Here's to the Class of 1968!

Back in the summer of 2013, my phone rang. It was high school classmate asking about our 45^th reunion. Although we had never been friends or hung out, I remembered her. At the end of our conversation (which I recall was quite long and filled with laughter), I asked if they needed any help. A few days later, I got a list of people to call, and over the next two weeks, attempted to track down and capture these classmates…only one of whom I knew (we had a class of 500+.) It was one of the best moves of my life.

That September, we all gathered in a hotel ballroom and got reacquainted with some and acquainted with others. A bond was formed that defies description. These great, wonderful goofy, men and women have become part of some of my most cherished memories the past three years.

Three of us bodacious ladies, live in a triangle, five minutes from each other and have for nearly 20 years without knowing. We decided to meet for lunch each month. Those monthly lunches have grown and moved locations, but all for the good. High school definitions of ‘friendship’ were immediately erased, and as we add to the group, we have more fun. The angels, devils, brains, popular, unpopular, and the unnoticed, have all melded into highly entertaining, bodacious, fun as all get-out 66 year olds. Some have great grandchildren, some never had children, but we all keep in sometimes daily touch, and love on each other’s offspring and furbabies.

We band together like no one’s business when one of us or ours, needs prayers. We are a fierce group of prayer warriors. Fierce. We have hula hooped outside of an Olive Garden. We have cried over the death of a parent, a friend, and furbabies. We have supported each other through thick and thin, taken countless photos, and exchanged enormous amounts phone calls, texts, FB messages and tons of hugs and kisses.

In September 2015, some of these women and their husbands, joined some of our male class members and their wives on our first annual Fun Run – we met from all different points in Branson Missouri, some on motorcycles, some in family vehicles, and had a completely wonderful weekend. Dinner on Thursday while watching a Chiefs and the Royals in a sports bar and grille was followed by caravanning to Eureka Springs, Arkansas on Friday. Saturday was spent touring Rock Lane Lodge and the golf course and just noodling around the sights outside of Branson, after which a classmate who lives there, hosted us for a wind-down evening of coffee and pie from their beautiful deck and patio. After a wonderful breakfast Sunday morning, we all headed back to our respective homes, phones and camera full of photos, and lots of memories to share. We are hooked. We’re doing it again this year.

The fellowship of this wonderful group of people is incredible, and when the large group of us join hands for prayer before our meals, you can feel the love and respect and thankfulness flow thru your fingers. We might have been nerds, outlaws, or whatever back in the 60s, but today, we are people who have lived great lives and are truly thankful for all we have earned and been given.

I am so thankful for answering that call three years ago. So very, very thankful. I love you guys and gals.

The post in which I undoubtedly piss some people off and lose a few friends

What I am royally pissed off about today is people’s “political” beliefs that because a person is transgender, gay, or lesbian, it automatically means they are a pedophile. I don’t know what type of Kool-Aid they are drinking but I wouldn’t serve it to the owner of the dog somewhere south of my house who barks all day, every day, non-stop, and sometimes into the night.

In my life, I have known and counted as my friends, non-heterosexual, non-birth-gender-dressing people. I have found them to be funny, smart, normal people in every way. None of them ever expressed a sexual interest in children or me, regardless of what the fear-mongering websites throw out as ‘statistics.” On the other hand, I have known supposedly normal hetero-sexual people who made lewd and suggestive comments about wives, girlfriends, husbands, wives, or children of the same or different gender. If your state has such a website, just look at the list of sexual predators on your area. I would daresay that the majority are married men and women, or if not married, consider themselves non-transgender, and non-homosexual. That being the case, and using the unfounded and untrue reasoning that transgender, gays, and lesbians are pedophiles strictly because of their orientation, it therefore stands to reason that any person with any sexual orientation whatsoever must be a pedophile. Lock us all up and list us all as sexual predators. Ridiculous, you say? How is it any more rididulous to say that, than to say he’s gay so he must get off on little boys, she’s lesbian and prefers little girls, or that person is transgender and preys on adults and children who dress like them?

