I Still Do

There's nothing like a wedding to get us old married folks to take a look at the state of our own unions. Sitting in the church, watching a young couple take their first steps down that unknown road of marital highs and lows, you can't help wondering if they have any idea what they're getting into. And how could they? No one knows what Paris is really like until they've actually been there no matter how many times they've seen it in the movies.

The priest, a jovial sort doing his best to emphasize the benefits of committing one's life to another human being, encouraged the bride and groom to communicate and compromise. You could see the glowing couple sharing knowing glances and tender touches as the priest continued to dispense his suggestions for the next fifty years of their lives. 'We've got this' their faces said. Maybe. But from the reactions of the longtime marrieds in attendance, who shared their own knowing glances as well as a few tender jabs in the ribcage anytime the priest hit a nerve, it was clear that it wasn't going to be as simple as Mr. and Mrs. Newlywed might think.

I was flying solo at this particular wedding; my better half had a previous commitment. After sitting through dozens of ceremonies during my nearly twenty-eight years of marriage, I've noticed that my reaction to the festivities has varied greatly. During those early years, I eagerly welcomed new members to "the club" with genuine smiles and congratulatory hugs. Later, when things were tough, it was all I could do to refrain from standing up and shouting, "DON'T DO IT. Whatever you think you're feeling, stop while you still can, strap on a pair of sneakers and head for the exit as fast as you possibly can." Then, there were the times when I'd get weepy, bemoaning the fact that I'd never feel that innocent, hopeful love present in couples that haven't yet had to deal with colicky babies, week-long business trips and forgotten anniversaries.

But this time was different. I didn't feel any of those responses. This time, I felt as much joy for myself as I did for the decked out couple walking down that aisle. My husband and I have made it through two kids, overseas moves, job changes, and menopause. We've struggled through financial disagreements, conflicting priorities and the occasional desire to hire a hit man. It hasn't been easy but getting to the place we are now has certainly been worth everything it took to get us here. I'm proud of us. And I wouldn't trade places with the newlyweds, even if I could.

But if they want to hand over those tickets to Cabo, I just might be persuaded to change my mind.

Sweet Temptations

Despite Cher's opinions to the contrary, getting older does have its benefits. At least it does for me. A former people pleaser, I no longer obsess about gaining everyone's approval. While I can't escape my natural tendency to worry, a few decades of experience have made it far easier to keep things in perspective. Best of all, I feel like I've learned a thing or two on the way to all these wrinkles. So, okay. Those are the good things. What's not so great is my body's insistence on displaying every calorie I ingest in places that are decidedly further south than they used to be.

Don't hate me but I used to be one of those people who could eat pretty much anything she wanted without the needle of the scale moving much. I should have appreciated that gift more. I should have embraced my good fortune before it ran out.

Most of the day, I'm in control. I'll make myself oatmeal or shredded wheat for breakfast. Then, I'll heat up a bowl of soup or toss a nice salad for lunch. So far, so good. Dinner's not much of a problem either. I've cut back on red meat, ditched the bread and loaded up on veggies. No, meal's are not usually the problem. It's when the sun goes down that my food demons come out to play. Take tonight, for example. All it took was a grocery store flyer with a picture of a chocolate chip cookie for me to pull out my trusty Kitchen Aid and mix up a batch of warm, gooey disks of temptation. Oh, I said they were a belated birthday treat for my husband but he and I both knew better. There was no doubt where those puppies were headed once they cleared that oven door. A cup of tea and one episode of Project Runway later, I had consumed seven of them. Seven.

So, now I'm about to sit on a giant rubber ball, make my way through one hundred crunches and twenty minutes of weight lifting in the hopes of undoing what I just did. There's got to be an easier way. Throwing out my mixer? Cancelling my newspaper subscription? No. I'm just going to have to avoid the combination of television and a comfy couch. Going to bed earlier might just do the trick. I wonder how my hubby will feel about an eight o'clock bedtime. At least, he'll finally be able to get his fair share of the cookies.

