age

The Septuagenarians in Starbucks

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So there I am, on my lunch hour waiting at the Starbuck’s counter inside Barnes & Noble, 2 bargain books in hand for purchase along with my Iced, Venti, fat-free, half-caff, extra-caramel, caramel macchiato.

One of the books perched precariously on my arm was about a Southern Belle who seemingly gets away with killing her high-school sweetheart (for awhile) until it catches up with her years later in modern-day Chicago. And the other is a parodied, How-To sex book chosen as a gag gift for my best friend’s upcoming bachelorette party.

I am almost giddy about my cheap and decadent literary purchases as I anticipate the rush I’m about to feel from all the sugar and caffeine I’ll soon be consuming in my coffee confection.

As I hand my books to the cashier and eloquently—if not poetically—place my order, I become aware of two grey-haired gentlemen approaching from behind. One man, who I’d guess to be about 75, is speaking very loudly to the other about how he has to take his pill very soon. They are eye-balling the menu and scratching their heads when I hear them mumble to one another the ultimate question: How in the HELL do you just order a “regular cup of coffee” in this place?!

While I am paying for my purchase, the cute little green-apron-clad barista asks the gentlemen what they would like. One of the men says very clearly to her: “I would like a REGULAR coffee please. None of that special stuff will be necessary. I just want your plain Starbucks coffee.”

The girl in the green apron hesitates slightly and says to the man in a slightly raised voice: “Sir, we have SEVERAL varieties of Starbucks coffee here.” And then she launches into a sermon about light and medium roast blends versus richer, darker blends.

The man tries again, this time attempting to be a bit more adventurous, and trying to meet her in the middle with attempted “coffee-house speak” by ordering a Starbucks “House Blend.”

The barista, exasperated by this man’s total inability to relate to the extensive foreign-language menu hanging ominously on the wall, practically shouts: “Sir!?! We have many, MANY HOUSE blends. Which ONE can I get for you?!?”

He leans across the counter to meet her gaze, agitated, and now aware of the “stir” (pun intended) this exchange is causing and replies: “You know, all I want is a basic coffee, just a BASIC coffee. I don’t know how to read that DAMN menu!” Then unintelligible and frustrated grumbles and mumbles come from both of these poor men.

By this time, the cute little barista in the green apron has transformed into a wild-eyed, cup-wielding, crazed, green-aproned MONSTER as she throws the cups around, heaves heavy sighs, rolls her eyes and begins to fill his cup with something hot and brown… presumably and Lord willing, some type of “basic” coffee.

As I take my receipt and fold it into my purse… concealing my grin the entire time, biting my lip and trying desperately not to laugh at the scene I’ve just witnessed… I see a 70-ish woman behind the men in line say to them in a soothing tone: “Come on guys… just accept it… we’re living in the 20-something century now.”

And I walk away.

Looking back on what that lady said to her fellow septuagenarians was actually quite profound. At first I thought she was referring to the 21st century in which we now live… but she couldn’t remember whether it was the 20th or 21st. However, with our culture’s exponentially-increasing pace, it could ALSO be called “the 20-something century”… because I’m sure that to the 70-somethings, it is the youth—the “20-somethings”— to whom THIS century now belongs.

10 Reasons Why Its Funner To Be a Kid at the Zoo

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For an animal lover and avid people-watcher, a visit to the zoo never gets old, no matter your age. However at times I find it far more entertaining to watch the children at the zoo, rather than the animals…

For example: I once witnessed a little girl throw an AMAZING tantrum (screaming, wailing, arms flailing… the whole bit) all the way from the Northern Trek down to the African Savanna… and no one even blinked. I have to say, I envied her a little. I mean, let’s be honest people… sometimes it WOULD be nice for it to be OK if you had a total and complete MELT-DOWN like that in front of everyone. No questions asked.

But this little red-faced, siren-sounding, tantrum-throwing child-coming-down-from-an-extreme-sugar-high not only entertained me, she inspired me. My envy of her led me to think of some other reasons why it is WAY better to be a kid at the zoo than it is to be an adult. So here goes…

1. You get to be chauffeured around everywhere in a plush, shaded stroller or fun little red wagon.

2. You can dress up like the animals and people think it’s cute. No one thinks it is “weird” or “just-trying-to-get-attention” or “wacky” or “deranged.”

