The Heet is On

I am proud to announce that I am courageously making my way through the 5o's. Oh it has been somewhat of a challenge, but not nearly as bad as I thought. I have many friends who are older than I, so as long as I hang around them, I look and feel great. I remember when I used to kind of snicker at the "blue hairs" who would proudly announce their age and claim that they were "not getting older, they were getting better". Yeah right I thought. But now, I chime in that sentiment louder than anyone. 50 is indeed the new 35!!!!


I had heard and paid close attention to, the prattling of my older friends as they seemed to go on and on about the "changes" that occurred once you crossed over into "never never" land. Things like "You never see as clearly anymore", or "Your hair color will never be that shade of brown again". I dreaded the experience that I was sure that I would face. The shape changing. Things that hang low, where they shouldn't. Creases in areas that seem to be permanent indentations. Crows feet, laugh lines, a 5 o'clock shadow for mercy's sake. These were all subtly coming my way. Sneaking up on this young at heart, perky, bubbly me, with a sadistic desire to bring the "signs of time" to my chin.....and thighs.....and my beautiful brown hair.


Although I haven't really noticed a lot of "changes" in my body recently, I am sure that they are lurking out there somewhere waiting to pounce on me when I least expect it. Changes are good, I have reminded myself. As long as I am in full awareness as to what the changes are and exactly when they might show up. It's not that I can't roll with the punches or anything because I can. I can readily adjust to most new and different things with a smile on my face. It's just, well, I have heard the horror stories of the so called changes we women go through and to be quite honest with you, most of them scare me to death. Things that hang down where they shouldn't hang down, freaky squeaky noises from places a lady wouldn't discuss much less admit that those noises belonged to her and a strange urge to put doilies out. My gosh will this happen to me????


Back in my younger days, I could get around pretty good. I could exercise, go for a walk, get in and out of my car even, and not break a sweat. Heck, we never even admitted that we sweated. We glistened !!! Little diamond shaped beads of sweat droplets glistening in the mirror as we watched ourselves workout with our gym sisters. Bending, stretching, stair stepping. We did it all. And we did it to the beat of music blasting all around us. We wore matching outfits with little leggin's and looked oh so cute, working out side by side. Nowadays, I need a full sized bath towel at my fingertips before I attempt to tie my own shoes. Slipping into something comfortable has become a quest to find the least amount of buttons, laces and strings to wrestle with. Give me the simple pleasures.

In all of the many conversations I have had about this growing older thing, no one took the time to tell me that I would eventually need to buy stock in a liniment company. Oh my gosh!!! When in the world did the simple process of rolling out of bed in the morning become the event from hell. A peaceful nights sleep and then WHAM !! Every joint pops, my knees crack and the pain in my back feels like I was joyriding in a car without shocks for the past several hours. Where was this phenom on the list of notes from the "over the hill gang"? Was anyone going to bother to tell me or was this the big surprise that I needed to experience all on my own? Either way, there is just no preparing for this. None, zip, nada !!

My husband and I respect this new avenue in our lives. We have embraced it and learned to cope with it to the best of our ability. What choice do we have. After all, doesn't that license say something about for better or for worse? As in any good relationship you just learn how to adjust. We give each other a little extra space as we move about.....just in case one of us keels over from the pain of walking. We hold hands when we are out in public.....in case one of us loses our balance. And we have efficiently learned how to apply liniment to each others achy-breaky backs.

Whistle Stop

Growing up in Southern California meant beautiful sunny days, warm but not too hot temps, Disneyland fireworks on balmy summer nights and of course....the Helm's man. Just reminiscing about his visits gives me goose bumps. He was a giant among men. He knew how to work a crowd. He was a network marketing genius. He was in a class all his own. And it all started when we heard the toot-toot of his little whistle.

It didn't really matter to any of us what time of the day he showed up. It seemed as though entire neighborhoods stopped what they were doing at the earliest detection of that whistle. It could be early in the morning or late in the afternoon. It mattered not. As long as he made his way to our street. Please, please, please, let this be the day when it was our turn for him to drive through our neighborhood. Every single mother from every single home seemed to appear almost magically, looking like June Cleaver in her pearls and apron, walking briskly out of her house to make her way to his truck. It was poetry in motion.

He would cruise ever so slowly down the street and find just the right mid way point and then ever soooo slowly apply his brakes and roll to a gentle stop. The driver side door would open and out he would step. He was radiant in his white pants and white shirt. He seemed to almost glow. To all of us he was angelic. He would smile and welcome us and then....and then....and then? He would open the back doors of his truck and the most heavenly smell would waft through the air and the anticipation would begin.

