As you may have read, I recently took a trip to Washington D.C. I typically visit D.C. twice a year to see my youngest daughter who has been there almost six years. This time, however, it was a treat to take my oldest daughter and my two lovely granddaughters with me. It was the first time flying for the young ones, and I was interested in how they might react to the security checkpoint. Their mother and I gave them a brief summary of what to expect, and we got in line.
I have a pacemaker. I can walk through the x-ray machine but must avoid the wan. As a result, I frequently get the pleasure of the pat-down; which I have no problem submitting to. I’m not one of those who scream civil rights or whimper about being ‘touched.’ So, pat away. They want me to strip? No problem. I’m past the age of being offended. All I’m interested in is getting on the plane, having an uneventful and safe flight and arriving at my destination in one piece.
Everything was going smoothly until the officer swabbed my hands. My daughter and granddaughters went through without a hitch. They were grabbing their things off of the conveyor when an alarm sounded. A woman next to my daughter said, “Uh oh, Grandma’s in trouble.”
To which my daughter replied, “Nah, she has a pacemaker; she’s fine.”
“Nope, that was not her pacemaker. She set off an alarm.”
Talking about a thorny situation … I was watching my granddaughters, not paying much attention to the officer swiping my hands. Then the alarm sounded, and I glanced at the monitor. “Stay here,” the officer said, calling to another officer. Puzzled I looked at the monitor and my eyes widened; it was flashing in big letters – TNT!
“Holy s*@&! What the hell had I touched?” TNT?? Seriously?
Yep, that’s yours truly at the beginning of my second and more thorough pat-down. I thought my flippant remark about stripping was about come to fruition – that or a cavity search. Lucky for me, it didn’t get that thorny!
I was eventually cleared and allowed to board the plane, but I was certain, somewhere, some dude was typing my name onto a watch list.
The girls had a good laugh at Nana’s expense, of course, and we had a blast in D.C. Oops! I mean fun! FUN. If anyone’s listening out there – I meant FUN!
Maybe, my daughter should come home more often. It’s getting hard to take me anywhere.
Here’s a travel tip: hand lotions with glycerine will test positive for explosives! Who knew!
I’d love to hear your thoughts on the subject. Join the conversation. Talk to me or tell me your story. I’m all ears.
I hate platitudes. You know those annoying statements people say to make you feel better about a situation. I come from a line of women who live long lives, into their eighties and nineties. Based on that kind of lineage, I anticipate a long life too. I’d prefer to be one of those women who age gracefully (whatever the heck that means).
My mother, a proud woman, wore her crown of white hair and the wrinkles on her face with pride. Coloring her hair would have been an insult. “I earned every one of these gray hairs raising six kids, ” she said, more times than I can count. Never at a loss for words, Mother had quite a few trite statements and tiresome clichés in her repertoire of advice. None of which prepared me for the grim reality of aging. I would’ve preferred the truth.
In honor of all aging women, I want to share a few of my mother’s favorite platitudes, sprinkled with a bit of honesty. So, grab a bottle of wine or two and brace yourself, ladies. You’re in for a bumpy ride.
Those aren’t wrinkles; they’re lines of wisdom.
No, they’re wrinkles. Your face is just the beginning. Those suckers spread faster than lines on a Google map and it ain’t pretty. You’ll wake one morning to find perky boobs that once pushed lace-trimmed bras out in nose snuggling cleavage deflated like helium filled balloon gone bad. Sexy bras get shoved to the back of the drawer and replaced with thick strapped, hard-wired versions. Once upon a time, I could slip into a sexy little lace number as quickly as it came off. Now, it’s like gymnastics — shaking, pulling, and tucking those girls into their rightful place and praying to God, they’ll stay.
Those aren’t hot flashes, they’re power surges.
Yeah right; slap CEO on my nametag and call-it-a-day. Panting, turning red in the face, and wiggling out of one’s clothes at an alarming rate, is not offering sexual favors or a lap dance. It’s a damn hot flash, and on those occasions, rest assured, I can kick ass and take names.
Your best days are in front of you. (What a crock.)
My best days were when I had the energy to work ten-hour days, enjoy happy hour with friends, make dinner, help the kids with homework, and have wild sex on the dining room table (or other impulsive places). Wild sex these days is watching the movie version and reminiscing. My body doesn’t bend that way anymore and this ain’t Hollywood. Those grunting and moaning sounds ricocheting off the walls have more to do with the pain in my hips and knees than pleasure.
Age is just a number.
No, it’s a flagrant reminder you’ve been usurped. Younger, thinner, more beautiful women are the ones turning the heads. The only heads I seem to turn these days are old men at Target. And trust me nothing brings the truth home more than an old man at Target, making a move on you.
The trick to aging gracefully is to enjoy it.
Seriously? I don’t think so. Aging is taking me kicking and screaming. I’m a proud woman (got that from mom) and vain. I never leave the house without makeup, earrings, or perfume. Penciling in the lines takes longer, but I refuse to be one of those women with lipstick half way to her nostrils. Did I mention you’ll need a magnifying mirror in your bathroom and reading glasses in every room of the house?
