Today has been absolutely grueling and gut-wrenching. I got up at 4:15 AM to journey north, leaving behind my husband of 367 days and the carefree anonymity of our tropical paradise. Nine hours previous, we had sailed into the sunset, the annual tradition on our last night in the Keys. And as the masts of the Schooner Western Union turned starboard, from the point where the Gulf of Mexico meets the Atlantic Ocean, the wind carried us back towards the lights of Mallory Square. And I wept. Quietly. Standing at the ships' rail. Wrapped in the arms of the most amazing man I have ever known.
I wept because we were leaving and I wept because I wanted to be back home, with my children, in that instant. I wept for the beauty of a town built on the legacy of pirates and shipwrecks and outcasts, whose vision is now to be "One Human Family." I wept for the Hemingway "Papa" I had met at Sloppy Joe's on Thursday, who traveled from Norway to "experience Key West." When I saw him again on Friday, his wife Molfrid conveyed to us that their city, Oslo, had been terrorized by a bombing, while a mass of teenaged campers had been slaughtered on an island nearby.
But I also wept for the laughter and the revelry and the memories of so many friends over the years who have journeyed with us to drink, swim, walk miles and miles, and to capture some of our most incredible days (and nights) on film. Conch fritters at Alabama Jacks and sunset swims in the Gulf at Key Largo. Rumrunners with our bartender, Bonnie, and cheese omelets at the Schooner Wharf Bar. Kino sandals and Margaritaville t-shirts. Fast Buck Freddies and B.O's Fish Wagon. The Roosters at Blue Heaven and the Drag Queens at the Bourbon Street Bar.
Memories that soak into your pores with the searing sun and buoy you through long, frigid winters. Carefree adventures where you flirt with the invincible feeling of the wind in your hair and your whole life stretched out ahead of you. Laughter to tears, mixed with the bittersweet knowlege that the price of escape will be waiting to be paid in the morning light.
Eleven hours and many miles later I arrived at our North Carolina house, sitting tidy and hollow in a steady afternoon rain. It wasn't just leaving my husband that shattered my heart and left me queasy, although that alone would certainly be enough. It was the reality that most of my days are spent either being away from him or being away from my kids; it is a rare occasion when we are all four together in the same locale for extended periods of time. But that is the life we lead and the love we have chosen. The same life that gives us two homes, an abundance of family, friends from both our lifetimes and more adventures than I can count. Truly, we are blessed beyond measure.
So, tomorrow morning I will wake up in my own bed in a quiet house and I will return to a desk stacked high with work left undone. By 2:30 PM, Jackson and Braeden will be home from school and the chaos of our "normal" lives will resume. And for that I am grateful down to my soul. Because the reality of my life is infinitely more satisfying than my adventurous escapades. Besides, I can always drink Rumrunners and watch the sunset, no matter where I am!
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Age Before Beauty
Well, it is official.....I am Old. In my mind. In my spirit. In my bowel irregularity. In my vanishing ability to starve myself for three days and fit into a skimpy outfit.
My descent into ancient-ness started slowly with hangovers that lasted for days and the purchase of reading glasses. Then blue, bulging veins began to criss-cross my thighs and I reached the highest level of non-prescription Retinol available at the Wal-Mart Pharmacy. But the undeniable proof of my "old lady-ness" came at the hands of my hairdresser last week when I sulked out of her salon with a chin-length bob, layered for "body and movement." New Beginnings, my ass. Look around folks.....90% of the women between the ages of 50 and 150 have chin-length bobs with layers. The other 10% have that grown-out Marine style that is stacked in the back. But don't blame my hairdresser or her optimistically-named salon. At one point in the process of transforming me from Tammy Wynette to Barbara Walters, she very aptly observed that "maybe, this is not about your hair."
Now, if you have a penis and you read this blog then these words may seem like Greek to you, but the vaginas in my audience know this song verse by verse. Most women I know can catalogue their lives by the fashions they were wearing and the hairstyles they were sporting at various ages. Page-boy with straight bangs, 1965-70. Growing Out Bangs, Straight Shoulder-Length 1970-75. Piss Poor Attempt at Farrah Fawcett Hair with Feathered Bangs 1975-79....And the list goes on.
