The Real-Life Adventures of A Former Glamour Girl

What was that he said?

“Your children are not your children.  They are the sons and daughters of life’s longing for itself.  Though they come through you, they come not from you, for they dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, even in your dreams.”  Kahill Gibran 

Well, there it is.  And yet I keep trying to visit, unpack and set out my things, my ideals, my visions, and my best intentions, around the rooms that are THEIR lives.  Hello!!  Not wanted, not needed, none of my beeswax!!!!   (Like I’ve done such a swell job with my own life!)  Some of us are slow to learn.

This quote from THE PROFET is one of my favorites.  I read this book over and over in the sixties while wearing all black, until I had memorized several quotes on children, love, and marriage.  I guess I instinctually knew what the three repeating themes would be of this, my life.  I knew somehow that this information would be important later.  IF I used it!

My granddaughters were home from college last week for spring break.  The twins are twenty- one years old. They are considered adults by legal criteria.  There is a younger granddaughter who is a senior in high school and was still deciding where she will attend college. (I, for one, did not finish college, so all of my opinions on the matter are based on what I wish I had done, rather than any first-hand experience.  In fact, when I was the age of any of these girls, I was married and had a string of children popping out, one, two, and three, in mighty short order.  I attended the school of “Do it All Back Wards.”)

I have now become to my children and grand children, what my Mother became to me at around the same age:  an annoyance to be tolerated, a chore on the To-Do lists of their lives, and a big-mouth with no filter.  “Do we have to invite Mimi?”  (I am grandma Kitty, so the names have been changed.  But the sentiment is identical.) 

I drive my daughters crazy by virtue of my existence and my older grandkids think I am an embarrassment in boots, or just a little left of center. Yesterday my daughter in Alabama let me know that I am posting way too many photos on-line and that I should be volunteering more or walking the dogs and I must have way too much time on my hands. What goes around, comes around, people!  Be careful.  Very careful as to how you treat your parents.  It will not be long before you are on the receiving end of those rolled eyes and exasperated sighs.  They will all be in honor of YOU! 

I am now reminded of my place.  It is in the back row.  I have had my turn on the A-team and my time as a part of the “in”-crowd.  I am now the taco maker and the back- of –the- bus- cheer -leader.  The End.  However, I often forget and blurt out my “good ideas” for free.  (Not such a good idea!)

Maybe having your parents become annoying, irritating, “people you have to tolerate,” is nature’s way of preparing us for the big “good-bye.”  Maybe if they loved hanging out with us and wanted our advice and counsel on every important issue in life, it would make it too hard at the end when they no longer have us around.  Actually, that makes sense. 

I remember that when my daughters reached the ages where they were claiming their independence from childhood, we fought a lot.  I would not have been ready to have them leave the nest if they had always been sweet, agreeable companions who kept their rooms immaculate.  Maybe it is the same for the time when parents are preparing to leave.  (Which I am not, anytime soon. Just saying!) 

But still, my daughters are in their mid to late forties.  They have successfully reared nearly a dozen children who are themselves, successful contributing souls.  They each have had only one, long-term, successful marriage as compared to my list of starts and stops and start again.  Maybe they have a handle on how to manage their own lives.  Without my counsel or advice.  Perhaps I should be taking advice and counsel from them!

I guess at this point in the job of parenting, I am done.  I can sit back and observe when I am with them, admiring the great women they have become.  I can peek into the window of the “house of tomorrow” but I don’t need to bother packing a bag.  I will not be visiting.  Not even for a day.  With luck, I can read the travel log.  The abridged version of course, but that’s okay.  They’ve got it.  I can relax and retire, take some more pictures of my dogs and the sunrise.  “Life’s longing for itself “ is being fulfilled quite beautifully without any current help from me.

My life is so glamorous!  It’s just not fair, lucky for me!!

 

 

Best friend, secret weapon or the beginning of the end?

I have recently been introduced to new underwear.  No, I have NOT retired my thong, though maybe I should.    Instead I have added a new article of undergarment to my already extensive collection.  The new one is called a “Yummy Tummy,” and no, it does not involve food storage.  Well not exactly

I have always been open about my life and myself.  Some would argue too much so, (as my husband often does.)  Still, I like to be up front.  Problem is that some of the recent “developments” are up front, on the side and in the back.  As in muffin tops, boob droop and back fat!  That’s right!  Even though I weigh only a few pounds more than when I graduated from high school, my body has rearranged itself in such a way as to require some squeezing and pushing in to avoid making unwanted lumps and bulges.  That is now accomplished by my new Yummy-Tummy!

