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I have learned that writing  a poem is a whole different game than writing essays or stories. Each word in a poem has a lot of responsibility, it  needs to be just the right word to convey a feeling or paint a picture. I did a poetry reading this week and  I struggled to convey my feelings with a few powerful words. The other poets demonstrated their superior abilities and I was just a small fish in a big sea. Weak words don’t cut it, for example, in a poem you almost never see the word “nice”: It was a “nice” sunset, the morning was “nice”. Why?  Because there is not one ounce of feeling or imagination in “nice”. Poetry tells me to get to the point. Find the just right word that says it best.

As I have gotten older, I am more motivated and determined  to do the things I want to do and cut the onerous bonds of doing the things I think I should do. I want to get to the point of curious contentment.  A whole lot of “almost”, “not quite” and “kinda” miss the point for me. I can eat a whole lot of salad, but it may not be as satisfying as one small piece of good dark chocolate. There’s that “It’s quality, not quantity.” truism.  I don’t always buy the lowest price item, now I’m willing to spend more if another item is what I really want.  Living is simpler the more I am learning to listen to myself.  “Good enough  is a great concept, but I want at least some of my days to be more than good enough, I want some excellent days. After all Goldilocks  didn’t  settle until she found the bed that was “just right”.

When I say stop the “bullshit” I mean stop piling on words to make something that is nonsensical make sense. I love words and the verb obfuscate” says it well: to confuse, bewilder, or stupefy. To make obscure or unclear, offering extraneous information. We think we are evolving, but maybe we are just getting better at obfuscating! I’m worried that the end result of all the social media we live with is to “confuse, bewilder, or stupefy.” Artificial intelligence increases this risk exponentially. AI is consistent and not subject to distraction, moods and other human maladies. We could be in big trouble with all the extraneous information we are subjected to. We even have an expression for this “I fell into the rabbit hole.”  Imagine if Bugs Bunny asked ,“What’s up doc?”, and got some malignant Trump word salad in response. His rabbit hole would not save him.

I don’t have much clarity, and I doubt I can wrap this post up in a way that satisfies me and my readers. Here again a poem could be a good vehicle if I could find the perfect, powerful words to express myself. My internal thesaurus is a little rusty and I am confused, bewildered and stupefied.  That’s perfect!

When I was a child, at every family holiday celebration there was a grown-up table and a kid’s table. It was a big deal when I graduated to the grown-up’s table. I’m now 70 years old and I’m ready to go back to the kid’s table. My son who is 37 is a grown – up, but at 70 I am not really sure if I am a grown-up. I could just be old. Grown-ups seem like they are in control of their lives, it’s an illusion, but they look good! 

Adulting is an informal term often used to describe behavior that is seen as responsible and grown-up. This involves meeting the mundane demands of independent and professional living, such as paying bills and running errands, not to mention raising children. I don’t know  if I am adulting now, but I’m pretty sure I was a grown up most of the time when I was raising my son.

My son has a good job, owns his home, is responsible and seems sure of his beliefs and faith. He seems to have more answers than he has questions. I have one answer for every ten questions.My beliefs and faith are not melded together in a consistent and meaningful way. I don’t have a mission statement. Aren’t I supposed to have a mission statement? After I asked him for some advice, my son commented that it’s parents who give advice to their children, not the other way around. I said I’ll listen to advice wherever it comes from, especially from someone who knows me well. He shared an observation of me that although painful to hear I knew was true. I wanted to spew out “ You have a lot to learn yet and I’m old and wise you know.”  Good thing I kept my mouth shut because I didn’t want to sound like a teenager who is always right. Grownups know “ I could be wrong” is the mature thing to say. I’m in trouble  because I have a mountain of resistance to admitting I may be wrong. My son makes sure I am aware of this fact.

