I am applying for a really fancy fellowship. I won't jinx it right now but believe me when I tell you it's one of the best gigs in journalism and I really want to get it.
I'm a writer. I do that all the time. This kind of blogging is a bit weird for me because I've always been careful to, except for very rare occasions, keep myself out of my stories.
But I'm growing bolder with each post so, thanks for that.
But this application is kicking my butt. First I had to admit to myself then to other people....like my bosses....that I thought I had a chance at competing among what appears to be a very accomplished group of people. You know grown up people like an Amal Clooney you might run into at Wal-Mart.
Then, not only do I have to sell myself and sell myself hard in 1,000 words, I have to ask other professionals who I respect to help me sell myself. It doesn't help that someone helping me might have told me that one of the people making the decision on this particular fellowship may lean towards thinking that of Kentucky, Georgia, Alabama and Tennessee as the same place. (Honestly, I can kind of see that if you aren't from somewhere there.)
So I have spent about 24 hours out of the last 72 working on an essay. I don't even remember what I wrote for a college essay. ( I got a couple scholarships so I guess it was OK.)
First I was breezy and bright which has worked for previous far less intense fellowship applications. Second, after reading five years worth of bios of previous recipients, I went dark and serious and pulled out some of the saddest stories I have ever told.
It did make me sound like a Serious Journalist. And, honestly, I have lots of stories that do that. I'm sure my Serious Journalist competitors have lots of those too.
On my drive home tonight, I started thinking about what really makes me different maybe special. Yes, I am good at my job. That's true. Yes, I've had great help in producing some terrific work.
But there are lots of pepole who can say that.
I'm rounding the corner into thinking that maybe what will bring me out of the impressive stack of applicants is the things I've done that not too many people I know have done that didn't seem all that special at the time.
Some of that is my Uber-Nerd devotion to journalism at a very young age. As a high school journalist I interviewed 300 kids about the impact of the recession on the youth of the day. Yes. I. Did. I surveyed 300 kids. Not surprisingly my middle class, mostly white peers did not suffer much from the recession in the early 80s. Or, if they did, they didn't want to admit it to the cute girl in the cafeteria who kept insisting that they help her fill out a survey.
But I also decided at some point, after falling forward through three lay offs in five years in the early 90s that I was not going to take a fourth job even though the money was good. There were two reasons. I thought the company was growing too fast and I didn't want to get stuck in Miami. Plus a friend of mine's Uncle Joe told me following a family funeral that no one should ever take a job just for the money. He said this with a New York Italian accent that made it sound especially profound. I didn't' take that job. Six months later, the department I was going to work in was eliminated.
Instead, I focused on being the mistress of my own fate and made freelancing work until after my daughter was born and did fine.
Better than fine.
My daughter calls in my hippie phase. I tried to pretend she was wrong. But hand-dyed, tie-dyed overalls, check.
Birkenstocks, check.
Long wild hair most often in a basball cap or held up by a pencil, check.
Bartering photography and pottery classes by mixing glazes and mopping floors at an art school, check and check.
So, in my hippie phase, I made sometimes beautiful things just because and read brainy books for no good reason. If I hadn't had that break between Uber-Nerd and Serious Journalist I would have cracked under newsroom pressure a long time ago. (OK I may have cracked, I think I would have broken.)
So, I'm going to hit "post" on this and send it out into the ether and go onto what could literally be the 50th draft application if you count each time I 've closed and open the file. I'm hoping to win because I have the courage to play the game and tell the truth about some messy choices in my life that ended up with good results.
If you pray, say a prayer for me. I you send up good vibes, vibe away. If you think good thoughts, I could use the positive energy.
I'll keep you posted.
Showing posts with label empty nest. Show all posts
Showing posts with label empty nest. Show all posts
Monday, January 12, 2015
Thursday, November 20, 2014
3Ms: Mat Maid to Mom to Mid Life Crisis
I was a Mat Maid at Waggener High School in 1982 where wrestling was, at the time, the sport.
A Mat Maid's job was to cheer at wrestling matches.
Sue Heck, the dweeby middle daughter on TVs The Middle, is a kind of fictional Mat Maid. But at Waggener High School in 1982 it was considered an honor. If I remember correctly the boy athletes voted the girls onto the squad.
As my brief tenure would attest, skill was not a pre-requisite.
Mat Maiding overall made me uncomfortable. I didn't enjoy being so front and center with so much pain. I had to resist the urge to yell at the grappling boys: Use Your Words!
