Sidelined.....

OK...here's the way it goes.... For some time now, folks that I know, professionally, personally, family, have said things about aging. Negative things. Things that (frankly) I haven't understood. I felt a bit more like Mark Twain "Age is an issue of mind over matter, If you don't mind, it doesn't matter." So I would utter what I thought were consoling sounds and go on my aging way.

The it started, innocently enough...10 days ago...knee pain. Initially a dull ache and feeling of fullness in the back of my knee that grew as the day went on to a full blown sensation of pain, coupled with "noodle knee" as I descended stairs. Doing just fine, being cautious then "whoops" knee gives out. It felt a bit like I was  auditioning to join the Three Stooges. I'd be the sister they never wanted "Clumsy".

10 days of ice, naproxen, resting it when I can, and generally feeling pissy about it, I now know this is a cosmic "gotcha". Yes, what can I expect with 55+ years of using and abusing my knees. Jumping, squatting, gymnastics as a teen, carrying babies, carrying far too much weight, walking miles and miles, standing on hospital floors, using stairs instead of the elevator as much as possible, and believing that none of this would catch up with me. Because I didn't mind seeing my age grow, therefore it didn't matter. Ha!

It apparently matters to Mother Nature, and frankly she's a mean mother.

So, I am behaving in hopes of avoiding one last office visit co-pay before the end of 2013. And to all those that I "may" have done a mental eye roll to as you listed your complaints of aging...I'm sorry. Karma does catch up. If you're looking for me, to say "I told you so," I'll be the one on-duty Christmas Day, walking thru the hospital like Festus from Gunsmoke. Sigh.

Mick's Satisfaction

I think I know why the legendary Mick Jagger "can't get no satisfaction." He doesn't do enough bowling. Pass the word along. A thank you note from Mick would be lovely and I promise not to list it on eBay.

We had a perfectly satisfying Sunday afternoon celebrating son Matthew's birthday. Recipe for satisfaction:
1 part yummy Mexican food
1 part birthday song with sombrero
1 part bowling
1 part watching other patrons bowl
1 part discovering how to put the gutter bumpers up on our alley
and a heaping portion of delicious Nashville tradition Bonnie's Dairy Dip,

all wrapped up in laughter.

There is something so gratifying about time with adult children (adult offspring? What is the politically correct term?). To watch them lean in to talk to each other, laugh over goofy nonsense (like Matt's "Pink Panther" approach to the lane foul line), and just play cheat relax together is my version of heaven on earth. Forget harps, puffy clouds, and sweet cherub angels. I'll take noisy irreverent time with family. And I'm thinking God would like a jumbo margarita and some glow-in-the-dark rental bowling shoes too. Must be heaven.

I wish I'd have said that....

Sometimes you just have to give credit where credit is due. And in this case, it's to a smart kiddo who has Got. It. Bravo young man. Bravo.

Beautiful

I walked out of the hair salon the other day feeling…well…beautiful. At our age, beautiful does not often come into our thought processes. However, no matter how tired, how beat down emotionally, how torn 50 different ways I am, I leave my stylist feeling joyously beautiful, smiling, laughing and feeling appreciated. That is what time with that woman does for me. We laugh, we cry, we share, and in a thousand ways, she tells me how beautiful I am, even if my Weight Watchers points counting has not gone well that week.  

Why are we women, young or chronologically gifted, so often unable to see ourselves as beautiful and beautifully unique gifts to the world?  Exterior beauty has never been something I feel like I have possessed. Not tall, thin, or blonde, I have never been one to  visually bowl someone over. My brain is amazing, my green eyes pretty, my hair has always been a strong point (even now it is stunningly salt and pepper). But breathtakingly beautiful?  Never. I am short, plump, and pretty non-descript. I am, however, an expert at putting down my appearance. My “Wing-Woman” Mary shuts me up when she hears it from me, as does Pepe, my husband.  STOP IT!!!!!!!

I saw this beautiful mosaic (below) of found objects created by one of my favorite artists, Suzan Germond, in one of my favorite galleries. It caught my eye because it is red, a color that symbolizes fire, spirit, and power to me. Looking more closely, you can see all of these little discarded trinkets, fairly meaningless, old, discarded items when looked at individually, which together make this beautiful statement. It is the sum total of what we are, heart, soul, laugh lines, cellulite, grey (uh…salt and pepper, please) hair, muffin tops, strong legs, amazing eyes, great brain, sagging everything, that makes us beautiful.

