Week 5: It Could Be Worse

She wouldn’t stop talking about whether she should get her nails crackled.  I had no idea what that was nor was I interested in finding out.  I wanted peace while I waited for my nails to dry.  The day before our summer vacation, I just wanted a few minutes before all the hectic commotion associated with packing, and getting us to our first vacation in 4 years entailed.  She wasn’t whining, but extremely insistent as she tried to talk her mother into footing the bill for the fancy nails.  She was 9.  Quickly, I realized I hated her because my 8 ½ year old wouldn’t know enough to ask for this specialized nail treatment.   

Sarah hates getting her nails painted, although she does like to leave them long.  When nails need to be cut, it is like she is being tortured.  Something about holding her hand that makes it worse.  It is hard to tell why she gets so upset. 

Two nights before I was cleaning the green and red Jello my 8 ½ year old had smeared all over the floor and refrigerator.  Something about setting the Jello people free.  This was an act of a 3-year old – not a nearly 9-year old about to enter the 3^rd grade.  I’m sure it started out with a simple thought of this is fun; then moved into the sensory feel of Jello through her hands.  Sometimes she loves the feel of things – sometimes it is beyond horrific.  That night I lost it.  I didn’t scream, but I clearly lost my usual patience dealing with the situation.  Immediately, she went into the bath, for the second time that day, to remove the Jello from her hair, then bed and the harshest penalty of all -- no electronics for 24 hours.  This was also agony. 

She knew better.  I know she did.  She just didn’t care.  Future consequences are very hard for her to understand.  Actually, the concept of future is hard for her to understand.  She keeps asking me to describe the future.  I just don’t know how.   After scolding her right before bed, I told her I loved her and then she told me she loved me too.  Then, I remembered . . .

Two nights earlier, I was brought to tears watching a 60 Minutes report on how the iPad had allowed non-verbal autistic kids to communicate.  I cried because I was happy for the kids and their families, but if I was being honest, it reminded me it could always be worse.

Week 4: Tween

When my grandmother went to live in a senior living apartment, she went somewhat reluctantly.  There are too many old people, she said.  She was 80 at the time.  I would laugh at her and say, how old did she think she was.  I didn’t understand then, she didn’t feel her age.  Eventually, she got into the groove of living there, and would sit in the hall with the other yentas talking all day.  Her biggest complaint was that her new friends loved giving greeting cards.  This put enormous pressure on her to return the favor.  It was almost more than she could bear.  Eventually, she came to give the place her highest compliment – it wasn’t horrible.  Really, that was a compliment.

As I approach the milestone of the big 5-0, I also don’t feel my age.  I’ve started cruising the over 50 websites and even AARP.  I just don’t relate.  I’m not close to retirement or empty nest syndrome – my kids are only 8.    Not really worried about become a grandmother anytime soon.  Many high school friends (viewed on Facebook) as well as my sister are watching their kids go off to college.  They're shopping for a dorm frig – I’m looking for new backpacks for 3^rd grade.  I’m not ready for RVing around the country, although I think the concept is cool. 

I feel young among the over 50 crowd.  Of course, I would as I’m not yet 50.  I feel old against the young crowd.  I’m usually the oldest in any school meeting with teachers and staff.  Even the principal.  How can I be older than a principal?  My primary doctor is still older than me, but I’m not sure by much.  The president is only 2 years older than me.  Calculating age differences between me and famous people has become almost a full-time job.

Demographically – I fit in one group, but psychographically I fit in another group.  Caught between two age groups - on the inside.  To the world, they see over 50.  Well, I hope not over 50.  No one has been shocked when I told them I was freaking out about turning 49 (and, thus 50).  No one said you can't be that old, you can't.  This isn't about physicality, although I do let me gray roots show a little longer than I should.  What a minute, maybe it is about letting too much time go between dye jobs.  Maybe that is the solution.

Week 3*: Say-N-See

Right now in the end of June, we are in the lower right part of the year.  A single year is an uneven horseshoe.  With January in the top right position, June at the bottom of the column, July and August moving right to left on the bottom row, and September above August – starting the climb up.  This could just be me.  Forever, I’ve viewed time that way.  My memory makes me believe that when I was younger I saw a hanging, fabric calendar that had the year mapped out this way.  That can’t be right, of course.  It makes more sense that there were two columns of 6 months each – with January in the upper left corner.  Somehow though, my visual of the year has changed it around. 

