GET OFF MY BACK, HEALTH-NUTS!

Ok, I am officially tired of people telling me I am going to die.  If I don't eat soy beans, drink almond milk, avoid sex, love my dog, participate in community, avoid red meat, give up, yadda-yadda-yadda.  You know the routine.  Here I am sitting on the slouchy couch at night, suitably tired from a day of wrestling with my new adult novel, which causes great swaths of uncertainty and self-loathing to wrap themselves about me. I am enjoying a glass of crisp, chilled Toasted Head Chardonnay when I read what awaits me if I eat hamburger or steak.  Or hotdogs, also bacon--which I don't actually eat that often.

The Chardonnay goes up my nose as I spit it out, exlaiming to Rick, "Another damn forbidden thing.  Joy-killers1"  I consider whether this is on the same plane as Rush Limbaugh excoriating Ms. Flute--decide it is not--but feel somehow diminished and bullied by people who insist on overseeing my health.  Even though I am disguised as an adult.  Of a certain age.

How is one to craft a life free of this kind of bullying, masked as helpful advice?  I mean--I do want to live as long as possible without horrid diseases corrupting my flesh.  I want to be healthy, also loving and compassionate, and something more than an aging broad thinking about taking up Spanx to make me slimmer, and overseeing every bloody bite that enters my body.

What else do I remember from bleak health news?  Oh, yeah.  Statins impact memory.  My memory is a shattered train wreck, but can I blame it on the Statins which actually help keep me alive by controlling my cholesterol?  What else:  Mmm, wine.  How bad it is to drink right after you exercise.  Who does that?  Not me.  How, if we are watching our weight, when we drink the body first metabolizes the alcohol, and the cheese fries you just ate go directly to your thighs, only losing their color on the way.  Well, doh!  But then another article appears telling me that one glass to one-and-a-half of white wine daily reduces my risk of heart attack by--do I remember?--17%.  That's a good statistic I think, sipping my Chardonnay and mopping up the drops resting on my bosom.

Damn.  Is nothing just fun anymore?  Have we turned into some kind of joyless Puritans, contemplating the sorry state of our immortal souls, except now it is the state of our mortal flesh?  Isn't it the same kind of impulse?  To fend off disaster by controlling everything that surrounds our bodies?

Ack.   The problem is that this flood of health articles, meant to keep us on the straight and narrow path, just make me want to break out and do something silly.  Also unhealthy.  Such as rush right down to the Miss Florence Diner for a plateful of eggs, sunny side up (but watch that uncooked egg white, babe), with three strips of meaty bacon, and two pieces of wheat toast (I'm not a complete fool here...) buttered.  "No, not dry," I'll tell the waitress in a guilty voice.  Then I plan to return home and sit unmoving in a chair with the windows closed, reading steamy romances on my Kindle (sure to be bad for me), and contemplating taking up chewing tobacco.

God.  Save me from health advice.  Let me be like my Jack Russell terrier, alert to life, eager for whatever is around the corner, be it a fat squirrel, something rather disgusting hiding in last year's wood pile, or a nice bit of rainwater in the ditch.  I'm going to take her as my health guide and throw over all the self-righteous health Puritans.  And if I die early?  So be it.  At least I'll be one happy broad.

Resolutions, or Whatever....

It's that time of year again. When we make silly resolutions, slap our too-full bellies, think about never drinking again, swear we will feed the poor and rescue people by the side of the road, resolve to give up laughing in a way that resembles a stark raving mad whinnying horse, and in general--despise our present selves for some unobtainable future self. It's sort of like being put into hell in the person of a teenager who only sees what they HOPE they will be, and not what they actually ARE.

Why do we do this to ourselves? From whenceforth cometh this self-loathing? For that is what I think it is. I can remember being a young teen and looking at some hairstyles in "Seventeen" magazine and thinking, wistfully and urgently; "Well, if I can just get some ROLLERS, and put them in THAT way, then, damn, I will be beautiful. Or, maybe just prettier." It had a magic about it. Like not stepping on cracks in the sidewalk, throwing salt over your shoulder (boy, does that date me!), or wishing on a star.