3. Everyone moves out of YOUR way so that you can have the best view of the monkeys throwing poo at one another.

4. You will not be made fun of or teased for spilling ketchup and mustard down the front of your shirt and walking around all day sportin’ a stain on your chest.

5. When you talk to the animals no one thinks it is “strange” or “just-trying-to-get-attention” or “questionable” or “sad.”

6. It’s totally acceptable and not “dirty” to ask questions like: “What is that kangaroo doing to that OTHER kangaroo?”

7. No one yells: “Hey!” or “Get down from there!” or “You’re too heavy!” or “You’ll break it!” if you climb up and sit on the railing to get a better look at the tortoises.

8. If you make random animal noises while standing in line for the bathroom or concessions no one thinks it is “odd” or “just-trying-to-get-attention” or “curious” or “psycho.”

9. You can be covered in cotton-candy, having the bestest, stickiest, finger-lickingest time of your life and no one looks at you funny. You do NOT have to carry your cotton-candy home in a concealed plastic bag and secretly devour it at 10 p.m. on the couch in your living room, sitting next to your cat while watching re-runs of Seinfeld… with the blinds drawn.

10. And finally… as previously mentioned… You can throw an elephant-sized fit whenever, wherever and whyever you want to and no one thinks it is “scary” or “just-trying-to-get-attention” or “immature” or “narcissistic.”

Mom Jeans? Never.

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“Tennis shoes?” she asked, disgusted and horrified. “But I feel so old when I wear tennis shoes with shorts. Sneakers look so much cuter with flared jeans.”

“Or bootcut… Bootcut’s OK…” I countered anxiously while trying to reassure the both of us. “… just so long as they’re NOT mom jeans! The key at our age is knowing how to wear tennis shoes, shorts and a trendy fitted tee without looking like we’re trying to be 22 OR one of those hapless, hopeless middle-aged women who wear white Reebok hi-tops and mom jeans with their shirts tucked in!” 

How do we do that?

And that, my friends, is the million-dollar, 30-something question. As the number of candles on our cake creeps ever upward… how do we look attractive and stylish while at the same time age appropriate? And better yet… what the hell IS age appropriate for a woman in her mid-thirties? You know, that time in your life where you’re still in decent shape and you feel young enough to wear the latest trends yet there is this growing awareness that you are no longer 22.

It’s a real dilemma.

My best friend Jan and I are getting together this weekend for the first Ohio State football game of the season. And we are really excited about it. In case you don’t already know, OSU football is a big damn deal around here. However, as someone who works on a college campus—surrounded by young, attractive co-eds whose wrinkle-free parts are still squarely north of the equator—I know what we’re in for at the game this weekend…

… Lots and LOTS of tan, tight, smooth, lean, I-haven’t-a-care-in-the-world 18 to 22 year old girls strutting around in miniature-everything clothing like they’re all auditioning to become the next Football Wives or future Housewives of Franklin County. And then there will be Jan and me… trying desperately to look young and attractive in our (hopefully) adorable-but-age-appropriate attire, firmly in denial about the fact that not that long ago… We were those girls.

Not that she or I need to know this now—because she’s married and I’m in a relationship—but just out of curiosity… Where exactly are you on the meat-market-food-chain when you’re between a rockin-hot college bod and middle-age mom jeans?

God help me if I ever wind up in a pair of acid-washed, high-waisted, tapered-leg denim dungarees! I will NEVER be that woman… the one in the mom jeans… NEVER!! In fact, if you ever see me sporting a pair of them, I give you full permission to rip them from my body during a full-fledged fashion intervention. And Jan does too.

Go Bucks.

Falls the Shadow

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“Between the idea and the reality, between the motion and the act, falls the shadow.” — T.S. Eliot.

This is not what I had in mind. At some point in time everyone utters those words. No exceptions. Most of you have already said it. And if you haven’t yet… I promise you will.

Maybe it was the vacation you had planned or the house you always imagined you’d buy. Maybe it was the career you thought would last forever or the spouse who promised to love and cherish you “till death do us part.” Perhaps it is in the visions you had for your children, or even the vision that one day you would have children. It might be the health and well-being you expected from your own body.

