A Christmas Gift I Gave Myself

It's been a good day.  Today, I gave myself a Christmas gift.  The gift of anticipation of joy to come.  Selfish I know, getting yourself something for Christmas.  Five little stockings have brought a smile to my face, even if the names are a little crooked.

I had not been really looking forward to Christmas this year,  Steve will not be able to come home and while I have wonderful friends that will include me in their celebration, it just wasn't going to be the same without him.

This is a season I have always enjoyed.  I always loved the baking, cooking, decorating and gift selecting madness.  I threw myself into it with an abandon that often dismayed and even frightened my family and friends.  I heard the whispered conversations,  "Oh God, she's going to bake again.  We gotta get out of here."  "Yes honey, that tree is straight, Yes honey those stockings look right, Yes honey those lights look good."  My pleasure may have been their pain.  But...what the hell.  It's Christmas.

With my family mostly gone or scattered, the old traditions were getting harder and harder to maintain.  It seem that as I grew older, those traditions were even more important to hold on to.  And this year, I wondered if it was even going to happen.  Or was I just a silly old woman that was living in the past?

But then came the 5 little stockings.  And a new friend that helped make it happen.  A couple of weeks ago, my friend Ruby and I went on a morning ride through her neighborhood.  As we rode along the street, I saw 5 little kids playing outside a dilapidated trailer.  None of them had shoes on.  The tallest little girl called out to me,  "Can we pet your horse?"

I never say no to a child or an adult that want to pet a  horse.  I know all too well that many seldom or never have that opportunity.  So, I rode over, got off and let them come up to the horse.  They were wide-eyed and excited and I watched as they touched Dillinger with wonder in their eyes.  After a while, I remounted and waved goodbye.  The kids followed us a little ways down the street, still waving goodbye.

And that was when I knew I had found what I wanted for Christmas.  My Christmas gift.

I talked to Ruby about my plan.  Her Spanish is fluent while mine is mostly cuss words, intermixed with Japanese and Cajun.  Serious mumbo jumbo.

This morning we went back to the house and knocked on the door.  (Actually they are living in a 2 car garage) and Ruby, with her voice of an angel, gently explained to the lady that I had no family around for Christmas this year.  She told her that when I had stopped to let the children pet the horse,  "it was placed on my heart" to share Christmas with them.  I was worried that the woman would be offended but Ruby knew just what to say as the children crowded around timidly,  no shoes and it was cold this morning.   I heard one of them say,  "Caballo" (horse).  They remembered!  Ruby got the names and ages of the 5 children and 2 women living there and plans were made for me to return Christmas morning with 'little' gifts for everyone.

I am a woman with a mission now.  Gifts, cookies, toys,  you name it.  I have my Christmas back.

As I drove home, I was humming Christmas music.  I've been griping about that music ever since Halloween. "How can people stand that?"  I complained.  Now I know.

Thank you Ruby for helping me make this happen.

5 Little Stockings can make a season bright.

You Might Be Working Like a Dog IF.....

Brenda, This one is for you!

You Might Be Working Like a Dog If…..!

Jeff Foxworthy made a lot of money on the line,  “You Might Be a Redneck if…”  I don’t know about the redneck in me but I have discovered an answer to “You might be working like a dog if…

Upon returning home from the newspaper office Wednesday night after working 15 hours straight, I trudged up the front steps to the door and prepared my self to meet the onslaught of my four-legged ‘children’ who had been left at home all day alone.  Sounding something like the animal shelter at feeding time, they could have waked the dead with their choruses of “It’s about time you got here.”

I put my key in the lock and was only mildly surprised when it didn't open immediately.  In my dazed state I simply figured I was doing something wrong and blindly tired again and again to turn the key.  Even pulled it out and inserted it again.  Get the Picture?  (At 11pm I’m not the brightest bulb in the chandelier.)

