Being a Teenager Can Really Suck…

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Does anyone make it out of adolescence unscathed? Forty years later, I still get an echo of that inner hollowness when two friends chuckle over a shared adventure from which I was absent. Or find myself swallowing an opinion for fear that someone will look at me cross-eyed. Am I hobbled by those long-ago days when insecurities were fanned by my equally self-conscious peers? No. As with most people, I have coping mechanisms that have allowed me not only to compartmentalize emotional upsets from those impressionable years but to view them in context. We were typical teenagers, with varying levels of self-doubt, teetering on the brink of adulthood and jockeying for a place on the social hierarchy.

I was a “popular” girl in high school. I had come up through the adjacent middle school with my social circle intact so by the time I hit the ninth grade, I appeared certain of my status. My outward confidence which allowed me to move through the hallways with ease was shaken if I did not have a trusted buddy by my side. Alone, the insecurities crept back in. Was I smart/cute/vivacious/cool/etc./etc. enough?

“Egocentrism” may be the most universally defining characteristic of this age group. I can still recall setting my alarm for an hour before needing to leave for school to give me enough time to shower, dress, style my hair, and apply my makeup to perfection because, of course, The World would think less of me if I dared walk out the door without each detail masterfully in place. Would Adrianne be on the bus with my seat saved, or would I look foolish having to scavenge for any remaining space? Did I have a friend in each class to whisper with and share a joke, or would I look like a pariah as I sat alone? What about in the lunchroom? Or, in the after-school sports activities? Did my home phone ring several times each evening, or were my friends too busy talking to each other to remember to call me? Were my Friday and Saturday nights booked, or would I sit home alone while everyone else was hanging out in Lee’s basement? If I wasn’t the life of the party would I be dropped from the next gathering’s guest list?

Our burgeoning identities at fourteen are shaped by how our peers treat us and fueled by raging hormones. Does he like me? If he doesn’t, it must mean I’m not smart/cute/vivacious/cool/etc./etc. enough. Who would ask me to the Homecoming dance? Should I go alone if no one did?

While my latent teenage anxieties are mostly forgotten, I was recently reminded of just how destructive that time in our lives can be. As with most kids that age, my feelings were central to The World. My own internal ecosystem was the core around which the bigger ecosystem, aka high school, revolved. So, I was interested to hear Lynn’s thoughts over lunch.

Lynn and I were in high school together a million years ago. It was a small college prep school where we all knew each other. I can’t recall the first time I saw her when she entered ninth grade. I remember her as being part of the “mini Mafia,” the group of cute boys reminiscent of Grease’s T-Birds, who swaggered through the hallways with their feathered hair and Italian horns dangling from gold chains around their necks. Lynn was one of three girls who hung out with them, and I think I assumed she had always known them.

I mentioned that I had told a mutual friend I was excited to see her. “While we were part of different groups back then,” I told our friend, “we all knew each other. I feel like Lynn and I can be good friends now, as adults.” That’s when Lynn’s eyes filled.

Our salads of arugula, mango, with a fruity vinaigrette sat untouched as I considered her reaction. I pinched pieces of Italian bread from the loaf in the basket between us and swiped them in the olive oil seasoned with salt and pepper. I fought my lifelong urge to “say the right thing” – to gloss over an uncomfortable moment with platitudes and niceties. Common sense told me to be silent and to understand the pain reflected in her tears.

 “When I started at that school,” she told me, “I just wanted to be friends with everyone. I never wanted to be part of a clique. The kids in the ‘mini Mafia’ were the only ones who would talk to me. None of the other girls would.”

By this stage of my life, high school self-absorption is so far in the past that my heart genuinely ached for her. This beautiful woman, inside and out, could still remember the loneliness that surrounded her when she started a new school.

Our conversation made me think about Anne who had been so tormented by the classmates who called her “fat” that she transferred after her freshman year. About Jeff who was so stigmatized for the color of his skin that he compensated by turning to beer and hard liquor, resulting in a struggle with alcoholism. About my own son who was targeted by a bully for being a vegetarian. About the “uncool” kids in my daughter’s class who did not receive an invitation to Julie’s party. It’s the age when anything “other” is scrutinized, picked apart, and ridiculed by the group in an effort to cement their own footing in the social hierarchy.

Once out of that environment – the artificially created ecosystem where we think how we do or don’t fit in is the most important thing in The World – we begin to develop a broader concept of self and deeper compassion for those around us. In other words, we grow up. Anne now sees herself as the beauty she is. Jeff has been sober for years and, now a pastor, runs a rescue mission to help men of color who have spent their lives being stigmatized. My son’s high school bully sought him out at their 5-year reunion to apologize for his behavior and ask for forgiveness. My daughter sees how hurtful excluding a handful of kids was from an otherwise class-wide celebration, whereas including them would have been a model of kindness for them all.

But what about Lynn? What was her “otherness” that left her scanning the lunchroom that first day for someone to sit with? Why giggling groups of girls didn’t widen their circle to include her?

A few years back, my lifelong friend and pen pal, Sue, provided me with incredible insight. Growing up, we saw each other during the summers but kept in touch by letter through the remainder of the year. And, ‘by letter’ I mean weekly accountings of every thought and action my juvenile brain could recount in twenty or more pages of detailed actions, dialogue, and thoughts. My youth, from childhood into my twenties, was chronicled on lined notebook paper the way some people keep journals or diaries. Eight years ago, Sue handed me a box filled with every letter I had written to her over the course of our friendship before email made communication instantaneous.

“You should have this,” she said. “This is your history.”

With a mix of excitement and apprehension, not to mention a hearty pour of Chianti, I sat down to revisit my past as told by an adolescent me. A rash of reactions hit me. I was simultaneously impressed with my love of storytelling, even at that young age, amused by my acerbic wit, and appalled by my judgmental attitude.

Buried halfway down the box was a letter that was particularly telling. In it, my young voice talked about the new girl at school. While there had been an influx of students at the high school level, it was clear that Lynn stood out. I described her in detail – her beauty, with the blond hair that effortlessly held the popular Farrah Fawcett style through the entire school day; her brilliant smile that made it impossible not to smile in return; her bubbly personality that added sparkle to every conversation. I grudgingly talked about how the head of every boy in that school, plus those of half the male staff, would whip around to watch her as she passed. It was evident in every long-ago written word that her presence had made an impression on me.

When I looked at Lynn over those exotic salads, I told her what it was that had caused the rest of the girls to snub her when she had started at the school. “We were all jealous,” I said. “It doesn’t excuse our behavior, but we were insecure teenagers and saw you as a threat.”

The elusive rationale as kids was simple from a middle-age perspective. There was absolutely nothing wrong with her at fourteen and that was her “otherness.” But, with her own adolescent insecurities, she questioned herself.

I hope that my explanation as to our behavior all those years ago provided some resolution for Lynn’s questions. Maybe there needs to be a built-in mechanism for repairing the damage left in the wake of the high school madness which, today, is amplified by social media. Like Step 9 in the AA 12-Step Program, it is healing for both the instigator and the victim to dust off past grievances, acknowledge them, and look for forgiveness.

* * * * *

The Last Great Release

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When I was a kid, there was a stream running through the woods behind my neighborhood. My two older brothers would spend summers playing in those woods, building forts with fallen twigs and creating dams to redirect the water flow. Of course, I would tag along to help. And, by “help,” I mean busting my ass on a rock within fifteen minutes of the adventure and having to be carried home. My brothers distracted me from my self-sabotage by showing me the tiny tadpoles that squirmed in the gentle current and taught me about their development into adult frogs.

Those memories and my lifelong appreciation for nature may be what saved me this summer. My current home improvement project, scheduled to take two weeks but now going on eight, would have sent most people into a violent rage. We’ve had all the concrete around the pool, our basement entrance, and our deck ripped up and hoisted into three dumpsters. May turned into June and, because of weather delays, dragged into July. Through weeklong rainstorms and brutal heatwaves, the contractors hit numerous obstacles and countless setbacks.

Amidst the chaos and the filth, my pool lay waiting. While I bitched to my husband and complained to the masons, last year’s water remained untouched in the deep end. Since the pool could not get its new liner and filter until the other work was done, algae began to grow. Then, they came.

The frogs.

I grew increasingly aware of the chirping. Each night, they became louder and louder, competing to show off their machismo to the ladies. I waded through the mud and the unevenness of my construction site to commune with the nature happening in my very own backyard. I steered clear of the occasional snake; I mourned the two baby bunnies that my dog, Lula, thought were toys; I appreciated the bats that had moved into the house we made for them as I was seldom bothered by mosquitoes. But I loved the music of the frogs conjuring up nostalgia from my childhood adventures with my brothers or my idyllic summers spent in rural Massachusetts.

Then, one night, my husband and I arrived home to discover the melody had become a symphony of croaking. We grabbed a flashlight and shone it around the pool area, expecting to find a mob of amphibious types staring at us with those bulging eyes. Instead, I found one lone pair of frogs. And, they were doing it. Froggy style!

