Acting Your Age

I was in Texas earlier in the month – always an experience, Texas. I’ve decided I love driving there. When I drove there the first time, it terrified me, because every time I looked in my rearview mirror, there was a pickup grill looking back. They don’t drive anything except pickups in Texas. But now I like the way they drive, because they’ve made things so simple. If you want to pass, you get up on someone’s bumper, they move over, and everyone’s happy. I mean, I have a Honda CRV, which can’t terrorize anyone. But when I get up on someone’s bumper, they still pull over. It makes me feel powerful. If I did that in my city, they wouldn’t pull over, they’d pull out an AK-47. Which would make me feel dead.

But that isn’t really what I wanted to talk about. When I was in Texas, my niece said that she didn’t like seeing people acting younger than they actually are. Wait, not people. She said, women. Probably because men never grow up, so she’s not carrying the same expectations for them. (Oh, c’mon, don’t send mail... you know none of us do.) Okay, I can agree with her to a point because I’ve never thought micro-mini’s and pigtails go well with laugh lines and jowls, but...

Well, I decided a while back – I think it was about the time I turned 50 - that age was irrelevant. Yes, thinking about it, it was exactly at the time I turned 50, because that decision kept me from driving off a bridge.

I went to to see Chicago and the Doobie Brothers this past June. To clarify, these are singing groups. Don’t ask, as my niece did, “Did you see the Natural History Museum while you were there?” Sweetheart. Dearest. That’s not cute.

It was an outdoor concert. I went with a similarly-aged friend, and we hooted and clapped and danced in the aisles – and we were glad there was nobody there of a respectable age. You know, like my niece. I only once decided we should act more dignified – that was when the overhead clapping started. You know what I’m talking about. It’s when somebody in the band drops his guitar so it hangs by the strap around his neck, then claps his hands over his head, like he’s signaling emergency rescue. And then the audience joins in. Well, it struck me that most of the women there had flaps that could slow a cargo plane. It wasn’t pretty.

But, otherwise, I thought we all looked pretty cool. Even after storm clouds thundered in and tornado sirens sounded in the next county which prompted a lot of cell phone activity, but nobody left, even after lightning flashed, and the skies opened up. Instead, being cool, we all crowded under covered walkways. The concert was suspended for twenty minutes, and then I guess the organizers thought, what the hell, or else they thought, lawsuits for an electrocution or two might be cheaper than refunding everyone’s $72.50 ticket.

Once the music started again, I can assure my niece that the walkways looked like any other mosh pit at any other rock concert. Except, maybe, for the umbrellas. You know, when you get to an irrelevant age, you have these knee-jerk needs to be practical when you’re standing outside in severe storm warnings during a rock concert.

About a half hour before the concert ended, the rain subsided enough that we could go back to our seats, although we couldn’t sit in them because they were too wet. Oh, that’s not another example of practicality; that’s just ego. When you walk around with a wet tush when you’re of an irrelevant age, people don’t immediately jump to the idea you were at a rock concert in the rain. They just think you forgot your Depends.

Another cool thing happened. A cute-looking guy ducked under my umbrella while we were clapping – or rather, he was clapping because I haven’t figured out how to hold an umbrella and clap at the same time. It’s not something I mastered in my youth. Actually, I don’t think I ever held an umbrella in my youth. But nothing came of anything, even though he was cute; I think because I looked really stupid trying.

Concert over, but storm still underway, my friend and I headed to the car. Outside the concert bowl, and between the tall, very tall, trees that line the path to the parking lot, we could see bolts of lightning splitting the nighttime sky.

I guess she was feeling kind of foolish – I’m not sure; I couldn’t study her expression because I was busy trying to look nonchalant. She turned to me and said, “And how old are we?”

I pondered, then lifted my chin. “Old enough that nobody can tell us not to do this.”