As the child of an appearance-obsessed mother who came from a tribe of appearance-obsessed women, it is my birthright and familial obligation to scrutinze every detail of my appearance. And as Glamour magazine has said for decades, "Hair is the ultimate accessory." I was the freak who got up early at summer camp to curl my hair before breakfast. I spent years avoiding cute boys with convertibles, motorcycles or cars without air-conditioning. I could have owned the Clairol company for the amount of money I spent on ClairMist Ultimate Control in high school. It is a sad, but true, legacy. And despite all the efforts expended at the altar of those with fine, straight hair, I still ended up where 90% of the older women reside.....with a layered chin-length bob.
Please understand that I am intelligent enough to know that there are bigger problems on Earth than my hair. Famine. Drought. Natural Disasters. The lines between my eyebrows and the inner-tube around my
mid-section. In all seriousness, I could have cured cancer and discovered the formula for world peace in the hours, days, months and years I have spent worrying about how I look. My Wonder Twin and I have often fantasized about how happy we could be... just the way we are... if only people would stop taking photographs of us!
I am encouraged by the fact that the standards of beauty are beginning to change. Women like Queen Latifah, Helen Mirren and Ina Garten are bringing a foundation of strength and talent to the concept of what is considered to be beautiful. The Dove Soap, "How Do You Define Beauty", campaign has allowed women of all shapes, ages and ethnicities to step into what was once the exclusive domain of thin, buxom blondes. And the most beautiful women I encounter have faces lined with wisdom, bodies scarred by challenges survived and an age-defying zest for living that shines their eyes.
So the reality for me is that my shorts are longer and fuller than they were last summer. I can no longer afford sleepless nights, pointless drama or huge credit card bills. I am more Ford Explorer than '65 Corvette, more Old Navy than Victoria's Secret. Granted, it doesn't feel great to be called "Ma'am" by the teenaged bag boys at Food Lion. Or to accept how I am slipping behind the wall of invisibility that cloaks women my age. But in a zillion other ways my life feels more comfortable.
I am strengthened by the pride of watching my sons grow into respectable, bright, capable young men and knowing that I have had a hand in shaping them. I revel in moments of laughing out loud with friends who know me well, and love me, flaws and all. In essence, my life is becoming smaller and less interesting, but more meaningful.
Recently, Gerald and I took the boys to Great Wolf Lodge for a mini-vacation during the thirty-six hours that we were not scheduled to be at a baseball field. We spent most of our time at the indoor water park sliding, tubing, swimming and chill-axing in the wave pool. The rest of the time we spent eating sugar cookies with sprinkles and playing air hockey in the arcade. I didn't take one proper shower the entire time we were there, I smelled faintly of chlorine for two days and I wore a ball cap with a wet ponytail, no makeup. I snidely remarked to my brother that once again, being among the masses had proved that "We are STILL the Beautiful People." Which I am now ashamed to admit.
Because the renewal of the vacation had not one thing to do with how our looks and our lives stacked up when compared to those around us. The re-energizing effects came by crawling out from under the expectations and measurements that weigh me down in my daily life. The un-beautiful truth is that I am the biggest obstacle I have to happiness and peace of mind; while those closest to me are fighting battles that are much more grueling and not of their choosing.
My husband left at 3:47AM to go back to our house in Florida for a few weeks. He is going back to a job he loves, that affords us a lifestyle of ease and adventure. When he gets there, he will be greeted by our healthy, vibrant grandchildren who have all they need, some of what they want and incredible parents who keep them safe. After a self-prescribed Mental Health Day, in which I have 24 hours to do anything (or nothing) as I choose, tomorrow I will return to being a Mom, a mediator and a Woman on the Verge. But maybe I will choose to be on the verge of sanity and peace-of-mind instead of frustration and ill-temper. I know what needs to happen. I need to rest, work, laugh, walk, eat a tomato sandwich and be grateful.
Because contentment and grace are beautiful....by any definition, in any situation.....and at any age.
My descent into ancient-ness started slowly with hangovers that lasted for days and the purchase of reading glasses. Then blue, bulging veins began to criss-cross my thighs and I reached the highest level of non-prescription Retinol available at the Wal-Mart Pharmacy. But the undeniable proof of my "old lady-ness" came at the hands of my hairdresser last week when I sulked out of her salon with a chin-length bob, layered for "body and movement." New Beginnings, my ass. Look around folks.....90% of the women between the ages of 50 and 150 have chin-length bobs with layers. The other 10% have that grown-out Marine style that is stacked in the back. But don't blame my hairdresser or her optimistically-named salon. At one point in the process of transforming me from Tammy Wynette to Barbara Walters, she very aptly observed that "maybe, this is not about your hair."