No offense to those athletes, and they were impressive, but I'm generally not a fan of grunting, moaning and wrestling unless I am an active participant.
Frankly, the title Mat Maid even at 17 it made me think of a maid who made her money on a mat, short for mattress, and, well, that didn't seem appropriate.
As I believe we have established with It's OK. Go Gray I was adorable, thanks Mom/Dad/God, but was clueless.
But even way back in the age of Big Shoulder Pads and Bigger Hair I was aware that I was a terrible Mat Maid.
And that one particular Mat Maid semester I had a lucrative waitressing job, a boyfriend, was editor of the school paper and, you know, trying to get into college I remember getting a nasty virus or walking pneumonia. It might have been Mat Maid induced MRSA. Anyway, my Mom told I was stretched too thin and I had to let something go so, bye-bye my short cheering career. I think I was looking for an excuse to decline something that was suppose that was an honor because I didn't want to seem ungrateful because, you know, boys voted for me!
About a year later, around my 18th birthday, I remember thinking really clearly....I'll never be a cheerleader. Which is weird, because I really never wanted to be a cheerleader. My failed Mat Maid effort showed that.
I think at the time it just marked a passing of a phase like when I was 7 and realized I was never really going to be a Pretty Pretty Princess or when I was 22 at my first job and I thought 'I will never go from reporter to Editor-in-Chief is two years' which had happened in college. Another revelation at the time was "I will never get another summer off."
(Random aside: I was also a ball girl for the Westport High School fighting soccer Warhawks circa 1980-81. I liked this job because it afforded close proximity to soccer players who were a Harry Styles-type combination of dreamy and mildly rebellious. There was also limited grunting and pain. Plus in those early Title IX Days it offered me the athletic outlet of running, climbing fences and being part of a team. Also I, for a ridiculously long time, wanted to put "Ball Girl: 1980-1981" and "Mat Maid: 1981-1982" on a resume under "Other Interests" just to see what happened. Back to the story at hand.)
Over the years there have been some other moments of "I will never" some are poignant like "I will never see my Papaw again" others are shallow like "chances are, I will never be famous."
But as you likely all know by the blog title Menopausal Moms I have hit the big one.
I will never have another child.
That ship has sailed.
That store has closed.
This uterus is officially out of business.
I don't know that I have ever really thought.....I must have another kid. I did think, briefly and wrongly, that maybe having another baby would right my wrong-trending marriage. Thank God for a moment of clarity there.
But more and more I am trying to think about my next chapter as my daughter gets ready to drive and go to college then on with her life.
I have had three main jobs, two of them paying, in my life.
Waitress, Writer, Mom.
The perimeters of one is changing and I can't do anything about it.
Adjusted for inflation of the other two one of them paid significantly better, especially in the last few years when health insurance rates keep going up, unpaid furloughs are required and raises, even matching 401-K contributions, have been non-existent at the same time workloads, required job skills and stress levels at my place of employment have increased.
So I'm trying to refigure the Mom part. (Thus, the blog)
I'm thinking about the rest.
There have been so many signs that God is trying to nudge me and, as always, I am slow to take the hint.
I got up on a recent Sunday and picked up the the paper from my driveway dressed in my non-too-fancy pajamas that didn't match and drove to the home of a long-time subscriber who had been working without success for two weeks to get her newspaper delivered.
It wasn't a long drive. I live in a small town.
But the trip was notable for two things. One, I don't normally go out, sans bra, in Pjs and Crocs on a winters morn.
Two, I don't generally sob while driving.
I cried most of the way because my heart was breaking. Working for a newspaper is more than a paycheck for me it is a calling. It's what I've wanted to do, more or less, since I was 10. For a restless spirit who loved to write it was kind a dream job. I love all the good and noble parts of it. I am a believer in the power of a story both big and small.
It's also been a lifeline for me. When you tell the story, you are in charge and get to make the world make sense. There were times when I desperately needed the world to make sense.
I learn something every single time even when it is a topic I've covered a lot before.
I get to invest in people and, most of the time, help someone
I have to wonder if "I will never be able to do this work until I retire"
That is a big one.
I admire women who've gone back to school or started something completely different mid-life.
And I was once a girl who just picked a path and charged towards it. When I was a freelancer I would look at any kind of product with words and think: Someone has to write that, it might as well be me.
She's in there, I guess, but she seems diminished and not quite up for another big bold run.
I am pretty sure I'm not alone in these feelings.
