Age of Mastery

It’s kind of interesting, being in mid-life. Some mornings, we feel the brunt of aging when merely getting out of bed causes multiple grunts and groans—and we wonder, who made that terrible sound? Was that me? We carefully make sure that anything we might need during the day does not require us to bend over to retrieve it. We can’t figure out how merely brushing our teeth caused our back to go out. Our sleep patterns change and we find we that “sleeping in” has become sleeping in until 7 am, but only after waking up several times in the night. In contrast, this is also an age when our minds are at their best. We can synthesize information on a much deeper level. We’ve developed some wisdom and compassion as we can imagine ourselves walking in someone else’s shoes. We’ve accomplished many things, possibly raised our children, and stand, one day, questioning what it’s all about? Where do I fit in?

 

 

I remember my great grandmother and I having one of our coffee and cigarette sessions when I was about 17. We were sitting at her dining room table, puffing away and chugging back massive quantities of caffeine, as she regaled me with bawdy jokes. She was slipping into the early stages of Alzheimer’s at the time. She suddenly stopped mid-joke and looked at her hand, which she thrust in front of me. Her arm was wrinkled and the skin almost transparent. She said, “I look at these hands and I can’t believe they are mine. I still feel 18.” I had no idea what she was talking about; I wish she was still here so I could tell her I get it now. I’m sure she thought that “youth was wasted on the young.”

 

 

Gail Sheehy in her book, New Passages, calls mid-life the “second adulthood.” For our age group, she calls this the “Age of Mastery.” For some, mid-life becomes a crisis and for others, it becomes a time to spread our wings and explore the greater opportunities to find ourselves outside of the realm of societal construct, beyond being a spouse or a parent.

 

 

I was speaking with a friend who is going through a classic mid-life situation. It appears, from the outside, looking in, to be near crisis for him. He’s contemplating making major changes because suddenly he feels stagnate, undervalued, and that he has spent his whole life being the strong man—taking care of hearth and home. All the imperfections in his relationships have become gargantuan in proportion because he is now aware of him. His understanding of his emotions is somewhat new to him and he’s still working on being able to articulate his needs to those around him. And, they, I would suspect, are confused by his newfound awareness of self. He is at a crossroads between opportunity and danger. The turn he makes at this crossroads will have life-long implications. I’m proud of him for seeking professional counsel to help him try to piece together his wildly ricocheting thoughts and feelings so he stop feeling like he’s falling off a cliff. Men experience the “Age of Mastery” in a completely different way than women, so I may not always understand his angst, but I have a mountain of empathy for him.

 

 

Aging means a lot of things—our bodies start to fail us due to genetics and life choices and our minds cry out for a greater understanding of self and the world around us. Our experiences, as we pass through the various stages of life, share some commonality, but are also singular, and define who we are and what we will make of them. I looked at my hand today; it doesn’t look 18, but it’s a long way from 80 and I’ve still got a lot of living to do.

If you haven’t the strength to impose your own terms upon life, you must accept the terms it offers you.
~ TS Eliot

Home Of The Cavegirl

I got a good laugh today! I was chatting with my mom, who is still in “whisper” mode due to a “sprained voice” (a megaphone is soon to become involved) and she mentioned that my stepdad contributed a little bon mot regarding my shopping for “stuff” for the new house—replacements for the stuff staying at the house.

 

He said there is an old observation from back in the day that if you see a guy at the Goodwill buying a steak knife, a fork, a spoon, a frying pan, and a glass, he’s just gotten a divorce! I was picturing this shopping excursion and the visual was pretty amusing. Then, I pictured him on this shopping excursion on the occasion of his divorce in the early 1970s, and it became hysterical. And, while not reflected directly in my case, there is some parallel.

 

I guess I say that because my stepdad, who is a fabulous father and a terrific man, is like most straight men I’ve known and has fairly simple needs. Men seem to need their chair, a remote control, beef in the ‘frig, and their toys. Rich or poor, they are no different, they just spend different amounts on those needs. I don’t think he came into our home with much other than his gun collection, his clothes, his little color television (this was our first), and his dog. He was perfectly content that way too. I think when they finally carry him out, hopefully a long, long time from now, he’ll leave behind the same possessions he came into our life with.

