Yesterday I phoned home for the first time since I arrived in Ireland a week ago. In this New Age of satellite phone technology and Skype, I am antediluvian. I do email Keith and send the occasional Facebook message to the boys but I just can't wrap my mind around the idea of casually phoning (or ye gods, texting) between Europe and the U.S. For me, it remains one of those Only In Cases of Emergency things. But, in an effort to be an up-to-date cool kind of person, I phoned home.
I got Hugh.
"HI YA!" I say, in my excited, can-you-believe-it's-me-and-how-amazing-is-this voice. "Hi," Hugh says flatly. "Honey, it's me. Mom. Calling from Ireland," I enthuse. "Yeah," replies Hugh. The subtext is clear: "So what?"
When Hugh was little, all I had to do was enter a room and I was a star. He's the first person I've ever known whose eyes really, truly light up. And once upon a time, they lit for me. He'd smile this huge, infectious grin and those eyes would shine and he'd roll, crawl, toddle, run over and leap into my arms.
They demand so much when they're little. They want you and want you and want you. And it's exhausting and inconvenient and annoying and suffocating and relentless, oh god, it's relentless.
Then they stop. And, like childbirth, nothing and no one can prepare you for the pain.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Out of Place
I'm beginning to think it wasn't such a good idea to spend the month in which I turn 50 in the company of 15 undergraduate women. All these slender waists and slim thighs and firm butts and oh, the perky boobs, perched up above flat tummies like a couple of cupcakes piled high with frosting. My boobs look more and more like dead flounders. Out at dance clubs til the wee hours of the morning, these Lovely Young Things then show up all bright and yes, perky, goddamn perky, at 8:30 breakfast while I, I of the are-those-boobs-or-are-they-dead-flounders, I struggle to stay up til 10.
Our student apartments here in Ireland adjoin a conference hotel that seems largely to cater to busloads of German retirees who, in between bouts of porch-sitting, shuffle around in sensible trousers and clunky shoes. Not a perky boob among them. I think I'll just hang out with the Germans in my free time. Sensible and clunky with lots of porch-sitting--sounds about right.
Our student apartments here in Ireland adjoin a conference hotel that seems largely to cater to busloads of German retirees who, in between bouts of porch-sitting, shuffle around in sensible trousers and clunky shoes. Not a perky boob among them. I think I'll just hang out with the Germans in my free time. Sensible and clunky with lots of porch-sitting--sounds about right.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Birthday
So, today's the day. This is it. I'm no longer facing 50; I've arrived, I'm there, I'm now in my 50s.
Whoa.
It's weird. I really do feel different. As if I'm jetlagged and in a foreign country.
Oh wait. I am jetlagged and in a foreign country.
Which does kind of help with the whole Big Birthday half-a-friggin'-century thing. For one thing, I'm in Ireland and who can be down in Ireland?--other than the Irish, of course. And far from family and friends, cut off from routine responsibilities, I don't feel 50; I just feel, well, jetlagged and in a foreign country.
Although actually, jetlag is fairly routine for me, because chronic insomnia and jetlag are pretty much indistinguishable. Except that jetlag usually means that somewhere along the line you've been somewhere you really wanted to be. Just like the sleep deprivation you get with having a baby is like what insomnia feels like, except at least you get the baby.
Now that I think about it, tho', insomnia does make even the most familiar place into a foreign country; it's just that it's one of those foreign countries you never ever want to visit--say, the Soviet Union, 1954. Stark, cold, grey concrete buildings, all unforgiving angles and relentless drab.
But I, I get to come face-to-face with 50 in Ireland, with its gentle curves and soothing greenness. My dominant impression of Ireland thus far is that of softness. Of course there's that legendary Irish landscape, sculpted and smoothed by centuries of deforesting and grazing and cultivating. But take the lilt of the Irish accent as well: Listening to the Irish speak is like the auditory equivalent of cuddling up on an overstuffed sofa with a fluffy comforter. Or take one of the most common sights in Ireland (at least if you're traveling with a pack of undergraduates)--that of a barman pouring Guinness into a pint glass--the liquid swirls and foams as smoothly as a silk shawl slipping over bare shoulders. Even traditional Irish music--I learned today, courtesy of my music prof colleague--has a softness, a lack of definition, as one tune follows another without break or breath.
It occurs to me that I've spent most of my first 50 years drawing and maintaining clean, sharp, straight lines. Perhaps I can spend the next 50 smudging, curving, blurring those lines. A bit of Irish softness seems in order.
I'll start with another pint of Guinness.
Whoa.
It's weird. I really do feel different. As if I'm jetlagged and in a foreign country.
Oh wait. I am jetlagged and in a foreign country.
Which does kind of help with the whole Big Birthday half-a-friggin'-century thing. For one thing, I'm in Ireland and who can be down in Ireland?--other than the Irish, of course. And far from family and friends, cut off from routine responsibilities, I don't feel 50; I just feel, well, jetlagged and in a foreign country.
