THE 100 THINGS

 

A few years back, I read the novel Asymmetry by Lisa Halliday.  Among other plot lines, it is the story of a romance between a woman in her twenties and a much older man, loosely based, or so I have read, on the real-life romance between the author and Philip Roth.  I liked the book, but this is not going to be a review.  Instead, I point to it only for one line. Here is how I remember it -- When it’s time to get ready for bed, the older man announces to the young woman that he must start to do “the 100 things.”   I found this line amusing when I read it.  Five years on, it is starting to feel a bit too close to home.  

 

Of course, I have always brushed and flossed my teeth, washed my face etc. before going to sleep.  So, why does this routine suddenly feel more onerous?  I guess it’s just that I am a bit older than I was when I read the book, and by the time I am ready to go to bed, I am (surprise!) tired, and these simple tasks are an unwelcome roadblock on the path to sleep. Damn, I say to myself, I still have to do the 100 things.

 

So, I have cleverly taken to doing my ablutions soon after dinner.  I don’t know quite how to describe the pleasure it gives me, when, heading to bed later in the evening, I realize I don’t have to pause to do the 100 things.  As an added bonus, early tooth brushing discourages me from eating after dinner. 

 

Win. Win.

 

In truth, though, it is my morning routine that feels more like slogging through 100 things.  Before beginning my day, I again brush my teeth, then embark upon a series of stretches.  Go ahead -- ask me how much I want to do these stretches.

 

You guessed it.  I don’t want to do them at all.  I want to go downstairs and have a cup of tea.  Still, I spent too many years visiting my mother’s assisted living center to be able to kid myself that sitting still is a good approach to healthy aging.  

 

In addition to stretching, I walk most mornings, and, in summer, when the days will heat up rapidly, my walk must also be accomplished before breakfast. And then (again in summer), watering must be done early before high sun brings on evaporation.  

 

Before I know it, half the morning has been eaten up by the 100 things. (My husband , who has to swallow a bunch of medications, calls his tasks the 1000 things. As Bette Davis once opined, getting older is not for sissies.)

 

And while I’m counting the 100 things, let’s not forget the annoying tasks that seem to take up more and more of my time throughout the day, such as:

 

Paying bills 

 

Deleting, answering, and unsubscribing from emails.

 

Dealing with computer issues.

 

Waiting on hold, while trying to resolve computer issues.

 

Waiting on hold while trying to make medical appointments.

Doing laundry.  Folding laundry.  Carrying laundry up and down stairs.

You get the idea.  How did I manage to do all these things while working?  Oh, yeah, that aging thing again.  And wasn’t there less waiting on hold ten years ago?  

 

I guess I should be grateful I still remember that I need to do all of these things. . . .  

 

I’ll work on that.

 

Anyone else over the age of, say, 60 feeling at all daunted by your own 100 things?  Did I leave any out?  Please comment, telling me I am not alone.   

                                                                                                        Photo by Anne Nygård on Unsplash

 

THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY

I am thinking of a woman I met at a lake on a summer’s day a very long time ago.  Was I 21 that summer?  I know it was the summer I had suffered a broken heart--a broken heart of the kind only a 21-year-old can know, the kind that leaves one unable to eat, breathless with the impossibility of moving forward.

 

Of course, I did.  Move forward, that is.  There was an eventual  reconciliation, followed by a final breakup.  But that is not the subject of this post, and, anyway, both occurred after that day at the lake.  

 

How did I meet her, the woman at the lake?  I was probably working for a temp agency for the summer.  Would they have sent me out for a turn as a mother's helper?  They must have.  Why else would I have been at a lake, herding young children, while their 30-something mom visited with her friends?  

 

She was pretty, the woman, and, in my eyes, worldly.  I don’t remember her name.  I do remember that she and her friends spoke fondly, if a bit flippantly, about their husbands.  I, still carrying around my shattered heart, doubted I would ever meet a man about whom I might banter with friends, let alone one I would marry.

 

In any event, a memory of this woman and her friends resurfaced this morning. I could still see the way she appeared to so comfortably inhabit her life, the casual ease with which she addressed her children.  She was the perfect illustration of a future, which, all those years ago, seemed out-of-reach to me.  

 

Why I was concerning myself with such a future at age 21 is a subject for another time.  Suffice to say that although I had fully embraced second-wave feminism by the summer of ’71, I had yet to leave the lessons of a 1950s childhood entirely behind.  