I just read an article in today's Sunday "Boston Globe" (this being New Year's day, 2012) about making resolutions, how human it is, how far back in history this goes, and how ultimately self-defeating it is. Apparently, there is something about just the making of a resolution which keeps us from meaningful change. Don't ask me what the "something" is because I didn't finish the article. That's a resolution I mean to make--to finish things I've started. (Like the two pairs of knitted socks for my husband which are sitting in a basket because some stupid LADY who works in a knitting store told me I had been knitting the wrong way for over 40 years. "Surely not 40," I whispered, full of self-loathing.) So those socks are just sitting there while I stare at them, flushed with defeatism and the conviction I will never knit again. I resolve not to make a resolution about finishing things I've started.

So what's an aging broad to do? Sitting in the UCC church today listening to absolutely mind-blowing beautiful Gospel music that made me want to get up and dance (and why didn't I? Let's resolve to dance in church this year, just not the Catholic Church....), I thought--with my heart and not my brain--"I want more music in my life. More liveliness. More dancing." I sat there some more, and when Rev. Andrea Ayvazian talked to us about letting go of our wounds and grief and regrets, I tossed a stone into a big empty metal cauldron listening to it clank with all the other stones, representing the griefs and regrets of others. "I want to let go of guilt," my heart said. "I want to let go of worry." Deep in my heart I felt that rattle of my own stone and the stones of others.

It seems to me, from the vantage point of being newly turned 66 (gasp, wheeze), that this is a good time to let go of things and also invite other things in. That's my take on the resolution business, which I am trying to give up: Simply invite into my life some activities I want more of--music, dancing, friends, and being outside. And let go of things which keep me from living fully--guilt, remorse, fear, and worry. I have been known to worry about our neighbor's dog, for God's sake, that she wasn't getting enough water in her crate. Also known for worrying about: the state of the world, conservative Republicans, climate change, my thighs, my low bank account, my eyes, my grown "kids", the health of my friends, and the lack of birds at my feeder. (Was it something I said? How about I buy you another feeder? Isn't this taking worry to a ridiculous extreme?)

So, without putting any time to this or sense that I have to make things happen now in the New Year, I am just going to do a little slidey dance which incorporates some cooler more lively things, and at the same time, I'm throwing some crap over my shoulder as I dance. Want to join me?

Integrating the Inner Italian

My husband and I have just come back from a refreshing one day, one night away at our favorite Gateways Inn in Lenox, Mass. I'm not quite sure how such a short stay can manage to rearrange my neurons so that they are far more pleasant than normal, but I'll try.

Imagine a very large room, beautifully decorated, with a gas fireplace in the corner and a deep tub with jets to soothe your aching muscles. Imagine sinking onto said beautiful, immense bed and taking out one's kindle to read truly trashy romances. (I have confessed to this before, I believe; I do not, almost never, read current adult fiction. I find it far too depressing.) Imagine the comfort of having one's husband of 44 years (gasp!) nearby, not far away at work, not on the computer, just there--available for hand holding and other good things, which the trashy, steamy romance could certainly lead to. Imagine this aging broad lowering herself carefully into the tub (well, maybe better not to imagine this part...), pouring in mineral bath liquid, and winding up with so much foam that I could totally have done a nude scene without annoying the Catholic Church or any other censors.

Then imagine going downstairs to sit on high stools at a bar--something we almost never do--and staring at the sparkling bottles containing more single-malt scotch than you could possibly imagine. Seriously. There has to be almost $50,ooo worth of liquor back there, maybe $100,000. (And everything on the shelves is polished with furniture polish every three days, in case you are interested.) Fabrizio, co-owner of the inn, suggests various malts to us, telling us which is more "peaty" than another. All I know is which ones make me cough the most. "Peaty" does not mean anything in my vocabulary. In the list of drinks, Rick notes one 25 year-old scotch which costs $875 per SHOT. Seriously. Fabrizio tells us about the man who came in, perched on a stool, and proceeded to have two shots of this amazingly expensive brew. "So, he had $1700 worth of malt at one time?" Rick gasped. Fabrizio nodded. "And then what do you do after that?" my husband persisted. Fabrizio spread his hands in a familiar Italian gesture, pursed his lips and said, "Enjoy."

What a concept. Enjoy. It seemed like a blessing for the entire time of our stay. Enjoy the bed. Enjoy the meal cooked by his wife Rosemary (who trained with the famous Italian cook, Marcella Hazan), including a beef tenderloin so tender it could be cut with the side of your fork. Enjoy the other guests in the small dining room--a man who works for a record company and at one time helped manage both Alex Rose and Courtney Love (who was not remarkably stable at the time, big surprise...). Laughter, wine, and good stories ensue, and the basic word is, "Enjoy."

