This afternoon, as I put a Toy Story band-aid on my blistered heel, I feel old. It could be because I am hobbling around today with another one of those mystery pains, you know, the ones that show up and are crippling in nature, yet you can’t remember actually hurting yourself and causing that degree of limitation? Then again, it could be because I just spent twenty minutes inspecting my face in the magnifying mirror in my bathroom. Maybe it’s because I cleaned out my baby girl’s underwear drawer to make room for training bras. Or maybe it’s because I’m old.
Old is a relative term on the time continuum. I’m certainly not Egyptian pyramid old, but I am too old to pull off dancing wildly in my car. If a teenage girl is dancing wildly in her car, she’s cute. If it’s someone in my age range, it’s just a spectacle, and not the good kind.
I was hoping by this stage of my life, I would be approaching the self-acceptance, confident phase that comes with experience. Instead, I am still trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up. The only thing I know for sure, I don’t want to be old.
I wanted to make an appointment for a massage tomorrow, but I won’t because I don’t want the massage therapist to see my roots. You know that inch of dark hair you see on your blond friends every five weeks or so? Well, mine isn’t dark; it’s white. I also plan on avoiding everyone taller than me for the next forty-eight hours until I can go to my hair dresser. Morticia Addams could pull off the white streak. Bonnie Raitt can make it look funky. The rest of us look like we need a babushka to cover our heads on our way out to the field to pick potatoes.
I hung out at the pool yesterday with my friend while my daughters were at day camp. When I told my younger daughter how I spent my day, she asked me if I played in the pool. I pointed out to her that people my age don’t “play.” Normally when I go to the pool, I don’t even get in the water. I sit in a chair and read a book until the heat becomes unbearable. That’s when I slip into the water, complain about how cold it is, then step out and back to my chair and book. I don’t usually swim with my kids because they hang all over me, and they are annoying. Also, I don’t want to lose a contact lens. That happened to me once, when I was sixteen. I was traumatized, clearly, since I still won’t put my head under water after decades. But did my friend and I have an underwater tea party and swim between each other’s legs like tunnels? No, sadly, we didn’t.
Using the word decades also makes me old.
I bought new sneakers last week, and I treated myself to a pair of insoles. I excitedly told my friends at the gym about my new sneakers with insoles. Then it occurred to me that young people don’t get excited about insoles. Old.
My older daughter has been complaining that her ankle is bothering her. She doesn’t remember to take it easy. She just plays soccer and tennis and runs around like the kid she is, and then she wonders why it still hurts. I take the stairs one at a time because even my heel is too mature and set in its ways to try something out of the daily routine.
When you are a teenager, you can sleep until ten o’clock and everyone just thinks you need the rest and are probably growing. When you are my age, they hold a mirror under your nostrils to make sure you are still alive.
Okay, I’m not that old. I can still get pregnant, unfortunately. I can balance on one foot for over a minute. I remember what I had for breakfast and also the score of my IQ test from the second grade. I can order a bottle of wine and sound like I know what I am talking about. I can end a sentence in a preposition if I want to.
On the down side, I can’t go backpacking across Europe and stay in youth hostels. If I joke with the bag boy at the grocery store, my daughter finds it creepy. I look like I should be driving a minivan. I can’t shoot pool, but I can fold a set of king sheets in under two minutes. I take vitamins. Lots of vitamins. And those spots on my arms? They aren’t freckles.
I would keep going, but I don’t want to miss the early bird specials.
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
Deep Space Nine
We start every summer with a week at the beach. It’s wonderful. School is over and the whole family wants a break from our routine, so we go to the South Carolina coast and stay in a small oceanfront condo, enjoying all the sand and sun and relaxation that goes along with it. Every time we leave, we think how nice it would be to stay longer. So this year, we went to the beach for two weeks. Guess what? We were wrong.
You know that idea that less is more? Well, it should apply to everything. I am pretty sure that’s why gluttony is one of the seven deadly sins. Two weeks at the beach is gluttony. Two weeks of relaxing sounds fun, but it’s really nine days of bliss and another five of desperately wanting to leave and go home. You can’t even say that out loud for fear of starting yet another argument, so even though everyone is thinking it, no one is saying it. Homesick, we all just get snippy with each other instead of appreciating our good fortune that allowed a two week vacation in the first place.
