My Favorite Chef

When I first met my husband, he was a science grad student whose sole cooking utensil was a frying pan.  Jeff might have had a pot for cooking pasta, but I couldn’t swear to it. Not that he needed much more – he had never tasted zucchini or broccoli or fresh fish.  And to him, “spices” was a singular word meaning salt.

            
So it might surprise you to know that last night, Jeff cooked dinner: salad caprese, grilled salmon delicately with a multi-spice rub, and broccoli rabe with garlic and cayenne pepper.

            
Not bad, huh, for a one frying pan guy!

            
Of course Jeff’s transition from blandest of the bland eaters to gourmet chef didn’t happen overnight.  I used to slip in herbs and spices into his food, increasing the amounts ever so slightly until he was hooked.  But I really can’t take too much credit. A scientist, Jeff took to cooking right away, claiming it was really just chemistry.

            
So why do I bring this up, other than to brag about my favorite chef?

            
I thought I knew who my husband was when I married him in 1976, and I assumed he’d just become grayer (or balder) over the years. Turns out I was wrong.  Who knew adults continued to grow after reaching full height?  Because Jeff’s not only learned to cook, he’s also changed in other minor and not so minor ways. And, I guess, so have I.  Luckily, we’ve both changed, if not in tandem, at least in ways that have complemented each other.

            
So when I hear young couples talk with misty eyes of growing old together, I want to say … better you should wish for growing together as you get older.

How Did We Waste Time Before?

I’ve got a Sudoku problem.

Even now, as I’m starting today’s blog, I’m fighting the urge to play some online Sudoku games. It’s calling to me, that website.   Come on, it says, you know you want to. And really, what’s the harm? You’ll only play a game or two. It’ll help you relax.  And you deserve it after working so hard. After all, you’ve just about finished the first paragraph.

Lies and more lies.

One game will lead to the second, then the third and then … well, you know how it goes. There goes the evening.  Which would be fine, except I have a blog to write.

Obviously, I’m not alone. We’ve all got our little electronic vices. In restaurants and airports, on the street and in the stores, I see big kids, little kids, adults and teens are all mesmerized with their little screens.  How did we live before computers, laptops and cellphones?

I’m not talking about how long it took to type a letter or term paper without an embarrassing number of typos. Or how we kept in touch without email, texting and cellphones. That’s grist for another post. What I’m talking about is what we did when we had nothing else to do.  How did we waste time?

I’m sure I wasn’t any more efficient.  In school, I always put off assignments until the last minute.  I just can’t remember how I procrastinated without 100+ channels.  Maybe I read more books. Maybe I spent more time on the phone, talking to friends. Maybe I even listened more since I couldn’t simultaneously check my email or play Sudoku. But mostly, I must have just stared off into space. What else was there?

Good News for Lovers of the New

Not too long ago, I read an article in The New York Times about the benefits of neophilia.  Don’t worry, I’m not going to be sing the praises of some satanic practice.  Neophilia is just an exuberance for novelty.

            According to the article, experts used to think that novelty seekers were at risk for alcoholism, drug abuse, compulsive gambling and other problems. But now – surprise, surprise -- experts say neophilia is a good thing as long as it’s combined with persistence and awareness of others. As an expert quoted in the article said, “Novelty-seeking is one of the traits that keeps you healthy and happy and fosters personality growth as you age.”

            Positioned as it was on the front page of the science section, the article made this discovery seem like a big deal.  But personally, I wasn’t impressed. Even though I had never heard of neophilia before, I still knew exactly what they were talking about. Or should I say, who.

            My dad.

            At 88, my father is definitely a neophile. But other than a craving for chocolate chip cookies and Oreos, which he tries to keep in check, Joe has managed to steer clear of all those other risky behaviors and has lived a very healthy and happy life.

            When my father retired from his dental practice 23 years ago, he and my step-mother, Rhoda, started a business, renting apartments and villas in the south of France. Just last year, they reinvented their business as a full-service travel agency, and in May, Rhoda will be leading their first women’s only luxury trip to Italy.  

            Meanwhile Joe has been spending hours at his computer, working on the spreadsheets for expenses and promoting the tour with colorful emails and e-flyers.   Of course, computer skills are nothing new for my dad, who owned the first Apple in our family.  However, he did have to learn a new software program this year, a challenge that he took on with his usual zeal. Naturally, he’s also on Facebook,and he's a follower of my blog. 

            I guess my dad’s just embracing the new like all neophiles do.  Maybe that trait is what has helped keep him healthy and happy as he’s aged.  I just hope that with 54 days to go before I turn 60, I’ve got some of his neophilia in my genes.  

Writing on the Net Without a Net

            When you’ve decided to blog once a day for 60 days (55 more to go!), suddenly everything feels like grist for your mill, even technical difficulties.  For instance, after posting last night’s blog, I discovered that I had misspelled Jeremy Lin’s last name.  But when I went back to edit, I somehow moved around my first post. 