Which is a really great age to be when you think about it. Not that I plan to be a lightning rod again in the near future, but I like being this old, and I like not caring what anyone thinks. Not even my niece (whom, if she is reading this: I love you very much, sweetheart, and I forgive you). I can still dance at rock concerts. I can still ride somebody’s ass all the way to Corpus Christi. And nobody can tell me not to.

Life's Little Meanings

I’m always trying to read things into things, find meanings, connect dots, draw parallels. It’s an exhausting business, this being a deep thinker stuff, but I persist, because one day I’m pretty certain I’ll uncover the secrets of the universe.

I live in a nice, middle-class suburban neighborhood. Late this (Sunday) afternoon, I decided to walk to the hardware store, about three-quarters of a mile away, to buy a light bulb. Okay, so I was a little bit bored – cleaning my house was looking like the only other alternative to light-bulb-buying if I wanted to get away from all this thinking.

Anyway, I reached an intersection, just before cutting through this pocket park behind the library, and a little old guy in a little old Honda waved me across. I crossed.

Then he turned the corner, pulled up to the curb, rolled down the window. “Excuse me?”

I eyed him. 80, 85. Perfectly harmless. I’m the type that’s likely to snort at a flasher, and he hardly looked strong enough to suck air into his lungs, let alone me into the car. So, I walked over, thinking maybe he needed directions. “Yes?”

The moment I reached the window, he launched in. “My son—-out in California—-he weighed 350 pounds, but then he got this book by this doctor that was about how it’s really animal protein that causes all the problems, you see, with metabolism, you see, throwing off clots and all. And he followed that diet, and whammo--he dropped a hundred pounds in a year.”

“He did?” I said, wondering where this was going.

“Yes, and I tried it, and I used to weigh 180, but now I’m down to 145.” He patted his skinny stomach and looked meaningfully at my not-so-skinny stomach. “I just had to tell you.”

I waited a beat to see if there was anything else. There wasn’t. I immediately decided I would never, ever, never wear this particular pair of shorts again. Or this shirt.

I glanced down, just noticing the box of wine on the passenger seat. Ah. But I still wouldn’t wear these shorts or this shirt. “What was the name of the book?” I asked.

“Heart Attacks Start in the Liver.”

“And so does cirrhosis,” I muttered to myself, watching him drive off.

I pulled out my cell phone. He reached the top of the street, made a U-turn.

“My God.” I relayed the incident to my friend. “You’re supposed to be my friend. If I look this bad, you’re supposed to tell me before people take pity and start hailing me on the street.”

The little old man pulled even with me. The window came down, and he called out. “Hemp.”

“What?”

“HEMP! Best additive you can get.” He rolled off.

I stared after him. For long, long moments.

I promise you I’m not lying about this.

As I returned from the hardware store, carrying a little bag with my light bulb tucked inside, I crossed the pocket park parking lot. The little old man was long gone. But a little old lady was getting out of her little old Buick.

She directed a hostile stare at me. “You got a dog?”

I do, but my dog was at home. “No.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Then, you wanna tell me why you’re carryin’ a poop bag?”

“I—it’s a light bulb,” I stammered, walking on.

She stared after me.

I’m honestly not making this up.

As I continued home, I started my usual pondering. I wondered what the connection was between my two encounters, wondered if I was meant to buy a book about livers and heart disease and how that related to dog manure (yes, I know, but I was seeking something deeper than that), and searched for a possible reason everyone had forgotten to take their meds that morning.

I finally concluded there was no deep meaning beyond the obvious indication that I should stay on the diet I started seven days ago, and, really, that doesn’t take a whole lot of thought. Sometimes things just... are. And maybe that’s one of the big secrets of the universe.

Sitting Like a Lump

I signed up for e-Harmony. And, wow, I’m finding it as much fun as... well, job hunting or trying to market one of my manuscripts or maybe selling Amway. Not that I’ve sold Amway, but I’m just saying.

