Filed under: Middle Age, Misc. Humor | Tags: 4th of July, adulthood, bourbon, family, humor, Lord of the Rings, Middle-Age, party, small talk, south, southern, subourbonmom
Someone told me this weekend at a 4th of July party that guests who go to Bill Gates’ house are asked to fill in a questionnaire about their likes and dislikes regarding music and art. The guest is then given a microchip on a necklace to wear, and when they go into any room, the music they like will play, and the art they prefer will be on the walls via computer screen.
At first I was marveling at the technology and thinking how cool that would be; however, I quickly realized three things:
- A home should reflect your tastes, not your guests’ (our tastes revolve around modern sculptures made from piles of flip flops by the door and piles of dirty laundry in the hallway);
- I like experiencing new things, including new music and art (how else would I have discovered Robyn Thicke’s peppy and weirdly cougar-ish song “Blurred Lines?”);
- It’s healthy and interesting to be exposed to new people and new ideas—you don’t have to like them, but it breaks you out of your comfortable bubble of consistency and familiarity (suburbia).
The third lesson was reinforced at this same party when I met a man named…let’s call him Frodo, to protect this man for reasons you’ll soon discover.
Courtesy of lotr.wikia.com
Within moments of arriving, Frodo stood out from the rest of the middle-aged parents/lawyers/accountants and their teenaged offspring that were sweating, talking shop, and drinking lager beer and wine. Wearing trendy eyeglasses and the requisite khakis and golf shirt, Frodo looked something like a hobbit with reddish wavy hair, big feet, and pale skin. He was younger than most of the adults and older than the teens, but had the energy and enthusiasm of a child—and most impressive, his voice carried even farther than mine.
After making our introductions, Hubby and I sat back and simply absorbed the energy coming off of this quirky weapons software developer. Our conversations ranged from the likelihood of anyone surviving a bad plane crash (He informed Daughter #2, who hates flying, not to worry–she would be instantly vaporized because her body is 97% water and water has a boiling point of 212 degrees—clearly he doesn’t have kids), to gravity and sugar rates in the distillation of various bourbons, to his garbled theory on why Merryll Lynch didn’t fail (hubby called him out on that one—Hubby is in finance and wouldn’t let it go), to what kind of people aliens are most likely to abduct. Several times Frodo mentioned doing “covert” operations, but I refused to bite on that one.
As he spoke, I kept envisioning the Ring of Power drawing him to the dark side—it wasn’t hard to picture this man disappearing into the night and arguing with Golem, or using his vast knowledge and imagination to fight an army of Orcs and trolls. However, by midnight I was exhausted and just hoping he would take it off and make himself invisible. I wanted to ask him if he’d been to Mordor, but thought better of it (he didn’t have a sword on him, but I’m pretty sure he owns one) Why ruin a good thing? He was manic, exhausting and fascinating all at the same time.
The best thing about meeting Frodo was that he reminded me how varied and interesting people are. His ideas and energy were a breath of fresh air, and gave us fodder for hours of discussion the next day. So thank you, Frodo, and hopefully the aliens won’t take you before I can ask you about your covert operations next year.
Filed under: Middle Age, Misc. Humor, Parenting | Tags: adulthood, cicadas, family, humor, insects, Marriage, Middle-Age, mom, parenting, parents, south, southern, teenagers
The other day over the rising din of the cicadas, Daughter #1 commented that they don’t have much of a life—they sleep and grow for seventeen years, eat themselves silly, mate, and die after leaving a new generation to come forth seventeen years later. Now I wasn’t touching the mating part of it with a ten-foot pole, but the more I thought about it, I realized we really aren’t that different from those red-eyed, bug freak shows.
For the first seventeen years, we humans sleep and grow in our rooms. We morph and change in our childhood shells, protected form the world, often only emerging for basic sustenance, especially in the latter portion of our incubation. When we do crawl out from our teenage lairs, we eat…and eat…and eat…and mate (or try to). Some of us bring forth the next generation right then. Others never find that mate despite our best singing. The only difference between us and the cicadas is that we don’t die immediately afterward. We go through the cycle at least two more times, with slight variations.
For the next seventeen years, we sleepwalk through college and grad schools, finding that first job, hating that first job, and changing jobs. We try to sing, but we aren’t developed enough yet to find the right mate. Then, somewhere in our mid-thirties, we wake up again. That biological clock begins to tick, pushing us out of our sleep and into the world. We begin to sing in earnest. Many of us find our mates, procreate, and feel like a part of us is dying afterward as our toddlers get their tenth ear infection (a part of us is—the single, care-free part that slept through our twenties).
