I recently overheard a conversation between two gorgeous 20-somethings, all toned bodies, porcelain skin, mile-high legs, butts you could bounce a quarter off of, and boobs still up where God originally put them.
One held up her wine glass, making a toast, and declared, “I don’t believe in plastic surgery. I’m going to age naturally.” Her friend nodded, and they clinked glasses as she declared with a self-satisfied smile, “Me too. I’m never getting anything ‘done.’ Those women are pathetic and self-absorbed.”
First of all, ouch. Secondly, you’re 12. Talk to me in 30 years. You have no credibility on this subject, so shut up.
There’s nothing inherently graceful about aging in a society that dismisses the elderly and worships youth. 50 is called a “senior citizen” in most restaurants, and quite frankly, if we died anytime thereafter, our kids would likely say, “Well, she had a good run.”
There’s nothing graceful about breasts that are within chatting distance of our navel, necessitating trading in our Victoria’s Secret “Come here, Big Guy” lace bra for a utilitarian cotton sports bra that shoves them back up to our rib cage and holds them tight so they won’t be mistaken for a fanny pack.
There’s nothing graceful about underarm waddle that rules out anything sleeveless unless we’re prepared to keep our arms pinned to our sides all day long. For days I forget that my triceps are unsuitable for public viewing, I now keep a burka in my trunk to toss over my tank tops.
There’s definitely nothing graceful about menopause that requires daily sheet changes because we sweat the equivalent of a kiddie pool every night in our sleep, or sticking our head out of the car window, hair blowing backwards and bugs in our teeth like the family Shih Tzu in a wind tunnel because it’s TOO FREAKIN’ HOT IN HERE.
There’s nothing graceful about gaining 10+ pounds in your sleep because your metabolism changed overnight without warning, often resulting in the bathroom scale being tossed out the nearest open window, immediately followed by a pity party that would make a 3-year-old jealous.
Middle age is about learning to navigate the fine line between wanting to look younger, instantly deeming us vain and shallow, or choosing to do nothing and let nature take its course, frequently described as “letting yourself go.”
At 57, my brain feels 40, but my body hasn’t found a decade it prefers. Sometimes I look in the mirror and my mother is staring back at me. My mother is a beautiful woman, and I’d be thrilled if she wasn’t 20 years older than me.
Yes, middle age brings with it a plethora of good and valuable qualities like serenity, patience, a better sense of humor (which God had the foresight to know we’d need), new priorities and epic, bucket list adventures. It also lets in the Shape Shifters. Invisible little seam-busters that quietly, but seemingly overnight, shift your proportions into a body shape you’ve never seen before.
Even if you manage to avoid the menopausal equivalent of the “Freshman 10″ weight gain, you may arise one morning and discover that nothing fits. Your weight hasn’t changed, but dresses you wore yesterday, today you can’t zip up. Jeans you rocked for years now make you look like your favorite banana nut muffins from the local deli. Skinny jeans are out because of their now-striking resemblance to sausage casings on a Ball Park frank. WTH??
The morning I realized I’d been shape-shifted, I was standing in my walk-in closet wailing like the local Krispy Kreme shop had closed its doors, bringing Hubs running down the hall, assuming some tragedy had befallen me and I clearly needed his manly-manness to fix it.
“Are you okay??” he shouted as he got closer. “I’m fine,” I sniffled, “but I can’t wear these clothes. They’re all a size 8.” “But don’t you wear an 8?” he asked, looking confused in the absence of blood or anything requiring masculine intervention. “Apparently not anymore, “I said, “I grew.” “Well, why don’t you just buy a bigger size?” he asked with a proud smile, apparently believing he just uncovered the magic solution to an otherwise mysterious female woe. “Fine,” I replied, “You can take all these clothes to the Salvation Army, while I go to Nordstrom and replace them.” “Holy crap,” he stared at my closet. “ALL OF THEM??” “No,” I sighed, “just the size 8s. Oh, wait. Yeah, that would be all of them.”
