Posts Tagged ‘Youth’

Man, she looks old now.” My husband commented months ago. He was nonchalant about it, mindlessly gazing at the TV, no idea of the cougar he’d just unchained.

No pun intended. Okay, I might’ve intended.

Driving the kids to school this morning, the radio gave me food for  blogging thought. This is what happens when you listen to high quality, #1 Hits/Top 40 radio. When you have teens, you don’t get to choose the station. In fact, you’re not even allowed to be in the car, except they can’t drive, so you’re bestowed a temporary pass.

The radio voices were discussing Demi Moore, their conversation triggered by the fact that she (Demi) is currently at a fitness retreat in Mexico. They were saying she looks amazing for her age but; “get real girl, it’s time to give it up. You’re old.” Is it just me, or do these two statements wipe each other out? Why shouldn’t she look amazing? And, she looks amazing, you barely off the teat whippersnapper, because she doesn’t give it up. I’m confused.

Demi Moore is 51. First of all, 51 is the new 31 (in my books) and why, for the love of God, would she need to, let alone want to stop working out, trying to look fit, healthy and youthful? I almost feel the need to do a Vlog here so you can see the look on my face and hear the incredulous tone in my voice and if you knew how much I loathe being on video, you’d know how serious I am.

So, on the one hand, we have my 44 year old husband taking down Ashley Judd for gracefully easing into her 45th year (a mere 25 in Hazy years) and on the other, we have 25 year old disc jockeys berating Demi for doing everything in her power to maintain whatever kind resemblance she can to her own self.

What is wrong with this picture?

It’s apparent Ashley and Demi both work hard at doing whatever it is that makes them feel good. I know their looks fund their livelihood and that plays a large part, (who could blame them) but it can’t be denied that it feels marvelous to be carded long past being legal, no matter who you are.

Why this gets so deep under my inevitably aging skin is unclear to me. Maybe it’s because I’m 42. Maybe it’s because I’m inevitably aging. Maybe it’s because society can’t make up their minds…work at it, stay youthful or let it go, look old.

Or maybe it’s because, when it comes to aging appearances, men just have it too easy.

Whatever your number...

Whatever your number…

Read Full Post »

Did you ever play “What If?”  I did.

My friends and me sat around in the ripping hot sun, pulling blades of grass, blowing out dried dandelions and chucking rocks into the clear creek while contemplating guileless scenarios;

What if we snuck out at three in the morning and jogged to 7-Eleven?  Ah ha ha”, we’d snicker.  “That’d be sooo cool.”

Kids are a force to be reckoned with.  My daughter reminds me of that consistently.  She’s a bona fide combo of her Dad’s entrepreneurial spirit and my crafty, creative quirks.  Not a day goes by where she hasn’t got a moneymaking question, a business idea or a project on the go.  We sometimes joke that she was born to the wrong parents.  She exhausts us.

But, being a kid, she does not possess that limiting quality; you know, the chastising one that imposes restrictions and crushes dreams; it says cruelly; “You can’t do that.  Don’t be ridiculous!”

And it’s because of that, kids have no fear.  They aren’t afraid to take the “What If” game a step further.  In fact, if so inclined, they can knock it right out of the park:

“Yeah, so we jog to 7-Eleven and we’re freezing so we decide to hang out inside and get warm.” I suggest.

“And then, like, the manager gets mad and makes us work.” Suzie chimes in.

“Yeah, so he thinks he’s punishing us, but we actually like it, so we like, start working there for real and we never go back home.” Lisa adds.

“And our parents are searching for us and everything, but we, like, just start living at the 7-11 manager’s house and just, like, become a part of his family!” Kate exclaims, quite pleased with herself.

“Truly awesome”, Jack sighs.  “But I’d sure miss my dog.”

“Don’t worry,” I console him.  “I’m sure the manager will buy you a new one.”

Free of inhibitions and limitations, kids just throw it down.  And because they’re all on the same page, they are confident peers won’t deem their contributions unreasonable.

I’ve previously pondered the idea that impossible can be transformed to plausible provided it’s crafted with care.  I stand by that notion but need to supplement;

Hold tightly the compassionate ignorance of youth and once in while, dare to play “What If.”

Hopefully Ava did get the right mom and dad after all.

Read Full Post »

For the second, maybe third time today, I have started out to do one thing and ended up with something else entirely, so this post comes from a divine intervention of sorts.

Spontaneity hasn’t always been in my deck, but I’m learning to let the cards bend as they may, finding tranquility in the unwritten parts of life.

When I was, oh I don’t know, let’s say around seven years old, I was in the garden with a friend.

“Eat it,” she said.  “You’ll see.  It tastes just like honey!”

Being the people pleaser I still am was, I obliged.  I took the soft, pale pink bloom, held it up to the sun and watched as the petals became transparent; their delicate veins lying vivid against the anemic backdrop.

