Youthful Foot Folly

My left foot is getting old. I know that seems a bit odd since, presumably, my left foot is the same age as the rest of my body. Knit in my mother's womb and all that. But for whatever reason, my left foot seems to be getting old faster than any other part of my body. It troubles me with a variety of aches and pains which, no doubt, can be traced back to when I was in my 20s. 

In those days I didn't think about middle-aged pain. My fashion awareness dictated that my wardrobe  include several pair of cute and colorful high-heeled pumps. No sensible one-inch heels for me, thank you.  Put the emphasis on 'high.'

Turns out all that stuff they tell you about the perils of pitching your body forward and standing on your toes all day is right.  Your feet develop a slow but seething hatred. Of shoes. Of walking. And most particularly...of you.

I started noticing this pedial rebellion a couple of years ago when, in the morning, my left foot would ache through my first waking steps. Over time my daily walks started to induce numb toes and throbbing arches. Next, I acknowledged that wearing heels was causing pain far more intense than the younger me had grown accustomed to. When I started looking at footwear with a wary eye toward the level of pain it would cause, and opted for flats instead, I knew I was in trouble. 

After attempting a variety of home remedies for my ever increasing pain, I eventually decided to consult a physician.  I generally don't find much point in going to a doctor for the simple stuff.  I figure I'm just as capable of guessing what is wrong as they are, but when things get more complicated, I acquiesce. Medical professionals have fancy machines that see below the surface and, since I possess neither x-ray vision nor the equipment for such a sophisticated view, I opted to make an appointment. 

Turns out my left foot has a number of issues. Whatever can cause pain, my foot pretty much has. Bunions.  A pesky Morton's neuroma. Some run of the mill arthritis. And a little plantar fasciitis for good measure.

Okay, so that explains the pain. I asked about a remedy. The doctor recommended I change my footwear to no heels, a wide toe box, and sturdy soles.

Geepers, that sounds attractive. What's the point in having feet if you can't wear cute shoes? 

Eventually though, I had to get realistic. It's not like hobbling around on cranky old feet is all that fetching. I went on the Internet and started researching shoes to match the criteria. There wasn't much. It seems few shoe manufacturers are concerned about healthy feet. And those who are have very underdeveloped stylistic sensibilities.  

Goodbye fashion.

Hello Grandma.

I ordered these in every color.

Hot, sexy mama shoes

There's a moral to this story, of course. Don't be foolish. Be practical and follow the advice of wise old crones who tell you to consider the future. Your feet will thank you.

Nevertheless, would the 50-something me advise the 20-something me to forgo fashionable footwear in deference to later consequences? Probably not.

Would the 20-something me listen to the 50-something me? Assuredly not.

Because there is also an Epicurean moral. Wear heels when you're young...because you can.

I don't regret my youthful choice of colorful stilettos. Granted, in retrospect it wasn't very smart. But smart can be over-rated. There is something to be said for choosing whimsy over practical. Cute over boring. Fuchsia over brown. Was choosing fashion over pragmatism the brightest decision I could have made?  Of course not. But it sure was fun. Besides, some of my foot complications might have happened anyway. Plenty of men who never wore high heels have similar issues. I wouldn't change a thing.

Eat, drink, and wear cute shoes for tomorrow we get bunions.

My Maid is a Robot

Before you read any further I think you should be forewarned. This is a story about a vacuum cleaner. It's not a product review or anything like that. Just a story about a vacuum cleaner.

Okay, so it isn't really a vacuum cleaner, its a sweeper. A small robotic sweeper that churns and spins and somehow feels like a little worker bee family member.

Don't say I didn't warn you.

We bought our little sweeper a couple of months ago when our large lumbering tank of a vacuum cleaner finally decided it had sucked up its last fluffy cat hair. Realistically I think it had made that decision quite some time ago but I kept pushing it, literally, to go on living. I mean its purpose in life was sucking up stuff. But it got tired. Things stopped working like they were supposed to. Some of its parts started inching toward the ground. 

Wait...maybe I'm thinking of myself.

Anyway, the point is, the vacuum cleaner was done. It had lived its life. Nearly 25-years ago, when we first bought our house, Steve's father bought it for us. It was nice and sturdy and heavy duty. So heavy duty, in fact, carrying it up and down the stairs felt similar to hauling a small adult up and down the stairs. It did its job, cheerfully, I assume, sucking up the various and sundry messes created by the  ever increasing occupants of our little house. 