 

It’s caused me some curiosity as to why women feel compelled to spend their individual shares of the billions spent each year on home decorating and improvement. Is it a throwback to our “nesting” instincts from days when we tidied the cave and decorated with hunting art or beautified our huts with a bearskin or two?

 

My plans are big for the new place. Primarily, de-wallpapering and painting will occur immediately; my sanity lies in the balance. The current paper is everywhere, and is circa 1985 “country”—ducks are involved. Then there’s the nightmare-inducing powder blue, white, peach flowery wallpaper all over my bedroom. Anyone who knows me knows how much I’m lovin’ that.

 

As you might imagine, I had to envision the future in a fairly big way to finally decide on this place. It has “good bones,” is in a great neighborhood, has a convenient floorplan, and has great light. As a bonus, it has a place for my art studio and my desk. I’m almost giddy with anticipation on where I will hang my favorite art pieces and what kind of shelf liner I’ll select. Bed sheet shopping took me a full four hours yesterday. My “stuff,” of which there is way, way more than a single place setting and a .357 Magnum, goes happily. As a proud recipient of the nesting chromosome, I’m all about making a “home” and not a place to drop by to have a steak and catch a little football! But, while dedicated to the cause, there is still some small part of me that envies my stepdad’s simple needs.

 

When I speak of home, I speak of the place where — in default of a better — those I love are gathered together; and if that place were a gypsy’s tent, or a barn, I should call it by the same good name notwithstanding.

~ Charles Dickens

Karma Monkey

My best pal Viv and I were chatting as I was stalking the elusive perfect new comforter for the bed yesterday (thanks unlimited weekend minutes). We had both received good news that week. She had passed her real estate broker’s exam on the first try and a difficult listing was about to be sold. I had been to the tax lady and could now afford said new comforter.

 

I was telling her it must be a shift in the earth’s karma because of “me.” Everyone else’s karma was benefitting as well, because I had it all going on—I was getting parking in front of stores, hitting green lights, finding sales for everything I needed, and getting a tax refund—how does it get any better than that, I joked? My positive karma shifted so mightily and was so strong right now—the great karma ripple effect was occurring. Her hard studying and excellent sales skills would have nothing to do with it—it was all about me! Then we fell into hysterics over this ridiculous assertion. She said it was like the 100^th Monkey Theory—I must be the 100^th Monkey.

 

I’ve never been called a monkey before, though I’ve probably deserved it. I would also prefer to be the 1^st Monkey if I’m going to be a monkey, but this was a concept I hadn’t heard before. Google to the rescue.

 

It seems that Ken Keyes wrote about these monkeys in Japan in the mid-1950s who had been eating dirty, filthy sweet potatoes until this particular young female monkey figured out they tasted better if she washed them. Soon, all the other young monkeys were washing theirs. Then, some of the older monkeys started to wash theirs, and now their number was 99—then a breakthrough—one day, the 100^th monkey figured it out, causing a ripple effect of “added energy” that caused the entire monkey tribe to starting washing their sweet potatoes. And, before they knew it, monkeys on neighboring islands were also observed washing theirs until all the monkeys had clean sweet potatoes. Keyes was trying to draw the parallel that it takes just one person to effect social change.

 

Monkey change agent though I am, after hours of shopping, I went home dejected and comforter-less, and realized that karma must have shifted once again.

Your problem isn’t karma, Sheldon, it’s attitude!” “Well, Lonnie, maybe it’s attitudinal karma!
~ Anonymous

Love & Happiness

Remember when you were growing up and you imagined what you would be when you grew up? I remember going through about 20 different things over the course of my childhood. I wanted to be, at various times, a circus performer, a cop (like my stepdad), a teacher, a professional camp counselor, a soldier, and a politician. I had fully planned on being the first woman president until I found out that I couldn’t be because I was born in another country. I wondered, ever so briefly, how I’d stack up to the 524 other kids I graduated with who probably experienced similar childhood fantasies. I am none of the things I once imagined, now, all these years later. I’ve was once a soldier and also had several other jobs not listed. It seems to me I had not even heard of the thing I do when I was making my crazy career choices at 10. Am I disappointed though? Not at all.

