Aging

“Youth is wasted on the young” ~ George Bernard Shaw

I was just thinking about that today.
About youth and aging.
About perky tits and chicken neck waddle.
About going from looking in the mirror and worrying if you have enough concealer to hide the zits, to being completely helpless without the assistance of a supersonic magnifying mirror made by NASA to apply anything besides Chapstick.

By the way, what happened to my lips?

Every morning I send out a search party to find my upper lip.  It disappeared around five years ago, and I miss it.  If you see it out on the town, wearing a wildly undefined coat of Chanel red lipstick, please tell it I’m looking for it and to come home.

What I was really pondering, was my ability as a young woman, to fluctuate between being utterly fearless, to riddled with insecurity, indecision and doubt.

It was quite a swing, the speedball of emotional cocktails – and I know I’m not the only one.  You can’t hide.  I can sense you there.

Things that used to terrify me, sending me into a cold sweat, have now become second nature. And vice versa.

These days I have no problem letting someone know if they’re out of line. I have mastered the art of confrontation (which when done well, really is an art) to the point where it doesn’t even feel like a disagreement and often we all end up laughing, hugging, singing Kumbaya, and taking a selfie.

I also spontaneously hug people – in public.  Complete strangers. It can be triggered by the most random of things, a great haircut, a cool tattoo, an interesting laugh, what they’re eating, a cute dog or if I happen to see them crying.

As a younger woman I would have rather died, run over by a clown car full of disapproving authority figures.

Back then what I lacked in depth, I made up for in reckless abandon.
I was born with very little modesty.  I’d show my boobs to anyone who’d ask ( yes there were requests), pee without closing the door, and walk across a beach or crowded pool party in a bikini without a cover up.

I know! I was oblivious. There are pictures.

Now just recalling that makes me sick to my stomach.

I’d also sing at the drop of a hat.  At the top of my lungs.  That is until I turned thirty and developed crippling stage fright, which only released its grip on me after fifty when I no longer gave a fuck.

I care less and less about making a fool of myself, which is one of the HUGE benefits of getting older. I cannot overstate that.

 If only I’d felt that way back then. I’d be Lady Gaga by now.

As I established earlier this month, the older I get, the less fucks I give.  I have a limited amount left and I don’t want to waste one.
I’m a Nazi about only spending time with the people I want to see, doing the things I want to do.
I no longer give a fuck about chipped nail polish, carrying the “right bag”, who the latest, greatest anything/anyone is, how big your diamond is, how much grey hair I have, the ebb and flow of the stock market, keeping up with the Kardashians, or who wore it better.
I have bigger fish to fry.

All I give a fuck about is my health, my family, my husband and what my dogs think of me.

A friend complained to me recently, ” Oh God, I don’t need any more friends, I have forty years worth, and I don’t see enough of the ones I have!”

Not me! It seems I make new friends faster and more easily as I’ve gotten older.

Either people have become less discerning, or I’ve suddenly become much more interesting and engaging. (I’m not sure which one bodes better for me.)
Maybe it’s true that like a fine wine, I have improved with age. The jury’s still out, but what I DO know is that I’ve become infinitely more approachable.
And curious.   

I was so busy being self involved when I was young, ( if it had been an Olympic sport, I would have medaled), that I really didn’t give a rat’s ass about anyone else.  I also thought I knew it all.  Now I’m certain of ONE thing only:  I don’t know shit about shit.

Here’s the thing,  other people seem SO frickin’ interesting to me. Everyone’s doing something fabulous that I need to hear about right now! Their lives are complex, multi-faceted nuggets of wonder and goodness. When did that happen?

In my opinion, youth is wasted on the young because of their lack of appreciation. Also, because in not knowing any better, too many fucks are wasted on frivolous shit that doesn’t matter a day, let alone a year or ten years later.

And by the fact that in the moment – being young seems like it will last forever.   Doesn’t it?

Curious to hear what you think.
Big love,
Xox

HI Loves,
I hope this finds you enjoying the long holiday weekend – eating, watching sports, eating, shopping, eating, and hanging with friends and family. And eating some more.

That is my wish for you, for all of us really, that we age with grace and dignity, and kick some serious ass along the way!

much love,
xox

I’m writing this as a self reminder, although I’m sure you could use one too.
Let this salvage your week or at least your Saturday.

I cannot control the traffic or the way other people (idiots) drive.

I cannot control the cable guy, the electrician, the handyman, the trash picker-uppers, the tree trimmers, the guy who’s making my latte, or the air conditioning repair guy. I cannot control the time they will arrive (which is NEVER inside the promised window) how well they will perform their task, or what personality traits they posses, (too chatty, too pissy, too flirty, too…)

I cannot control anyone, or anything about the DMV. Period. End of story.