I don’t want to grow up if adulting means I become conforming, in-tolerant and a rule follower.   I don’t want to stop playing, having fun or being silly. Psychologists have put forth theories of life stages, all seem to agree  that elders have often gained wisdom that can be passed down to younger generations. The missing piece in all of these theories about aging and saging is that age does not always bring an audience willing to listen. Besides, no one really learns from other’s experiences, it is only their own experiences. If you are busy adulting and raising a family,  who has time to listen anyway?  Jr. has to get to his soccer game and marriages need to be saved.

Meanwhile I’m busy living and loving, trying new things, feeling new feelings and doing what I love. I don’t need a label to put me in my place in the human life cycle. 

You are in a dark smoky bar and you see a dude in a fantastic white suit. He says to his friend “Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine.” Casablanca, Humphrey Bogart as Rick.  I think this is the ultimate coincidence in a movie. The topic “What a coincidence!”,was the topic this week for my storytelling event.  With revisions I’d like to share it with you in this blog post. 

35 years ago …I was very upset that day, my marriage was in trouble. My husband had told me he  was willing to stay and work on our marriage he had feelings for another woman. I doubted him. Since I wanted to smoke, rant and cry my girlfriend and I decided to go to Rolland Moore Park so I could smoke outside. I looked up and I was shocked and devastated  to see my husband drive by with the other woman. A million fucks! Wrong place at the wrong time.

30 years ago: I went to my hair stylist who knew I had recently got divorced and we were talking about  my current  state of datelessness. The stylist next to us overheard us and said “Hey my neighbor is single and a really nice guy. He got divorced a few years ago. He’s cute too! Can I give him your number? ”We got married 2 years later. Right place, right time. 

Coincidences…I’d rather talk about sex or confess my sins then write and talk about this topic! It befuddles me and makes me very confused. Even in my dorm circle of earnest college girls passing Boones Farm around, there was no resolution or solace in talking about coincidences and fate. Maybe we needed better wine, or more of it, to get the courage to face the real issues: self-determination,and acceptance. My aging self still  struggles with these issues.

I’m a rule follower, so in spite of my resistance, I started to write about coincidence, but screeched to a stop just before I ran into the brick wall of randomness and chaos.  Wait a minute, do  I even believe in coincidences? My itty bitty brain wants definitions cause I’m likely to misunderstand what a word really means.  I trust Daniel Webster: 2 : coincidence…the occurrence of events that happen at the same time by accident but seem to be connected. So events are accidental but we create the connection? What a coincidence! We name  it and create the meaning. I make a judgement call about how events or facts are related. 

We humans are funny creatures, we tend to think things happen for a reason. Randomness and chaos are uncomfortable paradigms. We control our lives right? We are social creatures and search for connections. For example you tell me you are from Iowa , and I say “what a coincidence I am too.” We want to create a “we”.; we share a similar background, we have something in common. We are then socially connected, more alike than different, not total strangers anymore. If we find out our new acquaintance is on the same political  side as us that’s a good coincidence, but if we are on opposite sides politically the fact that we are in the same place at the same time may not be a pleasant coincidence, it could be an unpleasant accident. Like the “match” who thought I should wear my ballot for Biden around my neck! A coffee date with a “Match” is really all about finding out how alike we are, how do we connect. We are hoping for “coincidences” or facts  that make us more likable to each other.

I’m not a true believer in fate: Fate is a power that is believed to control what will happen in the future  What power? Is this power on my side? I’m very uncomfortable with “chaos” which is defined as “a state of things in which chance is supreme”: If chance is supreme then coincidences and fate should just slink off into the corner. Let’s kick superstition to the corner too. We don’t earn good or bad karma, we don’t really deserve anything. Bad things do happen to good people. My  husband got early onset Lewy Body Dementia and died at 64. It wasn’t” fair”, but  then I’m not owed fairness.There are things that have happened in my life and I demanded an answer to“why”, but so far I have no answers and life just laughs at me.

Sounds a bit like word salad to me. Can we prove any of this stuff? Do things have meaning? Does anybody really have a plan?  Do I  believe in magical thinking? I know I have a heap of good questions but no answers really. Does any of this really matter? I think sometimes I need to know answers  to protect myself….from fear and insecurity.

