Adulting

Little Me, waiting impatiently to be Big Me

Bank Teller: [cashing Josh's first paycheck] Okay, so how would you like that?

Josh: Three dimes, a hundred dollar bill and 87 ones.

                                                                                                                                                                                 --from Big

 

There are movies I identify with, and those I don’t. I’ve never felt sympatico with Patton, or made Sophie’s Choice, or experienced Birth of a Nation. But give me a film where a kid gets magically transformed into an adult, and brother, I am THERE. Big, Freaky Friday (both versions)-these flicks speak to my soul. 

 

For you see, I’ve wanted to be an adult since age five, give or take. I was ready to “put away childish things” by the time I hit first grade. I had less than zero interest in most toys (although Barbie inspired some happy daydreams. She was a glamorous grownup. Granted, her legs didn’t bend, but I could overlook that.) I vastly preferred watching the soapy As the World Turns, to the juvenile Romper Room. I loved ordering Shirley Temples at the bar in Pete’s Tavern (my Dad’s fave NYC hangout), swirling my swizzle stick in the ginger ale and pretending I was drinking a martini. To me, the years from birth through adolescence were like a boring waiting room where I languished, marking time until I could vote, and become a pilot (yes, I wanted my own plane too). 

 

You can imagine my joy when I reached The Magic Age. I could drive! And get a job! I could smoke Virginia Slims (and gag every time)! I could…get engaged! Which I did, at 17. I never had to lose another baby tooth, or pretend I liked clowns. No wonder so many people decided to remain adults! It was as thrilling as I’d imagined!

 

Well, gang, after 50+ years, I know the real scoop. Mind you, I don’t yearn to return to the playground, but there’s SO much they don’t tell you about Adultville! For example: you are EXPECTED to be savvy. As a kid, I’d been praised to the skies for my superior I.Q. Where were the kudos now, when I balanced a checkbook by myself? No one gives you a standing ovation for putting an IKEA bookcase together, or paying the electric bill, or flossing daily. Where’s the brass band??

 

Alas, I was misled. Getting older is tough, and often joyless and dull. I had wanted to be big, with all my heart, throughout my youth. Well, I made it, and frankly I’d give this experience a 6 out of 10, tops. Even without the bum knees and bad eyesight and wrinkles, it’s no picnic. And there’s no presto-chango to turn you back into Hayley Mills or Lindsay Lohan, either.

 

I told little Dimitri the other day, “Enjoy being a baby! Someday, you’ll miss the view from your stroller. You’ll never be carefree again.” 

 

As his Nana, I needed to tell him the truth. 

He started to cry. 

But maybe that was just gas. 

Which is still an issue for grownups—and nobody to burp us! 

Sigh.

Laugh while you can, Dimitri! 

I Am All Connected

I've been trying to choose an image that would convey my feelings about our interconnected humanity. Because that’s what we are, like it or not. It’s absurd to let skin color or language separate us, when it’s so obvious that we all share many characteristics, experiences and emotions. I’ve compared us to a rainbow, a flower garden, a choir, a tapestry. Nothing has struck me as quite right.  

But finally, I’ve come up with something. 

 

If we think of the world as The Apple Store in a great Cosmic Mall (stick with me), then we consumers are all connected. I can write a message on my iPhone and it will magically appear on my laptop. Ditto “notes” (I can make a shopping list on the computer, then carry it with me on my phone to the grocery store with no further effort.) Convenient! Delightful!  

The steps I log on to my Fitbit, are counted for me in the Fitbit app. Prepping for our trip to Asia, I dig out my Airtags for our luggage. I can tell how much battery is left in them by…checking my iPhone. And as I set up my brand new Airpods, I am informed that I can use them across ALL Apple platforms. I can use Airplay and mirror a movie or show onto my TV screen. I can use Airdrop to share files with another Apple-ton! I can even send pix from my computer in my office, to our photo frame in the dining room. Convenient! Delightful!

