“I feel like a young man with something really wrong with him”

This was a quote from a piece I read by Anne Lamott recently and I could not have said it better.

This. This is precisely what getting older is like.

I feel like a young woman with something wrong with her. Terribly, terribly wrong.

My mind — although filled with more holes than a New York City avenue — still feels invincible at times. My mind tells me I can do things that my body is almost to the point of not being able to do.

Things like trying to accomplish the Garland pose during my yoga practice or simply lifting my leg to tie my shoe. It takes as much effort for me to lean down and pick up something I have dropped to the floor as it does trying to fly. More often than not I will attempt to channel David Blaine by staring down the item willing it through osmosis to magically levitate up to my open hand.

That doesn’t work, by the way. I haven’t quite figured out how he does it. But I suspect I better if I ever want to see these things again.

I’m a fairly active 52-year-old woman. Why can’t I do these simple activities any longer? I swore I wouldn’t allow it, but nature has other plans.

My knees are bad, my hips spend half their life screaming at me from the tops of my thigh bones, and my lower back likes to light small fires. Forget about my eyesight. Even the “arm length” trick won’t help me now.

And to add insult to injury, menopause strikes in the middle of the night like a masked bandit. Robbing you of your youthful glow and replacing it with facial hair, hot flashes, and night sweats so bad and so constant that frequent pajama and sheet changes are a necessity. Laying in something akin to a humid, tepid, salted pool is not conducive to a good sleep.

Not that I’m sleeping anyway.

The sandman no longer stops at my house. I’m like a small child waiting for Santa to arrive when in reality he just doesn’t exist. Waiting and waiting with childlike wonder. “Will he come tonight?” No. No, he will not. I don’t know what I ever did to him, but somehow I got on his “naughty” list.

And forget about the effects of alcohol. I THINK I can drink more than one glass of wine like a twenty-something and wake up the next day bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, ready to face the world. The reality is I wake up with my brain as foggy as the Los Angeles smog in August, which just makes me want to swear off the stuff for all of eternity.

Oh my beloved wine. Why has thou forsaken me?

You know what really gets me? Young people. Actual young people. The people I forget I am not demographically equal to. When I realize that I could most likely be their mother it’s like someone has sucker punched me, taking the air right out of my parachute. It’s the weirdest phenomenon.

SO, that’s about it in a nutshell. The bottom line is I think like a 22-year-old but feel like I’m 72. Seriously. I don’t believe I have matured much past 1989. Can someone please tell that to my body? Because the memo got sent to the wrong address.

Source: Anne Lamott, “12 Truths I Learned from Life and Writing”

The Belt

Yesterday I told of my daughter’s special gift of my leftover “incidentals.”  Well, at least they had a sticky strip to make her life easier.  Would you like to hear about MY hand-me-down?

Hysterectomies run in my family.  A tradition that runs 4 generations deep on my maternal side.  Anyway, when my mom lost her “womanhood”, she left me a nice surprise but I wouldn’t find out about it until it was too late.  Believe me, if I had known it would have accidentally died in a fire.

Mother Nature showed up when I was 14, sitting in my room, on the floor, doing a puzzle.  My mother was at work.  My father was home.  Oh God.

I called my mom in total panic mode.  She instructed me to go to the hall closet.  In the said closet on the top shelf is where it was, cobwebs and all.  What I pulled down completely had me puzzled.

Unknown

What is it?  A headband? A dog collar?  I could only wish.  For those of you who don’t know, it’s called a Sanitary Belt.  Honestly, I think it was a hand me down from HER mother.  And the pad I had to use?  It looked like it was made for a menstrating elephant.  Never mind an 80 pound teenage girl child.  Once I figured it out and got it on, it flopped about until dad drove me to the nearest pharmacy where he made ME go in and get some supplies.

Well, 30 years and many therapy sessions later, I’m over it.  And whatever became of the belt?  It’s hanging in the Smithsonian.  Right next to the torture rack.

Confessions of a Grammar Nazi

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I have many, many pet peeves.  But let me tell you about the one that tops the list. The improper use of too/to, there/their and your/you’re.

This makes me cringe:  “It’s you’re job too get there kids.”

This makes me bonkers: “Their, their, don’t cry.  I feel the same way to.  Your only human.”
This makes me want to jump off a freaking cliff — what I call the mother lode:
“I, to, love spaghetti so my friend invited us over there house too have some.  But they live way over their, on the other side of town.  Do you think you’re sister can stop by too pick us up since she’s going to?  Thank you, your such a peach.”
So please, tell me…who was your grammar teacher?  Dan Quayle?