 

Do you remember imagining your dream life when you grew up? Perhaps that perfectly chiseled husband with a fabulous career in advertising, the 2 magical kids, the large house in the suburbs (think Darrin and Samantha Stephens)? It’s funny, I never imagined as a child being a parent or even being with someone. I kind of always pictured me alone, doing what I wanted or needed to do. But, unlike my clearly, if randomly selected career goals, I have done all of these things. Being a parent has been the singularly most joyful, sad, scary, fabulous, exciting, and fulfilling ride I’ve ever been on. It’s also been relatively successful, my parent experience.

 

There was an article published in Salon today (a must-read site for any of my co-fuzzy-minded liberal friends) about Steven Hayes, a University of Nevada at Reno professor whose newest book, “Get Out of Your Mind and Into Your Life,” coauthored with Spencer Smith, earned him “a splashy profile in the Feb. 13 edition of Time magazine.” In it, he basically asserts that happiness does not exist without suffering. That we all spend an awful lot of time trying to find this perfect state of happiness, and in the meantime, forget to live.

 

Once, I was so fabulously head over heels in love I could barely think of anything else. It was this once-in-a-lifetime numinous experience that gave me the highest kinds of highs I have ever felt. When it was over, I was devastated and sure I would not survive. But, looking back, I would not have traded having such an experience for anything. The pain subsided eventually, and I’m left with the knowledge that I am capable of those kinds of feelings and have experienced them again, in various forms, with other fellow travelers through life.

 

I’m embracing the fact that without pain, one would have no way of quantifying happiness. That living to the fullest means experiencing life in all its forms with all its agonies, ecstasies, torments, elations, and silliness. So, I laugh, I cry, I am disappointed, and I am surprised by my position in life—it’s pretty freakin’ great. And, were I to ever actually show up for a class reunion, I’d hold my head high, and say, “You all ain’t got nothin’ on me!”

Mama always said life was like a box a chocolates,
never know what you’re gonna get.

~Forrest Gump

The Sheer Terror Of It All

What would I want in a date? Where to find a date? Would a date require me to stay up past 10 pm? Would a date expect me to go see “Mission Impossible 3?” Would I have to care about Bennifer and Brangelina? Would their definition of great food be, “lots of food, real cheap?” Would a date insist on showing me their distance record for toenail clippings? Is there any possibility that a date would involve a visit to the local bait shop?

There was an episode of Six Feet Under a couple of years ago and the opening death scene that jump-started every episode, had a man sitting at the breakfast table talking, “blah, blah, blah,” on-and-on. The wife was carefully frying his eggs and bacon, undistracted by his endless musings. She placed the eggs and bacon on his plate, then calmly slams the cast iron frying pan onto his head, killing him not-so-softly, and proceeds to eat his breakfast. Her reply to the detective as to why she’d killed him was, “Because he was boring.” That is a fate I fear as much as being coerced into watching golf for three hours every Sunday.

I have looked at personal ads and have found a plethora of people pontificating their love of the really important things, such as walking on the beach at sunset, sitting in front of the fire with a fine wine, and romantic Sundays reading the paper and poetry to each other in bed. Do these people not have to live an actual life? Because, while that terribly overly-romantic fantasy will get you through, oh, say the first 90 days, who’s going to be there for you when you are nursing cramps and just need someone to bring you a little chicken soup and a heating pad?

Here is a reply provided in response to a very charming ad placed by a young woman in Texas. You can read more about her personal ad experiences at Lizard Kingdom She is still clueless as to what this response was about, and frankly, it has put the fear of a much Higher Power into me:

ive been going to random meetings recently sometimes there ok sometimes not. The last one i went to some lady kept telling us she was fighting capitalism in her mind. I dont think anyone knew what she was talking about. I hope she wins though. i miss new york i really do i never meant to live in texas. i was just down on sixth street to see some band and this girl started talking to me and i was thinking you are not terribly bright no no you are not and then i thought of the last girl i met at i show that I ended up dating now given the only girl i met on a computer stalked me so maybe ads and whatnot are bad but at least she was interesting i dont think the girl on 6th had the forethought to engage in stalking

And, they all sound like such fabulous, interesting people in their ads. They seem to have no baggage, are artistic, well employed, intelligent, really, really funny, and don’t have any issues with their former victims flames. So, I think I’ll report back from time to time on my findings regarding my own on-line dating research in the coming days/weeks. But, first, I’ve got to go pack up my baggage, finish my museum quality painting, work out, make that fabulous gourmet dinner while listening to the Learn Advanced Latin in 10 Days tapes, and still make my 8:00 performance at the Comedy Store, because that’s just who I am.