            No big deal, but it got me to thinking: Boy, have things changed!

            Some 38 years ago, I was graduating college and had no idea what I wanted to do with my life. So I wrote about my angst in an article that was published in the Sunday magazine of the local newspaper.

            (In my attic, there’s a box of old newspapers. And that article is somewhere near the bottom, unless it’s been used for other purposes by a couple dozen generations of mice.)

            But getting back to my story…

            That article led to a steady gig, writing magazine pieces for the newspaper and then to a job at another newspaper and so on. And now, 38 years later, I’m doing the same thing.  Writing about a transition, wondering about what lies ahead, and hoping that my efforts will lead to something.

            The difference is that this time I don’t have to deal with Steve, the Sunday magazine editor. Steve was all of 27 to my 22. Yet with the braces on his teeth and his blonde cowlick, he looked even younger. He was short, too, and a bit of a bully. His critiques were brutal, and he played on my insecurities, which wasn’t hard since they were easily the size of Texas. By the way, when Steven edited my copy, he used a scissor and a pot of glue to cut and paste. Literally.  

            No, I don’t miss Steve.  I like the fact that I can post my blog myself. I don’t need to get anyone’s approval to publish, and I don’t have to meet anyone else’s standards.  I feel like I’m communicating more directly with my readers. (So feel free to post your comments! Tell me where I’ve hit the mark or missed it. I promise I won’t cry this time.)

              On the other hand, I’ve got no editor to catch an embarrassing mistake or smooth out an awkward sentence. Because Steve didn’t just torment me, he taught me a lot about writing and journalism. It dawns me on me that publishing on the net is working without a “net.”

            Oh, and by the way does anyone know how to move a post around?

Countdown to 60 ...

60 days from now, I’ll be 60. No, I’m not asking for cards or flowers or accolades. Just a little patience and understanding, as I muse aloud about where I am and where I’m going, about how it feels  to turn (gulp) 60.  

I’m sure I don’t look a day over 59. I can still jog a fairly respectable pace, though not as fast as the young thing on the treadmill next to me the other day.  I still have most of my original parts, and I’m hoping to follow my 88-year-old father into a happy and healthy old age.  My husband and I have no intention of retiring any time soon. The idea of pulling onto the shoulder from the fast lane (okay, the middle or maybe even the slow lane) makes us both hyperventilate.  What would we do all day?

I’m not sure if I can still be considered an empty-nester.  My only child has already graduated college and is working and living on his own.  He’s off the payroll, as my husband puts it.  I’d like to think that I’ve gotten over the trauma of his leaving home, and really for the most part, I have.  It’s just that each time he comes home, I have to steel myself up to say goodbye again.  It makes me realize that leaving home isn’t something you do once, but again and again.  But still there’s no getting around the fact that our nest is empty, except for the dog and all our stuff.

I’m definitely an aging baby boomer. It dawns on me that younger people must get a kick out of that term since they never saw us as babies. In fact, there aren’t a whole lot of people who remember us in diapers or even grade school. No one questions us when we ask for the senior discount at the movies. Like the kids taking our tickets can really tell the difference between 55 and 75.   My husband’s parents have both passed on.  My mother died when I was a teenager, but thank god, my father is 88 and going strong.  In fact, I just came back from visiting him and the wonderful woman he’s been married to for 39 years. I get such a kick out of hearing them tell their friends “our kids are here” i.e., my husband and me.

I’m a teacher, one of the oldest teachers at the private school where I work. Actually, there are many teachers who are 10 or 20 years younger than me, but have been teaching much longer. For me, it’s a third career. I started off as a journalist then moved into PR.  I’m also a playwright, who likes to write about people my own age. Typically, we’re the parents in someone else’s coming-of-age story – the nagging mothers, the overbearing fathers, the doddering grandparents. And yet, I think our stories are less cliché ridden and much more interesting. Take Hamlet, for instance. We’ve all heard about his problem … to be or not to be, yadda yadda yadda. But what about his mother, a widow, who remarried before the body was cold?  Now that’s a story!

Lin In My Dreams

            I had a dream last night. So if you’re young and squeamish, you might want to stop right here. Because while I don’t especially enjoy embarrassing myself, I’ve got a strong suspicion it’s going to happen anyway.

            Okay, now that we’ve got that out of the way, here goes. 

            I dreamt about Jeremy Lin last night.

            Come on, you’ve heard about the Chinese-American Harvard grad who came out of nowhere to lead the Knicks in scoring.  Thanks to Lin, the Knicks are no longer in last place and have become an exciting team to watch.  His is a great Cinderella story, Seabiscuit in shorts.

                So what’s so embarrassing?  Jeremy wasn’t playing basketball in my dream. I was with my husband in my old high school gym, not that I knew him back then.  Some great 60s tune was blaring in the background, and lots of young people were milling about talking and drinking and dancing. Then suddenly, out of nowhere, Jeremy Lin appeared. We all gasped, and I could feel my heart, fluttering. Oh my god, Jeremy Linn! The Jeremy Lin! The crowd parted before him as he made his way -- miraculously –to me.