But I do finally realize that this key isn't working and I stare at the key ring and then begin inserting other keys on the ring, one by one.  No luck.  This is when I begin to grasp the full extent of the situation.  For some reason, I am locked out of my house!

Not to worry I think, there has to be window open somewhere so I set down my briefcase, purse, camera and always present soft drink and begin circling the house like a prospective cat burglar as the ‘children’ follow me inside the house appearing at every window to check on my progress.  I am hoping that I don’t somehow alert my neighbors who might even call the police.  (While the police might be useful in helping me get in the house, I’m not ready to face the embarrassment of not being able to unlock the door.)  Of course, no windows are open.

It’s late and I am really tired so I decide I will simply go back to my office, sleep on the couch and face this dilemma in the light of day.  I vainly try to explain the situation to the (by now) howling creatures inside and bid them good night. 

On my way back to town, it occurs to me that there is one other possibility that would gain me entrance to the house and the bathtub I so desperately seek.   DUH!!! The back door has a “Doggie Door’!

Sorry about the U-turn in the middle of the road but I’m now a woman on a mission as I roar back down my driveway and again am greeted by elated barking and whining.  (Isn’t it nice when SOMEONE is happy to see you?)

Around to the back door where I stand back and mentally compare the size of the doggie door to the imagined size of my body.  “Imagined” being the operative word here.  “Surely,”  I tell myself, “I can fit through there.  The Boston Terriers go through it quite easily.  ” (Do you have a clue to where this is going yet?)  I actually glance around to see if anyone could witness this humiliation.  (Yeah right, it’s now 11:30 pm and pitch dark out here.)  I drop to my hands and knees and begin head first.  Not a great idea I soon discover, because just as soon as my head appears inside the house,  it is met by six eager and expectant faces,  all completely committed to helping me with my problem or at the very least, simply joining this ‘game’. 

It doesn't take me long to realize that this approach isn't going to work and I have to retreat to the outside and try again,  this time leading the attack with my left hand, (to fend off the dogs) followed by my head, left and then right shoulder.  My right arm is now pinned to my side and totally useless.  My left arm is valiantly trying to defend my head and shoulders from being stomped and tromped by 24 sets of toenails attached to the 6, now frantic, dogs.  It was just my take on things but I didn't think it was going well.

I resort to Cajun expletives and dire threats to no avail.  Then I remember,  “Hey, I’m a dog trainer!  Do something!”  I call out to Lacy  “Get your toy, Lacy, go get your toy!” (I’m figuring I can chuck the toy into the living room and relieve myself of at least three dogs while they retrieve and fight over it.)  She cocks her head and looks at me as if to say,  “Are you SURE you really want to play fetch now?”  But she bounds away with several others in her wake and soon returns with the rubber hot dog toy and drops it a few inches from my nose, backing off to be ready to spring into motion when I throw it.  That little maneuver proved to be her undoing.  The rubber hot dog is a favorite possession of my normally mild mannered Angel and she was outraged that Lacy had ‘stolen’ it.  Angel bounded over my head, leaving skid marks on the side of my face and the fight was on.  And if you have ever been around Boston Terriers, you know they really can get serious about a fight.  Jazmine and Chester join the fracas and Odie takes up coaching from the sideline. 

I remind myself stoically,  “You wanted something to distract them”

I now turn my attention to Alex,  the 180 pound Great Dane whose contribution to the situation was to firmly place one giant paw in the small of my back and freeze in position like some giant bird dog on point. 

I muster a threat to him in Cajun that (roughly translated in English) explains that if he doesn’t remove his foot, I will tear his leg off and beat him with the bloody stump.  It was a threat often uttered at me as a child and it had basically the same effect on Alex as it did on me.  Either he doesn’t speak Cajun or simply wasn’t intimidated by a woman weighing half his poundage trapped in a doggie door.  At this point I seriously considered simply lying there until morning but when something cold and wet begins exploring my ear,  I decide I must ‘press on’.