With only a hint of hesitation, I pushed the flower into my mouth and pressed my lips down, crushing it.

“It’s called Honeysuckle,” she jeered. “You’re supposed to suck on it!”

I stood there letting the bud seep a surprisingly sour juice over my tingling tongue.  A feeling set in; one I wasn’t familiar with at the time, but over the years I’ve come to know it as ‘the bad feeling.’  You know the one…the one where your kerosene-soaked heart plunges deep into the pit of your stomach and taunts it with brewing sparks.

“Why aren’t you eating one?” I asked her, hoping I didn’t already know the answer.

“Oh, I had one earlier,” she lied. “You just didn’t see me.”

My heart sunk lower, teasing the pit with its looming flick switch…

I turned and ran through the ivy-covered archway, back to where the adults were lounging on their lawn chairs, enjoying the cloudless afternoon.

Curling up on my *Aunt’s lap, I tucked my head into her shoulder.

“I ate a Honeysuckle,” I barely whispered into her neck.

“Oh dear,” she breathed, her frost-laden lips oddly emitting the scent of the Vaseline-like perfume she rubbed on her wrists every morning.  “Honeysuckle is poisonous!” – the p in poisonous came off sounding like a dry smoke ring being puffed into the air.

Poisonous.  My heart burst, then plummeted down to my toes, incinerating that nasty, old pit, lighting it in a hot, blue blaze.

“Yeah, I know,” I sighed…and lied, unable to say more.

Every night after that, for what seemed like months on end, I sobbed myself to sleep, waiting for the toxic nectar to still my clamoring pulse, praying I’d wake up in the morning, begging that the Honeysuckle wouldn’t be the end of me.

It never occurred to me that my Aunt didn’t seem all that concerned or that she hadn’t told my mother.  Had I been older and wiser, I would’ve realized these were signs that I probably wasn’t in grave danger.

I don’t know why I kept it inside…why I didn’t want to burden anyone…why I felt it was such a deep, dark secret.  I don’t know why my Aunt thought it was okay to tell a seven year old that something she ate was poisonous and leave it at that, but in the end, I drew the conclusion that *there weren’t a lot of steadfast truths in life, merely perceptions and perceptions can be our adversaries, atrophies and afflictions or we can add water, turn them into pulp and use them to write about on.

Thanks for the title, Britney


*this is an adaptation of a quote by Gustave Flaubert

*in the world of fiction i have many ‘aunts’ – don’t worry; you’re not this one  (see post thirty-five, #3)

Read Full Post »

Gusts whipped through my hair, sun scorched my darkening skin and my lips caught as I attempted to close them over my wind-dried metal grin. 

Houses dripped by like a painter’s palette caught in the rain as I whirred down the long, straight street in front of my house and as I fell, I knew the searing pavement would shave a layer off my knees, elbows and stomach.


I awake the morning of my thirteenth birthday to sun spilling warm light over the sheets. I relish the glow, basking as it sidles in to loosen me from my twisted, tissuey nest. Stretching lazily amongst the sprawl, I’m like a sock unraveling as it comes out of a warm dryer.

Until it hits me…my birthday! Sluggish sock cast aside, I’m on my feet in seconds, skipping the bathroom, scurrying down the blue-carpeted hallway and hitting the cool, cream-colored lino in record time; the floor’s creviced, fine brown contours awakening the souls of my bare feet.

I eat fresh, flaky croissants; scooping spoonfuls of raspberry jam from the jar, dolloping each jewel-like glob right onto the pastry before every bite. My tongue twinges with dripping slices of citrus, their spray watering down the comic section as Garfield and Calvin blacken my fingertips. I move on to the horoscopes.

Mom flits here and there, filling balloons, attaching rosy crepe streamers from wall to wall and spraying veils of lemon polish over the rich Mahogany.

Dad is somewhere below us in the garage, perhaps tinkering, sanding or sorting nails, gearing up to cut the grass. My brother, almost seven years my junior, is off doing God knows what, starting fires or torturing the dog.

A quick fluff n’ wash and I’m out. Racquet and ball in hand I’m ready to whack a few hours away rallying off the garage door, sure to get away with it today, being the birthday girl n’ all.

The gate squeaks when I open it and as I round the corner there it is.  Balancing on a kickstand, glistening in the sun; a brand new, powder blue, Raleigh five-speed; its white-taped, ram-horned handlebars making my fingers curl, its big, red bow making my heart thump.

The garage door opens, startling me and exposing my family.

“Surprise!” all three yell, “Happy birthday!”

Unexpected tears hover just behind my lids as they all smile out at me from the cool shade of the garage, my Mom snapping away, camera in hand.

Okay, so I fell.  Only one scar lives on and even it is barely visible now. We were together, the sun was shining and I felt like I was the luckiest girl in the world.

Read Full Post »

%d bloggers like this: