Was It Worth It?

A year ago I started this blog.  I had to do something as I approached the yawning maw of my 60s.  It helped, plus it gave me an excuse to say things like “yawning maw”.  Occasionally I check the counter on my blog profile page.  Just a few weeks ago I had over 300 profile views.  373 hits to be exact, I told myself that was a respectable number given I only post on Facebook and rarely give out my blog address.  I didn’t realize -- there is a different counter tallying how many people have actually read my posts. That number is considerably higher -- 1,823.  Damn!  I’m flat out amazed!  Thank you friends, family and assorted unknown voyeurs, thanks for indulging me. 

Can’t express how satisfying it is when someone comments on my stuff, especially when they say “I relate or you have touched me with your words.”  I am elated when I receive a “thumbs up” from someone I haven’t seen in years or who hasn’t known me long.  These comments ease the sting of knowing that a close friend has never commented, or as I suspect, never even read what I have written. 

In addition to blogging, I’ve had a perfectly fine year, even though the world I live in occasionally scares me.  I am fortunate to have my health, a good husband, and a secure living.  These are things that should not be taken for granted; although, I am often ungrateful and yearn for my youth, more agility and my former sharp memory.  I can still recall the words to most of the Beatles’ catalogue but not the name of that guy – you know that guy?  The guy who’s in that show. 

I shall continue to do all the things I’ve done for years -- read at my normal voracious rate (162 books this year); see films; garden; attend plays and concerts; engage in meaningful conversation; be a political animal; take an interest in children and young adults; volunteer; pretend to exercise; try to eat less; curb my temper; let some things go; write even more and most of all continue to resist a routine existence.  It’s worth it.

I’m just saying…

Flirting 2.0

The hardest thing for a writer to do (well, at least this writer...) is to revise something they've previously written, especially if it means cutting WORDS!  My friend John suggested I submit one of my blog posts to an Essay Contest.  But here's the rub, the submission had to be 500 words.  I took my nearly 700 word recent post on "Flirting" and cut it to the bone and frankly, I think I improved it.  Just goes to show the old adage "Edit, Edit, Edit" is true.  So, humor me as I reprint the revised and slimmed down version of my recent post. (And, wish be luck in the Essay contest!)

Is Flirting a Thing of the Past?

Someone flirted with me today.  Frankly that doesn’t happen much anymore.  My reaction was dumb.  I said “Excuse me?” and when he repeated the compliment, I giggled.  The man was near my age (50ish) and had the roguish good looks of a life-long flirt.  Twenty five years ago I would have pegged him as “a bad boy”.  I was always drawn to bad boys.  I tried to redeem myself with a stab at intelligent conversation before I escaped.  Oddly, that little exchange made me nostalgic for the days when I was in the game, “out there” or to be blunt -- just younger and better looking.

The very first time someone flirted with me I was about 13 and in line at McDonald’s.  Obviously it made a huge impression given how I can recall it now, some 46 years later.  I had on an outfit purchased with my baby sitting money and was with a friend, not my parents.  “One small fries and a coke.” I said.  The young man behind the counter responded, not sure what he said I politely repeated my order.  He smiled and suddenly I realized he heard me-- he just wants me to notice him.  I was keenly aware that in spite of being 13 (albeit tall for my age), this boy wanted me to notice him.  I left McDonald’s a new woman.  This was a 16 year old boy, not some 7^th grader poking me in the back or my Dentist patting me on the head.  

Thus began the slow, delicious dance of romance; the give and take of mutual attraction; the heady feeling of first love usually followed by the crushing blow of heartache.  You’d think by now I’d be well out of this flirting thing.  I’ve had my fair share of crushes, a few first loves, one or two serious flings and a couple of husbands.  But, just short of 60, I’m back to square one.  Over the years I grew accustomed to men’s attentions (although I didn’t always welcome them.); but in my mid-50s I began to notice something -- I was becoming invisible.  Mostly I was invisible to younger people and to men of all ages.  

The decline of flirting was a relief at first.  Throwing on a raincoat over my pajamas for a quick run to 7-Eleven became a possibility, accomplished with nary a glance from the guys in the next car or the old coot buying cigarettes. They didn’t see me – but that’s okay, I didn’t want to be seen.  But for pity’s sake, I’m not dead!  I rarely go out without my hair in place and a little lipstick.  Today’s tiny little exchange made me feel good.  Okay, maybe this guy gives everyone a little ego boost, maybe he always says something to women – young or old.  I really don’t care, because for a moment I was back in line at McDonald’s and it was all ahead of me.

 

Is Flirting a Thing of the Past?

            I think someone flirted with me today.  Why say “I think.”?  Well, frankly, because it doesn’t happen that much anymore.  And even though I thought I didn’t miss it, I realized that I really do.  I’m ashamed to say that my reaction to this flirting was dumb.  First I said “Excuse me?” and when he repeated the compliment, I laughed.  This man was in my age group (50ish) and had the look and demeanor of a life-long flirter.  He had roguish good looks – the kind of guy who 25 years ago I would have called “the bad boy type”.  I was always drawn to the bad boys, many good girls are.  Anyway, I attempted to redeem myself and have a short intelligent conversation before I made my escape.  Funny how that little interlude made me nostalgic for the days when I was in the game, “out there” (as George Constanza’s Mother would say) or to be blunt -- just younger and better looking. 