Yes, I have been in the woman’s restroom while the person in the next stall, wearing expensive heels, peed standing up and facing the toilet. More than once. When finished, that person washed his/her hands, carefully reapplied lipstick and checked the hairdo. I might have been surprised, but not once was I harassed or made to feel uncomfortable by that person….any uncomfortable feeling came from my own fears and prejudices, and to be honest, I am far, far more concerned with people using the restroom and then exiting without washing their hands. Yes, there are going to be predators who take advantage of the situation, but guess what….they’ve been doing it for years and years.

The family restroom has been a growing trend for a few years now, and how I wish they had them when I was raising my son. I never got a second look when taking my three year old into the ladies room, but boy, the looks women gave men taking their three year old daughters into the men’s room, although because of the openness of urinals, I can somewhat understand that. Still, what is an opposite sex parent to do when a family restroom is not available? As a rule, public restrooms are busy places and more often than not, you wait in line to get a vacated stall. Can’t see much assault and perversion happening among that many people.

Overall, I don’t get it, I don’t understand it, and I am tired of people quoting Bible phrases to me in their defense. I happen to know enough Bible (and read it daily as guidance for my own life) to realize that you can justify anything with a Bible verse. If you want me to go there, according to the Bible, when my husband’s brother passed two years ago, my husband was honor and duty bound to take Bob’s wife as his own, so don’t try quoting chapter and verse to me, because I can come back with chapter and verse to refute you. For once, why don’t we try accepting people as people? Not as white, black, red, or yellow; not as skinny or fat; not as believing in God, Buddah, or no higher power; not as men or women; not as rich or poor, but instead, as people who underneath our skin have the same skeletal makeup. There will always be aberrations, and let’s strive to treat them as such, and not lump an entire class of people together. That’s what’s not fair.

Friends

We all have acquaintances we have amassed during our walk through life. People we nod to and engage in a brief conversation when thrown together at the same place at the same time. We tolerate some, genuinely like others, and a few, if we are lucky, become part of a deeply bonded friendship. The older I get, the more I value those wonderful people I call friends.

My first one came in kindergarten. God help me, but I cannot remember her name, even while staring at a photograph my mother took, but I do remember the bond we shared: finger painting was cool, jacks were hard, Miss Muncil, our teacher was like the best grandma, and Charles P. was a pest. She taught me that common interests were fun.

In 4^th grade, I remember a girl named Helen who was badly scarred from severe burns. She cried when I held hands with her because no one else wanted to touch her. She taught me that a kind word or deed can do so much to help heal a heart. I only remember her in 5^th grade…I don’t recall her before or after and assume she moved. I often wondered if kids got kinder or more cruel as she got older. Did she find a wonderful man who could see past her outer shell and have compassionate children who grew up knowing that different is not to be shunned? Do others value her now, the same way I did in 1960 or 1961? I hope and pray she has had a fabulous life.

From 4^th though 6^th grades, I had a friend named Norine who was the only Jewish child in a sea of Catholics, Episcopalians, Baptists, Presbyterians, and Methodists. For her 11^th or 12^th birthday, her mom invited me to come to dinner or lunch for Norine’s birthday (I was the only guest) and served her best Kosher spaghetti. From Norine, I learned that people of other “unusual” religions were no different from me, even if their customs were the opposite of mine. Writing this prompted me to try and find her, and I think I found her on Facebook and shot her a message. Grinning like crazy here. I have been lucky enough to re-connect with three other elementary school friends and have a photo of the three of us taken almost 3 years ago. We laughed and talked and looked at old photos that night. What a fun time it was.