 

But I have a few problems with this analogy. One: it’s borderline Big Brother creepy. It’s easy to imagine this technology falling into the wrong hands, fiendishly piping Black Sabbath into my Airpods and Airplaying me into a Green Acres marathon, driving me insane. Two: while in some cases it does allow us to connect with one another, many of these bells and whistles are just tying our various techno-bits together for OURSELVES. 

 

Do I need EVERY Apple product to sync? I imagine them gossiping in the dead of night, laughing at my choice of sitcoms, and my penchant for losing my Airtags (never mind the luggage they’re supposed to lead me to), and the way I play songs I like a jillion times! “What a maroon!” they beep to each other.  And then, I don’t know, all this dirt about me is shared with the corporate Big Apples, who sell it to a shady operative in North Korea?? Very possibly!

 

I wish I could feel one with the black walnut tree in our back yard, or the chirping birdies on the telephone wire, or the glorious night sky. I’d even settle for the weird looking guy across from me on the train. But I don’t. I know in my heart that interconnectedness is real, but my head screams: “I’m an island! I stand alone!” 

 

Alone, that is, armed with every single Apple in Steve Jobs’ barrel. 

Here I am. And there you are. Alone, together. 

Fade Out

Yup. No thank you.

There I was, deep in YouTube World, when I found a TED talk called “The Four Phases of Retirement.” Of course I watched it, eager to learn what those phases were, and how I could score 100% on the phases test. The speaker identified these phases as:

1)    Vacation

2)    Losses

3)    Experimentation

4)    Reinvention

 

It was very interesting and well-reasoned. As is my wont, though, I found the most entertainment from the comments. This batch was filled with braggers (“I’ve been in Phase 1 for 15 years and I LOVE it!”; sad sacks (“I wish I was back working at the chicken processing plant. THAT was happiness!”; energetic experimenters (“then on Tuesdays, after my 10k run, working on my counted cross-stitch project and tutoring at-risk youth, I’m learning Tagalog!”), and a few people who have genuinely embraced their greater purpose in this world. 

 

But then someone posted this:

 

“Retirement is that period between fading out of relevance to fading out of existence.”

 

Whoa.

 

I was, initially, horrified. As one who thinks of herself as quite relevant indeed (and who has no intention whatsoever of dying), I’ve never framed the retirement years in those gloomy doomy terms. No, I think of myself as a Phase 3, spouting bromides like:

 

“I’m busier now that when I was working.”

“I finally have time for myself (to travel, learn piano, bake sourdough bread).”

“They don’t call them The Golden Years for nothing!”

 

Now THAT’s more like it! I can stay just as frantically occupied as ever, while taking up many fab new hobbies and always maintaining my great expectations for the time to come!

 

But, now that I’ve been retired from my position at church for several years, my views are evolving. After a lifetime of measuring myself with someone else’s yardstick, I’m finally figuring out who I really am--- without a job title, without young children, without a daily routine that guaranteed no time or energy for reflection. And, as my life’s pace gradually slows, I do think about my (maybe brief) future. 

 

And you know what? It isn’t depressing me! I have enjoyed 69 years of changing seasons, birthdays, waking up, brushing teeth, making conversation with my fellow earthlings, etc. It’s been mostly great, but also---exhausting, and rather repetitive. If I learned that I had, for instance, just 10 autumns left, I’d think: That’s fine, I’ve actually seen enough pumpkins. I refuse to feel guilty when I do not learn to play chess, become an apple farmer, or ever open that 700 page bestseller everyone’s raving about. And, when it comes to leaving a lasting impression on the world, I really don’t care all that much. 

 

I find the idea of slowly (elegantly!) fading from the scene to be a lovely way to go. Like the conclusion of a great movie. I will disappear into the fog, with the credits rolling over me. Producer, director…best boy, key grip, Foley artist, then…fade to black. THE END.

 

Sounds like Heaven to me.

Mirror Images

  

Mirror image photo by Laurenz Kleinheider on Unsplash

 

I’m a big fan of symmetry. You know, balance--one might even say “matchy matchy” (tastefully done of course.) It bothers me when there’s a side table and lamp on one side of a sofa, and a floor lamp on the other. Symmetrical hairdos, flower arrangements, food on a plate--they appeal to my sense of order.

