Joie de Vivre

Sometimes, getting caught up in life, you don't realize how good life is.
I've become one of those persons who is anticipating my future -- a move to France.
But I hadn't realized how much I'm enjoying my life in our small city on the edge of downtown Columbus until I talked with someone who is not happy.
Of course, I meet plenty of people who spend time complaining, don't we all, including me.
On Tuesday, the snow started to fall in the morning. Lying in bed, I asked my husband to look out the window to see if the streets were slippery. He said the streets were still black, so I dressed and went out on a run.
The snow aimed for my face, except when I ran east, but I couldn't simply run east, so I blinked my eyes and swiped the wetness off my face. My miles were slow because the snow covered the street and I ran carefully not to slip. I skirted past kids with heavy backpacks on their way to school. I waved to the crossing guard waiting to usher kids across the street. I stopped under the awning of the library to text Sheila and see if we planned to walk that morning. Then I took a selfie to show the snow.
And I smiled.

Running in the snow if such a freeing feeling. And maybe that's because I didn't have to go to work. I had the entire day to curl up in front of the fireplace and write or bake some blueberry muffins or watch House Hunters.
When I returned home, I pulled out a big broom to sweep the inch of dry, powdery snow from the sidewalk. I glanced at the untouched snow in the yard, and I knew I had to make a snow angel. So I stood with my back to the virgin white powder, and I cautiously fell backward. I waved my arms and legs in the snow, immediately feeling the wetness through my cotton pants.

Next came the tricky part. I had to get up without ruining the lines of the snow angel. With difficulty, I got to my feet and started to stand so I could step away.
That's when my neighbor called out.
"Are you okay?"
I laughed. "Yes, I'm just making a snow angel."
She'd been afraid that I'd fallen in the snow. I guess I was lucky she didn't call an ambulance to hoist me up.
I told that story on Wednesday night out with writing friends. One of my friends, Erin, who just turned 40, but seems much younger, looked puzzled.
"I guess I've never felt the spontaneous joy to make a snow angel," she said.
That's when I was jolted into my reality. I'm pretty happy. Running is a big part of that happiness.
It let's me release stress and fills my bloodstream with endorphins, no matter what the day holds.
This morning, after a 5-mile run, I paused to wonder at the sun rise, a flush of pink behind the city skyline. Sometimes I take a picture of the amazing things I see; others, I remind myself to live in the moment. The vision in my head is enough without pulling out the cell phone.
Even though I'm looking forward to the next part of my life in May 2017 when we move to France, I'm enjoying this one too.

My Parents Eat the Weirdest Things

This post could probably be written by a 5th grader who thinks her parents are weird, but as my parents age they try the strangest things.
Maybe they're onto something because they are in their mid-70s and they're still active, playing golf five days a week.

Here's Mom and Dad with a bunch of chocolate dipped strawberries for her birthday.
Eating chocolate-dipped strawberries is not weird, just delicious. 

My mom says they're just gullible because they're old, but truthfully, Mom has been gullible since I was a kid. She always filled out those Clearinghouse Publishers Sweepstakes or any other giveaway.
In their 50s, they started drinking some mushroom drink, kombucha, which they grew in their refrigerator.
They've always taken a lot of vitamins.
This week, as I stay with them, I've seen them downing a green liquid every morning. It's some sort of Green Superfood that comes in a powder and they mix with water. My dad stirs up two cups each morning with a little whisk. The darker green settles in the bottom. It's supposed to help with hearing and sore joints and I'm not sure what all.

Next, they pull out a jar full of gin and golden raisins. They take a tablespoon of that each morning for arthritis. Neither of them has been diagnosed with arthritis, but better safe than sorry. They've gone through four jars of gin and raisins and have decided to stop because they're  not sure it works.
Yesterday though, Dad read an ad about another supplement that is supposed to help stop whooshing and ringing in the ears. He is ready to order it. Mom is skeptical, but I think she's just putting on a good front while I'm here.
Whatever they're eating or drinking, I'm glad they're healthy. And  I don't think they'll mind me poking fun at their cure alls.

False Flattery

My darling daughter texted me excitedly earlier in the week from her stage makeup class.
"We have to age ourselves so I used a picture of you as an example."
People say Grace and I look alike, except she's 6 inches taller than I am and has straight hair.
It makes sense that if she wanted to age herself, she would look at a picture of me.
She downloaded my picture from Facebook to use as a guide then she set out to make herself look old.
"Everyone who saw your picture said you were so pretty," Grace said.
Which was nice.
But when she texted the photo of herself looking older, I didn't feel flattered any more.
Yikes.
Is that what I look like?
I hope Grace ages better than me, or at least better than the makeup she used to age herself.
She sent another picture during her makeup test that doesn't look quite as frightening.
Here's the picture with her looking "middle aged" on one side of her face and in "old age" on the other side of her face.

Who would make themselves look intentionally old anyway?

Naïveté

My husband tells me I'm naive about men. 

I don't really see it. I mean, I didn't marry him straight out of high school. I was 27 when we married. I dated men through college and grad school and trips abroad. He'll point out the time I asked the tea room maitre d' in Paris what hours they were open. The matire d' responded, "For you, we are always open." I turned to my friend Michelle and said, "They're always open, that's convenient." 

Okay, maybe I miss some signals from men cause I certainly am not looking for signals or flirtations. 

And, yes, when I had stopped wearing my wedding ring because of a rash, the librarian at the downtown library did memorize my name and card number.

I don't expect men to be attracted to a woman my age. 