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Now, I’m generally too private to discuss my sex life but, let me tell you, lying in bed, night after night, listening to them playing dirty leapfrog, I admit to being a little envious. I’d heard that manly warbling and witnessed his triumph at having gotten the girl. Now, he was just showing off. For hours!

As the pool algae flourished, so did the eggs from the fornicating frogs. Next came the tadpoles. I mean thousands of tadpoles! My mother instincts kicked in as I watched those slimy heads with tails swimming happily in the putrefying water. My new babies. I tried to give each one a name, but after mistaking Becca for Tommy too many times, I decided they were all named Sasha.  I began taking pictures of them and telling my friends about the ecosystem I was now in charge of in my very own backyard. “Maybe I’ll just leave the pool as a huge pond,” I joked.

Until Pool Guy came by to check on the masons’ progress and let me know they’d be taking out the old liner in preparation for the work on the pool. “We’ll throw some bleach in,” he said, “then we can get started.”

“Wait a minute,” I said, reality settling around me. “The bleach will kill the tadpoles!”

He laughed. “Well, is it a pool or a pond? If it’s a pool, they have to go.”

“No bleach,” I told him. “How long until you need to pump out the remaining water?”

“A week.”

“Then, I have enough time to Save The Tadpoles!”

I knew I could never get every last one of them. But I could do my best to save as many as possible. So, the process began. For hours every night, my husband and I took turns with the pool net and scooped. We dumped our haul into a large pot and went back for more. Once we couldn’t fit any more into the pot, we’d take them to the nearby stream and release them into their new home.

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It became a game to us – a quest. ‘Save The Tadpoles’ was our rallying cry. The masons worked during the day; we scooped during the evening. At first, it seemed futile. Finally, the horde began to thin. We got hundreds of tadpoles a night. We rescued a few dozen full-fledged frogs, and many, many that were at various stages in-between with legs and a tail.

Our friends and family learned what our immediate priority was. “Do you want to go to dinner tonight?” “No, we have to scoop tadpoles.” “Can you come to visit me this weekend?” “Sorry. Tadpoles.” They began to pitch in, eagerly taking the rescues to populate streams closer to their own homes.

At last, the day came for Pool Guy to throw in his pump and drain all remaining water. At 7 AM, I stood at the edge of the pool and calculated. There were still some stragglers bobbing around the edges. Could I get any more before the remaining water was removed? I could sure try! ‘No Tadpole Left Behind’ became my new cry. I scooped. Through the remaining muck and silt, I thrust in the netted pole and rejoiced at every silvery body I caught. They evaded me, but I persisted. With sweat dripping in the 90° morning, I was determined to save as many as possible.

Triumphantly, I took that stockpot with upwards of another 350 tadpoles, plus eight tiny frogs, and placed it gently in the passenger seat of my car. We drove to the nearby stream, and I hiked the distance from the street through the woods. I needed to get close to the water, right up to the edge. Unlike the frogs I released there with some regularity who could hop the rest of the way, these little guys needed to go right into the water. And, that’s what we did. As I stepped to the edge of the creek, the ground gave way beneath me and in I went, stockpot and all. Somehow, I managed to keep my charges upright as I landed knee-deep in mud and busted my ass on a rock. I dropped the lid and released them into the water. Little frogs hopped off, and big-headed tadpoles wriggled into their new home.

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As I extracted myself from the quicksand-like suction of the sludge, I eyed the piles of beer bottles and cans that lay strewn around the woods. Instead of allowing someone else’s casual disregard of the environment ruin my celebratory mood, I picked up my stockpot, stomped off as much mud from my feet as I could, and began cramming that trash into my pot to take home for recycling. Sighing with satisfaction, I looked one more time toward the last great release. A snowy egret was soaring low above the surface of the stream.

* * * * *

 

A Sniff Down Memory Lane

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I was at a grocery store the other day – one of those upscale, bougie places that sells snobbish $5.00 bottles of enriched water and pompously superior organic/all-natural/sustainable/ethically-sourced…everything. My kind of place! As I strolled through the aisles, I was seduced by a display of colorful handcrafted soaps. Always in search of new scents to brighten my shower time, I paused to sample the goods. Two- and three-toned soaps; delicately swirled soaps; soaps with flowers embedded in them. All had precisely cut sides except for one deliberately rough edge, some left raw, some artfully pressed in lavender buds or dried rose petals. I breathed in intense gardenia and jasmine, calming chamomile, invigorating peppermint. There were clever names, like “Purple Haze” and “Volcanic Vanilla.” As I sniffed my way through the piles, I picked up one called “Sand and Sea.” I had a rough expectation of a salty ocean aroma, but, instead, I had a flashback so vivid and powerful that I closed my eyes and found myself transported in that memory.

That’s the funny thing about our senses. A taste, a sight, a sound, and particularly, a smell, triggers an association locked deep in our brains that can spontaneously return us to a specific time or place. The sweet fragrance of summer rain pattering on my roof and I’m eight-years-old, seated cross-legged on my front porch with my current Bobbsey Twins book open in my lap, fingers oranged from the Cheetos I wash down with cherry Hi-C. Protected by the overhanging roof, the driving blur of the downpour hypnotizes me. When the storm slows, I’m lulled into dreamy tranquility as I return to the adventures of Nan and Bert, Flossie and Freddie.

The crunch of dried leaves beneath my feet and I’m among the throngs of trick-or-treaters scuffling up and down the sidewalk. Shivering in the late October chill under Wonder Woman costumes or white sheets with eyehole cut-outs, it didn’t occur to us to ruin the effect with a heavy jacket. After a week of decorating the elementary school classroom windows with construction paper jack-o’lanterns and witches, our anticipation is at its peak when October 31 finally arrives. My friends and I, giddy with excitement, don our costumes in preparation for the school-wide parade along the main street, parents gathered to oooh and ahhh, passersby in cars honking in appreciation. After dinner, with pillowcases in hand to carry our haul of Hershey bars and 3 Musketeers, we join scurrying neighborhood ghosts, ghouls, and superheroes in the crisp, autumn twilight.

Coconut oil and it’s spring break in Florida. On crammed beaches with hordes of other college students, my friends and I sizzle all day until our skin looks like aged cognac. Nights are spent jammed in smoky clubs, shouting to hear each other over the music while flashing flirtatious smiles at cute boys. Stumbling back to our rented house at three in the morning ensures fuzzy, aching heads when we awake a few hours later to repeat the previous day’s schedule – coconut oil, sizzle, party.

The taste of almond paste and I’m watching my grandmother’s delighted smile as she opens her gift of colorful, fruit-shaped marzipan. The scent of Tabu perfume, and I see my aunt at twenty-five, sashing across a parking lot while every head turns to admire her youthful beauty. The syrupy smell of cotton candy and I’m strolling through the State Fair where I buy my first guinea pig. “Freebird” and I’m in early adolescence feeling the heartache of my unrequited crush on Eduardo.

The day I revisited when I smelled the “Sand and Sea” soap was a family trip to Cape Cod. I was four, maybe five, so too young to have clear memories. More just fleeting images. That’s why the impact of the aroma from the soap was especially startling. The impression was buried so deep that it was at an almost primal level. As I stood in the Health and Beauty aisle with eyes closed, I feel the rocky sand beneath my feet, very different from the smooth beaches I was used to in New Jersey. I’m wearing a floppy beach hat to protect my eyes from the burning sun while my skin is sticky with Coppertone. My older brothers have built a sandcastle nearby and are desperately digging a moat around it as the tide comes in. Mom and Dad are more relaxed than I ever remembered, lounging in metal-framed beach chairs with basket weave nylon seats – the kind that leave red crisscrosses on the back of your thighs – while keeping one drowsy eye on their three lively children. Every evening during that trip, I strip down in the outdoor shower to discover that my droopy bathing suit bottoms have carried back half the beach. Why did this bar of soap take me to that singular trip to Cape Cod instead of the countless excursions we made to the Jersey shore? There must have been the slightest nuance that evoked one memory over the others.

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Generally, these sensory nudges pleasantly lead me through the photo album of my life, flipping through memories with wistful nostalgia. There are others, however, that arouse a more painful response. I can’t buy poinsettias anymore because, as they were my mother’s favorite flowers, I bought out the nursery to decorate the church for her funeral. I’ve never watched my wedding video because it was the last celebration I shared with my father. My heart aches when I see swarms of dragonflies as they were the favorites of my college roommate Samantha. Every time I pop open a Miller Lite, I hear my recently departed friend Steve chortling for the umpteenth time: “Less filling, tastes great!”

Why some sensory memories bring a smile to my face while others bring a tear to my eye is something I can’t explain. It’s a visceral reaction, devoid of thought or intention. It must go back to that place deep in the brain where those responses originate. While both of my parents are gone, memories of them conjure different feelings. I don’t purchase poinsettias or watch movies of my father, but the image of innocent bliss conjured up when I smelled that “Sand and Sea” soap is equally linked to my parents. I felt such serenity as I stood there in the store, eyes closed, holding the bar to my nose, that I bought that soap. Then, I returned a week later to buy three more bars.