Seventeen more years of unconsciously suppressing our own desires and needs as we care for our kids (a.k.a. sleeping) passes, and suddenly the children are gone. We are in our early fifties. We emerge again, this time with less desire to mate, but just as much desire to sing. Sometimes our singing does result in mating (hooray—the kids are gone!) and the occasional new generation, or mating occurs with a subsequent divorce, but mostly we just want to sing—and we do, as we travel, go out to restaurants that don’t have crayons on the table, and look at all the pictures on the wall, wondering where the time went.
So, before you step on that crusty shell, or flick that gross-looking cicada off your towel at the pool, remember—we’re a lot like them, only cuter.
Filed under: Exercise, Middle Age | Tags: adulthood, Beauty, Botox, humor, menopause, Middle-Age, mom, parenting, plastic surgery
Like many women, I have toyed with the idea of “getting some work done.” There are so many options available! You can inject things into your face to get rid of the wrinkles. You can make your lips fatter, your bottom rounder and your thighs skinnier. You can even take fat from one part of your body and put it somewhere else. But none of those things has ever really appealed to me. I have found a much cheaper way to make myself feel better about the toll time has taken on my face and body.
I recently heard a speech/performance by Canadian poet Shane Koyczan, about bullying (you can watch it by following the link at the end of the post.) There were many phrases and ideas of his that resonated with me, but the one I want to share is…
“If you can’t find something beautiful about yourself, get a better mirror.”
So I did.
My new mirror isn’t anything special. I got it at the Dollar Store for, well, a dollar. It has a white plastic rim, and for the moment, doesn’t have any water or toothpaste splotches. The glass doesn’t really magnify anything, but it did show me some things in a much different light.
The crow’s feet around my eyes come from years of squinting at diamonds on turquoise seas and Virginia mountain sunrises, and from searching for the Daughters #1 & #2 as they shot a goal or cantered over a jump.
The bump on my nose that makes my glasses lopsided is a reminder of my love of sports, although playing soccer might not have been one of my better choices (I broke my nose by kicking the ball into my own face. Try it at home—I dare you). Running, jumping, kicking and throwing—what a way to celebrate the body I was given!
The wrinkles on my forehead are the marks of a mother who worries about her family—are they doing okay in school? Will we have enough money for college? Do I still make Hubby happy? It is a miracle to have those things to worry about. Why would I erase them?
Even the wrinkles on my upper lip are testimony to the years of clamping my mouth shut in twenty years of marriage. I finally learned that not every opinion needs to be voiced—even though mine is usually better.
The freckles and age spots on my hands come from hours of driving my children to and from school as we talked about our day, from driving across country with Hubby, and riding horses as often as I could. Sure, I could get them lasered off, but why? I don’t want to look like I never had any adventures.
My hips and stomach are no longer flat or small. They shifted and made room for two daughters. No, I don’t have the body of a twenty-year-old anymore—I have the body of a mother, of someone who has survived my babies’ colic, teething, first steps, tantrums, first day of school, and first dates.
None of this is to say I’ve totally accepted this body I’m living in. I still highlight my hair every two months to cover up the gray, and I struggle to fit into jeans that I probably shouldn’t. But when the mirror on the wall in my bathroom isn’t making me happy, I try to remember to get the other one out, the one that says “You’re beautiful because of those lines, and wrinkles and sagging parts. They are the result of living your life, of all the things that have made you who you are.”
The erosion of the walls of the Colorado River could have been viewed as a tragic invasion of pristine countryside—instead, we now see the Grand Canyon as a wonder of the world. Why can’t our bodies be the same?
To see Shane’s performance, go to www.ShaneKoyczan.com.
Filed under: Exercise, Middle Age, Parenting, Sports | Tags: anxiety, family, kids, mom, parenting, parents, soccer, south, southern, teenagers, teens
There’s the old saying that you shouldn’t wear your heart on your sleeve. There’s another one that says teens wear their hearts on InstaGram (#need40likes). My heart has been running around in either a pair of soccer shorts or a pair of horseback riding breeches for the last several years, and in diapers and training pants before that.
A year or so ago, I watched from across the soccer field as Daughter #1 desperately tried to suck in air during an asthma attack. It was a terrible feeling, knowing what was happening, but unable to help. My heart was lying on that field, and there was nothing I could do to make her stop being scared or keep her from hurting. Now, we know to watch for the telltale signs, and even her coaches say, “Go take a puff so you can get back in here.” But this past weekend, after the pollen cloud descended upon us that could have come straight out of a Stephen King movie (think “The Fog”), I listened to Daughter #1 reach a new height of coughing and hacking. After a couple of long nights, we went to the local kids’ Doc-in-a-Box.
When Daughter #1 asked why she still had to go to the pediatric doctor, I said, “I think it’s cleaner, and we’ve probably had most of the germs floating around in there anyway.”
Daughter #1 was not thrilled with that explanation.
Her opinion sank even farther as we walked in and stood in the full waiting room, watching toddlers and preschoolers run around with green noses and tired parents clutching smeared wads of tissues and half-eaten bags of Cheerios.