Finding this little miracle was sort of an accident.  (You know the Zen saying, “When the student is ready, the teacher will appear?”  The same apparently holds true for fat.)  This is how I came to own my new garments in not one, but three colors!

I was shopping in the dress department at Nordstrom and quite accidently came across some garments with tags reading “For when you want IT to be special.”  Hell, I always want IT to be special!  These little numbers were sort of a cross between a bulletproof vest and some kind of kind of garb for a porn star.   It was like a sleeveless cami with a cut out for the girls, if you know what I mean.  I grabbed a couple of mediums and dragged my granddaughter Holland into a dressing room with me while I tried them on.

Let me just say that there was laughing, a lot of sucking it in and incontinence involved before we emerged, red faced and worn out to look for a larger size.  There were however, no lumps, bumps or bulges to be found in the vicinity of this God-awful contraption while I had it pasted to my body. 

They did not seem to have a larger size available in the dress department, so I asked the nice sales associate to please hold these for me while we trekked down to the lingerie department.  I had just located the dreaded thing when an adorable, toothpick-sized girl with humongous breasts saved me.  “Oh, you don’t want that!” she said, grabbing it from my hands.  “You don’t need that much control.  What are you wanting to hide?”  Muffin tops, I replied, knowing she would understand.  “Oh!  You need a yummy tummy!  They come in three colors and in extra long!”  Great, I said, lead me to them please.

She pushed Holland and I into a dressing room and came back with three or four yummy tummy things.  “You’re really little.” She said, “so I think a small would be right for you.”  (I wasn’t a small at birth!  I said under my breath to Holland.)  I took off my clothes and held the thing up to the middle of my torso.  There was a hands width of bare skin exposed on either side of the yummy tummy.  Still, what did I know?  I pulled it over my head and right away I knew I was in trouble. 

When it got to my shoulders, Holland stood up and started pulling, while I tried not to pee my pants or pass gas, but to no avail.  I watched my blubber being swallowed up like the filling of a soft-served cone by the magic-hold of this mysterious garment.  Then there was a knock on the dressing room door.  “How’s it going?  Does it work?”  Ah, I’m not sure.  Am I supposed to be able to inhale?  I think I need the next size up.

This time the cute thing came into the dressing room to assist.  She explained that one should never pull it on over one’s head because we want “everything” to be pointing up!  This required stepping in and getting it over my hips.  Okay, time out!

I have had three children and my hips are the real deal.  There are bones in there that used to hurt people.  These lethal weapons are now covered with a soft padding disguised as flesh.  Getting this five-inch wide contraption over my legs, rear end and hips required hoisting by all three of us.  What would I do if I had to get dressed alone?   Believe me, getting it on was the least of my worries!  I took a look at the new, svelte, bulge-less me in the mirror.  This could work! 

The girl stepped out of the dressing room and Holland and I looked at each other and the new yummier -me in the mirror.  “Can you help me get it off?”  I begged.  “Okay grandma, don’t make any wise cracks.  That doesn’t help!”  We pulled and pulled and finally unleashed the beast.  Lets go I said.  I need a nap!

Last night I tried on a pair of linen cargo pants I had just purchased on line.  They fit perfectly through the legs and bottom but there was spillage over the waistband that was not camouflaged by my new, red top.  I walked in to show my husband and get his opinion.  What do you think? I asked making a full turn.  “Well,” he said treading softly on dangerous ground,  “those muffin tops are never a good look.” “Wait right there.” I said I’d be backing a minute.

I dug around in the Nordstrom bag that sat still waiting in my closet and pulled out the nude yummy tummy.  I stripped down to my underwear, stepped in to the thing and pulled it up.  Next I put on the new pants and the cute red top.  There were no lumps or bumps to be found.

What do you think now?  I said, proudly doing a twirl.  “Well, it looks great!  What happened?”  I pulled up my top and showed Tom my secret. “ Is it comfortable?” he asked wincing a little.  Nothing is comfortable in fashion I retorted.  That’s not the point!  How does it look?  He was afraid to go there.  “It looks fine.”  He said with a shrug.  “Chicken!” I responded.

A few minutes ago I called and ordered the pants in a larger size.  I’ll try them on when they get here and then send the loser back.  In the meantime I’m wearing my black winter cords with a black and white striped, spring top.  I’ll leave it up to masses to imagine what’s underneath.  I guess some things should just remain a secret.

My life is so glamorous!  It’s just not fair, lucky for me!!

