Previously posted in 2013
This week, when my younger friend Hilary told our ladies’ tennis group she needed “less mature” friends because we oldies are struggling with injuries, I quickly fired off an email to that healthy show-off, explaining what she’s missing by not being an interesting 50+ year old…
My “young” friend, Hilary
My Dearest Hilary,
Let me set you straight. Younger friends are boring. They have nothing to complain about as far as body parts aching. What is there to discuss if you have no wrinkles and therefore can’t debate the best ways to disguise them? What could possibly replace the topic of whether it’s better to use a color rinse or permanent dye when trying to cover gray hair? Continue reading
Busy, busy, oh so busy…therefore please enjoy this post from 2013 and I’ll be back next week…
Last year, after my 56th birthday, I began to understand what the phrase, “feeling your age,” actually entails. What caught me by surprise, however, is how it looks.
Evidently, my appearance has betrayed me. Strangers no longer refer to me as “miss.” At some point, I stepped over that invisible threshold into a new reality. I am now known as “ma’am.”
Apparently this is how “ma’am” looks
Aging is sly the way it sneaks up on you. There are no bulletins to announce its arrival. It suddenly appears when you aren’t paying attention. Looking in the mirror one day, you wonder whose face is staring back. Personally, I never saw it coming. Continue reading
So last Wednesday I’m out of nectarines. Or maybe it was Burrata cheese. The point is, United Market carries the best of both so I made a quick stop. If you’ve never had Burrata before, I ask you, “Why the hell not?!” Simply drain the liquid, slice off a creamy section, drizzle it with olive oil, sea salt, freshly cracked black pepper and red pepper flakes (if you like to live dangerously) then dollop it on toasted, sliced baguettes rubbed ever so slightly with a clove of garlic. I tell ya, it’s cheese heaven.
Anyway, while I shopped, I found much more I wanted to buy. As usual. To look in my cupboards you’d think I’m housing 4 people here. Hey, I stock up. I’m a stocker. But the thing is, while I roamed the isles, I noticed how crowded the store was for a Wednesday afternoon.
I’ve been coming to this United Market since I was a kid. My mom brought my sister and me with her each week. Vicki and I sat in the cart eating Flicks milk chocolate discs. They were our reward for being tolerable while Mom shopped. Sometimes, when we were exceptionally good, we got Necco Wafers. I don’t recall having the opportunity to enjoy those very often.
I have to say I’m writing this sorely aware of pretty much every muscle in my body. I say sorely because I believe I feel pain in just about every fiber of all 640 muscles. Did you know we have that many? Me neither. I had to look it up. But my point is, I feel pain in all of them.
Let me explain…remember when I juiced for 10 days to help cleanse my system of the baked Cheetos and taffy I keep stashed in the console between the front seats of my SUV? You don’t?! Well then you need to read my post: Welcome To My Detox.
Turns out I spend an inordinate amount of time in my vehicle traveling to trap feral cats for spay/neuter. A gal gets hungry you know. Nothing worse than trapping at Dillon Beach miles from a grocery store when a hankerin’ for cheese and crackers hits. So I keep a stash of edibles in my console. Sometimes they aren’t what one would call healthy snacks. Hence the cleanse. Continue reading
It wasn’t long ago that I recognized something about myself: I have no lips. That’s right, I’m lip-less. One would think I’d have noticed this a few years ago, but no. Apparently I don’t look in the mirror enough. In fact, I peek as little as possible.
See what I mean?
That’s not to say I look hideous. I wouldn’t go THAT far. But when I do stop to look closely at myself, it’s sorta scary. Seems the older I get, the more my lips disappear, along with other pertinent stuff. Bette Davis had it right when she said, “Old age ain’t no place for sissies.”
You tell ’em Bette