Niagara Falls, Part Two
Back in the early 80s, I took an aerobics class at a local storefront fitness center.
It was women only, so we weren’t trying to impress any Hans and Franz dudes.
But it didn’t stop us from being adorable.
Let’s Get Physical
This is me in 1983 in my favorite aerobics outfit. Yeah, you’re looking at a high-cut pink leotard with matching leg-warmers and headband. With white tights. Apparently, I was traumatized by not being allowed to take ballet as a kid. So I got another chance at 32.
About two dozen ridiculously dressed women met twice a week and pranced around to Olivia Newton-John and Duran Duran. Then we’d take off our sneakers and weigh ourselves. We were all young and skinny then so it was just a tradition.
Although I looked stupid, I had fun.
The crazy thing about exercising back then: I never sweated.
I was the driest person on the planet.
My headband was for style only. (fabulous style)
Even our post-class sauna couldn’t make me sweat.
My friends and co-leg-warmer-wearers were amazed. Actually, they were a little creeped out.
And here it is twenty-nine years later.
All that sweat that I saved up in my thirties is delighted to break free in my sixties.
You’d think my hormones would be done by now. But menopause is one of Nature’s greatest wonders. Like Niagara Falls.
Hot flashes are uncomfortable. What happens when I exercise is astounding. Even mild exercise turns me into Rocky Balboa after seven rounds. I can weed the garden and water it at the same time.
And strenuous exercise, like my Yoga (and YES, Yoga is strenuous) and Zumba?
You know those boys who run out on the basketball court to wipe the floor after a player falls down?
I could use a couple to stand on either side of me during Zumba.
But sweating has its upside.
My Yoga teacher is impressed. “Wow” she said last week, “You really work out hard.”
I didn’t tell her that I look pretty much the same when I dust.
Yoga puddles
Oh, Grow Up!
Remember that book from about twenty-five years ago – “All I Really Need To Know I Learned In Kindergarten” ?
It was a cute little book with life lessons like:
“Put things back.”
“Don’t take stuff that isn’t yours.”
“Wash your hands before you eat.”
The book was a huge hit, but I’m not sure how much it really taught me. I already knew that I should Flush.
But everyone wishes they could live as simply as children again.
Just this week I read an article about bringing back the child in you, “Five Things You Can Learn From Children“.
1. Laugh More.
2. Love More.
3. Take More Risks.
4. Stay Curious.
5. Be Forgiving.
Well, okay, sure. Nice, but obvious. Except the ‘Take More Risks‘ part. From what I’ve seen, kids are incredibly fearful of all kinds of stuff. Cauliflower. Ants. Beards. Balloons. Water. Makes my fear of marionettes and escalators entirely reasonable.
But while we are trying to be more childlike every day – Let’s please remember that we aren’t really children anymore.
So, Grow Up!
Here’s my list of behaviors that are not Childlike. They’re Childish.
1. No one cares that it’s your birthday. Everyone has one. You aren’t special. Don’t expect your co-workers to remember. Consider yourself ahead of the game if your spouse remembers.
2. A tantrum will not get you what you want. Well, it might work the first year you are married. After that, you get ignored. Tantrums are worse at work. No one will want to work with you. Expect to get fired. If you own your own business, expect ridiculous turnover. And get a good lawyer.
3. Remember how your mother said that you were a genius? This may not be true. Get an independent opinion before you run for office, submit that manuscript, or audition for American Idol.
4. On the other hand, remember how your father said you were a moron? This may also have been an exaggeration. It’s amazing what you can accomplish by paying attention, reading directions, and sticking with it. Try shit.
And finally:
5. Despite how much fun it was in second grade, not everyone should (or wants to) see your underpants.
Niagara Falls, Part One
Thursday, May 24, 2012.
One of my very best days.
Well, not the whole day.
I had an excellent nineteen minutes.
The best nineteen hair minutes of my life.
I took my shower and washed my hair as usual. Also as usual, I applied my three special styling products. A special root lifter first, then I combined a special styling cream with a different special styling cream. It’s a special process.
And I dried with an ionic dryer and a big round metal barrel brush.
Then I ironed (I keep my ironing board set up because I am a little obsessed with ironing. Not like how uncaring I am about my hair and makeup). I dressed in my freshly pressed (I’m still gloating over Freshly Pressed) clothes and went back into the bathroom to do my makeup.
And there it was. Looking me right in the mirror.
