TIT FOR TAT

When you think about it, life is a tangle of trade-offs, a karmic tit for tat that is paid with every choice we make. While I try not to think about my trade-offs too much – dwelling on them only makes them seem worse – lately I can't escape them. Maybe it's because the older I get the clearer I see that my life has been shaped by the trade-offs I've made and, as my gal pal Carrie Bradshaw would say, I couldn't help but wonder if I made good trades.

   Two years ago I left my full-time workaday “normal” life and skedaddled to the beach to be a writer. These dreams, of being a beach babe and writing, had been festering under the surface for years until they finally spewed over and I made them my reality. I loved that life: walking the beach and having things to write about hit me like seagull plop; being nurtured by Mother Ocean when I felt lonely; my days bookmarked by coffee sunrises and wine sunsets, flowing in between with the rhythm of the tide; the wild swings of weather and writer mojo. And I hated it too. The disappointment of winter finding me even at the beach and the sting of receiving rejections, or worse yet no response at all, to all my writer efforts sapped my spirit of the joy of living my dreams. Even though I lived a modest beach existence, the teeny cash cushion I had from my recent divorce dwindled into the danger zone, my lottery tickets were all losers, and my writing cost money in contest entry fees and postage for submissions while never earning a dime. I had shot my financial wad. Plus I missed my sweetie DMan. It was time to give up the beach babe dream and go home.

   So here I am once again living in land-locked Missouri. Sure, there are lakes close enough that I can be near the water, find some peace in the splish splash of ripples hitting the shore from time to time. But visiting a lake can never match the mighty roll of Mother Ocean's waves, the serenity of soft warm sand on bare feet, the cooling of the beach breeze while the sun melts like butter on my skin.

   Good trade or not? Was I right to go and experience my dream life even if only for a short time, store up memories, and short-circuit the regret of never having tried? Or would I be better off to have never lived the beach life, never realized how perfectly it fit me and that I felt home finally, and never be missing it all the more now because it was my existence, my reality?

   I let go of the beach life so I wouldn't be homeless and starve, but I couldn't give up being a writer. There is a scene I love in the movie “Thelma and Louise” when the ladies are contemplating giving up running and Thelma says, “It's like something's crossed over in me and I can't go back, you know? I just couldn't live.” Yes, I do know. I couldn't fathom going back to the spirit-sucking eight-to-five grind and not having any time or mental mojo left to write. So I took a part-time job at the library, at first shelving books and later checking them in and out. The work doesn't pay much and offers no benefits. My body feels rode hard and put up wet by the time my eight-hour shift ends – despite what folks may think, library work ain't for wussies; it's a full-body workout of bending, squatting, lifting, pushing heavy carts and walking – but when I clock out, I'm done. No work or worries to take home that would interfere with my creativity.

   Sounds pretty great, huh? It is. And it isn't. Fear gets a grip on me every time I have an unexplainable pain, every time my allergies flare up and I'm headed for asthmatic bronchitis again no matter what I do. I have no insurance, no extra cash to pay for a doctor. So I worry, concoct my own over-the-counter cocktail of remedies, and hope that someone in my family ends up with bronchitis, too, so I can bum an inhaler and breathe again. Even though I know it's coming, my gut clenches when my car insurance bill arrives in the mail, my oil needs changing, or my brakes need work. Some other bill (or food or my OTC arsenal) will have to wait in order to cover the extra expenses. No car = no getting to work = no money, period. My life buddy DMan would help me out financially in a heart beat if I was in dire straits, a blessing many in my situation don't have. But I already feel like Freida Freeloader, relying on him to cover the majority of our rent and household expenses. For an independent woman like myself, that's a choking chunk of pride to swallow without asking for even more help. The faint light at the bottom of the poor-me pit is the MegaMillions lottery ticket I buy twice a week. I kiss it, tuck it under the hot pink Myrtle Beach magnet on the fridge, and say a little prayer: Come on, Baby, be a winner. Roni needs to go to the dentist; Roni needs a mammogram.

   Good trade or not? Is the freedom of part-time not-all-consuming work, which allows me the time and energy to write, worth the constant fear of what-ifs that I can't afford or control?