I can remember the very first time someone flirted with me.  I was probably about 13 and in line at the MacDonald’s in Eastover, MD.  Obviously it made a huge impression on me since that was 47 years ago.  I had on an outfit I’d bought with my baby sitting money and I was with a friend, not my parents.  I ordered fries and a coke and the young man behind the counter said something to me.  Not sure what he said, I politely repeated my order.  He just looked at me and smiled.  I mean really smiled -- with his eyes, his lips and his whole being.  Suddenly, I realized, he heard me-- he just wanted me to notice him.  God knows what I said, but I was keenly aware that in spite of being 13 (albeit tall for my age) and new to the game, this boy wanted me to notice him.  I walked away from MacDonald’s that day a new woman.  I had caught the eye of a 16 or possibly 17 year old boy.  This wasn’t some kid in the 6^th grade poking me in the back or my Dentist patting me on the head -- this was flirting.  I liked it. 

Thus began the slow dance of romance – the give and take of mutual attraction that culminates in the thrill of first love, heartbreak and an eventual adult relationship.  By now you’d think I’d be well versed in this flirting thing and pretty much done with it.  After all, I’ve had my share of crushes, two or three ‘first’ loves, a couple of serious flings and two husbands.  But I find, just short of 60, I may be back to square one.  Throughout my teens, 20s, 30s, and 40s, I grew accustomed to the attention of men (even though I didn’t always welcome it.)  But sometime around my mid-50s I began to notice something – I was becoming invisible.  Not to my friends, family, or colleagues, but to younger people in general and to men (young and old) in particular.  I’m not going to examine that whole invisibility thing in “older” women, because it’s been done and much better than I could do it.  This is merely about flirting. 

I think the gradual decline of flirting was a relief at first.  Putting a raincoat over your pajamas for a quick run to the 7-Eleven became a possibility, accomplished with nary a glance from the guys in the next car or the old coot buying cigarettes.  They don’t see you – but that’s okay, you don’t want to be seen.  But wait, I’m not dead!  I still care about my appearance and rarely go out without my hair in place and a little lipstick.  Though not a huge deal, today’s tiny little exchange made me feel good.  Maybe this guy gives everyone he waits on a little ego boost, maybe he always says something to women – young or old.  I really don’t care.  Why?  Because for a moment I was back in line at MacDonald’s and it was all ahead of me.   

I’m just saying…

I'm just saying...: For Polly, May You Rest in Peace

I first saw Polly Edwards Johnson some 45 years ago.  She drove into my life in a burgundy Mustang convertible and thankfully she stayed around for about the next 5 decades. 

I learned many things from Polly, one of the first being that a woman could keep her maiden name as her middle name!  In the small town of Bryans Road, Polly -- with her middle name and her open mind was a real stand out.  She had three children – Kae, Kris, and KeKe and I had the good fortune to snag Kae as my best friend.  This meant that I had unlimited access to Polly. 

Fortunately Polly had an open door policy and all of Kae’s friends were welcome.  Many of us grew to be part of the often raucous and always interesting Johnson family.  A teacher by trade, Polly could be found evenings and weekends curled up in her living room chair reading a book and making notes.  When I arrived (whether Kae was there or not), Polly would look up and without missing a beat say, “Pam, you’ve got to read this book, this lady is a fabulous writer.”  With her ever present glass of sweet tea and a cloud of cigarette smoke, Polly ruled the living room -- delivering edicts, demands (get my purse, Kris), recommendations and wisdom, to a gaggle of teenaged girls who listened in wonder and took mental notes. 

A mother who read books, talked to me like I was an adult, dispensed sweet tea and the occasional cigarette – I was enthralled.  If it weren’t for Polly, I’m not sure I would have ever considered going to college.  But, there was no doubt in Polly’s mind that was where all of us were headed.  It was“When you and Kae go to college -- THIS and be careful what you choose as a major --THAT” – and soon, I accepted as normal, that I would indeed go to college.  Polly had that knack, what she said, somehow became true, or at least a possibility.  She expected the best effort from people and rarely got less. 

And, it wasn’t just school work and literature that she extolled.  I remember coming in with Kae one day and Polly jumped up to put a record on the stereo, “Listen to this girls, I saw this guy on Johnny Carson the other night and he’s going to be a big star.  She then proceeded to tell us about Elton John.  Kae and I (caught up in the teenybopper world of top 40 tunes) most likely exchanged skeptical glances until we heard the first few notes of “Friends.”

And how fitting that the memory of a song called “Friends” would leap to mind as I gathered my thoughts on Polly.  She embodied the essence of friendship and she obviously passed that along to her children.  “Come in, sit down, have some tea, watch this show, read this book, sing this song.”  All this directed at a gawky teenager with loads of adolescent issues and the desire to be taken seriously.

That was another thing that Polly always did – for her students, her kids and her kids’ friends -- she took us seriously,  She listened to our woes, our little triumphs and our dreams.  She encouraged those dreams.  She didn’t scoff or poo poo what we hoped to do, she said “Do it Girl.”  And, somehow, when it came from the mouth of an adult, a teacher and a parent, it sounded doable.  She came to our sports games, our plays and school activities.  She picked me up countless times in that little burgundy Mustang and schlepped the whole bunch of us to the movies, the mall, and the pool.  And later, when we could drive and go where we pleased, we continued to gather at her feet and listen to her consul on the issues that plagued us as we grew up – grades, boyfriends, parent troubles, college, and politics.  And as we aged the bigger issues of sex, drugs, and rock and roll. 

She was an authority figure, but like no other I’d ever known.  A grown-up who was interested in what young people had to say, who encouraged us to stretch and who never judged or talked down to us. 

I owe her a great debt and I only hope that I repaid a small part of it in her later years when I had the pleasure of making her a dinner or taking her to a concert or spending an evening with her reminiscing about the old days. 

