middle time of my life

Summer began officially on June 21st. It’s only the 2nd week of July but if you live in the Midwest, you know that it’s midsummer. Of course, if you reside in a southern or southwestern state like most of my family and friends, it’s the middle of “hot as hell with no relief in sight” season.  We take turns complaining about the weather. I bitch and moan  about ice, snow and below zero temperatures all winter long while they point fingers and mock me. “Come to Florida or Arizona (wherever), it’s so nice!” Not laughing now, are you, as you peel your seared flesh off the leather car seats?

The first sure sign of midsummer is the massive sales of all warm weather clothes. Even though we just started wearing shorts and sandals,  merchants need to make room for coats and sweaters. The Sunday papers are full of back to school supplies ads.  Although I no longer have to buy backpacks, new calculators or pens, as soon as I see these ads, I can feel the cold winds of winter creeping in. It’s probably just the a/c set too low but you get the idea.  Hell, I haven’t even gotten into my bathing suit yet. Don’t show me sweaters and coats! Too soon, too soon.

Perhaps we can work out a compromise. I’ll gladly buy shorts, tank tops and sandals at reduced prices but the warm clothes and boots will be hidden away, shown only to those who request them, sort of like those rooms small video stores used to have in the back behind a black curtain. Instead of “You must be 21 to enter”, the sign will say “You have given up on being warm and your soul is made of ice.” This way I can wallow in the illusion that winter will never come.  I raise my cold glass of iced tea in a toast. I’d rather sweat than shiver. Long live Summer!

I’m well aware that this isn’t exactly the middle of my life. Realistically, that was probably 20 years ago. However, since I intend to live to 120, I claim the middle years. I figure that if Moses could do it, so can I.  He was described as being clear eyed and full of vigor. Insert sexual innuendo there. Wink, wink. Hey, don’t blame me! I learned it in Torah study.  My favorite literature and cartoons promised time travel and flying cars. I’m not leaving until I get to experience both.

Lately, I’ve noticed that I’m engaging in some old person behavior. I yell at people driving too quickly in parking lots. I worry about strangers on motorcycles without helmets. Being around little kids makes me anxious.  I’m prepared to chase them if they dart into the street. More and more, the world is making me nervous. I can appreciate a quiet night at home. Large crowds freak me out. Worst of all, I make sure that I always have an umbrella with me. The other day I told a coworker that I’d rather have the umbrella and it not rain than get wet. Who am I and what the hell happened?

I suppose this is to be expected. According to Antiques Roadshow, I am mid-century Modern. That’s nice in houses and furniture but I’m not sure how I feel about it as a personal description. I still cringe when people call me ma’am and laugh when they call me miss. I’m older than I feel yet the upper middle-aged behavior is increasing daily.  My new guitar strap is embroidered and has a nice hippie vibe. There’s a cool contraption to dry herbs on it’s way. Perhaps I’m regressing a bit since I missed having a mid-life crisis. Don’t get me wrong. There were a lot of crises but none were fun.  I guess I could just let life happen and enjoy it. I’ll just make sure that I have an umbrella.

Ah, summer. It seemed as though it would never arrive in Chicagoland. It’s been raining for months and until this week, the temps never got past 83.  We had 30 degree temperature changes in a single day. And now the heat and humidity arrived. This means that the constant battle of “It’s not hot enough to turn on the a/c” and “Oh my God, I’m melting” has commenced. I bet you can guess which one is me.  Considering the fact that I grew up in South Florida, you’d think that summer would be a snap. Nope, it’s not. I want lots and lots of cool air blowing on me all day long.  I become one enormous sweaty thing while my other half sits there cool as a cucumber. How does he do it? Ice in his shoes? A fan secreted somewhere on his person? All I know is he never sweats while I’m gingerly peeling my flesh off the leather furniture.  I hate snow and cold but the extreme opposite is no picnic. The weather is nice for about 4 weeks a year.

Of course, the best (read “worst) part of summertime is my hair.  Like that character in the “Peanuts” comic strip, I have naturally curly hair.  During this time of year, I can actually feel it expand as it dries. I’ve tried every product that promised me to smooth it out, reduce the frizziness, give it a nice shine. Liars, all of them. Nothing helps.  I don’t wear hats unless I’m willing to walk around with a circular dent in my hair afterwards. I’m not. So here I am.  Wild hair, going in all directions, feeling messy. That’s usually when someone with shiny, smooth hair asks me if it’s natural. Why would I do this on purpose? That’s when confusion sets in. Do people still get perms? These straight haired women, as it’s rarely men, tell me they have wavy hair and would love hair like mine. I don’t believe they’re thinking this through. No more smooth ponytails, no more silky hair hanging down their backs. I’ve flat ironed my tresses a few times. While it’s looks nice and I can finally flip my hair around like those models in commercials, it just didn’t feel like me.