I believe it is called a Mid-Life Crisis
I just know it makes me incredibly sad. A few weeks ago I was at a lunch with a bunch of nice people who all devote their lives to helping others. My daughter was with me. Someone I really respect introduced me as being "a really great reporter". For the first time ever, I wished she could think of something else nice to say.
A Mat Maid's job was to cheer at wrestling matches.
Sue Heck, the dweeby middle daughter on TVs The Middle, is a kind of fictional Mat Maid. But at Waggener High School in 1982 it was considered an honor. If I remember correctly the boy athletes voted the girls onto the squad.
As my brief tenure would attest, skill was not a pre-requisite.
Mat Maiding overall made me uncomfortable. I didn't enjoy being so front and center with so much pain. I had to resist the urge to yell at the grappling boys: Use Your Words!
No offense to those athletes, and they were impressive, but I'm generally not a fan of grunting, moaning and wrestling unless I am an active participant.
Frankly, the title Mat Maid even at 17 it made me think of a maid who made her money on a mat, short for mattress, and, well, that didn't seem appropriate.
As I believe we have established with It's OK. Go Gray I was adorable, thanks Mom/Dad/God, but was clueless.
But even way back in the age of Big Shoulder Pads and Bigger Hair I was aware that I was a terrible Mat Maid.
And that one particular Mat Maid semester I had a lucrative waitressing job, a boyfriend, was editor of the school paper and, you know, trying to get into college I remember getting a nasty virus or walking pneumonia. It might have been Mat Maid induced MRSA. Anyway, my Mom told I was stretched too thin and I had to let something go so, bye-bye my short cheering career. I think I was looking for an excuse to decline something that was suppose that was an honor because I didn't want to seem ungrateful because, you know, boys voted for me!
About a year later, around my 18th birthday, I remember thinking really clearly....I'll never be a cheerleader. Which is weird, because I really never wanted to be a cheerleader. My failed Mat Maid effort showed that.
I think at the time it just marked a passing of a phase like when I was 7 and realized I was never really going to be a Pretty Pretty Princess or when I was 22 at my first job and I thought 'I will never go from reporter to Editor-in-Chief is two years' which had happened in college. Another revelation at the time was "I will never get another summer off."
(Random aside: I was also a ball girl for the Westport High School fighting soccer Warhawks circa 1980-81. I liked this job because it afforded close proximity to soccer players who were a Harry Styles-type combination of dreamy and mildly rebellious. There was also limited grunting and pain. Plus in those early Title IX Days it offered me the athletic outlet of running, climbing fences and being part of a team. Also I, for a ridiculously long time, wanted to put "Ball Girl: 1980-1981" and "Mat Maid: 1981-1982" on a resume under "Other Interests" just to see what happened. Back to the story at hand.)
Over the years there have been some other moments of "I will never" some are poignant like "I will never see my Papaw again" others are shallow like "chances are, I will never be famous."
But as you likely all know by the blog title Menopausal Moms I have hit the big one.
I will never have another child.
That ship has sailed.
That store has closed.
This uterus is officially out of business.
I don't know that I have ever really thought.....I must have another kid. I did think, briefly and wrongly, that maybe having another baby would right my wrong-trending marriage. Thank God for a moment of clarity there.
But more and more I am trying to think about my next chapter as my daughter gets ready to drive and go to college then on with her life.
I have had three main jobs, two of them paying, in my life.
Waitress, Writer, Mom.
The perimeters of one is changing and I can't do anything about it.
Adjusted for inflation of the other two one of them paid significantly better, especially in the last few years when health insurance rates keep going up, unpaid furloughs are required and raises, even matching 401-K contributions, have been non-existent at the same time workloads, required job skills and stress levels at my place of employment have increased.
So I'm trying to refigure the Mom part. (Thus, the blog)
I'm thinking about the rest.
There have been so many signs that God is trying to nudge me and, as always, I am slow to take the hint.
I got up on a recent Sunday and picked up the the paper from my driveway dressed in my non-too-fancy pajamas that didn't match and drove to the home of a long-time subscriber who had been working without success for two weeks to get her newspaper delivered.
It wasn't a long drive. I live in a small town.
But the trip was notable for two things. One, I don't normally go out, sans bra, in Pjs and Crocs on a winters morn.
Two, I don't generally sob while driving.
I cried most of the way because my heart was breaking. Working for a newspaper is more than a paycheck for me it is a calling. It's what I've wanted to do, more or less, since I was 10. For a restless spirit who loved to write it was kind a dream job. I love all the good and noble parts of it. I am a believer in the power of a story both big and small.
