Saturday, March 21, 2015

Stuff old people do.

Dear Diary,

For my fiftieth birthday I did not run a 50K, like Perky plans to do later this year for her fiftieth. Remember, I. Am lazy. I had a spa day, and then the next day...I had another. I lounged in a hot tub in Albuquerque and read a few chapters in the book, "Positivity" by Barbara Frederickson. The next day, I lounged in a hottube in Santa Fe with my awesome buddies who took me up there for my birthday.

(I am running a 50K next weekend.)

Apparently, they watch matinees. On my birthday, which I share with my mother in law, we went to an afternoon matinee. I was the youngest one in the theater.

They get facials. And have aestheticians.

They go blond. Well, at least I did. Inexplicably, I decided last week I wanted to be a blonde again. So I am.

They join AARP. I'm doing it for the discounts. I'm like a discount ninja now with my AARP card, my AAA card, and military dependent card. HOOwahhh! Pick a card!!

They join the Y. Everyone seems pretty friendly. Everyone I saw at the Y, walking in and out of various classes, was around my age or slightly younger. Apparently, when you reach a certain age, you join the Y.

They shop at "senior super-stores" and buy assistive devices. There are entire industries aimed and helping people having to avoid moving too much.

You don't have to bend or move too much to dress, or wash yourself, with the right accoutrements.

Things to help you squeeze the toothpaste tube

Things to make it so you don't have to bend down to wash your scaley feet
Things to keep you from having to reach to wipe yourself
And help you stand up off the toilet.
This will help you get your socks on.
This will help you pull your zipper up.
There are things to help you open jars, turn knobs, pour tea, and carry your dishes.

I think I want to do that on my own for as long as possible. I'm a huge believer in "use it or lose it."

So Here's my assistive devices:


It's tempting. I need more sleep than I used to. But I am more vain than I am lazy, and I see the carnage all around me.

So, this fifty+ woman is going to go for a trail run, or to BootCamp. At the Y, of course.

Because that's what some old people do.



Friday, February 27, 2015

The Oldometer is rolling over.

Dear Diary,

It's 5 am and the wind is still. Fucking. Blowing.

I'm not talking about a breeze rustling through the trees. We live near a canyon and I'm talking about about the wind howling by the house, squeezing through crevices under the door. Rattling the roof vents. That wind. I hate it. HATE IT.

I will not run in high winds.

There's a scene in the old miniseries "Centennial," where a kid dies during the depression on the Great Plains; his model-T or whatever the fuck, rolls over, pinning him, and he's covered with dust blown by the wind, and suffocates. When his mother is told, she rocks back and forth with a crazy look in her eye muttering, "'twas the dust that kilt him...the dust, and the wind." Later a neighbor, trying to keep the wind and dust out of her house, goes apeshit crazy and kills eveyone in the house.

I'm not saying I'm going to go batshit and take everyone with me. I am just sayin': I can relate.




2015 has several important meanings for me.

First, it's the ten year anniversary of when I started this blog. I started this in January 2005 when I weighed 195 pounds. I've yo-yo'd my way back and forth between 150 and 170 since then, between a size 8 and 12, but I've never been back up to where I was at size 16.

Second, it's the year I turn 50.

FIFTY. Fifty has a lot of meaning for me. My mother was 53 when she was diagnosed with cardiomyoathy and given five years to live. She lasted eight, but she still died too young, after a lifetime of obesity.

Several older women I admire have listened to the news of my impending fiftieth, saying Quietly to me, "fifty was a hard one for me."

The interesting thing is that appoaching fifty was far more anxiety-inducing than actually being here. Once actually got here (in two weeks) I shrugged, and said, fuckit.

Upon approach to the big 5-0, I did spend far more time than was necessary trying to figure out which hair style or makeup or clothing would make me appear younger. I even read books on the subject.

Then one day it hit me: it's not the hair or the makeup, I'm really doing as well as I can. What is making me look older is....


...Wait for it...




...Wait for it...



Getting older. (What a concept)

In any case I have made some observations that may have something to do with what my great Aunt Lucille said to me when I was eight and asked her why she wasn't married. Aunt Lucille, a Lauren Bacallish woman who became a lawyer in the 1940s when women Simply Were Not Lawyers, looked and me. Well, the truth is that the older I get the less shit I'm willing to put up with.

So here they are, in no particular order.

First, I have never had a diamond ring, so, for my impending fiftieth, I bought myself a present.


<-- Second, I don't care if it makes me look slightly younger, I'm tired of fucking with all that hair. Goodbye, ponytail.


Third, running on roads makes my hip hurt (apparently, a greater trunchsomething bursitis), so I'm going to be nearly all trails as a runner from now on.

Forth, I love bootcamp-style workouts. I feel younger, stronger, and lithe. I'm joining the Y and signing up there, because it gives me more time flexibility, and a shower. i'd been doing them in a private gym, but it's really cutting into my budget and I had less control over when I could work out. Also, I like the Y. Because shower.

Fifth, where the fuck is my AARP card, anyway? I want those damned discounts.

Sixth, heLLO, senior Olympics, here I come.

Seventh, and I'm polling all the other old cool people out there, is this where I get to start saying whatever crazy shit is on my mind? And then people chuckle and say, OH, old lady Misty is such a hoot! Let me know I'm wrong.

Eighth, I fucking hate Blogsy. But it's all there is. Dammit. Dammit, dammit, dammit.

Ninth, I find myself gravitating towards facials and massages more. Is that normal?

Tenth, I still have no desire to talk to, hold, talk about, show pictures of, shop for, or babysit grandchildren. I don't have any yet, so it's just as well. Oh, sure, maybe I'll change my mind when one of my kids plops a wiggling bundle of joy in my arms. Or maybe not. I work with mentally ill children all day, so it may surprise many to know that I'm not really all that into kids on the weekends.

Last, as the baby of the family,I can remember thinking, now that I,m thirty, I'm seriously a grownup. You have to take me seriously now!. They didn't. I thought the same thing when I turned forty. They didn't. Now I'm fifty, and there's nobody left to say that to.

So, let me know if any of these things are weird. And let me know what else weird might happen.




 I'm no longer involved in multisport or endurance sports. I've started my own business, a psychotherapist specializing in anxiety d...