Tomorrow is New Years Eve, which for me has rarely meant dressing up and partying. I have pretty much always been a homebody and this year will be no different. Like millions of other people - especially those of us of a certain age, this is an occasion for taking stock of the past years accomplishments and shortfalls and coming up with a loose set of goals for the new year.
I say loose goals, because, of course, they need to be realistic and attainable. And, more importantly, I need to be able to move the line into the following year if I don't quite get everything on my list done by next New Years Eve. Last year, for example, I had three clear cut goals: lose weight (original, huh?), learn to make spicy pickles and bake bread from scratch. I ditched the whole breadmaking idea early on. Way too much work for me. Even if I did manage to make a decent loaf of bread, I would probably eat it right out of the oven which would make the whole losing weight goal even harder to attain. Easier to just scratch that one. I'm actually pretty disappointed in myself for not following through with the pickles, though. The recipes I found online don't look very difficult, but I had lingering fears about canning that I would poison both Mike and I with botulism. Okay, that's a bit of a cop out. I believe I'll be putting it back on my list for 2013.
I did lose about 25 pounds, which was a good thing. My official reason for doing this was that it was better for my health and that I would feel better, blah blah blah. My unofficial reason was that I was meeting nine of my high school girlfriends for a reunion to celebrate turning 60 this year. There is no incentive in the world quite like the prospect of being reunited with high school girlfriends to get yourself motivated. And, honestly, there shouldn't have been any pressure or angst on my part - these are close, dear friends who wouldn't judge me or make snide remarks about my weight. I've just come to realize that those teenage anxieties don't all ever really go completely away - they just lie dormant and blindside you when you don't expect it. Happily, I was able to channel those feelings along with my desire for better health and drop the unwanted pounds. One thing I know to be true (as Oprah would say) is that I am a stress eater, so if 2013 is a tough year, I may have to add this one right back on to my list.
So far, I only have a few goals on my list for next year, though the list is fluid and subject to my arbitrary whims. I'm almost reluctant to write the first one down here as you'll probably look at it and say, "Well, that's weird! I always knew she was odd!" The other night, Mike and I were on our evening walk. The sky was clear and cold and the constellations were breathtaking. Suddenly, out of the far recesses of my brain, this old, half forgotten poem by John Masefield called Sea Fever pops out.
I must go down to the sea again,
to the lonely sea and the sky.
And all I ask is a tall ship,
and a star to steer her by....
Then, willy nilly, a few lines from Coleridge's Kubla Khan comes to mind and T.S. Eliot's The Waste Land (April is the cruelest month...) and more. Crazy, huh? I figure the message I can take from this is that I should make a point to re-read a lot of those beautiful poems that I haven't looked at since I left college, or that I've completely lost my mind. I choose the former.
I have also started on my 26 Acts of Random Kindness to honor the 26 who lost their lives in Newtown. This was Ann Curry's idea and I loved it right away. I've only done one real one so far (being courteous in traffic doesn't qualify), so it might take awhile. I want these acts to be spontaneous and not forced, so I may end up being just as surprised as the recipient(s) when they occur. The whole pay it forward concept is quite appealing to me. Hey, you could do it too! Go ahead, put it on your own list!
There are a lot of little things that aren't exactly goals, just small accomplishments, that I want to tackle. Stop worrying about money so much. Look at the stars through a telescope. Don't wait so long to get the dog groomed. Stop eating so much candy and drinking so much Diet Coke. Learn to say one full sentence in Italian. Find some joy in each and every day. Make peace with the fact that I now have a turkey neck. Figure out Windows 8 (seriously?? No list of All Programs??). Re-do one of the guest bedrooms. Stuff like that.
2012 was a pretty darn good year. Lots of good things happened, though I realize, in retrospect, that many of these things happened to me, not because of me or anything I'd done to make them happen. I want to go roaring into 2013, full tilt, savoring every thing that comes my way, both good and bad. I will try not to lose sight of the preciousness of each day's possibilities as I babysit and grocery shop and fold laundry. As imperfect as I am, regardless of the person I'd like to morph into in the coming year, I will try to love the woman I am and hope that lovely memories are spun daily, trailing behind me like the wake of a boat on a summer lake.