I’m not waiting for the stars to align for me. I put myself out there and expect no guarantees and my fingers are not crossed. I do know 2 things for sure: good things happen and shit happens!! I can live with this. I have to.

Linus, Danita, Neal, Maury, Aileen, Mary Jo, Ann, Leonice,Zita, Ruth, Lisa, Artie, Lee…

I grew up with 12 siblings. When I tell people this they usually are amazed and ask how  it growing up, was it lots of fun and were we close? I always tell them that we were not the Von Trapp family singing our way to freedom. No one attempted to murder another sibling, but I  can’t vouch that no one  never thought about it.  We had an an operating system to put order to the chaos. I’ll call it the Holthaus operating system. Bill Gates would have wise to buy us out. For example, if you decided to leave your position during a commercial  “ Saved” was the word that guaranteed that no one would take your seat or spot on the floor. Yes, we had positions on the floor that were quite valuable. Without this agreement we would have came to fisticuffs and hair- pulling. If you forgot to say “saved” you were sol. I still catch myself saying “saved”when I get up. 15 people, one bathroom, justifiable homicide. And one frypan for our Sunday eggs. Lots of I’m first , I’m second for the bathroom, etc.  We even had to claim the window seat in the car. Mom set  up a system with the daily tasks like washing and drying dishes, and sweeping the floor. It was a simple set rotation so arguing about it was pretty futile. It was “fair” and this was the ultimate test. Your turn was your turn.  Did you know that slicing a half gallon of ice cream is the only way to really be fair? If it wasn’t “fair” we squawked.

To keep mealtimes orderly we had assigned seats at the table,  Dad on one end and Mom on the other, and long benches on both sides with assigned seating. When Mom yelled dinner we hurried to the table because those who were late might find some dishes were empty. We said grace before every meal, but we were still likely to act out at the table by banging our glasses on the table or attempting to shove someone off the bench. Meal time was  strictly for eating.  10 minutes at the table was pretty much the norm. My parents lingered, but we didn’t. And the amount of dishes to be washed…

As soon as we were old enough we were given a chore to do. I gathered eggs, and packed them in the egg cartons. The chicken coop also housed rats and the hens pecked and squawked when I  grabbed their eggs. It was a quick in and out. I liked to sing badly at my egg table as I sorted the eggs. It was quiet in the basement and I was usually alone. Privacy was a valuable commodity to me.

 We had our roles….the funny one, the quiet one, the trouble maker, the leader, the follower, the smart one, the dumb one. The youngest in the family was born the year I graduated from high school, so we had the older ones and the younger ones and different “realities”for each. It is almost like 2 different families. Our parents certainly changed thru the years and had time to pay attention, go to more school events, and games. I just came back from a visit with family and was surprised how family tales and secrets were understood so differently depending on birth order. Alternative facts….

So did we have fun?  We had fun, but mostly outside and away from parental scrutiny. We did report in if so and so hit us or was not playing fair. Tattletale! We played together and cooperated to create situations where “fun”was the goal. We rode a toboggan packed with 5 or 6 kids and picked the driver carefully. Snowball fights,  playing basketball, HORSE, softball—- we had enough players for lots of activities. We had some conflicts on rules of course. King of the mountain on top of a big pile of snow was a favorite, and we had to wrestle or shove someone off the top. No warm and fuzzy there! We also had some boxing gloves around from someone and boxed each other. Ouch….

No privacy! Always shared a bedroom and bed. Had to hide to have a good cry! Private Phone calls required stretching the cord outside to the front porch. We went thru a lot of cords.

We could all drink from the river of denial and refuse to acknowledge the truth. Who was depressed, who was drinking too much and fell asleep driving? All for one and one for all?Ask for help? Not so much. We were fed and clothed and had a tidy house. We got the giggles with each other and teased each other without mercy.  There was always a rug rat in our family. I babied lots of babies, and for god sakes keep door closed to the basement stairs! There was total panic when baby Lee could not be found. Retracing … he had crawled into the corner lazy Susan for pots and pans and fallen asleep. True story!  I’ve always had the ability to read my surroundings. Paying  attention to the needs of others with a  wide lens. I am vigilant, and I am responsible. I grew up with those values.