Junior high school (grades, 7 thru 9) brought more friends, and also teenage trauma, as my family switched school districts halfway through the first year, and I was ‘forced’ to leave my friends behind. Fortunately, I made new ones, and still have a few of them. We moved again halfway thru my sophomore year of high school, and the find new friends cycle started anew. Not surprisingly, there were a few kids from my old elementary and junior high schools, and although some of us had not been close friends before, just seeing a familiar face made that teenage angst of being possibly not liked a little easier. Most of us kept up with each other right after graduation, but as the world turns so do our lives, and we mostly lost track of each other as we moved for college, work, married, had children, and our lives started revolving around our own little nuclear families. Neighbors, parents of our childrens’ friends, co-workers, and friends of our partners became our new friends, and because of the lessons we learned from our childhood friends, our circles became even wider.

Then at some point in life you receive that dreaded high school reunion invitation in the mail, and those danged teenage insecurities rear their ugly heads. My insecurities came with my 45^th reunion invitation a few years ago. Initially, I was excited and almost giddy. Newly retired, I jumped in and volunteered to help track down and make calls to classmates who had not responded. I was part of the crowd that melded unnoticed into the background…making those calls to kids who were way cooler than me, albeit 45 years ago, required an enormous amount of courage. Some of them didn’t remember me at all, but a surprising number did, and wanted to talk, even though we had exchanged all of a dozen words in three years of school. I started to form new old friendships. The reunion weekend arrived, and although I approached it with much trepidation (after all, I was a lot older and heavier than then), but quickly found my fears unfounded. My Facebook friends expanded, and I am so enormously elated to say that my true friends also multiplied.

We are now a couple years away from a 50^th reunion, but a number of us haven’t waited for it to get together again. We gals try to have lunch monthly, weather and proximity permitting. Last year a group of us got together for a motorcycle, classic car, and general “fun run” long weekend. Another is planned for this year, and as long as we are able, plan on making it an annual event. I adore these people. They bring me delight every day, and as we age, lose parents, spouses, siblings, become grand and great-grandparents, face illnesses, trials, and tribulations, we seem to be growing closer and more dear to each other.

So, my advice to you is take a chance and look up some friends from childhood. In this age of the Internet, it isn’t all that hard, and I can vouch for the richness of the reward when you connect anew and make an old acquaintance a new friend and make an old friendship even deeper. As we sang in Brownies, “Make new friends, but keep the old. One is silver and the other, gold.” Here's to hearing from Norine.

The one where I attempt to conquer sheer terror

On March 31, I did it. To be factual, I didn’t actually do it, but committed to it. Come to think of it, I didn’t even commit…..I just let them pick a date for it to be done seven weeks a three days from then. How I went from seeing the orthopedist about pain management for my knee and ending up with a surgery date for total knee replacement, I have no idea. I do know that Tracy, the physicians assistant, ended up just handing me the box of tissues because I couldn’t control my emotions. By the time she brought in the surgeon, I was starting the wailing all over again.

In the last 25-1/2 years, I have had a c-section, gall bladder removed, repair of a strangulated hernia, a complete hysterectomy, and cataracts removed from both eyes with iol’s implanted. I am no stranger to surgery, hospitals, and recovery. The cataract surgery scared me because I did not understand how I would not see scalpels and stuff doing evil things to my eye. Reassurance from everyone who had undergone the procedure didn’t help, consequently, it took a lot of Versed for the first eye, and one dose for the second (since I was an old pro and all.) This time, however, I am terrified.

Once again, I know at least a dozen people who have had successful TKRs, and they have all assured me that it is well worth it. I have no doubt of that, but after literally spending many completely sleepless nights with my son after his three knee surgeries, seeing the level of pain he went thru for ACL, meniscus, and kneecap repair, I am practically frozen with fear about having parts of my bones cut, shaved, and replaced with mechanicals that will have to probably be screwed into surviving bone.

I am a big baby when it comes to pain. I hate it and cannot bear even a paper cut. That said, the amount of knee pain osteoarthritis has produced sent me for my first cortosteroid shot in September 2014 and every 3-4 months after that. Last year, they basically quit working, and not only was the mere act of walking crippling to my knee, but because of how I limped, became crippling to my lower back as well. I can now no longer make a sandwich without sitting down halfway thru, and the 15 stair steps from the bedroom level to the living level are some days completely impossible. At night the pain is so intense I’d play solitaire on the computer from 11 until 5-6am, then grab some sleep until 10 out of sheer exhaustion. Facing extreme pain on a daily basis, finally let me say yes to the surgery to give me a bionic knee, despite the terror it invokes in my heart and mind.