Sunday, December 30, 2012
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Too Old for Too Long?
I had really not given much thought to changing my hairstyle until I read an alarming internet article this week.
The article was about Callista Gingrich's "helmet hair," a hairstyle that is frighteningly close to mine, right down to the color but sans the extra hold hairspray that she no doubt uses to keep every strand in its place. In the op ed, Callista was derided for having a hopelessly out-of-date and old lady-ish hairdo. This was disturbing news.
After finishing the article, I took a long, hard look in the mirror. I'd been wearing this same style or some variation of it for oh, probably the last twenty five years. The color had changed, of course, and I grew my bangs out, but I thought it suited me and on some level I was buying into the "if it ain't broke, don't fix it" theory. It had never occurred to me that my trusty bob was out of style and might even be making me look older than I was. In fact, when I had seen Mrs. G on television, hovering close to Newt at some campaign stop, I had thought to myself in passing that our hair was sort of similar and found it reassuring. I mean, if she could afford to go to any stylist or salon and ended up with that style, then my cut from Ulta should be good too. The caustic remarks in the article certainly set me straight on that score.
Fast forward to the beginning of the State of the Union address. Mike was settling back to watch the whole thing while I was unpacking groceries and checking out the screen with mild curiosity in between arranging soup cans in my pantry and cramming Lean Cuisines into the freezer. Suddenly I saw the back of a woman with pretty hair and a headband. The headband gave me pause. Could this be....? Yes! It was Hillary Clinton! The last time I had noticed her on TV I remember thinking she looked tired, but this time I was entranced. I was immediately struck by the longish length of her hair and how great it looked.
Wait a minute - Hillary was at least five years older than me. How was it that she could get away with long hair? Wasn't there some unwritten rule that women of "a certain age" had to keep their hair short? It seemed like a wholly unfair choice. Hmmmm, what would I do? Keep the good old reliable helmet hair? Go super short with a real old lady style or even worse, a perm?
It really got me thinking. The truth is, the thickness and natural wave in my hair might not make me a good candidate for Hillary's hairstyle, but seeing her carry it off looking as good as she did made me feel empowered. Who made that rule about having short hair after fifty, anyway? Probably a twenty year old. I knew I didn't want to end up looking like one of those aging hippie chicks with long gray hair and Birkenstocks, but it seemed to me that if I chose to wear my hair shoulder length (or even longer, I thought defiantly) and it looked good, then it should be okay with society and I shouldn't be judged.
I'm not planning on upending all of those over fifty faux-pas. No short shorts, no bikinis, no buying my wardrobe at Forever XXI or Hollister. Just a little latitude in the hair department if I decide to take the plunge and grow it out a bit longer.
I might just do it. And I might not. But thank you, Hillary, for paving the way for a new era in almost-but-not-quite senior hairstyles and the freedom to carry it off with panache!
Sunday, January 22, 2012
The Latest Edition of Linda
Why is it, I wonder, that we are often afraid to tell people how we really feel?
From my own perspective, if I'm totally honest with myself, it's because of my own insecurities. I've found myself cringing at offensive comments or jokes that others make, but I rarely have the chutzpah to say anything. Instead, I'll excuse myself and leave or change the subject rather than have any kind of confrontation. This, I believe, is one of my worst shortcomings.
Cold comfort that it may be, I know that this lack of response is not mine alone and is also part of a greater problem. Haven't we all found ourselves, from time to time, biting our tongues and not saying what we really feel? Not only to friends and acquaintances, but to our own families as well?
There is an elaborate dance that we sometimes go through to make our feelings known in a passive aggressive way. I know that I have favored that approach in lieu of any really meaningful dialog sometimes because of the lack of confidence that I seem to have in verbalizing my feelings and convictions.