   Speaking of work trade-offs, I have a friend who has worked in the insurance industry for 30-plus years. The job is demanding, but he gets paid well, gets to travel and enjoy perks like a company car. He is very good at his work and seems to like it fine most days. Yet my friend cannot wait to retire and counts down the weeks even though several years remain. He's not pining for the big pension checks or free time though. He can't wait to smoke pot again. Yes, you read it right. His retirement nirvana is to be free of drug tests and fire up a big old joint any time he wants. Now I have never been a big pot fan (if you've read “Who The Hell Am I?” already, you'll understand why), but it seems sad to me to devote all your working life to a job which requires you deny yourself something you enjoy so much that you can't wait to retire to be able to enjoy it again. That is one whopper of a sentence but it nutshells one whopper of a tit for tat!

   Instead of feeling sad for him, though, I imagine the huge grin on his face as he fires up his first post-retirement Cheech-and-Chong-worthy doobie and inhales deeply. What I can't imagine is how he will score some pot after being out of the “scene” for 30 years. Will I spot him hanging around outside a middle school looking like a grandpa while he's trying to spot the “heads” with a dime bag to sell? (Which is probably 50 bucks now, considering inflation.) Will he be googling old partying pals to see if they are still alive and, if so, do they still have pot or connections? Or maybe I should look more closely at the “herb” garden he's been cultivating all these years. There may be way more than parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme in there. No matter how he gets his dream doobie, I hope the trade was worth it and the high is the best of his life.

   If I thought giving in or giving up dreams made for tough trade-offs, that is nothing compared to the minefield of tit for tat in intimate relationships. Could this be the reason break-ups and divorces get so explosive? You make what you think are good trades for the sake of love, then when the relationship goes bad you're resentful as hell and feel like a sucker. You want back what you traded, but there are no takesies-backsies in break-up-land.

   I'm reminded of a scene from “Sex And The City – The Movie” when the ladies are lamenting about their men troubles after Carrie got jilted by Big at the alter. Samantha Jones, the original I-only-want-men-for-sex Ms. Independent who had now been in a five-year relationship with hubba hubba Smith Jerrod, opens up to the gals:

“As long as we're going down this road, I can't believe my life revolves around a man. On what planet did I allow that to happen?”

Sweet Charlotte, who believes in love at any cost, says, “But you love him.”

Samantha continues, “Does that mean saying his name 50 times more a day than I say my own? Does it mean worrying about him and his needs before me and mine? Is it all about the other person? Is that love?”

   Now, besides being the girlfriend, Samantha is also superstar actor Smith's PR person, so that brings a whole new tangle to their relationship tango, but she makes valid points. It's those little everyday “tits” that can stick in your craw and go sour. Like always saying “he” or “we” instead of “me.” Like making sure he has 2% milk for his coffee because he won't drink your soy milk. Like yawning every other breath through “Jay Leno” – who you find so NOT funny – even though you're dog tired because he likes to stay up late and fall asleep together while you much prefer falling asleep when you are sleepy, even if alone. Like making yourself watch golf or baseball or Nascar on TV yet again – and being bored out of your gourd yet again – in order to spend time with your man while a fabulous book you're dying to read lies unopened on the coffee table right in front of you. On the flip side, my sweetie DMan has silently suffered through several viewings of “Sex And The City – The Movie” and listened patiently as I pointed out my favorite scenes (what scene isn't my favorite?!) and quoted the dialogue out loud when I know he'd rather be watching golf, baseball, or Nascar. Even The Weather Channel. Anything but “SATC.” And those trade-offs are nothing compared to what he puts up with when I fall into one of my black funk depressions! I've often thought the man must be a saint. Or sometimes I think there's some deep, dark karmic debt he's paying off by being with me. That makes me feel better about being such a pain in the patootie to live with.