I grit my teeth and address the problem of squeezing the largest part of my anatomy through the portal.  It takes a great deal of wriggling and heavy breathing,  (Remember, one hand is still pinned to my side.)

At this point, you would think I would be making serious vows to take drastic measures to reduce the size of my largest part, but no, I just repeatedly bemoan the fact that I didn’t buy a larger doggie door.  (Women can rationalize anything.)

One final heave and I collapse on the floor.  Freedom at last!  Skinned, scraped and weary, I go to the front door and bring in my belongings from the steps.  At that point, I am slapped in the face with the realization that:  The key I was using to get in the house was my OFFICE KEY!

You might be working like a dog if….!

Laughter can come sneaking in.

My Wish For Your Christmas Holiday

Today, as I left Wal-Mart and drove down a side road, grumbling about the upcoming Christmas season and my long list of worries, I saw something that penetrated my ‘pity party’ focus.  Coming toward me was a man, on crutches.  He was pulling along behind him, a rather large, two wheel cart piled high with what was obviously his possessions.  They were wrapped in black plastic bags and he was sporting a plastic bag as his jacket.  He would put the crutch forward, and then pull himself up to it, dragging the cart behind him.

I stared hard as I drove by him but he never looked my way.  Amazingly, I found myself making a U-turn at the next intersection.  As I pulled back up to him in my noisy pickup, he was taking a break against a retaining wall.  Not really knowing what I was going to say, I got out and walked up to him. 

I told him that I have room in the back of the truck for his cart so could I give him a ride somewhere? 

He replied, “Naw, I’m not really going anywhere and I’ve got all day to get there.” 

I was kinda taken aback by that.  I thought about offering him money but somehow got the impression that he wouldn't take any.  So I said, “Well, it’s a beautiful day.  How about if we just enjoy the sunshine a minute?” 

He said,  “Sure thing.”

I leaned back against the wall, feeling the warmth of the concrete blocks sinking into my bones.  For the next 45 minutes, he and I talked about the weather, the snow on Mt. Lemmon and whether the skiing would be good this year.  (Turns out neither one of us knows anything at all about skiing but we both offered our opinions)  I found myself laughing with this man.  Laughing was something I hadn’t done in quite a while. I wanted to ask him about his story, how he came to be leaning on that wall but I didn’t.  Sometimes when you tell a story too many times, it becomes too painful.  

Finally, I asked him if I could buy him a cup of coffee. 

“I’d love one,” he said, “but I don’t see any coffee shops around here.”

I knew there was a McDonalds in Wal-Mart so I offered to go get the coffee.  When I asked him how he takes it, he told me,  “Extra cream and sugar.”

The poor man didn’t have any way of knowing that I don’t drink coffee so therefore had no idea how much is ‘extra’. 

Anyway, when I returned, I had 6 creamers and 6 sugars. He carefully poured 1 of each in his cup and I watched as he pocketed the remaining ones.  He looked at me and nodded.  I simply said,  “Wise man.”

He sipped his coffee and I drank my Coke while traffic whizzed by us.  After a while, he said.  “Thanks for the coffee,  I should be getting along.”  As he struggled to balance on the crutch and adjust the rigging for the cart, I tried not to notice.  I turned to go to my truck and said,  “It was nice talking to you.  Thanks for your time.”

He replied,  “Yeah, no problem,  I’ve got a lot of that.”

What I should have thanked him for was for shaking me out of my self-absorption but even more, for making me remember how to laugh again.  Everyone needs that; Everyone has had loss, at various levels. Laughter can come sneaking in during the most unusual opportunities.

My wish for your Christmas holiday is that you find laughter in the most unusual opportunity.  And may you pass that blessing along.

Jaye

Pro Sports 'Cowboy Style"

Did you hear that?  That sound was me stepping up on my soapbox.  Here we go!