It reminds me of another word which is frequently in my mind--"savor." It is a word that Fr. James Martin speaks of in his wonderful book, A Jesuit's Guide to (Almost) Everything. The whole concept of "savoring" is to let life's experiences rest in one--to almost rest on one's tongue, if you will. We will not gulp down experience, or gobble people and events, but just--taste them, savor them, and enjoy. It leads to a different stance in life, I do believe. We're not just consumers, rushers-through of our days, but people who wisely take things as they come, enjoying them when we can, and--if some events turn out to be painful, which they inevitably will--there is always help at hand. But then, I'm deeply religious, so my stance is not for everyone.

Enjoy. Savor. Good words for this season of excess and hurry, but also a season of friends, family, home baked goodies, fine wine, beautiful music (I've developed a taste for 16th-century Spanish Advent music, thanks to my brother's recent concert), and maybe a Midnight Mass or two.

And so I hope for all of you that this will be a time of savoring and enjoying; that you will feel as refreshed and nourished as we did after a day and a night away of supping on wonderful food, bathing in foamy baths, being together, and just celebrating this beautiful time of year.

Aging Broads and Droids

Hello, fellow techno-boobs. This aging broad succumbed to a wild impulse last week--brought on most likely severe light deprivation over this ghastly winter, and possibly a lack of fine red wine--and bought a Droid Veizon phone. What WAS I thinking of? I only do a few measly texts per week to my "kids", and usually send them off half-baked with wandering letters scattered across the pages, so that they have to call me and gently ask, "What DID you mean, Mom?" So to have this vibrating hunk of electronic gadgetry in my hand that speaks to me in a Martian voice--"DROID"--when I turn it on (hell, that's enough to make me have to use the bathroom and go back for a third cup of rich coffee..), and then offers so many possible apps and functions that it makes my mind wobble.

For example: trying to text my son who is in L.I. visiting his girlfriend, I sent a text saying I'd meet him at the bus station tomorrow after three. Somehow my pronged finger touched the wrong button, or pressed too hard on the right button, and my poor offspring continued to receive the same text ad nauseum. Over and over and over. Did I know how to stop it? No, indeedy do, I did not. I had to turn off the Droid and go fan my face, trying to assemble some semblance of sanity. Perhaps some progesterone would help.

Then I turned it on again and checked into the News and Weather section. An old "Berenstein Bears" book came to mind, when Mama bear (in her oh-so-cute androgynous flowered blue hat) decided the family was watching too much T.V., so they would turn it off for a week. Of course, the predictable ensued: Papa bear was found sneaking down at night for a T.V. hit, or lurking in the electronics section of the Mall, getting his TV fix. When asked how he would know about the weather, Mama pointedly opened the casement window and said, "Stick your hand out, baby," or something to that effect. Did I need to check the weather on my Droid when a quick glance out the window would have shown that it was snowing on the first day of Spring? No, I did not. But I did.

Then I went to the News Stories, containing enough bad news to send me straight for the Single Malt Scotch bottle: Libya in flames (I actually felt we should have gone in about two weeks earlier, but it was good to have the Arab League invite the U.N. in); Japan looking devastated; and more. I have to spread my shaking fingers about ten times on the teensy screen to get the print large enough for this aging broad's eyes, but finally I did it, enjoying reading about death and disaster as I sipped coffee and put off work, yet again.

Will this make me a better person? Probably not. Will my offspring call with barely concealed anger to tell me to stop sending them endless loops of texts from last year? Yes, they will. Will my darling husband patiently try to walk me through the various functions? Yes, he will. Then I will put down the tiny device which rattles me with its alien voice, open a book with pages that spread out, and probably light a candle somewhere. I secretly belong to the world of "Little House on the Prairie" (with, of course, indoor plumbing, advanced dentistry, antibiotics, and perhaps some percocet for joint replacements), and like the idea of reading aloud by candlelight. Only, those cold beds in the attic with the roofing nails tipped white with frost are not something I want to become acquainted with. With regret, I bid Laura goodbye, turn on my Droid again, and think about texting somebody far away who can't be angry with me when the same text appears over...and over....and over again.

Tell Me To Do What???