Lifelong Friendship – A Return to Diapers and Bibs.

My earliest memory of Lori is faded and worn, much as most photographs from the 1960s. I was a tiny thing – I maintain that I was three while Lori insists we were five (we squabble over that detail to this day) – and can still feel the searing in my eyes from the noontime mid-summer sun. Stubbornly, I persevered through my headache because I couldn’t care less about the pea green chairs and brown plaid sofa being unloaded from the moving van. I had one interest and one interest alone as I stood on the sidewalk in front of the house four down from my own. Did the new family have a girl for me to play with?

Those early years with Lori saw hours of hopscotch, chalked with precision on her driveway under my exacting eye. We played Chinese jump rope like pros as I insisted that we practice to perfection. In the fall, we arranged piles of leaves into floor plans for our dream home, arguing over how many bedrooms there’d be. In winter, we built igloos and had spirited snowball fights. In spring, we’d eyeball each other’s new Easter dresses and bonnets, each secretly assured that our own was the prettiest. In summer, we swam in her above ground pool or pumped our legs hard, until the poles of her metal swing set lifted out of the ground, competing to see who could soar highest. And, somewhere along the way, Jackie, who lived around the corner from us, seamlessly joined our adventures and we became a trio.

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Half a century later, I joined my two lifelong compadres for one of our time-to-catch-up dinners. Over the years, we’ve drifted in and out of each other’s lives as our days were commandeered by the usual marriage/kids/careers frenzy that puts all else on hold. Somehow, like a homing device that leads us back to those who knew us in our simplest incarnation, we intuitively convene over food and Pinot Grigio when one of us has hit a life obstacle. What is it about those friendships formed in childhood that we gravitate toward knowing no explanations will be required?

It’s like slicing a baseball in half. At the core, at the very heart of the ball, is a round cork. This is how I picture old friends – stripped down to their authentic selves before life’s demands and responsibilities begin building layers around it. The ball’s center is covered by two sheets of rubber, then four separate layers of tightly wound yarn. Next comes a coating of rubber cement before two coverings of cowhide are applied and stitched into place. Through our lives, we add layers to the raw center of who we are, creating facades, wearing multiple hats, and building an image as we meet our parents’ expectations, peer pressures, career demands, and become upstanding members of society.

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I’ve known Lori and Jackie since we were cork. I don’t have to wonder about their upbringing or life events that have made them the resilient, polished women they are today. I don’t have to question why Jackie’s children have been openly and unabashedly showered with her love since they were born. I know without asking why Lori is fiercely loyal yet emotionally delicate. And, in turn, they understand why I am demanding and defiant.

As we raised our glasses to toast fifty years of friendship, I realized that I never notice our time-worn faces, professionally enhanced hair color, or crow’s feet. Age spots on hands go undetected. Softening abdomens and saddlebags disappear as these friends are forever youthful through my retrospective lens. I see three little girls with flowing blond hair; I hear Lori’s infectious giggle; I picture Jackie’s open and engaging smile; I recall my endless rebelliousness.

As children, a favorite pastime was slapping metal roller skates onto the bottom of our sneakers and racing to Schmidt’s Corner Deli to peruse the shelves of chocolate and jars of penny candy. We’d pool our money – allowances or loose change dug out from under sofa cushions – then calculate what we could get when divided by three. Candy cigarettes made us look cool. Wax lips were both entertaining and tasty. Often, we’d settle on candy necklaces because who wouldn’t want edible fashion? After we made our selections, we’d hang out on Schmidt’s porch and greet other friends who came and went until I had to leave for my afternoon schedule of homework and piano practice, followed by an hour of baton twirling.

            Them: “Why do you have to do this every day? You never get a break!”

            Me: “You don’t get really good at something unless you work at it.”

            Them: “Yeah, but we want to play, and you’re always busy.”

            Me: “If I don’t get straight A’s and practice piano and baton, I’ll get in trouble.”

And, off I’d go, conflicted. I was sad to think of my friends having fun without me, and nearly tempted to stay a little longer, but I was more afraid of my mother’s reaction if I disobeyed her.

By the time we hit our early teens, my friends were used to the demands on my time, and I had learned how to game my parents’ system. As boys became more important to me, I spent less time procrastinating and became efficient in accomplishing my chores. Also, I’d learned to remove the screen from my bedroom window so I could sneak out whenever I pleased. Our favorite place to hang was a nearby busy road where carloads of teens would cruise up and down. We perched ourselves there on the split rail fence in front of the motorcycle dealership and waited for the ego-boosting honks of appreciation. Often missing from those adventures was Lori.

              Lori: “I can’t make it. I have to do the laundry and vacuum.”

              Us: “How about when you’re done? Meet us then.”

              Lori: “I can’t. I have to watch my little brothers and sister.”

              Us: “How about when your parents get home?”

              Lori: “They won’t be back until really late. Go without me.”

A huge milestone was when I was the first of us to get my driver’s license. We immediately gained the freedom we’d been craving since watching older teens cruise past as we waved from the wooden fence. Soon, we were driving with the rest of the group, stopping at a 7-Eleven for a Slurpee with me showily twirling the car keys around my index finger. That summer we cruised back and forth to the Jersey shore several nights a week just because we could. My parents thought they’d curtail my roaming by denying me access to their cars. No problem. Jackie’s mom let me drive hers so off we went. For hours we cruised, often with no destination in mind. When it was time for Lori and me to get home, Jackie would usually go with one or the other of us.

              Us: “Don’t we need to get your mom’s car back?”

              Jackie: “Nah. She doesn’t care.”

              Us: “Well, you should call and let her know you won’t be home tonight.”

              Jackie: “It’s okay. She probably won’t even notice.”

Fifty years of friendship. We’ve been each other’s cheering section, best audience, and most honest critic. We’ve been there through it all. First kisses, first loves, first heartbreaks. Family history, family dynamics, family secrets. Marriage, children, divorce, death. We’ve argued and hurt each other’s feelings and always moved beyond. We do more than listen and sympathize. We know. Know, only in a way possible because we’ve been together from the time we were cork.

Today

Our recent dinner was both a celebration and the mourning of Lori’s impending move to South Carolina. For numerous reasons, this is the best decision for her family, and we are excited for her. For selfish reasons, Jackie and I will miss the easy camaraderie that comes with our lifelong friendship. Always sentimental after a couple of long pours of wine, I lamented that it’s hard to break up a trio that’s been together practically since we were in diapers and bibs.

“But,” I said, thinking about buying Depends from the smirking teenager at Walgreen’s (long road trips can be tricky and sneezing fits are a big mess), “I guess we’ve been friends so long that we actually need diapers again.”

Jackie looked pointedly at the blob of salad dressing that had landed on my chest and said, “And bibs.”

Lori laughed that infectious laugh and said, “I guess when you’ve been friends as long as we have, you come full circle.”

 

Still Looking For My Zen

Another birthday, another delightful opportunity for me to take stock of my life. I get to weigh my successes and failures, laid out before me like a Balance Sheet or Profit and Loss Comparison (it’s tax season as I write this so you can guess where my head is) and assess my level of accomplishment. As I turn fifty-seven, I’ll be evaluating the degree of Zen I’ve managed to achieve, as that has been this year’s gift to myself. I’m up to ten minutes of meditation at a time. I perform my Downward Facing Dogs almost daily and haven’t faceplanted during Tree Pose in weeks. So, as I approach this next birthday, I’ll be celebrating my newfound ability to release negativity. I’m finding my truth; what is worth getting upset about and what is not. In other words, I’ve learned to let go of things I no longer give a shit about.

My language, since I’ve brought it up. I’m a verbalist. I express myself through words. And, if I throw in a sailor-worthy swear word for emphasis and someone finds it offensive, I don’t give a damn. With a cleansing breath in through my nose and out through my mouth, I mentally pardon them for not being as evolved as I am. Also regarding word choice, I no longer get that twinge in my heart when I use the expression-of-the-moment, and my children roll their eyes. As they unsuccessfully hide their smirks behind their hands, snickering at the Old Lady’s use of trendy phrases, I refuse to let them harsh my mellow. I offer a tranquil smile in response because deep in the cratered recesses of my mind, I’m still that groovy chick who can boogie down with the best of them. So, do me a solid and take a chill pill, ya dig?

I used to torture myself by succumbing to the advice of those opinion pieces, like “40 Things No One Over 40 Should Ever Do.” No more. At this Zen stage of my life, I no longer give a second’s credence to those articles written by snot-nosed prepubescents imperiously dictating age-appropriate behavior and fashion tips. If I want my knobby, 57-year-old knees on full display below the hem of a mini-skirt, I will not be age-shamed. My knees, my choice. And, while I’m at it, if I choose to wear a skirt cut all the way up to my nether regions, again, my choice. Just like it’s that Vogue-Editor-in-Chief-wannabe’s choice to look. Or not.

