What? Me Blooming?

Blooming! At least the dress is!

I recently turned 66. While not quite as upsetting as turning 60, (and I am looking forward to my first Social Security check), it still brought me up short. You see, since my late forties I’ve been fine being “middle aged.” I’m OK with the no-makeup look (only because I apply it so poorly: foundation always puddles up in my “laugh lines,” which then wonderfully laser-focuses attention on the wrinkles.) Now, I do color my hair, but it’s become a race against the salon appointments, as the grays re-appear earlier and earlier each month. 

 

By and large, I’ve been comfortable in midlife. I’ve felt safely nestled, halfway between the exhilarating incline of youth and the sad decline of old age. “Midlife” implied that I was still right in the thick of it, in the midst of doing great and important things in this world. Besides, if I did happen to croak, I was certain that my legions of mourners would say, weepily, “She was MUCH too young to go!” 

 

This morning, I decided I wasn’t quite depressed enough, so I did a little math in my head. To my horror, I learned that 66 X 2 = 132!! In other words, by even the most generous calculation, I am well past the middle of my earthly span. 

 

So what do I call myself now?

 

Turns out there are several popular choices. I am considered a “senior,” (I guess my “graduation day” is...death?) an “elder,” (this implies great wisdom, which, uh, no) and a “sexagenarian” (this, sadly, doesn’t refer to sex appeal, at all). I am not a “cougar,” because I am not dilly-dallying with a thirty-something paramour—in fact, my husband is eight years older than me (so maybe HE’s the cougar). I refuse to be called a “crone.” Even though I know many women who embrace the term, to me it just evokes those horrid witches in Macbeth. 

 

Which leaves me with “boomer.” That doesn’t really work for me either, although I know I am indeed a product of the Baby Boom years. Boomer was a quarterback for the Bengals, right? Boomer is an Army explosion specialist. Boomer is your dog. I do not want to be on the receiving end of a Gen-X’s dismissive “OK, boomer!” I want to be the one doing the dismissing, darn it! 

 

I’ve been experimenting with alternatives to describe my still-vibrant age and stage, and I came up with: “bloomer.” This clever play on “boomer” can mean “late bloomer.” I dream of being called this when accepting my Nobel Prize for Literature: “Elise is a bloomer, not publishing her first international best-seller until age 66!” “Bloomer” can also refer to a tasty fried onion at Outback Steakhouse, but that’s not relevant here. Here's my favorite image: a “bloomer” is like a flower on an old bush you’d thought was dormant, peeking through the snow—resilient, hopeful, and, yes, even beautiful. 

 

There we go. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off. 

To Bloomingdales, where else?

Aren't they lovely?

Prayers for Today

 Why on EARTH is this size 00 dress still hanging in my closet?

While I understand (and often tell others) that prayer is no more or less than a convo with the Guy Upstairs, I still fret over my wording, not to mention timing and intent, when I begin to pray. At the core of it is my consistent feeling that I have NOTHING to complain about/ask God for, compared to vast numbers of other humans on the planet. My “special requests” are either really selfish (“Please God let it not rain when I have to drive at night!”) or redundant (does God honestly need another prayer for “world peace”?) At my worst, my prayers are mumbled and rushed, recited by rote and barely coherent. Why on earth would those be answered? I mean, imagine talking to SANTA like that, and expecting to get your coveted Uggs slippers (color: lavender) under the tree! I don’t think so!

 

But no more! I have written my very own brand-spanking new list of “prayers for today” and if I do say so myself, they rock. As the God I worship has, coincidentally, my exact same sense of snarky humor, I’m sure these gems will be top-of-mind when the Almighty doles out the goodies! Here we go:

 

Lord of the Dance,

We both know it’s been a minute since I cut any sort of rug. Even in my heyday, my herky-jerky moves on the dance floor were pretty pitiful. So I’m not asking for a role in a production of “Footloose.” I just want to descend the stairs in the morning without my arthritic knees shrieking in agony. Please grant me instant and total pain relief that does not involve PT. Or exercise of ANY sort. Amen.

 

Streaming God,

When folks gather to discuss the shows they are binge watching, I am struck mute. I cannot tell my Maisel from my Lasso, my White Lotus from my Yellow Stone. Return to me the attention span of my youth, so I can stay awake long enough to get through one 22 minute episode of anything. I truly don’t care what. As long as it doesn’t involve any Real Housewives. Amen

 

Post-Menopausal Lord,

Life can be so unfair! Where is the justice in a world where a person can no longer fit in her old wardrobe through absolutely no fault of her own? For the sake of my poor bruised ego, please immediately convert my size 12-14 clothing labels to 00's. And while you’re at it, please remove every calorie from crème filled donuts. Kettle chips too. Feeling better already! Amen

 

Compassionate One,

You know that I struggle to finish the occasional blog post. When all my clever ideas go “poof,” give me a graceful out, so I can wrap things up without feeling guilty.  Maybe my computer is acting weird. Or I suddenly need to deliver Meals on Wheels to a remote location in North Dakota. Or even better, just give me the wisdom to somehow make it to 500 words. 

 

Did it! Thanks, Lord!

Oh, and Amen.

I'm getting sleeeeepy....

2023 Word of The Year (Sneak Preview)

                         

 “For last year's words belong to last year's language,

  And next year's words await another voice."            