   Back to the issue of living together: what about giving up soloness for togetherness? For some folks, that would be a dream come true. For me, it's another tit for tat. DMan and I often pined for those extraordinary ordinary shared moments that you miss when you live apart: a spontaneous dance while we clean house together listening to 70s tunes; seeing a cardinal land on a snowy branch outside the kitchen window as we unload the dishwasher on a dreary day; a giggle-fest and water fight erupting while we wash our cars side by side in the driveway. So we moved in together. And now we enjoy tons of shared moments, but besides those moments, work, the news, weather and “what kind of wine shall we drink tonight?,” we don't have much to talk about. I miss that “I can't wait to see him to tell him something that happened” feeling. I miss craving him. I miss getting that jolt of tingles when he pulled in my driveway because I knew in a minute he'd have his big hot hands all over me. I miss the urgency, the intensity that comes from missing him.

   If piddly things like these stick in your craw and go sour, the big things can eat at your craw like battery acid until eventually they devour you completely. Big things like moving somewhere you don't want to live, making a home in a place that doesn't feel anything like home so he can take a promotion. Important things like having kids because that's what couples are supposed to do, then finding that your whole life together revolves around the kids' lives and, besides braces and soccer games, you have absolutely nothing to say to each other. Monumental things like leaving your career to be a mom and wondering when your oldest graduates high school whether you'd have made vice-president by now, or finally getting the huge partner office with a spectacular view and your gut aches when you have nothing to hang on the wall but diplomas and certificates. Those are some big tits to have to live with, no matter how good the tats seem.

   But the ultimate in trade-offs comes with death. Or life, and the choices between the two. Because Mama and I are what she calls “prayer warriors,” always exchanging names of folks in need of prayer, I am constantly bombarded with details about these folks' serious health problems, surgeries, treatment regimens, and prognoses. The ones that get me the worst have cancer. What kind of choices are they given?

   Should they choose to fight and, in doing so, mangle their body with surgery, poison their cells with chemo, and burn their flesh with radiation; accepting indiginities and suffering as part of the battle in the hope they can beat the cancer and win? For how long? At what cost?

   Or should they surrender to the havoc of cells gone crazy, to an unknown path that may meander through pit stops of organ failure, bloating, wasting, suffocating, and dementia; accepting indiginities and suffering as a condition of armistice with the Big-C in the hope that it will miraculously retreat or mercifully kill them quick. How long will they wait to know their fate? At what cost?

   In my mind, there is no question of choice. I've pondered long and hard over the years about what I would do if I got a cancer diagnosis – either a natural side-effect of praying for so many with cancer or I am one just morbid chick with too much time to think – and, unless the invader is something small and easily removed, I will surrender. Screw surgery. Screw treatments. Whatever time and health I have left will be spent laughing and celebrating with my special peeps; playing disco music too loud and dancing until I collapse satisfied; eating, drinking and smoking to my heart's content; and spending every last buck I've got to scratch off every last want-to-do from my bucket list. Since life for death is the final trade-off, I'm going to be sure I make every trade I have left a good one and hopefully make peace with the not-so-good trades I've already made along the way.

   My terminal tit for tat. Hope I get it right. Or better yet, hope I get hit by a big-ass bus and . . . SPLAT! Just like that, the end of me and tit for tat.

(P.S. I don't know what happened with the type changing sizes; it was not intentional and I couldn't figure out how to fix it. Sorry!)

You never know what you'll see

   I was waiting to meet a friend yesterday and, as is my nature, getting impatient because he was running late. Drumming my fingers on the steering wheel, I look up and see Leo and Max. Have you heard about them? Leo is an older gentleman, wearing long hair and past-their-prime clothes, that rides a beat-up bike laden with all he owns (I'm guessing) and his shaggy brown dog Max riding in a basket on the back. You can't miss them with the American flag waving from the back of the bike and a sign that says "Leo and Max Across America."  I'd had seen them about a week ago in the same area -- near the Wal-Mart on Independence in Springfield -- on a day when we were expecting severe storms, and I'd been worried about them ever since. If my friend had been on time, I would never have seen them again and known they made it through the storms and were doing fine.
   Finally my friend made it to town but went to the wrong McDonald's. Rather than make him drive farther in unfamiliar surroundings, I went to him. Right there in the drive-up line at the other McDonald's was a burgundy car with the hood made entirely of DUCT TAPE. I swear, I'm not kidding. If there WAS an actual hood under the tape, I couldn't see it. The pieces of tape were intricately woven together covering the entire engine, as if the "hood's" construction had been building over a long time. I nearly ran into a car backing out from staring at the duct-tape mobile so intently. I just hope they don't have to lift the "hood" to check their oil or replace their windshield fluid any time soon.
   My lesson in all this was: pay attention even if things aren't happening just like you want them to. You never know what you'll see.
   By the way, I found a Facebook page for Leo and Max in case you want to know more.  Here's the link: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Leo-Max-Across-America/367253580894
   Have a fabulous day, Yall!  