Some of the college boys in my class are a little flirty, but I know they're only trying to improve their grades. This semester I had older guys in separate classes. The one man, Lawrence, was outwardly flirtatious, but he acted that way with all the women in class, so I didn't take it too seriously. One day we discussed an essay about "Being a Man" and it touched on the idea of men's foot fetishes. After we finished, the class was shifting around to do some group work when I walked past Lawrence. 

Of course things get caught
 in this mass of hair

"You've got something in your hair," he said and he reached forward to touch my hair at my shoulder. Wearing my hair curly, there's no telling what might get caught in those Brillo pad curls on a humid day.

When he removed his hand, I flicked my hair and said, "Did you get it?"

He said, "Oh, you didn't have anything in your hair, I just have a hair fetish instead of a foot fetish."

"Lawrence!" I said, giving him a look of warning with my hands on my hips. 

I didn't think much about, obviously.

A month or so later, in my other class, we had wrapped up and students were turning in work before they left. A few students remained when Danny, a guy a few  years older than me, stopped at my desk to talk. I was sitting down and he said, "Can I get that out of your hair?"

I didn't even think about Lawrence's earlier subterfuge. I simply looked down at the desk and held still so he could remove whatever was in my hair. Instead, he kissed me on the head. 

"Danny! That was not okay," I said.

And that's when I remember that Lawrence had used the same excuse and realized that I needed to be more on my guard with men.

Maybe there's some sort of guidebook that gives men tips on ruses that get them close to women. So watch out for: "There's something in your hair." I will not fall for that one again.

I was rather brusque with both Lawrence and Danny throughout the rest of the semester, but when I told my husband he reacted rather strongly. 

I promise my radar is up now. I am definitely on the defensive against that subset of men who think flirting with a 50-year-old is exciting. 

Getting in Shape

As someone who runs, I usually think that I am in fairly decent shape. At the beginning of December though, right around the time that I needed to figure out a way to get my daughter home from France, I started having lower back pain. Yes, it might have been stress.
I couldn't easily pinpoint what was causing the back pain because it didn't bother me when I ran or when I did P90X, but the pain would wake me up in the early morning as I lay in bed unable to turn over. I ended up sometimes grasping the side of the mattress and hoisting myself over with my hands. I hated that. Then most mornings, my back would be so stiff I couldn't bend over to pick up my shoes or slide open a drawer to pull out clothes.
I decided to cut back on my running to see if it made a difference. I tried lifting weights, not lifting weights. Running, not running. Walking. Changing shoes. Avoiding the couch in the evenings. The pain continued.
Finally around the beginning of the year, I got serious about documenting the pain. I went to the Y and ran 3 miles on the treadmill and was surprised how quickly I'd gotten out of shape. I couldn't run 3 miles in a row. I'd run one mile then need to walk.
I got into the habit of running at my regular speed then sprinting before walking some. I kept mixing it up, still disappointed at my lack of stamina.
Then February loomed and I knew I needed to get serious about getting back in shape for two reasons other than the back pain. One reason is that my birthday arrives in February. My birthday is a time when I do a little self assessment. Being in shape is definitely a criteria I want to meet. The other reason is that senior night is coming up for the basketball players. My son Spencer is a senior, so my husband and I will accompany him across the gym. I know that if I'm in good shape, I'll walk with confidence rather than slumping across the gym a foot shorter than my husband and son. (Note to self, Wear Heels!)
As my rambling runs on the treadmill continued, I was able to correlate a connection between the days that I ran and the next morning when Ihad no back pain. Eureka. So I needed to keep running. I figured five days a week should keep me out of pain.
Then the nice weather arrived. I couldn't figure out why I should go run on a treadmill when the mornings were balmy in the 40s. So I started to run outside. I'll admit to some back pain the first morning that I ran four miles along the street. My mind raced. Was it the extra mile? Was it the asphalt? I decided to keep going to see what happened.
And this morning, for the first time in nearly three months, I ran five miles from start to finish without stopping to walk in between.
I officially declare myself back in shape, even though no one who looked at me might see much of a difference from two months ago, my lungs and my leg muscles know what I'm talking about.

Lagging Self Confidence

Since we're in Florida, we plan to visit some old friends in St. Petersburg. We'll go to the beach where the wife and their three kids will join us. Then we'll all go to dinner joined by the husband when he finishes toiling at the nationally-known newspaper where he works.
Earl worked with Tom in St. Louis 30 years ago. When that paper folded, they both moved to Florida. We all worked together 20 years ago at the Tampa Tribune. Then we paired up, married off and had kids. Once a year or so, we get together. When the kids were little they would play happily building sand castles and swinging high. Last time we got together, the middle child, a tomboy of a girl, was beating up on our boys. This time with their girls 17 and 14 and the boy 11, it will probably be awkward with teenage gaps in the conversation.
Two days ago, Earl made plans to see them.
As the days pass, I find myself dreading it.
It's all because I don't feel good about myself. I hate to admit it, but it's true.
Maybe it is the fact that I'm spending a lot of time in a bathing suit. Maybe it's because I've put off finding a new stylist to cut and color my hair so it's curly with strands of gray. Maybe it's because I'm eating vacation food instead of only fruits and proteins.
I'm judging myself and assuming they'll do the same, which is stupid. We've all aged.
Generally, I consider myself a fairly confident person. I don't stand in front of the closet and throw aside outfit after outfit. I don't spend hours looking in the mirror and criticizing lines around my eyes. I'm smart, accomplished and sometimes even witty.
This time, though, I feel inadequate.
So, I asked Mom to call and see if her stylist can give me a trim and color today, straightening my hair in this humidity with the hopes that it will hold through tomorrow where I'll sit on the beach refusing to get my hair wet in anticipation of meeting up with old friends.