Although actually, jetlag is fairly routine for me, because chronic insomnia and jetlag are pretty much indistinguishable. Except that jetlag usually means that somewhere along the line you've been somewhere you really wanted to be. Just like the sleep deprivation you get with having a baby is like what insomnia feels like, except at least you get the baby.
Now that I think about it, tho', insomnia does make even the most familiar place into a foreign country; it's just that it's one of those foreign countries you never ever want to visit--say, the Soviet Union, 1954. Stark, cold, grey concrete buildings, all unforgiving angles and relentless drab.
But I, I get to come face-to-face with 50 in Ireland, with its gentle curves and soothing greenness. My dominant impression of Ireland thus far is that of softness. Of course there's that legendary Irish landscape, sculpted and smoothed by centuries of deforesting and grazing and cultivating. But take the lilt of the Irish accent as well: Listening to the Irish speak is like the auditory equivalent of cuddling up on an overstuffed sofa with a fluffy comforter. Or take one of the most common sights in Ireland (at least if you're traveling with a pack of undergraduates)--that of a barman pouring Guinness into a pint glass--the liquid swirls and foams as smoothly as a silk shawl slipping over bare shoulders. Even traditional Irish music--I learned today, courtesy of my music prof colleague--has a softness, a lack of definition, as one tune follows another without break or breath.
It occurs to me that I've spent most of my first 50 years drawing and maintaining clean, sharp, straight lines. Perhaps I can spend the next 50 smudging, curving, blurring those lines. A bit of Irish softness seems in order.
I'll start with another pint of Guinness.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Out of Touch
This morning I flew into Galway, Ireland with 20+ undergraduates. So how did they spend their first afternoon in Ireland (and for most, their first afternoon in a foreign country)? Posting photos of their rooms on Facebook and skyping their families. Augh! Even one of my fellow faculty members reported, with a slightly wild look, how glad he was to have his internet connection restored after an unprecedented 26 hours with no way to contact family or friends. (Of course there were ways, as in public phones and the like, but such are not ways that anyone under 40 appears to recognize).
I am part of a dying breed. People who remember what it was like to be out of touch and on their own.
I am part of a dying breed. People who remember what it was like to be out of touch and on their own.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Pitiful
In three days, I leave blistering hot Baton Rouge for cold, wet Ireland. Unfortunately, I'll be doing so in the company of 20+ students. I've never spent four weeks, 7 days a week, several hours every day, in the company of undergraduates--not since being one myself, that is. So I'm a tad concerned. For one thing, there's no way I'll be able to maintain professorial dignity all day every day; I can barely do it for an hour at at time. And you know how it is when you travel with a group: you learn all kinds of things about people. Who's constantly late, who's hungry all the time, who can't stand not being in charge, who's the whiner, who has no sense of humor, who's a really bad dancer, etc etc etc. Do I really want students to know these sorts of things about me?
Nonetheless, I'm optimistic. I do like my students. They are not, on the whole, a very jaded lot. They don't tend to be hugely privileged--or widely traveled. Many, probably most, of the students on this trip will be taking their first steps outside the borders of the U.S. There will be several who have never before ventured outside the South, and it's quite likely we'll have one or two who hasn't traveled beyond Louisiana. Many, probably the vast majority, will never have ridden on a train or a city bus, let alone a subway. I figure it will be a bit like traveling with the little Bushman guy from The Gods Must Be Crazy--the one who's trying to get rid of the Coke bottle.
My students, of course, will be desperately seeking Coke, and they'll find it, and almost every other American product you can think of, almost anywhere they want it. That's a change. I remember my first time in Europe--when I was an undergraduate and yes, a city bus and subway virgin--and this incredible summer-long quest for Tab (oh, surely you remember Tab? Before Diet Coke or Diet Pepsi or Diet anything else, there was Tab) and failing that (and we did fail; there was no Tab in Europe in 1981), for ice in any drink. And later sojourns in England, and longing for peanut butter and Oreos and real chocolate chip cookies and sweet corn and Mexican food. . . . But it's all there now, in abundance, right there with the Starbucks and the McDonalds and the KFC. And the Americanisms, like "8:15" instead of "a quarter past 8" and "Santa Claus" instead of "Father Christmas."
Which is too bad. Oh, I know I sound like Woman-Way-Way-Way-Way-Past-50 instead of Woman-Facing-50, but isn't the point of travel to encounter something different?
Which brings me to email and Facebook and dear God, the cell phone with the intergalactic network. Here Endeth Real Travel. You cannot really, truly be Away From Home if you can log on at any time and any place and talk to friends and family. This is an incontrovertible fact. A given. Geez. A natural law. It's just not right. Such an essential part of my first amazing, life-changing summer in Europe was the fact that I could only communicate home by air mail. A week for my letter to arrive, a few days for the response to be written, a week for the reply to reach me--by which time whatever it was I cared about or obsessed over was done and dusted. I do feel sad that my students will have no idea of what it is to Be On Your Own--one of the most difficult and most wonderful things in the entire universe.