I feel beautiful when I walk out of my stylist’s salon. I feel beautiful when my husband sneaks up behind me to kiss my neck. I feel beautiful when I look down at my stretch marks from having 3 children (without anesthesia I remind Pepe regularly). I feel beautiful when I am in my Zumba class dancing to those sexy rhythms, feeling like a 30 year old. I feel beautiful when I listen to tango music.

Bette Midler said it well in her song “Beautiful”:

Well, I woke up one morning flossed my teeth and decided

Damn, I'm fierce, you look good

You can be just like me a Goddess? Yeah

 

Don't just pussy foot around and sit on your assets

Unleash your ferocity upon an unsuspecting world

Rise up and repeat after me, I'm beautiful

 

I'm beautiful, I'm beautiful, I'm beautiful

Can you say that?

I'm beautiful, I'm beautiful, I'm beautiful

 

What makes you feel beautiful???????

Outlaws and Inlaws

My daughter-in-law. Hmmmm
My daughter-in-LAW. Hmmmm
My daughter-IN-LAW. Hmmmm

I once had the opportunity to attend a wedding in Mumbai. Of all the awesome memories that I carried away from the experience, there is one that stands out. That I have thought about time and time again. The nearly day-long ceremony was just finished and one of the Hindu priests stood talking with HH and me. He was about our age, with vibrant brown-green eyes, and spoke beautiful English. He had a gentle way of speaking with a firm undertone that made it clear that gentleness is not to be confused with weakness. He was a man of firm beliefs.

He spoke to us of marriage. Covenant marriage, something that HH and I treasure as part of our Catholic faith. And he explained to us about the various ceremonial pieces of the beautiful rite we had just been a part of as our dear friends Shailesh and Pragati married. And then he said, that if we believe in covenant marriage there is NO "in-law". You cannot say that marriage is sacramental and more than a contract between two people and then reduce the relationship of one of the people in the marriage to a legalistic term. In a much more beautiful way than I can express he said "If Shailesh is your son, then Pragati cannot be your daughter-in-law. She is your daughter, fully in your heart."

I can not let that conversation go, even though it happened more than a year ago. Every time I write, or say, "my daughter in law, Kristen", I am mentally given a nudge by my conscience.

Authenticity is important to me. Being who I say I am. Making my behavior match my values. And that Hindu priest challenged me (as I'm sure he meant to). I do authentically believe in marriage as a sacrament. Marriage is more than "in-law" to me. And I am darned lucky about that! I am certain that if HH were given an easy opportunity to either fine me or call the contract broken for failure to live up to the terms he'd have just cause! Instead, he's just said the short prayer ("God Help Me") and kept on loving me through thick and thin (and thicker, and thicker...)

Kristen is a wonderful woman. I can not imagine a more perfect spouse for my son. She is not the daughter that grew under my heart for nearly 9 months - that is my sweet Emily. She is the daughter that grew in my son's heart. And he brought her to me, and my life, as a blessing and a gift.

I did not have the opportunity to see Kristen's first steps, hear her first words, bandage her scraped knees or wipe away tears as she matured through disagreements with friends, disappointments, and hurts from first love. I didn't get to see her in her white baptismal gown, first communion dress, or prom dress. I didn't get to set her curfew, tell her that I didn't care if all-the-other-parents-were-allowing-it, or enjoy the whiplash of teaching her how to drive. But, are those the essentials in making a mother, or a daughter?

As a lover of words, I turned to the authority: Webster. Not helpful. "Mother (noun): the female parent." Well, duh. There must be more. And then I found it, the broader definition: "Mother (noun): bearing a relation like that of a mother, as in being the origin, source or protector." Oh yesssssss.

My children, though adults, all know about the "Momma Bear". That side of me that comes out when I perceive harm or potential harm to one of my offspring. Hold me back, I'm gonna take the threat down! Have I felt that for Kristen? Oh yeah.....don't get me started on when I think she is being mistreated. For instance, her work environment...like forfeiting lunch for over a year so that she could use those minutes to pump breast milk (in the friggin bathroom!) for a full year. My blood still boils.