 

But I digress.  What struck me this morning was the fact that she, if she is still alive, must be in her eighties.  I am having trouble wrapping my brain around this transformation.  I cannot make the mental leap across 50 plus-years to picture what she might look like now.  

 

Here’s the thing.  Those we see regularly age along with us.  We do not notice the changes, unless we look back at a photo from two or three decades ago and see that, yes, they (and we) have grown older.  Even so, the sight of our long-time friends does not shock us in the way a photo on social media of someone we have not seen since high school might startle. 

What are we to make of those who have aged out of our sight? And why does someone I met so briefly and so long ago come back to me so clearly?  I think I will leave her there at water's edge - no need to age her forward.

 

(I’ll let you in on a little secret.  I'm inclined to believe our younger selves live on. Perhaps past, present, and future are not distinct.  Perhaps when I leave my body to enter the great mystery, I will learn that time is but a construct, erected to protect us from what our finite brains cannot process. 

 

I would like to think so.)

 

I don’t think I ever saw the woman by the lake again.  Either it was a one-day assignment, or the rest of the week has been buried under the accreted memories of 50 years.  Whichever it is, she has not left me.  Her younger self lives on in my mind, as I hope my younger self lives on in the minds of one or two people who have not seen me for 50 years. 

Perhaps, as we age, we carry the past for one another.  

I wish this for us all.

 

                                    photo by Sandra Fs

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

DO I REALLY NEED TO LOSE 45 POUNDS? LET'S TALK ABOUT INSTAGRAM

  

A few years back, I signed up for Instagram in order to enjoy family photos and maybe share occasional pictures of my garden.  This went well until Instagram figured out that I am a grandmother of a certain age, and started clogging my feed with ads aimed at what its algorithm perceives to be the concerns of my demographic.

 

Just today, I had to wade through messages telling me that I need wrinkle cream, a more supportive bra, sleep gummies, a mascara for aging lashes, an adult sleep sack, exercises aimed at seniors, a serum that will take 15 years off my face, a pillowcase guaranteed to prevent wrinkles, pills that will reduce bloating and hot flashes, mushroom coffee, a supplement that will help me to lose 45 pounds, teeth whiteners, a product to make grey hair shine, and a cortisol supplement.

 

Has the algorithm met any women my age?  Not everyone is trying to look younger.  I’m not saying I no longer care about my appearance – vanity dies hard – but, most of the time, I am too busy reading, writing, gardening, walking, helping with grandkids, getting together with friends, spending time with family – in short, enjoying retirement, to concern myself with aging eyelashes.  (And has no one told the algorithm I am a tea drinker?  Also, if I were to lose 45 pounds, I would be in the hospital.)

 

Sure, I would accept a product that that promised to make my half-grown-out hair grow faster.  And, if you want to advertise chocolate, I am your target audience.  But, mostly, I just want the haranguing to stop.  Aging is not negotiable, yet these ads work very hard to make us women of a certain age feel that aging is shameful, and can and should be pushed back by an endless stream of products.

 

Spoiler alert:  We will age.  More or less gracefully.  Less, if we let these ads get to us.

 

And how about the ads that require the viewer to watch a "short video"? I fell for this only once.  Okay. Maybe twice.  These short videos are up to a half-an-hour long, and generally consist of a guy in a white coat, claiming to be a doctor, singing his own praises and describing his life-changing discovery in excruciating detail.  

 

Do not go there.  There is no way to get to the punchline without watching the whole thing.  (And the punchline will not be worth it.) If you’re not careful, you just might be found with your cold, dead hand clutching your phone, as an endless video plays on and on.  

 

Don’t say I didn’t warn you. 

 

Here’s another piece of unsolicited advice.  Don’t buy clothing advertised on Instagram (or Facebook).  Sure, it looks good in the ads, but you will likely wind up stuck with a flimsy, wrongly sized, unwearable, and unreturnable item.  So, do as I say, not as I did. 

 

And don’t get me started on parenting advice. Am I getting these messages because I have grandchildren?  Too late for me.  I’m not raising my grands—just hanging out with them.  But I feel for the young parents who are barraged with advice—often conflicting—about the “correct” way to do nearly everything.  Leave them alone, for God’s sake.  Most of them have good instincts, and, in any event, there is no “perfect” way to raise children.

 

Before ceasing this rant, I will confess that I am occasionally drawn in by the endless recipes that appear in my feed, and I will sometimes go so far as to use the “save” function to hang on to these.  This is pretty silly, given that I have so little interest in cooking, but it does demonstrate the power of the beautiful photos.  I confess I have never once gone back to look at any of the recipes.  In fact–here’s a little secret–I have no idea where saved items are stored.  Are they in an undisclosed location with Dick Cheney?  