 

Needless to say, I LOVE chiasmus (chiasmuses? Chiasmi?) ANYway, these are the rhetorical devices in which the first part of a phrase is reversed in the second phrase (sorta mirror image). Examples abound:

 

It’s not about having what you want, it’s about wanting what you have.

Those who mind don’t matter, and those who matter don’t mind.

Do what you love, love what you do.

Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country.

Eat to live, don’t live to eat.

 

Capisce?

 

Chiasmus gives any random statement some extra class, and a deep, Eastern wisdom. I can picture an elderly yogi in an ashram, sitting for years in total silence, then suddenly uttering these immortal words (probably in Sanskrit):

 

“I am stuck on Band-aids, cause Band-Aid’s stuck on me.”

 

Pretty profound!

 

Ardent wordsmith that I am, I thought I’d try my pen at a few chiasmi(muses) myself. Get a load of these beauties:

 

I can’t wait to leave, and I can’t leave until I wait.

Not quite right. Let’s try again.

 

The child walked the dog, but the dog walked the child.

You see, it was a small child and a really big dog, and…

Hmmm. OK.

 

Last month, I had a booking to read. Now, I have a reading to book. 

Cause I get bookings for readings from my books. Get it? Better? 

 

To make my literary life a tad bit easier, I remind myself that chiasmus does NOT have to have the exact same wording in both parts. Of course, that would be antimetabole, wouldn’t it? The two parts just have to have reverse sentiments. So this opens things up. I can do this!

 

Saint George may have killed a dragon, but the dragon seriously wounded Saint George first. (Can’t you just picture it?)

 

It may be hot in Miami, but it’s freezing in Antarctica. (Truth.)

 

If you don’t stop crying, I’ll give you something to cry about. (swear to God, mediocre mom though I was, I don’t recall ever saying THAT one).

 

Whew! I’m struggling, gang. I thought this would be a piece of cake. Or a cake in pieces. But it’s hard! 

 

Let me think of an appropriate way to end this post, and leave with my dignity intact.

 

Back to our yogi in the ashram. His pupils sit cross-legged on mats before him, and the silent hours tick by. But then, suddenly, from the wise man’s lips, here come the life-changing words they have been waiting for…

 

“Starkist doesn’t want tunas with good taste. Starkist wants tuna that tastes good.”

 

If you remember nothing else, my friends, remember that.

Multitalented!

Multitalented Me, back in the day!

I can say, with only a modicum of braggy, that I have been called “multitalented” on occasion. Raising five kids required several skillsets for me, some of which involved...

Excellent food management for our babies: Gerber’s (food in) and Pampers (food out)

Decent high-level organization: except for school calendars. I was constantly caught unawares by the teacher in-service days, when I would yank the kiddos from their blissful slumbers, only to learn there was NO school.

and

Mediocre psychological counseling: “Mommy, Is Santa/Easter Bunny/Tooth Fairy REAL?” “Well, what do YOU think, honey?” “I don’t KNOW. That’s why I’m asking YOU!” “Go see what Daddy thinks!” 

 

Throughout my three brilliant careers, I continued to be quite “multi.” In theatre, I could memorize and perform a children’s play in a matter of hours, (though I’d forget everything I’d crammed immediately afterward). As a church worker, I could run Vacation Bible School while prepping for an overseas youth mission trip, planning a women’s retreat and writing a children’s sermon at the same time. Now, as a freelance writer, I’m article-writing and newsletter-ing and devotion-publishing and personal essay-teaching to beat the band.

 

So I do have certain multitalents. But I am small potatoes, it seems, compared to many famous others! For instance:

 

Margot Robbie can tattoo people!

Christopher Walken can tame lions!

Pierce Brosnan is a fire-eater!

Teddy Roosevelt was a stilt-walker!

Geena Davis is an archer who tried out for the 2000 Olympic team!

