The Things We Do

I was going up some stairs at work the other day when the toe of my sandal caught the edge of the next step. Luckily I didn’t fall, but I did execute a particularly ungainly stumble, snatch and grab of the railing before regaining my balance. Afterwards, even though I knew what caused me to misstep, I looked behind me to see what I had tripped over (nothing) – and if anyone had witnessed my fall from grace. (Fortunately, no.)

That need to check when we do something clumsy is just one of any number of odd behaviors that appear to be universal to us humans.

There’s another I call the “baby and mascara mystery.”  For some reason, women unconsciously let their mouths gape open when they are spoon feeding a baby or applying mascara. The first time I caught myself doing this was years ago and initially I thought it was an aberration unique to me – but then I noticed my daughters doing the same thing when they applied their mascara or fed their babies. Although relieved to know I was not the world’s solitary mouth-gaping mommy, I was now concerned it was a genetic flaw passed down through our family. This caused me to pay attention whenever I was in a position to observe other women feeding babies or applying mascara. More often than not, I am happy to report they do the same thing. Whew, I feel better!

Another behavior I’ve noticed happens when we are behind the wheel of a car and do something stupid like take off when the green arrow comes on - only we are not in the left-turn lane, or start through a four-way stop before it is actually our turn then have to slam on the brakes and let the correct car proceed through. In these instances, we are stuck in the presence of other drivers who no doubt saw what we did, and the resulting self consciousness causes us to feel a little itch somewhere, usually on the head, that we just have to scratch. I know it sounds crazy, but it’s true! Pay attention the next time you do something like this and see if you don’t experience this phenomenon. And when you see another driver do the same sort of thing, watch them. I’ll bet they scratch too!

It’s interesting how as a whole, we can be so very different from one another and yet still be so alike. For instance, how many of these behaviors do you share with me?

Pressing harder and harder on the remote when it’s pretty clear the batteries are dead.

Passing a mirror or plate glass window and just having to glance at your reflection.

Mistyping your password and deleting the whole thing, instead of just the character you got wrong.

Rocking out in front of the mirror when you are absolutely sure you are home alone.

Checking the fridge over and over when you’re hungry as if the items in it may have changed since you last checked.

Avoiding eye contact with the driver sitting next to you at the stop light.

Changing the toilet paper roll from “under” to “over” in the restroom at work.

Purposely avoiding the cracks when you walk on a sidewalk.

It makes me smile to know that despite the vast differences in us humans based on where we were raised, by who, the color of our skin, what level of education we have and the myriad of other factors that make us unique, there is a common uniting thread running through our humanity that humbles us, unites us and ensures we stay a family.

From Zero to Sixty

Well, it happened. I knew it was coming, and I was braced for the earth shattering, unavoidable jolt of waking up the morning of my sixtieth birthday with the sobering realization that I will never be fifty-something (let alone forty-something or indeed, thirty-something) ever again. I went to sleep sort of dreading the morning, but funnily enough, when I actually wakened I was thinking about work and some issues I was dealing with - and wasn’t even aware I was now sixty years of age until Gary smiled and said “Happy Birthday.” The day progressed nicely from there and I am happy to say that turning sixty wasn’t so bad after all. In fact, I feel sort of wise and matriarchial all of a sudden, which gives me pause to look back on my life with newfound sagacity, and contemplate why it is a good thing to be where I am now instead of where I have been previously.

In retrospect, the babyhood / early childhood decade was probably the best prior to now. I wasn’t saddled with a whole lot of responsibility at that stage of life so having fun twenty-four / seven was expected of me, and I excelled at it. Arguably, this period of my life would have been the best had it not been ruined toward the end by the start of school. Kindergarten and first grade were okay, although I would have preferred to be home with my mom – but by the time I was ten and in third grade, I had figured out I was no scholar, and school was ceasing to be fun.

The pre-teen / teenage decade was challenging for me. With two older sisters and a younger brother, I was neither fish nor fowl most of the time. My sisters got to do all sorts of cool things that I could not because I was too young, and my brother got away with murder being the baby and the only boy. Then, of course, there was the school issue. I just hated to study and resented having to do homework. Our family moved a lot, which caused me to change schools ten times between kindergarten and twelfth grade, so I was also the perennial “new kid.” Fortunately, despite the fact that I was a disconnected, recalcitrant student, I was pretty smart and managed not to get left back at any point. And regardless of which school I attended, there were lots of cute boys to flirt with, so I made the most of it and eventually graduated - if not with honors, at least not in disgrace.

