To quote Judge Judy (really!), “Du kanst nicht oif meinem fus pishen und mir sagen klass es regen ist.” Translation, “Don’t pee on my foot and tell me it’s raining!” This is no ‘woe is me’ post. I bullshit you not. But c’mon…body? Vus iz dos? Despite it all, I unfailingly (well, 98% mostly) choose the glass half full side of life. Why. Three main reasons (and yes, there are more):
- The Mrs.
Hair: I have a lot of hair and for that I am grateful. As a kid, I had light brown hair that would get lovely blonde, sun-kissed streaks. With ah, mmmm, maturity, and less time on the swings, came light brown hair. My crayons began to run out of colors in my mid to late thirties, and so began experimentation in color. I was brown, browner, a touch of red, henna-touched, blonde (very, very bad in hindsight), blonde splashes for ‘softening.’ The Mrs. has had her share of hair-happenings atop my kop. Lucky for us, hair grows out, and I’m pretty easy going. I’ve been my current, au natural, for about the past decade. It’s an overall gray, frosty sheen, with an undercoat (yes, like a dog) of mopsy brown. The result is not the beautiful, white gray coif like Jamie Lee Curtis, Helen Mirren or Kate Moss, but one that is more of a field mouse. You already know how the Mrs. feels about mice…
Eyes: Since first grade you have let me down. If you only knew how mad my mother was at me for needing glasses? Like I had a choice in this gene pool? She didn’t believe that I couldn’t see the chalkboard from my front row seat (geek way before it was trendy) and was mortified when the eye doctor confirmed the prognosis. That was one appointment that I recall very clearly (unlike my vision). Despite mom, I made peace early on with my inner Mr. Magoo. I used to have quite the portfolio of glasses to suit my many moods. Never a lover of clothes shopping, but glasses—hold me back. Those were the non-frugal days of yore. Now, my seamless trifocals come from VisionCrafters. I have but one pair that’s a bit bent out of shape from Little’s rough and tumble play. And, I am now like the Karate Kid working with his mentor, Mr. Miyagi: “Glasses on. Glasses off. Glasses on. Glasses off.” Which is best???
Neck: Oh how I despise you. Not for the usual reasons women hate their necks. You look just fine. Functionally, not so much. I was 18 years old, riding a borrowed bike home from work (“Dermatology Associates, how may I help you?”) when I was hit by (I think it was an old lady, but truth is, only knuckles showed on the steering wheel with a small tuft of blue hair. She drove off, perhaps thinking she ran over a squirrel or something) a car and careened into the center median of a very busy road in south Florida. This was the catalyst for my chronic pain. I got news for you, the borrowed bike didn’t fare so well either. Fast forward a few years into my twenties, and add a few instances of whiplash (Philadelphians perhaps don’t drive so well?). The thirties (maybe why the crayons began losing color) brought on a horrible roller blading accident (who let me on those things) that cracked my helmet in half like an eggshell. As I came to, I recall seeing and hearing cartoon birds chirping over the (three to four versions of the one) man that came running across the street to my rescue. I felt like Wile E. Coyote with an anvil atop my head. “Beep. Beep.” These snowballing concussive events have lead to thirty-two plus years of escalating, loathsome, and agonizing neck pain. I waken each day, 2-3 hours earlier than most, so I can ease out of the cacophony of pain points. I’ll leave out the assortment of accompanying despicable symptoms for now. We’ve got time…Glass half-full here! Lots of visits to countless ‘–ists,’ procedures, meds, surgeries, massages, acupuncture, injections, potions and bionics! Yes, I am a $6 Million Dollar Woman (remember Jamie?) with a remote control for a device placed smack dab in my right tuchas with wiring straight up to my keppie. It actually tricks my brain to think, “hey, that’s not so bad now, is it?” Zap the pain away.
One more thing for now: Hot flashes. While few and far between, you’ve managed to come at every wrong time during the hot summer months. Now, you totally disappear when the temps have dropped to tundra degrees? Nu? As a person who has been cold my entire 633 months on this planet, one would think that just 1 or 2 properly planned convection oven style-flashes would have been nice?
Not a lot of kvetching here because I’m always choosing ‘happy.’ What, like I have another choice? And for those who ponder whether this side of life moves quicker than the first half…I think it’s the same. It feels quicker because of the people we include in our lives, the fun we create, the play we make and the wisdom of our choices. Ennui is no fun. Livin life, staying present is maybe what it is all about.