Yeah. I liked the story the first hundred times you told it!!

The one problem with surrounding yourself with the same friends for years is that you have heard all of their stories and they have heard all of yours. When we get together with the family for reunions or holidays the same stories were heard over and over again. “Remember when Wendy was jumping around in that box and fell into the bush out back? She had to have eight stitches. Doc Stratton stitched her up at his office downtown. His office had that crazy sailfish on the wall...the one that had the eye that followed you wherever you sat?”Another relative would chime in. “Then there was the time she and her friend Cathy snuck out of the house to go to a party. What were they, thirteen? Boy, she was grounded for a year!”

These stories not only get told over and over, but they often take on a new and better twist. “Daddy had to rush her to Doc’s because she was bleeding like crazy. What was it, thirty stitches?”You come to expect the stories from family. They saw you through all of the strange boys you dated, like the one that would run up and down the street in front of your house for over an hour, but never come in. Or the one your sister dated that would never come up to the house. The horn of the car would blow and she’d be gone. We still tease her about that..was there ever really was a guy?

Your family has seen you through the clothes of the sixties; the miniskirts, large bell-bottoms and gauze. The seventies with the halters, silk shirts and maxi dresses and those platform shoes. Then the eighties... well, I spent most of the early eighties in Maternity wear. But even that isn’t sacred. “Do you remember how huge you got with the second baby? I mean HUGE.” I HAVE to listen with family. It’s what we do. We sit around the kitchen table eating Massey’s and reminiscing. The memories and stories are who we are.But with friends we know we can look at each other and smile and simply say, “That’s a good story, I enjoyed it the first hundred times you told it.”-Wendy

Waddle Waddle

So you’re fifty something. You look in the mirror and like what you see. For the first time in your life, you take really good care of yourself. You work out. I do water aerobics three times a week. My sister, who is a year older (and always will be) walks and does yoga. I have a sister-in-law that could out-ride Lance Armstrong and another that you don’t dare call between 5 and 6am as it’s her workout/meditation time. Most of my close friends are into the walking thing. I hate walking. I get bored seeing the same sights day after day. If I go out to walk it’s usually with the damn (I mean, wonderful) dog. By the time he sniffs, pees, barks at the birds, squirrels, rabbits, other dogs, bees, gnats...well you get the idea... I’ve walked a mile in just under an hour. This is not working out. It’s painful and boring. But I am overcome with guilt walking without him, as I pass my house on the second mile and see his little nose pressed up against the window. An hour later we make it back to the house and I’m exhausted from standing around watching him do his thing. I tried to take him to the dog park, but he seemed to want to get to familiar with some of the other male dogs.

So we, as fifty-somethings, walk, swim and twist our bodies, strengthen our cores with yoga and Pilates. Our bodies are firmer than ever. We eat better because now that the kids are gone there are no snacks around to tempt us. However, glancing in the mirror you still see a few parts that can’t be covered. They’ll give your age away every time; your hands and your neck. There are those pesky skin tags and age spots. Every time a spot pops up, I remember the commercial where the woman says, “They call them age spots, I just call them ugly”. I’ve tried the creams and they work temporarily, but I’m not good at having to do something every day for the rest of my life. I bought into the crazy ads and tried all of them. But once I embraced the changes and went back to my soap and water and a light moisturizer I was much happier.

My dermatologist has become my new best friend. One quick snip and those pesky skin tags are gone forever. He offered to use a little Botox around my eyes, but I explained that years of raising children had already given me that constantly surprised look I’ve come to love; I’ll leave the Botox for others.

The Early Bird Gets the Worm...

...which brings me to another of my little quirks that annoys the hell out of the kids. I am always early. It comes from having to get three kids and a husband ready each and every time we went anywhere. I needed time to deal with that last minute spill or disaster so I learned to leave plenty of leeway. I usually played the old half hour time difference game. A fun game where you tell everyone you have to leave by six when you actually need to leave by six-thirty. Then you get to the place and of course you’re early.