In a gallant attempt to cheer me up, Hubs suggested we pursue alternate, less pricey solutions over wine and a bowl of guacamole at my favorite Mexican restaurant. As I stepped into his favorite date dress (the one I just wore a few weeks ago), I knew instinctively it wasn’t going to work. It made it slightly past my knees, then stopped, steadfastly refusing to go an inch further over my thighs and hips, no matter how I wiggled or maneuvered. Seriously??
Letting it fall to the ground, I then managed to kick it with enough velocity to send it sailing out the back door and into the neighbor’s herb garden, just as I burst into tears. Hubs walked up behind me, reaching around to my tummy, and whispered, “Don’t worry, sweetie. I just love your little Buddha belly,” rubbing it with the enthusiasm of a 3-year-old who expected a genie to fly out and grant him a wish.
Tell me he did not just call any part of my body “Buddha.”
I responded with a muttered “Thanks,” because I’m reasonably certain he meant that to be a compliment, but my brain was screaming “May your camel get fleas, then sleep in your tent.”
So it appears that grace comes not from what happens as we age, and more about how we handle it. Aging gracefully is less about stalling the inevitable and largely about acceptance. Letting go of what you can’t control and finding the joy in the moment we’re living. Right here. Right now. Cosmetic intervention will slow down the physical appearance of aging, but in the end, this journey is largely emotional. Part of the process is learning how to be less judgmental and kinder to the people we love.
I’m learning that that includes me.
— Vikki Claflin
Oregon writer Vikki Claflin writes the popular humor blog, Laugh Lines. Two recent pieces have been published in Life Well Blogged: Parenting Gag Reels — Hilarious Writes and Wrongs: Take 26.
I am simply pooped from partying in and out of my home. I have attended or hosted so many events and was guilt-fed so much food that I was contacted by three separate weight loss organizations to be their before example in a new advertising pitch. I am not weighing their options or anything else.
Granted, a few of the bashes were bombastic.
At the B party, there were the Baklavas who were sweet; Bill Blasé who came alone but didn’t seem to care; and Boobs Burkewitz who arrived with a couple.
The A party had the Aesops (she wore Sable); Al and Alice Alonzo from Albany who sold apples; and Absent-Minded Albert who forgot his pants. All in all, the As were amiable. Others were simply hell.
At this point I now owe so many reciprocal invites, which will then lead to more invitations until infinity, that I had to find a way to end the cycle. I have created sure-to-discourage themes guaranteeing nobody will ever want to return a second time. From my recent experiences, you, too, can learn how to make sure you are left alone, if that is your wish.
The surprise party
Hide 10 people in a closet when the evening is warm and sticky (if only this week). Make everyone whisper for an hour, drinks in hand. When the honoree arrives, everyone will be so zonked they will ignore him. He’ll leave thinking he is in the wrong house. Who cares?
Place small throw pillows on the floor for guests to sit on so they must balance their plates on their laps or someone else’s. Serve cracked crab with drippy Hollandaise sauce, corn on the cob and huge Margaritas. Make an obscene remark that will embarrass the most sophisticated guest, who will then spit and splatter everyone. Do not worry about being asked to their home.
Do it by phone; keep desserts for yourself
“Hi Mona, can you believe it’s already been a whole year since we celebrated my mother-in-law’s hip replacement? And guess what! A famous hip-hop group, all whom have had the same surgery, all of them from a nearby nursing home, will entertain and then immediately thereafter, (sh! don’t tell mom) our seven-layer kale anniversary cake will be presented. Oh…you can’t make it? So sorry. Perhaps next year, sweetie.
For the future, unless it is a small dinner party (you can still count on me for the whine), or we can meet in a restaurant, leave me alone and I sure won’t bother you.
My guarantee — as an ole country song might have said, “If the phone don’t ring, you’ll know it’s me.”
Happy 2014 or whatever!
— Jan Marshall
Jan Marshall has devoted her life’s work to humor and healing through books, columns and motivational speaking. As founder of the International Humor & Healing Institute, she worked with board members Norman Cousins, Steve Allen and other physicians and entertainers, including John Cleese. Her newest satirical survival book, Dancin’ Schmancin’ with the Scars: Finding the Humor No Matter What! is dedicated to Wounded Warriors, Gabrielle Giffords and Grieving Parents. She donates a percentage of the profits to these organizations as well as to the American Cancer Society and the American Brain Tumor Association.