True Purpose

   I've felt like a failure for most of my life. Since I was a kid, I thought I had this big purpose, that I was going to do something super special in my life. And I never did. Oh, I've done a lot of things -- been a massage therapist, managed a retail store, done administrative assistant work a bunch, worked at the library, been a social worker, even wrote two books -- and I didn't totally suck at any of them. But none of the things I've done seemed big or special, hence my recurring feeling that my existence was a waste of the planet's oxygen.
   Then last night my bestie Sara and I were sipping cocktails and having a chick chat. Since we've both struggled at times with this "purpose" issue, she shared an epiphany she had recently. She said (and I'm paraphrasing here, I wasn't in any state to actually write it down word for word):

Maybe we don't have some big purpose, like a job or something we'll do. Maybe we are making ourselves nuts for thinking that. Maybe it's just who we ARE that is our purpose. Like you, totally changing DMan's life by introducing him to so many things and ideas and adventures he never would have had without you. And for your mom, you being there as her confidant every day so she doesn't have to carry all the troubles of your family alone. And you make me laugh, especially when I need it so bad. And me, for the way I keep my mom from going crazy over all the things my dad does. And for how our dogs go wild when I come home, like they just couldn't wait for me to be back. And how I got you into "Sex And The City" and now you like fashion and even watch "The Fashion Police." Maybe we don't have to DO anything, just be ourselves and that's enough.

   I loved it! If what she said is true, then I haven't been a failure all along because I do try to be myself, even when myself is crrr-azy. Then today I was reading "Love For No Reason" by Marci Shimoff (love it, too! -- look for a review on bookcrrr-azygal.blogspot soon) about a man named Johnny Barnes in Hamilton, Bermuda. Well into his eighties, Mr. Barnes stands for six hours at a roundabout intersection waving at people, calling out "Good Morning!" and "Have a good day!" and "God bless you!" with a huge smile for everyone. He started doing this in the 1940s every morning before work, then upped his time 30 years ago when he retired. People drive the roundabout just to see Johnny every day. The city even erected a statue of him on the opposite side of the intersection so no one would miss his smile or wave. Mr. Barnes said, "When the good Lord wakes me up mornings, puts a song in my heart, joy in my soul, and a smile on my face, I just have to give it away." Now that is sharing the best of himself with the world!
   I doubt that I'll never feel like a failure again. It comes too easily for me. But I'm hoping that this new idea of true purpose that Sara turned me on to will help me relax a little about the "big" thing I'm not doing so I can enjoy just "being" a whole lot more.
   What's your idea of true purpose? I'd love your feedback!   

It's beginning to look at lot like Christmas . . .

. . . but wait, isn't it almost Memorial Day? Yup, but it's been snowing, sleeting and raining -- and sometimes all at the same time -- all day long. And it's snowing harder now than before, covering the freshly mowed grass. The new leaves on the trees and rose bushes are starting to get weighted down. I'm hoping the limbs don't break. Hasn't been over 35 degrees all day. On May 3rd! Anyone that doesn't believe in climate change should come to Missouri.
   Look out Kentucky Derby, this mess is headed your way. I've heard of horses being mudders, but are their snowers?? If the racing form calls one of the entrants a snower, I'd bet all my money on that horse to win!

I'm Addicted

Hi. My name is Roni and I'm a Fashion Police-aholic.