On e-Harmony, you create a profile, they send you other peoples’ profiles, you pick and choose and wink and wave hi, and sometimes you get really brave and send a few questions for the other person to answer... And then once that flurry of activity passes... we all sit there like lumps staring at each other. It reminds me of junior high dances and why I’ve never been huge on wallowing around in nostalgia.

But it occurs to me that this is very similar reaction to how I face most decisions. I sit there like a lump. Because to choose one thing, means to not choose the others. What if I would have been happier with something else? (And can someone tell me why I think I could ever possibly know that?) And, omigod, what if I choose... and then something better comes along? (And how could I ever possibly know that, either?)

A wise friend of mine recently said, with a fond sigh... maybe, actually, an exasperated sigh, but, I try to choose a glass-half-full perspective...

Anyway, she said, “Jerri, make a decision. If it doesn’t turn out all right...

“Then make another decision.” (She didn’t add “for God’s sake” but I think she wanted to.)

And, okay, it was probably an exasperated sigh.

A few entries ago, I wrote about how your best hope is as likely to occur as your worst fear. Similarly, it’s just as likely you’ll enjoy the consequences of a choice, instead of suffer them. (Once again, I’m cribbing from a daily reading.) And if there’s no decision made at all... well, then we all sit there like lumps. Growing lumpier.

So, I’m off to “wink” and “wave hi” and “nudge” “my matches” into doing the same. (Are we having fun yet, or what?) Then I’m checking into Amway because this job-hunt and market-a-manuscript thing isn’t going that well, either.

It's All Just Stuff

I’ve had a few tragedies in my life. You’ve had a few tragedies in your life. Some stuff in my life sucks. Some stuff sucks in yours, too. When I dwell on my stuff, it grows. It grows bigger than a horse. Bigger than a house. Much, much bigger than your stuff, of course. And it seems I missed my calling as Mrs. Suess.

I sometimes wrap up in my stuff, bundle it all around me, tuck in the corners, all righty-tighty, and refuse to consider that maybe there's some good stuff in there with the bad. Instead, I poke out my nose... and moan and whine and bitch and complain and wonder why that repels the attention I want, rather than attracts it.

Then, at some point--and probably not soon enough for close friends and family--I realize... gee, this is just life. And I’m only normal.

A Tidbit About Worry

Rather than try to create a masterpiece with every entry, I decided less may really be more on occasion. So here's a small point to ponder without my pithy observations intruding:

I can't know what the future holds. But my best hope is as likely to happen as my worst fear.

(That's paraphrased from an entry in Courage to Change - which I was flipping through in one of those wee-hours-worry-sessions last night. I can't remember the page or date I landed on, but the contents stuck.)

Progress, Not Perfection

I’m told that blog writers need to make entries at least three times a week, if not daily, or... else. So, wanting to avoid ...else, I was tempted to never return and just let you think I (a) got bored (b) got busy, or (c) made the mistake of entering my son’s bathroom and am now in quarantine while doctors work to figure out what rare fungus is growing between my toes.

But I didn’t do that. I've showed up. I’m about to take it on the chin, explain the time lapse between entries, and let the chips fall where they may.

I haven’t posted because I’m a perfectionist.

Wait a minute, you say. If that’s the case, wouldn’t you be on top of this blogging thing? No. One of the first rules of perfectionism is: if you can’t do something perfect, there’s no point in doing it at all.

I come by this trait honestly. I share genes with a grandmother who used to run a gloved finger into the corners of the stairs in her farmhouse (the one that sat on a dirt-packed Nebraska road) and would, holding up a gray-tipped digit, tell her daughter, responsible for dusting, that she’d do well to live in a round house.

You see where this is going. Her daughter raised me. When visiting my house, my mother would ask—-and, while I sometimes exaggerate just an eensy-bitsy-teensy-weensy bit in these columns, this is the honest-to-God truth--“When’s the last time you swept under your refrigerator?”

You’re kidding me, right?

