Where the Ego Fears to Tread

I just finished reading an essay on Medium by Meghan Daum, “My Life at 47 is Back to What It was Like at 27“. I’ve been thinking a lot about change and the idea that who we were is always going to be who we are. For someone like me, who is always striving to be better – a better parent, a better writer, a better human, the idea that our essence will remain essentially unchanged throughout our lives bothers me. Perhaps I’ve begun to see the threads of my life that lead from the wood library floors where, at age 9, I’d sit with a pile of books, to the worn, overstuffed reading chair in my study next to a table fairly groaning with to-be-reads at age 51.

Yesterday, I stopped in the drugstore and for the first time in two decades, looked behind the counter to see how much cigarettes cost. It’s a new habit I’ve been practicing – trying to notice things that I don’t normally look at in my daily routine. There was a time when I knew exactly how much cigarettes cost. I smoked until I was 30. Even when I was broke in grad school, I’d scrape together the money (sometimes all in coin) to buy a generic pack of menthols.

canstockphoto13455198.jpgWhat I lost in lung cancer potential, I gained in weight. But in the intervening years since my last smoke, how much has really changed? Is it just the external trappings – from an apartment to a house in the burbs, from the worst girlfriend ever to a less-than-awful wife? From a dog caregiver to a cat caregiver? From someone allergic to children to someone who feels the awful, wonderful deep love for a child. From someone who bounced to whatever job paid more to someone who will be lucky to ever be paid again.

Sometimes it scares the hell out of me – what if this is it? And that question may be the thing that has definitely never changed. It’s the same startling thought I had when I was 18, 28, 38, 48…what if this is all I am? What if I never become a published writer? What if I continue to live an obscure little life? What if the potential I believed I had was all a myth? What if this is all there is?

It’s no coincidence that the heavies are catching me this week. I finally got the last layer of hair color sheared off. I’ve got a Dame Judi Dench thing happening on my head. And I can’t pass a mirror without being a little startled. All the color is gone, replaced by a silvery white. I rarely wear makeup and suddenly I have a better understanding of my grandmother’s blue eye shadow and intensely red lipstick. I am a faded photo of myself. I thought, well, this is me until I’m dead, just picking up more wrinkles and arthritis along the way. Get used to it. 

canstockphoto39088457.jpgAnd then I laughed. There are some things that haven’t changed – my smirking, dark sense of humor. My ability to have the worst thoughts and then let them go. The likelihood that I will be trying to self-improve right up to the moment of death. Oh look, her last Google search was “How to be more productive in hospice”. That in my deepest, darkest moment of despair, I have an inkling that I’ll have a new plan tomorrow.

I’m not the most mentally healthy person. I compulsively overdo everything – food, shopping, TV binging, saying “yes” – less and less as I age, but I can still put away half the kitchen on a bad day. I run a continuous cycle of depressed-okay-depressed-okay- mostly okay. I’m not particularly accomplished at anything, but I know a little about a lot of things and I spend a lot more time doing what makes me content than I did before. My special skills involve list-making, the ability to do heavy physical labor, swearing in several languages, rationalization of just about anything, and my inclination to occasionally bake good homemade bread.

As for the writing, well, there’s a lot of good writers out there and so much of what gets published is the result of hard work, opportunity, and luck  – a secret combo that no one ever really gets sorted. I’m still stuck in the hard work phase, or I should say the pre-hard work phase, because the hardest work is getting myself to do it. Once I’m there, everything is good. Getting there is worse than getting myself to the gym. In fact, I will sometimes work out to avoid writing. That’s wrong on so many levels.

It’s when the jokes get real that throw me off. Less haha-ing and more: oh, shit. Yes, this may be all that there is. Is it bad? Unendurable? Untenable? Not at all. I just feel a bit like a pissed off school teacher sometimes – she had so much potential. I suppose that most humans are guilty of not living up to their potential. I’ve been reading The Art of the Short Story by Dana Gioia and R.S. Gwynn, a very nice collection of short stories, that include not only the story, but a biographical summary of the author. I immediately notice when they’ve died. Atwood is still alive, Borges and Cather had long lives, but Camus at 47, Carver at 50, Chekhov at 44 (apparently I’ve only gotten through the Cs).

Panic mode. Oh my god, if I were them, I’d be dead. I’d have no stories to tell. I haven’t been writing my whole life. No one might ever now that I ever wrote anything besides this blog. Everyone has a blog. Who cares about that? Breathe. There’s nothing to be done now, except to keep moving along like you have the time. No amount of panic will make you write better. Now get back to that short story you’ve been putzing around with for a week.

