middle time of my life

I recently had to get something ugly removed from my face. No, not the surly expression I occasionally get when I have to stay late at work. It was just one of those souvenirs from my youth when I slathered myself with baby oil and baked in the sun. I seem to be prone to them and I usually take it in stride.

But this time is different. I have stitches running down from my nose to my upper lip and then across my lip into my mouth. All I can say it ouch! For the first two days I had to drink from a bendy straw and cut my food into teeny tiny bites just so I could eat. The swelling goes down every day and today I was able to give someone I like a lot a quick kiss. I can almost smile. Laughing is pretty much impossible.

In order to make this more bearable, I’ve told different stories when asked what the hell had happened to my face. I told some people that I’d been in a bar fight but they didn’t look convinced. I’ve told others that tenors are mean and to be avoided at all costs. My dermatologist is a tenor in my choir. He thought it was pretty funny. Today at work I blamed it on my assistant manager.  At least she has a good sense of humor. Mostly I told the truth without getting into details.

At this point, I’m bored with the whole thing. The fun is gone and I’m sick of explaining why I look like a mad scientist’s experiment gone wrong.  The stitches come out on Thursday and I will be mightily relieved.   Maybe the next time (I’m sure there will be one) I’ll get an eye patch and pretend I’m a pirate. Yo ho ho and all that.

I’ve been losing things lately. Today I spent a good amount of time looking for poems I had written in the 90’s. They’re in a red folder and, for the life of me, I can’t put my hands on them. I decided to give up for the time being. Usually once I stop searching, the missing thing shows up. After digging through two drawers, a box in the bedroom closet and a bookcase, I stopped. So I sat back on my heels and announced that I wasn’t going to look anymore. I figure the poems are just playing hide and seek with me. They’ll turn up when I’ve forgotten all about wanting them.

This got me to thinking about how many other items disappear. I won’t use the term “gone missing”. It just bothers me somehow, especially when used to describe people. It implies that these missing people always had a choice in the matter. We know that this just isn’t true. Anyway, I digress. I’m not talking about socks either. Plenty has been written about those. I mean bigger stuff, expensive things. I lost my digital camera once for two months. I searched high and low only to find it on top of a bookcase with the binoculars. What was it doing there? It usually lives in a drawer in the living room. Was it lonely? I was sure I had been robbed.

No one will buy me earrings anymore. I inevitably lose one after only wearing a new pair once. I’ve thought about wearing different ones at the same time but I’m not sure what kind of fashion statement that would make. Perhaps it would scream, “This woman puts on her jewelry in the dark.” I keep the lone earring, always hopeful that the other will show up. I tend to lose more during winter because I catch them in my scarf. My supply of earrings is dwindling.

Shortly after buying a new car two summers ago, my ex-husband lost my spare key. He blamed me but I didn’t follow the logic. It was in his wallet, not mine. Anyway, getting a new key isn’t as easy as it used to be. No more running down to the hardware store and having a copy made for two or three bucks. Nope. Now you have to go to the car dealer and plunk down $150. For a lousy key! Someone explained to me that it was because of the computer chip. I still think it’s a racket. So now I’m always making sure I have my keys. I really should get an extra one but I always decide to buy groceries instead.

I know someone who misplaced his car for an entire week once. He thought it had been stolen. Turns out he and his family had just moved to a new house. One night he had indulged a little bit more than was good for him, drove to the old house, parked the car and left it there. His wife found it when she went to check the mail. The local police were not amused. Neither was his wife, to tell the truth. He never did it again.

One of the nice aspects of lost things is finding them. It’s great to put my hand in my coat pocket and find a ten dollar bill. I also like it when someone else finds my missing stuff. I live in a large condominium building and my neighbors will put found items on a table by the mailbox. You know the kind of things. Glove and scarves in the winter. Children’s shoes and toys in the spring and summer.

What’s my tally for this winter? I’ve lost one black glove, four earrings and some great ear warmers. I was hoping someone would turn those in but no such luck. The camera turned up. I still don’t know where the poems are but I believe that I’ll find them eventually. I put a prayer out to the gods of lost belongings. “Oh great and powerful gods (you have to flatter them) I search in vain for a red folder containing old poems. Any help would be appreciated. Oh and while we’re on the subject, have you seen my silver earring?”