I vacuumed a lot in those days. Not because I particularly liked vacuuming but because I particularly didn't like seeing things on the carpet that weren't part of the carpet. Kids. Animals. Life. Things just got messy. A lot.  

The kids are gone now and our house doesn't get so messy anymore. The orignial carpet is long gone too, but we still have lots of animals. Lots of animals who shed lots of hair that collects in rodent-like clumps and tufts in corners of the unforgiving wood floors. When the albatross of a vacuum cleaner died recently I decided to buy one of those little robot doodads. My plan was to program it to run every day just before I got home from work.  That way the various wads of pet hair would be all gone before I walked in the door.  Like having a maid. Only without the guilt. 

(Source: Google Images)

We brought the robot home and turned it on. It was sort of fascinating. Mesmerizing, in fact. It spun and whirred and criss crossed around the room while we just watched. After about an hour it decided it was finished, headed back to its charger, docked itself, and turned itself off.  

Weird.

The robot sweeper does its job every day now. Being home while it runs is a little disconcerting. I constantly feel that I'm getting in its way. I apologize. One day Charles came over when we were preparing to have guests for brunch and the robot was doing its thing. I asked Charles to set the table and as he did so he kept shrieking that the robot was following him.  I told him he was being ridiculous.  But it sort of seemed like he was right.

Occasionally I come home from work to find the robot hasn't found its way back to the dock but has instead done battle with an electrical cord, a dog leash, or some other erroneous hazard and shut itself off mid-sweep.  When this happens I speak kindly to it, disentangle it, and gently put it back in its dock, all the while assuming it feels badly for not completing the task. 

Except, of course, I don't have to apologize for getting in its way, it wasn't chasing Charles, and it doesn't feel bad when it shuts itself off.  It doesn't have the capacity for human emotion. Its a ROBOT.

My little robot can spin around the house all day but never once will it feel unappreciated. I can get in its way while its running and it simply changes course without ever feeling I'm being rude. When I find it in a predicament and safely return it to its dock it hasn't ever uttered, 'thank you.' No matter how much anthropomorphism I attach to it, in the end its just a device.  It does its job (well, I might add) but nothing more. 

I suppose it seems pretty crazy to write a story about a robotic gizmo scurrying around my house. It is. But I'm thankful for the way it makes my life easier and I figure its always good to be thankful.  And a little crazy.

The Love Actually Mishap

Christmas has been a little different at our house since my mother moved to Colorado a few years ago.  Our special little five-some has had to change slightly to accommodate our brash, narcissistic, slightly crazy, octogenarian party girl. We still manage to celebrate with our sweet traditions, we just have to make room for Mommie Dearest in some of those now.

Having my mother around on Christmas isn't that big of a deal anymore. It took some getting used to but we've learned to just go with it. She likes to make everything about herself but we've managed to navigate around that pretty well. We listen to her stories of flirting with elderly boys and charming people into buying her booze with mild amusement. She's perpetually sixteen and stories highlighting the paradox of her actual age and her perceived age are entertaining. The first few times. But after a while her conversational loops get a little tedious and by the tenth or twelfth time she's telling the same story I notice my children's eyes glazing over or anxiously darting to locate an exit.

I watched it all unfold on Christmas Day, just a few weeks ago. Grandma's repeated topics were getting a bit stale so Steve asked if she'd like to watch a Christmas movie. Although I was fairly firm in my convictions that TV should not be a babysitter when my children were young, I admit I have no qualms at all about using TV as a babysitter for my mother.  Steve checked the channels and saw that Love Actually was playing. Having watched the movie a few years ago he thought it would be a good way to keep Mommie Dearest occupied. A cute Christmas movie about love. What better way to stifle my mother's constant chatter? It was a good idea in theory, only Steve had forgotten a few key elements to the plot line.

I went upstairs, probably to escape my mother, but after she'd been watching the movie for a while she started to holler, "Susan!"  "Susanne!" I couldn't imagine what she needed but I assumed it was a refill on her glass of wine so I didn't rush. Steve, who can only be described as a saint for the way he treats my mother, ran to find out the source of her excitement.

It was sex.

Steve had forgotten Love Actually includes a story about two 'body doubles' who simulate sex during the filming of a movie and casually chat about life while doing so. My mother hadn't been able to follow the numerous loosely woven story lines of Love Actually and didn't understand what was happening. All she saw was two people she thought were engaging in sex and started calling for me. Whether she wanted me to come and watch with her, change the channel, or grab a pen and paper so she could take notes was unclear.