As my teenage daughter puts it, why would it matter? You’d be dead. Yes, that little cynical apple didn’t fall far from the tree. Still, it matters to me now and regardless of the quasi-solipsistic existentialism that governs much of my personal outlook, part of me knows the power of words. What if my words are what someone needs to hear, to get them by a bad moment, to lift their spirits? It isn’t ego as much as it is paying things forward.

canstockphoto34158490.jpgSometimes I feel like my life was saved by books, that the right words at a particular time in my life, lifted me, gave me heart, taught me empathy, kept me from spiraling downward. Perhaps our essence never changes, but we complete the circle. The words that saved me rooted themselves, became part of me and grew. And now they grow beyond me. Not a bad way to head into the last inning – saying thank you, using my words.

 

Some Words I read This Week that I Enjoyed:

Raymond Carver’s short story,  “A Small, Good Thing

Made me blubber – not always the best selling point, but if you’re in need of a good cry, it’s a good shove in that direction.

Benjamin Dreyer’s Dreyer’s English: An Utterly Correct Guide to Clarity and Style

I’m not particularly interested in style guides – I use them as reference books for specific questions. However, I’ve just started reading this one and will likely read it cover-to-cover, because of the writer’s sense of humor.

Aging Gracelessly

This was the year I was going to quit dyeing my hair and give into the white hair that has been fighting its way out since my early twenties. To get it started, I got an incredibly unflattering short haircut to let the butterfly metamorphosize into the old lady I was always meant to be. With the extra menopausal pounds, I now look like a potato with a sprig of hair, working my way out to a full pumpkin shape. Occasionally I catch sight of myself in the mirror and just have to laugh.

potatocartoonwitharmsWith all the advice, articles, and products relating to anti-aging, they often fail to mention what an odd ecosystem the aging body is. I watch with bemused curiosity. The random hairs, the delicate balance between hydration and the number of times you have to get up in the night to de-hydrate, your eyeballs sinking in, slowly being swallowed by your eyelids, and how you begin to fade until you look like an old dish towel that’s been through the wash one too many times.

I write this and can already hear the protests about loving yourself and the cruelty of a youth-obsessed culture and how it’s inner beauty that counts. Blah, blah, blah. Beauty has never been an aspiration of mine. I went through the motions when I was younger, but could never really pull it off. I was average and bookish and looked like I was playing dress up when I attempted anything feminine. So I stopped trying. I focused on getting and staying fit and that worked for awhile. Until it didn’t. Injuries took longer to recover from and I started to not want to interrupt a day of reading and writing, with, you know…moving.

peopleachesandpains.jpgYour 50s and 60s are where you get to reap the rewards and punishments of life choices. Every illness, bump, odd intestinal feeling is now accompanied with the anxiety that this is going to be what gets you – a tumor, cancer, some weird infection that incapacitates you and makes you a burden to everyone around you. I mean, it’s going to happen eventually. There are people who use this uncertainty as a launching pad for unmitigated daily joyfulness. I am not one of them. But I stay curious and occasionally have a laugh about some of the more ridiculous aspects of being human.

Still, I feel it’s my duty to make some sort of effort towards health. I’d like to make it until my daughter, now a teenager, is in her 30s. You know, after all the bad boyfriends, fender benders, and years of therapy to undo the damage I’ve done – when there is a possibility that I could call her out of the blue and not hear her eye roll at the other end.

Sochildgirlwomanaging this brings me back to aging. I believe in leading by example as a parent and sometimes I’ve gotten it right, sometimes not. Now, I need to navigate the aging process, the last third of life, the accumulation of good and bad decisions, and whether or not I can still make better ones.

I sense that I’m at a tipping point. Over the last year, I gave up on planned diet and exercise, choosing instead to focus on my creative life. There have been immediate consequences. I’ve suffered insomnia, heartburn, panic attacks, low energy, weight gain, and low spirits. I’m having trouble rallying the troops to get back to good habits. I reverted to childhood – comfort foods, burying myself in books, dreaming of a day when I can feel successful, productive, whole, loved. It’s elemental. All that growth, all that learning, and the moment I stop trying, I become the bespectacled silent girl with a book who loves mashed potatoes and cheese and spends a lot of time daydreaming.