Am I the Only One?

I was standing in line at the local grocery store the other day when I noticed a grey-haired woman in a checkout line next to mine. She looked a little like my grandma with a frizzy beauty parlor bouffant and sensible shoes. Everything looked as it should until I glanced at her ankle. Right above her sensible shoes was a sunburst tattoo. And that's when I knew. Everyone in the entire world above the age of sixteen, now has at least one of these hideous monstrosities masquerading as artwork. I now have become something I thought was impossible - a rebel.

When my son did a paper in high school on the history of tattoos, he wrote about their use being previously confined to sailors and hardened criminals. Can someone please hurry up and build that time machine so I can be transported back to a time when that was true? I'm all for personal expression but why do I have to look at ugly green snakes crawling up middle-aged calves, barbed wire encircling the tricep of an otherwise beautiful bride, or unreadable words of sanskrit wisdom trailing down the back of a red carpet celebrity. Tattoos may have once been edgy; they may have once been daring but right now they have become something else. Boring.

So I guess I have one more thing to add to my things I know for sure list. I will never subject myself to another perm, I would rather have a root canal than spend five minutes with Paris Hilton or Kim Kardashian, and I will never, I repeat never, join the millions of people who think it's cool to have a tattoo. If you ask me, it's a whole lot cooler not to.

Doubting Momma

It doesn't take much these days for me to doubt everything I've done as a mother over the past twenty-four years. There are times when I question every instinct I've ever had; times I feel overpowering regret over choices I made; times I think maybe I wasn't such a great mother after all.

When you see your kids struggling to find their way, you start wondering what your participation in their troubles might be. Were you tough enough? Did you have a balance of discipline and tenderness? Did you encourage them on the road to success and comfort them during moments of failure? Did you shelter them too much from life's disappointments? Right now, I'm doubting it all.

The catalyst for my current bout of insecurities is the family my daughter is working for. They don't allow their four-year old twins to watch any TV, the toddlers have chores to do every day, and before bed, they contemplate the ups and downs of their day. They eat meals and snacks at pre-determined times and nap at 1:15 every day. Not exactly the world I created for my kids. At that age, they woke whenever the spirit moved them, they ate snacks in their carseats as I lugged them all over the northwest suburbs and got to bed before midnight. I thought I was being a cool mom. I thought I was making them flexible. Was I just being lazy? Was I really making them undisciplined?

God knows I'd go back and change a few things if I could. But where's the guarantee that my kids would be struggling less if I jumped into that time machine? And who's to say what challenges await those adorable four year-olds (or their "perfect" parents)? There's a million and one ways to screw up your kids. With luck, you love them enough to overcome your mistakes.

So, at this point, I'll just have to take comfort in hearing my daughter reassure me that I was a great mom, that she wouldn't trade me for anyone, especially one who wouldn't let her watch a cartoon once in awhile. If she feels that way, I can't have done everything wrong.

Where Are We Going?

Every year Money magazine has an article detailing the best places to live in America. I look forward to reading this issue each summer, hoping that some detail mentioned will be the catalyst to propel me to finally decide on my next (and hopefully last) zip code. Number one this year is Louisville, Colorado. Never heard of it but it looks nice enough; beautiful scenery, reasonable housing, strong economy. The town looks like something out of 1950s America, with a charming historic district and smiling children cuddled with their parents on a picnic blanket. It might be a contender except for one thing - winter.

I don't know where I want to eventually relocate but I'm pretty sure it won't be anywhere with little white flakes falling from the sky. Living an entire life in the Chicago area (with a couple of detours to England and Germany) had made me leery of settling anywhere with the potential of major snowfalls. I've definitely had it with winters that last for six months, white-knuckle driving and cold that takes your breath away. So I guess I'm out of luck hoping that the Money picks would help guide me. Nine out of the top ten are north of the Mason/Dixon line.