They tell me that because of the steep stairs at home, I will probably spend a couple of weeks in a rehab facility, until (a) they feel I can come down all 15 without going ass over teakettle, or (b) Medicare/Blue Cross reaches their limit. After all the rehab places my dad went to, I am NOT looking forward to that scenario no matter how pretty they are. Like Eric, when the pain got the best of him, I want immediate relief. I do not want strangers to hand me the pill I asked for two hours ago then walk off to their computer game. A friend of my son is a therapist and told Eric that I need to get placed where he works. I need to talk with Curtis myself and learn from him what to expect/look for in case they are not on my doctor’s list.

One thing I know that I don’t want is visitors and that includes family. I remember being in a drugged haze after other surgeries, and feeling like I had to entertain the people who were there, when all I wanted to do was to be left alone to sleep, watch tv, or read. A patient has precious little time to themselves while hospitalized and for me, visitors are worse than being awakened every three or four hours for vitals. It’s probably why I tend to stay away from hospital visits when friends or family are patients. So, when late May and early June get here, before you ask what you can do or bring me, my answer is peace and quiet. It’s not that I don’t like/love you….it’s because I don’t want to feel like I am a sideshow attraction in the circus, there for people to watch and for me to entertain them with witty conversation when all I want to do is scream with pain or frustration.

I am ready for this (kinda.) I have a new knee length robe, hospital appropriate pajamas, and sneakers for twice a days while I am in the hospital. I have already determined what comfortable clothes to take to rehab. I have a stockpile of books on the Kindle, and my Amazon Fire to keep in touch with everyone. I have even given Tom’s number to the kid who mows our lawn so he can remind Tom to leave him payment. I am not taking my phone. Email will work just fine, because I can answer it when I feel like it. Between the hard work that I know therapy will be, and making sure Tom and Eric fend off visitors, I am going to treat this like a spa vacation, then come August when I hopefully am driving again (my right knee is the ornery critter in question), I am scheduling myself for a real one.

Restaurant Food Has Now Gone Plaid

Who decided we need a half pound burger? Seriously? Add in an oversized (and I mean extra thick) “artisanal" bun, be it pretzel, brioche, challah, ciabatta, a half inch to three quarters inch or more of condiments (extra thick home style pickles, tomato, onion rings/straws, peppers, and whatever the heck else, the single burger is now a 4” tall knife and fork meal.

Mind you, I don’t eat out any more but read menus like 13 year old boys read their dad’s porn magazines, and I am now seeing 10 and 12 ounce burgers becoming the norm. Give me a GenDare from Fritz’s (a local burger place) any day of the week. Reminiscent of an old-time bowling alley burger, Fritz’s uses about 1/10-1/8^th of a pound of ground beef (smushed flat and slightly crispy on the edges), mustard, pickles, grilled onions, a normal, flat, grilled bun, and for the piece-de-resistance, a small layer of crispy hash brown potatoes. The entire sandwich is maybe 2” tall. The only thing that could make it more perfect is a fried egg.

In my internet menu stalking, I have noticed that while burgers are becoming unmanageable unless you bring a crane, in “fine” restaurants, the food is becoming smaller, and precious to the point of making it appear the chef is going for his degree in fine art, not cooking food. I can't even identify this plate of alleged food.

Even favorites like Mexican and Italian are getting in on the stupid sized food act. Must chefs compare the size of their schwartz's even in the kitchen? Who really wants 10 layer lasagna or a 22" burrito? 

Now they are getting crazy with giant and artsy fartsy desserts. Is there a plate big enough for a slice of pumpkin/apple/pecan pie-cake?

What about a cheesecake that takes longer to decorate a slice of than to eat (and looks like a hyperactive three year old high on Halloween candy built it)?