I married shortly after high school and produced two beautiful daughters shortly thereafter. This was rather a good decade because being a military family we got to live in all sorts of exciting places like Wichita, Kansas. (Kidding!) Well, we did live in Wichita, but were also based in Las Vegas for three years and in England for another three before returning to the states to set up house here in Fort Worth. I loved being a stay at home mom and thoroughly enjoyed raising my two girls, but my marriage fell apart, and by the time I turned thirty, I was a poor but proud single mom struggling to keep body and soul together.

My thirties were a turbulent time. Trying to raise two small children and support a home on an entry-level salary and hit and miss child support was tough! Fortunately, I met Gary just prior to my thirtieth birthday. With his huge love and support, we got through some very difficult times and managed to keep everything afloat.

Gary and I raised three great kids, bought a restaurant, played a lot of golf and worked hard throughout my forties. One thing I am a maniac about is saving money, so having retirement savings is of utmost importance to me. We diligently contributed to our 401(k) plans while dreaming of someday touring America in our own beautiful motor home and other carefree retirement plans.

I turned fifty in June of 2001 – two and a half months before the terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center – an event that changed our nation and me along with it forever. I still cry at the memories of the horror that assaulted our senses that day, and grieve for the families of those who lost their lives. In the aftermath of 9-11, like many small businesses our restaurant foundered, our savings plummeted and with no other course open to us, Gary and I squared our shoulders and set about the business of rebuilding our finances and our faith in mankind. There have been numerous setbacks along the way as the stock market has risen and fallen, our hopes and dreams bobbing like flotsam and jetsam along with it.

So, leaving my fifties has not been too painful. The kids are all grown now and doing well. We have eight adorable grandchildren. I have a job that I really love and am good at which makes getting up every morning for work a lot more fun. Our retirement savings, while not where we had originally planned for them to be, are going to be enough to allow us to retire sometime in this decade, and we are really enjoying taking things at a slower pace. Best of all, Gary and I both have our health, each other and a future full of wonderful new roads to travel in a somewhat smaller RV. Sixty seems to me a good place to be.

A Special Kind of Dad

Early in the twentieth century, a young woman named Sonora Smart Dodd was listening to a Mother’s Day sermon when a novel idea occurred to her. Sonora’s mother had died in childbirth, leaving her and her five sisters to be raised by their dad, Civil War veteran William Jackson Smart. Sonora wanted to honor her father’s selfless commitment, sacrifice and loving parenting, and did so by pioneering the celebration of Father’s Day – a day to honor the most significant man in the life of a child.

But what exactly is a dad? The simple act of siring a child does not automatically qualify a man for fatherhood. There are many men who, though not biologically responsible for a child – big brothers, uncles, adopted dads, and step fathers for example, are some of the best dads I have ever known. And I guess that’s the heart of it. Anyone can be a father, but it takes a special kind of man to really be a dad.

A dad makes a commitment. He will hold you in the middle of the night when you’re scared, and not complain that he is losing much needed sleep. He will put training wheels on your bike so you won’t fall and get hurt, only to someday take them off again and run along beside you time and again, his hand on the back of the seat, until you are ready to go it alone. He will take you shopping for your mother’s birthday so you will feel good about yourself while learning to honor her. He will sneak out with you in the dark of night to toilet paper the house of a school mate, and not tell your mom until years later. A dad will scrutinize your friends and be brave enough to forbid you to hang out with the ones he doesn’t approve of. He will go to work every day to provide for his family and mow the grass on the weekends. He’ll proudly walk you down the aisle when you marry, or be man enough to share the honor with your “real” dad, who after all those years, suddenly wanted to be part of your big day.

A dad. He is a comforter, a teacher, a friend and a protector. He is someone you can count on. Someone you can trust, and love. In our family, his name is Gary. Happy Father’s Day to all you dads!

Outsmarted!

