  Are we clear?

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Life – one week later

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Yes, to answer one comment from an everyday reader, there were sufficiently crazy things that happened in this last week, but, in my pledge not to alienate family and friends who read this blog, I must hold back.  Think of a big

CENSORED

where blogs about this last week ought to have been.   Maybe I will write about going to the acupuncturist.  Mañana.

So, we start again with today:

When we were kids, our dad used to take us on more-or-less yearly pilgrimages to Paragon Sports on 18th Street and Broadway to get outfitted for the Spring and warm weather sports (we also did an ancillary run in late June, just before camp, but it was epic in a different way). We all grew over the winter (why do kids grow over winter?) so the prior year’s gear didn’t fit anymore.

For me, this was our family’s official opening day of Spring.  Passover was religious but this was visceral. The promise of warmer, longer days leading into endless summer.  I still hold on to the fantasy even though I am 45 years-old and haven’t had a summer of play in 28 years. I bet my siblings don’t remember this, but I do. My father, in his hat that looked vaguely Russian, with a dress coat and wing-tipped shoes, in a sports mecca.  In fact, I would bet money that my brother doesn’t remember these excursions because he can only remember that Dad dressed him in a Mets outfit at a Mets game (in 1969 when they were the champs).  But you have to remember that my dad wore wing-tipped shoes on the weekends until the mid-80s, so the man did the best he could.

In truth, since my siblings were 3 and 4 years older than me, these outings probably lasted until I was in 8th grade, after which it was impossibly embarrassing to shop with my dad. Maybe in my mind’s eye, these trips loom larger than they really did, although I associate Paragon with Dad.  Also, in the 1970s, to schlep from the upper east side to 18th Street and Broadway with kids in tow was not for the faint-of-heart because Union Square was a needle park and there were many unsavory characters all around.  And in these 28 years, that area transformed, so it is not like going parent-and-child into a combat zone.

Maybe today it felt like a Family Event because my son and I made the trek to Paragon, this time from the Upper West Side.  My son wanted to stay home because it was raining cats-and-dogs (which is one of the stupidest expressions ever) and the wind was howling.  No way we are staying in.  We are going on a pilgrimage, young man.  You have outgrown all of the sports gear you have.  And, now that you are interested in football, hockey, baseball and basketball, we are going to get you the right stuff.  Yes, sir.  You may have two moms, AND you are going to have the right sports gear.   Even if you NEVER use it.

My son is more of an intellectual sports fan.  He likes facts and information and he likes to watch others play.  So, this trip was a little, eensy, bit more about me than him.   Never mind, one of the joys of parenting is that you can thrust your desires upon them and then pay for the years of resulting, required therapy.

We get to Paragon, which has gotten bigger over the years, but it essentially the same store (ok, I have been back over the years, but it is amazing how much the same it is).  A young man, Vladimir, helped us get the right size baseball mitt (I got one, too), basketball, soccer ball and football.  Also a solid, well-made baseball and an air pump.  I inquired about oil for the glove and how long he needs to sleep with the ball in the glove under his pillow to mold the mitt.  My son was browsing the sports jerseys for his favorite teams.  Ok, this really was all about me.

I did not get him hockey gear because there is no way he is playing that insane sport.  Oh, and, football, you ask?  Only two-hand touch, thank-you-very-much.  I did not bring him into this world to watch him go out on a stretcher.

I wanted to play with everything once we got home (even if doing so violated the house rules I set).  He wanted to play Star Wars: The Clone Wars on the computer.   Ah the picture becomes even clearer, you think.

At one point, I worried that I bought all of this gear and didn’t get my son a “cup”.  Then I realized that I am the only one who will be playing with this equipment and I need different protective gear, including some for my ego, my heart and my hopes of playing ball with my son.

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and the years spin by . . .

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How do you know you’re getting older?

1. You are willing to spend a small fortune for an ounce of magic wrinkle-erasing moisturizer.

2. You pass by the General Nutrition Center and drop $150 on mind and body rejuvenating vitamin packets.

3. You see a picture of yourself and you say, “I don’t really look like that. I’m younger.” Which may make sense — if you are on a planet other than Earth.

Yep, I did all of these things.  Maybe I just go for the full body lift.  I am sure that I can get a good volume discount from some cut and paste doctor somewhere.

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Look away

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I have been pretty good about a new gym regimen since I started my new job.  (My 2010 horoscope said that I should keep up an exercise schedule, and that is as good a reason as any.)

Since the global economic melt-down, I have taken to drinking wine.  One glass goes straight to my inner thighs.  No joke.  I feel it the next day.  So, I need to work out just to maintain the usual mid-40s spread.

Since going to the gym, I have been feeling much better about myself and my degeneration into older age (in our family we call it “decrepitude” because we are — er — so gentle).  And I have noticed that, in the afternoons on the weekends, men have been looking twice at me at the gym (and not because I have stains on my t-shirts or my outfits are disastrous).  Most people would feel good about that.  But I have to tell you who is looking.