Okay. Six months ago. But, honest, I normally ignore the refrigerator, figuring I’m on par if I hit the places people can actually see.

Which I do with regularity, because my thoughts run along the lines of: As goes the direction of the nap of my carpet, so goes I. Or something like that.

Still, I’d felt I’d come a long way – nothing’s ever too badly awry around here, but I do let dog hair thicken along the floorboards, dust settle on the sills, and I try never, ever, never to enter my son’s bathroom, although I do experience an occasional slip. It's closer to the garage door, and I'm middle-aged.

So my behavior the other day caught even me by surprise. Our neighborhood had a large trash-pickup scheduled. One of those deals where you drag anything you no longer want to the curb, like a refrigerator whose ice machine broke the last time you moved it during your weekly cleaning.

The day before items could be set out, I was working at my home computer when a friend emailed to ask if she could bring over an old mattress for pickup. Sure, I typed. I won’t be home, but slide it into the garage and my son will take it out the next day. Fine, she replied, my sister will help me move it.

Arrangements made, I returned to work. For ten minutes. After ten minutes, I was in my garage, broom in hand. I didn’t care if my friend saw the state of my garage. She knows me. Too well to ever harbor, in even the very remotest, shadowy-est region of her brain, the idea I’m perfect.

But her sister... her sister doesn’t know me that well. And I was pretty certain, too, after I’d thoroughly examined every side of the matter in that ten minutes, her sister would arrive channeling my mother. She’d even come inside and check under my refrigerator.

So I swept my garage. And straightened a few storage shelves. Okay, and I did put some muddy shoes that had been sitting by the lawn mower since last summer on this stand by the washer so that if she looked over in that corner--which I knew she would--she’d conclude that’s where we always put muddy shoes before we clean them off. On every Tuesday, without fail. But I stopped with the shoes, and congratulated myself for not touching the refrigerator.

Just as I now, with this entry, pat myself on the back for again showing up here. I’ve experienced enough personal growth to allow you, and whichever one of you is channeling my mother today, to know that I haven’t blogged lately, not because I was trying to locate the can of Dr. Scholl’s, but because I just didn’t feel like it.

It’s all about progress, not perfection.

Appreciating the Obvious

Because rare is the writer that actually makes a living from writing, and I'm no rarity, I supplement my income with editing work. Some writers would consider editing work a trip to the Dark Side, but the jobs measure well against the Big Three Criteria For Freelance Jobs that I use to make sure I maintain my integrity: Is it legal? Is it moral? And, most importantly, does it pay enough for a bowl of corn chowder and a buttermilk spice muffin at Mimi’s Cafe?

When I edit another author’s work, I largely refrain from even a hint of a raised eyebrow, because I know that for every fissure I find in someone else’s writing, there’s a deep crevasse in my own. Occasionally, though, I just can’t help it. Occasionally, I run across some little ditty that not only raises an eyebrow, but sends it flying up into my hairline.

So, okay, I’ll show you what I mean. Here’s a quote from a manuscript I read recently. Okay, not an exact quote, an almost-quote, because, along with my Big Three Criteria for Freelance Jobs, I also adhere to a list of How to Avoid Frivolous Lawsuits. Number one on that list is: Don’t be an idiot.

So, here’s what the author almost-penned:

Patricia pondered Max’s dilemma. “Isn’t there someone who could bail you out?”
“No. I’d just as soon slit my wrists than ask my brother for help,” Max said.
Sensing animosity, Patricia fell quiet.

Sensing animosity? Boy, that Patricia. I thought, as I pulled down my eyebrow. Nothing blows past her.

Then, just this morning, I had my own Patricia Moment.

I woke, mind spinning with my latest issue. I sighed. “Isn’t there a way to turn off my brain?”
I opened a daily meditation book and read the first line: “No problem lasts forever.”
Sensing truth, I fell silent.

Sensing truth? Boy, that Jerri. I thought, untangling my eyebrow from my hair. She doesn’t miss much.