I admit, I LOVE professional sports.  I confess to being a truly obnoxious football fan.  Having said that, I have often fantazied about how professional athletes would fare if we made all the sports 'cowboy style'.

1.  Everyone would have to pay an entry fee just to compete.  No salaries.  No money at all unless you win.  If you don't win, you get home anyway you can.
2.  Each athlete is responsible to get to the game at his own expense.  No team bus meeting him at the airport as he gets off the team plane.
3.  Each athlete pays all his own expenses:  housing, meals and equipment. 
4.  Each athlete is responsible for his own training.  No team coach, no team doctor, no training camps, no rehab room.
5.  No matter what the sport, the athlete will be outmatched as his opponent will outweigh him nearly 5 to one.  He will rely on the commaradie of his fellow competitors for help and support.
6.  Each athlete' competition will be at the mercy of a 'draw' system. 
7.  No athlete will have an agent, he will be responsible for his own entries, sponsorships and any deals he can make.

Get the idea?  This is the situation that each and every rodeo contestant competes under. 

How would these overpaid hotshot athletes take on real competition?  How many of them would continue to play their sport?  How many of them have the 'heart' to compete on the type of field that a rodeo cowboy and cowgirl competes?

I would love to see what this would do to professional sports.  It would separate the men from the boys.  It would intensify the competitive spirit and the will to win. 

The upside also would be that we could take all those millions of dollars that are paid to these athletes and instead use it to support our teachers, military, police, firefighter and other public servants. 

And when our children pick a sports figure as a hero, we could feel good about that knowing that he or she is a real competitor. 

I know this will never happen.  But, when you are old, fantasizing is an amusing pastime that requires little physical activity. 

The next time you are watching a professional sport, imagine 'Cowboy Style'.

Gonna Need More Dogs!

Today I had to attend court on a ticket I received.  It's a small town court and those of us who had been summoned were gathered in the hallway waiting for the doors to the courtroom to be unlocked. 

I noticed an older gentleman holding a small dog.  I'm thinking,  "No way he's going to get in the courtroom with that dog.  I had to leave my 2 inch pocketknife in the truck."  "I didn't know it was Bring your Dog to Court Day.  I could have brought Ricky Bobby.  He would have loved this."

When the doors opened I made my way inside and selected a seat at the end of a completely empty row.  In just a moment, the man with the dog came along and asked me,  "Can Stella and I sit by you?"

Figuring  Stella to be his wife, I look around and then say, "Of course."  He settles in the seat next to me and positions the dog on his lap.  Then he proceeds to introduce me to Stella, his little four-legged friend.  Now of course, I'm dying to know how he got in here with that dog and why?  Did Stella get a ticket too?

I couldn't think of a polite way to ask him but as it turned out, I didn't have to.  The man says,  "Stella here goes everywhere with me.  She's my therapy dog." 

Now Stella is about 10 pounds of long shaggy hair and that's it.  I spent a couple of moments trying to envision her assisting the man with anything and I drew a blank.  So I made the mistake of saying,  "Really, what kind of therapy is Stella trained for?"

The man got really quiet for a second or two then in a very slow, measured voice he said,  "Stella....keeps...me...happy."  He is now stroking the dog intently and says,  "Stella helps me with my anger management issues."

All righty then.  I am sinking in my seat and desperately wishing I had sat anywhere else but here.  The man launches into a description of how smart Stella is,  things like how he potty trained her by saying over and over again,  "Stella wanna pee and poop?"  He demonstrated this by saying that over and over again very loudly and pointing out how Stella perked up her ears when she heard that phrase. 

We had already been instructed by the Clerk of Court that there was to be no talking once the judge entered the courtroom and until then,  conversations were to be kept hushed.  Evidently this guy didn't understand the meaning of 'hushed'. 

By this time I was convinced that when the judge entered, he would take one look at Stella and remove her, her owner and me (since it would seem apparent that we were all connected in some way)  from the room. 

