Another Day, Another Ache

 Today, I ordered some arnica gel for my aches and pains. While I was at it, I thought of ordering this t-shirt but, nah. I resent that it's a young chick modeling it!

Young body & young skin. So I cropped off her head!

The good thing is, I wasn't upset in the least about having to order the arnica gel. I just hope it works as well (or at all!) as the reviewers claim. 

What prompted me to even think about getting the arnica is funny. I walked around the apartment for a couple of weeks seriously thinking I had a flu bug. Turns out, my body aches (apparently) because that is what aged bodies are best at... 

My little brother and his wife were over the other day for dinner. I made the mistake of sitting on the floor afterward as we talked and had coffee. My brother had to help me when I was ready to stand up again. (He's not laughing though because he's right behind me on the age train!)

So, yah, I'm gonna give the arnica a try. The Tylenol isn't working. The Ibuprofen works really well but I'm not supposed to take that - so, of course, it's the one that works.

Shout out to Tracie for the truth!

I can remember being young and spry. I really just could not understand why my mother walked and moved the way she did. For a long time, I thought it was because she had bunions (which I wasn't sure was a real thing back then!). Nope. Turns out, she was just aging. Her feet didn't hurt, her entire body ached. And now I am where she was. It always startles me to remember that this is my 7th decade in this temporary existence. I just said that out loud and... Wow!

The thing about aging is how it sneaks up on you in stages. One day, you notice the lines on your face, and then you notice you can't lose 10 pounds just by cutting out bread for the weekend. Finally, the aches and pains start haunting you. Two years ago, I could still sit down on the floor, cross-legged for hours. I had only a little bit of trouble getting up. Fast forward to the other day when the family and I had a 5-minute giggling spell over my brother trying to help me up while my SIL moved furniture out of the way.

My 11-year-old great-nephew and I were having one of our regular after-school phone conversations recently when he asked how old am. I told him and he thought about it for a minute, then he asked me not to die soon. My late sister and I raised his mom, so I am sort of a Grammy to him. When she died, he was just old enough to be sad but just young enough not to fully understand exactly why.

I tried to assure him that I had no plans to die soon, "the good Lord willing". I don't know if that made my sweetie pie feel any better but I'm now prepping for our future conversations on the subject.

Meanwhile, I am happy in my "old age" and still laugh at times like a silly kid and I really do feel like a teenager sometimes. I am still awed by the beauty I see in nature. There are nights when I stare up at the stars like a child seeing them for the first time. 

When I wake up tomorrow, stiff and creaky, I am going to be thankful for another day. I have been blessed to live long enough to know what true beauty is, and what does and doesn't matter in life. I have a family who loves me and friends who do too. Whenever I do die, my nephew will know that mine has been a good life.

Peace

--Free

Beauty at 60+

Thanks to my parents (especially Dad), I have "good skin" genes. I'm glad but it's nothing to be proud of. It's not like I earned this skin...

The Good Skin Years:

For many, many years, I took my "good skin" for granted. As a young person, I never struggled with acne. I never had to worry about dry skin or oily skin. I grew up in Alaska, Land of the Midnight (or almost-never-ending) Sun. Never wore a drop of sunscreen for maybe 10 of the 40 years I lived there. 

When I did start thinking about skincare, I used sunscreen, avoided soaps, used a lot of oils, and still took my skin for granted. Then I turned 56. Oh boy. 

The Warning Signs:

The first very fine lines started across my forehead. I always had smile lines because I smile a lot and because of my wide mouth. But the smile lines became more prominent. And I started to get these little dark spots on my face - just like the ones my father had. 

Those dark spots freaked me out. I had noticed (but not paid much attention to) the ones Daddy had on his face. I think he was also in his 50s when I first noticed his spots. Now that I was developing them, I wondered if I should be worried. I found out that the spots are called Seborrheic keratosis and they tend to run in families. Like "good skin", I guess. Gee, thanks again, Dad! LOL

So, at around 55-56, I started to think more about skincare. I noticed every little thing about the skin on my face and my body. The dark spots - which are only on my face - are the one thing I can't afford to do anything about and I'm not that bothered by them anyway. And I'd like to think that I'm not particularly vain so I don't mind the fine lines and wrinkles. I think of them as "proof-of-life lines". But I don't want to deal with preventable issues - cancer or severe non-cancerous skin problems.

Anyway...

This is 61 with a freshly washed face and freshly washed and twisted hair. No makeup. But don't zoom too far in.

The New Attitude:

I started taking my skincare more seriously about 5 or 6 years ago. As in, not just routinely and mindlessly slapping on oils and moisturizers to keep away the dryness. I stopped buying just any old sunscreen. Basically, I stopped being slapdash with my skincare.

At 60, I actually started developing a skincare routine. I began to think more about products. Morning and night, I clean my face with oils and (non-soap) cleansers; I use good quality (broad-spectrum) sunscreens; and I use a toner, base moisturizer, and a sealing moisturizer. For my all-over body care, I still use the moisturizing washes I've always liked but I've started being more diligent about applying after-shower oil and I've started buying better moisturizers. I pay more attention to ingredients than hype and I will actually (though grudgingly) pay more for better quality products. If I have to.

All this really started making a difference - within a few weeks. My skin is now less dull and always feels super-hydrated -without my having to reapply moisturizers and lotions several times a day. I have far fewer blackhead problems. By the way, that situation was getting out of control! For a while there, I was having to tweeze away blackheads like it was a paying job.

Another benefit to getting a routine down is that I spend less money. (Well, I'm getting there.) I did have to go through a few products to find which ones worked better for my skin type. Thankfully, I have found that some really good products are quite budget-friendly. 

The two products I'm willing to spend a few bucks more for (if needed) are sunscreen and a night moisturizer. Instead of buying every new product that comes out, I am down to a few good items that work well. Spending more on 4 products every 3 months is much cheaper than spending a few bucks on several things every 3 weeks. (Pro Tip: curb your product junkie cravings! If you just have to, have to, have to try something new, write the brand to ask for a sample.)

I am sure that quitting smoking (4+ years now) helped. The funny thing is, this routine is less time-consuming than what I was doing before. In the past, I would use oil and baby wipes to clean my face, then use another oil to moisturize. Then, all through the day, I was reapplying oil to my face and more lotion to my skin. That was because of not layering and locking in hydration. Also, some products just aren't that good or long-lasting. Also, I was sometimes just skipping the moisturizing altogether.

New Routine:

Nowadays, first thing in the morning, since I'm in the bathroom doing morning stuff anyway, I cleanse my face and then, while I'm having coffee and watching the news, I do my sunscreen and moisturizers. That takes maybe 5 minutes. My body care takes only 10 minutes after showering. What a difference 15 or 20 minutes of consistent skincare makes. And consistency seems to be the key.

Goals?:

Just as with anything, it's not about how you look so much as about how you feel. I will be very happy to live long enough to develop more wrinkles, trust me. I'd like for those wrinkles to be hydrated and lovely but I want them!

I don't want to have "young-looking" skin, but I want healthy skin. As a matter of fact, as pithy as it sounds, I don't think we should worry about looking attractive. We should worry about being attractive. I want to always be gracious and kind and uplifting. (I said I want to be, not that I always am!) 