Thank you, Polly – for the wisdom, the guidance and the laughter.  Thank you for being a part of that Village that it truly takes to raise a child.  Not only raise them – as you did your three loving children and their countless friends – but raise them to be responsible, thoughtful and caring adults. 

When I think of you in the days, weeks, months and years to come – I will see you in a comfortable chair, bathed in the warm glow of lamp light, head bent over a book and pencil and notepad at the ready.  As I cross the threshold into your snug little living room, you’ll look up with a warm smile and in that husky but commanding voice --softened with a slight Georgia drawl – say “You gotta see this, read this or do that…”  And I will, Polly -- we all will -- we’ll keep learning and growing and living like you wanted us to, like your taught us, like you showed us. 

Thank you Friend, Mother, Grandmother, and Teacher.  Thank you and Good bye. 

Polly Edwards Johnson & Me 

Keeping the Peace

Okay, I broke one of my Cardinal rules today – I went shopping on a Saturday morning. I have been breaking it all summer because the best venders come to the Farmer’s Market on Saturday mornings.  Usually I shop and go home, in keeping with my pledge not to bother the working folks. (See blog post 03/23/12).  Well, it’s a damn good thing I stayed out because my services were sorely needed. 

As always, my first stop of the morning is Starbucks.  My fav location at the intersection of Old Georgetown Road and Rockville Pike is moderately busy serving the best coffee on the planet.  I get my usual order and hop over to the bank to get some cash.  All is well until I exit the bank.  As I juggle my coffee and search for my keys, I notice a man lurking around the entrance to the sheltered ATM.  Yes, I said lurking; he is slouched over with his hands stuffed in his pockets; mumbling to himself and furtively eyeing those exiting the Starbucks.  As is my nature, when he looks my way I make direct eye contact.  He quickly looks down.  I would never have given it another thought (maybe he was mumbling into a tiny cell phone), but as I start up my car I notice that he has wandered over to the trash can near the parking spaces.  He proceeds to fish out a discarded coffee cup and take a swig.  Then he scoops up a morsel of pastry and swallows it.  I’ve seen this before (albeit, not often in Mo Co) and I am not alarmed.  Not until he suddenly begins to shout and gesture menacingly at a young family on their way to the cleaners.  A small boy with wide eyes looks over his shoulder as his parents tug him forward.  Heads at the outside tables swivel to look and one couple gathers up their things to leave.  Now I am on alert and immediately shift into “witness mode” –  Hmm, white male, mid to late 60s, balding with sparse gray hair, about 5’6”, neatly dressed in a navy golf shirt, tucked into belted jeans.  I make a special note of his most prominent identifying mark – no front teeth.  I put my coffee aside and watch him carefully.  He strides up and down the sidewalk, making jerky motions and shouting intermittently. 

Okay, I’ve got to do something.  I’ll go back into Starbucks and tell them to call the police.  No, they won’t do it, they’re too busy and they won’t be sufficiently alarmed, they didn’t see this guy.  I decide to report this to the non-emergency police number.  I call and give them (if I do say so myself) an excellent description of the culprit (see above) and his location.  I am assured that the Mo Co police will arrive shortly.  I finally drive across the parking lot to the Farmer’s Market.  Later, I hear sirens.  I doubt they are responding to my report, although I do double back to check the lot at Starbucks.  I don’t see the man.  My work is done. 

Next stop is Target and all goes well, no unsavory characters mar my visit.  I really am pushing it, it is close to noon and I need to get home and out of the way of the working folks.  On a whim, I pull into the Dollar Store.  I need some bubble wrap and mailers – always a real bargain there. I find the mailing supplies and as a bonus, some sturdy CD cases.  I make my way to the check out.  By this time the store is crowded.  Elderly ladies with their care givers buy greeting cards; groups of Hispanic women fill carts with cleaning supplies; and young boys in soccer gear grab bags of Chex Mix.  The line is unusually long at the one open check out.  A lady behind me, holding four bags of egg noodles, asks me to guard her place while she gets someone to open another register.  She returns and assures me she notified someone.  I thank her and we chat about long lines and the Halloween decorations already on display. 

In blatant disregard of “the code of the newly opened register”, several people who have just wandered up jump into the newly opened line.  My friend, still hanging on to her noodles, walks over to that register and politely says, “We are all over there waiting in that long line.”  A large man replies in a loud, scornful and gruff voice, “Open your eyes, Lady.  You’re out shopping you gotta look out for things.  That’s what you got eyes for!”  The store grows very quite.  Hmm this doesn’t sit well with me.  That is no way to address my nice egg noodle lady.  Not to mention the other little ladies who seem to shrink back, bow their heads and clutch their greeting cards more tightly.

This guy is intimidating my peeps!  I am the tallest and whitest lady in the store; it’s now clear why I made this unscheduled visit to the Dollar Store.  In my firm school teacher voice I announce, “That kind of talk is unnecessary!”  My fellow shoppers perk up and the man’s head snaps around to take a look at me.  In a quieter tone he says “Whatever.”  The lines move along and we all get checked out.  As I am about to exit, I see the egg noodle lady at the door.  She pats me on the arm and thanks me.  There is no excuse for that kind of rudeness, I say and there are smiles and nods all around. 

I now seriously head for home; I have satisfied my need to keep the peace. 

I’m just saying… 

Farewell Old Friend...