The Judge was 19 minutes late.  I know this because my eyes were glued to the clock on the wall.  Meanwhile,  I endured 19 minutes of hearing all about Stella and her amazing abilities to eat a lizard and slide down the slippery slide at the pool. 

When the Judge did arrive, he looked around the courtroom, his eyes traveling over Stella without so much as a blink.  That's when I realized that it was very likely that Stella had been there before.  And evidently, the judge had been convinced that it was a good idea to have Stella present for the proceedings.  Not a good feeling.

My case was called before Stella and her owner so I didn't get to hear what they were there for.  But it did get me to thinking... how about therapy dogs for menopause relief?  God knows we could use the anger management part. 

Maybe I could claim all 7 of my dogs as 'therapy' dogs.  Could I get a supplement from the government for their food and vet care?  They could wear doggie shirts that say,  "Talk to me about my Mom's menopause."  One could be the hot flash therapy dog,  another could help me find all the things I keep losing and misplacing. 

With all my symptoms, I'm gonna need more dogs!  God help us all.

Random Act of Kindness

It's true, they are still out there! 

Today, as I was leaving Walmart, I saw a taxi cab pull up to the door.  It's a small town with no real public transportation.  I idly watched as the driver got out, went around to the back door, and ever so gently assisted an 'older' lady out of the cab.  She was not real steady on her feet and actually looked a bit un-nerved at the prospect of navigating into the store.  I wondered to myself how I could offer to help her without compromising her dignity.

I didn't have to worry about that.  The cab driver took her arm and carefully walked her inside to the motorized carts, got her settled then hurried out to his cab and drove away. 

Maybe she was a family member?  Maybe she was a regular customer,  a big tipper?  Didn't really look that way.  What it looked like was a Random Act of Kindness.

As someone who constantly feels the need to prove  "I can do it myself" it's frightening to think that there will come a day that I will need assistance from a stranger.  With the lifestyle I have chosen, it's amazing to anyone that knows me, that I am still able to get out of the truck without help.  I am a realist, I know those days are getting fewer and fewer. 

Thank you to that cab driver.  I don't know him or the elderly lady but his actions give me comfort that there are people in this world who take on (even if briefly) the responsibility to pass along a courtesy, respect and dignity to someone else.

It made me resolve to appreciate the things I have and determined to to make sure that I too pass along a random act of kindness.

Help the old people.  We're going to be them soon!!!

It's Normal!?! 9/12/12

I was doing some research online concerning the 'fuzzy' brain activity I seem to experience these days.  Before I get into what I found, let me tell you a story about myself. 

A couple of years ago, I became really concerned about my memory loss.  I couldn't find things I just had in my hands, couldn't remember why I went into a room and even had trouble with names of people I know really well. 

After a career in rodeo, a stint as a stock car driver and racetrack jockey and a gymnastics instructor, it's safe to say that I have had at least 6 concussions in my lifetime.  I was worried that perhaps I was experiencing some type of brain function loss to to these injuries or possibly early-onset dementia.  I didn't want to tell anyone my fears but finally, on a phone call to my dearest friend, I blurted out my anxieties.  As I continued to cite one example after another, I heard her begin to giggle.  I must confess, I was a little insulted by that.  When she finally could speak through her laughter, she assured me that I wasn't going crazy, I didn't have a brain injury.  She was a teacher and she was around lots of women on a daily basis.  She said that every one of them past the age of 40 were experiencing that same thing.  "You're not going nuts,  You are just going through the 'change'.  It's normal."

NORMAL?  How could this be normal?

I've since done some research because (for one thing)  I've never been considered normal in all my life.  I've learned that the definition of normal is really hard to pin down.

Scientists at the University of Rochester Medical Center and the University of Illinois at Chicago finally validated the claims of many women in their 40s and 50s who complained of "brain fog" or forgetfulness. 75 women from ages 40 to 60 were given an array of cognitive tests which not only confirmed the problem but also provided some explanation as to its occurrence and explained what is happening in the brain during menopause.