“Honey, the basement is flooded…again.”
Fewer phrases can quicken a homeowner’s pulse than the dreaded flooded basement. There’s the mopping, the tearing up of carpet, the obligatory swearing, and, worst of all, the call to the plumber.
After administering what can only be described as a colonoscopy of our main sewer line, the plumber’s diagnosis was grim. “There’s a tree root in the pipes. We are going to have to dig up your driveway to get to it and repair it.” I asked the inevitable question, “How much?” The plumber took the next 20 minutes to measure, pace, smoke a cigarette, consult a magic eight ball and then checked his calculations on an abacus.
“It comes to $4,975,” he said while avoiding making eye contact with me (which makes sense, since my eye was doing that twitching thing it tends to do under duress). Now, the way I see it, when the plumber tells you the broken pipe is in fact under the driveway, necessitating the digging up of said driveway to the tune of $5,000, you have two choices: kill the plumber and bury him in a shallow grave or laugh hysterically. I chose the latter (which ironically still seemed to scare him).
Between fits of laughter, a near-piddling, and the start of my Grey Goose and cranberry IV drip, I called my husband to break the news to him. “Well, if it has to be done, it has to be done.” My husband’s coolness under pressure is, surprisingly, one of his most annoying qualities.
“They are going to dig up the driveway!” I bellowed.
“Are you worried about the landscaping? It can all be fixed,” he tried to pacify me.
“Landscaping?! That’s the least of my worries. What if they dig up an old Indian burial ground? Which, of course, will most decidedly end with a poltergeist issue. Or worse, what if they find a pet ‘semetary’?! Do you know how many fish I have flushed in four years? That’s probably what’s causing all the plumbing issues. That’s all I need: a dozen zombie goldfish sloshing up the stairs to seek revenge on my lackluster fishbowl cleanings!”
“Zombie goldfish?” he asked.
“Yes! And remember that shaggy-looking beta that always stared at me with his one good eye?”
“You mean Daisy?” he said.
“Yeah, that’s him! You know he’s going to lead the zombie goldfish attack or become a poltergeist.”
“I don’t even know what a poltergeist is,” my husband’s patience was wearing thin.
“Do you know that 18 percent of marriages fail because one spouse lacks a working knowledge of horror movies of the 1980s?” My husband is a numbers guy, so I think my clever use of statistics will sway him.
“I have to go now, honey. Do not annoy the plumbers while they are working.”
Ten minutes later I’m down by the driveway asking the plumbers what I feel to be very valid questions. “Can’t this procedure be done laparoscopically? You know, a small incision, robotic arms, ultrasound? Come on, I have cable and high-speed Internet! We are living in a rapidly advancing world!” Needless to say, that guy did not appreciate my vision of the future of plumbing.
Frankendriveway is healing well, no worse for wear other than a giant, concrete scar. And happily, no ancient burial grounds were uncovered.
— Brandi Haas
Brandi Haas taught high school English for 10 years, then became a stay-at-home mom. She’s inspired by Erma Bombeck’s humor: “When I was a kid, my mom read one of Erma Bombeck’s books and laugh so hard her shoulders shook and tears rolled down her cheeks. I would ask what was so funny and she would read excerpts. As a kid, I never understood what was so funny. Now that I am a wife and mother, I know exactly what was so funny. Erma Bombeck saw humor in the everyday monotony around her and, by writing, she not only made people laugh but also encouraged other people to write. Like me.”
After much debate, my husband and I decided that it was time to give up Smiles, our beloved, pet bearded dragon.
We brought Smiles into our family about a year and a half ago, after some exhausting pleading from our then, 10-year-old son. When we took him home in his little plastic container, like the kind you get from takeout Chinese with air holes popped in the top, he was just a baby, no bigger than a green bean.
As we settled him into his new tank, finding a nice stick for him to perch on and a rock for him to laze, we fell in love. Or at least my husband and I did; unfortunately my son quickly tired of the huge responsibility of acknowledging him. What? How did that happen? Weren’t you going to “die” without him?