I like to think that by sitting in the front row, dead center for each complete season of the National Symphony Orchestra for over 20 years, my face would be familiar to the conductor.  It’s true that many, many times over the years he has nodded to me, asked me a question, even once singling out my young companions for recognition.  But, maybe I’m fooling myself, maybe he didn’t know me, maybe I was just another face in the crowd.  No, I believe that my red-haired friend and I -- reliable fixtures on Saturday nights for so many years – were known to him on some level.  I know the first violinist knows me, she nods to us frequently and once when I saw her in another venue taking her children to music lessons, she greeted me like an old friend (albeit she didn’t say my name…) 

Why am I pondering this? Because Marvin Hamlisch -- long-time conductor of the NSO Pops at the Kennedy Center, famed composer of Barbra Streisand songs, Broadway musical and movie scores and a proponent of the All American songbook -- died today.  I was eating breakfast in the Greek diner with my husband and his family visiting from New York when my brother-in-law pointed to the TV behind the counter and said “Look, Marvin Hamlisch died.”  Since then I’ve heard he died after a “short Illness” and that he was 68 years old.  (Geez,  that’s way too young to die…). 

I really feel bad, like I lost a friend.  My symphony-going partner is in Oklahoma, so I can’t commiserate with her at the moment.    I did send an email to the couple that sits next to us at the Kennedy Center and I posted my regrets on Facebook, but it just doesn’t seem like enough.  It’s not like I can call Mrs. Hamlisch or go round to their apartment with a covered dish.  But, somehow it seems like I should be able to.  I guess that’s indicative of today’s strange and wonderful relationship we have with celebrities.  Although, it’s not like Marvin was some kind of reality show, cable TV, tabloid-reported on kind of celeb.  He was more like the kind of celeb who would appear on the Ed Sullivan show, if there was still an Ed Sullivan Show.  He’s my kind of celeb -- comfortable in his white tie & tails, no non-traditional garb for Mr. Hamlisch.   He was a consistent presence, even though over the years I saw his hair grow gray and his waistband expand.  You could always count on his exuberant enthusiasm and admiration for NSO performers ranging from Ray Charles to Kristen Chenowith.  Sometimes he shared things with us, like his obvious joy at his fairly late-in-life marriage.  Sometimes he was like the goofy older brother you never had or the crazy uncle who visited at the holidays, as he attempted to rap or lamented the lack of a good Hanukah song.  But most of the time he was the consummate entertainer steeped in old school traditions.  I am going to miss you, Mr. Hamlisch. 

I’m just saying…

You Gotta Have Friends

I’ve spoken about the joys of volunteerism on occasion and how it gives you purpose, utilizes your natural skills and enriches your life.  Well, I’m back to that subject to examine how important it is to your social life.  My husband is away for the weekend – in Pittsburgh to see some baseball stadium, drink beer, eat Italian food and perhaps have some desultory conversation with his male friends.  I use “desultory” (des’el-tor’e) adj. 1. random, aimless, indiscriminate -- to describe their conversation because I have no idea what constitues conversation when it comes to men.  From what I can determine, they certainly don’t talk much about feelings, spouses, shoes or their weight.  I know for a fact that my husband has less personal information about his male traveling companions then I do about a woman I met last night.  Albeit, this woman was charming and outgoing, but I’m sure that our initial chat revealed more about our spouses, Alma Maters, parents and food preferences than my husband knows about his travelling mates – friends for some 40 years!  But that’s another entire blog post, this one concerns new friends. 

I like to imagine what I would have been doing last night if I had not become friends with a couple I met through my work as a docent.   Probably something like this -- after ironing, cleaning cat boxes and eating cheese, I settle down for a long evening of dozing off between watching a QVC “Today’s Special Value” presentation and eating more cheese.  Fortunately, I was invited to a surprise birthday party -- one that represents a real rite of passage in a person’s life.  Who among my older friends doesn’t remember their 30^th birthday?  I can tell you exactly what I did on mine, down to what I wore and every person who celebrated with me!  Even if you are not the remembering type, 30 is a milestone birthday, especially for us Boomers raised on the old saw “Don’t trust anyone over 30” and the Who’s admonition “Hope I die before I get old!”  It’s hard to believe that I ever thought 30 was OLD.

It seems that today’s 30-somethings still think 30 is old.  I didn’t disabuse them of this, they’ll find out soon enough.  You might ask what is our girl Pam doing hanging out with a bunch of 30-somethings?  It all stems from me being in a new environment and meeting new people.  Now don’t think for a minute I’ve abandoned my old (as in long-time) friends; just 3 weeks ago I attended a dear friend’s birthday party and had a ball.  The problem is many of my friends have moved away; some to other states and some to areas just too far away to pull off a spontaneous drop-by or a quick cup of coffee.  Plus, you’d be amazed at how busy retired people can be.  Not in the sense of 9-5, more like weekends and evenings and entire months spent in Ireland and West Palm Beach.  Yes, yet another perk of financially stable, healthy and active over 55 types – the freedom to do what you want.  So, as much as I love my friends for life, they are not always available. 

To tell the truth, the one thing I missed when I stopped working was the people.  I loved the easy banter with co-workers, the -- “What did ya do this weekend?  How is your Mom?  You’ll love the new Woody Allen movie!”  exchange of everyday activities that makes you part of something and eases the daily grind.  Let’s face it, for most people work is a big part of their existence.  I made true, long-lasting friendships in my career and stockpiled countess weird, goofy and hilarious stories that I share to this day.  Being a part of Strathmore’s volunteers fills that gap for me.  Even though I’m “part-time”, I’ve been included (May I say embraced?) by a group of intelligent, thoughtful, aware, kind, fun and dedicated young people.  I’ve been invited to their weddings, baby showers, barbecues, song-fests, band gigs and yes -- even their 30^th birthday parties.  As a result of this, I’m subject to the snowball effect – I meet their friends, their parents and in some cases their kids!  Ah, the possibilities are endless…well, maybe not endless, but certainly enough to keep me busy for the foreseeable future. 