We are family, all my sisters and me…we had a storytelling and poetry reading from our sister books when we were all together in Iowa last week. All of us read and told stories inspite of earlier decisions to not actively participate. We had a great  crowd of friends and family and we all had fun. My sisters are my lifeline, my shelter. Our love is elastic across the miles and across our differences. We are each unique and deserve equal treatment. Life is not fair…but we try to level the playing field. We live affirmative action. Watch out for others, they are all family, brothers and sisters. 

This blog is called Aging Wrinkles and Wonders so obviously I spend a lot of time thinking about “old”. When I fill out my demographic info and, and I have a drop down for the year I was born, it seems like I jumped off a cliff( like Wylie Coyote) and splat-1952 is all the way down. I’m 70 since my Halloween birthday last year.  So my first Halloween costume was my birthday suit. Out of concern for others I don’t do costumes for Halloween.

So how old am I? I think I’m kinda old, a hint of old, I’m young -old. People might say I’m an older lady but not an old lady. Fifty shades of age right? But that’s not a good visual is it? Anyway I’ve decided I’m “oldish”, so that’s my working assumption.

So I have wrinkles on my body and wrinkles in my life. This is why I have “Bum, Bum crème” and 10 different hair thickening shampoos in my arsenal of beauty products.I can’t seem to throw them away. Here’s part of a post on how I am dealing with the wrinkles of life:

Without a doubt the one thing that is always in fashion is “youth”,  or at least to be young looking. As I’ve aged I admit that I have had moments of “youth envy”, and moments of panic about the relentless creep into old age.  I don’t think I have “inflated pride” in my appearance, but of course I want to be attractive and look as good as I can. Am I  trying too hard to recapture my youth? I know I am not alone in navigating the minefield of how to define mature beauty. I’m not trying to be 25, or subjecting myself to cosmetic surgery to look younger. I don’t even wear makeup anymore, but I’m sure trying to find the product that makes my hair look thicker. Maybe there is a crème that could tighten up my skin and my behind.  As for recapturing my youth, I’m trying to remember that though hope springs eternal, youth does not.

Stereotypes abound about aging, but stereotypes be damned. I swear I’ll slug the next medical provider who says,  “You’re getting older and this is common in people your age.” Yeah right,  and “stupidity is common in people your age!”  I admit I’m not as flexible now and I don’t spring up from anything anymore, but I’m not applying for a job as a jack-in-the-box.  I’m actually more flexible in dealing with life’s twists and turns and adapting to what “is” instead of what I wish were true. My reflexes are also a bit slower, but I am not driving in the Indy 500 and I give myself more space and time to navigate thru life.

I have such conflicting  feelings about growing older.. This is from a blog post I wrote about 5 years ago:  

How about I let go of the “I’m too old.” excuse. I know I can’t do everything my younger self could do, but I can do lots more than I think I can. I can’t be an elite runner,  but I can run 3 miles a day. It’s very unlikely that I will win a Grammy, but I can play banjo and guitar and even sing. My writing won’t show up on the New York Times’ bestsellers list and I will continue to write anyway. I can learn how to do many things that are not age limited.  Untying the ”I’m too old” knot may take a bit longer due to my mild arthritis, but damn, it will get done. When I get to the end of my life, I hope I will not be tied up in knots. I’m hoping I will be shaped into a nice, beautiful bow.

 I’m telling you about my personal feelings about “old”because I’ve little filter left. I don’t give a shit! I’m too old to worry too much about how other people see me. I feel a freedom that is liberating and powerful even if I have arthritis in every joint in my body…There’s nothing left to learn the hard way.

You quit trying to hold your stomach in no matter who comes in the room.

When you play alive or dead you’re sure where you stand.!

I fill up my over-flowing pill caddy once a week and I always put a daily dose of gratitude and self-compassion in it. I’ve discovered a new passion for storytelling. It’s almost as good as sex, if my memory is correct.