Since I’m not willing to get a buzz cut, I’ve learned to embrace my curls. They do what they want based on the weather and I go along for the ride. Don’t even get me started on my gray hair. That’s another conversation for a different time.  Letting my freak flag fly!

Over the years, I’ve spent a lot of time and money trying to change. Most of the changes were necessary while others were strongly suggested.  Some changes stuck and led to positive behavior. Quite a few hung around for a bit but slipped away when I lost interest. As to the strongly suggested ones, well, those depended on whether or not the person who suggested them was still around. I know that I’ve made more changes over the past years than I can list. I’ve probably forgotten many and some are none of anyone’s damned business!

Money, money money:

1. Therapy – the best and most important of the lot
2. Gym memberships and/or trainers – this includes sneakers, classes and workout clothes $$$ I’ve joined my local park district gym for $25 a month. Nice and cheap.
3. Weight Watchers – also worth it but it got pricey
4. Joining a synagogue – life changing and worth every penny

The free ones:

1. Walking with friends – I miss this one
2. Turning all electronics off at 9 pm – this is tough but helps me sleep better
3. Cutting down sugar – it about kills me some days but I know it’s good for me
4. Quit smoking – 15 years smoke free!
5. Learning to play guitar. I do wish that I could take lessons but alas, not right now

The point of this? Some days I don’t give myself enough credit for trying. I sit and whine about how I haven’t achieved anything. I tell myself that I’m a quitter. I bemoan the fact that I’m stuck and can’t change.  This partial list reminds me that none of these are true. I can change, I’m not a quitter, I can get unstuck. Sometimes help is costly. Sometimes it’s free.  Resources are always available.  So even though you may not see the changes or even know that I’m trying,  an occasional “You rock” will do me a world of good.  I promise to do the same for you.

Self-control: restraint exercised over one’s own impulses, emotions or desires

Struggling to eat healthier and get myself to the gym, prompted thoughts about self-control. Like the road to hell, I begin with good intentions but somewhere along the line, wander off the path. I’m usually good for around two months. Then the inevitable happens. I find myself overdosing on sugary treats and glued to my couch watching endless reruns of Storage Wars. Frustration with my lack of self-control mounts as I brush off the crumbs and search for my sneakers and pray my workout clothes still fit. The cycle begins again. I’m still trying to figure out why I have so much difficulty sticking to my plans.  Self-control is easy in other matters. I don’t run annoying drivers off the road even though the temptation is strong. I restrain from snapping at co-workers in the interest of a peaceful workplace.  Cheating on my spouse or stealing from a store doesn’t even cross my mind.  I quit smoking years ago. The list of the things I don’t do goes on and on. You get the idea.  So if I can exercise self-control in these area, why can’t I stick to a simple plan of healthy habits? This led me to this.

Self-will: stubborn or willful adherence to one’s own desires or idea

While bemoaning my lack of self-control, am I really fighting self-will? In truth, I’m the only one who’s surprised when, after two months on the couch stuffing cookies in my mouth, my clothes are tight, energy is low and I feel like crap.  I blame my lack of self-control on the weather, mood changes, work load, a full schedule and the like. Notice that all of these are external reasons. I take no responsibility at all. What if, instead of lack of self-control, the underlying reason is self-will. If you listen to me long enough, you’ll hear me talk about my lack of athletic ability, my love of sugar and general laziness. There I am, reinforcing over and over, my perceived failings. If I’ve convinced myself that I’m clumsy, how hard am I going to try to exercise?  I’m allowing my addiction to sugar, and believe me it is, to dictate what I eat. Laziness? Well, that’s just the way I am so why try to change it. See the pattern? 

Yes, I do realize that self-control and self-will are very different. But if by imposing self-will to give myself an excuse not to take better care of myself, am I forcing myself to abandon self-control? Thoughts to ponder as I once again dig my sneakers out of the back of my closet.

No one is perfect. Practice makes perfection. Confusing, right? On the one hand, we’re told that perfection is beyond our reach. Yet on the other, we’re encouraged to keep at it until it’s perfect. For someone like me, it’s a seriously mixed message. Of course, I understand that the act of being flawless and performing error-free are two different things but my brain has trouble distinguishing between the them.

The stress that I put on myself to never make a mistake is exhausting and quite frankly, unnecessary. I live in fear of making public mistakes. My heart races and stomach clenches. I was raised by a parent who seemed to value performance over effort but as I grow older, I’m not too sure this was true. It’s possible that he thought that I could do better than I was and didn’t know how to encourage me without sounding critical. I have to give him the benefit of the doubt because he’s no longer here to ask. I may have internalized the message incorrectly and now suffer the consequences of my own misinterpretation.

