To Yoga or Not to Yoga

            Every day as I’m driving home from school, there’s a point on the highway when I have to decide either to go the right (to my house) or the left (to the gym.)  Today, I was heading home.  After all, I’ve got a blog to write and a dog to walk.  But somehow I ended up at yoga anyway.

            What I like most about yoga is that since I started it a few years ago, I’ve actually gotten better. So now at 60 minus 31 days, there are poses I can do that I couldn’t when I was say a mere child of 58. That’s not true of a lot of other activities, especially  not physical ones.  In fact, I can’t think of a single one.

            Yoga instructors are always saying “focus on your own practice,” like we’re all doctors who’ve signed a non-compete clause. But I always end up glancing around the room anyway, looking for people who are really good at yoga and not the least bit young.

            Just think, I tell myself, in a couple more years, you can be as good as they are.

            But I don’t think that’s going to happen today.

             It’s been a long day, and a few minutes into the class, I’m already looking at the clock, counting the minutes to the end. Each move feels like a struggle, and instead of feeling focused and energized, I’m feeling tired. And I’m regretting the turn I took. My poor little dog is probably getting impatient for his afternoon walk, and I still have a blog to write.

            Definitely, the wrong turn.

            Suddenly, it dawns on me that I can leave right now before the class is over. The instructor won’t like it, but he’s not going to stop me. I really can get up and go. But I don’t. It’s funny the rules we make for ourselves, the ones we really don’t have to follow.

            Finally, finally, it’s time to lie down on the mats and relax. The instructor switches to his mellow waterfall music. I let everything wash over me, and I melt into my mat. And then it hits me … I don’t have to write this blog either.  The rules we make.

           

Not Just Heroes

           While idling at a red light the other day, I noticed a new bumper sticker: “Home of the free because of the brave.” There was no room on the bumper sticker to explain just who the “brave” are, but we all know, don’t we? Our soldiers serving in Afghanistan and up until recently, in Iraq.

            Having lived through the Viet Nam War, I’m often struck by just how dramatically our attitude has changed toward our soldiers. Back in the 60s and 70s, soldiers were “baby killers” and worse.  As anti-war activists, we seemed to hold them personally responsible for the war itself.  Perhaps it was because that phrase from the Eichmann trial still echoed in our minds: I was just following orders. In an unjust war that was no defense.

            Of course, for many of us, the young men were not the same boys we went to school with and were all too easy to vilify. They came from other neighborhoods and other parts of the country. It wasn’t until years after the war had ended and I was working as a reporter that I met my first soldiers. Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome was just being recognized, and as I interviewed veterans, I was shocked and deeply distressed by the traumas they had suffered first during the war and then back home in civilian life. I was especially moved by the women I met, nurses who had served in combat hospitals only to find themselves unappreciated and adrift at home.

            But even then, when the pain of these young veterans was all too fresh, I don’t remember calling them heroes.  “Hero” just didn’t slip glibly off my tongue.  It was a term used sparingly, reserved for those who were larger than life, who faced adversity with courage and who took the moral high ground.

            Which brings me back to the present.

            In recent days, a U.S. soldier has been implicated in the massacre of 16 villagers in Afghanistan. Already his defense team is talking about the stresses of four deployments, traumatic brain injuries, and financial worries back home, and the picture that’s beginning to emerge is not of a monster, but of a man who snapped under pressure.

            Still, I think the massacre drives home the fact that war is not just about heroes.   The Afghanistan war is now in its 11^th year, and we don’t it seem to be winning many hearts and minds. By calling all our soldiers heroes, we don’t have to ask ourselves why we are asking so much of so few.  Yes, like that bumper sticker put it, our brave soldiers are helping to keep us free – free from serious debate on questions like what are we trying to accomplish, are we succeeding and is the sacrifice indeed too high?           

Of Mice, Men and Me

           There was a dead body in my kitchen a few mornings ago. And no, I’m not talking about my pre-caffeinated self or making a hyperbolic statement about anyone’s energy level (or lack thereof) in the morning. No metaphor here. I’m talking about a body in my kitchen that wasn’t breathing.

            Okay, so it was a mouse.

            I know I can be a little hysterical on the subject of mice, but luckily, my husband doesn’t mind them at all. A former research scientist, Jeff used to experiment on mice, and he seems to have an uncanny understanding of their ways.  For instance, the night before the mouse died, Jeff noticed that the peanut butter was gone, but the trap had not gone off.  

            “Ahhh,” he said, “he’s a clever one, our little guy.”

