TMI

I didn’t mean to be absent from here for so long, but I’ve been busier than usual. Most of you would be quite surprised to learn what’s taken up a large chunk of my time of late.

Well, stupid me, actually—but like any other big-brained ape, I need a scapegoat to point to.

[Originally published April 2005]

I have never been concerned with my age, or aging in particular. Like my approach to race and sex, my approach to a person’s age—including my own—has always been: “You are what you are and you can’t (easily) change that”. Even so, as the silvery strands populate my crown more thickly, I can’t deny that I have been thinking more about the effects of the years—and miles—upon myself.

The impetus for this introspection has been the recurring topic of growing older in an email conversation with a very good friend. Being of like minds, it’s been mostly a positive exchange. I think we’ve helped each other with what might otherwise have been some rough spots, since it’s hard to completely ignore a culture that seems perpetually enamored with youth and firm, lithe bodies. When she mentioned that an acquaintance of hers recently celebrated her 50th birthday by throwing a “crone party”, the idea resonated with me very strongly. Why not celebrate an important, and potentially rich time of life—and the achievement of getting there?

I remember my grandmother calling the lines at the corners of her eyes “crow’s feet” when I was a youngster. The term horrified me, then and now. To me, the lines weren’t ugly; they were the sign of a face that had smiled and laughed much, enjoying the sun and wind and weather. I see the beginnings of them at the corners of my eyes, and instead of feeling a sinking dread, I welcome them. They’re reminders that I, too, have enjoyed much in my life thus far.

Similarly, my once-flat lower abdomen now curves a bit, a testament to my body's production of two children. As I enjoyed being pregnant very much, and enjoy my children, that new curve is a mostly pleasant reminder of two very special times in my life. To use a Heinleinian phrase, my baby-chewed breasts are softer now, but I wouldn’t trade their previous firmness for the many hours with a baby in my arms, gazing into his or her eyes as my body nourished theirs.

These days I’m moderately fit, instead of the very fit person I used to be—also something I refuse to feel guilty about (most of the time—again, those messages are hard to totally ignore). My life is so full that devoting the time it would take to maintain the body I once had is not a choice I want to make. I want to play with my children, who can’t hike, rock climb, or ski (yet); I want to savor the time spent reading a good book; I want to exercise because it feels good to feel my body stretching and moving, not because I have to maintain buns of steel.

I also refuse to count calories, or fat grams, or any such silliness, even though my body seems more likely to want to store excess than it has before. I’d much rather enjoy a decadent chocolate cake, a glass of red wine, and good conversation with beloved friends, and be a little wider in the behind for it, than be obsessed about thunder thighs and the Atkins diet, and be skinny and alone night after night.

I hope that I’ll be around to savor the intense spark of life in a grandchild. My mother railed against this sign of aging more than any other, and I’ve never understood that. What could be a more precious affirmation of life than creating new life—passing a bit of your spark into the future?

When I see a woman with stunning silver hair, I find myself hoping that when I’m completely grey, my hair is as gorgeous as hers. If not, I may just color it—something I’ve never even contemplated before—as a celebration of cronedom and the unique beauties it offers. I certainly will not cut it almost completely off, then curl, comb, tease, puff, or permanent the remnants, until I startle at my own appearance in the mirror every morning. My mane will remain long and flowing for as long as I’m able to care for it, or have someone willing to do so—and when someone isn’t, then it’s time for me to go.

My underwear—and nightwear, when I choose to wear it—will continue to come from Victoria’s Secret or similar place, even though I never have and never will look like their models. Must one be under 35 to appreciate the glissando of silk on one’s skin? Or even better, the caress of satin under an appreciative lover’s hand? Both feel better now for having slept in some of the interesting situations I’ve found myself in over the years.

In short, as I progress into another phase of life, I fully intend to drink fully of its offerings, learn as much as I can from both its pleasures and its pains, and do things the way I want, rather than the way “little old ladies” are expected to. That’s the way I have always been. Why should I stop when I become a crone?