The inside of the truck consisted of many wooden drawers. Each one was pulled out with great love and care to reveal the most delicious donuts and breads you could imagine. Jelly filled, chocolate covered sprinkles, eclairs filled to the max with scrumptious vanilla custard. The drawers seemed to go on forever as he would pull them out one at a time. Rows and rows and rows of warm, gooey, sugar coated, jelly filled circles of heaven, all just waiting to be bought and wrapped in that little special sized piece of waxed paper, and handed over to a ready recipient.

As our good mothers carefully picked out their loaves of bread, we kids would sit on the curb and savor our donuts. We didn't think about the calories or the quantity of sugar as it made a little mustache on our lips. We didn't even know where this guy came from or if his product followed the FDA guidelines. We just knew that every once in a while we would hear the toot-toot of a whistle off in the distance, grab our Moms and make a mad dash for that old beige truck. Life was simple. Life was good. Life was made sweeter because of the Helm's man.

The Shedding

After a long day at work it is always a joy to come home. My husband and I start dinner and mull over our day. What we did, where we went. Normal conversations between normal people. Sometimes we even take a cup of coffee and go and sit on the porch for awhile. We watch the kids play in the yard across the street. Lazy conversations. Idle chit-chat. Safe. Secretive. Afraid.....very afraid. Neither of us wants to bring up the subject of the evil that lurks within our home.

It happens almost every morning. In normal homes. In quiet neighborhoods around the world. Folks starting their day, getting ready for work. Taking a nice hot shower. Picture it. You turn on the faucet, wait for the water to get just the right temperature and step in drawing the shower curtain closed. You look up at the shower head as the water gently cascades over your face and then it starts, the haunting screeching violin music from "Psycho"....REE REE REE REE. You feel it before you actually see it. But it's there. In the water. Coiling and snaking its way around your toes. Pulling you towards the drain where it will surely drag you to your death. At my house.......we call this "The Shedding". Strands of long natural curly hair hiding in the deepest recesses of the drain. Waiting, waiting, waiting for their next victim to step into the shower.

And then there's the bathroom sink. You wash your hands there, brush your teeth there. What could be safer? But every so often the water starts draining a little slower so you take the stopper out and pear down into the pipe thinking that maybe the kids have lost a Lego in there or something. Finally, you get a wire hanger and stick it down there digging around to get a grip on the culprit. And what do you pull out? This giant ball of tangled hair that resembles a very small rodent. It's "The Mouse"! There isn't a plumber in the world that doesn't quake in his boots when he gets a call from a frantic homeowner asking for help to unclog a drain. I have seen with my very own eyes what comes out of there. These guys earn every penny.

At times it seems like I am a character actor from the Star Trek series. You remember the one I am talking about don't you? The story of the Tribbles? The cute little balls of hair that suddenly started multiplying and eventually filing the entire ship? Or, it could be a scene from Gremlins. They were never supposed to get wet either. Maybe I have Gremlin DNA or something. I have not quite figured it out, but it certainly seems that no matter where I go or what I am doing I leave my signature shedding in my wake.

I was so depressed about this. Would I pass this terrible trait on to my unsuspecting children? Would they too, have people come up behind then and gently pluck the stray hairs off the back of their shirt. Would they carry the dreaded label of a shedder and become an outcast in society? Would they be taken off of the "A" list and not be invited to the company parties because....well you know....it could be catching. This was horrible. How was I ever going to survive this terrible fate that had been dealt to me.

And then it happened. A friend came out of the "shedding" closet and confessed that she too, was a shedder. I was stunned. Shocked. Speechless. But secretly, quite frankly, I was overjoyed. If there was 2 of us, then maybe there were 3 of us. Could there be another shedder who needed a friend? A confidant? Someone who would understand that shedders should not be the scourge of the drainpipes? We could have meetings. Write books. Share our shedding stories. We could go worldwide with this. I could see it in my mind. Shedders from every walk of life, banding together and walking arm in arm demanding the respect that we deserved, never more to be taunted and humiliated by those who seemed to be able to keep their hair on their scalp. Or, we could just simply pluck the hair off of each others back when no one else was looking, nod at each other and just know, that we belonged to a secret elite group. Yeah. Maybe keeping it to ourselves is the best idea yet.