Just in case I choose to look over my lost recipes, can anyone tell me how to get to them without having to deal with him?

 

Please.

                                                                     Photo by Jakob Owens on Unsplash

SOME THOUGHTS ON BEAUTY

  “Because our present habit of mind is governed by the calculus of consumerism and busyness, we are less and less frequently available to the exuberance of beauty."

              -   John O'Donohue

Lately I have been thinking about beauty.  Noticing it everywhere.  Of course, one needn’t look far to find beauty at this time of year.  Even though some plants and trees were burned during the recent heat wave, there are yet many bright green leaves and vibrant flowers.   Indeed, I have recently spent long moments just standing in front of my garden taking in the sights and smells and bird song.  Nearly drowning in the beauty of it all.

But this is not what I want to write about today. Instead, I want to talk about human beauty.  

A week or two ago, while indulging in my first post-pandemic pedicure, I was arrested by the beauty of the young woman taking care of my feet.  She couldn’t have been a day over twenty. And she was lovely.  Long black hair, smooth skin, beautiful eyes.  

The feeling wasn’t personal.  It was like the feeling you get when standing in front of a beautiful piece of art.  Or a just-opening flower.

I was tempted to say, “Do you have any idea how lovely you are?

I didn’t, of course.  And it is likely that she, as is the case with so many young women, was insecure about her appearance and would not have known what I was talking about.  Certainly, if I was lovely at twenty, I didn’t know it.  (Now, I believe one has to work hard not to present as lovely or handsome at that unspoiled age, but you couldn’t have convinced me of that then.  As the song says, “youth is wasted on the young.”)

I found this young woman’s beauty poignant because I knew it would not last--not, at least, in this form.  As with a flower, her budding beauty would change as her life unfolded.  She might one day be a good-looking middle-aged woman and after that a handsome older woman.  But, for now, she was the epitome of beautiful youth.  

In truth, though, it is not generally the beauty of extreme youth that draws my eye. The faces of those in their twenties are a little too smooth.   I more greatly appreciate those in their thirties and forties.  They have a little more life behind them, a little more experience written on their faces. 

And why do we, in this youth-worshipping culture persist in believing that beauty ends by middle age?  There is beauty in the face of a fifty or sixty-year-old.  Life has laid down a few lines, but a smile can light up the most ordinary of middle-aged faces.

And what of those over seventy -- the cohort I have recently joined?  I see so much beauty in the faces of my friends.  It is the beauty of a life well-lived, of traumas outlived, of wisdom gained.  

It is a beauty etched by laughter and sorrow. 

Sadly, I was not able to see this beauty when I was very young.  I remember a day in my mid 20s, standing with a friend decades older than I, watching a woman of perhaps 60, who was running across an intersection.  My friend, who was constantly expressing joy, turned to me and exclaimed, "Would you look at that old girl!"  These were not words of disparagement.  He was grinning broadly in appreciation.  Although I could not then see what he was seeing, I see it now in retrospect.  The woman was smiling -- full of life.  She was exuding what the poet and mystic John O'Donohue called "the exuberance of beauty."**

There is much written on a face and it is, I think, a terrible thing to attempt to cover or arrest the signs of age on one’s visage.  I don’t mean we should subject ourselves to direct sunlight or throw away our face creams.  I just mean there is beauty in a lived-in face.  Not the untouched beauty of a twenty-year-old face, but beauty nonetheless.  To undergo, say, a facelift is to erase a life.  In any event, no one is fooled.

I recently noticed when looking in a mirror, that the sides of my face wrinkle when I smile.  I'll admit this was briefly disconcerting, but you’d better believe I’m not going to stop smiling in order to present the illusion of smooth skin.  

I’m going to keep smiling and I’m going to appreciate the beauty of those around me, whatever their age, size, shape, or color.  For when we smile, the beauty of our spirits shine through, no matter our age or presentation.

                                                            Photo by Janaya Dasiuk on Unsplash

                                                           Photo by John Moeses Bauan on Unsplash  

 ** I know some might be offended by the term "old girl." I probably would be if it were applied to me now.  But my friend was a man of his time and place and his delight in the woman's exuberance of beauty was so very clear.  