I sometimes wonder if my little blog enterprise might degenerate into an easy and convenient way for me to carp about woes and the unfairness of aging.  No, I won’t allow it.  I am a lucky woman and grateful for my good fortune. 

I’m just saying…

I Get By With a Little Help

As you age weird things happen to your body.  Sometimes parts of your body have to be replaced.  In 2008 I had my entire knee replaced.  It wasn’t so bad and now my knee doesn’t hurt constantly like it did for 2 years prior to the replacement. 

Even though I wish I didn’t need the replacement, I am less annoyed by this major surgery (brought on by years of high impact aerobics & the wearing of 3 inch high heels for 8-10 hours a day) than I am by the fact that one of my fingernails has a split in it and refuses to grown out or fuse together.  As a result, about once a month I have an acrylic nail placed over my natural nail.  I go to this very nice nail salon where 100s of women get each of their nails replaced, not because they are split, but just because they can sport really spiffy French manicures or else finally have long, strong nails polished in a variety of vivid colors.

These women have spectacular nails, especially when they gesture with their hands or pose nicely with a wine glass.  I’m usually pulling the sleeves of my sweater over my hands to hide my stubby nails beleaguered by years of yard work and key boarding.  (Although for a short time after my nail technician artfully sculpts my fake nail and smoothes & paints the others with a pale pink glossy lacquer, my hands look pretty presentable.)

Don’t get me wrong, the gentlemen who does my nails creates a hell of a realistic looking fake nail and I am in awe of his ability to create such beauty given the raw material (me) he has to work with.  As a result, I am quite fond of him.  Hell, I see him more than I see members of my family.  We know quite a bit about each other and he

really knows how to read me.  If he senses I’m not in a talkative mood, he quietly goes about his business.  If I’m my usual chatty self, we’ll have a spirited conversation about his son, his upcoming trip to Vietnam, our gardens or a particular news story that has captured our fancy. 

I’ve recommended him too many people (it turns out “split nails” are a common problem among the over 55 set.)  In addition, I tip him quite well and give him an extra generous tip at the holidays.  I’m not suggesting that others don’t do this, but I for one think his skills are greatly undervalued and that the normal charge for what he does is extremely modest.  I mean this man can create a replica of a natural fingernail with a mysterious mixture of powder & goop in mere seconds and it stays put for at least a month!

I wouldn’t begin to compare my Orthopedic Surgeon to my Vietnamese Nail Technician; although I have to say they both have provided me with viable solutions when parts of my body have failed me.  I guess the theme of this post is how the number of people I require to keep me pain-free, upright and well groomed continues to grow. 

When I was a pre-teen and teenager, I’d get a haircut at the beginning of every summer and then let it grow for the rest of the year.  I washed my hair with Breck shampoo and let it air dry.  I currently have a hairdresser who I see every 6 weeks for a trim and touch up and my shower ledge is filled with a variety of shampoos & conditioners geared to what stage of hair maintenance I am currently experiencing.  In addition, the variety of hair care “product” that fills my bathroom cabinets is too numerous to mention.  I am a sucker for “product” and not just hair product.  Albeit, I would need to devote another entire blog post to “facial care”. 

Needless to say, I feel my closeness with my hairdresser, and my nail technician, stems from the fact that we see each other so regularly and are always within inches of each other’s faces.  I once read an article that suggested that hairdressers should take psychology classes as part of their training given that so many people confide in and speak frankly to them. 

It’s a good thing I am retired, because I don’t think I could hold down a full time job as more and more of my time is taken up with beauty service providers and medical personnel.  Man, does that ever sound dismal… Perhaps I should just let time and nature take its toll.  NO!  As long as I have breath in my body I’ll continue to repair and replace; buff and wax; and color, cut and confide in my various care givers. 

I’m just saying…  



The Kindness of Strangers

I was feeling a little down this morning so armed with a $20 coupon, I make my way to the DSW Shoe Warehouse.  I am certain that a scientific poll would reveal that shoe shopping is a universally satisfying experience.  You see, the nice thing about shoes is they don’t make your butt look big; rarely, if ever, do you find that you’ve gone up a size; a decent pair of shoes can still be purchased for a fair price; and in places like DSW you don’t have to be bothered with pesky salespeople.  Quality help is there when you need it, but it’s not intrusive.  You can spend as much time as you want in DSW, try on as many shoes as you like and you don’t have to take off any of your clothes. 

After trying on a few pair of randomly selected styles, a lady with a Russian accent approaches me extends her foot and asked which shoe I like better.  Well, never one to shrink from giving my opinion, I study both her feet and give my informed opinion.  Her shoes are the same style, but one is tan and one is silver.  I choose the tan, it’s more practical and the silver has a little too much of a “Senior Prom” vibe. I go on to say that the tan shoe is good for work and could pass for dressy.  The silver shoe has limits.  She listened intently and agrees.  I ask you, where else can you go where you opinion is sought after and valued?  My new friend gives me a smile, a thank you and is on her way.    

The giving advice stage and carefree browsing gives way to phase two -- serious shoe consideration.  I decide to pursue casual, comfortable, flip floppy-type shoes with some good arch support.  I just joined a pool and I want something to wear there that resists water damage.  Mind you, I have my “ in-the-pool” shoes in case I decide to take water aerobics, the shoes I’m searching for  are “go-to-the-pool” shoes.  