Then daughter. "Daughter (noun): a person related as if by the ties binding daughter to parent" Ah! There is the crux. What are those ties that bind us as parent to daughter (son)? Clearly more than umbilical. Every adopted child knows that. And it turns out there is research into this very question. And that a source no less than the prestigious NY Times has a recent article on the topic. http://www.nytimes.com/2013/03/17/fashion/the-family-stories-that-bind-us-this-life.html?smid=pl-share

The short answer (in case you don't want to read all of the above) - shared stories. Shared knowledge about who we are, where we come from, and where we are going. The understanding of what we bring to our shared being, and a desire to continue through the ups and downs of life as a part of a larger whole. To want to write the future stories together and relish the stories of the past (and embellish them as necessary). It is knowing the sagas of "shampoop", broken arms, cutting a childhood friend's hair, naming your grandmother, and just how long labor can last. It is understanding the terms "brown babies", "plan for the day", and "ironic". Yes, those are the ties that bind.

So, daughter-in-law, good-bye. You are only a daughter. You get no extra initials. Consider it a demotion, promotion, or one of life's little horrifying moments. I'll let your sister, Emily give you the lowdown on the burdens that accompany that role. But, here's a teaser: two words. Chin. Hair.

Love you,
Mimi

The Bulldozer of Life

I know you've heard the platitudes, we all have...
"When life gives you lemons, make lemonade."
"If you are at the end of your rope, tie a knot and hang on."
"When the going get tough, the tough get going."
"Tough times never last. Tough people do."
"A problem is a chance for you to do your best."

Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Pffffffftttt.

What about those times when you are pretty sure life is driving a bulldozer? You've made lemonade, added gin. Tied a knot, tied it again, tied it again, and realized you didn't earn the knot tying badge in scouts for a reason. Did your best at being tough and just got tired?

My last two weeks have been a bit like that. I've been on dozer duty, and not in the driver's seat. My handsome husband (HH) has been hospitalized. An overnight stay in the ICU, to step-down, to an isolation room, to home with IV therapy. He ran high fevers, and chilled, and wanted me with him. He simultaneously looked like an 80-year-old man and a 12 year-old boy. Gray and scared.

My Godmother died on the same day that HH was admitted to the hospital, with her funeral more than 750 miles from home. I listened as my sweet mother said "I've lost my friend" and I remembered my aunt's voice, laugh, and smile. The way she loved me - unequivocally and unconditionally. Her get up and go and can-do attitude. Her artistry in quilting. And I wanted to be there...and here...and there...and here...and on the moon. Anywhere but caught in this centerline of the road, unsure of what to do and where to go.

And then a visitor fell onto my daughter as she led a caving tour. Turning her lithe and muscular body into a tight knot of pain. And I watched her sit in the hard chair in her Dad's room, with kindness in her eyes and rigidity in her neck and back. I knew she tried to space out her muscle relaxers, although prescribed, because the medicine made her tired and she couldn't drive to spend time at the hospital.

Gosh darn it! Aren't bulldozers supposed to have those annoying OSHA beeper-noises so that a person can scramble out of the way??

As with most rough patches in life. Time goes on, and we are now looking at the tail lights of the dozer. And we have a bruise or two to show for the battle. But, the larger question is (and I know you've been asking "Mary, what is the point of this?") What did we learn from a close encounter with the Bulldozer of Life?

#1 - Get a flag man. You know, those orange vested folk with the "stop" sign on a stick that flips to say "Slow" when you are being diverted through the construction zone. They always have a great tan, have you noticed? That's because they are always out there in the sunshine. They aren't in the heart of the construction zone where the noise of the dozer makes it impossible to hear, and the dust being kicked up makes it near impossible to see. Nope.

The flag man has to be out a ways, where they can see the big picture. You need those folks. Susan is my flag man. Everyday she helped me see that traffic could be diverted and the day was always only 24-hours long. She reminded me to clock out. She even offered to travel from Texas to "cover my shift" if I needed her. She showed me "Stop" by being there, no further away than a text or call and "Slow" when I needed a reminder to just breathe or laugh. Perspective...that's what the flag man brings.