There was once a time when I wouldn’t step foot out of my house, not even for a quick trip to the grocery, without a full face of makeup and a lengthy session with my curling iron. I mean, what if somebody saw me, for Chrissakes? Now, when I need my chocolate fix, I don’t bother to change out of my flannel pajama pants, brush my teeth, or clean the crusties out of the corners of my eyes (please don’t think I’m totally gross) before racing out the door. You see, I have transcended my need for approval from others.

I admit there was a time when I performed random acts of kindness as much for the attention it garnered me as for the intention of helping someone. Now, with a more modest approach to altruism, I take quiet joy in offering support or coming to someone’s aid. I don’t need credit when I’ve graciously corrected someone’s toilet paper if it’s hanging the wrong way, trailing down the wall from the back of the roll. With a serene smile to myself, I switch it so the roll leads from over the top. The only reward I seek is the knowledge that I’ve set things right in the universe.

Once upon a time, my blood pressure would soar when I’d engage in the age-old battle of which is the best band of all time, the Beatles or the Rolling Stones. No more. I accept that people have different tastes. We all have our associations with this classic music, certain songs transporting us back to an early love or a past heartbreak. I enjoy both bands, and their lyrics and melodies are part of my constitution. If asked to choose, I assert with unwavering confidence that the Beatles are the greatest. But I’ve reached new heights of enlightenment and am no longer rattled when someone disagrees because I now recognize that they are entitled to their incorrect opinion.

I believe that good manners are the cornerstone of civilized society. As my children were growing up, I strove to model good behavior, often “rising above” someone cutting in line or speaking out of turn. With my own growth in mindfulness this past year, I’ve realized that I may be stunting the growth of others if I allow myself to be victimized by their bad behavior. Recently, I had the opportunity to explore my guru potential when I encountered a particularly teachable moment. I had just left a club in New York City and was standing on the edge of the street, hand raised to hail a cab, while carefully (and politely) avoiding interfering with other passing cars. As the yellow taxi careened toward me, a drunkenly raucous young woman in a skin-tight Spandex micro skirt, with her gazelle-like, perfectly tanned legs on full display, glanced at me as she pranced toward the car I’d successfully flagged. Oh, hell to the no! As she staggered, laughing at my stubby legs peeking out like sad little ghosts from beneath the bottom of my mid-thigh length dress, visions of Kathy Bates from Fried Green Tomatoes flashed through my head. I scurried toward the car handle, pushed her hand away, yanked the door open, and hip-checked her as I slid into the back seat. “You may be younger and faster, but I’ve been a bitch a whole lot longer.” As I chuckled over the memory of the incident afterward, I realized that I might have some work to do on my inner guru.

Restaurants have become the bane of my existence. Recently, however, I’ve tapped into my Zenness to reclaim my enjoyment of eating out. I recognize that it is my duty as a patron to help the wait staff understand my little idiosyncrasies. I know they are trained to maintain the illusion of “fine dining” by whisking away my plate to some magical place behind closed doors to pack my leftovers into foil containers. But I need to make sure every last drop of saffron sauce is scraped into that container. I have to tightly roll up a paper napkin to create a divider between leftover pad Thai and the sugar peas. I must make sure that those nasty chickpeas I’ve carefully extracted from my loaded quinoa salad don’t accidentally end up going home with me. So, while they graciously and firmly tell me, “No, no, it’s no problem…I’ve got it,” I just as graciously and firmly place my hand on the plate and say, “I insist.”

One of my greatest anxieties in restaurants had become the constant hovering of the table clearers, eying me from across the room, ogling my every move. If I dared rest my fork to take a sip of water, I’d feel the rush of air as one swooped in to grab my plate away. When did the notion of “good service” devolve into forcing diners to gulp down their meals? The day I discovered myself hunched over my lunch, both arms protectively placed around my dish to nonverbally indicate that I was still actively engaged in eating, I snapped. I’d made the fatal error of thinking I could put down my utensils momentarily when the busboy grabbed my plate. “No! I am NOT done!” I yelled at the poor child, physically yanking back the half-full plate he had snatched. At that point, my Zen was nowhere to be found. These days, I try to ignore them as they drift about, poised to spring into action if I dare chew my food thoroughly. At the first sign of infraction, I place my fingers on the rim of the plate, draw a meditative breath, smile, and calmly inform them that I am a slow eater. Placing my hands over my heart chakra, I repeat myself. I am very slow. Bring-the-rest-of-the-table-their-dessert-while-I-finish-my-meal kind of slow. I will let you know when I am done.

Let me wrap up my restaurant rant discussion by saying that Sally from When Harry Met Sally has nothing on me. I understand that chefs are proud of their creations, thoughtfully combining flavors and textures to entice their customers. Unfortunately, I have dietary restrictions, not to mention an eccentricity or ten, and used to get stressed at the thought of customizing my order. I would pick out the components in my salad that I didn’t like or couldn’t eat because I didn’t want to be deemed “difficult.” Now, I get my salad precisely the way I want it. No cheese, egg, or meat. Dressing on the side, and is there any dairy in it? If so, just bring me oil and vinegar. Add olives and extra tomatoes, unless the tomatoes have been refrigerated or are underripe, in which case, leave them out altogether. Add walnuts, if they can be toasted; if not, add almonds. I like my carrots shredded, please, not diced or julienned. No spring mix – substitute Romaine and arugula instead, thanks. Could I more easily make my own salad at home and maintain my hard-earned tranquility? Sure, I could. But, as adorable as my husband is, I’m not immune to the eye-candy in the form of the thirty-something waiters at Maggiano’s Little Italy.

With age and wisdom comes Zen. At least the semblance of Zen. With nearly six decades under my belt, I am less concerned with how others view me and more comfortable in my own skin. I may decide to color my hair purple. I will continue wearing the jeans I love, possibly graduating from bell bottoms to bootcut, if the spirit moves me. I won’t worry about whether I’m “ladylike” when I let a string of obscenities fly at the reckless driver who nearly sideswiped me or when some little shit tries to steal my taxi. I refuse to count calories because I enjoy great, fully customized food. I laugh out loud and unabashedly. I’m giddy when I’ve indulged in a strong drink or glass of wine. My family, friends, and animals are the center of my world. Most significantly, however, as I reflect on my advancing years, I am deeply salty (cue my children’s rolling eyes) about the disco ball ring, inarguably the greatest women’s accessory ever designed, no longer being in fashion. Namaste.

* * * * *

I Got A Facial

It’s no secret that I’m easy prey to all the latest fads for beating back the rapidly turning pages on life’s calendar. I wish I had the confidence of the beautiful Jamie Lee Curtis and Helen Mirren who gracefully embrace the passing of time, but I come from the land of the Real Housewives of New Jersey. Here, we embrace each other with a critical eye and our greetings, instead of “How are you?” begin with “You look great!”

I was an early admirer of Jack LaLanne, following him on television as I touched my toes and did jumping jacks. I was a devotee of Jane Fonda, donning my shiny spandex leotards and sweating to her high-paced aerobics workouts on VHS. I’ve powerwalked; I’ve kept pace with Denise Austin through the decades; I’ve Jazzercized; I’ve joined gyms and quit gyms; I’ve taken step classes and spin classes and cardio funk classes and yoga classes and Zumba classes. I bought Jillian Michaels’ Body Revolution and worked myself into a (short-lived) size 4. I’ve fought gravity every inch of the way with ab crunches and pumping iron.

Alas, the face and body cream industry has also benefited from my insecurities…and my gullibility. Hydrate and moisturize, rinse and repeat. By this age, I’ve spent enough money on slathering products for my face and neck that my husband and I could have retired years ago. I’ve needed the age-appropriate cleansers, toners, eye creams, daytime moisturizers, nighttime moisturizers, acne treatments for “mature” skin (something’s wrong with that reality). Twelve years ago, I was a chaperone for my daughter’s dance group on a trip to Kentucky. Another little girl stayed with us in our hotel room and marveled at my case filled with lotions and potions – “more than Harry Potter has!” – she exclaimed. That was a proud moment for me.

Drunk Elephant

My insomnia has permitted me to remain updated on trends in exfoliants, glycolic acid, and retinol as the late-night infomercials readily educate me. I’ve explored Botox and fillers, but the idea of injecting foreign substances into my face freaks me out. I’ve bought home microdermabrasion kits and ultrasound devices that are supposed to cause my sagging facial muscles to contract, thereby restoring them to my early twenties’ firmness. How about DNA-based skincare? Should I explore the gluten-free products? Kim Kardashian informed me that a vampire facial is what I want. How about a gold facial because, I mean really, I haven’t wasted enough money, yet? Fermentation? Radiofrequency? Mesotherapy? Do I need these?

With the slackening jawline and turkey jiggly thing developing under my chin, I’ve pondered a partial facelift. But, when does it stop? I’ve heard I could become addicted to surgery. Would my nipped and tucked face look fresh and youthful, or just nipped and tucked on my wrinkly, rickety body sitting in the poor house beside my long-suffering husband?