Clearly, I'm a visual thinking.  Shockingly, I think this is a result of way, too much TV.  My ability to visualized has expanded to all possiblities to the point where I've had to cut myself from certain genres of entertainment and even news.  I picture myself or people I know in every situation.  I can see every detail, hear every musical note played behind each dramatic scene.  Literally, I can picture every situation happening.  Mostly bad. 

Although, there is the ongoing positive one of winning the lottery.  I can't see my initial reaction.  Kind of like falling in a dream without hitting the ground.  But I can see the aftermath.  The foundation I would start and gainfully employ all my friends.  Invest in people and ideas I believe in. Give grants to schools that were doing good work.  Sure, I've spent some time thinking and seeing this scenario play out - usually only when the jackpot gets big.

* Note:  Week 3 delayed due to storm.

Week 2: Place for My Keys

Mary would walk into her apartment; hang up her coat, hat and purse on the coat rack.  Then her keys would be placed on a key holder in the shape of a key, hanging on the wall.  She would sometimes have mail that she would neatly sort and place on a nearby table.  These actions, simple and coordinated, were symbols of being a grownup.

When the Mary Tyler Moore Show first aired, I was 7.  Probably not the demographic they were going for, but it appealed to me for all 7 seasons.  I wouldn't be the first to think that show shaped some, if not many, of my world views about being an adult woman. 

When I got my own apartment (without roommates), I remember constantly looking through catalogs for an object to hold my keys.  I never got anything back then, because I couldn't justify the few-dollar expense when I was only able to afford an apartment with multi-color, harvest gold shag carpet. Browsing the catalogs for this item became a hobby, but I couldn't pull the trigger. 

Doing the big things in life, buying a car or house or even when I decided to have kids on my own didn't make me feel like an adult. Those decisions just felt like me. I thought about them, figured out what I needed to do and then did them.

Not a conscious thing, but a key holder is the equivalent to being an adult. It would mean I'm organized and had it together. Just like Mary.  Always an ambition, but not a major one I felt worth truly pursuing.  Other things got in the way.  Now, my keys do get put in the same place most of the time, not in a special holder, but on the credenza near the door.  The mail stacks up in piles nearby. 

Perhaps this is why 50 seems so overwhelming. Shouldn't I have a key holder by now? 

  

Week 1: Double Chin

My son reminded me almost a week ago that I'm almost 50.  It was the day I turned 49.  Just like me, he is always anticipating the future.  This time around it is more panic than anticipation --- on my part not his.  He thinks it's funny.  Well, maybe just my reaction is funny. 

Turning 49 was (I hope) a bigger deal than turning 50.  I have about 52 weeks to find out.  I decided I would take the next 50 some-odd weeks (chances of me doing this every week are slim-to-none) to jot down things I've learned or observed over the last, gulp, 49 years.  In no particular order of importance, that is what this blog will be:  things I've learned or things I just want to write about and share.   

Week 1 - Double Chin or Most of What I Remember is Useless

I've learned recently that if you take pictures with the camera slightly higher than your face your double chin disappears.*  Try it.  Sure, there are medical ways to take care of this, but who has the time.  Moving a camera 15 inches higher is just so much easier.  After all, that's what's important -- the photographic proof.  Somewhere along the line I heard that if you stand sideways, with 1 leg extended you'll look slimmer in photos. 

Why I remember this and what is being kept out of my brain because I do, who knows.  I feel the same way about a lot of so called trivia.  Why is that fact stuck in my brain?  Like, there really was a Max Factor and he was the makeup artist on I Love Lucy.  Don't believe me, check out the credits.  Perhaps this was indelibly imprinted on my brain from the countless hours of TV watching.

Yes - let's blame TV.  Not so fast, TV is definitely my friend.  More in future posts.  Although blaming TV would make sense, the theory doesn't hold up for the other two facts noted above. I figured out the higher camera myself and I think someone's stepmother told me about the extended leg photo trick. I thought her very shallow at the time, can't remember her name, but I remember the concept. 

How could any of this ever be useful information?  I'm sure these 'mind blockers', if you will, are keeping more important things out of my mind.  Until I erase them, we will never know what else I could retain.  I haven't figured out how to purge thousand of useless tidbits which is probably why I can't figure out the way to erase them.  You see the dilemma.  A real catch-22.  I do remember I read that book in college. 



* If you don't have a double chin, don't tell me.  I'll just be mad.