#2 - Lean on the rest of the road crew. I am convinced that those of us who live life in the "I can help" mindset have the hardest time accepting help. When a bulldozer is bearing down on you is not the time to be big and brave and stand alone. NO! Accept the hand that is trying to grab you and jerk you out of harms way! Duh.

Remember, this is a union job - that means you are NOT alone. My oldest son cleared his work schedule for a day and a half, left his sweet wife and beautiful daughter, to drive up and spend time with his Dad, mow our lawn, provide good company for his sister, and force make encourage his Mother to board that plane and go home to be with her parents and family for the funeral weekend.

My second son, drove up and braved isolation gear for an afternoon to join his sister in watching movies, listening to HH charm the nurses, and celebrate Father's Day in great style. Who picnics on BBQ ribs while wearing blue hazmat style gowns? My family, that's who.

My son's father-in-law arrived bright and early on Father's Day to visit HH in the hospital. He fooled the entire family with a wee bit of deceit to pull off his surprise.

And my team of co-workers generously provided top-notch medical care to HH, lightened my patient load whenever possible, and allowed me to leave HH and my usual workload in their hands as I headed to the funeral. All this in the midst of an upsurge in patient census that would have stretched our workdays even without my personal calamities.

And, my daughter listened when I told her it was OK to go home and rest on a heating pad. Her Dad was in good hands. The nurses loved him and spoiled him, and he worked hard to keep them charmed. That made it easier for her to say good-bye and take care of herself.

My friend Cathy texted support despite being on a two-week West Coast adventure with her husband and family, and buddy Mary T. offered advice, support, and lunch. Now that's a road crew.

#3 - Use your walkie-talkie. I'm not sure who invented text messaging, but I owe them a thank you note. I was able to stay in touch with home, HH, siblings, friends, and work at times when a phone call just wouldn't have been suitable. Like when I was trapped on the taxi-way in Minneapolis during a thunderstorm....Somehow texting "Egad! We're gonna be fighting over the last pretzel!" was so much more appropriate than saying it out loud.

Via text I could message HH in the middle of the night when I couldn't sleep, without awakening him. My thoughts were there whenever he was next disturbed for an IV, or vital signs, medication... And my kids could send me their insights about how things were going without worrying about dropped calls, or calling at a bad time. I could give my full attention to the events happening with my parents and extended family, and then turn my full attention to my family at home. I didn't have the feeling that I was "juggling" my varied responsibilities - yet, I didn't feel out of the loop. And God Bless all those loved ones that kept the texts coming.

#4 - When all else fails - lie down. You just might be right where you need to be, between those two big rows of rotating steel tracks. Or, you might be able to duck out of the path for a bit. Big heavy dozers don't make sharp turns very well. Continuing to run in front of the dozer is useless. It's going to keep coming. The human being will always run out of energy before the dozer runs out of fuel. Pick a spot and lie down. Keep your head low, plug your ears, close your eyes, and get out of the way. Even better if this is the time you utilize the lemons and gin mentioned above.

All Things in Due Time

I am a person of immediacy. Intensive care driven, list check-off motivated, when I said do it I meant NOW kinda-gal. OCD. It makes it very hard to be married to a Type B opposite personality husband, and to have been the mother of 3 children who take after their Dad. It is a behavior that has served me well (mostly), has saved lives and kept my home organized, but which has probably shortened my life span from the stress and frustration it has created.

I have been on a vacation of sorts this week.  We had planned on a trip to the coast, but my car and our dog had other plans, and the drain of funds turned it into a stay-cation. Never fear, I said, I can make a list of things to get done. I have needed this time. After 3 years of leadership, and doctoral education, my home has been sorely ignored and needs plenty of attention. The list-building began, including cleaning up and out, reorganizing, fixing my I-tunes problem (that is worthy of a post all its own), quilting, doing some work-related data entry, work-related competency activities, etc.

You can see it coming now…only a few items on the list were addressed. I got wrapped up in the whole I-tunes dilemma and spent almost my entire time off re-loading my 1200 tunes and re-creating all my playlists. My pantry did get cleaned out, and my refrigerator and freezer cleaned, but that was because I sweet talked my husband into showing me how it’s done. I read a book or two, swam and slept, but everything on the list did not get done.

I spent some time at the end of my stay-cation being very frustrated about this, until I read a post by Robin Roberts that put me in my place. Writing about the events of her last year, a bone marrow transplant and recovery, she stated that old bit of wisdom, “All things in due time.”

