The First Anniversary

Writing by orders or dictate has never been my thing. I can’t for example dash off a poem to stand up and read at our first anniversary of the continuum care place where I live. Ya, I was asked to do that at a party being planned by the Resident Council. Have I mentioned lately how glad I am that I didn’t agree to be part of that group? I was also asked to help with floral arrangements for all the tables and I used my hand surgeries for an excuse---as if I needed one beyond, “No.” Why is saying ‘no’ to someone so hard to do? The guy in charge of planning the party is an old florist like I was but he’s barely mobile. He’s appointed himself to decorate the lobby for the seasons and holidays and anyone who helps him ends up doing the leg work, hauling stuff up from his storage unit. I’m still mobile enough to do it but I’m either a selfish person who doesn’t see the point of doing for free what the management of the place should and would have paid a service to do before Mr. Florist got involved or I prefer my low key persona where I watch the action rather than be the action. 

Guys like him, I’m guessing, have their self-worth more closely tied to their past professions than most women in my generation. We measure ourselves on different scales at different points in our lives. At least I do. I measure myself in terms of emotional grow and life experiences rather than what I did to put food on the table. He says he still loves making floral arrangement because they make women happy. Being a woman I get that. But being a floral designer is just something I used to do, it’s not who I am anymore or who I want to be. I suppose if I’d had an esteemed career I might feel differently and I’d want to flaunt it. But---surprise, surprise---we’ve had an astrophysicist on campus from the beginning and I couldn’t have picked him out in a lineup until this week. He squirrels himself away in his apartment writing a book about astrophysics which disappointed me; I’d hope our not-so-mythical author who was rumored to be pounding away on his computer was a fiction writer and he’d want to share his passion for writing in my creative writing group. Nope. He’s a serious man on a serious mission and more power to him. He could give lessons on saying ‘no.’ When he told me what the book was about I said, "I'm guessing that means you don't want to join our creative writing group?" He laughed and just shook his head.

The anniversary party does sound fun, though, if they can work out the differences of opinion on whether or not it should be a fancy-dress up event---kind of like a prom for old people---or if ordinary go-to-church-on-Sunday clothing will do. The latter seems to be winning at the moment but The Council will let us know before October fifth. Then I can decide if it’s worth getting a cobalt blue silk blouse/maxie shirt I’ve had since the ‘70s dry cleaned or not. I’ve adored that shirt for decades, but I’ve never wanted to wear it where I might spill something on it. But I’m eighty-freaky-years old! What am I saving it for? Jewel tone colors are my friends. I could live in royal blue, magenta purple, jade green and ruby red. Throw in a lot of black and white and I just might redo my wardrobe to reflect what I always wanted to be: Queen of the color wheel.

There are three women here who hang out together and usually wear black and white and when they enter a room one is in the front with the two others fanned out behind in a V-shape like superheros on a comic book cover and I’ve taken to calling them The Force. If you've seen the movie, Queen Bees you’ll be able to picture the women who always draw attention where ever they go. And I have no idea why I’m putting them in this paragraph other than to say I think The Force ruined my go-to black and white outfit for when I want to look nice.

One day, I promise, I’ll quit talking about updating my wardrobe and actually do it. I did buy two cashmere turtleneck sweaters from L.L.Bean---one black, the other one gray---and a ruby colored, Jessica London vest plus a gray cardigan crew sweater from Land's End  that I'll end up buying in multi-colors if I don’t keep my credit card tucked safely out of reach. Can you tell I got cold on a day when I had too much time on my hands? That cardigan sweater makes me feel like Patti Page without the traffic cone breasts that women seemed to grow back in the ‘50s. Someday I am going to drag everything out of my closet and only put back what I truly love and when the day comes I’ll blog about it. Before I die I’d love to have a wardrobe that looks planned rather than bought willy-nilly. Ya, I know I've recycling that dream over and over and over in my head to the point it feels so real I don't actually have to act on it. Don't tell anyone but that's my super power---day dreaming. Always has been, always will be. ©

