The BEST Gal Pal Reunion

Dear Diary,
I spent the last two nights of my spring break away with The Gals.
Not my own girls, but with the most genuine girlfriends a gal could ask for.

College is a time of stress and growth and fun. 
In those circumstances, bonding with those you share it with is only natural.  I am blessed that those bonds remain strong to this day -- though time and distance try their best to weaken it.

So before I begin overindulging in Oreos while I cry over the topics of love, bonding, and the difficulties of long-distance friendships, I'm going to change the emotional direction of this post and reflect on some superficial guidelines that made my weekend the BEST gal pal reunion....

• Jumping up and down, squealing, and hugging are acceptable when reuniting with old friends, even in a public place such as, say, a hotel parking lot. I know we are 45. But that's the thing about being 45 -- we don't care what others think!
• Bring sleep aids to share: earplugs for the light sleepers and nasal strips for the snorers. No, I don't mean the pore cleaning ones, though someone could provide those too.  It will help keep the peace if everyone is offered one, especially the ones who deny being a snorer! I seriously wondered how my sound-sensitive bed mate didn't suffocate under the two pillows she buried her head under.  Hmmm.  Must have been the others in the room, I was quiet all night!
• Snacks and drinks must be brought by all.  There will be too much of both, but you may get a couple tasty new dip recipes out of it. (Bonus tip: Five women cannot eat two large pizzas for dinner. One will suffice. Especially after all that good dip.)
• Individual checks at meal times are required if you want the peace of mind that comes with knowing you aren't going to be paying extra for the lush at the table. Unless of course you are the lush at the table.
• Husbands need not worry when we call the 20-something bartender "Hon." He looks at us as if we are his mom, not a hot cougar. With a drink.
• Have an escape line at the ready when talk about politics or religion gets too un-comfy.  These examples worked for us: "Soooo, what's your favorite candy bar?" and "I like what you did with your hair."
• Keep health talk to three minutes a person.  This includes mental and physical health.  Seriously, pull out the cell phone stopwatch and go around the table.  Then be done.  We are at the age when talking about our health problems is comparable to events worth medals of honor.  But no one wants to hear about your medals. We want to talk about ours.  As we get older we may need to increase the time allotted for this activity.

It's remarkable how we all reconnected in older, saggier, double-chinned versions of ourselves. 

The camaraderie of old times came back in a wink. The trust we established in our young adulthood allowed us to waste no time opening our hearts to each other from the get-go.

So, thank you, gal pals, for continuing to be each other's cheerleaders, advisors and counselors.

That will come in handy when, let's say, one of us ends up in jail for jumping a turnstile at the El.

Smooches!
LJ

My Scary Shoes

Dear Diary,
Today I have a visual aid.

This is typical shoe "cacophony" just outside my mudroom.  Notice the nice shoe cubbies in the background my hubby made.  (Should have made twice as many!)  A family of five generates a lot of shoe litter!

But I digress.

There is something in this picture that gives me sweaty palms and tightens my throat with fear.

See those white-ish, softly worn tennis shoes in the foreground?

They scare me.

I was cleaning out the shoe cubbies several weeks ago and uncovered them.

I'd never seen them before.  Where did they come from?
Based on the coat of dirt on them and worn look, they had been worn plenty. 

I set about locating their owner, but alas, like Cinderella's step-sisters, the shoe didn't fit any family members. I was the Cinderella!

I tried to make an excuse for their existence in my house, like, maybe a friend left them here by mistake.  Yeah, and absentmindedly went home in stocking feet?  Don't think so.

Panic began to well up in my chest.  I investigated further.
They are a brand sold by Walmart.  Well, I could have possibly purchased them since I am not above buying shoes at Walmart.

Yet I don't recall ever buying them, much less ever wearing them.
That is why they scare me.

They have since been reluctantly adopted by me as outside shoes.  I wear them when I do manual labor, like mowing, gardening, etc.  They are sturdy and dirty -- great for digging holes!

But I shudder every time I slide each foot into its gaping mouth and tie the laces.
Because they are a reminder that I think I am slowly
losing
my
mind.

Unwittingly yours,
LJ

P.S.  If anyone is missing a pair of size 8.5 shoes with the likeness above, give me a call!

Dressing Room Moments

Dear Diary,

Today let's get beyond the magnifying mirror suctioned to my vanity (read A Beauty-filled Season), and go straight for the full length version, multiplied by three for multi-angled viewing!  (Have you ever seen that mirror room in "What Not to Wear?"  Ooh, gives me the willies!)

I'm talking about dressing rooms.  Rooms which, up until this year, I didn't have too much of a problem being in.  Where trying on cute dresses and tops and crops really was a fun experience.  Until I grew a size bigger. 

Recently I shopped the racks for at least half an hour, and with optimism and excitment at my finds, brought several summery outfits into the dressing room, only to take off every piece in discouragement. 
Why was nothing fitting right? 
Oh, gee, could it be I was shopping last year's size? 
This is a new year and a new size, sistah!
In fact, not to brag, but I am the heaviest I have ever been outside of pregnancy.
IMG!

Returning to the rack to browse a larger dress size had deflated any sense of fun this spree had brought me.
It was a tight-throated, purse-lipped experience. 
Go ahead, purse your lips right now. 
Brings on the tight throat and bleak outlook doesn't it? 
That is when shopping -- and the dressing room -- became a thing no longer desirable.

Call it middle-age spread, or slower metabolism, or just plain weight gain, it all means the same thing.  No matter the person, to "graduate" into the next size up is not an accomplishment to be relished.