You meet someone and you’re sure you were lovers in a past life.

After two weeks with them, you realize why you haven’t kept

in touch for the last two thousand years. ~ Al Cleathen

Lip Locking

Not that I’ve had any practice lately, but I was having a discussion with a friend, as I’ve had with other friends in the past, about kissing. Not that I was going to kiss any of those heretofore mentioned friends—it was more a discussion of kissing philosophy. Can a person who is kissing challenged be retrained?

I used to be one of the “Yes, a good kisser can totally retrain a bad kisser,” school. But, over the years, I’ve changed that opinion, but only after repeated scientific attempts to thoroughly research the topic. There are so many kinds of kissers, here are but a few (if my friends have their own kissing nightmares to report, I’m happy to ad them to this blog):

Roadrunner Kiss: The Roadrunner rapid close-mouthed pecks, battering the recipient until chaffing occurs.

The Tonsilectomy Kiss: A proper kiss should not involve any tongue meeting any tonsils. This is a common error made by poor kissers. I do not want to have my airway blocked by you. Go work out your mother’s desire for you to be a doctor somewhere else. Stop and go away.
The “I Don’t Know Where Your Mouth Is” Kiss: These kissers work their way around your face, and never quite reach their mark. This leads the kissee to believe that you will not be able to figure out where anything is. Best to just go home until you can have your glasses prescription checked or buy a roadmap and a copy of “The Art of Kissing” but it won’t do any good, so I suggest taking up a hobby like darts to improve your aim.
Wet and Wild Kisser: Bring your snorkel and facemask, because when this kisser is done with you, you will be sitting in a pool of saliva. Enough said. Whoever encouraged these people in high school should be barred from the dating pool forever.
The Long, Slow Passionate, Deep Kiss: A properly executed kiss of this type elicits the best response from the recipient. When you see one of these kisses at the movies, you suddenly remember why kissing is the singularly best thing invented since the 9-volt battery.

So, for all of you bad kissers out there, please spare all of us. If you are a good kisser, please respond to my personal ad. I’m happy to continue my research, with the new hypothesis—Good Kissers Rock!

Kissing is like real estate. The most important thing is location, location, location.
~Source Unknown

Reverting to Childhood

I’ve been at my grandparents’ house since last night. Grandpa gave me directions from the airport in Phoenix; having no idea the car rental place is miles from the airport, not giving me any sense of direction from his starting point. I managed to arrive anyway.

 

One of the great things about visiting them is that Grandma always makes the best (best tasting, not best for you) food. Since I was a mere shorter, younger smartass, I have loved her beef and noodles. Only people from the Midwest would understand what I mean. They bravely waited for my arrival, which was much later than their normal supper hour. After a brief hello, we all sat down to noodles, steaming hot veggies, salad, and dessert. I love that she goes to all the trouble to make my favorite thing this side of Uni.

 

A couple of things about Midwesterners of a certain age–first, lunch is called dinner and dinner is called supper. You only have a real supper on Sundays, and that’s when the family and/or friends gather around to join in, otherwise the evening meal is leftovers. Supper is an occasion. I would guess that heavier mid-day meals dates back to the farmers who needed to get the energy up to complete all of the day’s tasks.

 

No matter how old they get or how difficult it is to prepare, they manage to prepare three square meals every day. Very few cans or frozen packages are involved. Back in the day, I remember them canning and freezing fresh fruits and vegetables for the months ahead. It reminded me of how far removed we are from those days of true self-reliance when a homemade meal was prepared at my house and Ben said, “Geez, Mom, haven’t you ever heard of a store?” Grocery stores back home never saw an avocado or a zucchini ever, much less fresh tomatoes in winter. Almost everyone had a garden and boxes of Mason jars for canning that were treasured like the finest china. I remember being out in the garden, “helping” grandma pick strawberries. I’d pop two into my mouth for every one I put in the basket. She still remembers that, and had strawberry pie for lunch today.