I began pulling boxes – Sketchers, Tevas, Bare Trapps, Merrills and settle down for some trying on.  (My initial try-ons were merely warm up exercises.)  I like to perch on one of those stools with the mirror attached, get comfortable and spread out.  For some reason I’ve worn socks, I quickly remove them, stuff them in my purse and hunker down.  The Bare Trapps and Sketchers are a no-go, the Tevas and Merrills are put aside for further study. 

I run through a series of poses in front of the little mirror (the advantage to this mirror is that I can only see my feet and ankles, no backside).  Do they make my foot look wide?  Are my toes and heels snugly cradled?  Is my pinky toe compromised in anyway?  How about the little fabric “thingy” between my toes, is it soft, not scratchy?  So far the Tevas are leading in the comfort department and I find the Merrills to be a tad too narrow.  I shelve the rejects just as a fellow shopper leans in to tell me a sock has fallen from purse.  I’m grateful to her because, they are my favorite socks.  You just can’t equal the kindness of women shoe shoppers.

As I examine my shoes (and notice that my 3 week old pedicure is showing some wear) I realize my purse, old shoes and a discarded shoe box are blocking the aisle.  I jump up and apologize to a lady trying to squeeze by me while balancing 4 boxes.  She assures me I’m okay and takes the opportunity to ask how I like her shoes.  I like them, I even like the shoes she owns (she said she bought them here last week). We discuss the pros and cons of black soles vs. white (too “sneaker like’) before she moves on to find her own little seat with a mirror.  Ever notice how women bond so quickly when engaged in retail therapy?  We have no qualms about asking for advice or listening intently to a total stranger’s opinion.  I like that about women.

I look up and see my Russian lady, she holds up the tan shoes and gives me a thumbs up.  Gee, maybe I should ask her to go for coffee?   I move on to look at more dressy sandals, clutching the Tevas under my arm.  I mean I’m here and I’m already going to save $20 on a pair of shoes; might as well look at some cute “go-to dinner-and-a-movie” shoes.  I soon find a pair of cute comfy leather sandals.  Hmm, size 8 is too snug, size 9 too roomy, and they don’t have any more half sizes.  I scribble down the maker of the shoe -- Eddie Bauer (I thought they went out of business?) -- and vow to check “Zappos” or “6 PM’ when I get home.  Didn’t I overhear a woman ask if they had additional sizes on DSW’s web site?  DSW has a web site?  I store that away for future use.  (Note: found the 8.5 on the DSW web site…)

I’ve been here well over an hour, but I’ve got some time before I have to make a meeting of the neighborhood Landscaping Committee.  I head toward the purse and wallet section, then think better of it.  Wallets are best purchased at the Fossil and Coach outlets, I’ll check on that later when I go to the beach.  As I head to the check out I see that business is brisk, but there are lots of cashiers and the line moves along.  A nice sales lady thanks me for waiting, in turn I thank her for sending me a $20 coupon.  We laugh and exchange big smiles (see, there’s that “girl-bonding” thing again!) 

I’m out of the store with enough time to stop for a cup of coffee.  No Starbucks in this shopping center, I’d have to cross 3 lanes of traffic, so I try the Quartermaine’s, Coffee Roasters founded in Rockville, Maryland in 1991 by the original founders of Starbucks.   (I didn’t know that, I read it on the door as I enter).  Yum!  The coffee is excellent, strong and dark just how I like it and a “fixin” bar with whole milk, cinnamon, a variety of sweeteners and tightly fitting lids.  I’m putting Quatermaine's on my regular route, there are not enough to replace Starbucks, but definitely worth a trip. 

But, I digress; I started out making a case for shoe shopping as therapy and now I’m blabbing about coffee.  Maybe shoes and coffee and the kindness of strangers make for good therapy.  I’m just saying…

How About Some Coffee?

I’m retired.  I’ve mentioned that on a number of occasions.  My most stressful decision most mornings is whether I want a Grande in a Venti cup or a Tall in a Grande cup.  You see, I like to have lots of room for milk and…ah…never mind.  You get the picture.  I am living a pretty much stress-free existence.  So, it is with some reticence that I must confess to occasionally losing my mind.  I’m afraid I had one of those experiences this morning.  Before I confess to my shameful behavior, let me tell you about all the effort I put into not getting into the way of those who work full time.

I never grocery shop, go to the Mall, schedule a maintenance visit, buy gas, go to Target, drive on Rockville Pike or try to buy tickets to anything on Saturday or Sunday.  I also never schedule a doctor’s appointment, during rush hour (so as not to be on the streets or take up a seat on the train).  Given that I have the entire week to do pretty much whatever I want, whenever I want, I confine my activities to weekdays and most often during mid-day.   I try to give the working folks time and space.    I think it’s only fair.  Even if the gainfully employed are not aware of my behavior, I think they would applaud it. 

I am not looking for a pat on the back, because frankly I don’t want to be out fighting the frenzied hoards for a parking space.  I think most retired folks feel that way, it’s kind of an unspoken agreement we have with those who are employed.  We amble through the Harris Teeter at 10:45 AM on Tuesday, stopping to examine labels for “salt content” and no one is the slightest bit annoyed.  We sip our Starbucks and stroll along like we have all day to grocery shop – BECAUSE WE DO! 