Here is a list of some of the things that I missed on my extended summer vacation:
• My Bed
You know what you want after two weeks, besides your routine? Your bed. Yes, I said it. I don’t care how old or dull it makes me sound; it’s true. I missed my pancake flat pillow and how high my bed is off the floor and the way my headboard doesn’t make a sound against the wall (no, not because of that) and even getting awoken for a little early morning cat lovin’. By the end of two weeks, my neck and back got sore from the hard mattress and the fluffy pillow combo. I swear it had nothing to do with the noisy headboard.
As much as I missed my bed, my two daughters missed theirs even more. They, who each have their own bedrooms at home, shared a room for two weeks. They can’t even share a cookie. It’s like forcing the Odd Couple in to live in an 8x8 space. One of them tried to tidy up her little bit of room every morning and then step over the other one’s sprawling landfill. By day nine, they couldn’t stand to hear each other breathe. Hot pink ear plugs were all over the room.
• Cleanliness
I hear it’s next to godliness. Let’s face it; the beach isn’t exactly a clean place. Why? Sand. Tiny particles of sand. It sticks to everything. I could take a walk on the beach, then go inside the condo and have breakfast. When I would take a shower, I would have sand in my eyebrows. Eyebrows? Seriously? Add to the sand the sweltering humidity and the lingering sunscreen film, and you have the recipe for a rudimentary concrete. A Silkwood shower wouldn’t scrub that shit off. After nine days of sand build up, why even bother showering? You could make a sand castle on my scalp.
• My space
I am fortunate to live in a very lovely and spacious home. Growing up, my house was a small three bedroom/ two bath Florida home, which means something to those of us who grew up in Florida. I have also lived in my share of shithole apartments both during and after college, so I wouldn’t say I have been spoiled. But the condo where we stay is 800 square feet. It’s not bad for a week, but after nine days, it’s like living in an elevator. Add to that the wet towels and bathing suits draped over every available surface. Scratch the elevator; it’s more like living in a laundry room.
• The Internet
I love having Internet access. I enjoy using my smart phone and I like taking my laptop when I travel. It’s more entertaining to me than a television any day. Luckily, the condo building has wifi. What it doesn’t have is functional wifi. I would start the day with attempting to check email, opening maybe one, and then watching that little wheel spin. Spin, wheel, spin. It’s not a big deal, really. Until the ninth day, at which point the Amish were more on the grid than me.
• Vegetables
I love ice cream as much as the next person. But seriously, did we need to eat that much ice cream in two weeks? Damn you, Ben and Jerry, with your chunky ice cream. I know there are allegedly four servings in a pint, but who divides a pint of ice cream into four servings? So we would have to get more. And more. And pretty soon, we forgot we didn’t have to get more, we just felt obligated to do it. Is this how aversion therapy works? Honestly, how can there even be room for any ice cream after the deep fried feast we have just consumed?
And to the restaurants at the beach, here’s an idea: shrimp can be prepared more than three ways. Just watch any Red Lobster commercial. Cold boiled, scampi, or fried? Why yes, I think I’ll have fried again. I want to see if these fried shrimp taste as good as last night’s fried shrimp. Throw a couple of hush puppies on that plate, while you’re at it. Fried flounder? Don’t mind if I do. Wait a minute; do I detect a hint of clam strip? Don’t skimp on the strips, garcon.
For the record, French fries do not count as a vegetable. Ditto for the cole slaw. Shredded pale green cabbage and a carrot sliver swimming in mayonnaise are not going to undo the ice cream and fried shrimp. By the end of day nine, even tartar and cocktail sauces try to pass themselves off as healthy because they aren’t deep fried.
• Solitude
I love my family and my friends, and I love to spend time with them. Walking together, sitting together, talking or just reading and sharing stories and laughter are all a gift. Until day nine. On day nine, even the word together makes the walls close in. My friends and family start to morph into a Guillermo Del Toro nightmare. I’m pretty sure my husband developed eyeballs in the palms of his hands. I’m no better than they are. I’m not nearly as funny as I think I am. I know of at least ten people who would back me up on that.
• The gym
I work out almost every day at the gym, and I do a variety of classes. I like it. It makes me feel good. When I go to the beach, I happily walk every day, the sand beneath my toes, feeling the water lap up around my feet, looking for shells. Until day nine, when my Achilles tendons go on strike. I could walk in the morning, but after sitting in a beach chair for an hour, I could hardly stand. So I constantly stretched everywhere like a Lipizzaner stallion. Gentlemen, I am no Lipizzaner stallion.