I cannot control the weather. I can have every app, and alert, but it will seldom cooperate when I hold an event outdoors; and I NEVER have an umbrella or sweater when I need one.

I cannot control my dogs or any animal for that matter. I can guide them and train them, and make suggestions, but they all have minds of their own and there will be slobber on my white walls, water and/or muddy footprints all over my wood floors, and fossilized vomit next to the bed. It’s inevitable despite my best intentions. This goes for children as well.

I cannot control my spouse, or my family. (See above).

I cannot control the government, the postal system, the medical system or the educational system. But I can vote.

I cannot control bad grammar. Their-there-they’re. Its-it’s. I could care less, It’s a mute point, ugh
Dear God, make it stop.

I cannot control the speed or dependability of my WiFi connection, although I still think if I yell obscenities loud enough, it will be shamed into complying.

I cannot control my hair. Where it grows, what color it wants to be, and it’s texture. It’s time to give up the good fight.
While I’m at it, I cannot control eye wrinkles, cellulite, lip lines or dark under eye circles, so I’m done letting Madison Avenue sell me the snake oil.

I cannot control how my garden grows. I can fertilize, weed and trim, but it has plans of its own to which I am not privy.

I cannot control aging. It has a superpower called gravity, and the combination are unbeatable. I surrender…you bitches.

I cannot control what others think of me. It is impossible.
I can carefully cultivate my image; but one false move, one bad outfit, snarky comment, or piece of spinach in my teeth and all that hard work is shot to hell.

I cannot control the manners of others. When a man lets a heavy door slam in my face, as I exit a building right behind him; instead of jumping on his back like a crazed spider monkey…I send him love.

I cannot control what’s happening on the planet. Too many moving parts. (Which is true for all of it – everything in life.)

What I’ve discovered is this: ALL of my suffering comes from thinking that I can control things. I (we) cannot.

But here’s the one thing I CAN control – my perception and attitude. That’s it.

I can control ONLY my own energy and what I bring to the day, to the table, to every situation I encounter – even to the mirror, and THAT can change it all.

As my mom used to say when we were fighting with each other, as kids, “You just pay attention to yourself – watch where YOU’RE going.

Enjoy your weekend!
Xox

Even though my neck is developing a waddle, my arms are jiggly, and my bra size is a 36 long, I’m FAR from dead.

I feel great, look pretty darn good for my age, and I want to just give life a big slap on the ass for providing such incomparable entertainment, (because we all came here to be entertained, right?)

Here’s to fifty and beyond!

1) No more zits. That’s huge for me. I literally had chin acne up until five minutes ago.

2) More free time because of reduced mirror time.
I can’t really see anymore but I’ve decided that using the magnifying mirror is masochistic, so, if I have an occasional chin hair or stray lipstick creeping into the creases above my lip line, cut me some slack.
While I used to relish getting ready in the morning, these days the routine ends with me throwing my arms up saying: “Okay, f*ck it! This is as good as it gets.”

3) My BS meter is finely tuned,
I can smell a “phony baloney story” a mile away.

4) I BE WISE.
Not necessarily smart, more like crafty and clever.
I may not have a ton of what some would call common sense, or be very tech savvy,
but I have a keen street sense. In other words, “I be wise in the ways of the world.“

5) People expect less of me because my hair is gray and I often wear more sensible shoes (idiots) so when I get off the back of the motorcycle or I’m funny or say something current, they’re like, “Damn!”

6) My bucket list is getting shorter —and it seems suddenly attainable. Bo Shizzle!

7) I have felt all different kinds of love (except for a child…next life.)
But I DO know the difference between dog love and cat love, teenage crush, misguided 20 something love, sibling love, infatuation (not to be confused with love), lust (also not to be mistaken, under ANY circumstances for love), “I love you, but I’m not in love with you, love”, platonic love, love of country (don’t wince, travel; then come talk to me) And last but certainly not least—Self-love.

8) I give less F*cks.
I have so few left, why waste them? My inhibitions are almost non-existent. I offer my opinion, I don’t shy away from conflict, I’ll sing first at karaoke night and I’ll dance in Greek restaurants.
There’s not much that scares me anymore, much to the horror of my introverted spouse.

9) I stopped asking why. It was just SO exhausting. I wish I’d stopped decades ago.

10) I realize that I may have more years behind me than in front of me, and that doesn’t make me sad (most days)—on the contrary, it mobilizes me.
Listen, times a-wastin’!

Okay, you over fiftys! What can you add?
If you haven’t reached fifty yet, what are you looking forward to?

Xox