My hair was perfect.
You know how once in a while your hair comes out absolutely right?
I don’t.
I’ve never had a perfect hair day.
But there it was. Perfect.
Great volume, but not wild. And I had the kind of swinging shine that I have only seen on commercials. (and on my grandniece – it is just wrong to envy a four-year-old.)
I finished my makeup, and Voila!
A stunning sixty-one-year old.
I went down to breakfast.
While waiting for my husband to notice what a gorgeous wife he had, which I was sure would only be a matter of time…just another cup of coffee to get his eyes unstuck…
I had a hot flash.
Do you remember the scene in “Airplane” where Robert Hays starts to sweat?
Yeah, like that.
So I got nineteen minutes of great hair.
Am I discouraged?
Hell, no!
If perfect hair can happen once, it can happen again.
Because now I know my hair has POTENTIAL.
I just have to wait till my hormones calm down.
I figured I’ll be seventy-three.
I can hardly wait.
Above Average
Things got a little wormy –as in, ‘opening a can of’ ‘ — last week.
I wrote about my friend’s experience while shopping. She wanted to try on a dress that another woman was holding, and the rude woman informed my friend, “It’s a six – Not a sixteen!”
I was appalled that someone could be so rude. My interpretation was “You are too fat to even try this on.”
But…
“Too fat” and “Size sixteen” aren’t exactly synonyms.
And to those of you who reminded me of that – Thank you. I needed reminding.
We live in weird times in a weird place.
In this country, we prize Skinny, but we keep getting fatter.
The average woman in America now weights 164.7 pounds.
By my calculation (and I calculate for a living, so I have some credibility here), that’s a size sixteen.
Therefore, sixteen is AVERAGE.
So how come most shops only carry UP to a size sixteen? Bigger than that and you have to go to the Plus-Size store.
Does that mean you have to be BELOW AVERAGE to shop at most stores?
This just doesn’t make sense.
I’ve been psyching myself up for bathing suit shopping by checking a lot of websites, hoping to find something stylish but mature. (So far, in seventeen hours of surfing – NADA. But that’s another story…maybe next week.)
Anyway, here’s what purports to be a sexy look:
(Hey, I remember being that skinny; 1971.)
However, another model made headlines this week, with a nude cover for a Spanish magazine. This is Candice Huffine, who is called a PLUS-SIZED model.
This makes the skinny broad look pathetic. Sexy? THIS is sexy.
Candice Huffine is a size 14. Below average in America.
Let me repeat: She’s a PLUS-SIZE model.
As I said, this is a weird time in a weird country.
So why, at sixty-one, do I not-so-secretly wish I looked like the first photo?
Maybe it’s time to change.
I always wanted to be Above Average.
Decisions.
He Scores!
Everyone likes lists.
The Top 100 Books Of All Time, The 20 Worst Breakfast Foods, Ten Biggest Bugs of North America, The Six Stupidest Politicians…(maybe that was sixty).
And you know who REALLY likes lists?
iVillage.
I signed up for emails from iVillage several years ago. At the time, I thought that I would get lots of discounts for makeup.
But I get Lists.
Every day.
Lots of cupcake recipes (80!), and hairstyles (42 – which bear a disconcerting resemblance to the cupcakes). And now that June is almost upon us, there are lists of wedding gowns (200) and engagement rings (125).
I hardly ever open these emails, what with all the blogs I’m committed to. And then there are the literary agent rejection letters choking up my inbox.
But this list caught my eye last week:
“The Ten Lies Men Tell Women”
And I just had to know how my husband ranks among the other husband/liars.
1. “No, you don’t look fat.”
Yeah, he does that. Just this week I told him that it kind of hurts my feelings when he says that Dancing With The Stars’ Cheryl Burke has a big ass, given the size of mine. He said, “But you’re smaller than Cheryl Burke.” Yeah, he did. It’s my all-time favorite lie. Score: 10 out of 10 on the Pants-On-Fire Meter.
2. “I don’t enjoy going to strip joints.”
Nope. He’s never uttered that sentence. But he doesn’t need to lie either. He has my blessing. If he likes to see women take off their clothes – well, duh. I was even okay when he went to jello wrestling. “Just don’t come home sticky,” I warned. Score: 0 on the No-Big-Deal Meter.
3. “We’ll talk about it later.”