A perfect example is the relationship I have with my daughter-in-law. One of the things I really love about her is that she has always had the confidence in herself to say what she's thinking. I admire that so much and wish I was hard wired to do the same. Instead, I find myself passing things along to my son knowing that my message will eventually make it's way to her. At the time, it seems like the path of least resistance, but after some real soul searching and analysis I see that I am doing all of us a disservice.
I will tell anyone who asks that I love my two daughters-in-law and my two sons-in-law as if they were my own children. And I mean it completely. Each of us has gifts that we bring to the family table and those gifts of individuality make us all richer and more interesting people. We learn to accept and even embrace our subtle differences, knowing that by doing so we are weaving the fabric of our family quilt - one that will be a part of us for generations to come.
And part of that love - the part that means you belong to each other, come hell or high water, can only truly be honored by being able to tell each other how we feel. And knowing that the other person won't love you less or look at you with diminished eyes because there is full acceptance. To achieve that, my friends, is something that I plan to channel my efforts into full throttle. Life is too short for wasting one moment with hurt feelings or misunderstandings, especially with people I love.
To truly "walk the walk" I must be willing to understand that what I feel and what I have to say is not about confrontation, but about being true to myself. And that is a gift not only to my own heart, but to those around me. Linda 4.0 will have meaningful, loving and confident dialog from this day forward. Watch out world.... I may just have a lot to say!
From my own perspective, if I'm totally honest with myself, it's because of my own insecurities. I've found myself cringing at offensive comments or jokes that others make, but I rarely have the chutzpah to say anything. Instead, I'll excuse myself and leave or change the subject rather than have any kind of confrontation. This, I believe, is one of my worst shortcomings.
Cold comfort that it may be, I know that this lack of response is not mine alone and is also part of a greater problem. Haven't we all found ourselves, from time to time, biting our tongues and not saying what we really feel? Not only to friends and acquaintances, but to our own families as well?
There is an elaborate dance that we sometimes go through to make our feelings known in a passive aggressive way. I know that I have favored that approach in lieu of any really meaningful dialog sometimes because of the lack of confidence that I seem to have in verbalizing my feelings and convictions.
A perfect example is the relationship I have with my daughter-in-law. One of the things I really love about her is that she has always had the confidence in herself to say what she's thinking. I admire that so much and wish I was hard wired to do the same. Instead, I find myself passing things along to my son knowing that my message will eventually make it's way to her. At the time, it seems like the path of least resistance, but after some real soul searching and analysis I see that I am doing all of us a disservice.
I will tell anyone who asks that I love my two daughters-in-law and my two sons-in-law as if they were my own children. And I mean it completely. Each of us has gifts that we bring to the family table and those gifts of individuality make us all richer and more interesting people. We learn to accept and even embrace our subtle differences, knowing that by doing so we are weaving the fabric of our family quilt - one that will be a part of us for generations to come.
And part of that love - the part that means you belong to each other, come hell or high water, can only truly be honored by being able to tell each other how we feel. And knowing that the other person won't love you less or look at you with diminished eyes because there is full acceptance. To achieve that, my friends, is something that I plan to channel my efforts into full throttle. Life is too short for wasting one moment with hurt feelings or misunderstandings, especially with people I love.
To truly "walk the walk" I must be willing to understand that what I feel and what I have to say is not about confrontation, but about being true to myself. And that is a gift not only to my own heart, but to those around me. Linda 4.0 will have meaningful, loving and confident dialog from this day forward. Watch out world.... I may just have a lot to say!
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Caroline No
Middle school, or junior high as it was known back then, was a bit of an anxious time for me. For one thing, 7th grade math scared the crap out of me. To be more precise, Mrs. Mead, the math teacher, terrified me even more than the elusive quotients and products did.