It's also been a lifeline for me. When you tell the story, you are in charge and get to make the world make sense. There were times when I desperately needed the world to make sense.
I learn something every single time even when it is a topic I've covered a lot before.
I get to invest in people and, most of the time, help someone
I have to wonder if "I will never be able to do this work until I retire"
That is a big one.
I admire women who've gone back to school or started something completely different mid-life.
And I was once a girl who just picked a path and charged towards it. When I was a freelancer I would look at any kind of product with words and think: Someone has to write that, it might as well be me.
She's in there, I guess, but she seems diminished and not quite up for another big bold run.
I am pretty sure I'm not alone in these feelings.
I believe it is called a Mid-Life Crisis
I just know it makes me incredibly sad. A few weeks ago I was at a lunch with a bunch of nice people who all devote their lives to helping others. My daughter was with me. Someone I really respect introduced me as being "a really great reporter". For the first time ever, I wished she could think of something else nice to say.
Tuesday, November 18, 2014
Facebook posts say a lot about the poster
At my age, you will not see me posting pictures of myself all
over Facebook, or talking about all of the exercise I am getting. Nope, what you will see on my page is
predominately stories about my dogs, or the happenings of my family…and every
now and then, pictures I have taken of other people or places I visit. I love photography. Am I boring?
...Possibly.
To give you an idea of my exciting life, the post I made this year that has earned the most “Likes” would be waking up to a knife sticking out of my kitchen floor. Not boring, but spooky and bizarre. That could be a description of me!
But, I have to say I find Facebook entertaining to look at. I almost always know what I will read based on the person who posts the information. If I were a psychiatrist, I would have a field-day interpreting the individual posts.
“Words
have a magical power. They can bring either the greatest happiness or deepest
despair; they can transfer knowledge from teacher to student; words enable the
orator to sway his audience and dictate its decisions. Words are capable of
arousing the strongest emotions and prompting all men's actions.”
SIGMUND FREUD, The Educator's Book of Quotes
Are our posts a direct reflection of
who we are, or what we want others to see? Hmmm.
When I take a selfie to post, and this is rare, I may take 10
before I get one that seems to mask my imperfections. You know you are guilty of this too…right? I
hate pictures of myself…I have always enjoyed being on the other side of the
camera!
However, I have friends who are fascinated with pictures of
themselves. They post new pictures every
day in their new outfits or new hair styles.
They seem to love the “You look beautiful” comments they receive. Is this narcissistic or do they have low
self-esteem and need reassurance? And, in
all sincerity, would anyone ever reply to such a posting with “You look
hideous!?”
Then
there are those who are always sick and feel the need to tell everyone about
their newest ailment.
“Oh Lord, my big toe is inflamed, it could be an ingrown toe-nail. Here is a picture of it. Do any of my Facebook friends know what this could be?”
“Oh Lord, my big toe is inflamed, it could be an ingrown toe-nail. Here is a picture of it. Do any of my Facebook friends know what this could be?”
 |
| Stock Photo...NOT MY TOE! |
I have looked at some gross pictures!
Is this the need for sympathy, or are they
hypochondriacs?
Another thing I have noticed is that age does play a factor in
this.
The “youngsters,” as I call them, the 13-24 age group, use
Facebook as a tool of battle, especially between girls. Girls love to call other girls out when they
think they have been “disrespected.”
Guys just jump in to the posts to add drama. These are the posts where you see the words “baby
mama” and “baby daddy” as much as you see the Vince Gill and Carrie Underwood’s
“How Great Thou Art” video posted. (And, I do
love that video, by the way.)
The 25-39 age group, the “young adults,” love to post about their favorite hobbies and past-times. You may see posts about sports, or things they have pinned on Pinterest. You may also see the likes and dislikes of things happening on their favorite TV shows. #WeMissYouSamiBrady!
The “young adults” also post pictures of their children’s
birth, and pictures of their babies doing things like sneezing, smiling and
crawling. Entertainment at its finest!
Then there is my age group, the elders, 40 and above! We like to bore people. We share recipes…don’t deny it elders…I saw the 3,000 posts of the same Pumpkin-Spice Cheesecake recipe last week!
Then there is my age group, the elders, 40 and above! We like to bore people. We share recipes…don’t deny it elders…I saw the 3,000 posts of the same Pumpkin-Spice Cheesecake recipe last week!