Just as I resigned myself to a lifetime of demanding that candid pictures of me were never posted on social media…just as I learned to stop gasping in horror when my phone camera accidentally swiveled to selfie mode, accentuating the multitude of chins and parenthesis-shaped lines around my mouth, Groupon emailed me the answer. The newest and the latest. A non-surgical approach guaranteed to give me the same results as a facelift. As I said…gullible.

And, to add excitement to the thrill, I could also get liposuction results with a non-surgical body procedure. Why wouldn’t I want to make my love handles disappear? Smooth the bulge under my belly button? These two miracle treatments, for face and body, were on special for about $150. What a bargain! I signed right up.

I kissed my husband goodbye the morning of my appointment, surreptitiously making sure he had a good look at my face and figure before I left. I didn’t tell him of my big plans so I could surprise him when I got home. I drove the 45 minutes to the elite spa that offered the Groupon deal and nervously walked into the foyer. I was greeted by a woman who seemed unaware of who I was and why I was there. After a quick conversation, she became animated. Later it would become clear to me that her brief assessment led her to think of me as an easy target.

Communication was not Callie’s strong suit. She was pleasant enough but didn’t understand with whom she was dealing. I needed to know exactly what she was doing. I needed to know how it was going to feel before she ever lay an instrument on me. I needed to know that her lotions and potions were sterile and that the equipment was cleaned after each client. I kept asking for information, and she kept giving me whispered abbreviated answers. I’m not a spa expert so I may not have been aware of some protocol demanding silence. Was I supposed to be quiet or just not question the specialist?

Plus, Callie should have warned me – really, she should have – before she assaulted me with the EXIMIA machine. I’d read that this device employs not one, but two state-of-the-art solutions to my cellulite accumulation. I did my research. While I’m not particularly scientific-minded, I understood the concept of lift and suck. This miraculous Italian contraption would do exactly that to my cellulite in a simple, painless, easy session. After all, I’d paid $150 to be made over in just one visit. Once Callie had applied the lotions needed for the machine to glide over me, a loud banging and sizzling noise startled me into a near panic. She needed two hands to control the gadget as it proceeded to do what I can only describe as trying to eat me alive. It had powerful jaws that chomped and crunched across my abdomen and hips. All while paralyzing me with its commotion.

“Is it supposed to sound like that?” I managed to choke out between gasps for air.

“Yes, yes!” Callie told me with a bright tone. “It’s doing its job. You’ll see a difference in just one day.”

Oh. I forgot to mention Callie insisted on taking photos of me with my phone, full body and close-up of the face, before starting any of these treatments. She wanted to celebrate with me the results when comparing before/after pictures. You already know how I feel about pictures of myself so you can imagine how excited I was by this little exercise.

When she finally released me from the table, Callie took that after-picture but saucily informed me that I couldn’t look until after she’d worked on my face. She wanted to save it for the Big Reveal. Off we went to the facial room which had a smaller version of the body machine I’d just escaped. I knew what to expect this time, though, so braced myself for having my face eaten. Maybe the pressure was less; maybe I was better prepared. As it turned out, I had to control my laughter because that machine tickled as its little mouth gently chewed up and down my cheeks.

Callie was shocked that, at my advanced age, I’d never had a facial. She kept asking me, “Really? Never?” as if that would change history. It was a rather pleasant step-by-step process of cleaning my face, applying lotions and potions, wiping off the lotions and potions, the EXIMIA device nibbling on my face, massaging away the tension, and on. I was relaxed, thinking this was definitely worth my Groupon special rate when Callie pulled out a new device. She applied a thin liquid to my face and began swirling a three-pronged electric current wand all over, from my neck to my jowls, up my cheeks to my forehead.

“I’ll turn it up as high as you can tolerate it,” she told me. “The higher the setting, the better the results.”

“Okay,” I said. I was game. I wanted to see the results. She’d taken the before-pictures, after all, and I wanted to bask in the glow of my freshly treated skin in the after-pictures.

“Just a tingle,” Callie assured me. “You’ll feel a tingle.”

I felt a tingle. Not bad. I couldn’t wait to see the toned muscles, the youthful radiance. As the liquid on my face was absorbed and swept away with Callie’s motions, the tingling grew stronger. Suddenly, it felt as if someone had applied a live wire directly to my face, and my arms and legs began to convulse.

“Stop! It’s burning!” I said.

“Shhh! Not burning. Tingling,” she assured me.

“Burning!” I yelled, swiping the torture device away from me.

“Hm.” Callie eyed me skeptically. “Maybe I didn’t give you enough lotion.”

“Ya think?” I was sitting upright by then, fingering the skin on my forehead, feeling for blisters. Clicking her tongue at me, she lay me back down and applied a hydrating collagen mask to my face.

collagen mask
Callie took those after-pictures. I saw no difference. Not on my stubborn love handles, not around my jawline. My online research had promised me that I’d see a noticeable improvement after one treatment. But Callie informed me that I needed at least six treatments of each to see real results. At full price, I was looking at close to $2600.

“I’ll give you the package rate,” Callie whispered conspiratorially. “You’ll get 20% off.”

Callie may have fancied herself a good saleswoman, but I’d show her that I wasn’t someone to be trifled with. While I had not had the best experience with my first body treatment and facial, a 20% off hook gave me pause. I scratched the body treatments from her proposal and arranged a dubious look on my face as I eyeballed the remainder. She countered with an additional 5% off a package of six facials. I hedged and mulled. Our eyes met, each sizing up the other. I told her that if she would trim another 5% off the facials, I’d do it. She agreed, and I wrote her a big fat check. She grinned as I walked out, a hint of smugness on her lips, but I assured myself that, while I may be gullible, I’d shown her that I’m no sucker.

* * * * *

…The Girl’s Girl

Girl's Girl

I met Jennifer at the farm stand. We got to chatting about the unbearable humidity that had plagued the U.S. northeast for much of the summer. We agreed that the only comfortable places to be were in air conditioning or a swimming pool. Although we’d never met before, she was one of those people with whom I immediately clicked. We talked unhurriedly on a range of topics, including that we were both looking toward retirement. Trying to find the measliest bit of shade to cover us while we chatted, we agreed that we’d prefer to deal with cold and winter over this insufferable heat and humidity.

“Your hair looks great, by the way,” she said.

Confused, I lightly touched it to assess if the humidity had turned my sleekly styled bob into a wiry Brillo pad. “You mean, in spite of the humidity?”

“No,” she said. “No qualifiers. I just like the way you have it styled. It’s very flattering.”

I continued to stare at her, not sure why she was telling me this.

“Isn’t it a shame that women can’t just compliment each other and build each other up,” she continued, “without suspicion of an ulterior meaning?”

Then it hit me. Jennifer is a Girl’s Girl.

I remember as a child, the friends I made were predominantly based on convenience. Who lived nearby. Who was in my class. Happy lunch hours were spent playing hopscotch or duck-duck-goose on the playground. I mainly hung out with my “best friend” or whoever shared my current interest in books and games. I recall being friends with many of the boys, too, particularly those who lived on my street. The only competition I noticed was athleticism – who was best at kickball and therefore chosen first for teams – and report cards. In the fifth grade, things shifted.

A new girl transferred into the school. Colleen was perky and adorable with enviable dimples and a splattering of freckles across her cheeks. The preadolescent boys were gaga, and several girls rushed to befriend her to establish themselves as “popular,” if only by proxy, and I watched the rise of Middle School Mean Girl Mentality. Whereas we’d once all played together as equals, a new hierarchy of who’s in and who’s not was established. Suddenly, cruel names, like “four-eyes,” “fatty,” and “dork” were spit at other girls, thereby verbally discarding former friends. At the tender age of ten-ish, the chubby girl, or the introvert, or the girl with a mouth full of metal, had her developing psyche and sensibilities stomped and ground to a pulp by those jockeying for social position.

In the seventh grade, the competition among the girls became based largely upon their physical appearance. Who was the prettiest? Who was the thinnest? Who was developing breasts? Who did the boys like? Of course, there were still plenty of girls competing academically and athletically, but they weren’t the ones society was instructing us to hold in esteem. Billions of dollars were spent annually on make-up, hair care, diet pills, the latest exercise craze, short skirts and low-cut tops. I don’t recall any of the messaging campaigns for “self-improvement” directed at boys.

By high school, it was clear that, while a girl could excel in areas such as soccer or physics, what was of utmost importance to most was if she was liked. In my own teenage mind, I believed I was in the popular category. That didn’t stop me from anxiously checking my friends’ schedules every day to make sure I would have someone to sit with in the dining hall; it didn’t stop me from spending all week arranging social engagements for Saturday. Better yet, if I had a steady boyfriend at the time, I never had to suffer the humiliation of sitting home over the weekend without plans. The residual insecurity and self-doubt that began during those middle- and high-school years haunt me still.

Are there exceptions to this thesis? Of course. But, it’s not difficult to see the evolution of how girls treat each other and understand the underlying problem. What if, instead of the cattiness and put-downs, girls were raised to encourage and support each other? What if, instead of eying one another to assess if the hair/make-up/weight/clothes were up to some superficial standard, we eyed each other with genuine caring and compassion? What if put-downs were no longer in vogue, having been replaced with build-ups?