When I die, I want people to miss how I made them feel. I want to be remembered for things that really mean something. 

Get It From Mama:

My mother had beautiful skin and absolutely glorious hair. When she got sick, her skin and hair were severely damaged by medications. She never stopped smiling and feeling blessed to be alive. When people talk about my mom now, they talk about how she was a "mom" to everyone. I have former co-workers who probably remember more about my mother than they do about me. Everyone we knew called my mother "Mom", "Mama C" or "Grammy". There were friends of the grandkids who only knew her as "Grammy". For real. Some of them did not know her actual name until they saw her obituary...

Mama has been gone for 22 years now and almost everyone who knew her still misses her. They miss knowing that they could always talk to her about anything. They miss knowing that no matter when they came into her home, they were going to be fed, loved, taught something, hugged, encouraged, and prayed for. 

During Mama's funeral, a group of 6 or 7 people filed in several minutes into the service. They only stayed for about 10 minutes, then they all filed quietly back out. This happened again during the reading of the obituary. Later, checking the memorial book, we realized that it was some nurses and staff from the dialysis clinic. They had been given longer breaks in small groups to come and pay their respects. Her one-time doctor who had retired and moved out of state some years before sent a beautiful floral arrangement. For the longest time, we would receive condolences in the mail from young people who were late hearing about her passing because they had moved away for college, marriage, or gone into the military. My mother was that kind of beautiful.

To Be Well- Remembered:

I keep in sporadic touch with friends back in Alaska. Catching up online a couple of months or so ago with "Missy" (a woman I worked with back when dinosaurs roamed and I was in my late 20s), she sent through a recent photo of her son "Lee". He was just a kid it seemed the last time I saw him. Over the years, I've seen photos of him graduating from school, starting his first "real" job, getting engaged, etc. He's now got 2 kids of his own. Missy (who'd been a young and single mom and just turning 20) reminded me that it was my mother who taught her how to soothe Lee when he was non-stop fussy.

At the time, Missy was over for one of our barbeques or something but she was so frustrated because she couldn't figure out what was wrong with her baby. I barely noticed because there were (as usual) so many kids making noise out in the backyard. Missy and I can now laugh so hard about how Mama had come inside, put down the tray of chicken (or whatever) she'd taken off the grill, shook her head, and took the baby from Missy. She laid Lee on the couch and started cooing to him while she gently rocked his knees up toward his chin a couple of times. All of a sudden, that kid pooted out a long and loud trumpet note. He went from fussy to laughing just like that.  ("Sweet baby just had a little gas, didn't you.")

What I didn't know until this recent conversation is that my mom had apparently once talked Missy through a really bad bout of postpartum blues. So my friends were calling my mom on the phone back then? Wow.

So, yeah, I love having good skin, I'm a little vain about my hair, and I miss the crap out of my size 4 (5, 6, 8, and 10) figure! But who cares what I will look like when I'm dead? I want people to remember the stuff that matters.

Age thankfully. Be grateful. Love.

Peace

--Free

The Beauty of Aging (or: In Case You Haven’t Been Warned Yet)

 If you have paid attention at all to the older people in your life, you might already know some of what I'm about to tell you. I thought I had paid attention and yet, here I am, getting surprised almost every day by some new aspect of growing older. 

I want to point out that aging is a wonderful thing. Whenever you feel bad about having to add another candle to the yearly cake, just think of the alternative. Aging is wondrous and amazing. You won't always feel that way about it, but there you go. By the way, for reference, I myself am not yet 60 but no longer 50. Here goes (and this list is in no particular order):

Some of this might make you laugh so maybe go pee first...

Bunions. When I saw the misshapen side-knuckle on one of my big toes, I thought I had broken a bone that was healing back wrong. 

Toenails. They get weird before you notice the bunions. One day, you no longer have cute little toenails that are normal. Somehow, when you weren't paying attention, your nails grew darker and thicker. Before you know it, you can never go polish-free without attracting stares from young people who cringe when you are wearing sandals. And good luck clipping these monsters without wearing safety goggles and warning anyone in the area to be ready to duck for cover at any moment.

Dry Feet. Of all the horrifying things that happened to my body as I got older, I think skin dryness has been the most annoying. But dry feet are on a whole other level. The only way I can explain it to you without showing photos (and that will never happen) is to tell you about the things I now have to use on my feet often: glycerin mixed with lotion mixed with oil mixed with anything that I think will soften, moisturize and camouflage the sandpaper that makes up my soles. Young people, I actually own tools that my SILs and I call foot-graters. Yes. Cheese-grater-type things made just for grating the dead, dry skin of the feet. Stop and think about that for a moment while you're mad about being too young to be old enough to do whatever thing you think we adults do that so fun. 

Your health runs your schedule. Seriously. I once had my brother and SIL turn around halfway through a 4-hour road trip because I left my pillbox at home. Talk about "not leaving home without it". I set my clock to take certain medicines so it's not done on an empty stomach. I don't do things that require me to leave the house most Thursdays, Fridays, and, possibly Saturday mornings. Or I rearrange my medicine schedule so that I can leave the house on those days.

More things make you gassy. And bloated and constipated or... very much not constipated. I have become a connoisseur of fiber supplements. I'm sure Amazon and Google are tracking me and shaking their heads in confusion about my buying fluctuations of laxatives and, um, non-laxatives...

Dark spots on the face. I don't know if these are the infamous "age spots" that cosmetic brands are always trying to warn us about or not. I just know that one day, I spent a few minutes inspecting a weird infected pimple on the side of my face before I realized that I had never seen a pimple that was so dark and resistant to all the home remedies for pimples. This thing was like a spot that wanted to be a cute beauty mole but decided to be ugly instead. I now have several of these tiny little things on my face. 

Your hair gets weird. It's true. My hair seems to go through a change with each passing decade. It's been coarser and less coarse; frizzy-dull and smooth-shiny; auburn-tinted, cinnamon-tinted, and grey-streaked. It's gone from thick and healthy but untameable to thick and lovely (that lasted about 6 years) to thick and needs so much work that I no longer just have a regular hair wash day but a day for deep conditioning, one for moisturizing only, and one for rotating products so my hair doesn't get bored and have a real hissy fit.

Your hair migrates. True again. And this one is lovely. The first migrating hair incident happened for me at work. I was sitting near the SIL I worked with at the time and she noticed me swatting at something on my face every now and then. She was curious. Was I being bothered by a pesky fly or mosquito or something? I told her that I couldn't get rid of a piece of lint or something on my chin. She came over to take a look and help me out. She then went into a fit of laughter. The "piece of lint or something" was a hair. A chin hair. A quite long and grey, hair the texture of a hair not found on the head but somewhere further down the body. I had chin hair. Okay, just one chin hair. Of course, I yanked that one right out but it had strong and deep roots. That thing comes back in the same exact spot ever so often and I have to take a pain pill, apply a numbing agent, and have someone to coach my breathing while I yank it out. If only the hair on my head was so strong.

Your favorite perfume will no longer be your favorite. It's a dry skin and changing body chemistry thing, folks. 