One of my mantras has been “I know life and death, and this isn’t it.” Why have I not taken my own words to heart? The world will not end because I did not get XXX cleaned, because I did not get my training done, because I didn’t…(fill in the blank). It isn’t life and death. All things in due time.

I have often wished away days and years of my life because I was in a hurry to get things done. May I take a moment to breathe in the fresh air and sunshine, read a good book, take a nap, download another song, hold hands with my husband, listen to a friend. The list will be there tomorrow.

 

 

81852

I’ve had a trying day. Yes, I know that it’s not all about me. But, this is 50% my blog, so bear with me. It began as a simple enough Monday. I awakened to the sound of HH (Handsome Husband) violently vomiting. By violently, I mean that NASA is trying to find the reason for the strange irregularity in the global sound waves.

Now, I don’t know about other wives. And by other, I mean kinder. But when I am awakened by super atomic level vomiting I am cranky. Not compassionate.  So, with a brisk authority worthy of Nurse Ratched, I loaded HH back into bed. Medicated him with an only slightly outdated dose of Phenergan, patted him on the head, and said “If that keeps up, I think you better go to the doctor.” Cue for cranky person to exit stage right, where she departs for a shift at the hospital, providing TLC to strangers. Yes, I’ve now identified another character flaw of mine… compassion for strangers, crankiness for those I love.

A few hours later I call home to learn that HH still feels downright puny. He grudgingly agrees to “think” about medical care. And another hour later, he has made an appointment for late afternoon to see someone. Apparently the distance of a phone line moves my husband of 36 years into the compassion category of “stranger” so that I realize late afternoon isn’t good enough. The man needs to come to the ER. And so it began, the saga of 81852.

After his arrival in the ER, HH complained persistently of being cold. Wrapped in blankets, thermostat in his exam room cranked to 76 degrees. He complained and shivered, and registered 99 degrees oral temperature. Then over the course of 45 minutes, his temperature soared to 103.2 and he headed down an Alice-in-Wonderland-worthy-rabbit-hole. I am here to say that HH had better not become a confused elder, or acquire dementia. Because when he is confused, he is a nasty customer.

His fever brought about a bout of what we in healthcare call “Altered Mental Status”. You may know it as “crazy”. HH was headed to Frankfort (we aren’t sure if that was Kentucky or Germany) in order to fix the plate glass. Huh? He repeatedly called our daughter (Emily) by my name. And he was insistent that he could walk to the bathroom, despite being unable to even stand at the side of the bed. I had to haul out the stern-mother-evil-eye a couple of times and firmly say “lie down” in order to protect him from himself. But the prize winning moment belongs to the poor nursing assistant who came into the room to instruct HH on the specific procedure in order to obtain a clean catch urine sample. As per hospital policy, he looked at HH’s bracelet and then said “What is your name?” HH looked at him, and in a somewhat terse tone said, “81852.” God Bless the nursing assistant, who nicely persevered and said “No sir, not your birthdate. What is your name?” HH responded, louder and undeniably angry,“Eight. Eighteen. Fifty. Two.” I think it took all his will power to not add “idiot” to the end of that sentence. The nursing assistant looked at Emily, who quietly made the universal sign for “crazy” by looping her finger around her right ear. And so the urine sample was obtained from good ol’ 81852.

Who can forget the moving sentiment in Les Miserable, as Valjean sings that he is more than his prisoner number “24601”? He is a man, wrongly accused. His dehumanization into a mere number by Javert epitomizes the wrongness of all that surrounds a corrupt government.  Was HH’s identification by number his statement to the dehumanization of healthcare, or simply the ranting of a delirious patient? You decide, but I’m not shaving my head and fighting the healthcare version of the French revolution with 81852.

Two liters of IV fluid later, and after two infusions of IV antibiotics, HH is now back to baseline. In healthcare speak, that means he’s still a goofball, but he’s back to being my goofball. I think this is part of what was meant when I said "for better or for worse, in sickness and in health..." 81852, oh yeah......