Parents are such fools.
So day in and day out, I made his little salads and picked up crickets for some crunchy protein. My husband cleaned his tank when necessary, and took him out to wander our living room. But soon it became more of a job neither of us wanted. Making sure the children stayed alive was responsibility enough.
So we decided to find a family to adopt him and I put a notice on the parent board for our community.
“Friendly bearded dragon looking for a good home. Free with tank and accessories for a family who will love him.”
I quickly received about five responses. I mean, really, who could resist that face?
One I discarded almost immediately. I didn’t like the presumptuous tone of the responder, “We will take him. When can we pick him up?”
Apparently they didn’t realize this was an adoption. There was an interview process and papers to go over with the attorney, uh, my husband, the attorney.
Two other families also didn’t make the cut. I rejected one for crimes against the English language; for using the word “there” instead of “they’re.” As in, “We think there so cute.”
We didn’t raise no illiterate lizard, so clearly they were out.
The other family asserted with strange pride that they already housed a turtle, dog, cat, hamster, fish and snake. Uh, if I wanted to give him to a pet store, I would have.
That left us with a nice sounding teacher with kids, and a family who wanted to give Smiles to their 10-year-old son who had been pining for one, as a birthday present. Hmm did they say a 10-year-old?
We went with the teacher family because they responded first, and his email trail back and forth with his wife begging her was extremely cute. Oh yeah, I went in for the background check.
We set up a time, and as we waited for him to arrive, my husband and I skittered down memory lane with Smiles.
Remember when we lost him outside in the bushes?
Remember when he fell asleep next to the couch, his body flattened to the floor and we thought he was dead?
Remember when we bought that little leash and tried walking him?
Oh good times. So many smiles, Smiles.
When the teacher arrived to take him away, I saw by the alpha stance of my husband, chest out, dragon hanging, that he was ready to give him the third degree.
“So you’re leaving him in your classroom, and not your home?”
“He’s social. Will he have an opportunity to be taken out?”
“You’re going to leave him all weekend alone?”
The man stuttered and backpedaled and in the end, my husband deemed him unfit for adoption, and he cowered off empty handed.
Alone, my husband patted Smiles on the head and cooed, “I’m not going to let just anyone take you.”
You don’t mess with a man and his lizard.
No surprise, we’re still looking for the “right” family.
— Alisa Schindler
Alisa Schindler is freelance writer who chronicles the sweet and bittersweet of life in the suburbs on her highly entertaining blog www.icescreammama.com. Her essays have been featured on Mamapedia.com and Bonbonbreak.com as well as in the book, Life Well Blogged. She is a member of “Yeah Write,” an online community for writers, where she has won the Jury Prize multiple times in the group’s weekly essay writing contest. She has just completed her first novel that she feels comfortable showing to someone other than her mother.
People who travel to Europe are always amazed that Europeans are multi-lingual. Some arrogant Americans believe that every human should speak English, particularly those who choose to live on American soil. Others, like yours truly, are envious that Europeans live in such close proximity to other cultures so they can actually use the languages they learn by driving a couple of hours, and voilà, they’re in another country.
Americans are already multi-lingual. For example, I speak Ohio, Wisconsin, Maryland and Oregon. You laugh, but I’m not to amusing yet. I’ve discovered that men and women all over the world are multi-lingual in another way. Women speak the following languages fluently: often, long, whenever. Men speak: car, blame and dumb.
Women come out of the womb with an inordinate quantity of syllables. They are genetically wired to flap their jaws from day one. We speak often, using as many syllables as we can, and we do not discriminate as to time of day or night or even occasion.
Women come equipped with a detail app. We don’t want our listeners to miss anything so we gather adjectives to paint word pictures for our listeners. Men have difficulty with this. They want us to cut to the chase so they can get to the sports section. Women listen for key words, and we respond to them enthusiastically, even interrupting at times. This tends to irritate men who are trying hard to just articulate a response when coming out from under the barrage of syllables. Women are multi-taskers so we like to deliver several messages at a time. This makes men tired and has been known to send them into a mouth-open slumber in the recliner.