Miriam Weber, Ph.D., the neuropsychologist at the University of Rochester Medical Center who led the study explains :

"The most important thing to realize is that there really are some cognitive changes that occur during this phase in a woman's life ... If a woman approaching menopause feels she is having memory problems, no one should brush it off or attribute it to a jam-packed schedule. She can find comfort in knowing that there are new research findings that support her experience. She can view her experience as normal."

There's that Normal thing again!

Those who complained of a foggy memory did poorly on tests designed to gauge what is called "working memory", this gives a person the ability to take in new information as well as manipulate it mentally. An example might include adding up numbers in your head or adjusting an itinerary or schedule. Problems also included maintaining attention span on a long drive or getting through a long book.

"There really is something going on in the brain of a woman at this stage in her life ... There is substance to their complaints that their memory is a bit fuzzy."

Weber finishes with some advice for women experiencing these problems :

"When someone gives you a new piece of information, it might be helpful to repeat it out loud, or for you to say it back to the person to confirm it ... it will help you hold onto that information longer ... Make sure you have established that memory solidly in the brain ... You need to do a little more work to make sure the information gets into your brain permanently. It may help to realize that you shouldn't expect to be able to remember everything after hearing it just once."

Well,  that certainly made me feel better.  I wonder how much that study cost.  It's certainly going to slow down the communication when we have to repeat everything someone else says.

I don't really care how or why.  I just want someone to tell me what I can do about it.  I'm frustrated, I don't like being forgetful.  I've come to the point that I don't trust myself to remember important things.  Sometimes its comical,  like making a list for the store and then forgetting to take the list.  But sometimes it's degrading and embarrassing.  The other day I paid for gas then drove away from the pump without filling the tank.  Got quite a ways down the road and couldn't understand why the gas gauge was still on empty.  Not easy to go back in that store and tell them I forgot to get my gas.

It's somewhat comforting to know that we are not alone in this but also infuriating that a problem experienced by so many woman has not had the research done to find a cure or a solution.  So, I guess it's up to us.  Anyone out there have any 'treatments' you have tried?  Any success?  Any hope?

34 Symptoms

According to an article online, there are 34 menopause symptoms.  (Are you sure that's all?)   They include: hot flashes, night sweats, irregular periods, loss of libido, vaginal dryness, mood swings, hair loss and/or increased facial hair, memory loss, feeling dizzy, weight gain, incontinence, bouts of bloat, allergies, changes in fingernails, body odor changes, rapid heart beat bouts, depression, anxiety, irritability, panic disorders, breast pain, headaches during menopause, aching, burning tongue, electric shock sensation, digestive problems, gum problems, muscle tension, itchy skin, tingling extremities and osteoporosis.

The list of depression, anxiety, irritability, panic disorders and headaches amuses me.  Of course we have depression,  read the first few symptoms.  Those alone would put a woman into severe depression.  Body odor changes?  As in bad to worse or bad to oh, that's not soo bad? 

Bouts of bloat?  Yep, that's what I'm going to call it the next time I have to lay on the bed to zip my jeans.  "Hello, I'm having a bout of bloat today"

Irritability:  Do you suppose that was just a nicer term than 'homicdal rages'?    Again, who wouldn't be irritated with burning tongue and electric shock sensation?  (Sounds like names for drinks.  "Would you care for a Burning Tongue or the Electric Shock Sensation today?  They are 2 for 1 during happy hour.")

Loss of libido:  Once again, I am convinced that a man named that symptom.  He simply couldn't believe that a woman, after bearing 3 children, working full time and managing a household for most of her adult life, would NOT be thrilled with the idea of a quickie before going to sleep.  NO,  it must be loss of libido.