In exactly 9 weeks and 5 days, I will celebrate my bat mitzah.  Granted, it’s 39 years and 5 months late. But the fact that it’s still happening at all is a testament to hard work and determination. Many of my friends hit this milestone at the age of 13. Alas, my parents didn’t seem to think it was important. I’ve always felt as though I missed out on something important. When the opportunity arrived, I jumped at the chance.

First, I took adult Hebrew classes. I still remember the first class. Our teacher, Sarese, wrote a squiggly symbol on the board and declared it was the letter bet.  I remember thinking that this was going to be harder than I thought. Somehow over time, it became easier and after two years, I was ready to begin my formal study with my cantor. Thank God for her patience. That time is almost at an end. I have crammed my poor old brain with so many different prayers and tunes that I worry that when the time comes to recite them I will open my mouth and nothing will come out.

In addition to the liturgy, I also have to plan the small gathering taking place afterward. I’m so grateful for all my friends that have offered to help me with the preparations. Having never done anything like this before, I’m truly shooting in the dark.  I still have several prayers to learn. I don’t know how much more I can retain.  All I know is that on May 14, 2011 I will accomplish what I have desired for almost 40 years. How many people can say that? Wish me luck.

Fearful of dressing too youthful
Cautious not to look like my mother
I’m stuck in the twilight zone of middle age

Neither young nor old
I straddle a delicate line
Somewhere between stilettos and orthopedics

Lately I feel, well, matronly
My curves have become more generous
Reubens would have loved me

My body slides downward like slow moving lava
Nothing is where it used to be
My lap is full of me whenever I sit

Mid-life does have its own rewards
Elderly men think I’m a babe
And gray is the new blonde

There’s a quote on my refrigerator door that speaks of becoming a great soul. I’ve often wondered how that is accomplished. Perhaps it is by discovering a great truth. It could be by relieving the suffering of others. I admit that I’m unsure of the process. Does a great soul even recognize one has achieved this level of existence?

It seems egotistical to think this about yourself. It could be that the great souls of the world are quietly going about their lives adding value to humankind, unaware and unconcerned about the greatness at which they have arrived. Against whose yardstick is their greatness measured? One would presume that the opinion of loved ones is more valuable than that of strangers. Fame does not equal greatness. Being recognized is merely a byproduct of the modern world. Fame is fleeting but goodness settles deep in the bones.

The stove sits there, waiting for attention. All gleaming white with black burners, its busy holding the tea kettle and griddle. Two dish towels are tossed carelessly over the oven handle. No one talks to the stove. It just gets turned on, turned off and wiped down. It doesn’t get decorated like the refrigerator. The fridge is a monolith of magnets and photos. It feels proud. “Hmph”, says the stove. Where would you all be without me?” The old microwave across the room replies in a creaky voice, “They still need me.” The stove just laughs. “You’re only good for heating things up. I cook.” The microwave huddles closer to the wall for it knows this is true. The coffee maker and toaster start hopping around. “Hey, what about us? They need us,” they cry out. The stove says, “I suppose that’s true but I’m the most important.” Suddenly there’s a rumbling from the fridge. “Enough of this foolishness,” it says in its cool, frosty voice. “We are the kitchen. We must work together or they will start eating out. I have seen this before.” The coffee maker and toaster stop jumping around. The ancient microwave settles back into its corner with a sigh. The fridge speaks the truth. The stove has to acknowledge the wisdom of the fridge. It begins the long vigil until breakfast, waiting for attention.

February in the Midwest is kind of schizophrenic. There has been a blizzard, bitter cold days with lots of sun and blue skies and a couple of days in the 50’s. Like most people here, I bundle up and wait for spring. But sometimes spring has to be helped along.

I was in the grocery store yesterday buying baking potatoes. Nothing exotic, just your basic russets. This particular store really understands marketing. Just inside one entrance is a Starbucks. The smell of coffee brewing slaps you in the face as soon as you come in the door. It’s rare that I buy any but I do stand there and inhale deeply. Kind of like a cheap feel, if you get my meaning. At the other entrance, the floral department is cheek to jowl with the produce section. Usually, I can ignore the overpriced bouquets of artificially colored daisies and sad-looking roses, but yesterday was different.