Men speak car, blame and dumb. Many, many are fluent in car, although some specialize in “Are you kidding, Ref?” The car language is lost on women. We go car shopping with our man, and while he’s checking out the handling and turbo, we are focusing on color and mirror. Mr. Wonderful has been known to watch car TV for up to 10 hours a week. He never tires of watching those wheels go round. Men can speak car to each other for hours at a time. Women are not interested in translation.
Men also speak blame. As they are programmed from delivery to never show fear, they turn their fear into rage and blame. Don’t ever expect a man to say, “Whoa, I’m really scared.” He would express this by saying, “Why the hell did you do that?” Women must realize that when a man is blaming her for throwing the open yogurt into the garbage can, that the man is really scared of raccoons. (There needs to be an English/Man dictionary, and I am just the person to write it.) Men also speak fluent dumb. For example, the other day, Mr. Wonderful asked on the way out the door to the country club holiday gala, “Are you going to wear that?” “No,” I said. “I am just getting in the car with this on until we get there, and then I’m going to change into a wait person’s uniform.”
Ah, the joys of communication. And we haven’t even addressed speaking thumb.
— Sandra Moulin
Sandra Moulin, a freelance writer from Wilmington, N.C., is a retired master French and humanities high school and college teacher. She has self-published two volumes of humorous essays, Before and Laughter and Laughterwards. She writes for four local publications and gives humorous workshops and presentations.
When my eyesight became weaker, I purchased a new lighted mirror with a 10X magnification so I could apply mascara without guessing the actual location of my eyelashes. The first time I looked into the mirror I screamed and jumped back in horror because there was a ghastly old woman staring back at me! I want my money — and my face — returned!
The illuminated, colossal reflection exaggerated the erratic road map of lines, wrinkles and crevices that sprouted around my eyes like jagged lightning bolts surrounding deep, bloodshot sinkholes. Why didn’t someone tell me my face resembled a damp shirt that been forgotten in the dryer? At least my friends also have failing eyesight so they may not even notice.
I flipped the mirror over to the normal view and was relieved because my poor vision couldn’t detect any flaws. I prefer that side now. For security and insecurity purposes, I have taped a warning label into the magnified side of the mirror.
It’s called a vanity mirror for a reason, but I refuse to channel my inner Queen of the Snow White movie and ask the mirror on the wall who is the fairest one of all. I know the answer and not even a flamboyant skit by the jolly Seven Dwarfs could make me laugh now because that would just add more unwanted lines.
After surviving the shock of magnified reality, I looked again at my eyes. These green orbs have been dilated, examined and corrected since I was 10 years old. They have peered from dozens of ugly frames that included cat-eyes with rhinestones, black square nerd glasses and delicate rimless beauties that cost a month’s mortgage and broke every time I sneezed. My eyes survived surgery for holes in both retinas and continued to work after a failed attempt at laser treatment. Best of all, these irreplaceable body parts have allowed me to write and read books and to see the wonders of the world.
These eyes cried with joy when I held my precious babies, widened with amazement when I visited 32 countries around the world, leaked buckets over physical and mental pain, and focused with passion as I stared into my husband’s loving eyes. Six decades of visions are stored within my memories as on-demand movies after a life full of adventure, tears and laughter that I have been privileged to see and experience. I have earned each and every line around these well-worn eyes, and I intend to earn many more.
Next week I’ll don my newest pair of spectacles and prepare the list for our family Thanksgiving dinner. I’ll check favorite recipes and pull out the good dishes and silverware. I’ll arrange festive pumpkins and colorful leaves into a happy centerpiece and imagine the cacophony coming from the children’s table. Then on the day of the grand feast I’ll witness the generations gathered around the tables squabbling over the last drumstick. With the blessed ability to see, I’ll give thanks for the abundant vision before me.
Today’s blog was fueled by a 2011 Jacuzzi Barbera from Mendocino County, Calif. I found this complex and vibrant wine on a recent trip to wine country and recommend the explosion of tastes with flavors of blackberry, raspberry, strawberry and vanilla. Preview their wines at www.jacuzziwines.com. And, it’s okay to pair red wine with turkey.