That brings me to today. Is it possible for me to change the way I self-flagellate whenever I make a public mistake? Is it possible for me to accept heartfelt compliments even when  I’ve not met my own expectations? By being overly self-critical, I rob myself of the opportunity to feel proud of any accomplishment if I perceive it as being less than perfect. I would never berate anyone I love the way I tear myself to shreds when I’m stumble and bumble a bit. Perhaps it’s time to be kinder to myself and learn to enjoy the act of creating and remind myself why I do the things I do in the first place. Enjoyment, a sense of accomplishment and the love of taking on a challenge. A wise friend once told me that when receiving a compliment all I need to say is thank you. Perhaps it’s up to me to silence my internal critic and just revel in the act of doing the things I love.

There was a time when I saw older performers i.e. actors, singers and the like, that I would comment on how well or badly they were aging. I would judge their skin and try to decide whether or not they’ve had work done. It was sort of a game and I did it without thinking. That hair color? Oh no, way too bright and obviously not natural. No one’s skin is that tight at her age. Nope, dressing too young. You get the idea.

Now that I’ve become a woman of a certain age, I find I’m far less critical. I know for a fact how hard it is to fight gravity. Personally, gravity has won and I’m just doing my best to shore body parts up so that I don’t flop around in public. My skin is acting it’s age. It startles me every time I look at the back of my hands and neck. When the hell did this happen?  My gray hair elicits different reactions. One is that I’d look younger if I dyed it. Younger than what? The second is that I’m so brave for letting it go natural and did I know that people were paying money to get this color. Brave? Running into a burning building is brave. Coloring your hair gray at thirty seems silly. Just wait a few years and you won’t have to pay for it.

Last year, I turned sixty and it seemed of monumental importance. As this year’s birthday approaches, I’m less concerned about the number of candles and more interested in the kind of cake I’ll get from Weber’s.  I’m very fond of lemon, in case anyone is listening. Aging gracefully seems to be a compliment. For those who know me, doing anything gracefully is farfetched. So I’ll aim for aging with joy, pleasure and perhaps peace in my life. Oh, and with a lemon cake, too.

I had always supposed that as I aged that I’d become more focused.  From an early age, people ask you what you want to be when you grow up.  Kids have no hesitation listing fun and exotic occupations.  When my oldest son was around 4 years old, someone asked if he wanted to be a father one day. He adamantly denied it saying he was going to be a mailman instead. He’s not a mailman but he isn’t a father either. That boy knew his mind early on.  Once you reach the end of high school, the questions become about your plans. College? Job? Military? Even then, we’re allowed growing room. “Oh, you’re too young to know what you want to do for the rest of your life. Take your time.” If you do go to college, the next query is “What’s your major?” At this point, the questions never stop coming. Of course, the inevitable questions about children follow. And so it goes.

I’ve finally reached the point in my life where no one expects me to do anything, well, exciting. That makes it all the more fun when I get the chance to talk about my activities. When asked what I do, meaning as a job, I answer briefly because it’s just an office job. Then I tell them all of my interests. Playwright, composer, performer, storyteller, poet, author, chanter of Torah and so on.  I love the look on their faces.  Granted, I didn’t do any of these until my fifties and each new one surprises me as much as anyone else. There are times when I wish I concentrated on one thing so that I could become expert at it. I worry that by diversifying my creative energy, I’m somehow shortchanging myself. Happily, I’m enjoying myself and wait with eager anticipation for the next song, story or blog to blossom.

For years, I’ve tossed all of my outgoing personal mail in the tray at work. The postal carrier arrived each day and took it away. Recently, for a period of ten days, I was between jobs. I had to sign and send in a form that couldn’t be done electronically. Nothing complicated. All I wanted to do was mail a letter. An actual honest to God paper envelope with a $.50 stamp on it. Sounds easy, right? Nope. There’s no place in my apartment building lobby to safely leave mail so I started my campaign to find a street corner mail box.  I never did find one.  Where have they all gone?   I live in a very nice suburban neighborhood but the post office is small, quaint and inconvenient.  No parking lot, limited street parking and the only way to mail a letter is to go into the building. The last time I went there I was almost run down by a driver looking as their phone as I crossed the street.  The only other post office is several miles away. Yes, it has mail boxes you can drive up to and drop letters in from your car but it’s out of my way.  In truth, I could have driven back and forth to that post office five times to cover the mileage I put on my car looking for a damned mail box.  Imagine my sigh of relief when I started my new job and spotted the outgoing mail tray.  As I’ve aged, I’ve become nostalgic for many things.  I never imagined that a corner mail box  would be one of them. I suppose that I could start a fundraiser for the USPS to bring back those iconic and very necessary receptacles but I suspect that they’ve gone the same way as typewriters and gas station attendants.  I will still keep my eyes peeled but by the time I find one, snail mail will be just a faint memory.