I’ve spent much of the morning helping Grandpa with his computer. He is pretty tech savvy for a guy in his 80s. However, some of the finer points elude him. I ran some diagnostics, found the problem with his IE, downloaded a couple of tools, and am setting him up with Instant Messenger he can chat with my mom, who is currently not doing phone calls, and I’ve set him up a little web page. It’s good to be needed by people who took such good care of me all those years ago.

Grandpa kept asking me what I wanted to “do” today. I told him I spend all of my time “doing,” so just “being” was going to work very well for just this day.

Wordsmithing

I’ve done extensive research in the last few days of the “best” online dating sites. I’m going to have to pick just one though, because somewhere around the time I was last single, and then unsingle, and then single again, they started charging actual money to help millions find their soulmate. Wish I’d put that business model together.

 

First, the entire notion of finding that perfect congruency in a relationship seems impossible. I don’t believe such a thing exists. If they did, right now I’d have a nice little androgynous-fairly-cute-looking-smartass, tool wielding, book reading, covers hogging, non-cooking clone already. And how would we eat, neither of us would cook? I’d never be confused or hurt or angry because I’d so totally get another me.

 

Plus, I’m getting older, and the dating pool is much, much smaller. And, we, as a demographic, are frequently much larger than we were at 20. Where was this thing called Internet dating then, huh? I was browsing the photos of the available people in my area who are just waiting to hear from me so we can start our lives together, and I found one photo that remotely interested me. Okay, I’m shallow and it was the hot one. I’m sure that one is getting no responses. It was like putting a shiny new Corvette in with a lot full of Yugos. I think I’ll wait to post a photo until I find the photo retouch specialist I’ve heard so much about.

 

And, I’m a bit of a snob. Everyone sins with typos, but I’ve got to know that you can put a paragraph together and if you don’t know how to spell a word, you know how to use a dictionary. Even though this person didn’t have a photo posted and may be the hottest thing over 40, I’m not going to reply, because I just can’t go there:

 

would like to meet some one mature, intellegent, hard worker, that like to go

out to restaurant, socialable, good sence of humor with plans on the future.

 

On-line, all you have to lure your prey into your web of romance is your words. It’s got to be like a sales campaign. Set yourself apart. Say something startling, or incredibly perceptive. Do it in the first 20 words or less. I can see it clearly. So, while I’m hanging out in Arizona over the next few days, I’ll pull out the laptop and draw up at least three different sales campaigns and prepare to test them. Let’s see what we get!

 

The very first law of advertising is to avoid the
concrete promise and cultivate the delightfully vague
~ Bill Cosby

Happy Valentine’s Day

A long, long time ago, in a land far away (Iowa), a little girl used to ride her bike from her warm and cozy little Cape Cod house, away from her no-more-than-usually dysfunctional family, to the elementary school playground. The little girl knew another little girl, whose property adjoined the vast expanse of schoolyard. They’d talk and swing together, and once in a while, the older brother would come over on his bike and swing with with the girls. Soon, it became a habit. The girl would arrive to swing, and the brother and sister would come along and keep the girl company. The boy and girl could talk about most anything.

A couple of years passed and the boy asked the girl out to the movies. His dad had a really cool old Thunderbird, and would drive them hither and yon. The boy was always most polite. Time was not on their side though, and the boy went off to high school.

Another year would pass, and the boy learned to drive the Thunderbird. He asked the girl out on a car date. And then, he asked her on another. Soon, they had many dates and were attending events together. Corsages were involved. Herein, lies the girl’s distaste for Carnations. Who the heck ever thought a Carnation was a real flower? Could any living thing be less attractive than a Carnation? But, I digress. They spent a lot of time tongue-tied and talking was no longer so easy, because what boy or girl that age knows what the heck they are doing?

Soon, the boy would sporadically find other pursuits that interested him greater. The girl would be left bewildered. This cycle would repeat itself over the course of a couple of years, the silences starting just before each Christmas, Valentine’s Day, or birthday.
Eventually, the girl gave up on the boy and conveniently forgot the English Leather she had saved to buy for him for the Christmas approaching under the seat of the car. The car, and the cologne, were crushed in the demo yard.

Did you think it would have a Hallmark ending? Happy Valentine’s Day!