So often, my students look at me with such pity. When I can't figure out how to show the dvd clip. When I talk about VCRs. When I admit I haven't taken a photo since 2001 because I can't figure out how to upload, let alone print, the damn things. When they look at my hands, or feet, or face. . . But this time, here, I pity them.
Nonetheless, I'm optimistic. I do like my students. They are not, on the whole, a very jaded lot. They don't tend to be hugely privileged--or widely traveled. Many, probably most, of the students on this trip will be taking their first steps outside the borders of the U.S. There will be several who have never before ventured outside the South, and it's quite likely we'll have one or two who hasn't traveled beyond Louisiana. Many, probably the vast majority, will never have ridden on a train or a city bus, let alone a subway. I figure it will be a bit like traveling with the little Bushman guy from The Gods Must Be Crazy--the one who's trying to get rid of the Coke bottle.
My students, of course, will be desperately seeking Coke, and they'll find it, and almost every other American product you can think of, almost anywhere they want it. That's a change. I remember my first time in Europe--when I was an undergraduate and yes, a city bus and subway virgin--and this incredible summer-long quest for Tab (oh, surely you remember Tab? Before Diet Coke or Diet Pepsi or Diet anything else, there was Tab) and failing that (and we did fail; there was no Tab in Europe in 1981), for ice in any drink. And later sojourns in England, and longing for peanut butter and Oreos and real chocolate chip cookies and sweet corn and Mexican food. . . . But it's all there now, in abundance, right there with the Starbucks and the McDonalds and the KFC. And the Americanisms, like "8:15" instead of "a quarter past 8" and "Santa Claus" instead of "Father Christmas."
Which is too bad. Oh, I know I sound like Woman-Way-Way-Way-Way-Past-50 instead of Woman-Facing-50, but isn't the point of travel to encounter something different?
Which brings me to email and Facebook and dear God, the cell phone with the intergalactic network. Here Endeth Real Travel. You cannot really, truly be Away From Home if you can log on at any time and any place and talk to friends and family. This is an incontrovertible fact. A given. Geez. A natural law. It's just not right. Such an essential part of my first amazing, life-changing summer in Europe was the fact that I could only communicate home by air mail. A week for my letter to arrive, a few days for the response to be written, a week for the reply to reach me--by which time whatever it was I cared about or obsessed over was done and dusted. I do feel sad that my students will have no idea of what it is to Be On Your Own--one of the most difficult and most wonderful things in the entire universe.
So often, my students look at me with such pity. When I can't figure out how to show the dvd clip. When I talk about VCRs. When I admit I haven't taken a photo since 2001 because I can't figure out how to upload, let alone print, the damn things. When they look at my hands, or feet, or face. . . But this time, here, I pity them.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
The Ad Thing
A couple of friends convinced me I should allow ads on my blog. So, as you can see, I have done that. I don't know much about this sort of thing, but I pretty much assumed the ads would somehow link up to what I write about --you know, that they would advertize products and services for menopausal women and crazed parents. So why then, did an ad for patriot missile defenses pop up? I mean, do people actually buy these things?
And--even more alarming, really--what's it got to do with menopause?
And--even more alarming, really--what's it got to do with menopause?
Leaks
I'm leaking.
I'm not yet 50 and I'm leaking. This is ridiculous.
All I have to do is realize, "Oh, I need to pee," and I leak. Or sometimes I'm just standing there, and all of a sudden, there's a dribble. It's not yet peeing in my pants, but I have no doubt that will come.
And I think this disturbing new sign of physical decay and degradation speaks, metaphorically, to my ongoing intellectual decline. I'm leaking mentally as well. It's not a gusher yet, not even a steady drip--but everyday there's a dribble here, a sudden spurt there, and bit by bit I can feel my brain drying up, beginning to crack and flake.
On the bright side: maybe by the time I need adult diapers, I'll be too far gone mentally to know it. So that should be ok, then.
I'm not yet 50 and I'm leaking. This is ridiculous.
All I have to do is realize, "Oh, I need to pee," and I leak. Or sometimes I'm just standing there, and all of a sudden, there's a dribble. It's not yet peeing in my pants, but I have no doubt that will come.
And I think this disturbing new sign of physical decay and degradation speaks, metaphorically, to my ongoing intellectual decline. I'm leaking mentally as well. It's not a gusher yet, not even a steady drip--but everyday there's a dribble here, a sudden spurt there, and bit by bit I can feel my brain drying up, beginning to crack and flake.
On the bright side: maybe by the time I need adult diapers, I'll be too far gone mentally to know it. So that should be ok, then.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Dull
It's been a headachey week. I suppose that seems an odd thing for a person with "Chronic Daily Headache" (yes, that's the official name) to say; I mean, surely every week is a headachey week for a person with CDH (no, that's not a common abbreviation--I just made it up). True--but there are headachey weeks--weeks when I'm a person with daily headaches--and then there are headachey weeks--weeks when I'm a headache with an occasional outburst of personhood. This week was the latter.