* Stock photo above of Patti Page, 1955

Wild Animals and Senior Bus Trips

You’re going to be jealous when you find out what I did this week. I touched a crocodile! Yes, a live, living crocodile who was born at a wild animal park. Did I forget to mention he was a baby, only three feet long and both ends were being held by a park guy? Still, I wasn’t going to do it at first---it was a crocodile, for crying out loud and I’m rather smitten with my fingers---but then I remembered that I’m a blogger and what better material to use than an encounter with a creature who, as it turned out, had a baby-smooth underbelly and surprisingly soft, pliable skin on his back and tail. He didn’t feel anything like the pair of sexy, spike heeled alligator shoes I wore back in the ‘60s and are still in the back of my closet, waiting for a-line dresses and my skinny-Minnie figure to come back. Okay, I’ll admit I never had an Audrey Hepburn-like figure but there were a few years when I worked out at a gym every night on the way home from work and they owned a magic mirror that lied to me. I was five foot seven and a half, weighed 125 pounds---a cow by today’s standards. And I’d do anything but diet and exercise to get that body back. But I digress. 

Let’s backtrack: Thursday I hopped on the senior hall bus to go to an 80 acre wild animal park. It was one of four buses that went and because someone screwed up---not me---I got scheduled to go early in the morning instead of on an afternoon bus. I don’t do mornings well. I’m stuck in my ways and so is the dog. He never gets up before ten even though I usually make it up by eight for my coffee and computer time. But Thursday we both rolled out of bed when the alarm went off at 6:00 and ten minutes later we were walking around the neighborhood before the dew was off the grass and before the chilly night air had lifted. I get why people like that time of the day. Its quiet beauty promises something the afternoon heat and hustle of the working class can’t deliver.

I also got to pet a Red Kangaroo, a 5-6 pound baby that the park guy was carrying around in a denim pouch with a draw string closing her in. It had been rejected by its mother and they have to bottle feed it. Its fur was so soft and its eyes were curious, expressive and milk chocolate brown with bright yellow cat-eye like pupils. They start out the size of a cherry at birth but these kangaroos grow to six foot tall, 200 pounds and are known for their kick boxing. The park guy who did all the animal encounter demonstrations was quite the character. Probably gay, had a thick Spanish accent, told corny jokes and was a trained falconer who had exotic birds flying over our heads “hunting” grapes or bits of meat in the case of an Asian owl that was so close above my head I could have touched him. That owl was only six months old but will grow up to have a six feet wing spread! The park has 800 birds---70 different species, with 18 species that are threaten species in a breeding program. 

Part of our time at the park we rode around in a tram looking at their 460 mammals representing 64 species that were grazing in large fields and on foot we sawed their birds and 36 species of reptiles and amphibians---a third of the animals in the park I’ve never seen or heard about before. They did have a few more common stuff like camels, zebras and buffalo and we got to feed the Reticulated Giraffes. God, are they big! For the little kids they had a pen full of African Pygmy Goats who loved carrot sticks. They were every bit as much fun to watch as that video going around the internet of baby goats wearing pajamas. The park actually started out as an exotic animal and bird breeding farm and opening it up for tourists came much later. It was a great day trip for only $23.00 including transportation, the entrance fee, muffins and bottled water. I spent another $2.00 for a buffalo tooth. Don’t ask me why. It was in the gift shop and I had an overwhelming desire to buy something. It was a choice between an ice cream bar or the tooth and at the time I was remembering those great alligator shoes in the closet that can only be worn with a skinny body.

It was a fun day with only one sour notes in the form of a couple of bus mates wearing “choose life” and MAGA hats. When you get on a bus headed for fun leave your politics at home, people! In this tinderbox climate we’re living in wearing your politics on your clothing---like Melania did with the “I don’t care, do u?” jacket---is trolling for blow-back and debate. I was on my best behavior. I didn’t give them any snide remarks or dirty looks. But coming on the heels of Trump's manufactured border crisis and the fact that our next Supreme Court justice will have to pass a pro-life Litmus Test I would have liked to have shoved those trollers in with the adult Red Kangaroos for a good kick boxing match. ©

The baby red kangaroo

the Asian owl

 and for fun, the pajama party video

Tuna Cans and Work Outs at the YMCA

Monday morning I was back at the YMCA after not going for three days in a row. It was hard to get my muscles warmed up again and that treadmill and I were barely on speaking terms, but I put in my time. I‘m not a person who loves (or who has ever liked) physical activity. Playing on the playground when I was a kid didn’t even call my name. Recess? Can’t I stay inside and finger paint? Please! Nope, for me exercise has always been more like punishment for eating my way to a bigger dress size. And don’t be deceived by the stack of VCR tapes in the house with names like Disco Sweat with Richard Simmons, Dancin’ Grannies and Dance Away to Fitness. No one plays them here where Ben and Jerry’s ice cream is King of the World.