Years ago, I remember smugly stating that I would never want to own a mobile phone. (That’s what we called them in 1982…that or car phones, because the early models were huge and would not fit in a woman’s purse.)  “I hope to never be so important that I must be reachable twenty-four hours a day,” was my stated conviction. But alas, Gary purchased our first mobile phone in 1984, a putty-colored brick-like object with a four-inch antenna jutting out the top, and declared I must carry it with me to and from my job in Dallas in case I ever broke down and needed to call for help. I was touched by his concern, but hardly ever used it. I never did break down, and that phone did not invite talking while driving – it was so heavy that my arm would start to ache after just a few minutes use.

Several years later, Gary surprised me with the gift of new matching mobile phones for him and me. They were smaller than the first - but still mammoth compared to today’s sleek models. He proudly showed me how I could now carry mine in my purse while he sported his in a leather holster positioned low on his right hip. (He looked every bit the dashing gun slinger.) I didn’t really want the phone and still felt that owning one was just a bit affected and pretentious. But my husband is a gadget guy who loves and enthusiastically embraces modern technology. He views each new device with interest and excitement, while I have a tendency to mulishly stay with the status quo. So, it has been Gary who has kept us technologically current, dragging me along with him into the twenty-first century.

We have owned a succession of what we now call cell phones over the years…red phones, blue phones, flip phones and razor phones. Each new phone caused me enormous anxiety. I just do not have the “figure it out” gene in my DNA, and I get just a bit cranky when Gary has his up and running in a matter of minutes. So it was with a heavy heart that I reluctantly welcomed our new Samsung Captivate with Android technology smart phones into our lives this past Christmas.

I will say, they are quite lovely…black and shiny with snug little covers that protect them from harm. Gary immediately hunkered down over his while I was preparing dinner.

“Look at this! This phone has the most amazing graphics.”

“Really? That’s nice.

“No, seriously. Come look at this. You can get onto Google right here and access the internet. I’ll bet we can link into our router and use the WiFi while we are at home.”

“Uh huh.”

“Leslie, come look at this!”

“I am cooking right now and I don’t want the potatoes to boil over.”

To be truthful, the potatoes were fine. I just wanted to be left on my own for awhile as far as the phone was concerned. I have this primordial need to slink off with a new device and study it unobserved. That way I can make all the mistakes I know I inevitably will make without anyone watching me while I make them.

A few days later, I was shopping for Gary’s birthday when my new cell phone rang for the very first time. I pulled it out of my purse and saw a green phone symbol lit up - my daughter Stephanie was calling. I tapped on it and put the phone to my ear. It rang. I tapped it again, harder this time, and put it to my ear. It rang again. I took a good look at it and saw no other symbol that implied some other way to answer the phone, so I gave the green symbol a final hard rap and noticed a man at the next clothing rack watching me with amusement. I put the phone to my ear and was rewarded with silence. The call had gone to voicemail. Fortunately, I had already learned how to place a call to one of my contacts, so I was able to call Stephanie back.

“Oh, you are there,” she said. “I need to ask you something.”

“Okay, but first I need to ask you something. How do I answer this darn phone?”

Stephanie laughed. “When you are receiving a call, you will see a green phone symbol on the left side…”

“I know, I did see it and I tapped on it but it did not pick the call up.”

“That’s because you aren’t supposed to tap. You sweep your finger to the right to answer the phone.”

“Oh…okay, call me back so I can try it.” I looked around and noted the man at the next rack was trying very hard to not look as though he was eavesdropping.

She called. I swept. It worked! I was very pleased with my success and shot the man a victorious smile. He pretended not to see me.

Since that day I have perfected the art of sweeping and have only had to call Stephanie twice more to answer phone questions. It amazes me that where I once believed I would never want to own a mobile phone and be accessible at all times, I now feel very nervous if I leave home without it. It is my faithful little companion - capable of directing me to unfamiliar destinations, assisting me in verifying facts, amusing me with games while I wait in the doctor’s office, and serving as a dictionary. And thanks to my phone, I am accessible to my friends and family twenty-four hours a day!

Why I like April

The weather has been so lovely lately that I decided to post another Springtime poem I wrote.

April means that Spring is here,
no doubt my favorite time of year.
The Winter winds have ceased to blow
cold sheets of rain, and sleet, and snow.

