It must be some kind of virus, a disease that makes my eyeballs skitter towards health news in various publications, online news feeds, etc. Why, oh why, do we need to know anything else about protecting our bodies? I hate to tell you but--WE ARE GETTING OLDER. SHIT HAPPENS. FEET GET GNARLY. BLADDERS BECOME TESTY. HAIR TAKES OFF FOR JAMAICA LEAVING US BEHIND. AND LET'S NOT EVEN TALK ABOUT THE BACK OR THE KNEES.
So now one of the biggest pieces of "I am going to kill any possible shred of joy left in your life" news is, "Sitting is the new smoking." Yes indeedy do. Sitting consecutively for more than 3 hours at a time (some say 6 hours) contributes to: Diabetes 2, obesity, heart problems, and a host of other things including extreme crankiness and an inability to understand James Joyce.
As I sat in my Weight Watchers meeting two days ago (yes, those last few stubborn pounds love my belly and have no intention of ever leaving), the leader chirpily informed us of this horrifying news. We came up with fabulous ways to keep moving, as in: keeping hand weights near the TV so we could do reps while watching "American Idol"; parking far away from the center of town to make us walk; getting up each hour to waltz around the room etc. etc. I suggested buying a Jack Russell Terrier as my method to get up and moving. It works, trust me.
Not content with practically ruining my happiness at sitting at the computer and writing (Dear Lord, I am actually dying as I sit here and write...), some other health organization whose name I have forgotten, probably due to overconsumption of twinkies when I was young, now tells us that egg yolks are terrible for our health. Bad, bad, bad with a severe wagging of the finger at those of us who happen to like the occasional egg on a morning with some great coffee. Where were these people ten years abo when the news first came out about these dangers? Egg sales plummeted. We got used to eating other things for breakfast--like steak. I kept consuming modest amounts of eggs because they are a terrific source of lutein. This is a fine phytochemical which helps those of us with Macular Degeneration (probably caused by watching too many "I Love Lucy" reruns). Lutein is marvelous for your eyes, and though I hesitate to contribute to yor physical collapse, I'd suggest you just not listen to this latest health bulletin.
Here's my informed and wise advice: Walk at least 15 minutes a day, 30 if you have a dog, preferrably a Jack Russell. Drink red wine. Not a lot of it, mind, but at least one glass daily with perhaps a small top up. Use olive oil on your food. Put tumeric and cumin in your beans and other recipes because they are anti-inflammatories and very good for you. Eat lots of veggies and fruit and moderate the red meat. Here's the important part--laugh a lot, it's good for you, and keep up with your friends.
And, of course, being the religious nut that I am, it's clear to me that faith is good for you. As long as it's not the kind of faith that tries to strong-arm the rest of the world into its own belief system, or the kind that takes out assault rifles and...you know the rest of the story.
We need to take ourselves way, way less seriously, and enjoy our short tenure on this beautiful and precious earth. I believe it was Thomas Aquinas who once said, "Do you know why angels can fly? Because they take themselves lightly." Do I hear an Amen, anyone?
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
NAMES WE'D RATHER BE WITHOUT
Ok, fellow aging broads and broad-ettes. Or, broaderinos. If you are like me, you tend to cruise along occasionally reading the N.Y.Times Science section and getting horrendously guilty afterwards (I am not single-handedly saving the world from climate change! I have not given 2 billion dollars to the eradication of malaria! I could use my cholesterol numbers when playing the lottery, they are so high!), then let go of all that blamed information that is making us crazy and go have a glass of wine, or two, on the deck. Or perhaps download a new crappy romance onto your Kindle--with the exception of "50 Shades of Gray," which doesn't qualify as writing. Ever. Or erotica. Ever. Don't make me go into details. It's too embarrassing.
So, I tend not to worry too much about my health, with brief episodes of sweaty dismay, but every now and then something rises up to slap me in the face. It could be something like a disheveled and olive-sized parathyroid which had to be removed. By a man with an English accent! It made it all bearable, trust me. Or, it could be an operation for carpal tunnel syndrome, which did t'job, as the Brits say. We won't mention colonoscopies. I am not an admirer of those. But recently, I decided to do something about the fact that I peed somewhere upwards of 20 times a day. Yes, that is right--twenty, as in, please don't ever drive too far away from a bathroom, or perhaps we could put a clivus multrum in a little trailer and tow it along with us wherever we go, even if it's only10 min. down the road to pick up the N.Y. Times.
I ordered lots of books over Amazon, my favorite addiction; read up on OAB, and decided I had that. OAB. It should mean: "Overactive Amazing Broad." Or, "Officially Amazing Bitch." Or something of your choice which is way sexier than, "Over Active Bladder." What happened to partying naked? Dave Barry brought that up years back when he spoke of his cronies getting together at parties to discuss their degenerate gums, crowns, and painful dental procedures that attempt to keep teeth inside your mouth. Then they would josh each other and say, "Remember partying naked?" Doctors tend to rear back when you bring up something with the word "naked" in it, also "partying." As I did with my new doctor who was going to help me "retrain my bladder." (This involves tiny whips and lots of treats...) That is about as opposite to "partying naked" as you can get, I think. I left the office thinking that he probably has summed me up as a slightly crazed older lady who has swiftly read through the entire "50 Shades of" horrendous series.