Mood Swings:  Swings?  Doesn't that conjure up the image in your mind of a gentle transition of moods?  I don't know about you but my moods don't swing anywhere.  They plummet,  drop like a boulder or fire like a rocket.  There is no swinging involved.  My speedometer can go from a peaceful caring individual to a candidate for a straight jacket in 3.2 seconds.  Now there's a line for a used car salesman. 

Tomorrow I'll talk about the memory loss symptom.  It's a real dandy.  Damn skippy!

MenoPAUSE? 9-4-12

Good Morning,

The elephant in the room I refer to often is the dreaded MENOPAUSE.  Now first of all, I have a real problem with the name.  Meno PAUSE?  Really? ( I"m guessing that a man came up with this name.)  Pause?  That makes me somewhat nervous because it insinuates that my 'meno' is simply paused and is at some point, returning!  While there are days that I would welcome it back as compared to this, that also would really piss me off that everything I've be through was just some type of sadistic torture.  Sort of like being in a maze with lots of unpleasant experiences only to find that the only way out is right back where you came in.  Wouldn't a more accurate name for this lovely period in our lives be:  Menostop?

And then there are hot flashes.  Flashes my ass!  A camera flash lasts a millisecond.  These things go on for seemingly hours.  A flash indicates something that is over quickly.  These episodes should be called hot seizures.  Or maybe hot mid-life crises. 

How do you think the male of our species would react if they had to go through menostop?  They often talk about 'mid-life crisis' for men.  A crisis is when you are at the DMV, taking your eye test again and the young man behind the counter tells you to read the screen but you are in the midst of a major hot seizure and your glasses have fogged up so badly you can't see anything but you are too embarrased to explain this to the nice young man who hasn't a clue as to the near-homical mental state of the woman in front of him.    Ain't this fun?

Lobby your congressman and the medical community.  It's Menostop and Hot Seizures.  Let's tell it like it is!

Angry Old Women 8-3-12

Good Morning !
"Another day above ground !"  God I hate that reply when I ask someone how they are doing.  It is such a cop-out.  (Don't you love my antiquated expressions?)  I personally don't think that simply being 'above ground' constitutes a basis for your well-being.  Good, bad or indifferent, we are all above ground if we are speaking aloud to each other so cut the cuteness and answer me!!!

As I have grown older, I've noticed that there are certain freedoms that come with age.  I can get away with being blunt and to the point much easier.  People seem to forgive that because I'm old.  Or maybe they don't forgive it,  maybe I just don't care anymore if they are offended.  I've noticed that life is much more blunt and to the point now.  I don't see the pretty flowers or the faded edges on things.  It's factual,  realistic now.

Here's a fact and reality:  I operated under the assumption that ladies got sweeter as they grow older..... Disney must have perpetuated that falsehood.  Do you know any little old ladies that are sweet?  I don't.  My own mother got much meaner as she got older and in her final years, she tormented her caregivers unmercifully.  She was angry and unhappy.  She wasn't in poor health, she had a very nice place to live in and was very well cared for.  But, she was angry and unhappy and at the time I couldn't understand that.

Now I have come to realize that it probably was anger that she couldn't do the physical things she used to be able to do,  she couldn't care for herself and was dependant on others.  She was unhappy that my father was gone, her only son was gone and her daughter, grandchildren and great grandchildren all had lives that did not solely revolve around her.  We all tried to include her in our daily lives but often times that simply wasn't possible.  Had she come to live with us,  we would be visiting a family member in jail right now. 

I shudder to think that I could become that angry old woman.  While I am adopted and do not share a gene pool with her,  I suspect that her behavior isn't hereditary.  It's possibly a natural progression into being old.  We never talked about her anger, her sourness on life.  Now, I wish I had.  I wish I had asked her what she felt and how she perceived her 'senior' years.  Of all the fears I may have or may develop in the years to come,  I think I will fear the most;  becoming an angry, unhappy, sour old woman. 