Whatever it is for you… there is probably something that didn’t turn out the way you planned. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not always a bad thing. Sometimes amazing blessings and miraculous surprises come our way. And that’s what keeps life interesting.

In T.S. Eliot’s poem “The Hollow Men” there is a line that reads: “Between the idea and the reality, between the motion and the act, falls the shadow.” There is much debate over what the entire poem means. And it means lots of different things to different people. But in that particular line I find it interesting to consider “the shadow” to be that grey area that exists between what we pictured in our minds and what we actually have.

If you’re anything like me, you might struggle with reconciling your dreams with your realities. And we may ask ourselves: How do I learn to be content living inside “the shadow”? I think the best we can do is to look around for the surprises… the tiny gems we never even considered to be of such great value: A neighbor who seems to come through just when you need it most. A co-worker who notices whenever you’re having a rough day and encourages you. A friend who knows everything there possibly is to know about you and loves you anyway. Family members who are your biggest fans and cheer you on even when you fall down.

These are the riches found in secret and unexpected places. We may need to write them down. Put them on the fridge or the bathroom mirror… somewhere we’ll always be reminded of them. This way, perhaps we will never forget that even if life doesn’t turn out to be the treasure chest we were expecting… we need to look closer. We will find that it is still a treasure bursting with sparkling jewels… just lying there… in the shadow.

Single White Female Seeks…

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Girlfriends. That’s right I said girlfriends. I am searching for a few good female friends… though I’d settle for just one. I have actually been considering taking out an ad and conducting interviews. I’m not searching for the virtual kind of friends with whom I can “chat” electronically across the miles about all sorts of random topics. Those are wonderful, please don’t get me wrong.

I realize that many of you reading this right now are those sorts of “friends” to me. But today I am specifically referring to the real-life-flesh-and-blood-in-your-physical-company kind of friends.

… Monica, Rachel, Phoebe, Chandler, Ross and Joey … Jerry, George, Kramer and Elaine … Carrie, Miranda, Charlotte and Samantha … And to be fair to the bros out there … Vince, “E”, Ari, Drama and Turtle …

There’s a simple reason why these famous “friends” from popular culture have worked their way into our living rooms and ultimately our hearts over the years. We all want what they appear to have. They have a bond and a closeness that cannot be denied. Someone is always there to bail you out, cheer you up, calm you down or stay in with you and share a bottle of wine.

Some people are fortunate enough to have friends like that in real life. But sadly, for me, I am not one of those people. Make no mistake. I have some amazing friends with whom I have stayed in touch over the years, but we no longer live in the same state, let alone the same city. And the ones who do live in close proximity… well, it seems we’re all too busy with our own little lives to make the time to nurture a friendship. And I am equally as guilty as anyone else when it comes to this.

But now, at 36, I am wishing for that close friend or friends with whom I can share anything. ANYTHING. The kind of friend…

  • who would tell me what a jerk he is (even if he isn’t) because it is what I need to hear in that moment.
  • I have a standing date with on Monday nights to watch The Big C, Nurse Jackie or The United States of Tara.
  • who would tell me the harsh truth no matter how hard it is to hear.
  • who would NOT post compromising, reputation-altering or career-threatening photos or videos of me on Facebook or YouTube (no matter how great their viral potential may actually be).
  • who lived nearby and would show up at 3 a.m. if I think my cat is dying (or just hacking up a giant hairball).
  • who would help me hide a body if necessary (just sayin’).

Any interested party, living within a 15-mile radius and fitting this description please feel free to submit an application to yours truly.

Willingness to share shoes, accessories and clothing a plus. Co-dependant, jealousy-prone, psychopathic, passive-aggressive narcissists need not apply.

While The Leaves Are Still Green

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After eleven years in the desert, one of the things I’ve enjoyed most about coming home to Ohio is seeing all of the green. Don’t get me wrong, the desert has it’s own distinct beauty with wide open skies fringed with colorful mountains, and long, long welcoming stretches of road that unfold and roll out in front of you wherever you turn your wheels… But the desert earth is brown. This time of year in Northeastern Ohio, it seems like the whole landscape has been draped in varying shades of green velvet and I can’t seem to take my eyes off of it. It captivates me! It is like I am seeing it for the very first time. I grew up with it all around me, but I never really SAW it until I went away.