I really hate being That Person Who Always Has a Headache. People get impatient. The first time you bow out of something, they're sympathetic. The second time too. But by the third, the fourth, well, then, you're just dull. I hate being dull.
But that's what chronic headaches do. They grind and grind and grind away, until all one's sharpness and shine is gone. Until one is just simply, utterly dull.
One of my mom's favorite sayings (she has a saying for most occasions) is, "Pain will make you either better or bitter." She never warned me that it can also make you really boring.
I really hate being That Person Who Always Has a Headache. People get impatient. The first time you bow out of something, they're sympathetic. The second time too. But by the third, the fourth, well, then, you're just dull. I hate being dull.
But that's what chronic headaches do. They grind and grind and grind away, until all one's sharpness and shine is gone. Until one is just simply, utterly dull.
One of my mom's favorite sayings (she has a saying for most occasions) is, "Pain will make you either better or bitter." She never warned me that it can also make you really boring.
Friday, June 11, 2010
The Odd Football
I'm not yet 50; I don't think I'm suffering from dementia. But if I'm not demented, then it must actually be true that 1) most Americans really are aware that the World Cup is happening, and 2) some Americans truly care about the results.
This is just plain weird.
Not necessarily bad, mind you. It's good that Americans show some awareness of what's going on in the rest of the world, I think, and actually, tho' I don't know much about it, soccer (aka everywhere else in the world "football") seems an interesting game: lots of action, genuine athleticism, and some truly lovely muscular calves. (Tho', sadly, as in basketball, the adoption of those baggy, knee-length shorts utterly ruins the butt viewing.)
But still, Americans and the World Cup, Americans and pro soccer--very weird.
I remember before we moved to Manchester (England) in 1999 being told that the first question we'd be asked was "Man U vs. Man City?" In other words, which football side do you support, Manchester United or Manchester City? Right, I thought. Like the Chicago Cubs vs. the White Sox. I get it.
Nope. I didn't. It's more like Cubs vs. Sox plus Catholic vs. Protestant plus East vs. West plus Man vs. Woman plus Serb vs. Croatian plus steak-lover vs. vegan. . . .
There simply is no way for an American to understand the passion that soccer--football--arouses in the rest of the world. Take the World Series and add the Super Bowl, the Final Four, the Stanley Cup, Wimbledon and the Master's, and then mix in, I dunno, every celebrity wedding over the past decade. That's the World Cup.
That's football. The real football.
We had no idea.
Before we moved to England. a very good English friend advised us to make sure we immersed Owen (then 8-years-old) in "football" culture. Of course lots of American kids play soccer, but Owen was never interested, and Keith and I, having watched little kids' sports teams wreak havoc on friends' families, were happy not to encourage it.
So we laughed and ignored the advice. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Poor Owen. An 8-year-old boy in Manchester, England who knows nothing about soccer becomes immediately the object of intense curiosity, incomprehension, and outright contempt.
We did try--once we got to England and came to our senses, we did try. Brave little Owen tried. He signed up right away for a neighborhood football team. Before the first practice, I introduced myself to the two dad-coaches, and tried to explain that Owen knew nothing about this game. Oh, right, right, they smiled and assured me, "he'll luv it, luv." Until at some point in the next hour, the ball came within reach of Owen's confused foot, and he kicked it. Toward the opponent's goal. Afterwards, the two coaches came running up to me. One was simply speechless. The other gasped out, "He, he doesn't know the rules! He doesn't even know the rules!" Right, said I, I told you that. He's never seen or played football. And the two of them, really nice blokes, actually, just stared at me. What I was saying had no meaning; it simply did not compute. How could an 8-year-old boy NOT KNOW FOOTBALL?
He learned. We all learned. But still, when the boys' school decreed that all the children were to be delivered to the classroom at 7 am rather than the usual 9 am, so as not to disturb the teachers' viewing of the World Cup match (broadcast from Japan), we were the only parents who thought it slightly, you know, odd.
Sort of like the rest of the world views us, Americans, the U.S. You know, odd.
This is just plain weird.
Not necessarily bad, mind you. It's good that Americans show some awareness of what's going on in the rest of the world, I think, and actually, tho' I don't know much about it, soccer (aka everywhere else in the world "football") seems an interesting game: lots of action, genuine athleticism, and some truly lovely muscular calves. (Tho', sadly, as in basketball, the adoption of those baggy, knee-length shorts utterly ruins the butt viewing.)
But still, Americans and the World Cup, Americans and pro soccer--very weird.
I remember before we moved to Manchester (England) in 1999 being told that the first question we'd be asked was "Man U vs. Man City?" In other words, which football side do you support, Manchester United or Manchester City? Right, I thought. Like the Chicago Cubs vs. the White Sox. I get it.
Nope. I didn't. It's more like Cubs vs. Sox plus Catholic vs. Protestant plus East vs. West plus Man vs. Woman plus Serb vs. Croatian plus steak-lover vs. vegan. . . .