By the ninth day, I hobbled around like I needed bilateral hip replacements. Taking two weeks off a fitness routine can be a good thing, but if you’ve overstretched your tendons and walked the skin off the soles of your feet, you can’t just go balls to the wall. You have to ease back into your workout, starting slowly. Starting slowly, by the way, doesn’t work off the daily dose of fried shrimp and ice cream.
• My Town
When I’m at the beach, I love to go to my favorite restaurants and head up to the pier to watch the fishermen and play a few rounds of skeeball. I want to shop at the shops they don’t have at home. I don’t object to a bit of mini golf if it doesn’t get too competitive. I’m happy to walk the flat sandy shore and smell the marshy air. On day nine, the beach becomes a blur of cheap crappy beach stores and lousy seafood buffets with giant crustaceans on the roof. You’ve seen one go-cart track, you’ve seen them all. Didn’t we just pass that ice cream store and fireworks stand? For the love of God, does this town have a library? I am pretty sure there should be a tree or two somewhere around here. And how is anyone supposed to breathe with all this humidity?
• Sobriety
Nobody made me order vodka or rum or tequila every night. I get that now. It’s a choice. A poor choice. A nightly mixed drink did not take the edge off; it just packed the calories on. It certainly didn’t make me more pleasant to be around.
Actually, it was a good choice. Because if I had to look at those faces in those 800 square feet one more day, something was going to go horribly wrong. In retrospect, maybe I didn't drink enough.
In conclusion, I recommend exactly nine days at the beach. Make sure the weather is good. Pack your baggy clothes. Smile a lot. Have a drink. Maybe get another room for yourself, and don’t tell anyone else where it is. And step away from the ice cream.
You know that idea that less is more? Well, it should apply to everything. I am pretty sure that’s why gluttony is one of the seven deadly sins. Two weeks at the beach is gluttony. Two weeks of relaxing sounds fun, but it’s really nine days of bliss and another five of desperately wanting to leave and go home. You can’t even say that out loud for fear of starting yet another argument, so even though everyone is thinking it, no one is saying it. Homesick, we all just get snippy with each other instead of appreciating our good fortune that allowed a two week vacation in the first place.
Here is a list of some of the things that I missed on my extended summer vacation:
• My Bed
You know what you want after two weeks, besides your routine? Your bed. Yes, I said it. I don’t care how old or dull it makes me sound; it’s true. I missed my pancake flat pillow and how high my bed is off the floor and the way my headboard doesn’t make a sound against the wall (no, not because of that) and even getting awoken for a little early morning cat lovin’. By the end of two weeks, my neck and back got sore from the hard mattress and the fluffy pillow combo. I swear it had nothing to do with the noisy headboard.
As much as I missed my bed, my two daughters missed theirs even more. They, who each have their own bedrooms at home, shared a room for two weeks. They can’t even share a cookie. It’s like forcing the Odd Couple in to live in an 8x8 space. One of them tried to tidy up her little bit of room every morning and then step over the other one’s sprawling landfill. By day nine, they couldn’t stand to hear each other breathe. Hot pink ear plugs were all over the room.
• Cleanliness
I hear it’s next to godliness. Let’s face it; the beach isn’t exactly a clean place. Why? Sand. Tiny particles of sand. It sticks to everything. I could take a walk on the beach, then go inside the condo and have breakfast. When I would take a shower, I would have sand in my eyebrows. Eyebrows? Seriously? Add to the sand the sweltering humidity and the lingering sunscreen film, and you have the recipe for a rudimentary concrete. A Silkwood shower wouldn’t scrub that shit off. After nine days of sand build up, why even bother showering? You could make a sand castle on my scalp.
• My space
I am fortunate to live in a very lovely and spacious home. Growing up, my house was a small three bedroom/ two bath Florida home, which means something to those of us who grew up in Florida. I have also lived in my share of shithole apartments both during and after college, so I wouldn’t say I have been spoiled. But the condo where we stay is 800 square feet. It’s not bad for a week, but after nine days, it’s like living in an elevator. Add to that the wet towels and bathing suits draped over every available surface. Scratch the elevator; it’s more like living in a laundry room.
• The Internet
I love having Internet access. I enjoy using my smart phone and I like taking my laptop when I travel. It’s more entertaining to me than a television any day. Luckily, the condo building has wifi. What it doesn’t have is functional wifi. I would start the day with attempting to check email, opening maybe one, and then watching that little wheel spin. Spin, wheel, spin. It’s not a big deal, really. Until the ninth day, at which point the Amish were more on the grid than me.