            “Listen honey,” I said, “I really don’t want to hear about his IQ.”

            “Unless he ate the peanut butter here first and then got caught in the other trap,” he mused.

             (Yes, there had been another death earlier this week.  But Jeff removed that body before I saw it so I wasn’t going to mention it.)

            “Just get rid of him, okay?” I demanded. “Please.”

            “Oh, I will,” he said.  “I will.”

            And true to form, Jeff did. He caught the little guy. And now, a few days later, we’ve got no more mice. We’re home free – so to speak.
            It’s funny how marriages evolve. If I’d married someone even more squeamish than me, I’d probably have to step up and be the brave one.

            And trust me I could be brave if I had to. Many years ago, we lived in Baltimore with, as it turned out, a large family of mice. Jeff sprang into action, taking those critters down one by one. But then he had to go out of town on business and for some reason, he didn’t dismantle the traps. One morning, I found a dead mouse in the kitchen. I thought about moving in with friends for the duration, but in the end, I decided to man up. I put on rubber gloves and swept the mouse (and the trap) into a plastic garbage bag.

            Afterwards, I was pretty exhilarated. I guess bravery can do that to you. When my husband called, I proudly told him what happened.

            “Wait a second,” he said. “You threw away a perfectly good trap?”

            

Ready Or Not!

             A friend of mine once wrote a play that took place on an exercise mat.  The premise was that at the end of a workout, when everyone was relaxing on mats, one woman just stayed on her mat. After all, the instructor had said, “Get up when you’re ready,” and she just didn’t feel ready.  So she stayed … and stayed and stayed.

            Ahh…. If only we could wait until we were really ready to move on! 

            I remember being terrified at the thought of graduating college and leaving the security of the academic womb.   And I wonder if I’m the only woman who dashed off to the hospital after her water broke, thinking, “So soon? But I’m not ready yet!”

            As for marriage...Right before my wedding to the man I’m still very happily married to today, I confided to my dad that I wasn't sure I was ready.

            “That’s okay,” he told me.  “You never feel ready for these things.”

            “But you were only 21 when you married mom,” I said.  “I’m 24!”

            “Oh,” he said.  “I was thinking about the second time when I was 49. I didn’t feel ready then either.”

            Well, when I started this blog, some 24 days ago, I certainly didn’t feel prepared to turn 60. Today, I’ve still got some reservations about what lies ahead, which I think is called “old age” and is filled with all sorts of goodies like failing health and death.  But on the whole, I really am feeling much more upbeat. Maybe it’s got something to do with all this blogging I’ve been doing – 19 posts to date, 20 if you count today’s.  With 36 more days to go, I really don’t have time to worry about getting old.  I mean it’s going to happen regardless of whether I’m ready.  Or it won’t happen, which would be a helluva lot worse. Besides I’ve got a lot more immediate concerns, like all these posts I’ve got to write before I reach my goal.  Today’s post is nearly done, but what about tomorrow’s? And the 30 or so ones after that? What am I going to write about?

            Maybe you’ve got an idea …?

That Old Chevy

           On my way to school this morning, an old battered car passed me on the Cross County Parkway.  Did I say old? This car wasn’t old, it was ancient.  I’ve just done some Google research, and I’m going to say it was a Chevrolet from the mid-1950s. It had the fins, the grille and lots of chrome, and it was painted a dull red and white. 

            It’s not every morning you see a car that old in the fast lane, especially not one with a car seat in the back.  Wait a second -- that couldn't have  been a car seat!  They didn't even have seat belts back then in the front, let alone the back seat.  Even though that old Chevy behemoth outweighed my subcompact, it had no air bags or anti-lock brakes or any of the safety features of today’s cars. All of which started me thinking about the things I don’t miss about the 1960s or whenever it was that I was young:

1.  Duck and cover air raid drills

             How old were you when you first realized that hiding under your desk was not going to             help you survive a nuclear attack – even if your teacher told you to do it anyway?

2.  Aerograms

            Forget about long distance phone calls, we couldn’t even write big!

3. Not trusting anyone over 30  

            What were we thinking? Is anyone all that trustworthy under 30?

4.  1960s medicine

            Remember exploratory surgery?  MRIs make me claustrophobic, but I don’t think I’d        prefer being cut open, just to find out what was ailing me.

5.  Rabbit ears on TV

            It was never during the commercials that you had to wiggle and jiggle those ears, and    even then, the picture wasn’t all that clear.