The Summer months have yet to dawn,
with brutal heat that sears my lawn,
and wilts the flowers, my spirit too.
I hate the heat, I really do.

While Autumn surely has it merits,
April is a time for carrots,
Easter bunnies, eggs and hunts...
what more could any person want?

An Easter Poem

I love to write in rhyming verse, and I wrote this little poem as a tribute to my mother. It reminds me of all the Easter Sundays my sisters, brother and I shared when we were kids. Mom made a big deal out of Easter and it was always such a special day. I remember how sad I was when it was time to get dressed for church and leave the Easter baskets behind...and what fun it was to come back  home and gorge on chocolate!

Easter’s coming

Hop, Hop, Hop

Easter bunnies

Shop, Shop Shop!

Chocolate rabbits, Peeps and grass

Transport through the looking glass

Easter magic for a child

Look of wonder, face beguiled

Jellybeans and Easter eggs

Hide behind the table legs

Under couches, desks and chairs

Look around, they’re everywhere!

When the sweets have all been found

Church bells summon and resound

Dressed up in our Easter best

Off we go in frills and vest

To sing the praise and mourn the loss

Of He who died upon the cross

Who three days later, rose again

And cleansed us of our earthly sins

Thank you, God for Easter fun

And sending us your only Son

Lucy's Back

I recall with disdain the first time I colored my hair. Being unfamiliar with the various products available, I pored over every shade of brown that Walmart offered, looking for the one that would best match my natural hair color – dark brown. I desperately wanted to cover the gray, but didn’t want the change in my hair color to be blatantly obvious to friends, family and co-workers. I finally settled on a L’oreal product with a picture on the front that looked like a pretty fair match. I applied it that day and was dismayed to find the color was too intense - much darker than my natural color. When Gary got home, he looked at me and his eyebrows shot up, but to his credit, he didn’t say anything right at first.

“I know. It’s awful isn’t it?”

“No,” he lied. “I’ll get used to it.”

“Well, the next time I do it, I’ll get a lighter shade and it will look more like my own color.”

Four agonizing weeks later, I selected a color I felt would correct the problem. My natural color has a slightly reddish tone and the picture on the box seemed like it would take me to the desired color, considering it had to overpower the dark brown. Once it was on though, I grew concerned that the goppy mess on my head looked perhaps a bit too red. My worst fears were realized when I shampooed it out and faced the mirror. It was red…very red. As intense as my misery was, it deepened when I imagined the inevitable encounter with my husband. When I heard his car come up the driveway, I positioned myself in the living room where he would not see me right away.

“How was golf?”

“Good. Where are you?”

“Umm, in the living room but stay where you are for a minute.”

“Why?”

“Well, remember I told you that when I colored my hair again, I thought I could correct the shade to match my natural color better?”

“Yeah…oh, no. What have you done, let me see.”

I stepped into the hall and once again those eyebrows betrayed his best effort to not hurt my feelings. And he laughed.

“It’s even worse than before. Do you hate it?”

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far. It’s just that when I left this morning you looked like Desi Arnaz, and now you look like Lucille Ball.”

Gary can be such a wag.

I consulted a professional before I colored my hair again and finally arrived at a color that worked nicely. I have stayed with that color for years, then recently my daughter commented that since my hair had gotten grayer, the color was lighter and kind of “washed out” looking.

“You might consider going with a slightly different shade – something a wee bit deeper with a just hint of red to it.”

This in mind, the next time I needed to color my hair, I studied the different shades to figure out which one would give me the desired result. Ultimately, I selected one called ‘Medium Chestnut’ and took it to the stylist who now applies my color for me. Although apprehensive, she did not seem to think it would be too red, but once again when it was actually on my hair, it turned a furious shade of crimson. Horrified, I resigned myself to hope for the best but it was not to be. Once I was shampooed and blow-dried, I once more encountered the redhead in the mirror, but this time the whole thing struck me as hysterically funny. I cracked up all the way home in the car – at my stupidity for letting this happen again and at the image of Gary’s face when he saw me. He came out the door to greet me as I got out of the car. The sunshine hit my hair and those eyebrows shot up. He grinned and said, “Lu-u-u-c-y – you got some ‘splainin to do!”