And lastly, is it even possible to get a frosty malt and wooden spoon at a baseball game these days or are we forever doomed to precious little piles of fluff like a churro dog? I am afraid for the fate of normal food. As they said in Spaceballs, we've gone plaid.

School Daze

I was fortunate enough to attend kindergarten, elementary, junior high, and high school from 1955 to 1968. My son attended from 1996 thru 2009. I am convinced that the state of education did NOT improve in the years between us. Yes, I am old, cranky, and more on the conservative side (with a few liberal leaning ideas in areas), but when I think back and compare my school days with his, I want to weep for all that schools tossed in the 40 years between us.

I remember starting the day with The Pledge of Allegiance. There was something so right about standing up, facing the flag at the front of the room, placing my hand over my heart, or the vicinity thereof. It wasn’t until junior high health class that I learned it was not somewhere near my left shoulder. My 25 year old son has probably never heard it. Shame on me for that. 

Back then those words meant something, even though a whole lot of people had trouble with that ‘liberty and justice for all’ part. A number of folks I reckon, still think that it’s liberty and justice for all, as long as you are just like me and my beliefs. Another part that seems to create havoc is the ‘under God’ part. In order to help create the peaceful existence that is the American Dream, in 1934 the National Conference of Christian and Jews came up with the idea of making the 3^rd week in February National Brotherhood Week. By the 1980’s we apparently had enough of brotherhood and civility and the week disappeared. In the 60’s there was a wonderful television show called That Was The Week That Was (or TW3.) An exceptional entertainer named Tom Lehrer penned this song about the subject.

After the pledge was said, we sang the first verse of “My Country ‘Tis of Thee.” To date, I still prefer it and “God Bless America” to the “Star Spangled Banner.” Did you know that it was written way back in 1831 by a seminary student?

I also faintly remember saying the Lord’s Prayer each morning, and no one complaining it offended them, including the few Jewish children. One sweet memory is when one of the moms called mine to find out how to fix spaghetti (that was a huge mistake, as her ‘sauce’ consisted of a 48 ounce can of tomato juice mixed with a 6 ounce can of tomato paste) because she wanted to fix a special meal for her daughter’s birthday, but only knew how to cook traditional Jewish fare. I was proud to be invited to that meal, and I wonder if they ever learned what real spaghetti sauce tasted like. God, I hope so.

School had the PTA and moms came once a month to a meeting where if you were a 6^th grade girl in good standing with her studies, you might get picked to have the privilege of going to one of the kindergarten rooms and babysitting the pre-schoolers that moms brought. I still remember teaching them how to play London Bridge and the Hokey Pokey. Dads were involved in our education too. Once a month (at night) they gathered for the Dads Club. Kids were welcome and we played while the dads talked over whatever they did. At the end of the meeting time, the kids always did some sort of song, dance, or joke telling for the dads. Oh, and most important of all…there were donuts!

Grade school was so much fun, even though we were learning. Not to name names, but I remember battling Linda Bakerich almost every year for the spelling bee, and in 6^th grade was in a real live play where I was the little match girl.  All I had to do was shiver and constantly call out “Matches, matches” to people passing by, then succumb to the elements, collapse, and woefully die on stage. I was stunning in the role.

The highlight of elementary school for me, was Wednesday afternoon. After going home for lunch (this was the 50’s after all) instead of reporting back to school at 1pm, we walked to either Quayle Memorial Methodist, Immanuel Baptist, or were driven to Blessed Sacrament. I honestly don’t know what you did if you were Jewish or your parents didn’t sign you up for one of the three nearby churches – extra time at home, I suppose. Anyway, while at weekday church school, we got a little dose of religion and human kindness.  I was born and raised Episcopalian, so I think because my paternal grandmother was Methodist, my folks chose Quayle, and it was truly a home away from home for me. I remember the walks there, gathering friends along the way, and filing into the church proper. There, Mrs. Schick, the director, led us in a few prayers and then came singing – and the songs were chosen by us kids, never an adult. A perennial favorite was Old Rugged Cross, which today competes only with Amazing Grace in my heart.