My life coach friend will likely be irritated reading this. She likes to point out progress when I’m in one of my discouraged moods. It’s true, my life is taking a different shape. In some ways, that shape is returning me to who I started out being before the vagaries of family and society became internalized. There is a reason that parallels are drawn between adolescence and middle age. Hormones in reverse. Everything is up for grabs. Suddenly you have to start thinking about potential and possibilities again.

The ride this time is accompanied by a lifetime of lessons. Some of those lessons are about limitations and disappointments. And there’s a lot of here we go again...it’s a little exhausting to think about getting on the right track, making a change, getting my shit together so that I don’t completely fall apart, so I can age gracefully. I hate that phrase. I was never graceful before, why do I have to start now? I’m a mess of habits and emotions aavocadocartoonnd moods. I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in months. Things are wobbly and I don’t remember why I went into a room half the time.

Age gracefully my ass.

I’m going to age just the way I’ve always lived – curiously, awkwardly, and one can always hope, slowly. My life will continue to be the three steps forward and two steps back dance that it has always been. I’m just going to look like an avocado doing it.

The November Blues

It’s been a rough month and likely to get worse. Sometimes being human is just a bumpy ride and at other times, it’s talking yourself through the next minute without collapsing on the floor in a heap. I need to be in a heap for a bit.

Administrative Note: There has been an uptick of abusive comments on this blog. The IP address arrives with the comment and will be reported, as well as added to the comment blacklist. All comments are held in moderation.

Socanstockphoto1419219.jpgmething’s been brewing all month. I’ve been experiencing chronic insomnia and was struggling with National Novel Writing Month. I was burnt out on politics and the work associated with getting out the vote. And now, as we keep vigil over a family member in hospice, I’ve realized that I am just flat out exhausted. The daylight savings shift and sudden appearance of winter were the final kickers.

So I do what a lot of writers do, I write about my anxieties, in the hopes that they have just a little bit less of a hold over me. Putting order to chaos and words to the silence.

Aging Gracelessly

Being a member of the sandwich generation for the last 15 years, means that one is constantly needed. Parents to care for on one side and a child to raise on the other. But there comes a point when you realize in only a few years, you’ll be needed by no one and you discover how much of your identity was invested in caregiving.

I’m watching as my child becomes a young adult and goes out into the world and as parents shrink and leave the world. It also gives one a bird’s eye view of a human timeline. And how very short it all is.

On a more superficial note, I realize that I have to let go of the idea that I’m a brunette. I inherited the family gift of premature graying in my early 20s. Between dye jobs, I can see that my hair is almost completely white now. Over the next year, I’m going to go with lighter and lighter hair colors until my hair is its natural color – white. It means seeing someone else in the mirror, changing all my profile pictures, and being referred to as my daughter’s grandmother at awkward moments.

canstockphoto19169321The positive side is that I’ll get the power of invisibility. I’ve experienced it off and on throughout my life, but the white hair will clinch it. I remember watching the members of my League of Women Voters chapter boldly approach strangers for voting registration and thinking how benignly people view older women. No one wants to tell grandma “no”. I have a feeling that it’s an advantage.

On the other hand, it might sack my writing career before I can even get this lead balloon off the ground. But that’s immaterial at this point.

Writing

It’s been six years since I first did National Novel Writing Month and it was apparently long enough me for to forget why I never wanted to do it again. I signed up this year, found some writing buddies to join up as well, and began the long slog towards 50,000 words. Day 7 – deleted 8,000+ words in a temper tantrum. Day 14 – Hit 15,000+ words and quit.

canstockphoto3436262I love the idea and organization related to NaNoWriMo – it encourages people to do something they thought they couldn’t, as well as encouraging young writers. What I have to come to terms with is that I am an excruciatingly slow writer for a reason. I do everything slowly, because I have to rework sentences and paragraphs. I edit as I go and get overwhelmed with the mass of drivel that I tend to put out under duress.

There are great merits to pushing yourself to get past the inner editor and for the longest time, I have viewed my inner editor as a problem – something to cure myself of, so that I could be prolific. Getting older means that the time for curing oneself, for retraining a lifetime of habits starts to seem less efficient than just going with who you are and making the most of it.

During a discussion about goals at my writing group, I blurted that I wanted to write literary fiction. Someone asked me for clarification. I said I wanted to write layered, complex fiction – the kind that no one reads, but that gets awards. It felt like naked ambition to say that out loud and likely contrary to the kind of writing I’m doing now. I felt silly afterwards, as if I’d revealed some sort of shameful, secret fantasy.