Naw. Twenty years of marriage has taught him not to bother with a discussion. Just apologize. Score: 0 on the Don’t-Even-Argue-With-Me-Cause-I’m-Right Meter.
4. “You remind me of Jennifer Lopez.”
That’s a No. He doesn’t even try to wipe up the drool. But he did say that I’m better looking than Sarah Jessica Parker. I’ll take it. Score: 5 on the Prettier-Than-A-Movie-Star Meter.
5. “I love your cooking.”
Yes, he says it all the time. And it’s not a lie. He loves my food. However, when we were first married, I had a lot to live up to. His first wife was quite the gourmet. He used to rave about her Chicken With Peanut Sauce. One day when he was reminiscing about that particular dish (again), I said, “Let’s call her and ask her to make some for us.” He hasn’t mention Chicken With Peanut Sauce since. Score: 1 on the I’ll-Eat-Anything-Anyway Meter.
6. “I don’t think about other women.”
He can’t even pretend on that one. I’ve been to the beach with him. All those bikinis. But let him look. At his age, no one looks back. And besides, tattoos gross him out. That makes me the most attractive woman on the eastern seaboard. Score: 3 on the I-Love-Wedgies meter.
7. “You can use my razor to shave your legs.”
He doesn’t have to lie on that one. I don’t want to borrow his things. Not any of his things. He can keep the razor. He can keep the truck. He can keep the Gene Autry records. Score 0 on the Yodeling-Cowboy meter.
8. “I love Meg Ryan movies.”
He’ll watch. Because I control the remote. But I love him, so sometimes I will tell him when Drag Racing is on. Does he like Romantic Comedy? Does it have a car chase? A shoot-out? Clint Eastwood? Score: 5 on the Make-My-Day Meter.
9. “I love spending time with your mother.”
He likes my mother. He really does. He’s very comfortable with her. He usually falls asleep in her presence – he’s that comfortable. Score: 4 on the I’ll-Kick-You-Under-The-Table Meter.
10. “I’m sorry.”
See #3.
Score: A Big 10 on the I-Can’t-Take-The-Silent-Treatment Meter.
***
OVERALL SCORE (think Golf, Not Bowling): 38!
Pretty Good on the We’re-Still-Married-After-Twenty-Years Meter!
I’ll Make It Fit
My friend Dee was shopping this weekend.
She happened upon a customer who was showing the saleslady a dress.
“I love this dress,” the customer said, “but it’s a size six.” Do you by any chance have this in a twelve?”
Dee didn’t tell me what the saleslady answered, but I can fill in the blank – because I know for sure what she said (knowing just how helpful the salespeople are in that particular store).
The saleslady answered, “Check the rack. If it’s there, we have it. If it’s not there, we don’t have it.”
(Am I right or what?)
Anyhow, this dress was lovely. Dee could just picture herself in this dress.
So she approached the lady – who was still holding the dress, and said,
“If it’s not your size… gee, I’d love to try that on.”
And this complete stranger said,
“IT’S A SIZE SIX, NOT A SIXTEEN.”
Dee was furious. Righteous Fury!
She grabbed that the dress and stomped into the dressing room. She tried it on. It fit, but it was a bit snug. Dee is a rather modest woman, and she knew she’d be more comfortable with an eight, so she passed. But it was close – a hell of a lot closer to a six that the RUDE SIZE TWELVE (probably really a fourteen) CUSTOMER.
On hearing this story, I was as outraged as Dee.
And I admired her self-control in not punching that snotty bitch in the teeth.
Although I do think I would have handled it differently:
**
I’D HAVE BOUGHT THE GODDAMN DRESS!
**
Me (size 10) – So There!
Winning Lizzie
A few days ago, I asked for your interpretive suggestions for my cryptic note, “Lizzie Borden Mugshot”.
You certainly had some creative ideas – none of which reminded me of what I meant when I wrote those words. It appears I have permanent Lizzie amnesia.
However, you did prove to me that you all know me very well, since most of you thought that I must have wanted to write about hair, makeup, or fashion.
And the very best of your ideas is truly inspirational. It’s “Bring Back The Bun” by DefiningMotherhood. DM wins the Lizzie Grand Prize – which is a link and a reprint. (Not much, I know, so please at least give her a click.)