And growing older isn't all about giving up on a lot of vanities. There's the stuff that happens that will make you wonder if the 7-year cell renewal of the human body doesn't include just becoming a totally different person altogether.

Sleeping patterns change. Over the past decade of my life, I have gone through cycles of needing less sleep at night to needing more sleep during the day. For long stretches, I will have insomnia, then I suddenly turn into Rip Van Winkle. I think it was around the age of 40 that I learned to love naps. For a while, I couldn't sit through a television commercial without going into a drug-like nod. (I remember laughing at my mother who once admitted going to sleep in church and waking herself up with a snore.) Depending on what mood my wonderfully and fearfully made body is in, I need to spray myself down with magnesium oil to get a good nights sleep or I have to run through 3 refills of the water reservoir on the Keurig to make it through to noon without going into a narcoleptic coma.

Calories become very important. When I was younger - birth to mid-30s - I could eat Paris and not gain even half a pound. At around 40, the bread and cookies and Moose's Tooth pizza and all the other yummy food I loved began to show. Not much. I just grew a little bit of a backside and actually needed a bra that came in sizes more defined than Tween-to-Teen. It was kind of awesome. Until I suddenly had to actually start paying attention to the clothes I wore because not just any old thing I snatched off a rack looked great. I had to worry about button "gaps" and whether or not pants gave me a "muffin" or not. (We won't even talk about when I got sick and gained - never lost - a lot of prednisone weight.) I'm now to the point where choosing between having a piece of bread with lunch or dinner is a serious decision. 

On the other hand, my best friend struggled with keeping her weight down for years. As she ages, I often have to ask if she's eaten anything more than her usual fruit or half-sandwich. She "forgets" to eat. Food is just not as important to her as in yesteryear. Half of our conversational repertoire 5 years ago was sharing what yummy recipes we were going to be experimenting with. These days, she celebrates my weight losses and I cheer her gains. Life is strange.

Your tastebuds grow up. As a kid, I hated the usual things that kids tend to hate: liver and onions; broccoli with no cheese or dip; or anything halfway healthy or green that wasn't barbequed, fried, or served on a pizza.  I think I was close to 35 when I started to like juices made from beets and carrots and kale. And I'm not talking the sugar-swamped concoctions from trendy brands but the hippie-pure stuff from the organic aisles in health food stores. I even got into wheatgrass shots for a while when I was seeing a guy who was too much into ugly shoes and scratchy-fiber clothing for our relationship to flourish.

 About 15 years ago, I actually requested that my sister fix me some liver and onions "the way Mama used to make". And, boy, I never tasted anything so good as that. Since then, I have come to love collard greens and all kinds of beans (pinto, navy, lentil) and stews. I can literally have a meal of nothing but a bowl of steamed mixed vegetables with a little bit of salt and pepper. I once got on such a long collard green kick that the people at the store would see me headed to the product section and start picking out the best bunches for me. I have even very recently started seasoning my food with cayenne and red pepper flakes. Look at me!  (I still only like chitlins half-a-closed-eye bite at a time but chitlins aren't healthy so...)

One of the best things about growing older is that you take time to get to know people better, including yourself.

You become more sensitive to noise. I've become that cranky woman who gets extremely annoyed by loud chatter, loud music, loud TVs or radios, and anything louder than the thoughts I'm trying to hear in my head while your car stereo is shaking windows and scaring small children. 

You don't need a lot of friends. And you learn what it means to truly be a friend. My mother had a mantra that every child in our extended family heard: Not everyone is your "friend". She would teach us that we might think we knew a lot of people when we really only knew of them. More than acquaintances and less than friends. 

I have known lots of people throughout my life. "Friends" I made at work or via other people. People who passed in and out of my life. Most of them were like lightning bugs, lighting up and delighting me but only briefly. I have had 4 got-your-back, thick-and-thin friends in my entire life - not including my siblings who are always Team Me. Two of my friends are no longer alive here on earth. The other two friends? I could call them from the moon saying I want to come home and they would try to find a way.

You care more about some things and less about others. 

You realize you are both smarter than you thought and less intelligent than you always believed. "Book learning" has never come easily for me. I always had to study harder and concentrate deeper to even try keeping up with my brothers and sister. But some things can be learned if you study and concentrate. Some things come by living and making mistakes and watching. Wisdom is a real thing. Turn on the television or just sit back and listen to people. You will find that there are a lot of really stupid people labeled as "intelligent" and a lot of wise people who watch.

You grow to understand that everything is a choice. Even not making a choice is a choice. Christians out there will understand what I mean by this without any further ado. For everyone, doing or not doing, deciding or not deciding - be hot or cold but be not lukewarm.

You will become very well-acquainted with yourself. Not the 'you' that shows up at work or for lunch with friends. Not the 'you' at family get-togethers. You will spend more time with the ypu-person who has made your life choices and mistakes and wrong turns. For me, it took getting older to be both harder and easier on myself about my past. I had to look at the past as "what's done is done" but not let that be an excuse for any current actions.

You will find beauty & joy in different places and situations. As a cute (no modesty here!) and perky 20-something, I thought I knew what "beautiful" was. I thought I knew what would make me happy for life. I actually thought I knew these things! Imagine this: you don't like baked chicken. You really hate it - and especially if it's on the bone - not even the best-seasoned and most delicious chicken. Then you are stranded on an island with no food. All you have is a source of fresh water to keep you alive. You survive for weeks on this island (we're just imagining here so don't go factoid on me). Then, one day you are rescued by someone on a boat and all they have is fresh water to drink and baked chicken. Chicken on the bone. You won't reach land for another few weeks. How delicious do you think that baked chicken is going to taste? Probably like the best thing that any person ever ate before or will again.

As I get older, I know I haven't been starved of life or happiness. But I have gone through things that are just a natural part of living. These days, I find such beauty and joy in things I never had to pay much attention to. It might sound trite or corny to you but so many things in life represent that island survivor's meal. I can taste all the seasonings and nuances of flavor. I am appreciative and deeply satisfied in many ways. And because of life and how it can happen, I have fewer material riches than I ever have.

You will appreciate kindness in people maybe more than ever before.

You will find people attractive for different reasons than perhaps you did before.

You will realize how "rich" you are in ways that have nothing to do with money. I personally sometimes walk around my 650 square foot apartment and am amazed at how blessed I am. I feel like the richest person who ever lived. Don't let me mess around and have a day when I'm not sick or forgetful or physically off-balanced or depressed. Boy! That is a day that rivals anything any billionaire or celebrity can know.

These last bits won't be appreciated by just anyone. Those of you who don't believe in God might want to skip this.

Death becomes less frightening. I've not been afraid to die since I came to know the Lord. However... I often half-jokingly quip that it's not dying but the getting dead part that I'm afraid of. As I get older and older, I become less afraid of the "getting dead" part. 

I pray more for people who don't believe, even though some would hate me for that. The older I get, the older my former pop-culture favorites get. Michael Jackson, Prince, and Lady Di. I find myself mourning and wondering about the fate of people I didn't "follow" as a fan. Just in the recent past, there have been the reported deaths of members of former boy bands, video vixens, songwriters, actors and actresses, and sports "stars".