After the brief service, we were split into grades and went to classrooms where we had short lessons on a bible story and then some sort of craft to back it up. All along, however, we were learning our portion of the program for the year end pageant. The older you were, the more complicated the task. The three I remember were the Ten Commandments, The Beatitudes, and naming all the books in the Bible….in order. Somewhere around 55 years later, I still have the bookmark I received when I successfully mastered the Ten Commandments as well as the program for my last springtime pageant as a 6^th grader. At my 45th high school reunion, three of us Quayle kids had our picture taken together. (I'm the shortie.)

Each year we got to get on rented buses (there was no school bus system) and travel to Northwest Junior High or Wyandotte High School, and watch a play performed by the Junior League. Exciting times. I also remember a number of age appropriate excursions to the Nelson, where we were versed on a subject we were studying at the time. The last time there was in high school where we were not accompanied by a docent, but had free rein of the art gallery and the museum. I remember being in complete awe of the Chinese temple and its absolute beauty.

Halloween at Bryant Elementary was celebrated by the lower grades dressing in their costumes and parading the halls for the upper grades. With 30+ children in each class, it was always someone’s birthday and nothing was more welcome than a mom and cupcakes. Christmas, the school had a tree, each class was decorated with Santas, snowmen, and paper snowflakes. Santa came to each class. Next was Valentine’s Day, where you took a shoe box, had mom cut a small hole in the lid, then you covered and decorated with construction paper, tissue paper, doilies, and hearts and arrow galore. Picking the perfect set of valentines, and then deciding who got was which one may have been the most important job a child had – no way could you give the wrong one to the wrong boy. We all knew that the teacher asked us to give EVERYONE a Valentine, and we all know that there was that special someone who got two, and an icky someone who you deliberately left off the list. Back then, Valentines looked like this.

Easter was actually celebrated and public schools let out on at least Good Friday and Easter Monday. I don’t ever remember spring break, but if we had one it was centered around Easter, whereas now, it’s around St Patrick’s Day, speaking of which you had better wear green or prepare for being pinched all day.

We had no school yearbooks in elementary school, so near the end of the school year, we had picture day, when moms were allowed to come to school, we all filed out onto the playground and they took photos of our class, special friends, and teachers. We also had a school carnival, held at night on the playground, each class having a booth where we could win a goofy little prize for some minor feat of skill. Then there was Playday. Each class learned some physical skill, then on Playday we got to go to school dressed for play (i.e. no skirts/dresses for girls and boys could wear jeans), moms came, and we all performed. The only one I remember was square dancing, and some Hawai’ian things where you jumped in and out of poles being tapped on the ground and together. I missed that year. Sprained and badly bruised ankle.

I am sure there are many other things I am not remembering, but what I do remember was the lack of most of this when my son went to school. Sort of like when Christmas vacation became holiday break, and Easter vacation became spring break (a month earlier), his field trips were few and far between. I don’t think he ever went to the Nelson, Christmas pageants became holiday pageants where songs about Santa, angels, and the birth our Jesus were forbidden, Easter eggs disappeared, birthday treats had to be manufactured and in their original hermetically sealed packages, weekday church school completely evaporated, and Halloween was iffy because someone was sure to connect it to devil worship. These days everything is offensive to someone. No more prayer, pledge, or song about our country to start the day – only morning announcements read haltingly over a PA system. Back when I was in school, we all granted courtesy to someone of a different religion, and while the debate over school segregation was heatedly being fought, we kids knew nothing about it. Our friend was our friend, despite their skin color, heritage, or religion (or lack thereof.) It reminds me of song lyrics from the musical South Pacific. 

I know I have skipped around and gotten off my original topic, but I think that says it all. We are no longer teaching our children that people are people and have instead, gone off on entitled ego trips proclaiming our personal beliefs and origins are the only ones that matter. Instead of teaching that all people are individuals and therefore are allowed their own thoughts and beliefs, we are teaching that only the people who look, act, think, and talk like us are the special ones and everyone not like us must conform to our beliefs. Society today is sad.