It’s been said before that I’m a mutant. Maybe I am. But I see no value in denying what one is—who one is—for the sake of fitting in with a culture that is in many ways profoundly unhealthy. To me, becoming a crone is an important milestone, one well worth celebrating.

I think I’ll begin planning my crone party.

To me!

And I vacillate between which I feel more strongly.

Two people very dear to me frequently describe themselves as a “bleeding heart liberal”. Noticing that yesterday set me off down another cognitive rabbit hole ...

After years of carting around boxes full of stuff of unknown provenance, I decided to sort through them. O.M.G.

It ain’t always so.

Bet most of y’all never expected me to channel Imelda Marcos. Truth be told, I’m not—this is the first pair of new shoes I’ve bought in at least five years. And they aren’t pretty. Still, I adore them.

Creating a live–action movie from a book must be an amazing, arduous process. The director probably likes the book to even consider such a project. So it would stand to reason that certain details provided by the author would be preserved, insofar as such things are possible. I guess the only explanation is that Hollywood reason is like no other reason I know.

I didn’t think such a thing was even possible. But dude, you did it.

... Gang aft agley.

For those of you wondering what I mean, it’s this resolution, begun later than intended. Tomorrow is the six–week marker, so I indulged my curiosity this morning and checked some stats.

I’ve been spending way too much time sitting in front of my computer, so—even though I owe all of you seven, and several other people, email—after I finish this it’s going to be shut down for the rest of the weekend.

Before I go, I’d like to share this vid that a dear friend brought to my attention. It is just lovely:


Thank you, friend! I hope everyone reading has a good weekend.

I could pretend I don’t know how it happened, but I certainly wouldn’t be fooling myself. Our resident Wolf was in Belarus during their election in December, and when I started hearing reports about the protests, I started stressing (even more than the stress I already had from our holiday schedule, ballet and karate schedules, my fiscal woes, and trying to run the household alone). Sure enough, he (and his big camera) were in the thick of the happenings; but fortunately, he left before things turned ugly. I’m hopeful he’ll say more about that himself here, so I won’t continue in that vein.

A girlfriend and I celebrated her birthday and rocked the new year in down in Seattle, spending the day doing touristy stuff and enjoying a Dusty 45s show that night. The tickets came with a generous food and/or liquor credit, which we didn’t know about. Seeing as we’d had (excellent) room service at our hotel, we drank ours. She was recuperating from a throat bug, but I was feeling fine and didn’t want anything to be wasted ... so I drank the remains of her (not as good as it sounded on the menu) ginger vodka martini. Then we shared a second bottle of champagne—I did mention we’d had a bottle in our room, kinda–sorta with dinner, right? She urged some precautionary zinc on me upon our return to the hotel, which I obligingly accepted (this involved no sharing of germs).

Three days later, I awoke to discover that microscopic bricklayers had filled every nook of my sinuses, and had tapped in to my energy stores to accomplish the feat. Bereft of energy, in pain if the hair on my head moved, I quickly took to bed. I was even too tired and brain–fogged to knit, even just plain stockinette stitch (I have three pairs of slippers like these to knit and felt). I lost count of the number of blankets it took to keep me warm. I was confident, however, that I’d bounce back fairly quickly.

The next day, I awoke to pain in my right ear, which spread to my left by the time night fell.

I still haven’t completely bounced back, but I am doing much better. My ears are still mostly under water, but my head no longer hurts. However, I’m also still easily dizzified, so I’m trying to take it easy (no driving, and certainly no karate!). A recent conversation with a different good friend covered a lot of interesting musical ground, though, prompting me to turn on my speakers and try to enjoy some tunes. I’m sure it’ll all sound better when my ears are fully clear, but I wanna share today. Mr. Bill, Uncle Warren, I hope either or both of you are around for an assist or two.