The Everyday Sacred

Yesterday, while intently counting down my required laps in the pool, my husband interrupted my OCD counting to bring my attention to a visitor in our oasis of a yard. A hummingbird was gracing us with her presence. Over the following 30 minutes she darted in and out of our yard, over the fence, to sip at the nectar of one of our flowering bushes. I resumed my laps in-between her visits, but stopped every time she arrived again. Had he not pointed her out, I would have missed something that always brings me joy.

I have lived an absolutely ridiculously busy life the last 3 years. So busy, in fact, that I abdicated from everything doing with our home, and almost every pleasurable activity I had nurtured over the previous years since the children flew the nest. Because of my inability to keep a balance I have gardens full of weeds, a disorganized home that frustrates me, missing pieces of furniture that I need to complete my decorating, adult children that could occasionally use a little maternal attention, and 2 closets full of quilting fabric waiting to be made into something or other. Because of this inability to maintain a balance when work or school intercedes, I ended up ill, in the hospital, and struggling to put one foot in front of the other. I am not sure about the personalities of men, but women often do this.

One of my pre-busyness routines was to clean up my kitchen counters every morning after cleaning up myself. Somehow, the act of cleaning up and organizing my kitchen counters gives me a Zen-like feeling of calm that is an everyday sacred act. Doing computer work to the singing of the mockingbirds outside my window in the morning (no TV or music on) is another sacred experience. Rocking a sleeping baby achieves the same feeling.

Having finished school at the end of 2012, and finishing my 9 years serving my professional association, I am changing the first item listed on my bucket list to taking time each day to savor the everyday sacred. My ego-driven ways need to be moderated so that the everyday sacred is welcomed to inhabit my life again. And that welcome will never be shown the door with a goodbye. Let me not be so busy that I cannot make quiet moments in my day to see the beauty, feel the richness, rock a baby and savor the goodness of the everyday sacred in my day.

 

Time for a shower?!

We love to mark important passages with celebrations. Think about it... Engagement parties. Bridal showers. Bachelor and Bachelorette parties. Quinceanera parties. Graduation. Bar Mitzvah. Baby showers. "Burn the mortgage" parties. Retirement dinners. Anniversary celebrations.

But, we have no celebration for THE passage. The one many of us are in the midst of. News flash! Hot flash!
M-E-N-O-P-A-U-S-E.

I think it's high time. I mean, by the time we hit menopause the bridal shower/wedding gifts are rags - or long gone, our kitchen appliances are worthy of the Smithsonian, and sexy lingerie? Pffffft! It might be time for a new gift registry.

Then again, I doubt I'd register for pots and pans, matching towels, or any of the stuff that seemed so important in the past. Nope, I imagine that a Menopause Shower, or Pause Party, might involve a whole different set of gifts:

1. Spanx. Remember back when you were a kid and your Mom or Dad would say "settle down!"? It's happened. Oh yeah, things are settling down. C'mon tell the truth, after age 50 we don't need bra sizes in A-B-C-etc. We need small, medium, and long. Then there's the tummy pooch...it's not a muffin top, those are for the young. This is more as though the refrigerator muffin can split part way down and a lil' fluffy part of the doughboy is escaping. Wriggle into a pair of Spanx (or two) and voila! Locked and loaded. Take that doughboy!
2. Tweezers. It's a fact of life that no one shares. After a certain age: Men. Lose. Hair. Women. Find. It.
3. A fan. Or two. Global warning, it's science. Whether it's caused by all the boomer women having hot flashes is up for debate. All I know is that I am one hot momma. And always at inopportune times. Like night. And day.
   