So the search goes on. Maybe I'll stumble across that perfect place with low taxes, warm temperatures and beautiful scenery. Maybe next year's list will uncover a hidden gem that moves me to hammer the "for sale" sign in my front yard. Maybe I'll sell my book or win the lottery so I can live half the year in a Tuscan villa and half the year here in the Midwest, close to family.

Stop laughing. A girl can dream, can't she?

Final Sale

I believe in recycling. I think all of us should do our part to protect the environment, reuse as much as possible and try our hardest not to waste resources. So, here's my promise. I vow to recycle everything I can, shop resale stores, buy from local farmers, and turn off water while I'm brushing my teeth. I promise to do all these things in exchange for just one thing in return. Please, please, please do not make me EVER have another garage sale.

When my kids were little, I was a garage sale nut. Most Thursday or Friday mornings from May until September would find me hunting for treasures on some stranger's driveway. I purchased ninety percent of my kids' clothes and a healthy amount of all the other stuff that filled their rooms from neighborhood treasure hunts. When they had outgrown their Osh Kosh overalls and Carter's sleepers, I would gather all my bargains and resell them for what (or sometimes even more than) I paid for them. But as much as I loved the first part of the equation, I grew to hate the second. All the preparation - the washing, sorting, tagging, hanging was bad enough but it was the haggling, greedy, unreasonable, sticker-switching patrons of these bargain fests that finally did me in. A couple of hundred dollars was not worth two days of sitting in a lawn chair dealing with any of them. I vowed to pack up all my future goodies and donate them to some worthy charity in return for a nice tax deduction. That plan worked for almost twenty years.

This past weekend I was (nicely) coerced into hosting a garage sale with my mom and sister. C'mon, they said. It'll be fun. We'll clean out our basements and make a few bucks. I knew what I was getting into but I thought, hey, I'll get rid of some stuff and spend a couple of days hanging out with my family. How bad could it be?

The good news first. We had great weather. Two sunny days in the eighties. We also had fairly steady crowds, a few of which even paid the price on the sticker. But the rest? The devious, penny-pinching zealots that I so hated dealing with? Oh, they were out in full force, confirming everything I always hated about letting complete strangers ravage through my personal (if unwanted) belongings. We even had one woman who aggravated me so much with her guerrilla tactics that I would have ran the items over with my SUV rather than let her have them.

So, what did I learn from all of this? Well, I have a great mom and sister that I enjoyed spending two exhausting days with. I also learned that there are crazy people who are willing to humiliate themselves over a quarter. But, the most important lesson I learned is that there are easier, much easier ways to earn $66.75.

Now that I've packed up what went unsold, I'm off to where it should have gone in the first place, the donation box at the Goodwill store. I promise all you wonderful charitable organizations who sort through everyone's junk I will not to be tempted by the dark side again. But, if I am, I've instructed my husband to slap some sense into me. Just remind me of that obnoxious woman who wanted that evening purse for fifty cents. That ought to do it.

To Speak or Not to Speak

One of the hardest things about having your grown child still living at home is how often you have to bite your tongue. Well, how often you have to at least try. Hearing parts of emotional phone conversations, seeing late night comings and goings, and observing questionable behavior without commenting is something I've discovered I'm not particularly good at. After butting my nose into my kids' business for two decades, it's asking a lot to turn off such a finely honed worrying machine. And while there are some wonderful aspects to being the parent of twenty-somethings, assuming the role of silent, yet emotionally invested, spectator isn't one of them.

I've found that twenty-four hours is about my limit. That's about all I can stand before I break down and ask that question that I probably shouldn't or offer that wise but totally unsolicited advice. Amazingly enough, it doesn't usually go well after that. My daughter ramps up the 'you're not the boss of me' attitude and I lapse into the disappointed parent incapable of keeping my mouth shut, even when I know I'm about to make matters worse. The funny thing is, in my rational moments, I know she's just trying to assert herself. I know she's trying to figure it out. Along the way, I know she's going to make choices I'm not crazy about. I also know that it's going to get a whole lot easier for both of us when she's not making them right in front of me.