For a few weeks I have been intending to grab the camera early on a Saturday morning and take some photos of the lush green that has enveloped everything… The farm fields, the rolling hillsides, the thick and towering trees, the mossy embankments and the rows upon rows of golden-tassled corn. There is something amazing about the early morning sunlight illuminating a bright green leaf making it look as though it were lit from within, or glinting off the dew making everything appear as though it’s been laced with diamonds… and I want to capture it before it disappears for another 9 months.

Naturally, I never get up early enough to actually accomplish this. I seem to love my bed a little too much. I can literally sleep for hours… especially on a Saturday morning.

But yesterday on my lunch break, I noticed that a few of the trees were not so green anymore. And when I went to the park to eat my lunch, I found it curious that the edges of the very same leaves that last week seemed so fresh and new, are now tinged with another color! Fall is on it’s way.

Autumn has always been my favorite season. I love the explosion of reds, oranges, yellows and purples that seems to happen all at once before the leaves surrender to the cold and drop to the ground. The chill in the air invigorates me! The smell of sugary-sweet foliage and wood smoke makes me want to find that favorite flannel. But when the days get shorter as darkness steals more and more of the light, I am reminded of how fast it goes.

And I don’t just mean the lengthy days of summer… I mean, it ALL goes fast. 

I can’t believe my niece is now the age I was when she was born. I can’t believe that the kids I once taught to swim can now be found at the YMCA, signing their own kids up for the very same lessons. I can’t believe that when I open my mouth, it is now my mother’s words coming out instead of my own. How does it happen? WHEN does it happen?

It happens day after day, night after night, little by little and in giant leaps and bounds. Gradually and all at once. We go about the business of our lives and before we know it, OUR leaves are tinged with another color. We get older, we build families, the youngers become the olders and just like the marching on of fall, winter, spring and summer… The whole pattern will repeat again and again. It’s been going on for centuries, and yet we’re surprised when it happens to us! Just as every fall I am surprised when I see the tips of that very first leaf start to blush…

You’d think by now I’d know.

There is nothing I can do to stop it. In the end, none of my efforts will slow it or even affect it. The best thing I CAN do, the ONLY thing I CAN do is get up early on a Saturday morning and grab my camera while the leaves are still green.

The “But” of Consequence

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Life gets a whole lot less interesting the moment you’re able to comprehend consequence.

When I was about 2 or 3 I was in the tub with my sister who was 3 years older. My mom trusted my sister with me because she knew that a responsible big sis wouldn’t hold her little sister’s head underwater or smear soap in her eyes. What my mother didn’t foresee was the potential threat that this arrangement posed for my sister.

I distinctly remember my sister lying on her stomach in the tub and me looking down at her little peach bum sticking up out of the water. Now I don’t know what possessed me to do this, but I do know that I still laugh hysterically when I think about it.

I very intentionally laid my washcloth across her butt and then proceeded to bite her as hard as I could. Like I said, I can’t tell you why because I have absolutely NO idea what was running through my mind. But, I CAN tell you that for some reason, I thought it was necessary to place a washcloth over her first so as to bite her THROUGH the fabric. I’m not sure if that cloth barrier was for her or for me. But that’s the way it went down.

My sister yelped and cried and my mom pulled me out of the tub. And our whole family has laughed about it for years … save for my sister, who I suspect is still harboring some bitterness over the whole thing. To my knowledge, I never got in trouble for that. I think my parents probably thought I was just an innocent child who was “exploring her world” by biting her sister’s butt. I never did it again. And that’s all I remember. So you see, no consequences = pure, unbridled joy and fun!

My first exposure to suffering consequences for my less-than-stellar behavior came in kindergarten. It was a day just like any other day as I carried my lunch tray to my spot at the table and sat down. I saw my friend Kristi coming to sit next to me and I remember that in a split second a brilliant idea flashed through my deviant, little mind…

Wouldn’t it be interesting if Kristi—with her tray of steaming-hot food—comes to sit down next to me, fully expecting a chair on which to rest her butt, and it isn’t THERE? That would be kind of a funny and unexpected surprise! I think I’ll yank her chair out from under her as soon as she tries to sit down.