   If there were a 12-step program for people addicted to the "Fashion Police" show, I would make it to every meeting. Not because I want to quit watching -- unh-uh, no way am I giving it up -- but because I would love to meet other addicts so we could watch together and dish about the show. My Sweetie DMan has watched with me a time or two and thinks it's downright mean the way they talk about other people's clothes. So he's out as my Fashion Police buddy. And my bestie Sara doesn't get the E! channel. There are no Fashion Police bars with the show blaring from every TV screen and the patrons cheering for their favorite looks and booing for the worst. There are no Fashion Police parties (think Super Bowl) with everyone wearing their favorite designers, drinking Cosmos, and nibbling canapes while glued to a marathon of FP episodes. I'm all alone with my addiction, a lone Joan Ranger, oohing and ahhing and you've-got-to-be-kidding-meing at the TV every Friday night from nine o'clock to ten.
   In case you don't know the show -- and where have you been, hiding out in a cave in Montana?? -- "Fashion Police" showcases the best and worst celebrity looks of the week, gleaned from photo shoots of everything from red carpet events to airport sightings. Joan Rivers hosts, joined by Guiliana Rancic, Kelly Osbourne, and George Kotsiopoulos (Georgie Porgie, as Joan calls him), and do they have fun! Joan is caustically hilarious, throwing out naughty zingers about the fashions and celebrities like Christmas candy at a parade, and sparing no one, even herself. Sometimes the jokes are so raunchy the FP crew can only roll their eyes, but most of the time they roll with laughter right along with the audience of Joan Rangers -- salute! (Every time the Joan Rangers are mentioned, the gang gives a salute. It's cute.) As mentioned, they count down the top five must-see looks of the week, then at the end of the show they pick their best and worst looks. The worst look is dubbed "Fash-hole" of the week, and Guiliana, Kelly, and George each get ten seconds of direct camera time to convince Joan and the Rangers of their pick. The comments can get mighty snarky, and sometimes the bad-word bleeper gets quite a work out! Besides all that, the "Police" has regular segments called "Bitch Stole My Look," "Rack Report," and "Starlet or Streetwalker," which I won't spoil for you by going into all the details but suffice it to say they are a HOOT! 
   For any of you that know me, you might wonder why I'm addicted to this show. I wonder too. If I were ever a celebrity, I'm sure I would be crowned the Fashion Police Fash-hole Queen. To paraphrase the old "Hee Haw" show song: if it weren't for bad style, I'd have no style at all. I guess it's like someone that wants to be a writer but can't write worth a squat and ends up being a book reviewer -- I have no fashion sense but love admiring those who do and jeering at those who don't (or do but make the occasional very public fashion faux pas). Take a recent episode, for instance. There was total FP consensus that Beth Chapman, wife of Dog the Bounty Hunter, won Fash-hole of the week for her look at the American Country Music awards. OMG it was B-A-D! She wore a sleeveless pale pink diaphanous gown with the neckline plunging so deep it looked like Kevin James's ass crack popping out. Instead of resembling red carpet-worthy couture, the gown looked like it was ordered from the clearance page of the Plus-size Frederick's of Dollywood catalog. Now I've watched the "Bounty Hunter" show before (unfortunately a favorite of my ex-husband's), and even though Beth's usual style is part tough biker chick and part buxom sex goddess, it always worked for her. Her style looked right on her. This ACM award's dress? It looked like something someone that never met her before picked out as a cruel joke. Needless to say, I concurred with their Fash-hole of the week pick. And they were tough on Ms. Chapman, but Joan and the gang always try to say something upbeat about the Fash-hole, too, maybe mention previous looks that were winners or diss the stylist that put them in the God-awful outfit instead of the celeb. So, no matter what DMan thinks, the show is not all mean.
   Some days when I come home feeling beat like a tied-up dog from work, knowing I have the "Fashion Police" to watch is the only thing that keeps me from going straight to bed. That and a big glass of wine. So, yes, I am addicted to a silly, snarky TV show, and no, I will not swear off it. But I would love to have you join me in my addiction. Catch "Fashion Police" on E!, Fridays at 9:00 PM (Central). If you can't wait -- and sometimes I can't either -- check out their website http://www.eonline.com/shows/fashion_police. Then let's dish!