Of course, I pray that everyone will come to know the Lord before they die but we hear get so much news coverage of some deaths. And I wonder if they had a change of heart or if they cried out for forgiveness. I only wonder because I know that I could have been someone dying without salvation. 

You are bolder about sharing your "wisdom". I am not as shy about sharing what I have learned. If I think it's going to help someone else cope better with their depression and anxiety or whatever physical illness they have, I will try to speak up. I am not as shy about speaking to people about considering their eternal soul. 

I am getting older. Any of us could be taking our last breath right at this moment, but getting older makes death more "in-reach" in my thoughts. Day by day, I have less time to speak up about things so I'm taking my shot.

There is a reason my blog name is "Free".

Peace

--Free

Feeling My Age (or Baby Got Bad Back)

UPDATE: Turns out that this back thing might be a bit more serious than I thought. I was rid of it (except for tenderness) for a couple of days. It came back and it's pissed. I am pretty much stuck in bed right now and laying on my side trying to type, drink water, nibble on something, and wait for the back brace to get here. My brother brought me some Advil (a no-no for me) and I am taking them only at the worst of the pain. If things don't get better after a couple of days with the brace, I will have to call my doctor. Until I work this out, posts will be sporadic. 

I will be doing a post on Free and Faith, even if it takes me all day to get it written. Please visit that blog when you get a chance.

Peace.

A while back someone asked users of Reddit when they felt they officially became "old" (or something to that effect). My answer: The first time I stood up and everything hurt for no reason. That was then. Today, I know better. 

My heart and spirit might feel thirty but my body feels its physical age. Maybe even a bit older. I wasn't able to type this post for the past couple of days because I couldn't even sit up. My back has betrayed me. 

I was about to get out of bed one morning but felt a bit unsteady. When my balance is off, I wait til it comes back 'on'. I learned that the hard way. So I'm wide awake and ready to get the day started but had to wait until I knew I wouldn't be walking into walls. After about half an hour, I was ready. My back was not.

My back wasn't really hurting before I sat up. It felt a little bit sore like I had slept wrong, but nothing awful. Then when I sat up, everything locked. I have never felt such pain like that. I literally could not do anything without feeling as if someone had a grip around the lower part of my spine and was daring me to move. 

So there I am, sitting partway up in bed, waiting for relief. That wasn't going to happen. After a bit, I managed to turn so that my legs were on the floor - thank God I sleep right on the edge of my bed - but, nope, I wasn't going anywhere further for the time being. Every thought of a movement induced pain that was like the opposite of an orgasm. Just pain like I have never experienced - and I once cracked a rib by sneezing when I had a cold that kept me constantly coughing or sneezing.

I'm not sure how long it took me to move a bit, rest a bit, move a bit, etc. Finally, I was able to grab hold of the bedside lamp pole and hoist into a standing position. Let me back that up - I was able to hoist myself into a crouching position. And I had to stand like that until the pain crept away just a bit. 

Here's the fun part of this story. Remember, I was just waking up. What's the first thing most of us do when we wake up? Hang out for a while, having conversations with our backs? No. I had to pee. I had to pee like a pregnant woman drinking a Big Gulp. I had to pee so bad that I think I lost calories not peeing myself. 

Somehow - and I'm not kidding when I say I'm not sure exactly how - I managed to creep slowly out of the bedroom and to the bathroom. The problem then became how to get into position. I could hardly get my underwear down but when I did, I couldn't get over the toilet low enough to pee. Eventually, I just held my breath and dropped down onto the toilet. I felt so pretty, let me tell you...

I cannot describe the pain that went through my back. It hurt to pee. It hurt to be sitting, but I couldn't get up right away because moving to do so hurt worse than the sitting. I knew there was no way I was going to make it into the shower that morning.

Now, I have had rare and occasional mild spurts of lower back pain over the past - I'm guessing - two years? Usually, this happened after sitting too long in one position or while sit-slumping. When it happened, I would take my time standing and then stretch out a bit. Or prop my hands against the wall with my feet back in a pushup position. My back would relax and behave. Not this time.

I have no idea how long I sat on the toilet but I had time to contemplate calling my SIL for help. Of course, my phone was in the bedroom so I wouldn't be able to buzz her in and my front door was locked so the manager would have to let her in... Ugh.

Finally, I managed to clean myself up and get off the toilet but the effort made me crave morphine. I would have crawled if I could have made it to my knees. I ended up taking a few steps at a time, holding onto counters, door frames, and walls until I made it back to the bedroom. All I could do was sort of fall onto the bed and just deal with the screams from my back.

And that is where I lay for about three hours, no kidding. And keep in mind that I am doing IF so I hadn't eaten for 18 hours when I first woke up. Now I'm at almost 21 hours and I didn't care about food but I wanted coffee like an addict wants crack. 

"Hi, my name is Trudy and I'm a 'feine fiend."

My best friend called and I was able to answer the phone. She told me to try either to get flat on my back or into the fetal position and to totally relax all my muscles. When I could get up at all, she suggested I put a heating pad on my back. (I don't have a heating pad. Stay tuned to see my substitute.) She also told me to stay down until I could move without pain. "You're making it worse by moving all around the apartment." (Like I was just sprinting around the place...)

Her advice worked. Sort of. Laying flat on my back didn't help like it had in the past. A fetal position, with a pillow between my knees, felt better.  I was able to spray magnesium oil towards the area - sort of - and after a bit, I managed to make a "heating pad".

 

That's some kitchen rags dampened 
& sealed for heating
in the microwave

The heat helped. Sort of. I still couldn't make coffee. I lay in bed for hours, sipping bottled water through a straw and dozing off and on. Every now and then, I would test my ability to move and I managed to get to the bathroom a couple of times. 

At some point during this bed rest, I was just suddenly able to move without crying. I don't know what did it. My back still ached in that spot but I could ease myself out of bed and get around if I walked slowly and carefully. 

After almost 28 hours of nothing but water, I grabbed myself some sliced brioche (it makes great oven toast!) and honey and some more water and went back to bed. 

My back has remained sore but only occasionally seizing up the past couple of days where the pain lasts half an hour to an hour or so. The problem area is still very tender and I am overly aware of every move I make. 

Since I am broke because, you know, groceries and bills and end of the month, I put this on a credit card and cannot wait until I get it:

  

Mueller Adjustable Back Brace

Of course, this part depresses me!

It was the most affordable-but-decently-rated one I could find on short notice. I will get a heating pad next. I don't know what I am going to do about a couch. My futon sofa is the absolute worst thing to try sitting on with a kinked up back. It sits too low and is made for dorm rooms not nursing homes.

 

Ain't this a blip? Just last month, I was thinking that although I'm getting 'up there' in age, the worst thing about my health is my sarcoidosis. Nope. My back is apparently jealous and wants the first place ribbon for that. It's in the lead.

Peace

--Free

Me and Somebody's Wine

(One of my play nieces told me that it would be cool if I put up a video for each post. Sounded cool. Go support an artist.)

Sing it, Melody. Making me want a cigarette and some bourbon...