The World According to AARP

I got my AARP card today. I think they have been sending me information since I was about twelve, but I have always felt I was too young to join – until now.  Gary and I were at I-HOP last month when it dawned on me that I had ordered my “Rise and Shine” off the senior menu. I also recalled (with difficulty) that I had recently asked the plumber for a senior citizen discount when he cleaned the prune pits out of my kitchen drain and he never questioned it. So when the latest AARP invitation arrived, I cringed. I cried. I sent in my dues.

Now,being a card carrying AARP member does have its rewards. If you log onto their website, you find all sorts of helpful tips for folks over fifty. One I was pretty excited about was a technique to make dark patchy “age” spots disappear.  I had recently noticed some of those spots near my left eye, which seemed like an odd place for them, but there they were. The article was very informative but imagine my surprise when I sat down at my magnifying mirror to deal with the spots only to find they were nearly gone! 'A miracle,' I thought – until the next day when I burned my temple with the curling iron and behold! The spots are back.

Life after fifty requires stamina. You must be willing and able to accept change. One of my biggest hurdles was accepting that I can no longer eat the way I did in my twenties, thirties and forties. Where I once thought nothing of devouring a juicy rib-eye steak along with a loaded baked potato, vegetable and two buttery croissants, I now have to select a four-ounce cut of lean fowl and small salad which has had a slice of lemon swept over it for zest. Bread is an enemy to older folks, to say nothing about alcohol! I really miss having a glass of wine with dinner, but the good news is that I can still achieve the same effect by standing up fast. (Hold onto a chair when you do this.)

Another painful reality for AARP-ers is forgetfulness. I spend an inordinate amount of time looking for my glasses or standing in a doorway trying to recall why I am in this room. My arrival home from work is my dog Winnie’s signal that it is time for her supper. I will pick up her dishes, fill one with fresh water and put the other on the counter for her food. Then I notice the mail and see one of those credit card offers nobody ever wants, which I take to the office to shred. There are new emails on the computer, so I sit down to read them. After viewing all the jokes and chain letters, I notice the bookcase needs dusting. So I go into the kitchen for the duster only to see poor Winnie in the middle of the floor waiting patiently for me to fill her food dish. This is not a joke, it happens more often than I care to admit. Fortunately, Winnie is a patient dog.

Wouldn’t it be nice if the aging process worked in reverse - if every birthday harbingered more energy and joie de vivre? I can just imagine large numbers of centenarians zipping around in sports cars and jogging up and down the grocery aisles with boundless energy and the wisdom to select only healthy foods. But alas, it is not to be. The good news is that in my dreams I am always young and I am eternally grateful that wrinkles do not hurt.

The Reunion

Working with seniors every day, I have a crazy quilt of stories to piece together into a book someday when I am retired and have the time. But last week, an occurrence so touching and unlikely took place that I just had to write it down to savor and share with others.

I facilitate a writing group at our community called "Writing Your Life Story." We meet once a week to read aloud a memory we have written down since the last meeting. Over the course of time, we assemble our stories in chronological order into our own personal binders, thus building a history of our unique memories as we go along. It's a wonderful way to fellow with one another, but more importantly it enables the residents to leave a legacy of sorts for their families.

This past week, one of our residents, an accomplished water colorist named Ruth whose work I have long admired and wished I could afford, expressed interest in attending. I welcomed her and asked her to bring a photograph to her first meeting, something to share with the group that was significant to her and would teach us something about her. She did, and when it was her turn to share, Ruth produced a lovely portrait of herself and her twin sister, Hope, when they were about seventeen. She told us stories of growing up as a twin, and shared that Hope had lived most of her adult life in San Diego, but had passed away several years ago. It was clear she missed her sister. I asked Ruth if Hope painted also. "Oh yes," she replied. "Hope was a very talented artist - but unlike me, she preferred the abstract. Her work is very contemporary."

Her words penetrated my consciousness, conjuring up a nearly forgotten incident that literally sent goosebumps down my spine. I had to ask. "Ruth, what was Hope's last name?"

"Wilts. Why?"

"Because I think I have about seventy-five or eighty of your sister's paintings. I purchased them five or six years ago at an estate sale somewhere in Fort Worth."

"Oh, I doubt it. There would be no reason for her work to be at a sale in Fort Worth. As I said, she lived in San Diego until the last few years of her life, and then she came and lived with me."