Ok, I have had it with gurus. Up to here. Both the spiritual kind and the health and physical fitness kind. Watching GMA this morning, the ever-present Dr. Oz was on (and he's a good guy, you can tell--anyone who does a whole show on what you can tell from human feces has got to be good, right?) telling us about our circadian rhythm and the optimum times for eating meals, snacking, and going to bed. Huh? Did I miss something? Isn't this what PARENTS used to do for us, and now that we are grown, do we really, really need this intense and scratchy oversight of our personal lives?

So, here's what we're meant to do: Get up at 6:30 a.m. each day (Oh, please, I stopped doing that when my kids graduated from High School; I am not a pretty sight at that hour of the day, and have been known to heave things off of the deck in disgust...); before you go out to exercise, he tells us (because this exercise burns fat and not the calories from just-eaten breakfast), do #1 and # 2. Really? Do I need to have you in my bathroom? I thought that ended when I was four years old. Then we eat breakfast at 7:30, after heaving our bodies around in some form of pre-dawn torture; make it 'til 11:45, have a high fiber snack (I assume he does not mean twinkies which have sat on my shelf for twenty years and look just as fresh as the day they were baked...), then lunch. Thankfully, he did not tell me what to eat. I probably would have thrown a stoneware plate through the plate glass window (something I have been known to do in the past...). Manage to contain yourself without adult oversight until supper at 6:30 p.m. Really? What about the folks who don't get home until 7:00? Leaving that question dangling, he then advises us to go to bed promptly at 10:00 p.m. Ok, I can see how in an alternate universe this would be a good idea, but not in this universe!

There's something so annoying in all of this--the idea that we cannot manage our adult bodies and lives on our own, thank you very much. And whatever the hell happened to common sense? Ok, ok, I know that many of us binge out on huge hamburgers and think flipping the remote control qualifies as exercise. But I don't. I push my body up the road when I walk our Jack Russell; I've been known to do the Wuss's Yoga Routine; I cook delicious things for all of the people I love who live in my house; I try to be in bed pretty early and not read a delicious novel until 12:00; but gimme a break--I am not going to follow this guy's pattern for a healthy life. I'm using my common sense, the smattering of rules my parents laid down in the pleistocene, and respond to the needs of my family, including the pyschotic cat who throws up almost daily on my bedspread. What would Dr. Oz have to say about THAT? Maybe she needs more fibre....I'll get back to you on this. Damn. Whatever happened to just having fun in our lives, without hurting too many people, including ourselves? Thomas Merton once spoke of throwing our "awful solemnity" to the winds, and that's what I'd like to do here. Just-throw-it-away. Have fun instead. You'll live longer, I know it

Oh, the 50's!

As I peered in the grimy mirror this morning, plucking my aging eyebrows and attempting to look 30 again, or perhaps 40, I thought about how long I have been trying to look "good." Do others out there have this painful realization?

It started in my early teens, as the vision of beautiful movie stars flitted across my vision: Rita Hayworth (ok, she was a LOT older than I am), Jayne Mansfield, and of course, Marilyn Monroe. How did they get their faces--not to mention their gorgeous bodies--to look so luciously perfect? I started with a small Maybelline mascara box--red. It opened to a narrow mirror on the top lid and a small cake of solid black mascara below, with a little groove for a brush. Oh, heaven! I remember spitting on the brush (who knew about hygiene then?), rubbing it on the mascara, and spreading it on my lashes. How killingly dashing. I was clearly well on my way to Marilyn Monroe-hood.

Then there was the bra. Is the bra. A torture device invented by some deranged person long ago. Never possible to actually drop one's breasts into it and fasten the closures behind. It had to be dragged around one's waist, fastened, and then sweatily shrugged up to enclose said breasts. Thank God there was no flesh sneaking past those rigid panels!

Then came the girdle. Did I need one at the slim age of 14? Clearly not. But I thought I did, and it meant I could wear stockings and fasten them at the top with those little nubby things that are only enchanting when someone is undressing you, preferably slowly.

Have we progressed since then? Have I progressed? Nope. Here's the drill. Wash face with expensive Patricia Wexler facial wash. Pat dry. (Rubbing might encourage wrinkles!) Spread on hideously expensive thick pink cream--also from Patricia Wexler--and wait for it to sink in. While it is sinking in (at least a ten minute proposition), spray water and conditioner on recalcitrant, short, curly hair, plus something expensive and stinky from Marshall's cosmetics section. Unwind hair dryer, which has almost plunged into toilet, and start to blow dry, using an enormous brush to straighten said too-curly hair. After 10 sweaty minutes of this, push into an assemblage of style and spray on some carcinogenic spray to keep it in place.