We also talk about our vacations to the
exciting beaches of Florida in the winter-time.
And, yes, we like to post funny videos.
At our age, we need something to laugh at!
We also wish our spouses “Happy Anniversary” on Facebook. And, we get really sappy when we wish our
children a “Happy Birthday.” (You know
they love it when we post naked pictures of them when they were infants!)
And we love to brag and talk about our grown children; we post
everything they do. We want everyone out
in Facebook world to know how proud we are of their accomplishments…and to
understand it is because we were such amazing parents that it happened.
All in all, Facebook is about reaching out to others and
sharing. No matter our motives.
Sunday, November 16, 2014
It's OK. Go Gray!
I started to go gray in my 20s
I went gray in my 50th year.
I kind of laughed when I found my first gray hair in college, looking in the bathroom mirror at my dorm. I thought it was funny. I'm not sure why. Maybe it was because I had always pretty fabulous hair. Not that I knew it at the time. I always felt no matter what I did it kind of looked the same. Pony tail. Farrah Facuett waves. Tousled natural..not really in vogue....it all felt the same to me.
I felt the same way about make up. No matter what I did...to me I always looked like the fat kid from third grade.
But in truth my hair was thick and healthy and a naturally highlighted combination of brown, blonde and little bit of red. I wish I could lay some claim to it but ...you know, thanks Mom and Dad, Mamaw and Papaw. Grandma and Grandpa. It is purely the hand God dealt me. (So, God, Kudos to you.)
I told one of my professors at WKU, James Ausenbaugh, about that first gray hair and he called me a "smart ass old kid" which stuck for awhile between us. It was the one of the few times anybody gave me a nickname to my face. (The other was M&M before Eminem. (Thank you, Love You. Robert Perez)
I was also "reporter Mary" for awhile.(Another story for another day.)
I abused my hair, frankly. I wasn't much for fancy shampoos. I'd let it grow until I couldn't take it anymore and cut it all off. There was that one illconcieved perm.
The hair dye started in my 20s. Usually what was on sale. Never on a regular basis in the way you are suppose to. Because my hair was thick it help cover up mistakes in the dye distribution.
That worked pretty well through my 30s but then the onslaught began in earnest and the gray made a permanent and prominent appearance.
I'd like to think I'm not vain but I was prickly about people assuming my daughter, now 15, was my grand daughter. Two people made that mistake when she was around three or four.
I did not respond well.
Once, when we went to a restaurant to celebrate her first library card, the waitress said "Oh, isn't that nice for your Granny to do that."
"I'm her mother," I said aggressively.
"Oh, of course, you know, Grannies are so young these days, I mean, you look YOUNG. I'm a granny...just, well..." she was talking loud and fast.
"If you stop talking now you will still get a tip," I said.
She stopped.
So why give up and go gray?
First, I really am old enough to be her grandmother. Especially in my small town where it seems like a lot of families have children early and often. Her first serious boyfriend's grandma was almost exactly my age.
Second, it was pretty much all white so...well...how much time and effort did I want to spend in the hair war that was surely going to lose. (None and, well, none.)
So early this year, I did it. First I went to a salon and got blonde "lowlights" then I was too poor to go back to create a regular transition so nature just took it's course.
Guess what?
It's healthier.
It's beautiful.
It stands out.
I have gotten dozens of compliments on it.
More people I have told me looked nice with my all white hair in the last six months than in the last six years.
I've even caught myself looking in the mirror thinking "not bad". (A rare occurrence, I can assure you.) And even sometimes...."nice"! A rarer occurrence.
I think it is really a combination of things. I've embraced the hair God gave me, I am working out. I've lost 34 pounds. My asthma is under control.
I feel better white-haired and 50 than I have in a long, long time.
I may even have a little swagger.
I have come to the conclusion that I am going to embrace it because I have spent most of my life worrying that I wasn't as pretty as I was in the decade before when I worried all the time that I wasn't pretty enough. And, proof above, I look a lot like my daughter who I think is beautiful but I never saw myself that way.
This may be as good as it's going to get folks....so I might as well make the most of it.
Plus, here is a bonus. (Bonus!)
From a distance or from behind, I could be a senior citizen of any age.
I was car dancing in traffic the other day. To One Direction. (Don't judge my jam) I was in that traffic for 45 minutes, enthusiastically singing and seat dancing. (Breathing equals the ability to sing which can lead to singing.)