These days, though my left brain is telling me, Don't eat another cookie! or Get up and get some exercise!, my right brain is trying to find a less "painful" way to make try-ons a more positive experience.  And I think I have it figured out. 

The next time I take a trip to that dreaded room dressing room, I will have on some emotional
(under)armor to protect me from that image in the three-way mirror.

It's called Spanx.

See you at the next foundation sale!
LJ

P.S.  Here are some other random dressing room moments.

• One of my girls lost her first tooth in a Target dressing room. I think I was trying on shorts.
• During one of my more recent and discouraging dressing room experiences (trying on several pairs of black shorts with my pasty white thighs decorated with squiggly purple lines is not a day brightener), I got a text from my daughter that our pet parakeet, Jayda, had finally chirped his last. I've mentioned my brave, feathered 'keet in Lessons from a Bird Brain. Little did I know in September that the cause of his initial lameness was a tumor growing in his abdomen. It caused many problems at the end. Now we are all at peace. And I am managing to get through the early summer season without any black shorts.

More Than Meets the Eye

Dear Diary,

I'm feeling old.  Well, maybe more like "out of sorts."

When one hits the mid 40s, one becomes used to the term ma'am instead of miss.  I was first called ma'am when I was in my late 20s, by a dental assistant who wasn't much younger than me.  Boy, did my day go down hill from there.  How many people can say they remember the moment that moniker was applied to them?  Yes, traumatic.

But at this point -- at 44 -- I am impervious to the ma'am label.  There are other reasons I am feeling out of sorts these days.

I am in a new work environment.  After being a work-at-home mom for almost a year, the mental transition hasn't been easy.  The well-spring of emotions that this job has elicited will be expounded upon another day, perhaps. 

Picture an elementary school setting.  Not only am I surrounded by young children, but by fertile young teachers with the makeup and hair and clothes to go with.  A silly statement, but I bet most readers get what I mean.

There are a few of us seasoned folk sprinkled into the mix.  The days of pregnancies, potty training struggles, and preschool programs are long gone for me.  Since I no longer fall into the Young Marrieds category, I feel like a middle-aged alien wandering the halls of the school.  OK, I exaggerate a bit, but still, the thoughts of "I don't fit in" pop into my head at least once a day.

When I look at this honestly, I know I am feeling this way because I am comparing myself to these women.  Women who on the outside appear to be put together, golden highlights, baby bumps and all.  Lunchroom talk about ultrasounds, overseas adoptions and sick toddlers have me nodding and smiling either in sympathy or in polite agreement.  (I am the newbie so these people are still perfect strangers to me. I can't offer up much more than this at this stage anyway.) 

I miss the Young Married stage and the energy, exuberance and honeymoon attitude that goes with it. Although, I feel equiped to handle it so much better now that I am in my 5th decade!  I can see why grandparenting is the best!

I think I am mourning what I had, and which I now have to greet in the faces of these women on a daily basis. 

Make no mistake.  I love, love, love the life I am leading now.  I am blessed despite life's hardballs. 

In time I will get to know these women who, right now, are only two-dimensional figures of youth and happiness. 

There is more than meets the eye.  And in time, I pray they will find this true of me too.

LJ

It's a *Small* Problem

Dear Diary,
I have a problem I must face sooner or later, and really, it is "later" now.

It crept up on me a few years ago, slowly, subtly.

It gave me urges to squint, blink, or force my eyes open as wide as they could go. 
But the problem persisted.

I acquired hyperopia. 
I now belong to a group of people called the middle-aged hyperopes. 
Sounds like great club name for aging rope-jumpers.

No.  It's farsightedness.
What a pain.

Over-the-counter readers have helped for a few years.  But the visual distance at which I have to rely upon them is becoming a greater one.  What was once a use for tired eyes during bedtime reading has now become a necessity for reading price tags, recipes, and menus.  Yes, there is a big difference between a 3 and an 8, both in price and in measurement!

My place on the age-eyesight continuum is now to the point that I can't read the writing on the GPS mounted on the front windshield.  Kind of important when driving in uncharted territory, so to speak.

Perhaps the latest little mishaps seal my bifocal lens fate.  Let me mention two of them.

My body hates the dry air, which is prevalent in winter here in the Midwest.  I use a lot of lotions and potions to counteract the effect dry air has on me.  I have spent many-a-day squirting a store-bought saline solution up my uncomfortably dry nasal passages.  I also use another solution to give relief to my dry eyes, which I use often throughout the day.  I stick them in my purse to use when I'm away from home.  The problem came one day when, sans glasses, I grabbed from my purse the nasal spray, and proceeded to relieve my eyes with it. Yeah.  I can tell you the saline used for the relief of one body part does not transfer to relief in other body parts.  And can be slightly irritating.

Continuing with my lotions and potions theme, on a weekend away from home, I decided to make use of those little bottles of shampoo, conditioner and lotion the hotel so generously provides. After my shower, I needed to squeeze out some lotion for my luxuriously soft supple skin, ahem.  OK, I actually needed it for my wrinkly, crinkly neck. So I dabbed it on, and boy, did it start a subtle stinging sensation. 

My beauty tip for the day:  Conditioner may not be used as a substitute for lotion.  Rinsing with cool water is recommended.

But I do count my blessings.  I was glad I chose not to use the conditioner (i.e.lotion) in the shower earlier. Hey, those bottles are tiny and the letters are even tinier!

So, I shall continue to use my readers, which have become a semi-permanent hair accessory.  Reaching for the top of my head to pull down the glasses nestled there has become second nature to me.  Who needs bifocals, when my readers have a lovely home atop my head? 

One day I will embrace my identity as a MAH (middle-aged hyperope). 

Just not today.

LJ