So. We all should know by now that I'm not a champion drinker. I am actually the cheapest date on the planet. After a few mixed drinks, I am a fun gal. But if I go just one drink over... That's with mixed drinks - or shots of something I can handle the taste of, like Crown Apple. By the way, that stuff is like Kool-Aid for fools. It's tricky-good. Tasty but dangerous. I've discovered I have a 3 shot minimum on Crown.

Wine, though, turns me into a different kind of fun. Wine generally just makes me feel very mellow. After a moderate glass of sweet wine, I am great company. Not too chatty or hyper, but sober enough to be good company. That's if the wine is not too strong. One decent glass of anything stronger than church wine is better than any sleeping pill my docs know about. As a matter of fact, for a long time, I kept a bottle of wine around just to use as a nightly tonic. Then I worried that maybe I was getting a little too habitual about that.

Once some years back when I was staying with my best friend, her sister treated us to a holiday outing to spend an evening at a ranch turned winery. It was during the Christmas season. The plan was to take a tour of the winery, have some casual eats, then participate in a wine tasting before finishing the evening off with a hayride on horse-drawn wagons. I was excited about the hayride and super-excited to do my first wine tasting.

So.

What had happened was... (and please don't laugh too hard at me) is that I made a rookie mistake. I was swallowing more of the wine than I was spitting out. And, yes, I knew to spit because that was part of the little lesson we were given beforehand. The problem is, I liked some of the wine too much to spit it out. Listen, we tasted a lot of wine. Yes, we did.

I never did make it to the hayride but I made really good friends with some guy at our table who was as drunk as I was and who kept squinting at me while we talked. I think he was trying to figure out which one of me he was talking to. Every now and then, he'd throw back his head and make this crazy cackle-laugh sound. And I wasn't saying anything especially funny. My girlfriend was as drunk as I was but she tends to stay classy and get quiet when she drinks. She only spoke long enough to whisper to me that I was talking with a guy who was probably a retired serial killer. Her poor sister could only shake her head and tell us to try to eat more food while she went on the hayride.

The best thing about having gotten drunk that night was it made the ride home fun. We'd driven probably two and a half hours to get to the ranch in the first place and we'd gotten lost twice on the way there. We didn't realize until someone mentioned it to my friend's sister that we would be driving right through one of those sundown towns on our way back home. There we were, sometime after one in the morning, driving super carefully. My friend's sister was stone-cold sober but worried about her two drunk passengers. She kept giving us instructions on what to do if we got pulled over. Let her do the talking; maybe just pretend to be asleep; and, please try holding our breath because we were damn near making her drunk from the fumes coming off of us. Thankfully, we didn't get stopped but my best friend almost popped her bladder trying to hold her pee the whole way home. That was the one time wine didn't put me to sleep.

Still, I'm not as bad a wine drunk as I am a Mother's Day drunk. Like I said, the most I do with wine is just fall asleep or - only occasionally - think I can sing and want to prove it. There were times during my sister's and my clubbing days when everyone made me stick to wine only. Because they knew what I was like on mixed drinks. A predator wouldn't have to slip me anything stronger than an extra shot of liquor. During those wine nights, I fell asleep at inappropriate times. Once, I fell asleep in a booth at a club. My friends just made a pillow and blanket with their coats for me and partied on. Back in my twenties, I fell asleep in places like Denny's and IHop. It took me a long time to learn my fun-but-not-narcoleptic limit of wine. By then,  was pretty much over it. For the most part.

I'm not proud of my drinking past and I never drank as much as it might sound like. I guess because I never even flirted with drugs, I made up for it with my drinking, such as it was. The only experience I have with drugs is the time I got a contact high and laughed uncontrollably for half an hour straight and the time I ate some weed brownies. Made with Alaskan grown weed. No thank you. Have you ever been to Alaska? This is what an Alaskan grown cabbage looks like.

Yeah, so Anchorage was like stoner heaven. For years, we had friends visit us just because the city was ahead of the game with personal use legalities. And some of the best weed ever. Or so I've been told.

I do think that drinking can be as dangerous as drugs. I'm lucky that I was young and stupid and living in Alaska when it was still a relatively safe place. Very, very lucky. I only went out with family or people I knew really well. It was my sister who left me sleeping in the backseat of the car once. I had apparently passed out into a drunk snooze on the way home and she and my sister-in-law couldn't wake me. They had the nerve to say later that I had been snotty about them trying to wake me. So, they left me in the car, in front of my brother's house, in the middle of winter. I wasn't cold because they had covered me up but I was still a little freaked out when I woke up a few hours later. I got out of the car because I thought I was sober. I wasn't. I got back in the car and went back to sleep. Good times.

Those days are so far behind me now. Thank everything in the heavens.

I was talking to my best friend just recently and she asked if I had plans to do anything special for my upcoming birthday. Other than thanking God that I've made it this far? I told her that I plan to maybe get a mani-pedi and probably just spend a few hours with the family. That's enough excitement for me. I had been kicking around the idea of going out for a drink with my sister-in-law but decided to keep any celebrations on the thankful and adult side. Once alcohol gets involved, who knows, I might have to move to a new town or change my identity.

Peace
--Free

NOTE: I'm going to have to schedule this post for another day along with some other backup posts so... ignore the mention of dates.  

My New Old Neighbors

This new place I'm living in is just fantastic. It's a beautiful hotel-style building that's entry-secure, and clean. Living here, I'm  close to shopping and banking. I can get basic groceries from a store that is literally less than a 5-minute walk away.

If I were a more social person, I could stroll down to a couple of nice bars and restaurants. If I were social! If I could swim, the lake and a beach are a block and half away. Of course, people who know me know that I'm most certainly not a social butterfly. I am a hermit crab of a woman.

So, yes, I love the building I live in.

Except.

Okay, see here's the thing. I live in a building that's for seniors. The minimum age is 55. I'm 56. The median age for the residents currently living here? Oh, I'd say that would be about 75.

Now, I'm not an ageist. How can I be? I'm 56, which is not young but it's also not exactly "middle age" - unless I expect to live to over a hundred. (I don't, by the way.) The oldest person I've met here is 93. And she's not the only 90 year old here. I bet there are a couple of centenarians. (And I can't believe I had to look that word up!)

One of the things I've learned about this Iowa (or at least the Northern part I live in) is that the people live a looong time. Not only that, these old folk are pretty healthy. There's one woman here (I'll call her Lucy) who usually walks everywhere. Every day. Granted, 'everywhere' is close by like I mentioned before but, still, this woman is ninety. To look at her and the way she gets around, you could guess her age to be somewhere in the early 70's. She moves better than I do.

 Of course, some of my really old neighbors don't get around as well as Lucy. There's one old lady who still drives and that scares the crap out of me. She uses both a cane and a walker. She uses the walker to get to the car. She puts the walker in the trunk, then uses the cane to get to the driver's seat. It then takes her a couple of minutes to get in and get situated. And then the nightmare starts because this slow-moving nonagenarian (yeah, I looked that one up too) drives like she's in a police chase on an L.A. freeway. I've never seen anyone not headed to an emergency back out and take off that fast.

Thankfully Maria Oldretti doesn't drive that often. This town is small enough that most people probably recognize her car and know to get the hell out of the way... I won't even go out into the parking lot when she's anywhere near her car, bless her heart.