Imagine we are in the early 1980s when the Olivia Newton-John exercise outfits were popular.  Imagine your relatives who were moving down to Florida around that time.  Remember how they couldn’t pronounce “condominium” and kept saying “condominian” (which now sounds like a group of ten prophylactic devices)?  Remember the men who wore short-shorts with dark shoes and dark socks, dyed their hair and uber-cool sunglasses?  You know, the ones who drove Cadillac El Dorados.

Imagine now it is 2010, and these men have aged 30 years and wear white free spirits and white socks and they dye their hair an odd shade of red.  Apparently, mid-afternoon on the weekends, the older set comes to the gym.  The upside is that they wipe down the machines and don’t do many reps.  The bad news is that the men think I am old enough to be interested in them.

I wear bi-focals, but generally my eye sight is good.  I am graying, but I have few wrinkles.  I have a little extra thickness around the middle but I still have muscle tone in my arms and my breasts still hang comfortable above my waist.  Also, I am a lesbian for Goodness sake.  Ok, they don’t know that last fact.

I just wish I weren’t so attractive to the 85+ crowd.  Maybe once, just once, a young, beautiful woman would give me a second glance that doesn’t telegraph, “oh, you really should have taken better care of yourself when you were young. . . .”  Oh, well, that isn’t what I need.  I need the old men to look at me and think, “she is way too young for me.”

So, my cousin just called and I told him about this blog entry.  He lamented that only really older women check him out on the street.  We were laughing/crying to each other and he mentioned that this could be a schtick for http://oldjewstellingjokes.com/.  I checked out this site and there are videos of old Jews telling jokes.

The internet is worthwhile if only for bringing us this website and keeping the tradition available for the younger generations.  Also, if there could be a registry for “I’m too young for octagenarians”, that would be awesome.

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Family Weekend

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This weekend was family weekend.

Last night, POB made a huge tenderloin which didn’t seem so aggressively carnivore-centric, until her vegetarian sister (SOPOB) called to say she and her son were coming.  POB’s father (FOPOB) also came over, in part, because he liked the menu.  (Not only can you not fool all the people all of the time, but you can’t please them either.)

And to round out the alphabet of “OB”-centric initials, sister of blogger (SOB), husband of SOB (HOSOB) and father of blogger (FOB) also came.  HOSOB got a really short haircut and looked so adorable in that way that little boys do when they get their hair cut (except he is 54 or so, but still sooooooo adorable).  And not the way an older man looks cute and helpless when he puts on a hat with ear flaps (you know, the “look” that cuts one’s IQ in half).

Since having a child, it makes me happy when those whom I love have home-cooked meals. Of course, POB has to do the actual cooking — I just plate everything and set the table, except when I don’t, and then POB is overworked and I don’t deserve her.  But last night I wasn’t a slouch or sloth.  (Of course, I think I deserve a merit badge for good behavior, but I digress.)

My nephew didn’t like dinner and was honest about in that way that kids can be.  Everyone else was polite and HOSOB seemed to enjoy the carnivorous portion of the meal especially.  FOB seemed to enjoy the wine.   SOB seemed to enjoy leaving (she later reported having a really sound sleep — must have been vicarious dose of triptophan from all of the food HOSOB ate).  FOPOB was non-committal.  Our son and nephew enjoyed being together.

Today, another generation descended.  A cousin from the Catskills who studied and lived in China for 5 years came for brunch, along with her half-Dutch, half-Israeli boyfriend who went to school in Switzerland and whom she met in Shang-hai. He is now in the States, in New England. It is too confusing to figure out which of the many pairings of culture shock he is currently experiencing.  He is sweet and gentle notwithstanding his inherent Dutch directness and Israeli hubris.

Also along was a brother of this cousin who traveled the far distance from the Catskills to a suburban hamlet in Massachusetts.  He introduced us to his girlfriend.  This was big. His girlfriend was polite, sweet and quiet — i.e., not Jewish.  Hey, non-Jews have tamed our family, to wit: my sister-in-law and brother-in-law.  So, really, we are scared the non-Jews we love won’t marry into our family because we are so loud, and — hmmm, how shall we say — undiscriminating about our dinner/brunch table discussion topics.

So we were loud, especially my cousin (her boyfriend), and she didn’t seem unnerved by it, even when those cousins started talking about importance of sloping leaching fields in the separation of solid waste from non-solid waste.   Septic tanks and the related issues of sanitation are not approved topics of conversation at my table (even though these were favorite topics of their father z”l who was a wonderful, if controlling, human).  As I was trying to stop the story (we WERE eating), his sister piped in about the variations of “spicy stomach” she and her friends had in China. Ok, ok, ok. All of this after I lectured them (again) about the inappropriateness of pictures they put on Facebook.

My dear cousin (DCOB) — an elder of my generation — also joined us.  He is such a gentle soul.  He is very involved in eastern traditions, medicine and meditation.  He also has a tremendous collection of American folk music.  I know that you are thinking Asian monk living in the splendor of secluded monastery that has access to folk music and occasional WiFi.  Think again.  Think yin-yang.  How yang?  He is a criminal defense attorney living in a large apartment complex.  DCOB’s wide ranging interests and openness to new and different things was evolutionary in our family.  The next generations is more free to focus on their inner muses.

Still, after 3 hours, I called SOB, who prescribed M&M — meditation and medication.

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