When I first moved to Florida and the kids were beginning elementary school, I was determined to get involved. I was room mother and agreed to be in charge of refreshments for the PTSA meeting. (As a side note, I grew up where we had PTA so I didn’t understand the S thing from the beginning until another parent explained that in this state they liked to have the students involved. Aren’t they already involved? This is where they go to school, right? But I digress.) I had the refreshments lined up and everyone agreed to drop off the cookies a half hour early so we could get set up for the seven o’clock meeting. I got to the school and it was locked up tight. Did I mix up the night? Could I have the wrong time? I walked the perimeter looking for a janitor or anyone who might have an answer. At ten till seven there was still no sign of any of the other goodies and no one for the meeting. Back then no one had cell phones and I finally noticed the pay phone...behind the locked gate. At seven o’clock, the janitor opened the gateway. Just as I stepped through, here came the other women with the goodies. I started to chastise, because by now I was a little pissed, when one woman spoke up. “Honey, you’re in the South. Nothing starts on time; in fact I bet the principle won’t even be here until seven thirty.” For a crazy early bird, this threw off my whole sense of being. I could move from being early, I could even get used to the being on time. But it would take an act of God to get me used to things starting late.

This malady has stayed with me throughout the years. I’m still the first one at a restaurant waiting for my friends to show. It seems I’ve surrounded myself with latecomers, but over the years we’ve started to laugh at the differences. Many a time I will be sitting in the booth waiting, wondering. “Is this the right restaurant? “Is this the right day?” Some things never change.

Gas Gage II

There is one bad thing that came with turning fifty. The inability to eat anything you want on the spicy food chart. For me, it’s garlic. Actually, anything buttery with the garlic. Gone are the days of Oysters Rockefeller, garlic pizza and just about any of my special meals. I had a love affair with Garlic early in life and the wonderful flavor made it into most of my recipes. Now, I find it necessary to replace the flavor. I have found that extra herbs like thyme or basil can replace the garlic cloves that I cherished. It’s different, but most times the flavor is acceptable.

We won’t go into detail about what my symptoms are when I do eat garlic. Basically, I’m uncomfortable for a day. A few of my other friends have said that they too have some food problems. Nuts, the peels from some fruits and I have a friend that actually has acquired an allergy to beer. Maybe the lack of garlic in my diet isn’t so bad.

My son once told me that your physiology changes every seven years. You can pick up new allergies or foods will start affecting you differently. I’m hoping that when I turn fifty-seven my garlic problem will cease. For the time being, I sit and watch people eat those wonderful garlic butter rolls at the restaurant we frequently gather with friends …and I wait… only six more years to go.

I’ve also noticed that we have morphed into a group who likes to discuss what illness we are experiencing. The first half hour when we get together is taken up with new aches or pains that we are all feeling. There is all the new terminology we have learned this year. Many of our parents are going through knee replacement and/or hip replacement surgeries. These are things we have to look forward to as we age. My favorite discussion is hormone therapy. The specialist’s change daily on what is good for you, what is bad for you, what natural foods help so you don’t need to put synthetics into your body. It’s enough to drive a person crazy. Once I saw a special about some hormone that was made from mare urine. Excuse me? I’ll just keep trimming that one hair off my chin, if you don’t mind.

Many in my group were athletes when we were younger. And to those who are following in our footsteps I say, “What are you thinking?” The shoulder you can’t bend to lift above your head from a worn rotator cuff, the tendonitis that shoots pain through your arm from tennis or softball, the knee damage from the skiing accident... all these minor injuries develop into serious pains as you get older.

You see your orthopedist and they can now replace those ailing joints. But I’m still attached to the old knee and hip, and if I have to take two Advil every morning for the rest of my life then I’ll do it. It may take me a little longer to get moving in the morning, but it’s a small price to pay to keep my body intact.