The idea, when I signed up for the Y, was to lose the weight I gained over the winter and I vowed not to buy any new clothes until I’d achieved that. But I broke that vow early-on because I wanted to fit in at the gym. I’m embarrassed to admit how many workout pants and shirts I’ve brought home from the store only to return them. The pants are skin tight by design and the tops are light weight and with the right back lighting they’re practically see-through! So until I find the right gym gear I'll keep wearing my Boxer Joe lounge pants and old t-shirts and I continue observing what the others wear. What I learned is that the guys get to be super comfortable in baggy shorts or sweats and t-shirts and roughly 75% of the woman wear the exercise outfits sold in the stores---even a 20-something woman I’m guessing is wearing a size 5X. As for body types at the gym, I’ve seen them all. I like to think of the range of sizes and weights as the “befores” and “afters.” I’m in the before group, of course, who are just starting a program and with a lot of work like the afters are doing I can become one of them. At least that’s what I tell myself. I’m also not the oldest person I see at the gym. Side note: if a woman in my peer age group is looking for a man, the YMCA is the place to be! By hanging around the senior hall so much, which is 90% woman, I’ve kind of forgotten that there are old guys still alive. At the gym that 90/10 ratio is reversed. 

Now that I’ve lost enough weight to keep my doctor from having a hissy-fit I needed a new goal. Not that I still don’t have a ton more to lose but when I see him in April the scale won’t rat me out, won’t tell him that I’ve been a very bad girl who spent too much time in bed with Ben and Jerry and other comfort foods. My primary goal, now, is to concentrate on getting stronger. My trainer says that’s gotta come first before I can do the more intense calorie burning stuff. (She's scary when she talks like that.) Can you believe it, last week I even had trouble opening up a bag of grounded coffee! And jars? I can’t tell you how many times I’ve thought about running pickle and jam jars over to a neighbor’s house while yelling, “Help me! Help me!” If they didn’t have steps without a railing at their front door, I would have. I bought a handy device for pulling the tabs on tuna and pop cans but I hate seeing that tool in my drawer. It reminds me that I’m an aging, weakling who could starve to death trying to get into boxes, bags and cans.

Already I’m seeing progress in getting stronger. Going up and down 150 steps like a "normal" person is amazing. My posture is better, too, and I was actually agile enough to cut my toenails yesterday without my body and bones cringing. One of my friends at the senior hall broke her wrist cutting her toenails. Though it should be noted that she broke more than her bones…she broke the Old People Rule about having throw rugs in the house. She was standing with one foot on the counter top and one foot on the rug when it started sliding and down she went. I would have made up a story rather than admit that to ER thus becoming one of the 38,000 seniors who have throw rug injuries every year. 

At the gym while doing my time of the treadmill I often wish I could make people watching notes for my blog. Like ‘crab lady’ who uses the track that runs in front of the bikes, treadmills and other machines I can’t name. She takes the turns at the ends of the track running straight forward but on the long side stretches she runs sideways like a hermit crab. She does this at least a half hour at a pretty fast clip. I’d love to ask her what she’s training for; my nieces guesses that she might be a tennis player. There are so many interesting people at the gym and I find that if I concentrate on making up backstories and goals for them then I don’t feel self-conscious or embarrassed about my own. Yesterday I saw a 40-ish woman jump on and off a two foot high stool twenty times while I was doing the same number of arm curls on a strength circuit machine and I thought, Wow, she works hard at her goal! If I keep coming to the gym there will be a day when I’ll be strong enough to tear the tops off from tuna cans with my bare teeth. ©

When I look like this, I'll buy a sports bra. Don't hold your breath.