Considering the Alternatives

If you think aging is bad, consider the alternative. - Every older volunteer with whom I ever worked

I turned forty-seven in October.

I'm still in that phase where I have to stop and think before I can say my age with confidence.

What surprises me is that I can say my age with confidence. Forty-seven. Forty-seven. Four decades plus seven years. Staring down fifty and not freaking out. I'm looking at the future as an opportunity, not a slow-fade.

When I was offered the opportunity to write this post in conjunction with Olay's 60th anniversary, they asked "Are you daring enough to shout your age to the world?"

Not one to exactly shout, unless I'm trying to get my children's attention, I'm more inclined to stage whisper "How did we reach the age of forty-seven already?" to my husband. He, by the way, is as fit as he's been in most of our years together and I like to think we're both aging gracefully - him because of all the running he's doing, me because I'm smart enough to use Olay as part of my skin care routine.

The point is we've spent the last twenty-five years busy with the busyness of life - working, raising kids, getting by.

Now we can look ahead. I'm sure our best years lie ahead of us.

Our bucket list keeps growing. We've got traveling to do. Races to run. Books to write and art to make. I look ahead and see less time with the vacuum cleaner and more time with a book in my hand. Less time worrying, more time to challenge what's possible.

Based on heredity, I've reached my mid-point. The last forty-seven years are a mixture of pleasure and sorrow, pride and regret, frustration and wonder. The things I've achieved weren't necessarily planned and the things I didn't achieve haunt me in the wee small hours when I can't sleep. Okay, that's a lie. I'm always asleep in the wee hours. The haunting happens when I'm behind the wheel of the car, but that doesn't sound nearly as romantic or safe, does it?

I mean, they don't make those little signs you can suction to your car window that read "Caution: Ruminating driver on board."

I look ahead and think I have two choices: I can continue to bump along on the currents and let life happen or I can set some goals and go after them like I didn't when I was busy doing the opposite of what I'd planned to do with my life.

In my planning, I sometimes skip ahead to the part where I'm in my seventies, my eighties. Contrary to what they may think, my daughters and I will dress in velour tracksuits of complimentary colors. Our hands manicured, our jewelry understated so that it doesn't clash with our reading glasses we wear on chains around our necks. We'll go places together and they'll roll their eyes at me as I try to decide whether to have the Matzo ball soup or the martini.

And after I've ordered both, we'll laugh, the lines around our eyes creasing with the sheer pleasure of being alive and together.

Olay is encouraging and rewarding women for checking items off their bucket list. What's on yours?

How do you celebrate your age? Let me know in a comment below for a chance to win a $100 Visa gift card courtesy of Olay.

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This giveaway is open to US Residents age 18 or older. Winners will be selected via random draw, and will be notified by e-mail. You have 72 hours to get back to me, otherwise a new winner will be selected.

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TMI Thursday. Period.

After the last few days of roller coaster emotions, embarrassing admissions of vulnerability, and a predilection for coffee house style acoustic music instead of the audio book of Ape House by Sara Gruen while I drive, I might have had a clue.

Sudden and physical needs for wine, chocolate and beer are clear indications.

After I cried at Jen's blog post, there should have been no question.

As if the now monthly eruption on my left cheek isn't enough of a harbinger.

It was as I stood in the kitchen eating Nestle Quik straight from the container that I knew for sure.

And boy do I miss my IUD.

Do I want it back?  No.  I mean, sex without a condom was so so nice, but now that I am finally losing weight, really losing weight, as in have lost three clothing sizes, I'm convinced that the hormones in my old Mirena were partially to blame for my extra tonnage and inability to lose it.

But dang, did I get used to not having a period.  It was like menopause without the hot flashes and other unpleasant (to put it mildly? I'm still in denial) side effects.