But my memory was clear. I had purchased a group of greeting cards with very contemporary original water colors decorating them. The were a number of different groups of paintings with names like 'Red Series,' 'Blue Series,' or 'Joy.' Each one was titled and signed "Hope Wilts." Among the group were some larger prints, collages and paintings, also signed and titled by Hope. Some bore the words 'San Diego' on the back. The next day I brought them to work with me to show Ruth. As she approached the paintings laid out on the table she was clearly skeptical, but when she bent to examine them, her face flushed pink and tears appeared in the corners of her eyes.

"Oh my, these really are Hope's work." She looked up at me. "Why didn't she give these to me?"

"Perhaps in this way, she is. You must have them."

I anticipated an argument, but there was none. She leafed through the collection hungrily, running her hands across each painting as if she could channel Hope through her fingers as she caressed her work. In the end, Ruth insisted I select one from each series and invited me to visit her apartment to choose one of her paintings, as well. I am delighted to have them as I am clearly drawn to both sisters' work. But I'm not sure anything will ever eclipse the feeling I had watching this amazing woman reconnect with her beloved sister.

What is My Mother Doing in My Mirror?

I remember thinking about growing old when I was a kid, feeling certain I would be one of those women who ‘grew old gracefully’. By that I meant I would not cry on my fortieth birthday, color my hair or subject myself to expensive surgeries in a pathetic attempt to look younger than my years. I was resolute. Aging is as natural as breathing and unavoidable in the extreme. Of course, I was absolutely certain I would look very much like the stylish older women I saw on TV or in magazines when the time came, and not at all like my mom who later in life was prone to carry weight, avoid make up, and dress very casually. 

After the birth of my second child, the ‘baby weight’ never really went away. But as I had always been slim and athletic, the extra weight didn’t look too bad as long as I was wearing clothes. Two-piece swimsuits were out, of course. Nobody was going to be impressed by my midriff ever again. But I faced my thirties with relative equanimity. After all, you don’t have much time to fret when you’re raising young children, caring for a husband and maintaining a home. When my fortieth birthday came and went without a ripple of emotion, I felt great! I’d done it, fulfilled the promise of my youth – to age with calm and grace.

My forties zipped by in a flurry of graduations, weddings and brand new grandbabies. We also bought a restaurant / fish market, and I can honestly say that owning your own business is one surefire way to make the time fly. Truly, the nineties whizzed by in a blur, but one thing I recall vividly was that I quit smoking at the age of forty-one, right after my first grandchild was born. And each year afterwards, I gained another pound or two, but I wasn’t too worried about it.

In April of 2000, Gary and I decided to indulge in a really fabulous Hawaiian getaway. I was so excited and of course, I had to shop for a new vacation wardrobe – swimsuits, shorts, sun dresses and sandals. I had not shopped for clothes in years so it came as a total shock that I was no longer housed in the same body I’d last shopped in. Nothing fit right. I double checked the tags. Yes, they were tens alright. But the swimsuits were much too small and when did those ghastly lumps appear on my inner thighs? I tried twelves - they were not much better. Ultimately, I purchased the only suit I could stand to look at myself in - a size fourteen low rise with criss-crossed panels in the front and a formidable built-in bra… another complete shock to my system. Exactly when did my 34B’s morph into 36 longs?  The photographs from that vacation were a real eye opener, too. I think – no, I’m certain this was when I started to color my hair.

My fiftieth birthday did not pass as seamlessly as my fortieth. I tried to put on a brave face in spite of my mind incessantly chanting ‘half a century, half a century, half a century’. Gary took me out to dinner at a nice restaurant but I couldn’t relax and enjoy the evening. My mind was consumed with scrutinizing other women in the dining room, especially those who appeared to be close to my age. I wanted to see how I measured up. ‘Does my butt looks as big as hers? My upper arms – do I have bat wings like that poor soul? Oh, now that gal looks good…too good, actually. She’s probably had surgery.’

Surgery! I smiled to myself. Gary smiled back at me. “Are you having a good time?”

“Oh yes,” I replied savoring the mental image of myself after liposuction. “Yes, I really am.”