                                             --T.S. Eliot - Four Quartets

 

If you’re like me (and if you are, God help you), you pay close attention to the annual reveal of the Word(s) of the Year. For a writer, this announcement means far more than any Oscar or Grammy. These are the tools of the trade! I’m always very eager to see if I used the winners in my prose often enough. 

 

There are several sources for the Word of the Year distinction, including the Oxford English Dictionary and Merriam-Webster. Inevitably, I smack my head ruefully, regretting my neglect of these gems while they were still “in.”

 

For 2022, these oh so trendy words included “gaslighting" (Merriam-Webster) “woman”(??? that head scratcher was from Dictionary.com) and, of course, “goblin mode” (OED). I guess now that I think of it, I do use “woman” a fair amount, and maybe “gaslight” now and then. But “goblin mode”??? Not ONCE did that escape my lips. I assume it’s a veddy British thing, because no one in my acquaintance uses it either, but it must be absolutely everywhere in the UK--goblin mode Halloween costumes! Goblin (à la) mode desserts! Barristers dancing the “goblin mode” in court in their silly looking wigs!

 

When I did a deeper dive, (that’s what you pay me for, right?) I discovered the actual definition of “goblin mode”: “a type of behavior which is unapologetically self-indulgent, lazy, slovenly, or greedy, typically in a way that rejects social norms or expectations.” Ohhhhh, so THAT’S what it means! I know lots of people this applies to, like every one year old I’ve ever known-- those slovenly toddlers with their toy-grabbing, their napping, their messy diapers! 

 

Even armed with this knowledge, though, “goblin mode” just doesn’t work for me (sorry, OED). So, in advance of the 2023 competition, I’ve decided to start pushing for my candidate well ahead of time. I will utilize it in essays, in conversations, on shopping lists! By December, the world will unanimously agree with my choice, just because they’ve encountered it so darned much!

 

Ready?

 

I propose: “cringe."

 

Recently added to Merriam-Webster, this teen fave (universally used to describe parental units) means “something so embarrassing it makes one perform the act of cringing.” I mean, is there anyone who doesn’t think the way most of humanity is behaving is cringe? From all those serially lying politicians, to the army of entitled and fussy “Karens” (and I am SO sorry this is a thing, all my fabulous buddies actually named Karen), there’s more than enough cringe to go around. I hear people still denying the reality of climate change, I see people wearing white tube socks with black dress shoes in public (sometimes they’re the same people) and…cringe!

 

But it’s not too late, folks. We don’t HAVE to be total embarrassments! If we start now and work on being tons less cringe, 2023 may end on a much more uplifting note than 2022 did.

 

And if I have to change my Word of the Year, it’ll be worth it.

Do we have a winner?

The Golden and The Blue

 

Photo by Carolyn Majewski (Rehoboth boardwalk, golden hour)

“For me, that’s when nature really comes alive. The colors have this soft but deep glow, and all the smells of nature permeate the air. It feels very special to be out at this time when all the plants and animals start to breathe more deeply. There’s a real peace…”

         —Photographer Lena Jeanne, writing about the blue hour

 

Both Steve and my sister C are serious photographers. Steve taught film arts at St. Pius High School back in the day, and for years had a darkroom set up in our basement. Many were the Stevo publicity shoots for “Puss in Boots” and “Peter Pan.” Carolyn is a terrific artist who uses several media very effectively, including watercolors; her camera is an instrument for artistic expression too. Now, living in Hawaii, C takes magazine-worthy pictures of her beautiful island. 

For a rank amateur (me), taking pix used to be a chore. I had to 1) locate my camera, 2) try to grab a shot before my subject (usually a child) wandered off, then 3) climb in the car and take the film somewhere to be developed.  Sorting through old pictures recently, I found envelope after envelope from those small, drive-up one-hour photo kiosks (btw where did those Fotomat employees go, I wonder? Probably the same place the toll booth people went after COVID rendered them obsolete. We need to find them all other tiny huts to work in!!) I'd saved every snapshot, the blurry and the clear, along with endless strips of negatives. Why? Who knows? When I finished going through them, the trash can was filled with my mistakes.

I am really grateful for the technology these days that makes anyone with a phone a decent photographer. Blurry shots? Not happening! Accidental photos of someone’s big toe? Delete! Mind you, I rarely print my pictures anymore, so these gems reside on my iPhone and computer, but I know I have them if and when needed.

It never occurred to me to seek out the best TIMES of day to take outdoor photos (which explains why many of my pictures feature people squinting in noonday sun). Oh, I appreciated beautiful sunrises and sunsets captured on film by others, but I was too lazy/busy to go outside and take any myself. 

I’ve been reading about the blue and golden hours, though, and I’m newly inspired to leave the house at dawn and dusk. “Twilight,” it turns out, is more than an entertainment franchise—it actually refers to the period just before full dark, also known as the “blue hour.” Its counterpart is the “golden hour,” just after sunrise, when the sky is gradually lightening up. These are perfect times to take pictures; everything is bathed in a delicate glow. Photography aside, appreciating blue and gold hours involves noticing the beauty of every moment. Nature is not a window shade, snapping up (sunshine!)  and down (pitch black!) suddenly. Daybreak and nightfall unfold slowly, gentle harbingers of the next hours of our lives.  

I have made no resolutions involving using fancy camera lenses and tripods—I’ll leave those to the experts. But as 2023 dawns (get it?) I resolve to open my eyes and notice much more of the amazing world around me, to truly and deeply experience the gold, the blue and everything in between. The magic that awaits us all. 

Steve on Lewes Beach (blue hour)