4. Kleenex. Once again, we are in hormone hell. Puberty hormones bring on crushes and tears over boys. Pregnancy hormones bring on cravings and nesting. Post partum hormones bring on tears watching diaper commercials. Menopause hormones bring on all of the above and more. A menopausal woman can cry when a horse dies in a John Wayne movie; don't even get me started about what happens watching Forrest Gump at Jenny's grave, or the sweet story of Carl and Ellie at the beginning of the movie "Up".  Anybody got a tissue?....
5. An egg timer. At the opposite end of the emotional roller coaster, I bring you women's favorite scene from "Fried Green Tomatoes". Ta-Wan-Da! Kathy Bates cheerfully rear-ends the sassy young parking spot snatcher's VW, "...Face it girls. I'm older and have more insurance." The term "short fuse" may have been invented to describe a menopausal woman after suffering an injustice. "Injustice" has a broad meaning and can include misdemeanors such as another shopper having eleven items in the ten-item-or-less checkout through felonies such as a confrontation with bureaucracy in beige at the DMV. A mandatory three minute egg timer cooling off prior to verbal response, or hitting send on an email, might be a menopausal woman's best friend.
6. The head of the man who invented polyester (I'm having a Salome moment). I mean really...is there anything less comfortable in a heat wave than a fabric that does not breath and has a familial chemical relationship with saran wrap?  The inventor had to be a man, and his brother invented the mammogram machine. But that's another story.
7. Wine. Wine of the Month may not be often enough. Is there a Wine of the Week Club? For some reason life after 50 just goes down better with a wee bit of spirits. And we do want to get our daily five servings of fruit and vegetables in, don't we?
8. Moisturizer. It's not really hard to be a skin specialist. The great law of dermatology is this: "If it is wet, make it dry. If it is dry, make it wet." After age 50 you can forget the first half of that scientific law. It's all dry. Skin on your face, legs, feet, hands, and lord-help-me, heels. My heels are so coarse they could polish up any pesky stony ridges on Lincoln's nose at Mt. Rushmore. Long gone is the oily skin of youth. Now, the last time my face glowed was when I had a hot flash by candlelight in a power outage. Those little tubes and jars of moisturizer at Walgreen's are like a salsa sample at the grocery - enough to wet your appetite but not much more. We need the Keg-o-Alpha Keri lotion or some similar Sam's Club size lubricant.
9. And speaking of moisture....K-Y Jelly. The gift that keeps on giving. That's all I'm going to say about that.
10. Friendship. The best gift of all. I've always said that woman need other women, like flowers need sunshine and rain. And that's never so true as after age 50. I laugh more, listen more, lean on and be there to support more now than any other time in my life. I think it's because we women
    
    in the "pause" have learned so much about what is true and valuable. We still have vibrancy and vigor and the freedom to be ourselves, not just the roles that we have filled. "Life is good" is more than a tee-shirt. Whether we are struggling with end of life worries, beginning of life joys, mid-life crises, or the grind of daily life, we know that it is good. Because we are here and we have strong friends to walk the journey along with us. So, are you with me? Party on!

Role Model

I have found another role model. No, not Judith Dench, although she would be a fine, gorgeous, and inspirational ... but (alas) unattainable role model. And, no. Not Mother Teresa. Another beautiful woman, but I must be honest ... I can't achieve her inner goodness.

No, I met my role model in the Emergency Room And she'll have to remain a vision for your imagination only, due to a little federal law called HIPAA. She shares at least one attribute of the lovely Ms. Dench and Blessed Teresa of Calcutta. Those beautiful facial lines. Laugh lines speak to me of a life well lived.  Also neckline wrinkles and lines that bracket lips with a gentle curve say to me "I have breathed fresh air, and sunshine. I have played with children outdoors, picnicked on blankets, walked hand in hand with a loved one, (or someone who needed my attention). I have laughed, and cried, and been real." Facial lines, to me, are a road map that leads to the soul of the person. Or perhaps...a road map to a person with soul. And heart.

Botox perfection holds no attraction to me. Glacial perfection is just that...glacial. And who wants to reside in cold ice? No, I'll prefer faces with freckles, wrinkles, and small scars that hint at stories of sunny places, childhood injuries, and family history. That's a good thing, because with MY family background, I'd better resign myself to a face with all that plus middle aged chin sprouts!

I may never see my new role model again, but she left an impression. We met very late at night. And she was in pain. And as are most people in the ER who are in pain, she hadn't dressed to impress. No, she came as she was when she fell at home, suffering a broken hip. Her white hair was sleep tousled, her face was pale and clean with a faint scent of her nighttime cold cream. And as I gently examined her, and asked questions, I was surprised to see 10 shiny hot pink nails. A perfect manicure. I turned and said "I love your nails. I think you must be a fashion plate." And her lovely face broke into a grin, bringing to life 80+ years of life-line, laugh-line, soul-lined beauty as she said, "Oh, you bet!"

So, yes...I aspire to be 80+, living alone in my own home, with family that check on me nightly, and painting my nails with bright polish.

Although, I must admit...unlike my new role model, I may curse like a sailor if I break a hip...