And just because the body may be going doesn’t mean the mind isn’t as sharp as it’s always been. My adult kids tease me that I seem to be somewhat confused at times. Maybe I’ve always been this way and they just didn’t have the time to see it. They were so busy with school and boyfriends and girlfriends and jobs that they had little time for Mom and Dad. Maybe I was always a little scattered. I remember being at the mall with my daughters one day and panic sat it. Did I say I would meet them at the food court or by Sears? Did we say we would meet at one or one thirty? And this was when I was a young forty. Of course I ran into them at a coffee shop and they said, “Where have you been? We were supposed to meet here a half hour ago.” Really? Coffee shop at twelve-thirty? Where did that come from? But it wasn’t that I didn’t remember where to meet. Sometimes when you have kids you kind of tune them out. I just needed to learn to not do it when they told me where and when to meet.

Dogone

So the kids are grown and out on their own. You have the freedom to be having sex anywhere you want and anytime you want, but you notice a noise at the foot of the bed. It’s the dog, the one that your youngest child convinced you to get when the former family pet died. Your daughter was eighteen at the time and heading off to college, but you’d always had a dog and this one was the cutest thing. You get the dog and a year later your baby’s off to college but the dog is still there. Now you have the vet bills and the boarding bills (because you want to travel) and you have to walk, feed, and play with the dog. Don’t get me wrong, we love our dog. In fact if my husband had to choose between the dog and some members of the family (me included) the dog would be the hands down winner.

A year ago when our daughter got her own place, I suggested she take the dog to live with her. After all it was her that wanted the dog initially. You would have thought I had murdered someone. My husband wouldn’t speak to me for days. But I’m the one home with the dog day in and day out. I’m the one that makes all the plans for boarding and grooming and I’m the one the dog hates when he gets a shot or I leave him at the kennel. And, honestly, the dog is kind of neurotic. When we leave him at the kennel, it takes a couple weeks for him to become socialized back into the group. We finally reached an agreement that when we travel one of the kids takes the dog to their home so he isn’t left at the kennel. The way I figure if I travel enough they’ll have him as much as I do. See win, win.

To Gray Or Not To Gray

Many women my age have started that age-old battle between grey or not to grey. It really isn’t a battle, more like a war. Here’s how it goes for me. The roots of my hair started going gray about the time I turned 45. The rest of my hair was a wonderful shade called Mahogany, with caramel highlights. (My hair has always been a mousy brown so I started coloring it in my teens and have no idea what the actual color is). But I noticed that as the hair grew out these strands of gray started to emerge from the base. I would style my hair a little differently in order to make the color last a few extra weeks. When I turned fifty, I made the decision to give up the fight and go gray. I went to the hair stylist and had my hair cut back to where the gray ended. Now my hair was gray and an inch long all over. I loved the short hair. My hair has always been naturally curly and I could just finger toss it and go. But suddenly I didn’t recognize the woman in the mirror. As it grew out, I felt like I was suddenly looking like that sweet old grandmother down the street. The one that wears the housedress all day and has her hair pulled back in a bun.

Now, don’t go all, “I have grey hair and I love it. How dare you judge me?” I’m not. If you’re happy with your hair go for it. For me it just wasn’t the right time. But what to do? The upkeep on the darker hair was time consuming as well as costly. So I set up an appointment with a new hair specialist. "Specialist" means that instead of my usual forty-five dollars for cut and color, this one was a hundred and twenty-five. I guess if you put specialist on the end you can triple the money. But I digress. I went to the new stylist and she suggested that we go lighter with highlights so the gray might blend in. I’ll try anything once. She did her magic and when she turned me to look into the mirror I was overwhelmed with the results. She’d lightened, trimmed and straightened the whole mess and I looked amazing. How could I tell? Well, if you look in the mirror and don’t grimace, it’s a good thing. When I walked into the house after the appointment my husband said, “You look incredible.” Then he proceeded to wrap his arms around me for a little snuggle. The best praise ever. Someday I think I might try the gray again. But for now I’m a happy fifty something blond. Who knew?

Speaking of my husband and snuggling, there's the issue of sex. That’s right... sex. It really is better after fifty. For one thing, the hot flashes and the night sweats that accompanied the transition from 40 to 50, that soaked your nightshirt, sheets, and blankets and left a pool of water under your bed have stopped. The crazy ass mood swings that said oh, I want you, followed by don’t touch me, have ceased. Nothing sexy about those. There are no kids to interrupt so the word spontaneity is back in the bedroom. And finally (drum roll) if you’re like me and past menopause, there is no chance of getting pregnant.