And, what if girls weren’t taught that their value lay in youth and allure but, instead, on character and accomplishment? In Beyoncé’s song Flawless, novelist Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie says:

We raise girls to see each other as competitors/Not for jobs or for accomplishments/ Which I think can be a good thing/But for the attention of men.

Unfortunately, by the time we graduate high school, this shallow value placed on a woman becomes normalized for many. I can remember in my 20s, one of my college friends was studying a picture of the two of us. It was before I dropped the freshman fifteen I’d put on five years earlier. It was also during the time when she began struggling with bulimia. I can still envision her, as if she’d forgotten I was watching, looking from her image, to mine, and back, using her fingers to measure the thickness of my waist compared to hers, my thighs compared to her thighs. She walked over to a full-length mirror and began turning one way, then the other, to admire how skinny she’d become. Not that there was anything wrong with her wanting to look her best. But, during her short 20-something years, she’d become convinced that her very worth hinged on her appearance.

If we’re lucky, we have role models who can help buck the ideals society dictates. But, those lessons are always in competition with pervasive images and influences that are difficult to ignore. In Hollywood, there is a saying that “there’s always someone younger and thinner.” How many brilliantly talented actresses spend copious amounts of time and money being nipped, tucked, and liposuctioned into plastic-looking oblivion? Renée Zellweger is one of the most acclaimed actresses of her generation, having won multiple awards including an Oscar. Why, then, do entertainment sources concentrate less on her body of work and more on her body, with every pound she gains or loses? Susan Lucci, the undisputed queen of the soap operas with a career spanning over forty years, has undergone the plastic surgeon’s knife over and over to maintain her vixen appearance into her seventies. Sadly, the male-controlled industry continues to reinforce its standard of value. And, tragically, women continue to buy into it.

My girlfriend Kathy, who I’ve known for almost thirty years, is a Girl’s Girl. How many times has she come upon me in the throes of emotional self-flagellation to rescue me from my torment? When my thighs are too big, or my love handles have become a full-blown muffin top, I have only received support and encouragement from her. “I think you look great!” or “Really? I thought you’d lost weight!” When I complain about my slackening jawline or the turkey neck I’m developing, she tells me, “You have beautiful skin, and you always look great.” She builds up my confidence in the areas that have been my lifelong demons and focuses on my accomplishments, instead. When I announced I was taking the plunge and “going for it” as a writer, she became my unpaid marketing hero. This should all be a given between friends, right? Unfortunately, by the time many of us reach middle-age, we are still sifting through the women who are stuck back in that Middle School Mean Girl Mentality. So, when we find those who have managed to leave that all behind and enter friendship with real love, support, and kindness, we hold them dear.

I won’t say I have been above all that nonsense through the years. The appeal of being part of the “in” crowd is strong, and the influence of society is intense. I believe I’ve softened and grown, and I intentionally practice extending kindness to other women as I’ve learned from those in my life, like Kathy. A couple of years ago, I was on a mission trip to Guatemala. Each morning, we’d all meet in the dining room of our hotel for breakfast. Early in the week, I noticed another guest at the hotel, a woman slightly older than me who was always by herself and seemed a bit sad. Something from the Middle School Mean Girl Mentality days stirred in me and it felt like watching a high school classmate sitting alone at the lunch table. I made it a point to catch her eye, offer her a smile, and say “good morning” to her. Each day, I watched her face light up in response. At the end of the week, as we were getting ready to leave, the woman approached me in the lobby.

“I need to tell you,” she began. “I’ve been here all week to visit my son in the hospital. He suffered a brain trauma and has been in a coma. I live in Canada but flew here when I was notified of his accident. I have been sitting by myself at the hospital with him, each day, not knowing if he would survive.”

“Every morning,” she continued, “when I came down for breakfast, I was worried about what I would find when I went over to the hospital. And, every morning, you were in the dining room, smiling at me. You’re a complete stranger, but somehow you could see I needed that smile. Yesterday, the doctors said that my son was going to be okay.”

She reached out to hug me, and for nearly five minutes, we held each other. I had tears in my eyes for all she had been through with her son. She cried with relief that he was going to make it. It was such a small thing on my part, but to learn that merely offering someone a smile had helped her during the darkest time she’d ever faced, made me think.

Women can offer so much – to themselves, to each other, to the world. Why, then, do we allow ourselves to be pitted against one another from a young age? What if a conscious effort was made, instead, to teach our daughters how to build up other women instead of tearing them down? What if we stopped placing such value on the shallow and superficial? What if we cherished character and accomplishment? What if competition was based on how to be our best instead of how to look our best? Imagine how much healthier and happier we’d be if we were all Girl’s Girls like Jennifer and Kathy.

…Does My Twenty-Five-Year-Old Son Make Me Look Old?

Avery 25th

Our son, Avery, just turned twenty-five. Twenty-five! Two and a half decades! I still have vivid memories of that towheaded, blue-eyed toddler, with the ever-present grin, who was running as soon as he could walk. He called me “Mama” and displayed clever wit from the start. At eighteen months, his favorite toy was a Playmobil firetruck complete with a bucket ladder that could go up and down. There were firefighters and a Dalmatian that fit into the bucket. One day, I put the dog into the ladder in the down position, and said, “Look, honey, a Dalmatian. Dal-ma-tian. Can you say that?”

Avery didn’t miss a beat. He put the ladder, complete with dog, in the up position and said, “Upmatian.” He grinned, waiting to see if I got the joke. When I did, I spent the next several weeks – or couple of decades – bragging about my son’s sense of humor.

Twenty-five years. All those milestones and goalposts that he’s hit. The physical growth – he’s six feet tall; the personal growth – he no longer regards himself as the expert on a given topic as he knows there’s always more to learn; the academic achievements and strides in his career; the ease and confidence that come with maturity.

So, while Avery has spent the past twenty-five years growing into this fine young man, let’s focus on the important question: does my twenty-five-year-old make me look old? Because, let’s face it, in my little world, isn’t it always about me?

Do I miss the infant I used to cradle in the sleepy hours of the morning or the pudgy little hand in mine as we crossed busy streets? Of course. His sports teams that became part of my life. His church classes that meant I became an instructor. His school field trips that I attended as a chaperone. I was his chauffeur, his organizer, his chef, his doctor, his teacher, his cheerleader, his comforter. I was his everything. So, what happens to me now that he’s all grown up?

First, I had to get past the notion that he was “mine.” He is my son. He has never been “mine.” Instead, I focused on the burgeoning adult and consciously shifted my approach to interacting with him. I gave him space to develop a sense of autonomy. I listened with respect to his thoughts and plans before offering advice. Did he always take it? No. But, he learned to appreciate me as someone equipped with experience, unconditional love, and genuine interest in his well-being.

Second, I rediscovered what I like to do for myself. I heard all the suggestions. I read all the articles. So, I started to focus on my writing, giving it the attention that had been back-burnered while the kids were little. Also, I joined a gym and began having regular facials because, let’s be honest. While I’m proud of my twenty-five-year-old son, I don’t want to look like I can have a child that old.

Our son, who was born with a need to always be on the go, returned last year from a graduate program that allowed him to study in Africa and Abu Dhabi. During that year, he indulged his wanderlust and visited several countries, including Thailand, Australia, India, Portugal, and Spain. Upon his return from Seville, Spain, he informed us that his new life plan included moving there. He’s had some random and far-fetched schemes over the years, but this one seems to be sticking. So, when he said to me, “Hey, I’m going to Spain for a couple of weeks. Wanna go?”, of course, I said yes. Truthfully, I felt a little honored that he invited me. I’m sure he had ulterior motives, like convincing me that his latest plan has merit (and that I’d foot the bill for food and entertainment, at the very least). But, still.

I’ve traveled with Avery throughout our lives together, but this trip was different. I was not in charge. He made all the plans, from the airplane and accommodations to leading me on sightseeing tours through both Barcelona and Seville. He’s visited those cities before, while it was my first time. He’s fluent in Spanish, while my anxiety causes me to spit out bad high school French in a pinch. He eagerly showed me ancient relics and regaled me with detailed Spanish history, while I learned from him with mixed fascination and pride. He strode with relaxed, cosmopolitan confidence, while I fretted over figuring out which subway line to catch.

In Barcelona, we watched the World Cup Finale of football (a.k.a. soccer) on tv in a restaurant. We walked the usual tourist spots, from the magnificent Arc de Triomf to the endless stalls of La Boqueria Food Market, to the quirky tiled intricacies of Antoni Gaudi’s Park Güell. We dined on paella and strolled the Rambla, down to the marina. I scurried to keep up with my long-legged companion, reminding him with frequency that, “I’m not doing too badly for an old lady, right?” as we crammed a week’s worth of sightseeing into two days.