How old would I be, if I didn’t how old I was? I’ve got  a great answer now. It doesn’t matter- I’m ageless!

 “I’ve seen fire and I’ve seen rain….”, on this James Taylor and I agree. I’ve seen forest fires and floods here in Colorado, and specifically in my little slice of heaven here in northern Colorado. The 1997 flood and the Hyde Park fire are as much fire and rain as I ever want to see.  Fire and rain seemed kind of opposites, but generated many similar feelings in me. Helplessness, excitement,fear and awe. When I was a little girl I would sit on our front porch with my brothers and sisters and watch thunderstorms come in. The clouds would begin to pile up in the southwest , turn darker and grow to cover a lot of the sky. I felt some fear, but I also felt some excitement and anticipation. What was this storm going to bring? Thunder, lightning, rain, hail, wind, or just blow over our farm with a whimper…. It wasn’t that I felt fear OR anticipation, it was that I felt fear And anticipation. Both were true. There was something luring me to my spot on the porch to wait for the storm to show itself. 

I’ve just passed my 70th birthday and  I am feeling fear, anticipation, excitement and a big dose of curiosity for what lies ahead.The smoke and the ashes from the Hyde Park fire were difficult to deal with, but that didn’t stop me from being very curious about the fire. My husband and I hiked up to vantage point where we could see the fire jump from tree to tree across the reservoir.  I was safe but I wanted to see the fire. It scared me, but also intrigued me. I’m a very curious person and I have to stick around to see how this one life I have been given turns out, but I won’t be sitting on the porch being a passive spectator. Of course, I have to respond and play an active role in my own life.  Oddly,  what gives me a lot of peace now is that I allow myself to hold feelings that may seem to be at odds with each other. I am comforted by accepting that life is complicated, feelings are complicated and I will never figure everything out. 

During the 1997 flood, I was powerless to stop the rain being poured out like buckets over my windsheild. I was scared and disoriented. Where the hell was I? Water was pouring across the road in several places.The police stopped me  and told me to turn around and try another way. I was stopped again a couple blocks from home due to high, rushing water  across the road. Good samaritans opened their home to stranded drivers like me and we waited for the water to recede.  We finally got the signal it was safe to go, and I got home  with a tale to tell and relief that my family and I were safe. Sometimes waiting is the smartest decision to make.  It is dangerous to drive through flood waters and dangerous to keep on a life path when the road ahead may be washed out. I also learned asking for and accepting help is critical to my well-being. Most people want to help and have good intentions. I still struggle with expecting the good in people.

During and after the flood and fire I frequently heard the sound of helicopters passing overhead, rescuing, surveying damage and carrying water to the fire.  The sound from the chopper blades became comforting and made me feel both sad and proud. Helicopters are often used for rescue, so help was on the way. Natural disasters are random and powerful, but we don’t need to be paralyzed in dealing with them. I have choices in life and small steps are better than standing still. Bravery is always an option.

No matter what I do. The sun will come out again and the fire will go out.

Here/Hear, Hey/Hay, Sea/See, Weather/Whether—the English language has many homophones, which are words that sound the same, but are spelled differently and have different meanings.  We know how to spell the right/write word by how it is used in a sentence, or the context: the words that are used with a certain word or phrase and that help to explain its meaning. We sometimes say to use the word in a sentence so we know what spelling and meaning to use. If I’m talking about sounds, like a bell,  I say and spell it “I hear the bells.”, or if I’m talking about place I say and spell it “Please bring it here.” So context is very important!

Context has another meaning, context:. the interrelated conditions in which something exists or occurs. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve become less of a black and white thinker and tend to be in the “gray” zone more often. Passing judgments of others without the full story has my name on it.  What are the circumstances and variables that affect mine and others behaviors and beliefs? My history, my past experiences and my current circumstances propel me towards behaviors that may make sense for me, but totally confound others. This is true for everyone, whether I understand or agree with their choices.  I like to eat with smaller forks, I’m for a woman’s right to autonomy over her own body, and I hate driving in big cities if I don’t know the city. These behaviors and choices, within the context of my life history, make sense to me. I can tell other people how I got “here”, if they are willing to “hear” my story. It’s the old “Walk a mile in my shoes.” thing, and my shoes have changed over time. I distill all this into the need for me to keep an open mind, don’t rush to judgement and listen, really listen to others.