There are a lot of benefits to living around the elderly. They are like walking history books. First-hand history at that. I've heard some of them talk about growing up on farms. A few of them come from places outside of Iowa. I don't spend as much time with any of these people as I should - ironically because of my health issues - but I am getting a glimpse of what could possibly be my future.

I was talking to one of the older gentlemen the other day, telling him that I'd be soon looking to get a used vehicle. He said, "I wish I'd met you a month earlier because I just gave my car away." (He is pretty much bound to one of those motorized chairs for his mobility.) I asked why he gave away his car. "They took away my license. I couldn't use the car so someone might as well have it."

The first thing I thought was how nice it was that he gave away car to someone who needed it. Then I saw how sad he looked when he talked about losing his license. (Another resident told me that it was his kids who lobbied for him to lose his driving privileges. I want to know if Maria Oldretti has kids I can contact!)

See, the thing I'm noticing is that we look at the very elderly as if they aren't whole human beings. We sometimes only notice the stooped postures and sagging skin and voices that creak a little. That's all I used to pay attention to. Now I'm learning that no matter how old a person lives to be - 80, 90, or even 100 - they still possess the soul they had from birth to the present. I know for a fact (because I've heard them talking) that some of the old folk are still having, um, intimate relations. All I can say is they are getting more action than I am!

What's sobering to me is that their are younger people who look at me the way I've looked at older people. And I've learned something about myself: I'm not sure how long of a life I want to live. I say that and worry that I'm offending God, so I want to clarify what I mean.

No one wants, I don't think, to be old and lonely and forgotten. That's the one thing I didn't understand when I was married to a pretty decent guy. I think that's why you should get a good mate and hang on for dear life. Some of these people have been married for 60 and 70 years. Then again, some of them have been married for less than a decade.

Then there are the widows and widowers. Those are the ones I feel the most pain for. I can deal with being an old single - because I was a young single - but I don't know what it must be like to lose someone you spent many, many years with.

I'm a loner but don't ever want to get to the point where I feel lonely. Some of my neighbors seem to be forgotten by family and friends. There are a couple of people here who never come out of their apartments. They don't come down and sit on the lanai (or whatever you call our front porch area) or use the common room. For some of them, if it weren't for the personal housekeepers, they'd never have company inside their apartments. And that is very sad to me.


When I was in my teens, I thought anyone over twenty was 'old'. In my thirties, I couldn't imagine being fifty. I'm in my fifties and I look at the 80 and 90 year old people and realize they aren't simply old, they are survivors. I don't know how long I want to be in the battle of being mortal. Then again, every time I attend a funeral, I am always glad to still be alive.

Peace
--Free

**REVIEW** Art Naturals Fractionated Coconut Oil

This is probably the eighth FCO (fractionated coconut oil) that I've used. I think I have reviewed at least 3 or 4 of them in the past few years. I wanted to come and do a review on this one because I think it's going to be a new favorite.




You wouldn't think that there'd be much of a difference in FCO's, no matter the brand, but you'd be so wrong. I've liked almost every FCO I've tried, so if I had to pick one of those over another, it would come down to price. Since this one would rate well in the price criteria, I'll go over what else I do like so much about it.

First off, it's not rank, stale, or stinky. I hate to speak ill of local stores, but good quality and price are two main reasons I usually order certain products from Amazon. When I picked up a bottle of FCO from a small store in a local mall, I thought it would be okay. The oil was in a smaller bottle (I think it was 8 ounces), but wasn't too expensive. I had previously gotten some scented lotions and fragrance/warmer oils there and wasn't too underwhelmed. Plus, I was trying to buy local. I don't know if it was a batch problem or what, but that FCO was "off". It had a rank/dank odor. I returned it and the store explained that I must have just gotten a bad bottle. In addition to my refund, the clerk was nice enough to give me a sample bottle of fragrance oil.

Next time I bought some FCO locally, it was from a store I generally trust. The oil itself was pretty good as far as the moisturizing properties. The problem I had was that it was labeled as "pure" (or maybe it said "whole" I can't remember which) and there was a light coconut scent to it. As far as I now, pure FCO does not have a scent. That's one of the things I like about it. I don't want to use anything on my face if there is a scent involved.

Anyway, there were two reasons I applied to try this FCO from Art Naturals. One reason is I was out of FCO, period. LOL The second reason is that I'd been seeing other Art Natural products (tanning creams, Argan oil, face serums, etc.) on the brand review sites I use. I was curious about the brand, so...

My order for this FCO was placed via Amazon and the price was really decent. Like I said, the price is going to be a big part of the decision to purchase a quality oil. And, trust me, the  prices vary a lot. The 16-oz size is pretty standard, but just go and check out how many price ranges you can find. It's crazy. If you go over to Art Naturals, you'll notice the price for the FCO is dang good.  And, there are two extra reasons for shopping from the site (especially if you aren't an Amazon Prime member):

1. Shipping. Standard is FREE & Expedited is only around $6.00 (I didn't even see any exclusions for Alaska or Hawaii!)
2. You can sign up for their mailing list for a chance at free products in exchange for reviews. I think you have to stay tuned for when they are running a campaign but, still.

See the site's FAQs for info on all that. By the way, I noticed that they also have a magnesium oil. Interesting, huh?

I can tell you that I'm happy with the FCO from this brand. Like I said, I had run out since the last bottle that I bought (and liked) at a local health store. I used this one almost as soon as the FedEx guy handed me the box. 

In case you forgot or never knew all the ways FCO can be used:

• Moisturize skin & hair. Depending on your skin type, you can try using this as an overnight face and body treatment. The good news (especially for you loving couples) is that FCO doesn't stain sheets and clothing. Moving along...
• Remove your makeup (or just clean your face) with FCO. When the weather or my meds have my skin feeling extra dry, I will use the FCO with a damp face cloth so that some of the oil is left on my skin. Otherwise, I'll wipe the oil off with a cottony baby wipe. That cleans the oil completely off.
• Hot oil treatment for skin and hair. For the skin treatment, I like to slather on the oil then sit on some towels in the bathroom with the shower steaming the room. (Just be careful that you don't slip-slide and bust your pride!)
• The oil is great for shaving. I don't have to shave my legs, but I love putting FCO on my pits and leaving it while I shower, then shaving just before rinsing off.
• For those of you who need scalp moisture, you can apply this to wide parts in your hair and then brush.(I use it a little heavier after I've got my hair twisted for the night.)
• For people with a smoother (less kinky) texture of hair, a tiny bit of oil can tame or even prevent the "splits". FCO is a nice hair oil because it is so light (and remember - no staining).
• I've heard that "brushing" the skin is a trend these days. I am thinking of trying that but, for now, I know that applying some FCO and exfoliating is nice. You can try using the oil with sugar, coffee grounds, baking soda, rice powder, or some other mild scrub. I used to use sugar, but now I use the finer-grained rice powder or baking soda. One day, I'll have to experiment with a fine-grained salt.
• FCO makes a good cuticle oil, lip balm (try mixing it with an EO of your liking). Of course FCO is a wonderful carrier oil for using with EOs.
• This last one is a personal goodie that I will dare share with the ladies, but guys might want to try it: Throughout those hot (or extra active) days, try cleaning your "private places" with some FCO and a baby wipe. You can grab some small, cheapie plastic bottles at Walmart to keep a portable supply of FCO on hand. This is a nice way to keep fresh on days when you feel self-conscious for whatever reason. I'm just sharing a tip.