There simply is no way for an American to understand the passion that soccer--football--arouses in the rest of the world. Take the World Series and add the Super Bowl, the Final Four, the Stanley Cup, Wimbledon and the Master's, and then mix in, I dunno, every celebrity wedding over the past decade. That's the World Cup.
That's football. The real football.
We had no idea.
Before we moved to England. a very good English friend advised us to make sure we immersed Owen (then 8-years-old) in "football" culture. Of course lots of American kids play soccer, but Owen was never interested, and Keith and I, having watched little kids' sports teams wreak havoc on friends' families, were happy not to encourage it.
So we laughed and ignored the advice. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Poor Owen. An 8-year-old boy in Manchester, England who knows nothing about soccer becomes immediately the object of intense curiosity, incomprehension, and outright contempt.
We did try--once we got to England and came to our senses, we did try. Brave little Owen tried. He signed up right away for a neighborhood football team. Before the first practice, I introduced myself to the two dad-coaches, and tried to explain that Owen knew nothing about this game. Oh, right, right, they smiled and assured me, "he'll luv it, luv." Until at some point in the next hour, the ball came within reach of Owen's confused foot, and he kicked it. Toward the opponent's goal. Afterwards, the two coaches came running up to me. One was simply speechless. The other gasped out, "He, he doesn't know the rules! He doesn't even know the rules!" Right, said I, I told you that. He's never seen or played football. And the two of them, really nice blokes, actually, just stared at me. What I was saying had no meaning; it simply did not compute. How could an 8-year-old boy NOT KNOW FOOTBALL?
He learned. We all learned. But still, when the boys' school decreed that all the children were to be delivered to the classroom at 7 am rather than the usual 9 am, so as not to disturb the teachers' viewing of the World Cup match (broadcast from Japan), we were the only parents who thought it slightly, you know, odd.
Sort of like the rest of the world views us, Americans, the U.S. You know, odd.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
I changed my mind
Despite a raging headache, a Hurricane Katrina of a headache, I dragged myself to the office yesterday. Had a full plate. Much to do. Deadlines. Important stuff. Oh, not really. Actually, totally stupid, waste-of-time-but-you-have-to-do-it-anyway stuff. But lots of it.
Two hours in the office, and I realize if I don't go put my head on ice, the consequences will be severe. At least for me.
So, back to my car I schlep, which means walking past the LSU Indian Mounds. Yep, real Indians. Real mounds. At least 5,000 years old, these grass-covered mounds spring up like gigantic scoops of ice cream in the middle of the campus. Here in the flatlands of south Louisiana, these mounds serve as a magnet for kids; running up them and rolling on down is a key part of any Baton Rouge childhood. Not surprisingly, then, even with the 100-degree temperatures yesterday, kids dotted the mounds.
As I walked by, a little girl about 4-years-old came careening down and yelling,
"I changed my mind! I changed my mind! I want to be a PRINCESS!!"
Yeah. What she said.
Two hours in the office, and I realize if I don't go put my head on ice, the consequences will be severe. At least for me.
So, back to my car I schlep, which means walking past the LSU Indian Mounds. Yep, real Indians. Real mounds. At least 5,000 years old, these grass-covered mounds spring up like gigantic scoops of ice cream in the middle of the campus. Here in the flatlands of south Louisiana, these mounds serve as a magnet for kids; running up them and rolling on down is a key part of any Baton Rouge childhood. Not surprisingly, then, even with the 100-degree temperatures yesterday, kids dotted the mounds.
As I walked by, a little girl about 4-years-old came careening down and yelling,
"I changed my mind! I changed my mind! I want to be a PRINCESS!!"
Yeah. What she said.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Just don't pay attention
I guess for many women, facing 50 means empty nests or even grandchildren. Not me yet. Still got a teenager in the house, and tomorrow, that teenager starts driver's ed. What a bizarre experience--all of these years protecting a child and suddenly it's as if you douse him with lighter fluid and then toss him onto a bonfire while saying, "Just be careful, honey." I asked my mother how she ever survived seven children learning how to drive. She just laughed, and said, "Oh, I don't know. I guess I really didn't pay that much attention." So there it, the Great Parenting Secret: Just don't pay attention.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Old Lady Feet
I crossed a new threshold this week. Literally and metaphorically.
The literal threshold was very pleasant. I walked into the New Balance store, where I'd never shopped before, and I must say I've never had such a patient, helpful, and knowledgeable shoe clerk. [Disclaimer: Neither I nor any of my family members are employed by New Balance. Tho' given the oil spill , the gutting of the Louisiana fishing, shrimping, oyster cultivating, and tourist industries, and the resulting sharp decline in state revenues, I soon may be exploring a new career in shoe retail.]