     

How are you "treating" yourself?

"One of the secrets of a happy life is continuous small treats." 
                                            -- Iris Murdoch

   I read this quote in a book recently and loved it, even penned it on a Post-it note for the message board near my writing table so I would be continuously reminded. I need all the secrets I can learn about being happy because I am prone to having the black funks. A black funk, as defined in my book "Life Gone South," is: death of the soul; wanting to crawl in a hole and never come out; a fortress around my heart that blocks out joy; can't taste food -- yes, even chocolate, and yes, I tried every kind -- don't even crave sex. Feeling low, low, low, down dirty low. As you might imagine, these black funks are no damn fun so I do everything I possibly can to avoid them. I figured if throwing continuous small treats into my life will help, then sign me up.
   Today was the kick-off of my "CST" therapy. I was off work and had errands to do, and some not so fun (gyno exam and groceries -- YUCK!). Instead of only doing the have-tos, I wheeled into $1 Jewelry Galore (on Battlefield, near National) and splurged on some bling. I got a tiger striped belt with hot rainbow colors, a six-pack of various sized silver hoops, a bangle bracelet, and a funky chunky wood necklace. Plus they had the cutest little mood rings -- I got the one with peace signs -- that must have made me happier because it changed to blue (calm, relaxed) and purple (sensual) the rest of the day. And all that happiness cost less than eleven bucks!
   Besides the bling treats, I sipped a Diet Coke as I was cruising around (something I love but rarely do), sang along with the radio, and really paid attention to my surroundings instead of rushing and being stressed out by traffic. I noticed the Bradford pear blossoms falling down like snow, that a lot of drivers are actually courteous and not jerks, and two red Mini Coopers. It may be silly but DMan and I trade "Mini Cooper kisses" for every one we see, so I got two extra kisses just from paying attention. Turned out to be a pretty happy day despite the not-so-pleasant errands.
   Feel free to give the CST therapy a try, see if you end up a bit happier. I'd love to hear if it works for you too. Now I'm going to give myself one more little treat and pour a big glass of wine to enjoy while I finish the laundry. Just because it's a small treat doesn't mean it has to come in a small glass! Cheers!    

Who The Hell Am I?

     My sister K and I were hanging out the other day and out of the blue she says, “I don't know who I am anymore. I don't fit in anywhere. I'm not young, but I'm not old either. So who the hell am I?”

     My first thought was, “Is menopause bitch slapping her too?” But the more we talked, the more I understood her quandary had nothing to do with menopause and realized I felt exactly the same: middle age is no (wo)man's land. Halfway between birth and death (we hope), being in our forties and fifties is confusing. And frustrating. We literally are not young anymore, nor are we old (except we seem like it to those that are young).

     When we were young, things were much simpler. Being young meant having big fun and little responsibility, like hanging out with friends at the drive-in movie after working part time slinging burgers at the Tastee-Freez, forgetting your worries by topping off a Big Gulp with Everclear or taking a hit off a passed-around joint (but don't mix the two unless you want to end up buzzed out of your gourd in the backseat of your date's car, take my word on this!). It meant cruising in the nearest big town to check out cute boys and blast your newest cassette tape. With gas at .79 cents per gallon back then, driving up and down Kearney Street (our preferred cruising spot) was cheap entertainment.

     We young'uns wore bell bottom Levis and feathered hair, drove Pintos or Vegas or VW Bugs, parked on country roads to make out with our sweeties, then snuck in past curfew with hickeys we passed off as curling iron burns.

     We knew we weren't “old” because old folks had bursitis and mortgages, smoked pipes and cigars and drank instant coffee, and went to church socials or PTA meetings for “fun.” Oldsters wore polyester pants, knee-high hose that bagged at the ankles, and spongy-soled shoes; got perms or a weekly wash-and-set; drove tank-like Buicks and Plymouths; and the closest they got to making out was a goodnight peck on the cheek. Those old people were in their forties or beyond but they seemed ancient. It was simple then – when you got to a certain age, you dressed and acted “your age.”