If you think that using oils as a part of your hair and skin care routines is worth it, let me share a photo of my 55-year old self. And be sure to keep in mind that I haven't always taken as much care with the rest of my health as I have with my skin. I smoked cigarettes for most of my life, not always eaten well, and messed around and acquired a chronic immune disease. Still...

Born with good skin genes. Upkeep with oils and other moisturizers.

So, yes, there are so many ways to use a good FCO. The one use that I haven't ever thought too much about until I saw the Art Naturals label: "Medicinal". They don't mean for internal use but as a wound cleaner. I thought that was interesting and will have to look into it more.

Peace

--Free

DISCLOSURE: I received one or more of the products mentioned in the post free of charge in exchange for providing a fair & honest review.

Growing Up vs Growing Old

With another birthday coming up on me, it's time to take inventory. I have to clean out some old habits and actions to make room for the new and improved ones; I have relationships and friendships I need to check on - and some I need to "check off"; and, of course, I need to consider whether I am fully appreciating and using this life and the abilities God has given me.

Each year, I like to remind myself that I am growing up and not just growing old.

Growing up means maturing - in spirit, wisdom, thought, and actions.  Growing up takes a willingness to learn from mistakes and make appropriate changes. Lots of people live long enough to grow old.

As I get ready to take this "inventory" of my life, I'm looking at some of my habits and pleasures. I need to figure out which things are still a source of happiness for me and which one I keep only to "maintain." Let me explain what I mean by that:

While watching the documentary ("Unguarded") about Chris Herren, the former basketball player, I noticed something he said about his drug use. He'd once enjoyed using drugs and alcohol but, when the addiction took hold of his life, he only used to keep from being "dope sick."

"Dope sick." Wow.

How many of us are using things other than drugs to find our escape and pleasure? How much of those things are we letting take hold of us to the point where we keep up with them to fight off dope sickness?

Part of my self inventory is to figure out which pleasures in my life that I need to put the brakes on before I lose control.

A few years ago, I wasn't as mature as I am now. I had grown older, of course, but I wasn't maturing as much as I needed to be. When I went through my previous abusive relationship, then got sick, I was forced to grow up in a lot of ways. That's when I realized that some struggles are really warnings. God's blessings didn't get my attention as much as those struggles.

This year, I hope to look back on the past with more clarity. I'm praying for God to cleanse my heart of all the nonsense I have let in.

Peace
--Free

Milestones

We all have our lives marked in milestones. It starts with our parents tagging our achievements from tooth-cutting to first steps, first this and that.

The first real milestone I waited for was getting my period. Idiot. I lived in agony for two to three days a month for year afterward. Anyone around me lived in agony for a few more days each month. Then came the usual markings for most of us:

• 16th birthday
• First kiss (or serious crush)
• Driver's license & first car
• Graduating high school
• Standard college or the college of life
• Love and Marriage and sex (in whichever order)
• First house or other major investment

And on and on and on.

Then there are the other things that can count as being profound to our existence. For me, having death take away someone I loved showed me how real life can be. I sometimes think that only death can do that.

Do you remember the first time someone broke your heart? Or the first time you did some awful thing that you hope never comes to light?

I remember the first mistake I made that will haunt me for all the days I breathe.

All those milestones are from when I was younger. These days, I take some things more serious and other things don't touch my soul at all. 

The other day, my great-nephew grabbed my face and planted a big wet, snotty kiss under one eye. That was a moment that I never want to forget. Being cherished by a child feels different to me now that I am older.

The milestones that make me shake my head and think of my parents are the ones they warned me about: "Just wait til you have to squint to read anything." Or: "Help me get up from here, and remember that someone will have to help you one day."

I called my sister from Walmart the other day and had her laughing herself into a crying fit.

"Girl, I am in here looking for the Ben-Gay, and you won't believe how old all these people look!"

"You're old(pause)er."

"Not old like them. They look and act old."

Said the woman slinking down Aisle Three, trying to read the labels on jars of muscle ointments.

It probably makes me sound mentally unfit to say that I sometimes want to cry when I can't just spring right up from sitting cross-legged on the floor. Some months ago - too long ago - I had to tell a date to adjust his embrace because I was getting a crick in my neck. Gone are those acrobatic days of magic when I only had to worry about being respected afterwards. These days I'm lucky when I have to worry about it at all and, when I do, the biggest worry is that 911 might have to be called at some point. How embarrassing would that be?

But.

I am so very thankful to still be counting milestones. 

My sarcoid is back and acting the fool (if you can't tell by the poor composition of this post), and I am just sick to death of it. If I weren't at least getting my figure back from the months of prednisone, I might actually lose a little more of what's left of my mind.

But, again, I am so glad to still be here, bitching and complaining about it all. I'm not looking for the milestone that will be marked by a final church service.

Peace

--Free

Wishes

This has been an interesting week. I've had some good conversations with friends and family - some conversations that surprised me and some that were just so very good to have.

One of those conversations has me doing a lot of thinking. It was with a guy I've grown close to. Men look at things so differently.

My friend celebrated my birthday with me a little late because he was out of town on the actual day. He brought me lunch because I just didn't feel like being out and about (it's this freaking gray sky/trying to rain thing). The gift he gave me was very sweet and interesting - or at least my reaction to it was. Funny that I can still surprise myself.

There was a time not really too long ago that if someone I liked a lot gave me a certain kind of gift, I'd get all analytical about what it meant. (Why this gift? What does it mean? Is he trying to tell me something? How am I supposed to react?) I guess I've either finally grown up or just grown calmer. Whatever it is, I just took the gift as it was. It's just a gift and it's nice and very thoughtful, very me.

My friend was so pleased by my reaction that he shared a "guy thought" with me. He told me that I had apparently learned something that it had taken him longer to learn: relationships are only as complicated as we make them. Ours is not complicated. (Well, it is sometimes, but only when I make it that way.)

Like I said, I thought about our conversation long after it was over. I started to think about how I really have changed. I thought about things I wish I'd known a long time ago.

One thing I wish I had known is that sex is not complicated, but feelings are. Knowing that could have saved me so much heartache and worry and maybe one of my marriages.

I wish I'd known that age has nothing to do with death and dying. Not to make light of it, but any one of us can drop dead at any second - whether newborn, middle-aged or elderly.

I really wish I'd known that some things just don't matter one damn bit. Things like walking around for a couple of hours at work with a poppy seed stuck in your teeth or a booger hanging half out of your nose. And I don't mean that it doesn't matter in that whole "in a thousand years..." way. I mean that if people aren't gracious and empathetic (there's that word again) enough to not make it a big deal, then fuck them.

I wish I'd known to be kinder to people when I was younger. I wasn't always un-kind, but I had my flip, selfish, dismissive and cruel moments - sometimes toward strangers. We just don't know the effect we can have on another person.