The crossing of the metaphoric threshold was decidedly less enjoyable. I've entered the world of Old Lady Feet. The onset of bone spurs and arthritis in my left foot* means none of my shoes--not the fab boots I splurged on this winter, not my stand-by sexy sandals, not even my funky Clarke clogs or cutey pink striped slip-on Keds--are comfortable. So now, thanks to New Balance, I have three pairs of very sturdy shoes that will keep my feet at the proper angle and reduce the physical discomfort. Or at least that's what's supposed to happen. I'll tell you what's guaranteed to happen: a massive increase in social discomfort. These are some amazingly ugly shoes. Hugh is mortified--I doubt he'll ever let himself be seen with me again--and even Keith could only bring himself to say, "Well, they're not that bad." And then, to pile corns on top of calluses, as it were, keeping Old Lady Feet comfy turns out to be an expensive business. This trio of what Hugh calls "Grandma shoes" cost $500. Eek! I've never spent that kind of money on shoes.
So, I guess I should dwell on the positive. I've now crossed the threshold into the world of Expensive Shoe Consumption--the world, in fact, of Sex and the City. Voila! I'm Carrie Bradshaw sauntering along in ridiculously pricey shoes. OK. OK. Clunking. Clunking along in ridiculously pricey shoes. But at least I'm still clunking.
*See "I Have Seen the Future" (April); "Life after 50" (May)
The literal threshold was very pleasant. I walked into the New Balance store, where I'd never shopped before, and I must say I've never had such a patient, helpful, and knowledgeable shoe clerk. [Disclaimer: Neither I nor any of my family members are employed by New Balance. Tho' given the oil spill , the gutting of the Louisiana fishing, shrimping, oyster cultivating, and tourist industries, and the resulting sharp decline in state revenues, I soon may be exploring a new career in shoe retail.]
The crossing of the metaphoric threshold was decidedly less enjoyable. I've entered the world of Old Lady Feet. The onset of bone spurs and arthritis in my left foot* means none of my shoes--not the fab boots I splurged on this winter, not my stand-by sexy sandals, not even my funky Clarke clogs or cutey pink striped slip-on Keds--are comfortable. So now, thanks to New Balance, I have three pairs of very sturdy shoes that will keep my feet at the proper angle and reduce the physical discomfort. Or at least that's what's supposed to happen. I'll tell you what's guaranteed to happen: a massive increase in social discomfort. These are some amazingly ugly shoes. Hugh is mortified--I doubt he'll ever let himself be seen with me again--and even Keith could only bring himself to say, "Well, they're not that bad." And then, to pile corns on top of calluses, as it were, keeping Old Lady Feet comfy turns out to be an expensive business. This trio of what Hugh calls "Grandma shoes" cost $500. Eek! I've never spent that kind of money on shoes.
So, I guess I should dwell on the positive. I've now crossed the threshold into the world of Expensive Shoe Consumption--the world, in fact, of Sex and the City. Voila! I'm Carrie Bradshaw sauntering along in ridiculously pricey shoes. OK. OK. Clunking. Clunking along in ridiculously pricey shoes. But at least I'm still clunking.
*See "I Have Seen the Future" (April); "Life after 50" (May)
Friday, June 4, 2010
Jaunty
Keith and I spent the weekend in New Orleans with my good friend Karen and her husband. Karen and I go way back, back to Chicago and grad school, back to the Time Before Tenure, the era before House-and-Spouse. We've each moved the other; we've celebrated each other's victories and mourned each other's failures, and now we're both facing 50. (Actually, she hit 50 last month; I still have a few weeks left of my 40s. Just to, you know, be precise.)
Karen is facing her 50s with, well, glee. She's jumped into the research for a new book and thoroughly ensconced in academic life; she's thrilled with her husband and house and dogs; she has a couple of stepkids who are "done and dusted"--out and about and living fine adult lives; she's where she wants to be and doing what she wants to do. She's downright jaunty.
Jaunty. I don't think I've ever been jaunty. I'd like to be jaunty. But jauntiness seems to require energy and ambition, and I have neither. I blame menopause. Menopause is great. It's like teething with babies. "He's so fussy--he must be teething." "He feels hot--I think he's teething." "He's so clingy lately--I bet he's teething." "He's all congested--gotta be teething." Doesn't matter what it is, really, you just blame teething. Menopause works the same, but for middle-aged women rather than babies, obviously.
Except the thing is, I'm not sure I ever actually had energy and ambition. I used to think I was an energetic and ambitious up-and-comer but honestly, I think I was simply petrified. Scared shitless. Utterly, absolutely, existentially terrified. All that supposed energy and ambition, all the emphasis on achievement was, simply a way of shoring up the barricades, of constructing a fortress behind which I could shelter from the demons of depression and debilitating anxiety. By racking up points, coming out on top, winning the prizes, I kept the monsters at bay.
And then I had kids. And they didn't conform to schedules or slip neatly into file folders or abide by deadlines. My achievements dwindled.
And now I'm supposed to say--jauntily--that I learned of course that other things--motherhood and family, for example--were far more important and that I discovered that I was fine without the prizes, that I had no need of such defences because the demons never existed and the monsters were really cuddly toys.
Bullshit (she says politely).
With the barricades down, in hurtled the monsters. Depression rampaged through my life--slicing, slashing, gouging, biting-- and left me, my kids, my husband bleeding and scarred.