Pluck eyebrows, squinting busily into the grimy mirror, wondering if I should order one of those magnifying mirrors from catalogues for old people which contain products for hammer toes, urinary incontinence, and bathtubs which swing out vertically for the mobility-impaired. Sigh. Stroke black onto eyebrows to thicken them; afix glaze (my daughter uses vaseline) to keep thinning eyebrows in place. Dip eyeliner brush into green eye color and paint it at base of upper lashes as well as delicately below eyes. Try not to notice how much hand trembles. (Did I drink too much wine last night? Or is it just general debility...) Put a dash of glowing cream eye color above the green. Spread mascara carefully.

Now expensive Patricia Wexler pink cream is dry. Then spread P.W.'s day cream with factor 30 in it over face. Hmmm--is that a new splotch on my left cheek? Remnant of sunbathing in the Caribbean at noon wearing factor 2 suncream decades ago? Dot pale concealer under eyes and spread gently. Then take expensive Aveda toning cream and spread over face. Almost done. Line lips carefully and put on expensive Aveda rose lipstick, wondering if I should invest in one of those creams meant to plump out aging lips.

Are we done? Oh, say it ain't so! Not yet. There's the underwear, the bra (same problem still encountered), pants, and shirt. Then tape the vulcan-salute separating left toes, snuggle into sandals, and--what did I forget? Oh, right. The perfume. I know. Fragrance-free meetings defeat me. I know others suffer from my scent, and I feel for them, I do, and try to be sensitive to this. But for someone who all her life has felt she is unacceptable--that major construction work is needed to look even modestly acceptable--dabbing scent on wrists and neck is part of the essential reconstruction job. It makes me feel loveable. Just a tiny bit.

And the soul? Well, that's for my other blog: www.itsthegodthing.blogspot.com

Bite Me, Holiday Expectations!

Hello after a long absence, mostly due to a crushing deadline with my novel about a bipolar girl alive during the Salem Witch trials, The Father of Lies, but I'm back--brain a bit reamed out, and body fluffier from sitting too long in a chair.
I tried something different this year in our annual Christmas gathering with pots of food and goodies. We agreed first of all not to exchange any presents ("No, Presents?" my 19 year-old daughter exclaimed mournfully) which took away a lot of the pressure. (Will they like this? Will they think I'm OK to give this? Would they really rather heave this over the bridge into the rushing river because it is such a depleted and sad gift....)
I also did not send out Christmas cards, much as I love them, because they are such a time-suck. I recommend signing up for www.jacquielawson.com for her terrific animated cards, which can be sent for any occasion during the year. They are imaginative, cool, and original, come with music, and are full of motion--rather like the wizard photos in the Harry Potter books.
The third thing I did was open my hands and let go of my expectations of our family gathering: that we might put to rest uncertainties and tension; that everyone will be pleased with me; and that we will sally forth full of good cheer and bonhomie. Alors! We picked up my frail, aged stepmother (who still manages to be astounding and cranky with a certain Sicilian sharpness) and ferried her down for the gathering. Just helping her up the stairs made me realize how blessed I am to be steady on my own two feet; how easy it is for me to navigate stairs, changes in levels, and more.
When we sat down to supper, I just tried to listen for a change, instead of insisting that I have the last word or be right about everything (a theme in my natal family). Interestingly enough, by doing that the "I" that is "me" simply receded into the background. Somebody else was present, named Ann or Annie, but that person just occupied a chair and looked at the marvelous people assembled around our table: my two brothers (we're all in our 60's now!); my nephew and his lady from California; my younger brother's brilliant wife; my older brother's long-term girlfriend, musician, and speaker of French with her two girls; my husband (known for being witty); and my niece who, with great practicality and vision, manages a large apartment complex, as well as being an avant-garde musician.
So much talent at one table! And by the simple act of letting go and falling backwards, just a little, I was able to truly see people and appreciate how hard they work, the deep goodness within, and the wild humor which binds us together.
It was a good Christmas. Jesus was born in the stable, the Magi have come and gone, and the star I follow now has more to do with the brilliance of others than my own flickering brilliance.