I realize that you probably already know more about my body than you ever thought you wanted to know. I am aware that keeping a "pee diary," except we call it, "void diary" (as if you had just lost part of your brain and were wondering where it had gone to...), and scheduling your pee visits is not something you really, really had to know. I just don't see all of this as me. It doesn't fit my inner image of me.
The tragic thing is, all the substances I love most in the world--fresh orange juice, zesty tomato salad, chilled Chardonnay, frothing hot lattes, dark magic coffee, and chocolate--are not kind to the bladder. Perhaps we need a new name for that little disobedient organ, something slightly sarcastic and amusing like, oh, Mr. Rumsfeld. Or Cheney. "How are you doing today, Cheney?" I could ask, and no one would know. Wouldn't that be cool?
In retaliation for going from Over Abundant Blessed Broad to that....other name....I am going to go get my toes painted and my fingernails at the marvelous Cambodian nail place over at the mall. I go there to relax. I can't understand a word any of the young women are saying, but it sounds as if they are cracking each other up with witty jokes, sharing news of desperate boyfriends, and maybe talking about luscious food they are planning for the evening meal. Instead of actually talking about their very own...Mr. Cheney.
And after that, maybe I'll buy a motorcycle so I can convince somebody who is at a distance with rather poor eyesight (think Mr. Magoo) that this hot dame in black leather is about to take off. With her very own Mr. Cheney in tow.
So, I tend not to worry too much about my health, with brief episodes of sweaty dismay, but every now and then something rises up to slap me in the face. It could be something like a disheveled and olive-sized parathyroid which had to be removed. By a man with an English accent! It made it all bearable, trust me. Or, it could be an operation for carpal tunnel syndrome, which did t'job, as the Brits say. We won't mention colonoscopies. I am not an admirer of those. But recently, I decided to do something about the fact that I peed somewhere upwards of 20 times a day. Yes, that is right--twenty, as in, please don't ever drive too far away from a bathroom, or perhaps we could put a clivus multrum in a little trailer and tow it along with us wherever we go, even if it's only10 min. down the road to pick up the N.Y. Times.
I ordered lots of books over Amazon, my favorite addiction; read up on OAB, and decided I had that. OAB. It should mean: "Overactive Amazing Broad." Or, "Officially Amazing Bitch." Or something of your choice which is way sexier than, "Over Active Bladder." What happened to partying naked? Dave Barry brought that up years back when he spoke of his cronies getting together at parties to discuss their degenerate gums, crowns, and painful dental procedures that attempt to keep teeth inside your mouth. Then they would josh each other and say, "Remember partying naked?" Doctors tend to rear back when you bring up something with the word "naked" in it, also "partying." As I did with my new doctor who was going to help me "retrain my bladder." (This involves tiny whips and lots of treats...) That is about as opposite to "partying naked" as you can get, I think. I left the office thinking that he probably has summed me up as a slightly crazed older lady who has swiftly read through the entire "50 Shades of" horrendous series.
I realize that you probably already know more about my body than you ever thought you wanted to know. I am aware that keeping a "pee diary," except we call it, "void diary" (as if you had just lost part of your brain and were wondering where it had gone to...), and scheduling your pee visits is not something you really, really had to know. I just don't see all of this as me. It doesn't fit my inner image of me.
The tragic thing is, all the substances I love most in the world--fresh orange juice, zesty tomato salad, chilled Chardonnay, frothing hot lattes, dark magic coffee, and chocolate--are not kind to the bladder. Perhaps we need a new name for that little disobedient organ, something slightly sarcastic and amusing like, oh, Mr. Rumsfeld. Or Cheney. "How are you doing today, Cheney?" I could ask, and no one would know. Wouldn't that be cool?
In retaliation for going from Over Abundant Blessed Broad to that....other name....I am going to go get my toes painted and my fingernails at the marvelous Cambodian nail place over at the mall. I go there to relax. I can't understand a word any of the young women are saying, but it sounds as if they are cracking each other up with witty jokes, sharing news of desperate boyfriends, and maybe talking about luscious food they are planning for the evening meal. Instead of actually talking about their very own...Mr. Cheney.
And after that, maybe I'll buy a motorcycle so I can convince somebody who is at a distance with rather poor eyesight (think Mr. Magoo) that this hot dame in black leather is about to take off. With her very own Mr. Cheney in tow.
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
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.
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.
Sunday, January 1, 2012
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?
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?
Friday, December 9, 2011
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.
Monday, March 21, 2011
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.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
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
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