There is one catch.  There is one group of individuals who share this mid-day turf with us, and they are not part of OUR unspoken agreement.  By all indications, it seems they have no desire to make anyone’s life easier but their own.  These mid-day shopping, latte sipping, SUV-driving, Under Armor wearing, stay-at-homes do not share our magnanimous nature.  I know what you’re thinking.  Okay, when I observe their 2% body fat physiques, encased in what we used to call “lycra” -- I am envious.  I am.  BUT, is it really necessary for these interlopers to run over my toes with their $400 jogging strollers?  Do they really need to talk so loud on whatever the f__k that thing is in their ear?  And, while we’re at it, isn’t it dangerous to drive an Escalade with a Frappuccino in one hand while turning right on red and gesturing over your shoulder to your car-seated, dual DVD watching, toddlers?  Isn’t that too much multi-tasking? 

Okay, I’m getting dangerously close to sounding like a crank.  I am just setting the stage with events that led up to my “parking lot rage incident”.  I hardly ever visit the “tony” shopping areas that cater to young Mommies and their off-spring.  I don’t do yoga and I don’t even know anyone with a child under twelve.  Today I was nowhere near “Full of Beans” or “LuluLemon”; there wasn’t a Starbucks for miles.  (I know because I purchased my Pike Place Roast, Grande in a Venti cup, a good 3 miles away.)  I swear I was in a perfectly generic parking lot – in Rockville -- and not the Rockville now called North Bethesda.  It was well after 10 am.  I choose my parking spot carefully – one where the right side of my car ran parallel to a sidewalk.  I checked to see that there was plenty of room between me and the white line on the left.  Satisfied, I left my car for a few short errands. 

When I returned I was puzzled because I couldn’t see my car.  Could I have forgotten where I parked?  Momentary panic gave way to short-lived relief when I discovered that my car was dwarfed by a shiny black SUV.  This SUV was HUGE and it was crookedly parked in the spot next to me leaving about an inch between it and my driver side.  I studied the space between my car and the SUV.  Maybe an inch, I tried to squeeze sideways between the vehicles to reach my door handle.  Couldn’t do it, let alone open the door.  I looked around; I looked at the offending SUV.  It sure was shiny, clean – hmmm, garage-kept.  No dust marred its mirror-like side panels; no bird poop decorated its deeply tinted windows.  I looked down at the smear of pollen that had rubbed off my car onto my jeans.  There was no one around -- no mommies, no fellow retirees, noone.  What’s a girl to do? 

I walked around to the left side of my car, opened the door and threw my stuff in the back seat. I carefully placed my half-finished coffee on the passenger side floor and sat down; I looked at the console, cup holders and GPS wires that separated me from the driver’s seat.  I carefully raised my left leg (the one that was fitted with an artificial knee a few years ago.) and guided it into the driver’s side.  I was now doing a modified split across the console one leg on the driver’s side, one leg on the passenger’s side.  I carefully shifted my weight and raised my right leg for the pass over, hoping I didn’t lose my balance and impale myself on the gear shift.  Success!   I was now sitting in my driver’s seat.  I started the car and lowered the window – I could see my reflection in the glossy surface of the vehicle next to me.  If I inclined my head just a little, my forehead would touch this car.  The tinted window loomed above me.  My car began to cool off a little (even though I didn’t) and I reached over and retrieved my cup.  The window was still down and I took a sip of tepid coffee.  And then, my friends, I did it – I took the lid off the paper cup, reached up as high as I could and poured the remainder down the side of the SUV.  Some hit the window and those pesky grinds that linger in the bottom of the cup stuck quite nicely to the side.  I watched the coffee dribble down, leaving a little mocha-colored pool on the pavement. 

Shocking isn’t it, this overt act of “parking lot rage”, but -- strangely satisfying.  I backed out, careful not to sideswipe or even brush the offending vehicle in anyway.  My work was done.

I’m just saying…

Sounds of Summer

I know it’s only March (albeit an extremely warm one), but this day starts with the distinctive sounds of summer.  I awaken to the rumble of trucks carrying fragrant mulch, blowers, cans of gasoline and sharp spades to edge the beds.  I am motivated by the busy hum of mowers and the sunshine that pours through the kitchen window.  I put on my sweats, slip on my gardening gloves, and head out.  

First order of the day weeds, lots and lots of weeds – an incredibly invasive variety that I cannot indentify.  It grows in clumps and has little white flowers.  It rims all my beds, creeps up between the sidewalk cracks and invades the grassy areas.  I start pulling and get a rhythm going that doesn’t involve too much bending.  I work up a sweat, so I take off my hooded sweatshirt and tie it around my waist. 

On such a day, many are out and about; I’m bound to have company.  My first visitor is Joan with her dog Kerry, a sweet-natured greyhound who always looks somewhat forlorn. We talk weeds and mulch and nice weather and where she went to dinner the other night.  It’s a nice break, but Kerry is bored with our chatter and tugs on her lead.  She’s eager for the rest of her walk.  I begin again and start loading a large brown bag with debris, it’s half full and I’m not nearly finished.  In Mo Co you must put all garden/yard waste in brown paper bags for recycling.  The sun is warm and the drone of the yardmen’s blowers provides a soundtrack for my rhythmic weeding. 

Thom is my second visitor, eager to talk of his upcoming trip to Australia.  I'm happy to listen to the details, but I keep on working.   He trails along regaling me with the story of his plans to tour Melbourne and attend a friend’s wedding where the guests will be served straight from the “barbee”.  Thom is called away by his sister for a quick trip to the nursery.  I’m alone again – tugging and pulling and making some real progress.  I’m so engaged that I miss Bob’s delivery of two bottles of water (He knows how quickly I dehydrate).   When I spy the sweating bottles, I smile, stop working and take a long cool drink.  How kind he is – my husband -- he knows I won’t stop once I start working.  But he doesn’t fuss, he just brings water. 