In all honesty, without the context, the scene could be considered a little graphic.  Well, even with context the scene is a little graphic so I understand Mommie Dearest's excitement. She said she was alarmed because she thought she was watching 'a porno,' but I'm not convinced.

Because that's all she talked about for the rest of the day. Over and over and over she exclaimed, "THEY WERE SCREWING!"

I was in the kitchen cooking dinner and she came shuffling in to announce, "I was watching a movie and THEY WERE SCREWING!"

We were enjoying a lovely Christmas dinner and then right in the middle of it, "THEY WERE SCREWING!"

Having dessert. "THEY WERE SCREWING!"

Driving her back to her retirement home, "THEY WERE SCREWING!"

Sometimes just out of the blue, "THEY WERE SCREWING!"

No delicate euphemisms or cute code words for my mother. Every time she exclaimed about it I tried to refocus the conversation. She'd have none of it. She insisted that we all hear the story. Over and over and over. "THEY WERE SCREWING!"

I'm going to go out on a limb here and guess that not all that many families spent the holidays with an 86-year old wild child who witnessed a momentary on-screen fake sex act depicting a momentary on-screen fake sex act and spent the rest of the day not only fixated on it but regularly blurting out the details. It's just a hunch.

So yeah, Christmas has been a little different since my mother moved to Colorado a few years ago. 

Just a little.

The Accomplishments That Weren't

The calendar has just rolled over to a new year.

(Source: Google Images)

I mention this in case you've been taking a very long nap. It's a new year and as I take stock of the one that just passed I feel pretty good about it. Overall, I accomplished quite a bit. Except for all the things I said I was going to accomplish.

Of those I accomplished nothing.

On my birthday, just before the kickoff of 2014, I read an article about a woman who on her 31st birthday was lamenting several aspects of her life. She had just stepped outside, into a puddle, and was whining to herself when she looked up and saw a Baskin-Robbins ice cream shop. Somehow the ice cream parlor provided her with an epiphany about her own life and how it needed variety, much like the variety of available ice-cream flavors. I'm pretty sure she explained it more eloquently than this but anyhow, even though Baskin-Robbins had dropped the 31 flavors from their name some time ago, she must have been old enough to remember it, and all the whining, puddle-stepping, birthday reflecting, and ice cream flavors fit together into an idea about how to change her life. She decided to ask her friends and family for suggestions of 31 new things she could do in the coming year to broaden her life experience and perspective. I admired her sense of adventure.

I liked the idea so much I decided to write a blog post asking for similar input. Except I wasn't turning 31. I was turning 55. I also wasn't lamenting my life nor had I stepped into a puddle but I guess I just got so caught up in the idea of doing new things that I didn't think the idea through very carefully. I planned to compose a list of 55 of my favorite suggestions. Had I taken the time to consider this I would have realized that doing 55 new things would mean accomplishing more than one per week. This was highly unlikely.

As it was I didn't get 55 ideas. I got 11. And two alternates which I wasn't sure I could commit to. Even so, undertaking 11 new challenges seemed a respectable list and I appreciated the input of those who had chosen to participate.

And that's as far as it went.  Not only did I not accomplish 55 new things, I didn't even accomplish 11.

I didn't even accomplish one.

There are a myriad reasons why I didn't complete my list of eleven new adventures. Probably the most important is that I didn't create a plan for how to accomplish them. The idea was a little hair-brained from the beginning. Without a plan it was pretty much doomed.

I could chastise myself for never even starting. I could call myself a failure or feel bad that I didn't follow through. I could try to hide the fact that I made a public plea for input and then never did a thing with the ideas people provided.

I could. But I won't.

Because whether the idea was a good one or not really doesn't matter. And whether I completed some, all, or none of my list really doesn't matter. I am not defined by what I accomplish. No one is defined by what they accomplished. Not really. There are a lot of people out there accomplishing a lot of great things, but in the end we aren't defined by what we accomplish.

We are defined by how we treat others.

We are defined by our offerings of joy and hope.

We are defined by our demonstrations of charity.

We are defined by the way we are good citizens of the world.

I'll hold on to my list. There are some really good ideas on it and some day I might be lamenting my life and step into a puddle and decide to accomplish them all. Or maybe I'll never accomplish any. It doesn't matter because I'm not defined by my accomplishments.

I am defined by love.

Tiny Tim Goes Shopping

There is nothing my mother enjoys more than shopping.