 

 

"E" is for Exercise, Erik and Egads!!

I used to exercise in order to look “hot.”  Things have changed.  I have recently surrendered to the fact that being “hot” is the least of my worries.  Being upright has taken its place. 

I have worked-out regularly for the past thirty-plus years.  At first it was six am aerobics classes where I wore cute leotards and leg warmers before coming home to shower and drive downtown to the LA apparel mart to my job in fashion.  Next I added weight training and for a short time, took up running.  I trained for a 10-k and actually finished, although it was more of a limp than a run.

When I moved to San Pedro in my early forties I was still trying to look buff and keep some definition in my arms, legs and abs.  I was single then, so holding my stomach in was of occasional importance.  When Tom and I married, I prepared for our wedding by working out with my first trainer, Brad.

Brad was my 5:00 am angel at the Sports Club LA.  He met me every morning and had me balancing on the big ball, on my knees, and lifting 500-pound weights with my legs.  When I walked down the aisle at the Hotel Bel Air to meet my sweet man, I looked good!  I was after all, forty-nine when Tom and I married.  From then on it took a team to keep me in shape.

I did Pilates for eight years with Chad, gyro-tonics with someone who had clearly not read the Geneva Convention and another four years of private yoga with Joseph.  In between there was a blur of trainers too numerous to name.  But let me say, I worked-out!  Even after my head injury seven years ago, when I fractured my skull and had a brain bleed, I was up and moving within a few weeks.  I knew enough NOT to sit down and let it all settle.

This is what surprises me about today.  It is as though I have never exercised!  Sure, I pretty much took the months of December and January off from exercise.  After all, I was busy with the holidays and then of course I was sick.  Five weeks ago I went back to the gym with my trainer of the past three years, Erik.

Erik is one of the best trainers I have ever worked with.  First of all, he is a super-cute, 26-year old athlete.  He is also, an amazingly focused, knowledgeable, fitness- guru with a respectable amount of experience in working with athletes and old people, for whom he shows little mercy. 

The first year I trained with Erik I worked out two days a week and walked at home on my treadmill another four or five days a week.  Things were good.  Then I dislocated my knee by trying to move an eight-foot sofa the way I had done it all of my life, with my knee.  The knee went off to the side the sofa did not.  I was thrown to the ground in excruciating pain and feared I may never again walk without a limp and the aid of a cane.  Fortunately, I called Dr. Dunham and he said that I could move my knee as soon as I could bear the pain, so I called Erik and made arrangements to be at the gym the following Monday.

I increased my workouts to three days a week.  Ten months after my knee was fully rehabilitated, I tripped walking up my front steps while reading a text, (from Erik,) and fell on my chin.  That took a while to heal and the gigantic purple bruise exacted a huge dose of pride.  The five Kaminski’s and their two big dogs moved in eight months later so I gave away the treadmill to make room.  No problem.  When they arrived, I enlisted Stephanie to work out with Shelley, Erik and me five days a week.  We were up and sweating at 5:30 each morning.  I was a stud! 

When the kids moved to Alabama, I fell out of rhythm.  I had lost my daily exercise buddy and now had no treadmill.  My workouts fell back to two or more days a week, still Erik coached me along. 

We worked out one day a week at the gym and one day a week on the beach.  The beach workouts were the biggest challenge for me.  Running and jumping, pulling a weighted ship’s-rope in soft sand means a challenge to stability.  In the winter it is cold and in the summer it is cold.  In the fall and spring it is hot.   A month ago, I hollered “uncle” and resumed my private workouts.  I needed to get back into some kind of decent shape.

So here we are five weeks later.  I am working hard and definitely getting stronger.  My two biggest challenges are breathing, and balance.   I arrive at the gym ready to work at 7:45 on Tuesdays and Thursdays.  I start with ten minutes on the Cybex machine and then go to weights or God-awful footwork.  Footwork is my least favorite thing and it’s getting worse.  In this exercise, Erik throws down three or more blue rings and asks me to step quickly in and out of the rings using a variation of patterns.  I am okay with this, (except for the “quickly” part.)  He has me first going forward and then backwards.  Okay, I’m good at backing up.  Hah!  (See previous blog from ten months ago and then judge my “backing-up prowess.)

Now he has kicked it up a notch and has me doing one-foot pattern, either forward or backward, then he calls “switch,” at which time I am supposed to change patterns while moving forward and backward!  What is up with that?  It requires brain participation and limb participation and did I mention I have big feet over which I can and have tripped?  I can’t do this!!!!!  It’s hard!!!!!  I don’t like it!!!!!!!  Whaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!!!!!!