How do I put myself in context? What is the meaning of my life? This question was pretty silly when I was 20, but now that I’m 70 it’s a lot more meaningful to me. I’ve lived for 70 years and have played many roles, created many things and contributed to society, but what exactly is my contribution to the greater good? The contexts in my life have changed many times, sometimes minute to minute. Lately, there is a lot of talk about “finding your tribe” and the positive outcome of belonging. Where do I belong? I exist within many “interrelated conditions” and I have to make an effort to keep growing so these “interrelated conditions” expand my life and not constrict it. The reality is I behave differently in different contexts depending on who I am with and where I am at. This is usually adaptive, but can also lead me to behave as a chameleon and/or believe  that “my” tribe is the only legitimate tribe.  

In our language, context is about spelling and meaning. The context of our lives is also about meaning, but also about the expansion or restriction of understanding.

Have fun exercising your brain and see how many homophones you can name. Their, they’re, there are over 100!

For awhile, I didn’t have anything to say, so for a change I actually resisted the temptation to fill the silence with babble. Instead, I stocked up on thrift store uglies and got out my paints, stickers and embellishments to re-make and re-cycle my finds. After all, how many times can you see “Live, Laugh, Love”,  without wanting to vomit. The Christmas season added to my fervor to  craft and fed my passion to make treasures out of junk. I’ve waded through my creations and I’ve finally stuck my head out of my hole. Because I’m taking some deep cleansing breaths I can gain some perspective. I think I decided it’s time to take a break because I spent hours trying to rescue and re-style a wreath —and then decided my time was not worth the diminishing returns I was experiencing. It was time to throw it in the garbage and call it a day. The more I did, the harder I tried, the worst it got and my pride was driving me not to give up. In a moment of clarity, after asking myself “How important is it?”, I had to conclude that it was not important at all, even a little bit. What a relief!

When I look at “worn out” art or crafts I “see” more than what is , I see what could be.  A little bit of paint  etc. and it will become “my” creation. Seeing potential is not necessarily a bad thing, but skipping right to potential may mean I don’t really accept what is. You know those report cards that said “Not living up to potential.”? What kid really knows what potential is and how to spell it? I can spell potential, but even as an older adult I’m not at all sure what my “potential” is. Of course, I could do better on lots of things if I took the time to learn skills,  practice and take the actions I need to take. The real question I have is: “Do I want to focus on my potential, or do I choose to accept myself as I am and stop obsessing about being better or meeting goals?”  It’s one thing to obliterate “Live, Laugh and Love.” signs in order to save the world from banality, but constantly working on self-improvement obliterates my contentment. I don’t really care if my tombstone says “She could have done better….’” even though my choice would be “WTF”.

It’s super hard for me to say “I don’t care!”. Shouldn’t I “care”? Shouldn’t I keep trying? Maybe. Maybe not. I’m not going to be perfect now or when I die. Try, try harder, never give up, you can do it,  blah, blah, blah. How about living, laughing and loving? I’m kidding. Watching romantic comedies, reading “fluff” novels, cuddling with my doggies, going for long walks , spending time with family and friends and throwing away my to-do list are arguably not the way to reach my pinnacle of self-improvement or “potential”, but———- I DON’T CARE!

I was reading my news feed and up popped an ad for Brazilian Bum Bum Crème, so I had to check it out on Amazon . Yup, it was crème to firm up skin all over my body, including my bum. It didn’t cost a fortune so I thought, what the hell, because I certainly have skin that needs firming up. My bum is a lost cause (somewhere down south), but my face needs tightening up so I am using the bum bum crème on my face. The irony is not lost on me!  I’m sure the jar will end up on the shelf with all my other skin-tightening, wrinkle-reducing cremes that didn’t work.  I’m mad at myself for believing there really is a miracle crème, but also know I’m still not immune to the siren call of youthful beauty.