Well, okay. That's not entirely true. We all know she likes collecting men  But just after collecting men, she likes shopping.  And if she can collect men who will take her shopping...all the better.

Of course she likes her wine too...I'm not sure of the exact order of things, but shopping ranks right up there as something my mother enjoys most in life. Wine. Men. And shopping.

She particularly likes to go shopping at Christmastime. My mother firmly adheres into the notion that Christmas is about the buying and giving of stuff. Every December she calls me and whines that she doesn't get to go shopping and wants to buy presents. And I, who dislikes shopping and holiday crowds, tell her how cold it is and how frenzied the stores are, and negotiate the purchase of gift cards on her behalf, which can be opened on Christmas morning so that she feels she's given a gift and I've avoided having to take her shopping in December. It was a system that was working just fine until Steve entered into the mix. He's such a little Christmas elf.

Every year Steve suggests we take Mommie Dearest shopping, just for the pure joy of getting out in the hustle and bustle with her. Every year I say no. The words pure, joy, and shopping with my mother cannot be formed into a single sentence. This year when he started saying we should take her shopping I responded only slightly less adamantly than I would have if he said we should vacation in North Korea.

NO.

So he tried an different tactic by appealing to Anna's sense of compassion and, less jaded than I, she agreed. They went yesterday, Bob Chachit and Fred, and loaded little Tiny Tim and her walker into the car and took her out into the Christmas decorations, lights, and music. It even snowed all storybook and perfectlike.

Scrooge stayed home and worked.

(Source: Google Images)

They didn't take her out for long or to very many places. She doesn't have the stamina for much. They took her to a Charming Charlie store loaded with costume jewelry, purses, and scarves where she got so excited she developed a  headache, heart palpitations, and lightheadedness.  She had to sit down for a while. Three times. Fortunately she didn't have a stroke. That would have put a damper on the whole storybook outting. Nevertheless, she was thrilled and her Christmas was made. He joy was complete.

All it took was a kind-hearted man and his daughter to put in the effort to take an elderly woman out to do what she loves best. Or second best. Maybe third. Regardless, they lived out the meaning of Christmas. And giving. And sacrifice. They personified what this Christmas business is all about. I can see that now and I've considered what they did.

I'm prepared. Next year when Mommie Dearest calls me complaining that she can't go Christmas shopping I'm pretty sure I know what my answer will be.

Bah Humbug.

I'm gonna need a few more ghostly visits for that one.

Breaking the Self-Loathing Rules

I like myself.

There. I said it. 

I recognize, according to our culture, I'm not supposed to. But I do. I like the person I've become. 

It's not that I spend a huge amount of time thinking about how much I like myself. I'm not that narcissistic. I have come to realize, however, that I like who I am. Which is not, I venture to guess, playing by the rules. There's no denying how deeply ingrained self-loathing is in American culture. Especially for a woman over 50.  I'm supposed to dislike my wrinkles, abhor my body, despise my hair, and fear the aging process.  Not to mention that I shouldn't like my personality quirks.

I'd be lying if I said I've always been okay with who I am. I haven't.  But the older I get, the gentler I'm becoming with my eccentric, wrinkly, saggy, greying self.  Okay, that's not true.  I still don't like my greying hair. It's not that I hate it, necessarily. I just hide it behind the magic of chemicals.  Perhaps I haven't fully arrived. Nevertheless, I like most of the person I've become.

This focus on self-loathing came to my attention last week as I was testing out a hiring program at work. The premise of the program is that the applicant reads a word which pops up on a computer screen and then determines if the word is descriptive of them or not.  I completed the assessment putting words like "quiet," "defensive," and "difficult," in the 'not me' category  and words like, "cheerful," "optimistic," and "witty" in the 'me' category.  It all seemed harmless enough. I was truthful in my responses and I liked the words that described me.

The next step of the process is where I had trouble. Following the sorting exercise, I was given a list of the very same words. Next to the 'me' words were check marks. The instructions were to put additional check marks by the words that described what I want to be. Presumably I was to un-check the ones that described what I didn't want to be. 

I was perplexed. The assumption seemed to be that I wouldn't like some of the words that described me. Except that wasn't true.  I liked the words that described me. Because I like me. Sure I want to continue growing into a better me.  But I don't dislike the me that I am (grey hair excepted). The program assumed I'd dislike some of the words that described me and desire some of the words that didn't. I wasn't supposed to be happy with who I am.