6. Mimeographed sheets

            Even if you didn’t mind the smell, you still couldn’t read the writing.

7.  No ethnic food except for Italian and Chinese.

8. And you call that stuff Chinese?

9.  Beehive hairdos

10. Movies only in the movie theater

            Yes, there was something special about going to a theater.  There still is. But what          if you want to watch a movie on a rainy day or when you’re at home with the flu or when          you’re just in the mood for a good flick?

                       

The Never Ending Diet

           Lately, I’ve been spending a lot of time talking about a certain number: 60. Or, to be more precise, 60 minus 40 days. But there’s another number that has consumed even more of my energy and angst over the years, a number that you’ll never hear me say aloud. No, not my social security number. My weight.

I’ve been trying to lose 5 pounds for as long as I can remember.  Sometimes I lose them. Sometimes I find them. And then I have to lose my five pounds all over again.

I wasn’t born on a diet, though it does feel that way. My father was in the founding chapter of Weight Watchers. This was before points or e-tools or even artificial sweeteners, and WW was strictly for the overweight. (In fact my sister was sent home because she didn’t weigh enough to join!) From what I could tell, the basic premise was that food should be as bland and unappealing as possible. And believe me, ours was.

Which is one reason I was so excited about the huge box of diet “Ayds” my freshman roommate brought to college. If eaten right before a meal, these miracle Ayds were supposed to depress your appetite.  I’m not sure what the active ingredient was – or if there even was one -- but they tasted a lot like chocolate. And we both loved chocolate. So Judith and I would have one before a meal, a couple after, and a fistful whenever the urge hit. We didn’t lose a single ounce, but we quickly became friends. And countless diets later, we’re still great friends. By the way, it’s probably just a coincidence that Judith’s birthday is the day after mine. Which makes her, as you’ve figured out, 60 minus 41 days.

Over the years, I’ve talked dieting with friends and dieted together with friends. It’s kind of like shopping, but without the clothes. Together, we’ve sat through Weight Watcher meetings. We’ve shared diets and recipes and strategies, and we’ve confessed our lapses into ice cream and candy and pie.   

It’s been a lot of work to lose 5 pounds. Again and again and again. And yes, it does feel like time and effort misspent. I mean it’s not like I want my tombstone to read: She kept her weight within a healthy range all her life.

Really, isn’t it time I outgrew this obsession?

Recently, I talked with a friend’s 90-year-old mother.  She’s healthy and active and still very much engaged in life. She looked great to me, but she confided that she wants to lose five pounds. 

I know just where she can find them! 

Leaving Grandma in our Dust

            Last night, I saw Iron Lady, and Meryl Streep’s performance was wonderful. It wasn’t just the make-up and the costuming – she was Margaret Thatcher. And in the opening scene, she was a very old Margaret Thatcher. She hobbled into a bodega, fumbled with her purse and bought a pint of milk, and no one in the store or on the street recognized her as the former Prime Minister and leader of the free world.

            Which isn’t all that surprising.  I mean who pays any attention to old ladies, except to complain about them on the road?

            Well, now that I’m 60 minus 41 days, I think that should change. Better yet, it should change retroactively because I never really paid much attention to the old when I was young.

            I’m thinking of my own grandmother. Grandma was a short timid woman, who walked in small mincing steps, a little unsteadily and never very far. She adored her grandchildren, but she never got down on the floor with us or threw a ball or played make believe. She always dressed in heels and hose, not that any adults knew from sneakers back then.

            Although Grandma was born here, her hold on the country seemed tenuous at best. She worried about nearly everything, especially whether a miscreant du jour was Jewish. Thank god she didn’t live to hear the name Madoff.  Her quiet voice would always get lost around a big holiday table, and while she’d smile at our jokes and antics, we were never quite convinced she understood. A woman born around the turn of the last century, Grandma was unprepared for the 1960s. And we were too busy embracing our own lives to try to bring her up to date.

            Styles change, and old today is much more active and robust. Yesterday, for instance, I took a walk with my sister.  Marcy is now a grandmother herself and, in case you don’t already know, she’s just a couple of years older than me, not that she looks a day over 60 minus 41 days.  We walked a few miles at a very brisk pace that would have left our grandmother in our dust.

            Still some things don’t change. Obviously, there’s always going to be a sizeable age gap between children and their grandparents. And I don’t think Grandma chose not to bridge that gap.  She just didn’t know how, and we didn’t try hard enough to help her.

            So I just hope that someday (god willing, and no pressure intended) my grandchildren will try a little harder with me.