We hopped a 90-minute Vueling flight to Seville, during which time Avery squirmed in anticipation at returning to the city he’d come to love. I forced a smile on my face every time I cracked my knee on the seat back in front of me while crossing my legs. I maintained a serene expression while furiously elbow wrestling with the man-spreader on my other side. By the time we arrived in Seville, I was suppressing fatigue from my tribulations and irrational annoyance with the country at large.

One look at the city of Seville acted as a balm on my angst. It was every bit as beautiful as Avery had described. Within three days, I was in love with it, too. Less international than Barcelona, Seville gives a more authentic sense of Spanish culture. I became very adept at day drinking sherry, beer, and wine with my tapas, accepting the more relaxed rhythm of the Sevillian life. Still, we saw much of the Old Town, from its modern structures, such as the wooden mushrooms, as Avery coined the Metropol Parasol, to the ancient ruins, Antiquarian, dating back to ancient Roman times. I feared Avery would be impatient, dragging his old bag of a mother behind him, as I begged for occasional breaks in a park or tapas bar to rest in the 100° weather. But, he wasn’t. He seemed to enjoy sharing the city with me.

We managed to squeeze in a walking tour, combining history with the culture of tapas. We hit roughly ten tapas bars while we were there, loving the lighter, more frequent meals. We saw the Spanish royal palace and gawked at the magnificence of the Seville Cathedral. We spent hours roaming the Plaza de España in Maria Luisa Park, expressly designed and built for the 1929 Ibero-American Exposition. Everywhere we walked, in every direction we looked, we found ancient buildings with rich history. All the while, Avery chatted happily, explaining the influence in the city from the Romans to the Moors and through the Christians.

We spent five days together in Spain, just Avery and me. I kept waiting for hints of him wishing I could attend a free midnight flamenco dance show instead of paying for the 7:30 PM version. I expected that he’d laugh at my goofy hat designed to keep the scorching sun off my face. Instead, he offered me sunscreen for my nose. I apologized for my (comparatively) early bedtime of 11 PM, but he insisted that he needed to catch up on his sleep, too.

Then, it struck me. Avery hadn’t simply grown up. He was an adult. We’d moved through all those wonderful moments of childhood where his every decision relied on me. We’d survived the turbulent teenage years when sarcasm reigned supreme. And, we came out the other side as two people who genuinely enjoy each other’s company.

Our son is twenty-five-years-old. A quarter of a century. He remarked to me that the milestone was a startling realization of his advancing years. My knee-jerk thought was, “Well if you think that makes you old, imagine how I feel!” Instead, after I bought myself a new advanced skincare line, I basked in the recognition that, while our dynamic has changed, I am still every bit as relevant in Avery’s life as when he was a child. He may no longer need me to hold his hand while crossing the street, but he values that I’m still eager to cross that street with him. He’s no longer pulling away from me, as he did his first day of preschool, racing to explore the world. Now, he’s inviting me along for the ride. One thing hasn’t changed, though. At my insistence, my twenty-five-year-old still calls me “Mama.”

…I See Your Headache And Raise You One Kidney Stone: The Game Of One-Upmanship.

One-up

It’s summer. Beaches, barbeques, and baseball. And, my mid-thigh length white shorts that reveal the paunchy waist that’s been kept under wraps all winter. The paunch and the colossal ropey scar that runs from two inches above my kneecap to about an inch below. I wish I could say that scar was something I wore like a badge of honor along with my gray hair and wrinkles. Unfortunately, it’s merely the result of the reconstruction surgery on my kneecap following a kitchen slip-and-fall.

That injury, which required a year of physical therapy to regain use of my leg, wouldn’t be particularly story-worthy except it came directly after my daughter’s diagnosis of Osgood-Schlatter disease, a common cause of knee pain in adolescents who are going through growth spurts. My family “jokingly” alleged that I was trying to steal my 10-year-old’s thunder by one-upping her with my shattered patella. There may be a subconscious element of truth to that accusation. Every time my daughter would explain to someone why she’d quit Irish step dancing or couldn’t jump rope, I found myself chiming in about my own knee.

What is that? Why do we feel compelled to pull out our own illnesses and injuries for discussion when we learn about someone else’s woes? I have a theory.

When I was a child, if my mother wasn’t reading me a lively story from the countless fairy tales and children’s books that crowded our living room bookshelves, she would regale me with stories from her adventurous childhood. While I loved hearing about her Airedale Terrier, Tippy, and how she and my father met in college, nothing piqued my interest more than the antics of the Blue-Haired Ladies. These were the socialite friends of her maternal grandmother from New Haven, CT who would gather weekly for tea and a cutthroat game of pinochle. My mother, who spent a month every summer with these grandparents when she was a little girl, told me how she would hang out under the card table, assessing who had the baggiest stockings and chubbiest ankles. In her boredom, she would eventually tune in to the conversation taking place above her.

“My William, we were all day at the doctor’s last week. You know…diabetes.”

Another would pipe up. “Oh yes, diabetes. My father had diabetes. He lost his right leg up to his knee.”

Loud gasps.

A third could barely wait to contribute. “Well, my sister, Minnie, poor dear. Her diabetes caused kidney failure!”

A chorus of, “Ohhhh,” ended the conversation.

I can remember thinking what a boring bunch of old ladies they must have been, sitting around with their blue-tinted hair and nothing better to talk about than their illnesses and injuries. Did any of them ever read a good book? What about travel to foreign countries? Or, didn’t they have hobbies like making tissue paper flowers or blowing the insides out of eggs and painting the shells? Couldn’t this group of bored, wealthy Blue-Haired Ladies find ANYthing else to talk about?

As I got older, I started to understand that it wasn’t just that select group of elderly women who discussed their health incessantly. I began witnessing it in my grandmother’s generation. The only difference then was the hairdressers had stopped using that bluing agent. Now, I heard nearly identical conversations from the Gray-Haired Ladies.

Gray-Haired Lady #1: “Oh, my sciatica. I’ve never known such pain! I can’t sit. I can’t lie down. And, forget sleeping.”

Gray-Haired Lady #2: “You think that’s bad? Try having a herniated disc in your neck! Talk about pain. I can’t even turn my head! My doctor says I can’t drive until it’s better.”

Gray-Haired Lady #1: “But, the amount of aspirin I have to take. Oy! In the morning…before bed. Too much! It’s too much!”

Gray-Haired Lady #2: “Well, I’ve taken so much aspirin that I’ve developed a stomach ulcer.” This statement would be followed up with the kicker: “Now I’m on Tagamet.”

A collective gasp arose. Then, another eager contribution.

Gray-Haired Lady #3: “Patti’s husband was just diagnosed with…” voice lowered to a whisper, “…cancer.” Pausing briefly, she added with a nod, “Lung.”

At the mention of the C-word, all conversation would halt, and the wagging of gray heads would confirm that no one could top that. That’s when it hit me. This prattling on about illness and medication, injuries and emergency room visits, wasn’t just to fill the silence. It was a competition.

My tiny 4’10” grandmother couldn’t hope to keep up. As she aged, she remained in nearly perfect health while her friends began dropping like flies. By the time she was eighty and diagnosed with osteoporosis, she was the last woman standing. Osteoporosis was an impressive candidate for entrance into the competition, especially when Fosamax was prescribed as treatment, but there was no one left with whom to compete.

Until my mother broke her foot. Then the games began a little closer to home. Grandma was first out of the gate.

Grandma: “You don’t have thinning bones, do you? That wouldn’t have been the cause. You’re too young for osteoporosis, but maybe you should be checked, just to be sure.”

Mom: “No, I tripped and fell down the steps. That’ll do it to anyone.”

Grandma: “Lucky for you. If it had been me, I could have broken a hip!” She takes the lead.

Mom: “Well, I did break my foot in four places.” Whoa, what’s this? Mom pulls ahead.

Grandma: “You know, a broken hip for someone my age is usually the kiss of death. First, it’s the hip, then pneumonia sets in, then…” Neck and neck.

Mom: “They had to put pins and screws in my foot to hold the bones together. You haven’t even broken your hip, so I don’t know why you’re talking about it.” We have a winner! The blue ribbon goes to Mom!

I’d chuckle to myself at the intensity of these Games of Injury and Illness. How silly, I’d think. Spending so much time and energy trying to outdo the other person. Then, I began hearing the competition taking place everywhere I went.

In restaurants:

Opening bid: “I just had to find a new cardiologist.”

I’ll see your cardiologist… “I have a cardiologist, too, plus a nephrologist. I spend half my life in doctors’ offices.”

And, the pot goes to… “Well, after having been twice to the emergency room in the past month, I’m having my gallbladder out next week.”

At funerals:

“This is my second funeral this month.”

“This month? This is my second this week!”

I may not be the quickest learner, but I’m pretty good at a game once I know how to play. I was raised on the playbook of the Blue-Haired Ladies. I watched the occasional match of the Gray-Haired Ladies. I had front row seats to the Grandma vs. Mom bouts. I became tuned into the contests that happened all around me. I listened, I watched, and I bided my time on the bench.

And then, it was my turn. I was called up to the Big Show.