I wish I'd realized how much I meant to certain people at certain times. (I once had a girlfriend get married. I was invited to her small, at-home wedding. I was late. She'd held up the ceremony for me to be there. I didn't know how wonderful a gesture that was. I probably took it too lightly.)

I used to lay across my mom's bed and have long talks with her. Sometimes the talks were about nothing and sometimes they were deep and important to one or both of us. I wish I'd told Mom more of my secrets. I told her a lot, but not everything.

There is one wish that I could possibly make come true. I wish I could go back to some of the people who are/were in my life and tell them some things. I'd like to apologize to some of those people, thank some of them, hug some of them. I probably won't ever do this, so does that make it not a real wish?

I am learning from my wishes. I am trying to do more now so that I don't have to wish for later on. (I refuse to use the word "regret" because that would mean we all should be born not quite human and full of mistakes. Mistakes are part of living and make our moving from moment to moment real and interesting. Hope that made sense.)

There are so many things that I'm glad for that I can live with all those "wishes." I'm so glad for the people I know and love. I'm glad for the relationships I got right. I'm glad for today. I'm really glad that I got to see this age of 51, even though when I was 21 and 31 and even 41, I didn't even want to imagine being 50-anything. I'm damn glad that, so far, my 50's are not half bad. Not really bad at all.

I am 51 and happy most times because when I look up at the sky I still think, "Wow." Hell, I'm glad I'm still here to think it.

I'm glad I still giggle, snicker, laugh too loud and flirt and crush and have girlfriends and like junk food and love music and dream dreams and have hopes and want things and fuck up and fuck around and go ga-ga over babies and cry about weddings and movies and want to do crazy things with my hair and sit in the sun and have deep conversations about stupid stuff and have places I still want to go and things I still want to do and see and taste and feel and know about.

I'm still so glad to be alive and I sure hope God is listening.

Peace
--Free

Measuring Joy

I was up really early on my birthday, just thinking, thinking and thinking - like I guess everyone does on birthdays, anniversaries and some holidays. Nora Ephron had just passed and I had gone and re-read some of her essays and other musings. I was touched by the advice she gave to younger women and kind of amused by (but in disagreement with) some of what she had to say about aging. Thinking of her and other women who lived uniquely, or fully, I got to wondering about what it means to live fully. What I came up with is, it's not about having a busy or fabulous career or family or adventures. It's about personal and individual pleasures and contentments. It's about joy, or at least, that's what I believe.

So then, what is joy, and how do you measure it your joy?

Can't measure it by the money you have. Money is too easy to lose. Money buys things that can deceive you: power but not respect, respect but not love, fear but hatred... It goes on and on. Money is only as good as the person who has it.

You can't measure joy by the number of friends you have. Friends are as flawed as you are. If friends were the complete foundation of an individual's joy, then there'd be no despair or grief or suicide of a person with friends. Friends are pieces of joy, not the finished puzzle.

Joy isn't what you look like, who you love or who loves you. It's not sex or food or good music or theater.

Maybe joy is that thing that is only indescribably sensed - not by sight or touch or sound or taste or smell. Maybe it is a sense itself, except real and whole, like God. It exists and always has. It seems to be without a known beginning, like creation itself, but given a beginning, like the first breath to an infant.

I have joy just as I have faith. They are, I think, very alike.

And... R.I.P. Nora Ephron

Peace
--Free

Older & Almost Wiser

I am getting all ready to celebrate this birthday of mine tomorrow & I have decided to be "okay" with it. LOL

My sis and I were playing around today with my clothes and makeup. She wants two things: for me to actually give a damn about what I'm wearing and to start wearing makeup. (You'd think it was her freaking birthday, huh?)

Anyway.

I have to agree with her about the clothes. It's just so dang hard to feel pretty and comfortable while I'm packing round these extra pounds. (Don't like going to the doc's, but I will be one happy black chick come this next appointment. Maybe I will actually be able to get off this Prednisone and onto something that won't have me looking like a chocolate Oompa Loompa.)

So, okay, I am going to embrace the larger me while I have to. I will NOT wear anymore drab colors, baggy tops and shapeless sweatpants. I will NOT try to hide this glorious extra me under anything that I wouldn't have worn when I was smaller. (Let's hope we can get this Prednisone alternative going on!)

Now, this thing about the makeup? Ummmm... I don't know about that one. I'm not good with makeup. One, I'm kinda lazy (as in it takes me about an extra 15 to 20 minutes of getting ready to be seen by anyone who gives a damn). Two, I'm kinda clumsy (as in I once just about put out my left eye with an eyeliner stick). Three, that crap gets all over everything you touch (as in I can't just scratch my face and then touch anything else without leaving fingerprints). How the hell do the real chi-chi chicks handle this stuff?

But I am going to try. I promised my sister. She says it will make me feel prettier and not as old. (By the way, as I've told her: I am not old. 51 is just a bit more seasoned than 25. Old is what you feel. I'm maybe... twenty-one? Hahaha!)

Here are the pre-makeup pics. When I get "makeup" pics tomorrow, I will try to get them posted:

The crazy hair is from that freaking Keratin crap!!!

I can't control the hair. Impossible. I gave up.
At least it's still growing back.

Do I look happy? I don't look happy, do I? Actually, I was pretty happy. I'm excited about lunch tomorrow. It's going to definitely be four of us physically there - me, sis, one of the nephews (if he doesn't get called in to work like everyone else) and one of the two local BFF's. Some are going to be at the family "home" dinner later on. The others are going to Skype in (if we can figure out how to pull it off in a restaurant) or phone in (at least for the song part) and, you know - all the love will be felt. Oh!! And did I mention that it's going to be at the Olive Garden? Yep. We finally got one up here. (I know that it's not in the Michelin Guide, you snobs, but I'm not that kinda gal. I'm more of a Guy Fieri type lady. You know, Guy of  "Diner's Drive-ins and Dives" fame? Yeah, I said it. )

I am a little bummed because one of my nieces "Cat" and her husband "Poka" -and those are just stage names, folks - came when they could take off from day jobs, stayed 10 days, and had to leave last Sunday. (At least they got to meet their godson, D.J.) To make it even a little sadder, Cat's birthday was on the 9th, just before she got here... Still, we are all blessed to be here at all. I have to remind myself what happened after my last birthday: having a margarita and strutting my stuff one moment and meeting all kinds of new doctors the next. Yeah. Living beats hell out of the alternative.

Exactly 1yr ago tomorrow. How the hell many pounds & doc visits ago was this?

Like I started this rambling post out with: I have decided to be okay with this getting older business (since I didn't get okay with it by 45, right?). Every time I want to be pissed at my marriage falling apart, this illness, the meds, the topsy-turvy life I'm now living, I stop and think about the folks who didn't wake up to see this day, and I just say, "Thank You, Jesus." I should be thanking Him as much as I complain about my weight. (Lucky He doesn't smack my ungrateful behind with a thunderbolt...)

By the way, BFF ("local B") is turning 40 just 5 days after tomorrow, so, yeah, life is okay enough. This birthday is going to be a good one. A good year, a good rest of my life, a good new beginning.

Happy freaking birthday to me (if the Lord let me live to tell). And if it's not your birthday tomorrow, celebrate anyway. 

Peace

--Free