I had a fabulous time. So did the people in the minivan behind me. I don't care if they were laughing at me or with me, but they were having fun. At one point we got separated but 15 minutes later they were back behind me. When the teen boy in the passenger seat saw me again, still dancing, he almost did a spit take with his Starbucks, pointed and broke out in a big smile like he was happy to see me back.
It occurred to me later that from their vantage, all they saw was the white hair over the top of the seat. I could have been 80 which made my exuberance more unexpected.
My Honda Fit was even rocking a bit.
God willing, I'll get there to 80 and beyond. My Mom has beautiful hair. She keeps it cut short. She looks like a winsome elf. She's been known to car dance.
And I'll take that, someday. For now if someone asks if I'm Bailey's grandma I'll just smile and say yes and, maybe, ask if they know of an available Grandpa who enjoys the odes of One D.
I went gray in my 50th year.
I kind of laughed when I found my first gray hair in college, looking in the bathroom mirror at my dorm. I thought it was funny. I'm not sure why. Maybe it was because I had always pretty fabulous hair. Not that I knew it at the time. I always felt no matter what I did it kind of looked the same. Pony tail. Farrah Facuett waves. Tousled natural..not really in vogue....it all felt the same to me.
I felt the same way about make up. No matter what I did...to me I always looked like the fat kid from third grade.
But in truth my hair was thick and healthy and a naturally highlighted combination of brown, blonde and little bit of red. I wish I could lay some claim to it but ...you know, thanks Mom and Dad, Mamaw and Papaw. Grandma and Grandpa. It is purely the hand God dealt me. (So, God, Kudos to you.)
I told one of my professors at WKU, James Ausenbaugh, about that first gray hair and he called me a "smart ass old kid" which stuck for awhile between us. It was the one of the few times anybody gave me a nickname to my face. (The other was M&M before Eminem. (Thank you, Love You. Robert Perez)
I was also "reporter Mary" for awhile.(Another story for another day.)
I abused my hair, frankly. I wasn't much for fancy shampoos. I'd let it grow until I couldn't take it anymore and cut it all off. There was that one illconcieved perm.
The hair dye started in my 20s. Usually what was on sale. Never on a regular basis in the way you are suppose to. Because my hair was thick it help cover up mistakes in the dye distribution.
That worked pretty well through my 30s but then the onslaught began in earnest and the gray made a permanent and prominent appearance.
I'd like to think I'm not vain but I was prickly about people assuming my daughter, now 15, was my grand daughter. Two people made that mistake when she was around three or four.
I did not respond well.
Once, when we went to a restaurant to celebrate her first library card, the waitress said "Oh, isn't that nice for your Granny to do that."
"I'm her mother," I said aggressively.
"Oh, of course, you know, Grannies are so young these days, I mean, you look YOUNG. I'm a granny...just, well..." she was talking loud and fast.
"If you stop talking now you will still get a tip," I said.
She stopped.
So why give up and go gray?
First, I really am old enough to be her grandmother. Especially in my small town where it seems like a lot of families have children early and often. Her first serious boyfriend's grandma was almost exactly my age.
Second, it was pretty much all white so...well...how much time and effort did I want to spend in the hair war that was surely going to lose. (None and, well, none.)
So early this year, I did it. First I went to a salon and got blonde "lowlights" then I was too poor to go back to create a regular transition so nature just took it's course.
Guess what?
It's healthier.
It's beautiful.
It stands out.
I have gotten dozens of compliments on it.
More people I have told me looked nice with my all white hair in the last six months than in the last six years.
I've even caught myself looking in the mirror thinking "not bad". (A rare occurrence, I can assure you.) And even sometimes...."nice"! A rarer occurrence.
I think it is really a combination of things. I've embraced the hair God gave me, I am working out. I've lost 34 pounds. My asthma is under control.
I feel better white-haired and 50 than I have in a long, long time.
I may even have a little swagger.
I have come to the conclusion that I am going to embrace it because I have spent most of my life worrying that I wasn't as pretty as I was in the decade before when I worried all the time that I wasn't pretty enough. And, proof above, I look a lot like my daughter who I think is beautiful but I never saw myself that way.
This may be as good as it's going to get folks....so I might as well make the most of it.
Plus, here is a bonus. (Bonus!)
From a distance or from behind, I could be a senior citizen of any age.
I was car dancing in traffic the other day. To One Direction. (Don't judge my jam) I was in that traffic for 45 minutes, enthusiastically singing and seat dancing. (Breathing equals the ability to sing which can lead to singing.)