In the midst of angst over that whole message,  I got a call from a cosmetics representative about one of those weird home parties that I had agreed to attend. I said I'd go because I wanted to see my friends. But the representative was doing her job trying to build a clientele.  She asked a series of questions, the final one being, "What is the one thing you dislike most about your skin?"  Again, the assumption was that, of course I'm dissatisfied with something. Only I'm not. Yes, I have at times been dissatisfied. And my mother is quite dissatisfied with my wrinkles. Yet these days I sort of like my wrinkles. I've earned them and I don't have any desire to look like a creepy wax figure of myself.

Here's the thing. Being older isn't bad. And being quirky is just who I am. Some people are fat. Some are tall. Some are fat and tall.  Some are Asian. Some are witty. Some are dull. The list goes on and on.  Is it really necessary to assume we all dislike something about ourselves? 

Obsessing over things we don't like takes a lot of time. Time that could be spent caring for someone else. Or complimenting them. Or doing something kind.

We live in a culture of self-loathing. But we don't have to conform to what culture says...because it is a lie. We can look in the mirror and like what we see.  We can laugh too loudly and then laugh some more.  We can say off-the-wall things that make people wonder if we have Turrets, and chuckle to ourselves at their response. Not that I have experience with any of those things, of course.

The truth is, we aren't required to tell ourselves we're fat, or ugly, or socially awkward. We can tell ourselves we're wonderful just the way we are. We can be kind to ourselves and love ourselves and take that positive energy out into the world.

Because the world needs less self-loathing...and a lot more love.

Pearls and Tennis Shoes

I've spent an inordinate amount of time looking at this photograph trying to figure out the story behind it. With very little information I've attempted to piece details together, but no matter how hard I try, I simply can't figure out what was happening when this shot was taken.

What I do know is these are my ancestors; the progenitors of my children, my siblings, and me. The colorful, crusty, unrefined gene pool from which we are descended. Coming from a line of sedate, well-mannered, socially acceptable types would have been boring. But we don't have to worry because there wasn't a sedate, well-mannered, socially acceptable soul among them.

These are our people.

The one on the left is my grandmother, Beatrice. The two in the middle were her younger twin brothers, Bert and Boyd. The little one, on the right, wistfully looking into the distance was their older sister, Nellie.

There are so many unanswered questions about this photograph. Why is my grandmother wearing a white dress, pearls, and blue tennis shoes? Why are the others dressed casually but she's dressed up? Why do they all look sad? Or worried? Or discouraged? What is Nellie thinking as she gazes somewhere else, not paying attention to the photographer? Where are they? What is the occasion?

I'll never know. Nobody who knew anything about this picture is still alive. All of these siblings have gone on to the other side and while I have no idea what the afterlife looks like, I'm pretty sure if it is calm and serene and gentle, these four aren't there. If it involves smoking and drinking, swearing and gambling, befriending outlaws, and telling bawdy jokes, however, I've no doubt they are happily settled in.

When I was a little girl a lot of things scared me. My grandmother among them. As I grew into adulthood, though, I learned that she was funny and lively and genuine. She spent her final years playing bingo, going to dances, and riding a bus to Las Vegas several times a year. I don't think she ever saw a show in Las Vegas, for her it was all about playing the slot machines. She never fit into the 'grandmother' mold.  Thankfully. She never really fit into any mold. I liked her style. Be who you are and ignore what others think.

My memories of Bert and Boyd are dimmed by a haze of cigarette smoke. Most of my recollections of them are around a poker table. I grew up hearing the stories of their friendship with the notorious outlaw Pretty Boy Floyd. As a little girl my mother was with them when they hid Pretty Boy under a pile of laundry so the police wouldn't find him. On the surface that may seem undesirable but to them their friend wasn't a 'bad guy.' He was a 'good guy' who was helping the poor. I liked their style. Live by your convictions even if others don't agree.

Nellie was tiny but strong. She was divorced when it wasn't a socially acceptable thing to do and she never remarried. In an era when few women wore pants instead of dresses, Nellie bucked convention and dressed in slacks. She lived in the city, had a career, and went against the grain of social expectations for her time. Nellie told me bawdy jokes and laughed heartily. She died in Las Vegas with her sister, gambling to the very end.  I liked her style. Shun oppressive convention and walk through life with confidence.

I'm never going to know the real story behind this photograph. It is too late. But I do have memories of the way these four people lived their colorful, meaningful lives. Maybe I'll use what I know of them to piece together a fictional story to go along with the picture. A story to guide my children, my siblings, and me in how to live fully and courageously. A story to remind us.

These are our people.