***
Bring Back The Bun
Lizzie Borden took an axe
And gave her mother forty whacks
When she saw what she had done
She gave her father forty one
I can’t help but think of her today
As I try to put my hair away
On top my head in a basic bun
Just think of all I could get done
I could grocery shop and mop my floor
Remove sticky fingerprints from the door
I could tackle the growing laundry pile
Put on my sneakers and jog a mile
When I finish all I need to get done
My hair will still be in that trusty bun
Just look at the pictures of Lizzie Borden’s face
She killed her parents without a hair out of place
****
Oh, this is SO ME!
Although I don’t know what I meant, I sure know how I FEEL.
Poor Lizzie.
This is her actual mugshot.
Lizzie wasn’t arrested right after the murders. It’s not like she was brought in covered in blood and foaming at the mouth. But still…
She’s gorgeous.
And yet, as I researched various websites to try to understand why I wrote that note, everyone writing about her seems to find her homely. Or at best, plain.
But this is a MUGSHOT!
Taken in August 1892.
August. No air conditioning.
When I took my last self-portrait, I added a super volumizer to my hair, applied two coats of makeup, and changed my clothes three times. then I took about sixty frames under all kinds of different lighting and exposures. And I found one decent picture.
Lizzie got one take with a police photographer with an 1892 camera. With no makeup, no hairstylist, and a high collar and a corset on a summer day. She’s wearing more underneath her dress than you wear to shovel snow in February.
If you think she’s homely, please open your wallet and take a gander at your driver’s license photo.
I rest Lizzie’s case.
Kissing Frogs
My husband is a sweet eccentric. From reading my blog, you would certainly see the eccentric side – because it’s so much fun to write about.
But he’s also quirky enough that some folks have asked me why in the world I was drawn to him in the first place. (as opposed to running for the hills.)
Because I married late in life, I suppose people might assume that I married this guy because I was desperate – and ready to ‘settle’.
SO not true!
But my ‘advanced years’ did play a part in my decision. If you have twenty-five years of dating under your belt (which is not a suggestive wisecrack, but I can see why you might think so), you’ve been exposed (not suggestive either!) to all types of men.
You can pretty much determine all the traits you DON’T want in a man.
Your list of “No Thank-Yous’ only grows.
You don’t relax your standards – you get pickier.
So here’s a short list of the frogs I have kissed while searching for my prince.
But first, a couple of disclaimers:
1. I have changed the names. Not to protect these losers. It’s just that making them sort of fictitious is somehow less embarrassing for me.
2. My life was not a string of horrible relationships. Not at all. It was a horrible relationship – then a long long dry spell – then a horrible relationship – then the dry spell – then the next horrible relationship. Not a string. More like hiccups that have to be scared out of you.
3. I did actually date some nice normal men. They kept that tiny flicker of hope alive.
Okay, let’s start the frog parade.
Larry, my first boyfriend: He said he knew my house. The one with the broken step. I started my list: No Snobs.
Moe: Wielding scissors, his mother chased me out of the house. I added to the list: No Crazy Relatives.
Curly: He wrote me the most hilarious series of letters. I was enthralled. And then in literature class the next semester, I found out that Curly didn’t exactly write those letters. He merely typed them. Kurt Vonnegut wrote them. Added to list: No Plagiarists.
Shemp: Shemp told me that his mother was a twin, but he figured that twins must stop looking like each other as they age, since his mother looked nothing like her twin sister. I explained to him about fraternal versus identical twins. He said, “Wow, how do you know this?” My list grew: No one who slept through the entirety of high school.
Navin: The night before our big vacation he went to the dog track and lost every dollar of our vacation money. We were left with our plane tickets and my credit card. I added: No Gamblers.
Bluto: How I waited for the phone to ring. And it did. Saturday evenings at six, Bluto would finally call and say, “Why don’t you come over?” And I’d get in the car and drive 27.6 miles to spend the evening with Bluto. Every time. Several months later, I finally worked up the courage (after driving 27.6 miles of course) to say, “Some time you might want to come over to my place. Aren’t you curious to see where I live?” Bluto just stared. I wrote in my list: No Self-Absorbed Bastards.
Linus: He planned a romantic evening, but forgot to open the damper when he lit the fire. The smoke detectors went nuts. So did Linus. He could have laughed it off. He took a different route. He locked himself in his bedroom and had a nice little cry. I added: No Humorless Wusses.