• Vegetables
I love ice cream as much as the next person. But seriously, did we need to eat that much ice cream in two weeks? Damn you, Ben and Jerry, with your chunky ice cream. I know there are allegedly four servings in a pint, but who divides a pint of ice cream into four servings? So we would have to get more. And more. And pretty soon, we forgot we didn’t have to get more, we just felt obligated to do it. Is this how aversion therapy works? Honestly, how can there even be room for any ice cream after the deep fried feast we have just consumed?
And to the restaurants at the beach, here’s an idea: shrimp can be prepared more than three ways. Just watch any Red Lobster commercial. Cold boiled, scampi, or fried? Why yes, I think I’ll have fried again. I want to see if these fried shrimp taste as good as last night’s fried shrimp. Throw a couple of hush puppies on that plate, while you’re at it. Fried flounder? Don’t mind if I do. Wait a minute; do I detect a hint of clam strip? Don’t skimp on the strips, garcon.
For the record, French fries do not count as a vegetable. Ditto for the cole slaw. Shredded pale green cabbage and a carrot sliver swimming in mayonnaise are not going to undo the ice cream and fried shrimp. By the end of day nine, even tartar and cocktail sauces try to pass themselves off as healthy because they aren’t deep fried.
• Solitude
I love my family and my friends, and I love to spend time with them. Walking together, sitting together, talking or just reading and sharing stories and laughter are all a gift. Until day nine. On day nine, even the word together makes the walls close in. My friends and family start to morph into a Guillermo Del Toro nightmare. I’m pretty sure my husband developed eyeballs in the palms of his hands. I’m no better than they are. I’m not nearly as funny as I think I am. I know of at least ten people who would back me up on that.
• The gym
I work out almost every day at the gym, and I do a variety of classes. I like it. It makes me feel good. When I go to the beach, I happily walk every day, the sand beneath my toes, feeling the water lap up around my feet, looking for shells. Until day nine, when my Achilles tendons go on strike. I could walk in the morning, but after sitting in a beach chair for an hour, I could hardly stand. So I constantly stretched everywhere like a Lipizzaner stallion. Gentlemen, I am no Lipizzaner stallion.
By the ninth day, I hobbled around like I needed bilateral hip replacements. Taking two weeks off a fitness routine can be a good thing, but if you’ve overstretched your tendons and walked the skin off the soles of your feet, you can’t just go balls to the wall. You have to ease back into your workout, starting slowly. Starting slowly, by the way, doesn’t work off the daily dose of fried shrimp and ice cream.
• My Town
When I’m at the beach, I love to go to my favorite restaurants and head up to the pier to watch the fishermen and play a few rounds of skeeball. I want to shop at the shops they don’t have at home. I don’t object to a bit of mini golf if it doesn’t get too competitive. I’m happy to walk the flat sandy shore and smell the marshy air. On day nine, the beach becomes a blur of cheap crappy beach stores and lousy seafood buffets with giant crustaceans on the roof. You’ve seen one go-cart track, you’ve seen them all. Didn’t we just pass that ice cream store and fireworks stand? For the love of God, does this town have a library? I am pretty sure there should be a tree or two somewhere around here. And how is anyone supposed to breathe with all this humidity?
• Sobriety
Nobody made me order vodka or rum or tequila every night. I get that now. It’s a choice. A poor choice. A nightly mixed drink did not take the edge off; it just packed the calories on. It certainly didn’t make me more pleasant to be around.
Actually, it was a good choice. Because if I had to look at those faces in those 800 square feet one more day, something was going to go horribly wrong. In retrospect, maybe I didn't drink enough.
In conclusion, I recommend exactly nine days at the beach. Make sure the weather is good. Pack your baggy clothes. Smile a lot. Have a drink. Maybe get another room for yourself, and don’t tell anyone else where it is. And step away from the ice cream.
Friday, June 1, 2012
A Three-hour Tour
It sounded like a good idea. A relaxing boat ride after dinner. It was about 7:30, the air was cooler and breezy, and the lake not as crowded with Memorial Weekend boaters and jet skiers. We could enjoy the fresh air and let the kids go tubing. My sister’s and my families all piled into the motor boat in our life vests. I am a stickler for the life vests; it seems every weekend somebody dies on the lake, and it wasn’t going to be one of us.
That’s one of several reasons why I’m not a big lake fan. I’m also not crazy about the part where you can’t stand up in the water, or that it smells bad, or that you don’t know where you are, or that it’s filled with drunk rednecks.