So now I'm back to thinking in terms of twenty-eight days.  Even before my IUD days, I didn't have to keep track.  My little round pill pack did it for me.  When it was time for the green pills, I knew to assess the situation:  Were there enough stickers and harpoons?  Did I have a private stash of chocolate so I didn't end up eating Nestle Quik and choking on the powder like I did yesterday when Sophie came into the kitchen and yelled "Mama!" when she saw me at the counter, spoon midair, the yellow container with the rabbit on it open in front of me.

"What are you doing?"  Who is she, my mother?

"We're out of chocolate."  I sputtered.

"So you're eating the Nestle Quik?"

I nodded, coughing on the powder that was now lodged in the back of my throat.

She came over and peered into the open container.  "Did you double dip?"

I shook my head.  I wanted to say, Listen you.  I'd have some chocolate if you guys didn't eat it all.  But instead I sheepishly put the lid back on the container and dropped my spoon into the dishwasher.

"Why do you need chocolate anyway?"  At nearly twelve, she's got a pretty good clue, but sometimes she's afraid to admit how much she knows.  Or, more accurately, she uses the Q & A format to confirm what she she thinks she knows.

"I think I'm about to start my period."  I put the Quik on the shelf in the pantry and stood looking at her.

"Oh."

"Any more questions?"  This was as good a time as any for me to play the role of attentive mother.

"Have you been crying?"  She took a step closer to me.

"Maybe."  I'd read Jen's post about John Lennon and just lost it.

"So when you're about to start your period, you cry and you crave chocolate?"  Okay, so yes, she's information gathering.  This is natural and good.

"I don't always cry, but now it seems I get kind of kooky and emotional.  And zitty.  And bloaty.  But I always craved chocolate.  I mean, when I'm PMSing, it's worse, but I am definitely experiencing PMS things I didn't before."  Too much information?  Did she flinch?  Was she looking for a quick exit now?

"Before when?"

"Well, when I was a teenager.  I didn't get pimples or cramps and I didn't cry or act all mean and crabby.  Not that I remember at least.  But now, since I've had my IUD out, this is different.  It may be because my body is aging and my reproductive system is getting ready to shut down."

She stood blinking at me.  Okay, I'd said too much.  "Does that mean that you and Daddy will stop having sex?"

"That's a bit personal, don't you think?"

She shrugged.  "Yeah."

"Well, if you must know, the answer is no.  I like Daddy like that so deal with it.  The only good thing about starting my period is the fact that I know that I'm not pregnant.  It's really a waste of time.  It's not like I'm going to have more babies."

"I see."

"This is pretty awkward, isn't it?" I said, glancing back into the pantry.

"Maybe.  You know what's awkward?  Reaching into Daddy's top drawer where you hide the chocolate and seeing the box of condoms."

"That's called snooping and I see the box of condoms hasn't deterred you from looking for chocolate.  I hoped it would."

"I have my priorities."

"You are so bad.  You'd better hope that I never pry into your private life like you do mine because I am saving up some really embarrassing questions."  I paused and we smiled at each other.  I continued, "Are we done here?  I have some reading to do."

"Yeah.  You know there's a thing of Hershey's syrup in there.  You don't even need a spoon for that," she said walking past me.

"So I see," I said reaching into the cabinet, flipping open the top of the dark plastic bottle and tipping my head back.

What's your "comfort" for food?  Cravings?  What euphemisms do you use for items of a personal nature?  If you're a guy in a relationship with a woman of childbearing age, how do you cope?  Have you learned to keep a private stash of chocolate or tranquilizer darts?

Like a Finely Aged .....

I don't think I'm capable of a coherent post today.  Not that you expect one when you visit here, but if I lower my standards any more, I'll be posting my menu for the day and grocery lists.  Entertaining perhaps in a train wreck kind of way, but hardly worthy of anything I like to think of as writing.

So while I fret about refocusing on the stories in progress and to understand that this whole summer can't be one long, hot, lurid, beer fest and fish fry, I did promise you some words.  As if my promises mean squat.  Long time readers see right through me to my Path of Least Resistance soul.  Whatever.  I'm just going to do something I haven't purposefully done in a while.  Operative word = purposefully.