 

But the prize goes to (I’m sure you guessed) Charles Gates Dawes, Vice President under Calvin Coolidge! Chuck (I like to call him Chuck), in addition to his many VP duties, received a Nobel Prize for his important work on post-WWI reparations. And what's more--Mr. Dawes was also a hit songwriter! Let me clarify here. Chuck did not himself complete a work of genius comparable to “Hound Dog” or “Love Me Do.” HOWEVER, he did compose the tune (“Melody in A Major”) in 1911, that was later gussied up with lyrics by Carl Sigman, then recorded in the 1950s as “It’s All in the Game” by legendary crooner Tommy Edwards. “IAITG” actually hit the top of the charts for a hot minute! Vice President of Pop, that’s Charles Gates Dawes!

 

I’m tempted to give up at this point. These celebs are just too, too randomly gifted!

 

But I will not end my quest to be America's Top Multitalent! I have a few years left, the good Lord willin’, to nurture some wonderful NEW abilities. I can see these talents involving walker maneuvering, medicine bottle juggling, and the Guinness World Record for longest continuous recital at Thanksgiving dinner of “Things that were better in the 1970s, including disco music and disco fashion." If I get very ambitious, I will add "Things that were better in the 1960s, when I was a young child, but I’ve seen pictures of Woodstock so I get the gist."

 

What are YOUR multitalents, dear readers? I’d love to hear about them! Aren’t we amazing?

Tempting Fate

That's me!
 (photo by James Wainscoat on Unsplash)

I’m such a chicken that it’s honestly amazing I haven’t sprouted feathers. Even reading about the exploits of extreme sportsfolk makes me break out in hives. When forced to watch the Indianapolis 500, say (which as the spouse of an Indy native has come up in the past), I clutch my rosary beads as the race cars hurtle at breakneck speed around the track.

 

I have also endured: 

 

*driving Sheridan and Rose to go skydiving, then frantically scanning the horizon until I spied their chutes descending. My fave part was signing the papers releasing Skydive Philadelphia of any responsibility should my offspring go splat. Update: they did not go splat.

*merely watching the video of Evan, Rose and Julie’s “fun” trip to the Big Island in Hawaii. They relished poking at hot lava on a volcano with sticks, making a twisty-turny 2 AM drive up to the Mauna Kea observatory, and jumping off a steep, rocky cliff into deep water. 

*witnessing Aiden and Peter running towards, and then somersaulting over, the family room furniture. “I see you! Good job, boys!” I carol through clenched teeth and with squinting eyes, as they barely clear the glass-topped coffee table and flip onto the sofa.

 

Here’s what really cements my status as Top Clucker: I think I deserve lots of credit for BRAVERY in these cases, even though all I did was watch.

 

Over the decades I know I’ve missed many an adrenaline rush. I have never walked a high wire, or washed windows on a skyscraper, or gone spelunking. I never trained to be a Navy SEAL, nor did I make any attempt to swim the English Channel or climb Everest. Tempting Fate, for me, involves eating cheese two days past the sell-by date. 

 

But hey! I’ve almost made it to age 69! If I’m ever going to break out of my rut, now’s the time! Fate? Are you still with me? Or have you long ago abandoned me due to extreme boredom?

 

Therefore, the Year of Our Lord 2026 will (might!) see me:

 

Driving my car after sunset (at least during the 20-30 minutes of dusk that follow). I will only drive a block or so, but it should be exhilarating).

 

Wading into the ocean UP TO MY KNEES. I have promised my grandsons that I would one day cavort in the waves with them. In a few years they will be far too mortified by my existence to wish for such a spectacle, so carpe diem!

 

Leaving the pan of baked ziti on the counter for an hour and FIVE minutes, then serving it. I will make sure I have 911 on speed dial and get stomach-pumping lessons first.

 

Let my fellow oldsters tap into their inner Evil Knievel! I dance to the beat of my own, timid drum, and am proud in advance of the risky business in my future!

 

Would any of you like to go ice skating this winter? I’d be happy to ...

drive you. Before sunset, of course.

Sheridan and Rose skydiving!