But the point is, as any fan of Doctor Who knows, monsters must be faced. You can't just cower behind the defenses you've erected and wait for the gnashing gashing hordes to go away. Because they don't. They just hunker down out there and eat a whole bunch and exercise a lot and get really strong. So you've got to go on the offensive; you have to fight. And here's where Doctor Who actually lets me down (hard to believe, but true). The Doctor makes the fight seem exciting, damn, even sexy. And it's not at least not when the monsters are depression and anxiety rather than space aliens. It's a fight that's boring and exhausting and goddamned fucking disillusioning and discouraging and just plain difficult. Much more like an episode from The Pacific.
So. Umm. I am not jaunty as I face 50. But I am, actually, hopeful. I mean, if you're hunkered down with the enemy all around you and yet you refuse to admit there's a fight going on, you haven't much chance of winning, do you? Oh, I know I'll probably lose all the same. Still, it's not so bad to go down fighting, is it? (she says, just a wee bit jauntily).
Karen is facing her 50s with, well, glee. She's jumped into the research for a new book and thoroughly ensconced in academic life; she's thrilled with her husband and house and dogs; she has a couple of stepkids who are "done and dusted"--out and about and living fine adult lives; she's where she wants to be and doing what she wants to do. She's downright jaunty.
Jaunty. I don't think I've ever been jaunty. I'd like to be jaunty. But jauntiness seems to require energy and ambition, and I have neither. I blame menopause. Menopause is great. It's like teething with babies. "He's so fussy--he must be teething." "He feels hot--I think he's teething." "He's so clingy lately--I bet he's teething." "He's all congested--gotta be teething." Doesn't matter what it is, really, you just blame teething. Menopause works the same, but for middle-aged women rather than babies, obviously.
Except the thing is, I'm not sure I ever actually had energy and ambition. I used to think I was an energetic and ambitious up-and-comer but honestly, I think I was simply petrified. Scared shitless. Utterly, absolutely, existentially terrified. All that supposed energy and ambition, all the emphasis on achievement was, simply a way of shoring up the barricades, of constructing a fortress behind which I could shelter from the demons of depression and debilitating anxiety. By racking up points, coming out on top, winning the prizes, I kept the monsters at bay.
And then I had kids. And they didn't conform to schedules or slip neatly into file folders or abide by deadlines. My achievements dwindled.
And now I'm supposed to say--jauntily--that I learned of course that other things--motherhood and family, for example--were far more important and that I discovered that I was fine without the prizes, that I had no need of such defences because the demons never existed and the monsters were really cuddly toys.
Bullshit (she says politely).
With the barricades down, in hurtled the monsters. Depression rampaged through my life--slicing, slashing, gouging, biting-- and left me, my kids, my husband bleeding and scarred.
But the point is, as any fan of Doctor Who knows, monsters must be faced. You can't just cower behind the defenses you've erected and wait for the gnashing gashing hordes to go away. Because they don't. They just hunker down out there and eat a whole bunch and exercise a lot and get really strong. So you've got to go on the offensive; you have to fight. And here's where Doctor Who actually lets me down (hard to believe, but true). The Doctor makes the fight seem exciting, damn, even sexy. And it's not at least not when the monsters are depression and anxiety rather than space aliens. It's a fight that's boring and exhausting and goddamned fucking disillusioning and discouraging and just plain difficult. Much more like an episode from The Pacific.
So. Umm. I am not jaunty as I face 50. But I am, actually, hopeful. I mean, if you're hunkered down with the enemy all around you and yet you refuse to admit there's a fight going on, you haven't much chance of winning, do you? Oh, I know I'll probably lose all the same. Still, it's not so bad to go down fighting, is it? (she says, just a wee bit jauntily).
Thursday, June 3, 2010
So rested she by the Tumtum tree
Growing up in a conservative Christian family, attending a private religious school, enmeshed within an immigrant community with a strong religious identity, I memorized countless pages of incomparable prose--Psalms and Gospel narratives, Proverbs and vast portions of the Heidelberg Catechism, various creeds and oh-so-many hymns and carols.
So, why is it, then, that the one thing, the one single thing, that I can still recite effortlessly, perfectly, fully, without having to stop, without thinking, is "The Jabberwocky"?
I dunno, but I suspect I'd be a better person if, in moments of crisis or stress, I could recall the Beatitudes or the 23rd Psalm or a Wesley hymn. But no, I conjure up, "Beware the Jabberwock, my son, the jaws that bite, the claws that catch!"
Which might not seem so odd, really. Fitting for periods of danger. But, the sad fact is, "The Jabberwocky" comes up at the most awkward times. Sex, for example. It's painful to admit, but in moments of extreme intimacy, here's what sometimes comes into my head: "One, two! One, two! And through and through/The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!" Yes, it's very strange. I do worry.