My husband and I started our family early and rounded out the family with our third child when we were 27. Nowadays, many people don’t start their families until their thirties or early forties. You people don’t know what you’re missing.

There is nothing like that Sunday morning snuggle. You get up, have your coffee, read the paper and then the glance comes from across the room. Four hours later, much spent cuddling and talking; you get out of bed relaxed and ready to take on the day.

And it’s not just on the home front. Since we are traveling more we can experience this wonderful new freedom in many exotic places. That said I still don’t want the housekeeping staff to know what goes on so I keep my nice clean towel handy. There is nothing as romantic as when your husband takes you by the hand and leads you to a romantic place and you say, “Wait I have to get the towel.”
Now that I’ve grossed out my kids and possibly my mother with this topic, I’ll move on.

I blame Tiger Woods for my new haircut.

I tend to get overly emotional about things. Here's the problem. I am the eternal optimist. That's right. I trust. It started with John Edwards. I believed in him, I spoke up for him, and when the news hit, I defended him. "Come on...There's no way those rag mags are telling the truth. Did you see him standing beside his wife? They're Kirk and I, childhood sweethearts that stuck together through thick or thin, good times and bad." I was convinced it was a right wing conspiracy to bring down a good man. WRONG!!! You think I'd learn. Next, there was the kid in the balloon. Again, I imagined the kid had been so upset that he caused the situation of the balloon getting away that he'd hidden from the family, scaring those poor parents, while the world watched. But no, the people involved had conspired to use the child to get on a, wait for it, reality show. I put the event behind me and refused to be one of those people that only saw the worst in people.

BUT THEN TIGER!!!! For years we've known about pro athletes and their voracious need for living life outside the moral compasses. Kobe, Norman, Daly, ARod, we read the stories and watched the dramas unfold. But Tiger was different. He led us to believe that he was a good man. The champion, the NIKE man. People complained about his attitude early in his career. I said, "He's so young, give him time." Or "It's not arrogance, it's confidence." I've seen the man up close. I've watched him interact with his family, and if what I saw was an act then give the man the Oscar.

I don't hold these men up to higher standards because they are in the public eye. They are human, they have the right to screw up just like any of us. But I do hold them to the same standards of all humans,"TREAT OTHERS AS YOU YOURSELF WANT TO BE TREATED" and "LOVE YOUR FAMILY ABOVE ALL OTHERS."

Now on to the haircut. I was pissed. I'd again told everyone I knew that it was the media that takes a little thing like a car accident and makes it news. I blame the whole world who seems to put these people up on pedestals but revels in their downfall. People who smugly say, "I always knew..."

SO... I was getting a hair trim the day the ninth lovely young lady that thought it was okay to have sex with a married man and then grab those fifteen minutes appeared on scene. As I sat in the chair, I told Allison I need a change. I needed to leave the store different than when I came in. I needed a drastic change to set my spirt right.

Hair grows back right? It looks okay, and it will take some time, but in a few months it'll be back to normal. Right?

I'll still look for the good in people and I'll still be shocked and disappointed. But it's the only way I know how to be true to myself. I look for the good and I still believe there's more good in people than we hear. It's just not news.

One last thing...I was at a tournament in Louisville Kentucky and was watching Justin Leonard putt. A young woman next to me was talking and I overheard her say to her friend that he was hot...First Justin is adorable, but hot??? Anyway I leaned over and pointed out his new bride who was walking along the ropes. "Too bad," I said, "You just missed out, he's married."
The woman looked over at my daughter and I and said, "I'd still do him."

Two points...

First, women need to protect and support other women. Rockers, men in sports, in fact any famous or for that matter non famous person who is married, that's a hands off, back off and find your own..

Secondly, our girls need to be taught self esteem. Having sex with someone famous doesn't benefit the woman on any level.

I think that's it for today, but instead of a blog I think you got a rant!!!!!