Six of us piled in the boat, with the other two on the tube behind it, and headed out of our cove to the big open part of the lake.The water level at the lake is already so low this year that we had to lower the dock so that it floated farther out in the water. Otherwise, the dock wouldn’t be floating anymore, and the boat would be stuck in the orange clay of the lake bed. The bad part is that when the dock was lowered, no steps were added. The steps now just end, and anyone who wants to get on the dock has to climb down the rocky slope, which is more like a short cliff.
Once we were on the main lake, my husband maneuvered the boat around buoys and over wakes, trying to make the tubing a little more adventurous. We waved at the other boaters as we went past, and then slowed down when we got to the I-85 bridge.
Boating under a bridge is a little surreal. There are statistics about boat accidents stenciled on the bridge supports, just as a little reminder of how dangerous tooling around on the lake can be. To add to the sense of danger are a bunch of ropes dangling from the bridge. Night time fishers will tie their boats to the bridge by throwing a rope over the railing instead of using an anchor. When they are done fishing, they cut the rope, leaving a long piece dangling from the bridge. The result is a series of cut ropes just blowing in the breeze under the bridge. It looks like we happened upon a site where a mass lynching took place, but the bodies had already been cut down. I wouldn’t be shocked to see a body swaying under the bridge.
After we passed the bridge, my husband sped up and curved the boat around to make the tubing more fun. Then the boat sputtered a few times. Then it stopped. He tried to start the engine but it wouldn’t. We were stranded. We enjoyed the beautiful sunset while trying to decide the best course of action. My sister's husband pulled the tube in so the two kids could get in the boat. I guess with all eight of us in a broken down boat, the chances of one of us panicking would be less without having to worry about the two floating behind us.
If you have boat trouble in the ocean, you can always radio the Coast Guard for help. If you have trouble on the lake, your only option is relying on the kindness of strangers. We waved down the first boat to pass us, a small family also out to enjoy an early evening boat ride. They kindly pulled their watercraft up to ours. From the smell of them, they had been enjoying their beer as much as the boating. I don’t know if the alcohol made them nicer, but they were amenable to towing us to the marina, and threw us a rope. My sister’s husband tied it to the bow and they began the very slow process of dragging our boat behind theirs.
Do you know how to get four children to be quiet? Put them on a boat, run out of gas, and then have a boat full of drunk people tow them. The reality of the situation was not lost on them.
By the time we got to the marina, their whining resumed. We gave the rope back to the sots and offered them some cash for their trouble, in case they wanted more beer. They declined and went on their way, leaving us with the fun task of trying to figure out how to fill up a boat.
Did I mention it isn’t even our boat? It’s my other brother in law’s watercraft, and normally he is there when we go tooling around on the lake. So paying attention to the gas gauge isn’t something we remember to do. And filling up the tank before we go out is also not part of our routine. We waited while a houseboat gassed up, then dragged the long hose over from the pump and filled up the boat. I begged some other boaters on the dock for change for a five to buy drinks from the machine for the kids. The lone machine, which only took one dollar bills, even though the drinks cost $1.25. My nephews each wanted a soda. I asked if they were allowed to have caffeine that close to bed, and they assured me my sister would be cool with it. I bought water for my girls to share and we all carried our drinks over to the boat, where the dads were trying to figure out why the lights on the boat didn’t work. My sister took one look at the sodas and disputed my nephew’s claims.
We all piled back into the boat, ready to attempt the journey home. The tricky thing about lakes is they don’t have directional signs. You have to know where you are going, but also where you came from, so you can find your way back to your house or car. That isn’t so difficult if you do it all the time, and it’s light outside. But if you are a novice boater and it’s dark, it’s like driving a car across country while blindfolded. My tween was the only one with decent enough night vision and a good enough memory to help get us back home. My sister’s husband’s job was calling out water hazards like buoys and other boats, while my husband slowly steered us under the bridge and back to the main lake.
You know what else makes four children quiet? The reality of being on a boat in the dark in unfamiliar territory with no lights. My husband drove at frog gigging speed, like he didn’t want to startle any fish nearby, but really he didn’t want to hit that tree jutting up from the bottom of the lake. With the tween’s help, he made it past the tree and back to our cove. It was pitch black, and ten o’clock, and now we all had to figure out how to get back up the rock wall from the dock in the dark. My husband was pumped full of adrenaline and bounced around us, talking about adventure and risk and excitement. The rest of us just wanted showers and a bed.
Here’s a tip: try to keep a flash light or two on a boat, just in case. Also, make sure you have gas and you know where you are. Just sayin’. And one more thing: don’t judge the drunk rednecks too harshly. You never know when you’ll need their help.
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