At other times, the poem's echoes have seemed rather more appropriate. During the Margaret Thatcher/Nancy Reagan era, for example, "Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun the frumious Bandersnatch" came to mind as a literal warning. And when the boys were little and had done something amazing, I would cheer, "Come to my arms, my beamish boy! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!" These days, I'll look at a dazed undergrad and, I just can't help it, I think of: "And as in uffish thought he stood."
Twas brillig today. The slithy toves gyred and gimbled in the wabe. The borogroves were all mimsy. And the momes raths, the momes rath did totally outgrabe.
So, why is it, then, that the one thing, the one single thing, that I can still recite effortlessly, perfectly, fully, without having to stop, without thinking, is "The Jabberwocky"?
I dunno, but I suspect I'd be a better person if, in moments of crisis or stress, I could recall the Beatitudes or the 23rd Psalm or a Wesley hymn. But no, I conjure up, "Beware the Jabberwock, my son, the jaws that bite, the claws that catch!"
Which might not seem so odd, really. Fitting for periods of danger. But, the sad fact is, "The Jabberwocky" comes up at the most awkward times. Sex, for example. It's painful to admit, but in moments of extreme intimacy, here's what sometimes comes into my head: "One, two! One, two! And through and through/The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!" Yes, it's very strange. I do worry.
At other times, the poem's echoes have seemed rather more appropriate. During the Margaret Thatcher/Nancy Reagan era, for example, "Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun the frumious Bandersnatch" came to mind as a literal warning. And when the boys were little and had done something amazing, I would cheer, "Come to my arms, my beamish boy! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!" These days, I'll look at a dazed undergrad and, I just can't help it, I think of: "And as in uffish thought he stood."
Twas brillig today. The slithy toves gyred and gimbled in the wabe. The borogroves were all mimsy. And the momes raths, the momes rath did totally outgrabe.
But that's dangerous!
I'm a pretty cautious person, rule-oriented, inclined to consider worst-case scenarios. A timid, tepid sort of soul, really. Yet in the eyes of my mother-in-law, I'm an adventurer.
The oldest child in a poor but upwardly aspiring Southern rural family, Marilyn married young. Her husband, Keith's father, was a schoolteacher, so there never was much money, yet Marilyn never worked outside the home. Scrimping is thus bred into her bones; it structures her approach not just to money matters but to life. Holding back, being careful, regarding the world as hostile and unpredictable--these are attitudes that have served Marilyn well. "But that's dangerous!" is her mantra. (You have to imagine this voiced plaintively in the country accent of central Louisiana to get the full effect.)
Compared to Marilyn, I'm a wanton, and Keith and I live lives of great recklessness. We're buccaneers, willing to place even our children in peril. We let them them lick the batter from the bowl (raw eggs!), bicycle around the neighborhood (cars!), fly across the Atlantic alone at age 8 (hijackings!), and, in then-15-year-old Owen's case, spend six months in South Africa (too many dangers to put between parentheses!).
I love it. When I'm with Marilyn, when I see myself through Marilyn's eyes, I'm transfigured. I'm no longer a menopausal mom with a stagnant academic career and a cat litter box in need of cleaning and a lawn in need of mowing. Instead, I'm Marion careening through Egypt on a jeep with Indiana Jones. I'm Rose saving the Doctor. I'm Princess Leia leading the rebellion. I'm Katherine Hepburn braving the snakes and leeches with Humphrey Bogart on the African Queen.
Actually, I hate leeches. I rarely exceed the speed limit. I've never shot a gun. I read warning labels. In times of crisis, I sit down and cry.
Maybe I should ask my mother-in-law to visit more often.
The oldest child in a poor but upwardly aspiring Southern rural family, Marilyn married young. Her husband, Keith's father, was a schoolteacher, so there never was much money, yet Marilyn never worked outside the home. Scrimping is thus bred into her bones; it structures her approach not just to money matters but to life. Holding back, being careful, regarding the world as hostile and unpredictable--these are attitudes that have served Marilyn well. "But that's dangerous!" is her mantra. (You have to imagine this voiced plaintively in the country accent of central Louisiana to get the full effect.)
Compared to Marilyn, I'm a wanton, and Keith and I live lives of great recklessness. We're buccaneers, willing to place even our children in peril. We let them them lick the batter from the bowl (raw eggs!), bicycle around the neighborhood (cars!), fly across the Atlantic alone at age 8 (hijackings!), and, in then-15-year-old Owen's case, spend six months in South Africa (too many dangers to put between parentheses!).
I love it. When I'm with Marilyn, when I see myself through Marilyn's eyes, I'm transfigured. I'm no longer a menopausal mom with a stagnant academic career and a cat litter box in need of cleaning and a lawn in need of mowing. Instead, I'm Marion careening through Egypt on a jeep with Indiana Jones. I'm Rose saving the Doctor. I'm Princess Leia leading the rebellion. I'm Katherine Hepburn braving the snakes and leeches with Humphrey Bogart on the African Queen.
Actually, I hate leeches. I rarely exceed the speed limit. I've never shot a gun. I read warning labels. In times of crisis, I sit down and cry.
Maybe I should ask my mother-in-law to visit more often.
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