So I did.

And she fell.

Hard.

I remember the visual like it was yesterday. Not because it was funny, but because I hadn’t thought my actions through. I didn’t connect the dots that my friend might get hurt or feel embarrassment or have hot food spill all down the front of her. Nor did I connect the dots that within 15 minutes of the “incident,” I’d be sitting in “time-out” in the kindergarten room while the rest of the kids frolicked on the playground and my teacher paced back and forth in a state of utter shock and confusion at my violent disruption and my parents searched frantically for child psychologists and clergy to help make some sense of their crazed, demon-possessed daughter.

OK, I made up the part about my parents searching for psychologists and clergy. But the rest is genuine fact. You can ask Kristi. She is somehow, by the sheer grace of God, still my friend. BTW… Thanks for still being my friend, Kristi!

I learned that day that an impulsive, ill-conceived action on my part had the ability to cause some rather large ripples afterward—like throwing a boulder into a tiny, shallow pond. Sometimes people get wet. But the other valuable thing that I learned was that because of “consequences” and “ripple effects” life would never be the same.

It would NEVER be as much fun as it was “pre-chair-incident.”

The Mysteriously Missing Section in the Cosmetics Department

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There is a section missing in the skin care aisle of all cosmetics departments. I’m serious. Check it out next time you are in one. It goes straight from the teenage pimple creams, gels, cleansers, exfoliators, toners and masks right to the anti-aging serums, lifting lotions, wrinkle creams, eye illuminators and lip plumpers.

During a recent trip to the drug store, on a quest to find something that would clear up my skin, yet NOT suck out every ounce of moisture—thus causing my face to look and feel like an old catcher’s mit before I’m 40—I discovered this suspiciously absent section.

WHERE I ask, is the section for the women in between puberty and menopause? Are you with me on this, people? Because many of you are here with me now, or you remember having been here, or you will one day GET here. You’re barely beginning to see some laugh lines and little “chick’s feet” (not yet full-blown crow’s feet) yet you still break out once a month like you did back in high school. Now I ask… What is up with that?! I thought we outgrew acne and blemishes? But no… apparently these 2 delightful skin conditions are going to OVERLAP. Wrinkles PLUS acne. Score.

So I ask you, skin-care manufacturers, where are the products for me and my pals deeply submerged in the throes of the Thrisis?

Do cosmetic manufacturers think women go suddenly from sweet sixteen to senior? Because it sure looks like they do by simply cruising down the aisle. Their marketing message initially goes a little something like this: “Hey, look at you! You’re a teenager! You’re skin is disgusting! You suck. Use our product and you will have beautifully-flawless skin just like the pre-pubescent 11-year-old girl in this airbrushed photo.”

Then you walk a few paces, and the message totally changes. It goes a little something like THIS: “What-up Grams! You’re a hag! You have wrinkles, crater-sized pores, dark circles under your eyes, age spots, sagging lids and thin lips. You suck. Use our product and you will have beautifully, wrinkle-free, airbrushed skin just like the surgically-altered-mature-woman in this doctored photo.”

So I beg of you Roc, Olay, Garnier, Biore, Mary Kay, Noxema, Neutrogena, Clearasil, Clean & Clear and Oxy… please get together and create something for us “Skinbetweeners,” because right now, as it stands… you are the ones who suck.

“Shoulding” On Ourselves

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There is a little-known occurrence reaching epidemic proportions and running rampant through our culture these days. This problem may be affecting you or someone you know in some very harmful ways. Perhaps you’re already familiar with it… it’s called “Shoulding,” and it is a dangerous thing. I was first introduced to this concept by my mother who was frequently telling me that it is never productive to “should” on yourself. And even though she reminds me (almost daily) NOT to SHOULD on myself… I still do it.

It starts out harmless enough… with a few benign statements such as: I should clean my house. I should do some laundry. I should pay some bills. I should balance my checkbook. I should wash the windows. I should wash the car. I should wash the kids. These statements in and of themselves aren’t harmful. They can actually serve in a helpful manner by prompting us to take care of those things in our lives which need to be taken care of. However, there is a much darker side to “shoulding”… and this is the side that we ought to be concerned with.Let me demonstrate by sharing some personal “shoulds” I have dropped on myself over the years… I should be happy. I should be married. I should be a mother. I should be a successful graphic artist making more than enough money to meet my monstrous suburban mortgage payment. I should bake brownies and change diapers. I should be shuffling kids off to soccer practice and swimming lessons in between power lunches and networking dinner parties.