It seems to take a mirror or manipulative advertising to make me feel bad about my body. I know if I lived on a desert island all by myself I wouldn’t worry about whether or not I had wrinkles. I wonder how we would all behave if we could not see any reflection of ourselves and literally didn’t know what we looked like.The first self tanners turned my skin orange and Sun-In did not add bling highlights to my hair. Anyone remember those vibrating belt machines that were supposed to vibrate your fat off? Don’t get me started on all the diet pills which are worthless. Still I’m literally buying into what the beauty industry is selling., i.e. bum bum crème .

How is it that advertisers are so effective at selling things to me, and to other women, that don’t do what they claim? Most of us want to be “in” and not “out”, and the powerful beauty and fashion industries are more than willing to define what is “in” for women. How else can you explain young women using juice cans to set their hair  or even ironing  their hair (yikes) to get absolutely straight hair? I’m dating myself, but what about the Twiggy haircut or the Dorothy Hamill wedge  which we begged our hair stylist for. Never mind that “cookie cutter haircuts” like these  are only flattering to a few people, we still wanted them. I confess I was one of the “sheep” when it came to pale lipstick, blue eyeshadow and army navy surplus jackets. I used my money, when I had it, to buy what I felt I needed to have to be attractive and cool.

Without a doubt the one thing that is always in fashion is “youth”,  or at least to be young looking. As I’ve aged I admit that I have had moments of “youth envy”, and moments of panic about the relentless creep into “old” lady territory.  Am I vain?  vanity: A quality of people who have inflated pride in their appearance.  I don’t think I have “inflated pride” in my appearance, but of course I want to be attractive and look as good as I can. I get to decide for myself if I am trying too hard to recapture my youth. I know I am not alone in navigating the minefield of how to define beauty. I’m not trying to be 25, or subjecting myself to cosmetic surgery to look younger. I don’t even wear makeup anymore, but I’m sure trying to find the product that makes my hair look thicker. Maybe there is a crème that could tighten up my skin!  As for recapturing my youth, I’m trying to remember that though hope springs eternal, youth does not.

I’m experiencing a financial pinch right now,  It’s actually more like a financial crush. Money is quickly flowing out, and I dont see a little Dutch boy giving me the finger.“Things will get back to normal. Its just a rough patch.”; this is what I tell myself. But I had an “Aha”moment this morning— this is “normal’!   Shit happens, and happens again and again. I just need to accept that life is what it is, sometimes good and sometimes not so good. Things won’t “settle” down. Since Im retired, my financial picture is not going to change dramatically, unless I win the big lottery prize. I’d prefer to  spend my money on desirable outcomes, but sometimes I have to spend my money on responsibilities. I have to fix my car, my teeth, my shower, or take care of my rascally Roscoe who has allergies. I also choose to spend some of my money at coffee shops and at thrift stores and on travel and lots more. 

What strikes me as I write this is how many sayings and proverbs we have about money. One of my favorites is by Ron Kittle, “ I’m so broke I can’t pay attention!” Better to laugh than cry, I say. When I see an ugly purse thats a thousand dollars because its a Louis Vuitton, I remember that Paris Hilton once asked “Whats a soup kitchen?” and it all makes sense.  I have mixed feelings about being rich,-you know the noble poor idea, but I’ve decided I can be rich AND noble if the opportunity presents itself. Money does not determine my worth and it’s O.K. for me to have the money I need. For much of my life I thought that being rich or being financially comfortable was not something I deserved. This is b.s. Money is not the root of all evil, but what is true is that people with lots of money have more choices than people with little money. Luckily, the choice to be happy is not primarily determined by how much money I have. I agree with Pablo Picasso, “I’d like to live as a poor man with lots of money.” Not sure how that works!

Luckily, Mother Nature offers her gifts for free. This is my neighborhood this week.