Another Candle

It's hard not to be a little ambivalent about birthdays when you've already celebrated six decades worth of them. While I certainly want them to keep on coming, I can't help feeling a twinge of anxiety every time one of them rolls around. Since I'm prone to introspection (bet you figured that out already) I tend to use the arrival of another birthday to inspect, analyze, and critique my behavior over the last three hundred sixty-five days. Not always a pretty sight but hey, somebody's got to do it.

Did I learn anything new? (Princess Charlotte's nanny's name unfortunately doesn't count). Did I advance my spiritual growth? (Watching five minutes of Joel Osteen's Sunday service also does not make the cut). Did I love more? (This year? Undoubtedly. I have that new grand-baby, remember?) Was I kinder? (That crazy woman in the library yesterday probably doesn't think so). More thoughtful? (I try on this one but it's pretty tough when thoughts stay in my consciousness for under thirty seconds.) Less petty? (Again, sorry crazy library lady). More joyful? (Other than the time I spend with my grandson who makes it pretty darn hard to be anything but). Did I sweat the small stuff less? (Does not getting upset at my hubby's picking up the wrong peanut butter count?) Did I value the important stuff more? (It's getting a little late if I haven't). Did I finally finish editing that damn book that I keep talking about? (What do you think?)

All I know is that another June 24th has presented itself and I'm doing the best I can. (Wait. That's a lie. I could exercise more and it wouldn't hurt to stop eating those dark chocolate sea-salt caramels every night. Damn you, Costco).  I do try to spend as much time as possible with the wonderful family and amazing friends that God has blessed me with (I sure hope that means another trip to Mexico this winter with the best friends anyone could ask for) and try to spend as little time as possible with toxic, negative people who's goal in life is to sap all the joy out of anyone within a five-mile radius (that's you, library lady).

It feels odd to be eligible for Social Security and AARP discounts. That's for old people and I have a hard time thinking of myself that way (unless I'm trying to get my creaky knees and plantar fascitis inflicted feet out of bed in the morning). But every time I feel sorry for myself or wish I didn't have to go through the decidedly negative aspects of getting older, I think of my friend Karyn who was stricken with Stage 4 cancer and died at fifty-four. I know she would have given anything to be here with her kids and grandkids; birthdays, achy joints and all.

She would feel lucky and blessed. And so do I.

Living the Dream

For years I have dreamed about living in Italy. I've read every guidebook I could get my hands on, perused real estate websites with images of Tuscan cottages straight out of Under the Tuscan Sun, and watched every Italian episode of House Hunters International. I've fantasized about walking down to the village market with a wicker basket over my arm, greeting the locals with my impeccable Italian, and welcoming friends and relatives to my hillside home away from home. Amazingly, my dream is finally coming true.

For one of my best friends.

I never even knew we shared this dream. My friend, a high-school English teacher for many years, had always proclaimed her love for all things French, so I thought she would be bound for the South of France if ever she wanted to shake things up. But, no. This weekend she is jetting off to Florence to live out my greatest fantasy. She's recently retired from full-time teaching and intends to spend at least a year teaching English in Rome or Bologna or Orvieto or wherever she can find a job once she completes the one-month training class.

Am I jealous? Absolutely not. I'm happy for my friend. (Of course, I'm jealous. What are you, nuts? I'd love nothing better than to squeeze into a cozy spot in her largest piece of luggage.) Am I inspired to take her lead and start browsing again through those international real estate websites? Probably not, at least not for the foreseeable future.

See, I've got this grandson; this adorable human being who gets cuter and more animated every day. The thought of living in Italy is oh so tempting but the thought of missing him learning to crawl, walk, talk, and blow kisses is utterly unthinkable. My friend's grandsons are teenagers. Not to say she won't miss them like crazy but let's face it, they've already done all the excruciatingly cute things they're ever going to and she'll probably communicate with them as often through Skype as she would if she were a twenty minute drive away.

So, for right now, I'll have to live vicariously through her. I'll see her amazing photos on Facebook and read about all her book-worthy adventures in the blog she intends to write and I'm sure there will be days when I'll wish, more than anything, that I was right there with her.

And then my grandson will squeal with delight at the sight of the bubbles I've just blown and I'll know that I'm right where I'm supposed to be.

Back in the Neighborhood

When my kids were little, I didn't have a lot of hard and fast rules. In fact, I can think of only two: No playing with sharp knives (dull ones were okay but only after all other forms of entertainment had been tried and rejected) and under no circumstances were they ever allowed to tune in to any episode of Mr. Roger's Neighborhood.

Now, before you report me to the House Un-American Activities Committee, I'll try to explain my loathing of a beloved cultural icon by saying I have nothing against Fred Rogers personally. He was from all accounts a wonderfully kind, sensitive man who devoted his life to educating children. For that, I had (and still have) nothing but respect. I just could not stomach the show. The minute I heard that opening song, I would race for the TV to flip the channel before kindly Mr. Rogers got the chance to change into that raggedy red sweater. I disliked everything about that PBS classic from the insipid songs, to the creepy puppets, to the syrupy tone. In our house, it was definitely a case of Sesame Street, yeah. Mr. Rogers, no way.

Ironic, isn't it, that I am now watching a little show called Daniel Tiger's Neighborhood on a regular basis? When I first tuned in, I didn't know that it had any connection with my original nemesis. All I knew was that it was a colorful, animated program that my little grandson loved. And at first, I thought it was cute. Yes, I recognized that annoying "won't you be my neighbor" ditty but I foolishly thought it was just a sweet homage to its creator. Slowly, though, it began to dawn on me. Daniel Tiger was that scraggly puppet brought to animated life. Prince Wednesday, his dad King Friday and that cat that said "meow, meow" in between every sentence weren't just Daniel Tiger's friends, they were those other scruffy puppets that Fred Rogers used to interact with. And then there was that magic trolley (which Daniel and his father have plastered all over their matching pajamas - a visual more frightening than anything I've ever seen on The Walking Dead) which should have been a dead giveaway but like I said, I tried hard to escape watching the show in its original incarnation so it took me longer than it should have to connect the dots.

So, Fred Rogers, you win. The last time I looked, Netflix had sixty-five episodes ready for my grandson's viewing pleasure and I'm pretty sure I'll end up seeing every one of them several times before he gets tired of the show. Oh, well. This Daniel Tiger is a whole lot cuter than the original, although he still insists on opening every episode exactly as his predecessor did by changing into his favorite red sweater (at least Fred Rogers had the decency to wear a pair of pants with his) and comfy shoes while imploring me to be his neighbor.  (As if I would want to live in that podunk town with one street and one form of transportation).

Well, I think you get the idea. I would continue to complain about the unfairness of it all if I didn't feel the urgent need to visit the nearest restroom. And you know what the song says . . .

'If you have to go potty, stop and go right away. Flush and wash and be on your way.'