I had a fabulous time. So did the people in the minivan behind me. I don't care if they were laughing at me or with me, but they were having fun. At one point we got separated but 15 minutes later they were back behind me. When the teen boy in the passenger seat saw me again, still dancing, he almost did a spit take with his Starbucks, pointed and broke out in a big smile like he was happy to see me back.
It occurred to me later that from their vantage, all they saw was the white hair over the top of the seat. I could have been 80 which made my exuberance more unexpected.
My Honda Fit was even rocking a bit.
God willing, I'll get there to 80 and beyond. My Mom has beautiful hair. She keeps it cut short. She looks like a winsome elf. She's been known to car dance.
And I'll take that, someday. For now if someone asks if I'm Bailey's grandma I'll just smile and say yes and, maybe, ask if they know of an available Grandpa who enjoys the odes of One D.
Saturday, November 8, 2014
1020 days and counting....reluctantly feathering my empty nest
I joke that I have less than three years to emotionally cripple my daughter so she can't leave me and go away to college.
Seriously, it's funny when I say it.
That's because my daughter is an exceptionally grounded little human. My friends know it. She is like that, I promise, because of who she organically is and not because of anything I have done. Most likely, it's in spite of me.
But I do mentally count the days until she will leave and I find it terrifying. My world has been centered on her for a very long time.
I got divorced a little past her second birthday. Her dad, who is at his core a good guy, unfortunately bugged out early and often. He skipped out on picking her up so I often I stopped making plans. I tried and tried and tried to get him to commit to at least one day a week to keep her. He never could. (Until last year. Seriously. And now he wants to keep her several days a week. I guess he is doing some counting himself.)
So I tried to take pottery classes. Go out with friends. Have a life apart from her but it never worked very well. I had a great baby sitter who she and I both love but didn't like leaving her to do anything but work because I felt guilty. I had to work enough at night and on weekends. (Although now I wonder why I ever did that.) I had awesome family and friends, like my friend and fellow Menopausal Mom, who would keep her. But most of the time it was the two of us.
And, to be perfectly honest, at some point it just got too hard. I was working full time. I was taking care of her, as easy and awesome as a kid that she was, full time. It was all I could do to do that. And I always felt like I was behind.
And so.......it was the two of us. When I did stuff, we did stuff.
And now....she is going to be leaving.
About a year before I got pregnant I started a baby hope chest. I'd buy stuff for a baby, some of it practical like bibs, some of it not so practical like a stuffed bunny wearing bunny slippers. It was my way of getting use to the idea of having a kid.
Now, I am doing that in reverse. I am starting to do things to get use to life without her.
First there is the letting go.
Yes, you can go to that Slipknot concert but you have to stay in your seat.
Yes, you can drive to the wings place with your friend who has a license
Yes, I will not fuss at you about wearing a coat when it is 30 degrees because you are old enough to figure that one out for yourself.
Then there is the doing things for myself.
I danced in the street like a zombie. (See post "You Rock Zombie Grany") I've joined a club. I'm working out. (See post "An exploding hotel) I'm blogging.
I'm making an extra effort to see friends and do things, sometimes on school nights!
I am making a lot of soup from scratch.
I know there is some place in all of this that I should be excited about the prospect. It will be me time all the time.
I'm not that good at me time.
I guess it's good to remind myself I've done this sort reinvention before. Several times. I was a kid. I went to college. I've moved across country three times. I've been married and divorced. I've freelanced. I've volunteered. I've had many incarnations.
This will just be the next one. I realize that worrying about it doesn't
help. It just takes me out of enjoying the moment that is.
But still.....1020 days and counting.
Seriously, it's funny when I say it.
That's because my daughter is an exceptionally grounded little human. My friends know it. She is like that, I promise, because of who she organically is and not because of anything I have done. Most likely, it's in spite of me.
But I do mentally count the days until she will leave and I find it terrifying. My world has been centered on her for a very long time.
I got divorced a little past her second birthday. Her dad, who is at his core a good guy, unfortunately bugged out early and often. He skipped out on picking her up so I often I stopped making plans. I tried and tried and tried to get him to commit to at least one day a week to keep her. He never could. (Until last year. Seriously. And now he wants to keep her several days a week. I guess he is doing some counting himself.)
So I tried to take pottery classes. Go out with friends. Have a life apart from her but it never worked very well. I had a great baby sitter who she and I both love but didn't like leaving her to do anything but work because I felt guilty. I had to work enough at night and on weekends. (Although now I wonder why I ever did that.) I had awesome family and friends, like my friend and fellow Menopausal Mom, who would keep her. But most of the time it was the two of us.