— Elaine Ambrose
Had fashions in the late 1960s been different, I would not have the strength of character I have today. I was born with complicated hair — thick, unmanageable, curly hair (and not the good kind of curly, either — the Andie McDowell/Julianna Margulies-kind of curly). My coarse, wiry and frizzy locks would be en vogue today; stylists spend considerable time crafting such looks for runway models. No, mine was a look that sent me reeling in horror from the mirror. It was my misfortune to grow up in the era of Jean Shrimpton, and I had complicated hair.
Hairstyles at the time were long, sleek and straight, like Shrimpton’s, or cropped pixie caps, like the iconic cut Vidal Sassoon created for Mia Farrow. (Both blondes, I might add.) But hope arrives in the form of a beautiful brunette named Marlo Thomas — That Girl — who wears her smooth, glossy hair in a flip with bangs. The fact that Marlo is Italian and Lebanese, just like me, with a father with whom I’d once been photographed, clinches the deal. That brown-haired girl will be my role model. God knows I need one. I have complicated hair.
“You have to suffer to be beautiful.”
That’s my godmother, Aunt Fannie, speaking. It’s 1968, and I’m in the seventh grade. We’re having our class pictures taken in a few days, and my parents drive me to her house to have my hair done.
Perhaps I should explain.
Aunt Fannie was a beautician. (That’s what they called hair stylists in those days.) My godfather, Uncle Bill, a gifted carpenter, turned one of their basement rooms into a salon for her. My father drove my mother over to have her hair done each week, with me in tow. With school-picture day looming, I had begged and pleaded with my parents to let Aunt Fannie cut my hair so that I would have bangs and a flip, just like That Girl.
Soon Aunt Fannie’s fingers are flying across my head, the silver scissors like a magician’s wand—snip! snip! snip! Sitting in the swivel chair, I’m turned from the mirror, unable to see my idol’s impeccable hairdo slowly emerge from my tangled Medusa mane. When she spins me around, I am stunned.
I look awful.
None of us took into account the density of my thick frizz when calibrating the outcome of my longed-for flip hairdo with bangs. With the flip flopped, I resemble a bereft Labradoodle in shock.
I don’t want you thinking that I spent my entire childhood in tears, but I have to tell you that I cried. Not a full-throated cry — just a whimper, with a steady stream running down my cheeks.
“Isn’t — isn’t there anything you can do?” I ask my godmother, sniffling. Flat irons had not yet been invented, so that was out. She thinks a moment, then brightens.
“We can straighten it!”
My father, who had been watching television in the other room, walks by just in time to hear this. “Not if I have anything to say about it!” he thunders. “She has beautiful hair. Or she did. You never should have cut it in the first place.”
“But George, look at her,” my mother says. “She can’t go around looking like this!”
“I can’t go around looking like this, Daddy.” He should know where I stand on the matter.
The tension in the air is as thick as pomade. Aunt Fannie busies herself by rearranging her hair clip drawer while my parents exchange words. I escape upstairs to soothe my nerves with a tall glass of 7-Up. When I come back down, the charged atmosphere has calmed. I’ll never know who convinced him — my mother or Aunt Fannie — but my father backs down. Aunt Fannie is mixing the chemicals that will solve the crisis and turn me into “That Girl” for my school pictures.
“This stuff stinks!” I cry when she begins stirring the mixture near me. And when she starts combing the goop through my hair, my eyes begin to water — and not from tears, either. “It burns!”
“You have to suffer to be beautiful,” she replies, a sage in a pink smock.
I don’t remember how long I sat in that chair. It seemed like months. But finally I am directed to the shampoo bowl, where the cool spray of water soothes away the stinging, rotten-egg smell of the chemicals. Aunt Fannie washes and conditions my hair and combs it through. I am entranced. What I touch feels smooth and sleek; I’ve never experienced such a sensation before. My head looks smaller, too. It isn’t my hair anymore; it doesn’t even feel like me anymore. It’s better — new and improved, as the commercials say.