Well, that was eleven years ago and I have to confess, I was never able to summon the courage to do it. Call me a wimp – but the thought of undergoing surgery just terrifies me. So here I am, fifty-nine years old, twenty pounds overweight, watching my mother emerge in my mirror more and more every day. But I haven't cried. At least, not yet.

I Can See Clearly Now

I remember the first time I actually caught myself extending my arm to its fullest reach trying to read a recipe card. 'Uh-oh,' I thought. 'This is not good.' For months afterwards, I made myself squint and strain to read at the distance I had enjoyed all my life, but my arm would insidiously defy me and creep away from my face.

"You need reading glasses," said Gary observing my struggle one evening.

"Oh, I don't think so. My eyes are just tired."

"They seem to be tired a lot lately. You need reading glasses."

I had to admit the truth to myself if not to Gary, so the next time I was in CVS I surreptitiously eyed the display of reading glasses. Looking the various styles up and down from a safe distance, I was aggravated to learn I couldn't read the price tags or various lens strengths from afar. Broken in spirit and devoid of any hope for the return of my youthful eyesight, I stepped closer and tried on several pairs of glasses. I was happy to find I needed the lowest strength, settled on a pair I thought looked good on me and checked out.

Now, I read a lot...at the kitchen table (my favorite spot), in my bedroom, in the car (when Gary's driving), at my desk at work, in the bathroom (admit it, you do too), at my home computer, and all sorts of other places. The trouble I kept running into was that I would find myself in one spot, and my reading glasses would invariably be in another. Then one day I was at Sam's Club and happened upon a display of reading glasses that offered four pairs of glasses in one box for one low price. I was ecstatic! I bought a package, took them home and distributed the various pairs throughout the house. It was better but I still occasionally found myself separated from my reading glasses when I really needed them. But overall, the situation was much improved.

A short time later I was running a little behind on my way to work then was further delayed because I couldn’t find my regular glasses, the ones I use for distance and driving. Gary was helping me look and called from the kitchen table, “Here they are!”

I raced over to him. “No, that’s not them.”

“You said you were looking for your glasses.”

“Right, but those are for reading. I need my real glasses – the ones I wear all the time.”

Unfazed, Gary persevered. “Is this them?” he called from the office.

I came in to look. “No. Those are also reading glasses. The ones I need have a bronze metal frame and the lenses are larger than these.”

Gary looked a bit befuddled, so I released him from his obligatory duty. “Never mind, I’ll wear my old pair and find them later.”

He looked relieved.

Time passed and one day I realized I was squinting again even though I was wearing reading glasses. So the next time I was at Sam’s Club, I checked their display. Sure enough, I now needed the 1.50 strength in order to see the test lettering clearly. No longer a novice, I bought two packages – eight wonderful second sets of eyes to assist me at every turn! Plus, I still have the five original pair stashed away in the event I need them.  Plus, I went back to my optometrist and ordered a second set of regular lenses which will come in handy if I lose my first pair again... and they were running a special, so I also received a free pair of prescription sunglasses! Aaaah, life is good. At least until my eyes get worse.

Thirty Precious Valentine's Days

Thirty Valentine Eves ago, I met my sweet husband and soulmate, Gary. The circumstance of our meeting was precarious. We met in a bar - which is so weird because I never, ever went to bars. Back then, I was a twenty-nine year old single mom working at my first job ever - my divorce a mere four weeks away. It was Friday, the thirteenth of February, and a co-worker asked me to accompany her to the Woodcock, a neighborhood bar, after work. She had met a fella named Don, and they had arranged to meet at the Woodcock that evening. I was reluctant because I had my two little girls at home in the after school care of their sixteen year old step brother, Rod.

"Please," Vicky cajoled. "We will stay for one drink only. If he hasn't shown up by the time we finish them, we'll leave. I promise."

I called Rod and he was totally okay with my being a little late. "All right then - just one drink."

When we got to the Woodcock, we each ordered a glass of wine and sat down at a table near the front. About ten minutes later Vicky spied her date entering the bar. 'Oh good,' I thought. Tall and slim, Don chatted briefly with a man at the bar as he ordered himself a beer, then came over to our table.

After a brief introduction, I took a final sip of my drink and said "Well, it was very nice to meet you, but I think I will be on my way and leave the two of you alone."

