Category Archives: fun

Slip-sliding along

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All the preparation in the world will do nothing to lessen the silent explosion that descends upon us the only way time knows how to travel. Defying lasers, cat gut and high end facial abrasion, gravity descends in subtle waves and full-on attack, claiming new territory by the minute.

I began mental preparation when I was 59; a lot of good that did.  By 62, I was in a quiet state of panic.  By 65, denial had become impossible to sustain, even on good days.

I would like to say I made the transition from bud to fading blossom gracefully, but I cannot.  I never judge another woman’s choice for surgical intervention; it simply wasn’t for me.  I’m an old nurse; saving things is what I am trained to do.

Also I am a collector and admirer of junk and antiques, finding comfort in well-worn patinas boasting generous use.  I love chipped paint and rust, and admire the simplicity of unsophisticated lines and primitive art.

I patch, re-purpose and restore, but never refinish.

So treating myself differently than I would an old crate made no sense no matter how much time I spent standing in profile in front of the mirror pulling a cascading chin back to a more flattering pre-menopausal position.

I wrung my hands for years fearing the great evolution would morph my lovely pear into an awkward apple, feeling as if that day would strike like a bolt of lightning, or like a tragedy at sea, the captain of a sinking ship lost to sharks in uncharted sea.

But if anything, passage was silent and endearing as I fell in love with the soft, loose texture of my own skin, and the pinkness of my scalp shining like new planet in an unexplored galaxy of snowy hair. And I was oddly amused by the sound of my voice, the way it creaked like sore knees around words spoken more slowly and with less certainty than before.

Like a memory of the chair I rocked my babies in, I can see our history in my hands.  And I like that.  A lot.  So now I am between a walker and heels.  I never hold my stomach in.  Hate Spanx and the likes.  Wouldn’t wear one even if it was a gift.

In my sewing studio I have a photo gallery of women who inspired me in life.  They have all passed away now, but I see them in my face every day, with my glasses on, of course.  And I want to be like them.  Graceful, full of joy and palpable peace,

a mischievous spark shining in my eyes as I creep toward 70.

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What if eve had really big bones?

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My dad was a bit of an odd ball; we shared several peculiar habits.  Once he told me he always counted when he climbed stairs.  I was slicing a cucumber; I had 28 pieces already cut when he began talking, had to stop counting to listen.

I write poetry nearly every day.  I always have.  Every so often something comes out of left field.  Most often irreverent work gets published.  That amuses me.  I thought today I’d share a silly poem because it’s something Daddy would appreciate.

And oh, yeah, it was published.

Eve

 

 Original size

 

Some pictures make it look like Eve wore a Size 6.

I wonder if she did.

I wonder if Adam might have expected more for the precious price of a rib.

     What if Eve wore a 16 or 56?  Would it have mattered to the snake?

Do you think he would have gone all slack-jawed and ended up forked-

tongue-tied?     Or maybe relax and lose the mean streak?

What if he had?

My bet is we’d all still be sitting there in that big old lush garden with

everyone getting email at the same address

     and about a ka-zillion relatives would be killing time in a chat room at

www.thisisallthereis.com

What if Eve wore an 18 or 44?

What in heaven’s name does that mean anyway?

Just for fun let’s imagine Adam coming home from another long day hanging with

the Lord to find his little woman trying on leaves,

   and all because silly old Satan let the C-A-T out of the B-A-G   and got Eve all embarrassed

about so much naked flesh.

I don’t believe much would change in the story If Eve was full figured,

          expect maybe she’d drop the fig leaf      for size banana.

another kitchen failure

 auntbeamephoto