Aunt Fannie sets my hair in rollers and puts me under the dryer, where I flip through the latest movie magazines like the sophisticate I imagine myself to be. When I’m dry — cheeks red-hot from the heated air, rolled hair crisp to the touch — Aunt Fannie ushers me back to the swivel chair and begins unpinning the rollers, vigorously brushing out my strange, beautiful, uncomplicated hair.
It gleams. It shines. I’ve never seen anything like it. She sprays hairspray all over me — the air is thick with it. I sneeze and cough. But I look beautiful. I had to suffer to get there.
But look: just look at that girl!
— Marci Rich
Marci Rich blogs at The Midlife Second Wife and The Huffington Post. She won a BlogHer Voices of the Year award in 2012, the same year The Midlife Second Wife was named one of the top seven blogs for women 50-plus by The Huffington Post.
Last New Year’s Day I resolved to commit time to writing every day for fun. A couple months later I started pushing some of that work out through my blog. It helps. I crave attention as much as I actually care to accomplish anything, and it doesn’t bother me much if I embarrass myself or my family.
Carving out a daily hour or two isn’t easy. Everybody’s day around here starts early, and in order to get my me-time, I have to get up earlier.
I’m not a morning person.
I’m also not a New Year’s resolution person. Those things are pretty much doomed by Valentine’s Day. It’s hard to decide on something every year that’s simultaneously important enough to do, but not so important I mind dooming it to the traditional resolution process.
But I’m on track to have written every weekday (and most weekends) from January on. That adds up to thousands of words, mostly crap, but some okay. Rather than losing steam, I’m more energized than ever. No more dreaming up a good subject, then forgetting it because it worms its way out of my head before I give it attention.
So, the making-actual-time-for-writing thing has become a habit, and I’m going to do the resolution-thing again this year.
Last year my resolution was about self-improvement. This year I’m going to change it up and focus outward. Here’s what I’ve decided:
I will be prompt. This may seem to be another self-improvement resolution, but it’ll make life a lot better for more than just me. With the kids a little older, able to put on their own coats and wipe their own butts (in theory), it’s doable. I don’t have to dress anyone but myself, put anyone in a car seat, pack a diaper bag, gather spare changes of clothing, snacks or bottles.
My chronic lateness is embarrassing, and actually only rarely the kids’ fault. In fact, they’re more likely to be on time if they’re not waiting on me. The handful of times anybody was tardy for school, it was on me.
It doesn’t help that I stopped wearing a watch some time ago when I read a magazine article that listed wearing a watch as a sign you’re old. Young people don’t need to wear a watch. They carry cell phones (they also shave their bikini area). So….goodbye watch, (hello razor burn). Youth before promptness (or a full bush), I always say.
I tell myself I’m tardy because I’m using every minute so efficiently I push the promptness envelope in order to get that ever elusive one-more-thing done. What can I tidy up on my way through the room? I’ll let the dog out once more before my appointment. Can I run by the bank on my way to this meeting?
Mostly, though, I’m just kind of lazy. And I don’t wear a watch.
I will call others by name. I have a terrible memory. I can never remember names until long after my cheery “hey there!” when passing someone on the street.
I’m also insecure. What if I have a brain fart and call someone Sam when his name is Seth? Will he hate me forever?
Mike has a group of friends who do “guy stuff” together. Two out of maybe 10 of them are bald. One of the bald guys is Steve. I’ve mistakenly called the wrong bald guy Steve more than once. Now they’re all just Steve. Or Richard. Richard with the goatee. They think I’m a dingbat, but I tell myself that it’s in a charming way, so it’s okay.
Calling someone by name conveys that you care enough to remember their actual moniker. I do care. I do. I’m also usually thinking about several things at once, one of which is how in the Hell I’m going to get to where I have to be on time.
I’m working through all of it.
But if I run into you on the street this winter and I call you Steve, and you’re not Steve, take comfort in knowing that Steve is probably the name of the bald guy with whom I’m late to meet.
And lend me your watch.
— Beth Markley
Beth Markley is a 40-something fundraising consultant, writer, runner, overcommitted volunteer, wife and mom to two boys who graciously allow her to poke fun of them and all things related to parenting in manicmumbling.com.