Growing Older (Just Not Up)

I recently passed a major milestone in the number of years I have been on earth entertaining/pissing off people. It was celebrated with many well wishes from friends and family, and chocolate and Royals/Chiefs paraphernalia from the men in the household. The next day I went to the doctor for my annual physical. Today, January 12, 2016, 102 days later, I am FINALLY finishing that results of that exam.

I have had every orifice of my body thoroughly examined and samples taken from all. I have had scans (bone density is wonderful, bladder is weak.) I have had my boobs smushed three different ways in my annual mammogram, which was pronounced clean. I had a splint on my right hand for a month, and then physical therapy for another month, although neither was a by-product of the physical, but of a weekend with high school friends in Branson. Alcohol was not involved. I also had another corticosteroid shot in my left knee.

I then had my eyes checked, expecting new glasses. Nope. I needed cataracts removed, but first, they wanted a look at my right macula. This is where I both hate and love the internet, because while you can get reassurance, you can also read enough to scare the living daylights out of you. My eye guy sent me to a retina guy who pronounced it a macular pucker and told me not to worry (does that phrase really ever work?) He in turn, sent me to the cataract guy. (Don’t you love large practices?) By the time I saw Dr. Doogie Howser, the cataract guy, the entire process took up a couple of weeks. Doogie Howser was obviously not his real name, but I dubbed him that because while he was a giant (and at 5’1”, I consider anyone over 6’ to be freakishly tall) he has the face of a 12 year old. Dr. Doogie sent me home with a roll of tape (to re-stick the plastic eye patch to my eye each night after surgery), wraparound sunglasses, a magnifying glass, and six appointments, two for surgeries, two for next day follow-ups, and two more for one week follow-ups (they did each eye separately, several weeks apart.) The last appointment was a month ago, and today I go back to the eye doc who started this cluster, and hopefully get a prescription for long distance glasses. Lenscrafters darn well better have this particular prescription in stock, because if I have to wait 2-3 weeks, I just may blow a gasket. If I blow a gasket, I am sure to get it fixed tomorrow, because I have my quarterly meds check in/bloodletting at my regular physician, who is actually a nurse practitioner. I also need to schedule another knee shot, and talk about maybe adding the left knee to the party.

Kids…stay young. As your car ages, things wear out, and it’s the same with your body. Once you hit 65,000 miles, they start looking under the hood to see what’s about to spring a leak, and while you can trade the car in for a newer model, you’re stuck with the same body, regardless of the number of miles it has racked up. I need both hands to count the number of knee replacements my friends have had this past year.

Meanwhile my mind is perpetually 16, bopping along to whatever music is playing, attempting to convince me that even though I am yawning by 9pm, I should get a second wind and party until at least 10. Events out are planned and excitedly awaited – until the appointed day when I am NOT in the mood to actually get out of sweats, let alone do something with my hair and (gasp) put on makeup. I mean seriously, unless Hugh Jackman or Joe Manganiello is going to be there and devote all their time to me, it ain’t gonna be worth it and I ain’t going, no matter what I said when you asked. Just telling you right now.

While some people worship youth, I am comfortable with my age. I feel it gives me a freedom to act however I want, be it cranky, flirty, wise, or silly. Back in 1972 Marlo Thomas and friends initiated the Free To Be You and Me movement, encouraging children to cross traditional gender lines when it came to employment, likes, and household duties. I think the phrase has great merit once one attains a ‘certain age.’ Free to be you or me, tells me that I do not have to conform to the traditional role of senior citizen if I don’t want to. I am free to be Me, and Me is whomever I feel like at the moment.

So in honor of Jimmy Buffet’s wisdom and song with the same title, I shall grow older, just not up. Pardon me while I slip into my pink Converse, turn the music up on my iPod, and download a few new books on my e-reader. I am happening, baby.  I am happening.