Forgetfulness is a form of freedom.
Freedom to roam around in circles, parking lots, highways, and room-to-room because you’ve forgotten where you are or what you’re doing. Some call this sightseeing, strolling, being disorganized, missing a turn. I call it, “Where the hell is my car? What did I come into this room for and where am I going?”
You haven’t changed at all.
Yes, I have. My face sags, my ass sags, my boobs are hard-wired, I get lost in the driveway, and can’t remember what I did yesterday, much less the last time I had spontaneous sex. My gnarled hands couldn’t open a jar or pick up a penny if you held a gun to my head. The pain of getting up and down makes me hesitant to sit. I don’t sashay, I waddle on legs stiff as iron pegs with feet, and the popping sound is not my gum, it’s my knees. Sedans (too low) are history. Give me an SUV with GPS; my sense of direction went south with my looks. And, driving at night might as well put Stevie Wonder behind the wheel. I can’t see shit.
My husband in a moment of great wisdom told me, “Honey, God made our eyes so vision would fade as we age.” He removed his glasses. “I can’t see a thing. You’re as beautiful as the first time I saw you.” He’s such a sweet talker; I’m swooning.
Gray hair is beautiful.
A few gray hairs, I can abide, but when I wake up and look as if someone dumped fertilizer on my head while I slept, enough is enough. My hairdresser is on retainer, and if my husband has to skip a meal or two for me to afford a cut and color, well all I can say is, “I’m watching his health.”
It’s better than the alternative (my all time favorite).
Ok, there’s some truth to that statement, but not much. Still, it gives me hope. They say all will be made whole in Heaven and I’m counting on it. Is sex included?
The truth
Aging sucks and someone (my mother) should have warned me. So here are a few words of wisdom from my hard-knock school of aging.
1- Repeat after me Botox is my friend. Your husband won’t notice, remember he can’t see.
2- Put your hairdresser on retainer, Clairol says, “You’re worth it.”
3- Sweating the small stuff will give you wrinkles, so don’t.
4- Invest time and money in yourself. Your husband won’t miss the groceries you’re not buying, and besides, you’ve paid your dues.
5- Enjoy the moments and laugh a lot. If we gotta go, go out with a smile on your face. How you get that smile is up to you.
To be fair.
Aging isn’t all dome and gloom. There are advantages. Life experiences have taught me about people and trust. Trivial things matter less, and I’ve figured out the important things in life. The best thing about growing older, however, is letting go of all the nonsense. Whiners and stupid people best stay back, I’ve lost my tolerance. Grow up, life isn’t fair, and there are no guarantees. Political correctness, I flushed it down the toilet where it belongs. I feel a freedom to say exactly what’s on my mind and without apology, and if someone doesn’t like this old lady, tough shit.
Your turn is coming.
I’d love to hear your thoughts on the subject. Join the conversation. Talk to me or tell me your story. I’m all ears.
From the moment I met my husband, more than thirty years ago, I knew he was the one. Both single parents, we took our time before blending our families. Twenty-five years ago today, I married the love of my life.
It seems as if we blinked and the years were gone. Our children are grown, now, with families of their own; and half of our eight grandchildren are grown.
Over those thirty years, life has handed us a few ups and downs, but we have stood strong. We have enjoyed a good life. God has been good to us.
A talented, loving, and generous man, he is my safe place to fall. After 25 years, this man remains my best friend and given the chance I’d do it all over again.
Happy Anniversary, my love.
I’d love to hear your thoughts on the subject. Join the conversation. Talk to me or tell me your story. I’m all ears.
I was thrilled to read this post by Annie Scholl. I’ve struggled with the issue of writing daily for a long time. That wasn’t always the case. For years, I wrote every day. Whether I wrote based on a prompt or on one of my many works in progress, stories filled the pages.
These days? I need someone to tie me to the chair and tape my hands to my laptop. Okay, maybe that’s a bit melodramatic, but you get the point. I’m stuck.
Perhaps it’s because I’ve been on medical leave and simply need to get back into a routine. Or, maybe I need to give myself permission not to write. It might serve me well to enjoy the things and people around me for a while. After all, it’s life events that often give us our best stories. So, check Annie’s post and give her a shout-out.
Take it Away Annie:
By Annie L. Scholl I’m not sure how I got the message that I had to write every day to be a “real” writer, but I’ll blame it on Julia Cameron and her book, The Artist’s Way. I read it when it came …
What about you? Do you write every day? I’d love to hear your thoughts on the subject. Join the conversation. Talk to me or tell me your story. I’m all ears.
As you may have read, I recently took a trip to Washington D.C. I typically visit D.C. twice a year to see my youngest daughter who has been there almost six years. This time, however, it was a treat to take my oldest daughter and my two lovely granddaughters with me. It was the first time flying for the young ones, and I was interested in how they might react to the security checkpoint. Their mother and I gave them a brief summary of what to expect, and we got in line.
From the moment I met my husband, more than thirty years ago, I knew he was the one. Both 
Twenty-five years ago today, I married the love of my life.
I was thrilled to read this post by 
COW PASTURE CHRONICLES 