Reading

canstockphoto1076788There’s a trite saying about dressing for the job you want to have. I think the same thing goes for reading. I’m always reading above my grade level, because I think that’s one of the few ways that I’ll ever get better as a writer. Sometimes it feels like I’m putting on airs, being some sort of elitist, but this language and attitude is a holdover from my childhood. I was the kid who always had her nose in a book, something that was often mocked and derided. Our current culture carries a whiff of anti-intellectualism and sometimes I internalize it, because it feels familiar.

39891438Still, I am submersing myself in the more challenging reads and coming up for air with a lighter read or two. Currently, I’m reading William Giraldi’s American Audacity: In Defense of Literary Daring and Rita Dragonette’s The Fourteenth of September, an enjoyable work of fiction about another time of social and political upheaval – the 1960’s. It reminds me of being younger and ideologically self-righteous. It’s a debut novel by an older writer. Obviously, I’m finding inspiration where I need to.

How is November going for you? What are you reading?

A Snapshot of Auld Lang Syne

canstockphoto10299946I always find the time at the beginning of the new year to be particularly poignant. It’s around this time that I turn into an internet detective, in search of the people who were, for years at a time, part of my life and then no more. Where had they gone? Who had they become?

As a writer, I put it down to an inveterate curiosity about stories. How did their story turn out? Some of it is predictable. The roommate who allowed her cats to replicate into a plague has postings full of cats. The boyfriend with the boob fetish married a large-bosomed woman. But then there are the surprises – the compulsive gambler now crime investigator. The ladies’ man with his life partner, Steve.

You see the broad arc of their lives and wonder about one’s own trajectory. Have I changed much over the years? If someone looked at my life from the outside would they just nod knowingly and say yep, that’s no surprise. Or would they raise their eyebrows? Really? Wow, I never thought she’d___________.

What isn’t a surprise is how we age. We all seem to be leaning towards a pumpkin shape with lots of gray hair or none at all. I’d go to a Facebook page and it would seem like the person was posting youthful pictures of themselves, but they would be pictures of their children and grandchildren.

It leads me here, thinking about what truly brief lives we live and how many details are packed into those lives. Internet searches are reductive, distilling our lives down to one-dimensional facts and pictures. Whole lives cannot be reflected on a screen. If the devil is in the details, the devil is what makes us who we are.

canstockphoto42205858The picture of a glamorous couple smiling from a beach in Aruba cannot show that they met in a support group for grief or alcoholism. It cannot show the nights of tears or the lack of trust they had to get through in order to become that picture. It cannot show that he’s been cheating on her the last four months and that she has given up on being loved. It cannot show that on the second Tuesday next month, at 7:32p.m., on their way to visit his mother at the nursing home, they will be killed by a drunk driver.

It is only one detail, this picture, a single moment in their lives. It does not tell their story.

To look at a picture is only a short segment of thread in the rich tapestry that makes a human life. Our characters, our weird twitchy little habits, the things that give us pleasure and enrage us, what we think is funny or sexy or ridiculous, what makes us weep – take one human being, imagine those details and multiply it by 7 billion.

canstockphoto9029485Perhaps this is why I sit here, full up on visual images, but famished for stories. It is not enough to see the photo flip book of someone’s life, multiplying and aging and losing shape. I have the momentary urge to write, call, or email. What to say? Can you tell me what happened between Point A, when I knew you as the person who could drink me under the table, and Point B, when you posted a picture of a very large collection of paper-mâché elephants?

The take on this, like most perspectives, is a matter of choice. Let the melancholia wash over me for lost friends and connections. Or realize that what lies behind portends what is ahead. The continued shuffling through more of humanity, the lives we touch and are touched by. The writer’s mercenary safari for more material and character studies.

canstockphoto651525.jpgI’m of the school of thought that the past is past for a reason. That we grow and change and hopefully evolve beyond our initial capabilities. Looking back only serves to remind us of progress and of the many lessons we’ve learned on this journey, with its inevitable end. Perhaps all we can do is bow our heads in thanks to those who, for better and for worse, met us on the road.

Terra-exodus: Menopausal Mutations

canstockphoto45409296Since it’s summer, my family and I have indulged in some low rent binge watching – namely the profligate Marvel Universe on Netflix. On the Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D., humans undergo a process called Terragenesis in which they evolve through one method or another into inhumans – humans with enhanced powers. In the show, The Ghost Rider is another character who gains the skill to become a fire-hurling head of flame.