 

MIGHT AS WELL ENJOY THE RIDE: SOME THOUGHTS ON TURNING 70

Tomorrow is my 70^th birthday.  This is a serious number, daunting even, yet it is possible that I have never felt less serious or daunted than I do today.  Instead, I feel almost giddy to find myself here, intact and thriving.  I am so very grateful. 

Here is some of what I have been reflecting on as this milestone approaches. 

How I thought about age over the years:

When I was 16, 24 was ancient, and, frankly, too distant to contemplate.

          When I was 24, I was entirely grown up, and wise enough to see that I had been but a child at 16.

When I was 28, I saw that I had been very young and quite unformed at 24.  (Are you seeing a pattern here?).  40 was the far side of forever, and frankly, too stodgily middle-aged to be on my radar.

When I had my first child at 35, and then my second at 38, and right up until the day each of them left home, I was too engaged with the eternal present to think much about getting older.  40 and 50 were in there somewhere. I sort of remember celebrating each.

When I was 56, my second daughter left for college, and I looked up to find 20 years had passed since my first daughter came into the world.  I was surprised to find 60 looming ahead like an iceberg.  

           By the time I turned 60, the iceberg had mostly melted in the face of my very full life.  That life was good, if a bit overwhelming, what with work, graduate school, and an ailing mother.  I was aware of the speed with which time was passing by.  I was not pleased to think that 70 would be the next milestone; 70 looked like the beginning of the end.  

Things I could not have imagined on the road to 70:

At 70, I do not feel old.

At 70, I feel good, often great.  

          My life continues to be rich and full.

I look ahead with pleasure, curiosity, and eager anticipation.

Things I know:

80 will come.  

It will come quickly.  

There is a decent chance that I will still feel good at 80.  There is, however, no arguing with the fact that my wave is cresting.  I am sitting atop the crest.  The wave will fall, sooner or later, quickly or slowly.  In the meantime, to quote James Taylor, “Might as well enjoy the ride." 

The question I have been asking myself:  

         What do I want to do with the time, however short or long, that I have left?  

         I want to stop putting the things I should do (says who?) ahead of the things I want to do, the things I came here to do.  This is exciting.  And difficult – I have, after all, 70 years behind me of doing what I’m supposed to do. 

         So, what do I want to do?

1.    Play 

2.    Write

3.    Spend time with the people who matter to me

4.    Spend time in my garden

5.    Guard my alone time  (See 2 and 4 above)

6.    Spend less time on social media (because 1-5) 

7.    Say goodbye to perfectionism, impatience, and worry.

          Here’s the tricky part; I don’t want this to be another to-do list.  I want it to be a reminder not to waste my time. (This is not to be confused with whiling away my time.  Scrolling through my phone is mostly wasting; walking in the woods without a thought in my head is whiling). I want to wake up each morning and ask myself, What do I want to do today? Maybe some of you do this every day.  I haven’t been so good at it, even in retirement.  But I’m getting the hang of it. There’s nothing like a milestone birthday to focus the attention.  

           As I have been approaching this birthday, James Taylor’s The Secret ‘O Life has been playing in my mind. I love the image of sliding and gliding down to our finish. You can have a listen by clicking here.  (I think it loses something when it isn't sung, but I've included the lyrics in case you prefer the message in capsule form.*)

May the song speak to you as it has to me.  And 'til next time, try not to try too hard. I hope you enjoy the ride.

Me at 16 - On the road to adulthood

*Secret 'O Life

        - James Taylor

The secret of life is enjoying the passage of time
Any fool can do it
There ain't nothing to it
Nobody knows how we got to
The top of the hill
But since we're on our way down
We might as well enjoy the ride

The secret of love is in opening up your heart
It's okay to feel afraid
But don't let that stand in your way
'Cause anyone knows that love is the only road
And since we're only here for a while

Might as well show some style

Give us a smile

Isn't it a lovely ride?
Sliding down
Gliding down
Try not to try too hard
It's just a lovely ride

Now the thing about time is that time
Isn't really real
It's just your point of view
How does it feel for you
Einstein said he could never understand it all
Planets spinning through space
The smile upon your face
Welcome to the human race

Some kind of lovely ride
I'll be sliding down
I'll be gliding down
Try not to try too hard
It's just a lovely ride
Isn't it a lovely ride?
See me sliding down
Gliding down
Try not to try too hard
It's just a lovely ride
The secret of life is enjoying the passage of time

p.s. - Yes, I have written about a James Taylor song before.  See: Fire and Rain:  On Time Travel and Sombreros. No, I am not on his payroll.