     But no more. If you could meet my Sister K, headed toward the far side of 40 herself, you would see she is the antithesis of old: dark chocolate hair swinging in a CHI-sleeked “Rachel” do, body-hugging shirts and sequin-pocketed jeans showing off her curvaceousness, a mishmash of Christian and biker chick tattoos decorating her arms and legs. She rode a Harley until it finally went kaput and says “wicked cool” about everything. No way could she be described as old.

     By outward appearance, I'm not as wicked cool as she but I'm still wearing low-rider jeans without sporting a belly-flopping hangover or plumber's crack. My signature look funky cap toe sneakers and peace sign earrings give me a youthful flair. And the only polyester pants that have ever been on these thighs were part of my college job Kentucky Fried Chicken uniform. Those pants were mandatory, and I hate, hate, hated them.

     Okay, so our look is still in the young(ish) realm. Good. What about our actions?

     Sister K has teenage boys, which brings with it the requisite mommy baggage, but that's not all she's about. Besides making a living driving a school bus like an expert truck rodeoer – and I'll bet she is the sexiest bus driver those adolescent boys ever had and fodder for many fantasies – she is a faux painting diva, wine blend connoisseur, disco dancer extraordinaire, and super seamstress. She creates and wears these diaphanous ponchos, blinged out with sparkles and feathery trim, that can turn the most blah outfit into a party. She also saved my favorite Gap jeans from ending up in the trash by adding zazzy flame patches to the threadbare knees. I get more compliments on those ancient jeans than anything else in my closet. The woman can do it all, and she does. The Energizer Bunny on steroids couldn't keep up with her. She's definitely not living the oldster life.

     Me? I'm not so talented or creative, but I try. I try everything to try and find that one thing that's going to be my thing. Here's the “I Tried” short list: guitar, harmonica and keyboards (I swear I've got the music in me, I just can't make it come out); working as a massage therapist (a real one, not a quasi-hooker); being a beach babe (loved it but couldn't afford it forever); and skateboarding. I still have my pin-tail longboard Pinkie and she's gorgeous, with hot pink wheels and her underside decorated with groovy stickers like “I'm not perfect, but parts of me are incredible.” I mostly look at her these days, spending my spare time writing instead of boarding. But I could ride her if I got the urge. And I don't spend all day discussing my aches and pains and surgeries, planning my next meal at the senior-price buffet, or knitting gift afghans that will be hidden in a closet until I come for a visit.

     So we don't look old, at least fashion-wise. Wrinkle-wise? Now that's a whole different subject (see my earlier "Get Off My Face" blog). And we don't act old. Then why the hell can't we figure out who the hell we are?

     As I pondered this, I remembered my grandma saying to me, “Honey, I don't feel old. My body may be falling apart and I may look old, but I don't feel it, not inside anyway.” Bazinga! Grandma was one wise woman. I realized I don't feel old, at least not on the inside. My body sure feels 49 Part Two, some days more like 69 Part Two, but my inside feels 24 tops.

     Sister K had her own bazinga moment when I asked her how old she felt: “That's it! My body may feel like I'm in my late thirties, but my spirit is still 21. I think like a kid, that's why I'm more comfortable around kids than people my own age. I've got the wisdom of an older person with a young spirit.”

     That's true for me as well. While I don't do little kids – never had any, never wanted any, and no, I don't babysit no matter how cute the little devil is – I feel simpatico hanging with 20-somethings way more than oldsters. I try not to be an old-age bigot, but I have a phobia about visiting senior habitats ever since my 45^th birthday. My parents, bless their well-meaning hearts, got sick of me bitching about getting older and surprised me with a birthday lunch at the Senior Center. The Senior Center! The place where everyone had blue hair or no hair, the hot topic around the table was who had what removed, and the drill sergeant center director spent ten minutes lecturing the lunchers on the proper protocol for the new self-serve salad bar as if they'd never hit the senior buffets before. Needless to say, I don't mention aging around my folks anymore. Or let them take me out for my birthday. And I prefer not to hang out with an older crowd if I can help it.

     Besides me and Sister K, others weighed in on the “how old do you feel outside versus inside” question and it seems almost universal that the disparity between body age and spirit age keeps our minds totally confused. Most reported feeling younger in spirit than body, and the older the person, the wider the gap between the two.