My head has felt surrounded by flames on and off for a month now. I’m going through peri-menopause, on my way to being done with my childbearing years. Every two minutes, I feel like I’ve just opened an oven door in front of my face – prickly heat, the sweat, then the cooling off and chills. Insomnia is putting me on edge and writing is interrupted by chaotic thoughts hopping through my head, like frogs on lily pads, leaping from one random word to another.

canstockphoto6610591Normally, I wouldn’t bother writing about “lady issues”. But there is some glee in doing so when we have a president who is viscerally offended by any bodily function of a woman. He’s expressed his heebie-jeebs about menstruation, weight, breastfeeding, using the restroom, children – anything that mars his puerile focus on beauty queen attributes. I’m not really interested in reading about other people’s bodily functions, hygiene or bathroom habits, but I know they exist and don’t act like a ten-year old afraid of girl cooties.

It is euphemistically called a change of life. Metamorphosis is the word that keeps cropping up in my mind. Will I shed my skin? Will I become something worse, lesser, weaker, older? My body seems no longer under my control, with the unregulated thermostat turning the furnace on every time I get the least bit comfortable. Now that I will no longer be a fertile being, is this the time when primordial husbands look for eggs elsewhere?

My body has been through a lot – all the running, marching in combat boots and gear, canstockphoto5272635martial arts training, childbirth, endless menstrual cycles. I calculated that in my lifetime, I’ve had a period at least 400 times. 400 times of hormonal changes, fat loss and gain. 400 times when sappy commercials made me cry, I’ve blurted out the wrong thing, I’ve lain on the couch with a heating pad, bottle of ibuprofen, and a box of tissue. My body has been in a constant state of change, but this time the change will stick.

Death anxiety has been keeping me awake as I approach my 50th birthday. All that time under the bridge and I can still feel the rapid heartbeat of knowing that in an instant, I could be dead. I’ve had death thoughts all my life, part and parcel of a family gene of mental morbidity. They mostly come to the surface when I’m under a great deal of pressure or anxious about something. They pass as I finally get sleep and eventually wake up to the day with gratitude – that I made it through the night.

canstockphoto7381679I don’t dwell long in that place – I know it’s not helpful. But these days the thrum of my anxiety isn’t waning. It is staying at a rather constant, exhausting level. This is where the desire to do something drastic and different arises. Anything to relieve the idea that this is it. That my life has culminated in a mere pittance and that any hopes or dreams I have are on a timer.  It gets dark in my head, before a challenger arrives.

The challenger is this moment. In this moment, I get to sit in my study and write. I look past the happy cat snoozing on the window seat, into a green space with grape vines and flowers growing. My teenager is whiling away the morning in a horizontal position that seems to shift only slightly throughout the day. My husband, who has surely had his own death thoughts, is downstairs working, on the phone with his colleagues. I’ve had a good breakfast and there’s a full coffee pot.

What is it that would make this experience better? Do I need something or have I become so accustomed to scrabbling for more, I don’t know when to rest? The idea of rest, of not fighting so hard to be disciplined or accurate or on time or willing, bothers me. Yet I wonder if it would make me kinder and more joyful and less anxious. I’ve always wondered if we all aren’t just trying too much. And maybe that is the secret to being happy as one ages. To not try so hard.

canstockphoto2121325I think about my lifetime pursuits thus far. What was I looking for? For me, it has often been safety. This is a sad realization on my part. I would do anything to be safe, not surprised, not noticed – just safe. I grew up with unpredictability, so I needed to be my own rock and I’ve spent a lifetime being careful. I keep waiting for that crushing, regret-filled moment when I see it all so clearly – what I’ve missed out on because I was safe.

That moment may never come. I will likely never be a wild woman, a revolutionary with fiery ideals and bold actions. I won’t be making history. As I sweat through another hot flash, I think about what might be released from my pores – fear, anxiety, pain, old memories, regret, disappointment. Perhaps this is the change that is really happening – that I am becoming unknown to myself again, because everything that has defined me is subject to question.

2016: A Few of My Favorite Things, Part 1

It’s been a tough year all around – from the natural disasters to the human disasters, I’d be delighted to set the 2016 figgy pudding on fire.

canstockphoto9158005
Yeah, thanks for nothing, humans.

With the election, the takeover of our country by corporations and zany billionaires is fait accompli. But our representatives are hard at work. Even now, some of our congressional circle jerkers are fighting to have cow milk named the only true “milk”. I can’t even say we the people without choking up a bit. Self-evident truths are no longer evident. We are being gaslighted.