And last but not least:
Bart: I met him at a business convention. We worked for the same corporation in different states. It was true love – for three days. I returned to my job filled with dreams of family life. I secretly began paperwork to transfer to his state. Three months later I attended another corporate function. Bart wasn’t able to attend, since he was at the hospital where his wife was giving birth to their third child. I wrote one hundred times: NO CHEATING PRICKS.
Yes, my husband is eccentric. He likes Gene Autry better than The Beatles. He shreds the bedsheets with his toenails. And he wants to start a horseradish farm.
So what?
He meets all my other criteria.
And he leaves me extraordinary designs in the peanut butter.
Help Wanted: Translator
This is an audience participation post.
I have a little notebook that I carry with me all the time.
See how cute it is. And responsible. It’s all recycled. Even the pen is recycled cardboard (well not the inside). It’s very inspirational. (except I try not to recycle too many stories). It was also free.
This is where I jot down all my blog ideas.
Usually I just need a word or two to remind me of the amazingly fabulous idea I had – during a drive, or during dinner… or during (sorry, boss) a business meeting.
For instance, just the word “Cheese” brought back my husband’s desire to be more spontaneous, and how he cut the cheese (I still snicker when I write that) more ‘whimsically’.
Or sometimes I get an idea that just needs some fleshing out. I wrote down “Shoulder Pads” about two months ago; but when I saw that old photo of myself in 1977, then I knew I had enough to make a story, and last week I got Freshly Pressed. (Yea! And Thank You.)
And there are times when I think of an especially clever sentence or maybe a whole paragraph, and I write it all down in my little book.
I’ve got little germs of ideas that I haven’t acted on yet, so every once in a while, I go back to the beginning to see if some germ has maybe sprouted.
And that’s my problem.
Back around October I wrote this:
See it? – A little lower than halfway down, in my careless scribble:
“LIZZIE BORDEN MUGSHOT”
What an incredible idea! A gem!
Pure Genius!
Only I have NO idea what the heck I meant.
None. Nada. Zip. I’ve gone online and read about Lizzie and her unfortunate parents. I’ve read parts of the trial transcript. I researched Lizzie’s life after the trial. I’ve read the theories…the maid, the sister, etc. I’ve researched the fashions of 1892 and the hairstyles – certainly there was a chance I wanted to give her a makeover.
But nothing.
So here’s the challenge:
Interpret this for me.
Tell me what I meant.
I’ll make it a contest and give a prize to the best idea.
It will be an imaginary prize. But this is a contest for your imagination.
Therefore perfectly appropriate.
“Lizzie Borden Mugshot” – What the Fall River does it mean to you?
Searching For Middle Ground
It’s finally warm in Connecticut.
So I wanted to wear one of my favorite silk cardigans to work. I was looking for some pants that would match, and I came upon an old pair of crops in my closet. They are a pretty taupe color, and would go great with my sweater.
I haven’t worn them in three years. Although they are loose-fitting in the legs (oops, not skinny jeans), they were tight in the waist. But with my new Zumba schedule, I’ve lost a couple of pounds and I figured I could wear them now.
I took them out and laid them on the ironing board to see how bad they might be after three years.
They looked like this:
They’ve been in my closet for THREE YEARS. The crease is still where it belongs and there are no wrinkles. What the heck of these things made of? They actually gave me the creeps.
On the other hand, last weekend we had company for Sunday dinner. I had some nice new napkins still in the box, so we used them. And after dinner I threw them in the wash.
Here’s what they came out looking like:
Now I love organic cotton as much as the next person (in theory).
But come on!
Just a little of the extraterrestrial chemical that made my pants-crease indestructible could go a long way here.
I mean, just a little, please. I don’t want my guests wiping their mouths with poison, but a quick wipe with a mild poison couldn’t hurt, could it?
This got me to thinking about extremes, and the difficulty these days in finding that precious Middle Ground.
I’m on a constant quest to find that balance between aging gracefully and trying to be as young as possible.
I’m sixty-one. It’s a tricky age. I’m not old (I don’t think), but I’m can’t pretend to be young (unfortunately).
Shopping is hard.
At one end, I could go with the Grandma look:
Or at the other extreme, I could go with the hoochie look:
Both these looks are readily available. Extremes are plentiful.
What’s not so easy to find is something in between.
It takes effort. I have to search.
But it’s out there. The Middle Ground.
Finding the Middle Ground is HARD WORK.
But I do it.
Why?
So that I don’t look like an idiot.
*****
I’M TALKING TO YOU, POLITICIANS!
notquiteold 