Erik says this is for my balance.  He says I have to know how to change directions in the event of a fall and that I should go so fast as to feel as though I might fall!  Oh, that’s it.  Ten months ago I tripped over the dog, fell and fractured my cheekbone.  Maybe if I had been good at all of this fancy footwork I could have recovered my balance and remained vertical.   I wish I could go back to worrying about being “hot!”  I would even be willing to hold my stomach in.  In the meantime, I’m getting a new treadmill and I’m going to practice walking backwards.

My life is so glamorous!  It’s jus not fair, lucky for me!!

 

 

Adjusting to a new perspective.

“We are not wealthy!”  These words from my husband on Saturday, at our annual come to Jesus-discussion about our finances.   You know, the one during which he tells me exactly how much I spent last year at Nordstrom and details the costs of several gifts I purchased over the year. 

“Despite appearances to the contrary,” (he makes a sweeping gesture around our living room and the vista our window provides of the oaks and the creek below our property.)  “Your friends are wealthy.  We are not.”  Okay, I begin cautiously.  Give me a minute to adjust.  We HAVE been living our whole marriage as though we were wealthy.  It’s not just my imagination.  “Yes,” he agrees,” but we are not.”

Things can change in an instant, and they do.  Of course it is a time-lapsed instant and I have been coming to the same conclusion over the past few years.  Still, his saying so in such a cold and abrupt manner can cause a girl to shudder!  “What does that mean to my every day life?” I ask.  “Well, it means you cannot spend three hundred dollars each on all of the thirteen grandchildren’s birthdays, or for the grown up kids as well.  It means you cannot go flying off to wherever you please on a whim with no thought of airline fares or what it costs to have someone take care of the dog while you’re away.  It means ….”  Yeah, yeah, yeah!  I get the picture!

Still, I do not want to live like a poor person.  I do not want to live in fear or imagine us in a box down at Chase Palm Park.  I have enough warm clothes that we wouldn’t freeze, but what about my nails?  “Can I still get silk wraps? “ He hangs his head and heaves a sigh in exasperation.   

I suppose I have always lived as though I were wealthy.  Even in my rice and beans days when I worked long hours downtown and had three kids to raise.  Mostly on my own,  still, I had my nails and hair done regularly.  I have always entertained and bought gifts for those I love that I probably should not have bought.   Back then I served a canned ham for dinner and not prime rib from Gelson’s. I went to therapy in my thirties and yoga in my forties and lived in magical-thinking, believing it would all work out.

The truth is that I have everything I need and most of what I have always wanted. In fact I have a lot of "extra" that I will begin to give away. Another new “anything” will not improve my life.  Spending money only serves as a distraction to my ego.  Grandiosity and generosity sit side by side in my heart.  

So here we are in our golden years with little accrued wealth save friends and family.  Really though, isn’t that the important stuff?  Oh, but then there is the mortgage, and Tom had hoped to retire before he dies at his predicted eighty- five.  No such luck!  According to him, he will be parked in front of his computer, holding up a magnifying glass to see the screen and walking in to court to testify while pushing his walker with tennis balls on the legs to keep him stable.

I will have lovely nails of course but I’ll have long ago let my hair go grey.  I’ll wear whatever silver jewelry I haven’t hawked to accent the grey and I’ll sit at home in the window of our apartment or motor home thanking God for the beautiful place I live.  I will have someone pick me up and take me to meetings and go out for coffee or a snack afterwards (which I will bring in a little baggie,) before going home to take my nap.  (I’ve heard that old people don’t need as much to eat, so it should work out fine.)

Yesterday I had lunch with one of my beautiful friends and we talked about the fact that we are aging and cutting back rather than building.  This is a part of life I was not trained or prepared for.  Maybe none of us were.  My training was in how to find a husband, not even so much how to be married.  I was not prepared for a career or for growing old gracefully. If they mentioned more, I was either not paying attention, or thought they were not talking about me.

Last night the kids came for dinner.  I served tacos, roasted veggies and ice cream for desert.  There is some left over, but not too much.  I think I am getting the hang of this “not being wealthy” state of being although I would swear we are still very rich! 

There were twelve of us around the dining room table where there was good conversation, a lot of laughter and me asking, "what did they say?”  The hearing is apparently the first to go, but I think we had fun!  Yep!  We are rich!!

My life is so glamorous!  It is just not fair, lucky for me!!