And, to be perfectly honest, at some point it just got too hard. I was working full time. I was taking care of her, as easy and awesome as a kid that she was, full time. It was all I could do to do that. And I always felt like I was behind.
And so.......it was the two of us. When I did stuff, we did stuff.
And now....she is going to be leaving.
About a year before I got pregnant I started a baby hope chest. I'd buy stuff for a baby, some of it practical like bibs, some of it not so practical like a stuffed bunny wearing bunny slippers. It was my way of getting use to the idea of having a kid.
Now, I am doing that in reverse. I am starting to do things to get use to life without her.
First there is the letting go.
Yes, you can go to that Slipknot concert but you have to stay in your seat.
Yes, you can drive to the wings place with your friend who has a license
Yes, I will not fuss at you about wearing a coat when it is 30 degrees because you are old enough to figure that one out for yourself.
Then there is the doing things for myself.
I danced in the street like a zombie. (See post "You Rock Zombie Grany") I've joined a club. I'm working out. (See post "An exploding hotel) I'm blogging.
I'm making an extra effort to see friends and do things, sometimes on school nights!
I am making a lot of soup from scratch.
I know there is some place in all of this that I should be excited about the prospect. It will be me time all the time.
I'm not that good at me time.
I guess it's good to remind myself I've done this sort reinvention before. Several times. I was a kid. I went to college. I've moved across country three times. I've been married and divorced. I've freelanced. I've volunteered. I've had many incarnations.
This will just be the next one. I realize that worrying about it doesn't
help. It just takes me out of enjoying the moment that is.
But still.....1020 days and counting.
Thursday, November 6, 2014
Crazy Dog Lady
Last Friday night was a difficult one
in the York household. It was about
midnight when I heard that sound. You
know…that rhythmic yakking sound a dog makes when they are about to
upchuck. I immediately thought about the
dinner scene from “Christmas Vacation” when Snots had eaten from the garbage
can. UGH.
I jumped out of bed and attempted to
let our dog, Winston, outside to throw up.
He tried to make it, but I didn’t get him outside in time. So, at midnight I was cleaning up a
mess. Let me rephrase that. At midnight I was cleaning up the first
mess. He was not done yet.
Ultimately, I cleaned up seven messes
between midnight and 4:00am. I was just
about ready to take him to urgent treatment when it all finally stopped. Needless to say, he and I both were exhausted
the next day. But, I love my dog…and
need to be a good doggy parent.
I remember the first day I adopted
Winston. He was 3 months old, lying in a
tiled crib, depressed. He and his 2
sisters had been rescued from a kill shelter.
His mother was not rescued, so he lost his mommy. And, both sisters had been adopted the week
before. He was simply sad and
lonely. I knew he needed me.
Look at that face!
A few months later, I happened to see
another 4-month-old dog on Craigslist that needed a home. The dog had been rescued, but the adoptive
parents could not keep her because of her size.
She needed me too!
So, now my husband and I have 2 inside
dogs, Winston and Macy. And, they control
our home…seriously. They sleep with
us. They eat when we do. They ride with us on trips…windows down…heads
hanging out. Their favorite place to go
is Miguel’s Pizza at Natural Bridge.
When we pull in, they can hardly wait to get out of the car. (We feed them all of the pepperoni off the
pizza!) And yes, people laugh and look at us strange when they see our dogs sitting at the picnic table eating pizza. Really??? Our lives are ruled by 2 four-legged animals.
Did I mention that they like to chew things? They have literally chewed up most of what we own. They ate our couch. They have chewed up rugs, socks, belts, shoes, hats, quilts, cords, leashes, and even a couple of really awful Christmas sweaters (even dogs know a bad Christmas sweater.) In the pictures below, they had just chewed up a cushion to a sleeper sofa and one of their doggy beds (the second bed died shortly after the first.) I think they chose to chew up their beds so they could sleep in ours!
mm
So, by now I am sure you think we are
crazy, and we probably are! But, we love
our furry babies and always try to see humor in these situations. It’s better than crying. And, the chewing is getting less and less as
they get older.
Our pups also provide love and
constant entertainment now that our children are grown and our nest is
empty. They also fill special,
previously empty, places in our hearts. So,
in reality, Winston and Macy may need me, but I think I needed them more.
 |
| Winston |
 |
| Macy |
Did I mention we also have 2 cats? Another time and another blog!
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