I forgot about it.
I had some ideas.
I lost them.
Then, I forgot to write the post at all. Yesterday was an odd day, indeed.
I want to update the sidebars. I want to make the labels more relevant. I want to figure out how to make a word salad picture of the topics I cover and I want to find a lovely spot on the page to place it. I want to have more fully developed skills.
I'm singing my song to myself..... I can't always get what I want, and I'm peeved.
Rather than drone on about nonsense, I'll reprise an oldie but a goodie for you right here and then get on about the business of cleaning up The Burrow. Prepare for a new look on Monday!
*****
Friday, June 15, 2012
When Did I Get Old?
When did my legs start to look like my grandmother's legs?
There I was, catching a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror in our suite at Canyon Ranch, asking that question out loud.
"Did you ask me something?" TBG called from the bed down the hall.
I suppose I did... but it was more of a question to the gods in the ether, the ones at whom I direct my rage when the ground squirrels nibble up all my portulaca. I know why it happens... I'm not looking for facts.... it's my younger self exclaiming that it's not fair.
It's not that I didn't like my grandmother's legs. They were just as wrinkly as her chest is in this photo of me rejecting ginger ale from a straw in the summer of 1952.
She was in her 60's then, but to me she was just old. I thought her wrinkles were the prettiest wrinkles anyone ever had. They were everywhere, as I recall, on her arms and her legs and her bosom.
Looking at this picture, I see that she was less crinkly than I'd remembered. Is there a lesson there? At the time, they looked sunny and healthy. My grandmother loved the beach, and her skin showed it. She and her sisters and brothers took bungalows at the shore every summer, carting children, swimsuits and lounge chairs and not much else. Daddooooo described it as two-suits-and-pajamas summers. They needed nothing more.
As a child, visiting my paternal grandparents always involved sand and surf. In the winter we bundled up and brought our kites, in the summer we'd run back to the half-a-house they shared with the landlord for snacks between swims. My grandmother was at the stove, creating the world's most delicious hamburgers ("Sure, they're delicious.... she uses ground steak," was always G'ma's reply) and always willing to accept a hug... a hug around those wrinkly legs.
Now, they are my legs according to that mirror and I want to know whose idea aging was, anyhow?
I don't want a face lift. I want a leg lift.
Fifty, for me, was the downhill slide of life. Anyway I look at it, it's at least half over. That's neither sad nor surprising nor a cry for pity or help. It's merely a fact. I can handle mortality.... it's the mirror that's giving me trouble.
The concept of good years has always troubled me. G'ma's idea of a good year isn't one I'd like, at least now. But she is happy in her recliner-which-she-refuses-to-recline, watching The Weather Channel and Law'n. Will that be a good year for me when I'm nearing 90? Who knows.
I remember being appalled that I'd be 48 in the year 2000. That was nearly 50. Mr. 9. back when he was Mr.7, remarked with horror that in two years I'd be 60. The urge to shield me from such a fate oozed from his every pore.
I know, age is a state of mind.... I'm doing great for any age let alone being 60 and having been shot three times.... 60 is the new 40..... I know.... I know.....
For right now, though, I still want the answer to my original question:
There I was, catching a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror in our suite at Canyon Ranch, asking that question out loud.
"Did you ask me something?" TBG called from the bed down the hall.
I suppose I did... but it was more of a question to the gods in the ether, the ones at whom I direct my rage when the ground squirrels nibble up all my portulaca. I know why it happens... I'm not looking for facts.... it's my younger self exclaiming that it's not fair.
She was in her 60's then, but to me she was just old. I thought her wrinkles were the prettiest wrinkles anyone ever had. They were everywhere, as I recall, on her arms and her legs and her bosom.
Looking at this picture, I see that she was less crinkly than I'd remembered. Is there a lesson there? At the time, they looked sunny and healthy. My grandmother loved the beach, and her skin showed it. She and her sisters and brothers took bungalows at the shore every summer, carting children, swimsuits and lounge chairs and not much else. Daddooooo described it as two-suits-and-pajamas summers. They needed nothing more.
As a child, visiting my paternal grandparents always involved sand and surf. In the winter we bundled up and brought our kites, in the summer we'd run back to the half-a-house they shared with the landlord for snacks between swims. My grandmother was at the stove, creating the world's most delicious hamburgers ("Sure, they're delicious.... she uses ground steak," was always G'ma's reply) and always willing to accept a hug... a hug around those wrinkly legs.
Now, they are my legs according to that mirror and I want to know whose idea aging was, anyhow?
I don't want a face lift. I want a leg lift.
Fifty, for me, was the downhill slide of life. Anyway I look at it, it's at least half over. That's neither sad nor surprising nor a cry for pity or help. It's merely a fact. I can handle mortality.... it's the mirror that's giving me trouble.
The concept of good years has always troubled me. G'ma's idea of a good year isn't one I'd like, at least now. But she is happy in her recliner-which-she-refuses-to-recline, watching The Weather Channel and Law'n. Will that be a good year for me when I'm nearing 90? Who knows.
I remember being appalled that I'd be 48 in the year 2000. That was nearly 50. Mr. 9. back when he was Mr.7, remarked with horror that in two years I'd be 60. The urge to shield me from such a fate oozed from his every pore.
I know, age is a state of mind.... I'm doing great for any age let alone being 60 and having been shot three times.... 60 is the new 40..... I know.... I know.....
For right now, though, I still want the answer to my original question:
When did this happen to my legs?
i felt like after my mid-50s were some of my best looking years lol. I had less wrinkles in my 20s, of course, but my confidence in myself as a woman was at a high. I was into taking 'glamour' selfies. I was surprised in how being pretty was possible as i hadn't expected it. I had fun in those years. Then in my 60s, I got systemic poison oak which led to prednisone and maybe other things for weight gain. Now if I lost weight, I hate to even think what the wrinkles would look like lol better to stay fat :)
ReplyDeleteFat? Pleasingly plump, perhaps? Soft and cuddly? Well fed? I, too, felt that I was prettier as I aged, tho I thought my 40's were my best years. Now, all I see is grey and wrinkles... and a SMILE that I'm here to see it at all :-)
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No, I call a spade a spade or is that no longer politically correct? lol. I am obese and let it happen for reasons beyond my understanding. I would love to lose weight but I don't love to diet and hence, it has been an issue for me in health as well as looks. I used to say women reached their prime of beauty at 35 (which is amazing since I thought Marilyn was over the hill at that age when I was young). Now I think it's definitely their 40s or 50s. Some is that confidence that we no longer are willing to play games and are who we are. Confidence is very attractive. I've also known women in their older years who literally were prettier than when young because their nature shines through. I think that's the real goal for us all :)
ReplyDeleteI feel more authentic, less frazzled by nonsense, more connected to that part of me that's who I want to be.
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