And I’m just getting warmed up…

I should be a size 2. I should have 8-minute abs. I should have Madonna’s arms, Angelina’s lips and Jennifer Aniston’s flawless skin. I should have thick, lustrous wash and wear hair (in the trendiest style of course) I should arise in the mornings looking like I have just stepped out from the pages of Vogue. I should start each day by running 6 miles and eating nothing but fiber, lean protein and organically-grown produce. I should wear fabulous clothes and drive an equally fabulous, environment-friendly, hybrid car. I should have a perfect mate who looks like Prince Charming and treats me like a queen. He too should earn an obscene amount of money… and together with our beautiful and well-mannered 2.5 children, we SHOULD be the poster-family for happiness and domestic bliss.

This process of “shoulding” can also work in another way… for there are just as many things that fall into the “Should Not” category. A few of my personal favorites are: I should not be divorced. I should not be single. I should not be childless. I should not struggle to pay my bills with a college degree. I should not have any debt. I should not feel the need to constantly defend or explain myself. I should not (occasionally) wish for a different life.

As you can see, “shoulding” is a lose/lose activity. An exercise in futility. Nothing productive or good can ever come from “shoulding on ourselves.” The moment the word “should” leaves our mouths, we are damaging our current and future happiness. This is what my mother is always trying to get me to see. As a woman of 60 she tells me how much time she wasted “shoulding,” when she could have just chosen to be happy and content with who she was and what she had in THAT moment. She hopes that by telling me this while I’m in my thirties, it might save me a great deal of heartache and disappointment and it might allow me to enjoy what I have right now.

So I guess if there is anything, ANYTHING that I SHOULD do… the singular exception to the “Thou Shalt Not Should” rule… it would be to stop all of this “shoulding on myself” RIGHT NOW and start accepting, embracing and enjoying the reality of what IS and what IS NOT.

Get It In Writing

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“If you love a thought, set it free. If it comes back to you… It was meant to be.”

There’s more to this quote but I don’t remember what it is.

It has begun. Forgetfulness. I am only 36 years old and I am asking myself… how can this BE?! Of course, if someone has told me the answer, I already forget what it was so who cares. The point is, it is happening… whether I like it or not.

I used to make fun of my parents for their uncanny ability to “misplace thoughts.” Or laugh hysterically at my mom while she furiously searched for her reading glasses when they were right on top of her head. But I’m NOT laughing anymore.

I am amazed at my relatively new ability to think of something while in one room and then completely forget what the hell it was by the time I get to the other room to take care of it. I will literally walk into the kitchen and NOT remember WHY I am there.

I would love to think that this is happening because my head is SO FULL of valuable information, ideas, facts and figures, but alas, I know that it is not due to a brain that is bursting with priceless knowledge. It is because I am (gulp) getting OLDER.

Now, I CAN still remember stuff. If I write it down. That is why I write everything down. I keep notepads, pens and slips of paper tucked away in every nook and cranny of my house like an 85-year-old. For example, if I am in the bathroom and notice that I’m running low on toilet paper or lotion or soap… I do not trust my brain to remember this. So I write it down then and there—in the bathroom—even if I am dripping wet from the shower and wrapped in a towel.

I also write everything down at the office. Especially the office. Where there are frequently impromptu meetings, shortened deadlines and frantic phone calls… and I do NOT want to be the one to drop the ball simply because I FORGOT something critical that someone told me while I was getting my morning coffee.

I take some serious heat for my constant note taking from another woman that I work with. She is 23. Need I say more? I remind her that MY mind was as sharp as a tack when I was 23 too. I guess this is payback for making fun of my parents when their “forgetfulness” started to set in.

Oh well, I have no choice but to accept this as another reality of The Thrisis, and move on. But to little miss Twenty-Three and her flypaper memory I say: Watch out… I am what you have to look forward to. And when I retire, I will hereby bequeath to you my sharpie and extensive collection of multi-colored Post-Its.