As I was single mindedly heading for the pile of spuds, something yellow caught my eye. It couldn’t be, I thought. Way too early in the season, I argued with myself. But there they were. Daffodils as bright as the sun, beckoning to me. Next to tulips, daffodils are my very favorite spring flowers. The next thing I knew, there were two bunches of them in my hand. I don’t even remember picking them up. I quickly put the dripping flowers in the plastic sleeves hanging nearby. I’ve always considered them flower condoms. But I digress. Hugging them to my chest, I grabbed two potatoes and ran for the checkout line. This may seem fairly dramatic for store bought blossoms. Perhaps it is. Today it’s rainy and cold. A typical February day.  But due to a clever marketing ploy, I have a touch of spring brightening a corner of my living room.

Often when doing a mindless chore, such as washing the dishes or folding clean laundry, I wonder what my life would have been like if I had taken the path of my heart’s desire. I’m not talking about the romanticized ideals of youth but of the true purpose that I was put on this world for. As I muddle through middle age, I find that I’m still just as confused as to what that is as I was at 21. I had expected to be surer of myself by now.

I’ve been married more than once, been a mother twice over and have lived in so many different places over the years that I’ve lost count. My hair has more grey in it than its original color which, as I recall, was some shade of brown. The photo albums collecting dust under my bed reveal my lack of commitment to any particular color. At least it was never green.

Early on in life I wanted to be an author. I clearly remember telling my mother this around age 6. I had just started to learn to read and thought that writing books had to be the most fulfilling job in the world. Actually, I still do. For some unknown reason around 12 years old, I decided that I wanted to be a laboratory technician. That still baffles me. Next came librarian, college professor and finally attorney. All good and attainable goals.

I did start graduate school and law school. I decided that they weren’t for me. My life became a series of carnival rides. You know the kinds. Some spin you around until you’re too dizzy to see straight and too nauseous to care. Others take you higher and higher then plummet you towards the bottom until you’re screaming and hanging on for dear life. While these are fun on a summer afternoon, I don’t recommend making them a lifestyle.

So back to my purpose in life. For a time I thought I was supposed to live in the Middle East, helping to build a small but determined country. Even now, when my mind wanders, I wonder if that’s what I should do next. But I am no longer an idealistic 18 year old. I like my comforts and that fact that I can walk outside my front door without worrying about bombs. I’ve grown settled and soft. A move like that requires great sacrifice and I don’t have it in me anymore.

So where does this leave me? Perhaps instead of wondering what I haven’t accomplished I should look at what I have done with my life. Being a mother was no piece of cake and both of my sons have turned out to be decent human beings. Not every mother can say that. I have true friends that stand by me no matter what foolish path I wander down. They are truly my touchstone. My sisters and I like each other. That’s a wonderful legacy from my mother. I share my home with a funny, smart, sexy and sarcastic guy who loves me exactly the way I am. That in itself is worth its weight in gold.

It’s pretty obvious that my life has not been just a big ball of confusion and wasted time. If I’m lucky, my life span may go on a few more decades. Instead of thinking of all the places I haven’t been, I can decide where to go next. Learn a new language? Why not? Finish my novel? Of course I can! Dye my hair green? Well, probably not. But I could if I really wanted to. The only limitations I have are ones I place on myself. It’s time to forget about regrets and get down to the business of living.

I spend a lot of time putting my thoughts down on paper. Well, into a Word document, to be precise. Other than sharing my ramblings with one or two friends who have to read them, they sit unread. While I am aware that my small essays and poems won’t change the world, I have a burning desire to share them with the world. Call it ego but that is the truth.

Trying to describe what this blog is about has me a bit befuddled. I wish I could say that it has lofty goals but in reality I just want to share the ideas that come to me. I hope that someone other than the two who always read my stuff (you know who you are) will catch a glimmer of the way my brain operates. It’s not as scary as you may think.

Words are the gateway to true understanding. Have at it.