I’ve filled an entire bag, and start on another.  I’m pleased with my progress and the dent I’ve made in what seemed like a never-ending stretch of weed choked beds.  Birdsong abounds, along with the shouts and laughter of the men working.  Snippets of conversation, in Spanish, drift my way.   I don’t understand, but the cadence is as soothing as the bird’s melodies. 

Thom is back from the nursery with flats of jewel-colored pansies.  I’m not ready for planting – I’ve yet to rake the beds and put down Preen (in a futile attempt to stave off future weeds.)  I fetch a plastic container of vinegar (I don’t like to use too many chemicals) and dribble it on the cracks in the sidewalk.  This should kill the weeds that resist my tugging.  I have another drink. Why does water tastes so good when you’re outdoors?

I stand back and survey my work.  Weeds are just about gone.  My modest garden has shrubs and plants collected from friends and family.  The forsythia started life as a small twig from my father’s yard.  A Rose of Sharon, nurtured from a cutting from garden club friend Alma, is still mostly bare.  Fat green buds dot my hydrangea stems and tiny shoots of Russian Sage, bordered by what will eventually be cone flowers, peep through the sparse mulch.  I remember the hot summer morning when neighbor Liz and I first planted it.  The lilac; azaleas; and a leggy camellia – all appear to have survived the winter.  It was a very mild winter, but still I’m grateful to be out in the warm sunshine.  My knee will ache this evening and my back may well stiffen, but my feeling of accomplishment makes it’s worth it.

I’m just saying…

The Volunteer Gene

I believe that some people are born with the volunteer gene and some are not.  This is not going to be a screed on the superiority of volunteers or the wisdom of volunteering or even the necessity of volunteering (although I think all would agree that not much would get done in business, government, organized religion or neighborhoods without volunteers).  It’s merely about people who tend to volunteer.  Yes, I am one of those people.  Days after I began first grade, the teacher asked “Who wants to collect the milk money?”  Guess who had her hand up in the air in a nanosecond?  Why?  Want to know my true motivation before I realized that I had the gene?  I had noticed that when the teacher took our 2 cents for milk each morning, she put the coins in this little round tin that formerly held a roll of scotch tape.  I wanted that little round tin.  I wanted to fill it with pennies and then shake it like a castanet.  I wasn’t looking for glory and I didn’t even know the meaning of altruism; I just wanted that scotch tape tin filled with pennies.  By raising my hand, it was mine.  But then there was that rush I felt when all the kids lined up at my desk and pressed their sweaty pennies into my hand.  I wouldn’t say it was power, but it certainly felt good.  Over the next 12 years I cleaned the chalkboard erasers; collected for March of Dimes, led the line for the fire drill; contributed canned peas to the food drive; shelved books in the library; appeared in school productions ranging from “The Three Billy Goats Gruff” to “To Kill a Mockingbird”, sold hotdogs at football games, served on the student government; helped build a couple of floats, worked at the polls, and generally did just about anything I could that didn’t require asking my parents for money or a ride somewhere.  I was a well established volunteer by the time I finished my higher education and entered the work world. 

It was the 1970s; there was a gas crisis and a job market with poor prospects.  I took an entry level clerk typist position with the Federal Government.  It was a boring job, but the pay was decent and the benefits were great.  I immediately began looking for a way to get work that I’d been schooled for and surprisingly typing was the key.  My office had some new fangled “Mag Card” machines that I quickly mastered.  I realized these machines (precursors to word processing) were like the Emancipation Proclamation for typists.  You could type like the wind and when you made a mistake you just did a ‘strike over’ and the printed document reflected the corrections. No fuss, no muss, no white-out and better still -- no re-typing.  As word of these magic machines spread, other offices sent emissaries to check them out.  One afternoon my boss said “Who wants to put on a demo for some curious managers from other offices?  Guess whose hand went up like a shot?  Yes, I did the demo and the other office hired me to train their staff!  Once again, proof that volunteerism pays!  (and, not just sweaty pennies.)  Within a year I had worked my way into another job and on and on.  Don’t think for a moment that was the end of my volunteering.  While climbing the career ladder I managed to organize a few dozen Happy Hours and Office Christmas parties, collect canned goods, assist with talent shows at the VA Hospital, bake about 100 birthday cakes, throw a couple of baby showers, collect money for retirement parties, tutor students in the DC public school system, and even serve as Fire Marshall for my corridor.  (Hmm, sound familiar?)

None of these activities were accomplished on my own.  I met many others with the volunteer gene.  We kind of gravitate toward each other, flock together like birds.   We understand each other and the need to do.  We recognize each other in a crowded room, it’s not like we have an identifying mark or a secret handshake, we know our kind.  Some of us establish life-long friendships.  We carry on our relationship from work to after work activities and then on into retirement.  We know each other’s strengths and call on each other when we need someone we can count on.  

I was spurred to write this by a fellow traveler.  This is for you Sam, the ultimate volunteer – a member of the armed forces who served her country at a time when it was not so commonplace for women.  You followed this service with a career devoted to veterans’ benefits and then a busy retirement schedule of activities at your grandkid’s school and many retirement and alumni associations.  You are an excellent newsletter editor and a Web Master Extraordinaire.  All these things accomplished with a warm smile, a love of life and a devotion to family and friends.  You are the poster child for the Volunteer Gene.  More should take a page from your book. 

I’m just saying…