"No, wait," said Don. "I met a friend at the bar and invited him to join us when I saw Vicky had a friend with her."

"Well, I'm sorry. I have children at home who need their dinner and I really must leave."

"Look, please stay for just a little while and let me buy you another drink. I don't want my friend to think you took one look at him and bolted."

I was just about to inform Don that my list of top priorities did not include his friend's sensitivities, when up walks a handsome cowboy wearing the sweetest smile I had ever seen.

"Leslie, this is Gary."

And the rest as they say, is history. Rod graciously agreed to give the girls their dinner and get them into bed. Gary and I spent the evening getting to know one another, laughing and dancing. The evening melted away, and before we knew it it was after midnight, and we had danced our way into Valentine's Day. We dated for exactly four years and were finally married on February 14th, 1985. We love our Valentine's Day anniversaries and I am ever so grateful to Vicky for talking me into going to a bar with her that fateful evening.

Check It Out!

Yesterday it was confirmed once again, that I am fast becoming a dinosaur. I was at Walmart with my very cool co-worker Laura, buying some things for an event we were doing at the senior living community we work at. At the checkout, I pulled out my checkbook, filled in the date and signed the check, then handed it to the checker along with my driver's license. Laura's eyes were huge and she looked as though I had just laid an egg.

"What's wrong?" I asked her.

"Oh, n-nothing. I just can't even remember the last time I saw anyone pay for something with a check."

"Well, I had a debit card once and within two days of having it, someone stole it and used it. I swore I would never have one again. And anyway, they treat my check like a debit card now - did you notice I didn't have to fill it out?"

"Yeah, I thought that was weird."

"Well, watch her. She is going to run it through that machine which will fill in the rest of the information. Then she will give it back to me."

"She gives it back?"

I felt a little uncomfortable now. "Yes. Why do you look like you think that's strange?"

Laura smiled. "Well, what do you do with it once they give it back?"

"I take it home and shred it."

"You have to shred it? So, let me get this straight. You have to order checks from the bank. The checks  have to be stored somewhere in your home, then you donate space in your purse to some of them. You  write a check every time you make a purchase, which the store immediately gives back to you. Then you have to remember to deal with the check again when you get home. Why on earth don't you just get a debit card and be done with it?"

Why indeed? I have been analyzing this question since Laura posed it. The older I get, the more I seem to resist change - which is odd because throughout my life I have historically loved a change of pace, scenery or circumstance. The truth is, I like my checkbook. A check is like money to me whereas a plastic credit or debit card is not. I tend to overspend when I can just swipe a card and be done with it. My checkbook requires thought and consideration of the expenditure at hand. True, it does consume a bit of time to manage it correctly but why should that bother me? I never saw a dinosaur in a hurry.

Welcome to My Blog!

The desire to start a blog has been percolating around in my mind for a long time now. I have wanted to blog, but was afraid of the commitment. Will I have to write every single day? Will I want to? More importantly, as my sixtieth birthday approaches, will I remember to? Then my friend Robyn (who is much younger than me) started a blog, and I was instantly plunged into a bizarre feeling of envy. Robyn is a beautiful (inside and out) young wife and mother who was the business office manager at a retirement community I worked at for six years. Robyn has a perfect little family - a handsome husband and two adorable children. Oh, and she calls her blog "Robyn's Nest" and it is all about the cute things that she, her husband and kids do - how perfect is that? Oh yeah, I was a noxious shade of pea green when I found out that Robyn had a blog and I didn't. I mean, she is in her twenties and is already established. I am almost Medicare eligible and have never posted one comment.

So...Ta Da! Enter my blog. Now, 'Robyn's Nest' not withstanding, I hadn't considered that when you sign on to set up your blog, you have to give it a name. The name has to, in some way, define you. That gave me significant pause to consider what my life amounts to...I love my family and friends, I love to write, and I have spent the bulk of my career as a restaurant manager - the rest in senior living, I am nearing retirement age with much anticipation and relish. I love books, I love wine...and cheese. The phrase 'Aged to Perfection' seemed appropriate and I was really happy to find it was available.

So, there you have it. Introducing "Aged to Perfection," a tongue-in-cheek peek into my life, that of my husband Gary, and the poor unfortunates who claim us as friends, foe or family.