I was seven months pregnant with my son when I made the mistake of mentioning to my mother that I had to get up during the night to go to the bathroom. She took that as a challenge. On your mark. Get set.

Mom: “You have no idea. I’ve had three children. Imagine the havoc that’s wreaked on my bladder!” Go!

Me: “Yeah, well, I’m up three or four times a night. That’s a little tough when I’m working full-time. You weren’t working when you were pregnant.” What’s this? Was I gaining ground?

Mom: “I wasn’t working because I had three children under the age of five.” She elbowed me in the gut, and I fell behind.

Me: “Try giving a presentation to a room full of people while a baby is doing a tap dance on your bladder!” I strained to catch up, but she pressed toward the finish line.

Mom: “I was a little busy with my three little children while finishing my master’s degree.” Arms raised in victory as she broke through the tape.

To be fair, she’d had more experience than I by that point. She’d been groomed by pros – her ferocious mother and grandmother – and had years to hone her skills while I was still on deck. I made valiant attempts over the years, but she always walked away with the spoils. Even at the end, she would be victorious.

Me: “I’m so exhausted all the time, I can barely keep my eyes open.” My opening jab.

Mom: “I’m exhausted, too. Sometimes it’s hard to get out of bed.” A block and counter punch.

Me: “But, I’m forty years old and work out regularly. I shouldn’t have to drink six cups of coffee just to get through the day.” A hard left.

Mom: “I’m going to have to quit my part-time job because even that has become too much.” Uppercut to the jaw. I’m down but not out.

Later that year:

Me: “The doctor thinks my problem is peri-menopause.” A swing and a miss.

Mom: “The doctor says I have Multiple Myeloma.” Knockout. Ding, ding, ding.

Fortunately, I had children to whom I could pass along my competitive skills. My son refused to participate, but my daughter gamely picked up the gauntlet. She hurt her back while playing soccer but, luckily, I managed to herniate not one, but two, discs in my lower back. She developed Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, but I won with the Chronic Lyme Disease that my doctor had initially thought was peri-menopause.

That Lyme Disease got me a lot of play until a friend of mine was diagnosed with breast cancer. As I said earlier, that one pretty much always takes the prize. Recently, the doctor told me I also have Hashimoto’s disease, causing a sluggish thyroid, and that I’m pre-diabetic. You can imagine how that made me feel. Yep, I raced home to my computer and logged into Web M.D. to find out how weighty were the new weapons I’d been given to wield in my next competition. Because, I’ve decided that by this stage, I don’t need any more badges of honor. I’m going for Olympic gold.

…Here Comes The Bride…And A Reality Check

IMG_20180609_171129 (1)

I recently attended a wedding in Virginia Beach. Nice, you say. Yes, it was nice. Actually, it was rather spectacular. It was held at the bride’s family home on the Chesapeake Bay, outside in weather that could not have been more ideal. Every detail — the customized ceremony reflecting the couple’s personalities and aesthetic; the strung globe lights and high-end rustic décor; the perfume wafting from the landscape’s burgeoning hydrangea and the florist’s skillfully arranged rose bouquets; the catered spread and the energetic band that featured Motown classics — was orchestrated to perfection. For one evening, I felt about twenty-six again. Instead of my usual two glass of wine limit, I lost track of how much wine and beer I downed. I danced with youthful energy and vigor, hoping that my torso-hugging shapewear would keep my love handles in check under my clinging flowered dress.

You see, the bride is the daughter of my dear friend and college roommate, Kathy. There’s something reality-checking about attending the wedding of a young woman whose mother I have known since we were girls, just eighteen-years-old. It’s not that I’m unaware of the fact that I’ve rounded the corner of my mid-fifties and am sliding out-of-control downhill toward sixty. It’s not that I ignored my 30th wedding anniversary just two days after our trip to Virginia. It’s not even that I’m in denial about my age. I own and brag about every wrinkle, stretch mark, and gray hair I’ve earned through my life.

Maybe I tend not to think about my age too much; maybe I’m not as profound in my assessment of aging as others. Or, maybe I have my own perspective.

I view the passage of time less as a linear journey ending in the inevitable conclusion. I see it more as an amassment of experiences — gathering memories along the way, like precious gems, that I store safely in the treasure box of my mind. Of course, I know that with each birthday, each anniversary, every annual holiday, and each loss of a loved one, time is moving forward. I simply tend to view these events less as markers and more as another reason to enjoy the here and now. I think maybe that’s why attending Kathy’s daughter’s wedding jolted me so. It caused me to step out of my little mindset, unpack some of those dusty memories, and poke through my personal history.

My life’s story is no more remarkable than the next person’s. It’s just mine. Memories, unlike flat photographs, are filled with three-dimensional sensory nudges that can return us to any given event. My treasure box is crammed with a childhood of Fluffernutter sandwiches and Florida Punch flavored Hi-C. The pervasive stench of Sulphur, courtesy of two older brothers whose preteen years were enlivened by setting off cherry bombs in the sewer in front of our house. My dad’s rusty, old Rambler created frequent excitement — could he get it started today or not? Summer nights meant chasing the mosquito spray truck, piling into the car for family night at the drive-in, or hanging out at the local Little League to eat stale concession stand candy and cheer on my classmates.

Throughout my teens, priorities shifted. I was caught up in the usual school work, friends, and boys. I struggled to conjugate the French verb aimer — j’aime, tu aimes, il/elle aime — with Queen’s “Somebody to Love” blaring on my 8-track player for inspiration. Who was dating whom? Where were we hanging out on Friday night? My college days were much the same. I balanced an impressive schedule of Chaucer and macroeconomics with frat boys and Bud Light. I lived in the moment without much thought of my future. Post-college, I floated through various jobs, eventually married, then had children. All the while, I collected my memories.

My father died when I was twenty-seven. I’d suffered loss previously, but this was the first marker that I viewed in those terms. An actual passage of time; a sharp realization that my life wasn’t static. While I continued to create memories — with my husband and children, with my friends, in my career — I was peripherally aware of my own life’s calendar flipping page after page. Still, the years were an abstract to me. A human invention that didn’t hold much significance other than a sudden realization like, “Huh. My kids have moved out, so I guess that makes me an empty-nester.” I’ve always known we were all getting older; I just never framed it formally in my mind.

Until the recent wedding in Virginia Beach. Suddenly, there was my college buddy. The one I’ve known since I was eighteen. The one who could always finish a beer bong faster than I could. The one who, when I picked up the lead singer of a local band, picked up the rest of the band. Despite the 300+ miles between us since college, we’ve shared weddings; the births of our children; trips to see each other in various locations, sometimes with, sometimes without kids in tow; and, sadly, the burial of our beloved friend from school, Samantha. I’ve seen her children growing up through the years, so it shouldn’t have been a shock to see her oldest exchange vows under the flower-draped wedding arch. But, suddenly, my college buddy was the mother-of-the-bride.

Twenty-six years earlier, I’d attended Kathy’s wedding. My memories from that event are crammed with the young faces of our entire college group and their significant others. There were pre-parties and after-parties, abundant food and ever-flowing alcohol. But, as is the case with many of my life’s memories, there is one that stands out from the rest, like a 16×20 portrait capturing the essence of a special occasion. I was privy to a moment between Kathy and her father that remains one of the most poignant exchanges I’ve ever witnessed. Kathy’s dad, handsome in his tux with a smile so proud that it demanded my attention, put his arm around his daughter and asked, “Are you happy?” I can still hear the din from the music and boisterous guests in the background, as she returned his radiant smile and said, “I am, Daddy. I’m so happy.”

I recounted that moment to Kathy’s father when I spoke with him at his granddaughter’s wedding. He chuckled and smiled that same handsome smile. I don’t think he remembered, but I sure do. It occurred to me, as I glimpsed the bride and groom snatch private moments — grabbing a bite to eat, just the two of them; a sweet kiss by the water’s edge; gazing at each other as if they were alone among the guests — that their shared treasure box began when they met six years earlier. They’ll continue to fill it with fiery sunsets as they stroll hand-in-hand on the beach; the bold smell of freshly brewed coffee in the morning; the exotic spices of ethnic foods they’ll sample on their travels; the cherished words “I love you” that are sweetest when spoken by one’s partner; the hot sun on their skin as they go for a run together; the pounding of rain on the roof as they curl up on the sofa with a favorite book. Their lives will be filled with their own remarkable moments that become treasured memories.

As the party wound down, Kathy and I had the chance to catch up. We sat and chatted, laughing about times shared in college and, more recently, a trip we’d made into New York City. I invited myself on a future visit to see the newlyweds at their new home in Seattle. We made tentative plans to travel to Sicily to learn Italian cooking. I look forward to storing those future memories along with the ones we were making the evening of her daughter’s wedding.

And, as is often true with old friends, some long-time traditions never fade. Kathy’s son appeared with a smile as radiant as his mother’s, wielding his own beer bong, identical to the one she and I had used for the first time almost forty years earlier. So, the mother-of-the-bride and I showed the rapidly growing crowd of twenty-somethings what would always be true. Kathy will always finish a beer bong faster than I will.