     Some examples:

                        Body feels         Spirit feels          Age

Roberta               60ish                 23/24              50s

Mikey                  50                     30                   50s

Deb                    45                     23                   50s

Eli                      35                     20                   20s

(Actual ages are approximate – I'm not out to out anyone's age.)

     I wanted to better understand the disparity and the reason behind it, so I asked my sweetie DMan for his opinion. He said, “I guess I feel under 40 all over. If I tried to do things I did when I was 30, I'd probably feel older.” And he's older than I am. I do love him to death, but sometimes I just want to wring his neck to choke off his Pollyanna attitude that makes me feel like his “old” lady. Plus his answer didn't help my understanding one bit.

     Then I tried asking Mama and Daddy to tell me their body versus spirit ages to use for something I was writing. Big mistake. I got righteous soliloquies as if they were having their fifteen minutes of fame on “Oprah.” In a nutshell, Mama's version was “wake up every day with a sunny outlook and you'll feel your best no matter what age you are,” and Daddy spouted off on “I've worked hard all my life and I damn well deserve to feel how old I feel.” Spoken with good intentions on their part, I'm sure, but no help at all.

     Looks like I'm on my own to explain the “who am I” disconnect. Could it be that our bodies keep on aging but our spirits hold at some prime time when we were at our peak? That's how my memory seems to work anyway. It must have peaked in the 1970s because I can sing every blame word of the “Green Acres” theme song but can't remember when I last changed my sheets. (See, that song is playing in my head right now – “Green Acres is the place to be, farm living is the life for me . . . .” The sheets? I don't have a clue how long they've been on the bed. Guess it's time for the sniff test.)

     If the spirit peak supposition is true, maybe what we see as middle-age crazy isn't crazy at all. That paunchy balding man with newly implanted hair plugs is only acting his spirit age, and his spirit paused as a testosterone-fueled teenager with the hots for well-endowed Corvettes and 22-year old blondes. And maybe a lot of oldsters diagnosed with senility are perfectly fine. Their spirits just choose to hang out at the age when having a teddy bear as their lunch companion and calling everyone “Mama” feels right. Life was much simpler with a cuddly friend and Mama around all the time, wasn't it?

     Or could it be that the way we feel inside reflects our true soul age, in cosmic terms? What if there is no arrested spirit development involved and that no matter how old we get to be or how many times our soul gets to hang out in bodily form (if you believe in that sort of thing, which I do – Sorry, Mama, for disappointing you), we'll forever stay at our unique and perfect soul age?

     That sounds right to me, and my uncle Jesse is a prime example of why. He's on the express train to turning 87 and lives in a nursing home due to Parkinson's and the residual effects of several mild strokes, but his soul is forever youthful. Those honey brown eyes of his exude orneriness. He may not be able to get a forkful of peas to his mouth without spilling half, but he is still the biggest flirt I've ever known. And the best. He's got every female in the facility wrapped around his little finger and loving it. He wise cracks. He plays practical jokes. His soul isn't a day over 25. Never has been. Never will be.

     Now it makes sense why most folks I talked to feel they are in their twenties or thirties no matter what their birth date says. If all souls were kid souls, the world would be one giant messy playground and nothing would get accomplished. If oldster souls dominated, the world would creak to a cantankerous halt on oh-my-aching-whatever woes and remember-when-life-was-better bitchfests. At least our 20-something souls still have hope enough to believe we can make the world better, the energy to keep plugging away until we do, and the smarts to have some fun along the way.

     So, who the hell am I? I'm a 24-year old soul making the best of life in a 49 Part Two-year old body. Let's see, what was my life like at 24? I was a nearly-single gal, after the breakup of my first marriage, with my very own place and a decent paying job. When I wasn't working hard or sleeping soundly, I was boogieing with my sisters every chance I got, wearing jean mini skirts and fringey short boots, drinking cheap beer by the pitcher, and partying with good friends hearty and often.

     Being 24 forever? I can live with that.

 (Me and Sister K rocking our young souls!)