            “Are you with anyone?” he asked, extending his hand along with an unbelievably warm smile in my direction.

            “Oh no,” I said, dropping my husband’s hand and reaching for his.

            And off we went, together to dance and …

            That’s all I’m telling.

            But you have to understand, ours wasn’t an old woman/young hunk affair. My Jeremy didn’t fall for a woman his mother’s age or older.  He saw a young girl because in my dream, I wasn’t 60. (Or even 60 minus 56 days.) Far from it! I was young and a lot hotter than I ever looked in real life.

            But hey, it was a dream, my dream.

            Which brings me to my point: It’s one thing to dream young when you're asleep, but how about when you’re awake? What do 60-year-olds dream about? Do we dream just for our kids? What is it you dream about … for you?

            By the way, my husband said, if I could get courtside Knicks tickets, I could make it with Jeremy Lin anytime.

             

Shopping with Fabulous Friends

             As much as I love playing words with friends (and I do love it), it doesn’t come close to my real favorite pastime:  shopping with friends.        

            Now on occasion, I’ve had a good time looking over a friend’s shoulder as she’s shopped online. Once during a snowstorm, a friend and I had fun clicking through the Lord & Taylor’s site from our respective homes. 

            But what I’m really talking about is the real- live in-the-store form of shopping. Over the years, I’ve shopped with lots of friends as well as with nearly all my female relatives. There’s just something about the experience that often brings us closer together. Maybe it’s the shared sense of purpose, the way we help each other answer one of life’s most pressing question: Does it make me look fat?

            Yes, there is definitely judgment involved. And trust.  You can count on any saleslady to say, “You look lovely.”  A friend will say, “Take it off.  You can do it better.”  Because, let’s face it, there are some angles you just can’t see.

            There’s also the sense of accomplishment when you land the perfect purchase.  Just yesterday, I went shopping with a friend, who needed a dress for her son’s wedding.  I didn’t buy anything.  I didn’t even try a single thing on. But still I came home feeling that it had been time well spent because she found if not the perfect dress, a definite contender.

            Finally, there’s the opportunity for caring. Since my friend was on a mission, I helped with the zipping and unzipping, and put the dresses back on the hangers. And when nothing seemed to work, I made one last sweep through the dress department to make sure we hadn’t overlooked.  On other occasions, she’s schlepped for me – as have other friends. It works both ways.

            In a neighboring cubicle, last night a college-age girl was shopping with her mom. And it dawned on me, that I was playing mom. Maybe, that’s the real attraction:  we get to mother each other.

            My husband, who has always shopped alone for ties and suits and shirts, says it’s a women thing. He doesn’t know what he’s missing.

             

Where have all the old folks gone?

If 59 were really middle age, then people would be living to 120. So it makes sense that I’m often on the older side in any given group. Certainly that’s the case in my cardio-kickboxing class, where lots of the other women have kids in daycare. It’s definitely true at my school, where most of the teachers are 10, 20 or even 30 years younger than me. And forget about the kids.

            But this is physical therapy.  Why should I feel old in this room?

            I expected to rub elbows with hip and knee replacements. I thought I’d feel younger than the 70-somethings and 80-somethings recovering from falls and strokes and the like.  Instead, I feel old, ridiculously old, like I’m stuck in some sort of after school program for teenage athletes.

             As it turns out, these patients just don’t look like they’re in high school. They are in high school.  No doubt, there are older folks at other times of the day, but when I dash here from my school, these kids are coming here from theirs.  Maybe some of them have their own drivers’ licenses, but there are an awful lot of moms here, too, playing with their i-phones to pass the time.

            The kids are busy stretching tight hamstrings and strengthening damaged knees; they’re doings exercises for sore shoulders and achy backs.  They’re stretching and strengthening, working the machines and lifting the weights, using the stretch bands and improving their balance.  They’re talking to each other about English papers and math exams, upcoming games and mean teachers. The girls are wearing impossibly tiny stretch pants, and the guys still have that sweet, unshaven look to their cheeks.  They’re all looking fit and trim, bursting with youth and energy.  And I’m looking, well, like I need some physical therapy.

            I hear the physical therapists talk to the kids about upcoming practices for hockey, soccer, basketball, cross-country teams.  So I assume the kids all earned their injuries the active way, by training too hard or taking a bad fall.

            Not me. According to my doctor, my own injury occurred spontaneously. He diagnosed it as a “frozen shoulder.” Odd, I thought to have an injury that sounds like either a dessert or a weather condition. Apparently, if given enough time, it will go away by itself, but the physical therapy has been helping it heal much faster. In fact, my shoulder isn’t almost completely “thawed” now and my range of motion is pretty much back to what it was.

            Now I’m just waiting for my confidence to return.