There’s no denying that this year was shit, but I still managed to find some light. I’m going to share some of my favorite things this year over a few posts. That is not to say that they were released, created or designed this year. I go at my own pace. Sometimes that pace is decades behind.

I’m going to share my favorite things from 2016 and I’d love for you to share yours. You can do it in the comment section or, if you choose to write your own favorite things post, send me the link on my contact page and I’ll add it to the bottom of this post.

Dead Celebrity Bonding

Living in the Twin Cities, the year was about Prince’s death and Garrison Keillor staying semi-alive with political essays in The Washington Post, but not on A Prairie Home Companion. I didn’t really connect with either artist/celebrity, although I can air guitar and yowl through Purple Rain with disturbing alacrity.

canstockphoto27307354My “discovery” was Isaac Asimov. I read his autobiography, I, Asimov: A Memoir over the last month. While I’m neither as smart or astute as Mr. Asimov, I suspect that it was his self-awareness and social skills that I related to most. He’s a very straightforward sort of fellow. I’m not a heavy science fiction reader, but some of my favorite essays and nonfiction works are by writers in that genre.

Good Intentions for News Retention

I’m trying to raise my reading game – reading less online and allowing myself to absorb information in a slow, meandering way. After reading The Shallows: What the Internet is Doing to Our Brains by Nicholas Carr, I began to think about what information I was actually retaining from my internet safaris. It was very little, disconnected from context, and a complete waste of time.

canstockphoto13401142One of the other problems this year was the constant drumbeat of how awful the media has become. While there may be some truth in it, the news suffers from the very thing that our products do – consumers want everything the cheapest way possible. And we get what we pay for. I used to rampage through 10 or 20 online publications, reading full articles until the site yelled at me that I’d used up all my chances to be a cheapskate that month.

My answer to all of this was not inexpensive. We’re cancelling Amazon Prime for 2017, so that’s how we fit it into our budget. I’ve paid to subscribe online to my local paper, which also included a free subscription to The Washington Post online. Offline, I picked two publications that I now pay for in hard copy: World Literature Today and The Atlantic. I’m still trying to break my news gallivanting online habit, but reading more in-depth reporting makes online click-baiting seem much less palatable. In terms of brain and cost-effectiveness, I hope it enriches my knowledge of the world and contributes to reporters doing their jobs well and getting paid for it.

Exercise for the Uninspired

It’s been a tough year to stay motivated about getting regular exercise. I’ve had to make huge adjustments because of my knees and experiencing IT Band Syndrome (Runner’s Knee). Too much running and jumping for this old broad. That being said, I’ve discovered a few things that have inspired me or at least kept me moving.

Kinesiology Tape – There are a zillion arguments among exercise and therapy experts about whether or not this stuff works. I used it to get me through some particularly painful rehab walking. If it’s a placebo, I don’t care – it still felt good and looked pretty. Using online instruction guides, I taped my knees. It felt like enough support without having to wear bulky velcro braces that impeded circulation.

canstockphoto6461923Neila Rey’s 100 No Equipment Workouts destroys any excuses regarding the need for special equipment in order to exercise. The book is based on a website DAREBEE, a nonprofit fitness resource. What I love most about the book is that the exercise routines are clearly laid out, easily modified, and can be referenced online for proper execution.

I’m turning 50 in 2017 and that, in correlation with the many injuries I’ve experienced in the last 10 years, means that I’ve got to have a come-to-Jesus talk with my body about exercise. Yoga has to be a regular thing and not something I do when I’m feeling lazy. I also came across this book by Karl Knopf called Core Strength for 50+: A Customized Program for Safely Toning Ab, Back and Oblique Muscles that is useful.

Without regular exercise, I turn into a bit of a nut job. It helps to balance out all my wonky brain chemicals. When I was in my 20s, it was more for appearance and numbers. In my 30s, I felt like I had something to prove. In my 40s it rapidly became about function. In my 50s it will definitely be about function. I spend a lot of time around elderly people and still being able to move on your own steam is a big deal. Strength, balance and flexibility training can make all the difference.

Reviewing this post, I have reminded myself that I am not a fun person. Exercise, reading, crabby politics? Woo-hoo. Maybe I’ll do some organization and housekeeping tips next. How to have healthy feet. What the next super-grain will be. Hang onto to your seats. Prepare to be underwhelmed.