I tell myself,  'There's still time,  you aren't there yet!'  but does everyone tell themselves that?  Is the slide into that persona so gradual that you don't see it coming and simply accept it as a normal part of getting older?

I consider myself to have had (to this point)...a wonderful life.  I don't want to tarnish that by becoming bitter and angry that I can't have the life I once had.  Where is the middle ground? 

And of course,  there is that elephant in the room that no one wants to talk about.  That cyclone of hormones called menopause.  Shhhhhhh.  Don't say anything and maybe it will go away. 

I have been doing some research concerning how menopause may affect your outlook of life in the later years.  I'll post more about that and how we can possibly prevent ourselves from becoming angry old ladies! 

Day Two

"The sun rose on a glorious Sunday morning.  The light bouncing off the mountain made everything have a yellow tinge to it."

Oh come on!!!  Yellow tinge?  Are you sure that wasn't the jaundice in your eyes?  It wasn't a glorious morning when I literally rolled out of bed.  Back was aching and feet stiff and rolled into balls.  Glorious is for the young.  Pain management is for the old. 

But... as I made my way to the barn, I was greeted by a chorus of nickers, neighs and brays.  While yes,  they mostly just wanted breakfast, I have convinced myself that part of the greeting was for me.  My four legged family couldn't care less if I am growing older.  They also don't care that my hair isn't even combed yet this morning, my baggy shorts and t-shirt are the same ones I fed in yesterday and my chicken legs are sticking out from those baggy shorts. 

Maybe that's why I love 4 legged creatures so much.  They are so non-judgemental about 'human' things.   We, the 2 legged animals, create so much pressure on ourselves to rise up to standards and ideals that so often have nothing to do with the person we really are. 

Let's face it,  we are a society based on appearance.  We could forgive a mass murderer if he/she is good looking and well dressed.  Because of our obsession with youth, we often don't treat our older generation very well.  So, that means, I just gotta treat myself well and don't wait for someone else to do it.  I had a very salty Aunt who told me as a child,  "Sis,  you just gotta stand up for yourself or you can't expect anyone else to stand up for you."  By golly, I'm standing up!!  Admittedly it takes a little longer to get out of the chair, but I'M UP! 

Now what was it I was going to do?  Damn I hate it when that happens. 

At The Beginning

Yes, at the beginning, I would have never dreamed I would be writing in a format such as this about the trials and tribulations of growing old.  You see, I had never planned on growing old, never considered the possibility even.  With my chosen profession (Rodeo Trickriding) I always assumed something would get me long before the years took their penance.  It was with that premise that I have always generously salted my food,  refused to eat properly,  crossed with confidence against the light and generally thumbed my nose at the light at the end of the tunnel that was the dreaded 'old age'. 

But, in spite of my steadfast confidence that I am still young,  society and nature have taken to reminding me on my age and the marks it has left on me. 

At first I was amused when I was offered the senior discount at a fast food restaurant.  I told myself that the reason I was buying the 'regular fit' jeans instead of the 'slim' fit was because they are so much easier to ride in.  I blamed my gasping breath after running a short distance on the pneumonia I had last year, the wrinkles are from the harsh AZ sun.   Can we spell DENIAL?

Now when offered the senior discount, I tell myself,  "Well, every penny counts."  Who am I kidding?

Aging does not come with a handbook.  Navigating it's murky waters seems sometimes secretive and taboo.  As if we aren't supposed to question the process but simply accept it gracefully.

I don't know how to be graceful about getting older.  And quite honestly, I don't want to be graceful,  I want to scream, protest and fight every step of the way, leaving fingernail marks on the ground as I am dragged into old. 

Oh yes, and then factor in the little thing we women have to deal with called menopause and heeellllooo.....this sucks sometimes. 

Each of us will have a unique journey,  I plan to complain, whine, cajole, threaten and beg my way through mine.  I hope to be able to find the humor in my adventures and some wisdom to pass along to others about this. 

This will be my take on things.  What's yours?