“I’ll stand,” she muttered.
Only at the end of the visit did I manage to find the “hanitizer” as someone called it.
While we waited to be seen, I theorized to myself what a brilliant business model these places are. They perpetuate their business by opening on off-hours (when most kids do stupid things like shove raisins up their noses); they charge outrageously (I assume to attract doctors willing to work off-hours) and parents are willing to pay in order to get some relief for their child; and they are such a Petri dish of fluid, germs and general grossness that you are bound to return in a few days with new symptoms.
Four prescriptions and one breathing treatment later, I was marveling at the wonder that is better living through chemistry.
Last week, my heart was on the soccer field again, racing around in the form of Daughter #2. A fearless goalie, she took a hard shot to the face with a few minutes left in the game. Her head snapped back and she dropped like a stone. By the time I got on the field she was up and saying she was fine. In fact, she made two more saves, wiping away a nosebleed in between. But something wasn’t right. She was shifting from foot to foot and looking “off.”
After the game, she was evaluated by her trainer, who said she could have a concussion (using the proper disclaimer that he isn’t a doctor). The evaluation was disturbing: Daughter #2 answered everything in a monotone, had little balance, was dizzy, and couldn’t repeat numbers back. She didn’t remember the hit. Again, there was nothing I could do except watch and trust in the people there to help. The next day, feeling like there had to be something I could do, I took her to the eye doctor to make sure it was ok (it was). Beyond that, there was nothing to do but rest and wait.
No “better living through chemistry” with this one.
Anyway, we got through the weekend, everyone is coherent, breathing normally, and getting back on track.
Everyone except me.
Last night I couldn’t sleep, lying in bed with my heart racing and every muscle tensed like I was walking on a tightrope.
It took me a while, but I finally realized that my heart had been so busy running around the soccer fields, getting banged up and bruised, that it didn’t know what to do when it could finally settle back inside where it belonged, if only for the night. In the morning it would be outside again, racing toward the goal, fending off balls, riding horses, walking to and from class, or even driving to work (Hubby has a piece out there, too).
So I did what any mom having an anxiety attack at 2:00AM would do—I grabbed a couple of PMS pills (the symptoms are eerily similar) and read my book until my heart relaxed enough for me to fall asleep.
No one told me that parents wear their hearts on their children. (They also didn’t tell me that children can take their diapers off and play with their own poo, but that’s another story.) Would I have done anything differently had I known? Of course not; but now I know where the phrase “mother’s little helper” comes from. For some of us it’s pills, for some it’s meditation, and for others it’s prayer. For the rest, it’s probably that great anesthetizer of the southern masses, bourbon.
PS–this is in no way a solicitation of parental advice. I’m a firm believer in making my own mistakes, which are as many as the chiggers Hubby attracts every summer.
Filed under: Middle Age, Misc. Humor | Tags: Food, humor, menopause, Middle-Age, mom, shopping
Recently, I showed Daughter #2 a sign I saw on FaceBook that said, “There should be a line in the grocery store for people who have their shit together.” She laughed, then looked me dead in the eye and asked, “Which line would we be in, Mom?”
Ah, from the mouths of babes. Ok, from the mouths of sarcastic 13-year-olds. Lately, I’ve been feeling quite superior during my shopping trips (see previous blog about dressing for shopping success), even allowing myself to make some snarky internal comments about people who still pay for groceries with a check…in the express lane.
Then there’s the whole karma thing again.
The other day, I took my load of groceries to the check-out line, put them all on the conveyor belt and remembered I needed to go find a chocolate bunny to give someone as a thank you. So I left my things on the belt, took the cart and browsed for about ten minutes in the Easter aisle. When I looked down I had no idea where my stuff was.
I stood there for at least twenty seconds drawing a complete blank, when suddenly I remembered—I’d left it on the conveyor belt in the check-out line! I grabbed my cart and chocolate bunny and dashed back to the line, which was—shocker—empty. The twenty-year-old cashier was just staring at me as if I’d sprouted another arm out of my eye socket.
Not sure if I was blushing or having a hot flash, I fanned my face and gasped, “I am so sorry! I don’t know what’s wrong with me!” I’m pretty sure the teenaged bagger was smirking.
I think there should be a designated line in every store for middle-aged women. It would be long, because there are lots of us, and we’re always running back because we forgot something—usually the list we wrote to remind us not to forget anything. The line would have a bin of “found” reading glasses to use or reclaim at the front of it, and a coffee dispenser at the end–your reward for making it through. There would also be a sensor telling you when you’ve walked away after paying and left your bags sitting on the counter.
Clearly, I will never be in the line for “people who have their shit together.” Those days disappeared the day I had Daughter #1. But I still haven’t made it to the “still pays with a check in the express lane” group either.
Subourbon Mom 