Now, if you have a penis and you read this blog then these words may seem like Greek to you, but the vaginas in my audience know this song verse by verse. Most women I know can catalogue their lives by the fashions they were wearing and the hairstyles they were sporting at various ages. Page-boy with straight bangs, 1965-70. Growing Out Bangs, Straight Shoulder-Length 1970-75. Piss Poor Attempt at Farrah Fawcett Hair with Feathered Bangs 1975-79....And the list goes on.
As the child of an appearance-obsessed mother who came from a tribe of appearance-obsessed women, it is my birthright and familial obligation to scrutinze every detail of my appearance. And as Glamour magazine has said for decades, "Hair is the ultimate accessory." I was the freak who got up early at summer camp to curl my hair before breakfast. I spent years avoiding cute boys with convertibles, motorcycles or cars without air-conditioning. I could have owned the Clairol company for the amount of money I spent on ClairMist Ultimate Control in high school. It is a sad, but true, legacy. And despite all the efforts expended at the altar of those with fine, straight hair, I still ended up where 90% of the older women reside.....with a layered chin-length bob.
Please understand that I am intelligent enough to know that there are bigger problems on Earth than my hair. Famine. Drought. Natural Disasters. The lines between my eyebrows and the inner-tube around my
mid-section. In all seriousness, I could have cured cancer and discovered the formula for world peace in the hours, days, months and years I have spent worrying about how I look. My Wonder Twin and I have often fantasized about how happy we could be... just the way we are... if only people would stop taking photographs of us!
I am encouraged by the fact that the standards of beauty are beginning to change. Women like Queen Latifah, Helen Mirren and Ina Garten are bringing a foundation of strength and talent to the concept of what is considered to be beautiful. The Dove Soap, "How Do You Define Beauty", campaign has allowed women of all shapes, ages and ethnicities to step into what was once the exclusive domain of thin, buxom blondes. And the most beautiful women I encounter have faces lined with wisdom, bodies scarred by challenges survived and an age-defying zest for living that shines their eyes.
So the reality for me is that my shorts are longer and fuller than they were last summer. I can no longer afford sleepless nights, pointless drama or huge credit card bills. I am more Ford Explorer than '65 Corvette, more Old Navy than Victoria's Secret. Granted, it doesn't feel great to be called "Ma'am" by the teenaged bag boys at Food Lion. Or to accept how I am slipping behind the wall of invisibility that cloaks women my age. But in a zillion other ways my life feels more comfortable.
I am strengthened by the pride of watching my sons grow into respectable, bright, capable young men and knowing that I have had a hand in shaping them. I revel in moments of laughing out loud with friends who know me well, and love me, flaws and all. In essence, my life is becoming smaller and less interesting, but more meaningful.
Recently, Gerald and I took the boys to Great Wolf Lodge for a mini-vacation during the thirty-six hours that we were not scheduled to be at a baseball field. We spent most of our time at the indoor water park sliding, tubing, swimming and chill-axing in the wave pool. The rest of the time we spent eating sugar cookies with sprinkles and playing air hockey in the arcade. I didn't take one proper shower the entire time we were there, I smelled faintly of chlorine for two days and I wore a ball cap with a wet ponytail, no makeup. I snidely remarked to my brother that once again, being among the masses had proved that "We are STILL the Beautiful People." Which I am now ashamed to admit.
Because the renewal of the vacation had not one thing to do with how our looks and our lives stacked up when compared to those around us. The re-energizing effects came by crawling out from under the expectations and measurements that weigh me down in my daily life. The un-beautiful truth is that I am the biggest obstacle I have to happiness and peace of mind; while those closest to me are fighting battles that are much more grueling and not of their choosing.
My husband left at 3:47AM to go back to our house in Florida for a few weeks. He is going back to a job he loves, that affords us a lifestyle of ease and adventure. When he gets there, he will be greeted by our healthy, vibrant grandchildren who have all they need, some of what they want and incredible parents who keep them safe. After a self-prescribed Mental Health Day, in which I have 24 hours to do anything (or nothing) as I choose, tomorrow I will return to being a Mom, a mediator and a Woman on the Verge. But maybe I will choose to be on the verge of sanity and peace-of-mind instead of frustration and ill-temper. I know what needs to happen. I need to rest, work, laugh, walk, eat a tomato sandwich and be grateful.
Because contentment and grace are beautiful....by any definition, in any situation.....and at any age.
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