Stream of consciousness.  Random order.  But in a numbered list.  Hang on...can you have random and order at the same time?

1.  (And this is not so random) Thank you for the words!  What great words you guys offered.  I really appreciate it.

AND thanks to those who have donated via the Paypal button.  It does help out.  I'm crazy grateful for your generosity and kindness.

2.  Television has turned everything into a competition. Cooking, decorating cakes, decorating houses, surviving, that movie It's a Mad, Mad, Mad Mad World, dancing, singing, being an asshole, designing clothes that no one in their right mind would wear on the street, landing a husband, weddings....  It makes me think that nothing, no matter how potty or out of control it could be, nothing I could do here would even begin to compare with the madness of reality.  Not that that simple fact will stop me from trying.

A couple of days ago I was in the kitchen washing dishes by hand (it's hell on the manicure, but it saves on water, gas and electricity) when I thought I heard a show describing a competition between two or three brides who were planning their weddings.  I hollered into the living room for confirmation which Chloe swiftly provided from her place on the loveseat (try not to die of surprise).

There was all kinds of talk about style and stress in that breathless DIY tone provided by the narrator with a British accent.  Life and death stuff here, people!  With style!

"What's the prize?"  I mean, I had to know at this point, right?

"A honeymoon."

Naturally.

I've given up any pretense of not being judgmental and sanctimonious when it comes to the garbage my kids watch on television.  To wit:  "Do those idiots have any idea what a waste it is to spend all that effort and money on one day?  Do they not understand that the real stress comes from trying to make the marriage work?  The wedding should be fun, not stressful."  I huffed into the soapy bubbles.

This got no reply.  I don't blame her.  I still feel the same way about my own mama.

3.  I can't remember what else I was going to write about.  The cat with the urinary tract infection just came into the office where the litter boxes are now housed (the wisdom of this is beyond me) and is staring balefully at me.  His vet appointment is at 3:30 p.m. The poor baby.

4.  Remembered! We had a little soiree here yesterday that was quite the jolly time.  I totally forgot to call our guests bitches and to finish each sentence with ya dig, but even so, I believe the day can be slotted into the success column.  It set me to thinking about age, though.  Among the attendees were MathMan and myself.  We're in our (ahem) mid-forties.  Chloe joined us.  She's nineteen.  Our guests were fellow teachers ranging from Just Turned Forty, two in their early thirties (I remember being thirty!) and someone in her early twenties.  I blacked out for a second when I realized I could be her mom.  She was born in 1986!!!  I remember 1986!  I was having sex in 1986!  I remember blacking out in 1986!  Alas, I am not this young woman's mother.

Anyway, I was thinking about how when you're an "adult" age becomes less of a determining factor regarding your social circle.  The older one gets, the more likely one is to have friends and acquaintances of all ages.  I first experienced this when I got out of college and worked at the International College of Surgeons in Chicago.  I was the youngest staff member (something I haven't been able to say in many, many years).  Because association management is nothing if not a pink collar ghetto, my colleagues were mostly women in their late forties, fifties and sixties.  One day we were having lunch around the kitchen table in the servants' kitchen.  (The offices were located in an old mansion that once served as the Polish Consulate.  Very cool workspace.)

The conversation turned to menopause.  I was twenty-three going on twenty-four.  The same age as our guest yesterday now that I think of it.  During the conversation, the Executive Director looked at me and must have noted my discomfort.   At this point in my life, I hadn't even had children and these women were discussing the end of the reproductive cycle.  For one thing, I didn't want to think about my coworkers having reproductive parts.  For another, I didn't want to think about old people that way.  Gross!

So the Director, a lovely Dutch woman in her mid-fifties, turned to me and said in her soft accent, "Don't worry.  The best part about menopause is that you can start having all the sex you want without fear of pregnancy."

I've thought often of that line over the years.....

How was your long weekend?  Have you any words of wisdom to offer?