At the time, I thought Mrs. Mead must have been in her seventies, but I realize now that she was probably about the age that I am now. Possibly even younger, which is a sobering and disturbing thought. She was a New Englander - you could hear it in the nasally flat way she pronounced her vowels. More than that, she embodied that sort of Puritan work ethic. A kind of "take no prisoners" approach to teaching math. She was a little on the large side and quite imposing with her wire rimmed spectacles, no-nonsense black shoes and iron gray hair. She would brook no discord or monkey business on her watch and little escaped her watchful eye.
Oh, and I was beyond hopeless. Math was never my strong suit, but it was even harder to concentrate and understand what she was teaching when my stomach was churning and my knees were knocking for the entire class period. I didn't fail, but came perilously close. My parents decided that I should go to summer school to take another crack at learning the mysteries of 7th grade math. On the last day of school, I shyly waited for the classroom to empty and told Mrs. Mead that I would be re-taking math during the summer. I don't remember whether I was looking for approval or whether I was instructed to tell her, but I remember the surprised look on her face when she said "Oh, I don't think that's necessary. You'll be fine." I think it was the first time I ever saw her as anything other than my own personal nemesis and it shocked me a little that she even sounded nice. Nonetheless, leaving 7th grade math for the last time was a moment of profound joy for me.
Ah, have I mentioned yet that I was a late bloomer? Just writing that makes me laugh, because in some ways, I don't think I "bloomed" until about 8 years ago. In junior high I was skinny and inept. Back in those days we didn't wear makeup or jeans to school or try to look older than we were. My hair was dark brown and I never seemed to have a good haircut. My freckles were oh-so-plentiful. No cute sprinkling across my nose, not me! Oh no, I was blessed with big old dark freckles all across my face. My clothes were just okay. I always got a few outfits before school started every year, but truth be told, many of my clothes were hand-me-downs from an older cousin. I had friends and hung out with popular kids, but I was a bit on the periphery. If I wasn't present, I wasn't necessarily thought of. I'm not saying that in a "poor me" kind of way, because I never felt that way. I've just always been the type that blends in with the scenery and doesn't stand out or command much attention.
One of the really fun parts of junior high were the parties. One particular girl, a good friend of mine named Sue, would have parties periodically in the basement of her house. Pretty much the whole class would be invited and about 75% would show up. These parties were fairly simple affairs - Cokes and potato chips, a record player and dimmed lights. The exciting part - the truly exciting part - was not knowing if tonight would be THE NIGHT. Would one of the boys ask me to dance? Would that maybe lead to a slow dance? I knew the boys in my class pretty well, most of us had been together since first grade. But in a darkened room on a Saturday night, I could daydream most of them into interesting possibilities.
The 45's would be stacked on the record player. One by one they would drop and play. And the one I always remember because it got played over and over at those parties, was the Beach Boy's Caroline No. To this day, even when I hear it on my Ipod, I find myself in Sue's basement, hoping a boy would ask me to dance.
To be honest, they never did. The smartest girl in the class with the white blonde hair was always dancing with the most popular boy. And another girl disappeared into the laundry area with a boy with a dubious reputation and came back 2 minutes later going steady after an obvious makeout session. I was fascinated, jealous and repelled all at the same time.
In many ways, though nothing really remarkable happened while I was in 7th grade, I feel as if I learned some valuable lessons. I could be afraid of things I didn't understand whether it meant math problems or a budding relationship with a boy. These things seemed both within my grasp and completely out of reach and while I never got a B in Math or danced a slow dance to Caroline No, I never really failed either.
At the time, I thought Mrs. Mead must have been in her seventies, but I realize now that she was probably about the age that I am now. Possibly even younger, which is a sobering and disturbing thought. She was a New Englander - you could hear it in the nasally flat way she pronounced her vowels. More than that, she embodied that sort of Puritan work ethic. A kind of "take no prisoners" approach to teaching math. She was a little on the large side and quite imposing with her wire rimmed spectacles, no-nonsense black shoes and iron gray hair. She would brook no discord or monkey business on her watch and little escaped her watchful eye.
Oh, and I was beyond hopeless. Math was never my strong suit, but it was even harder to concentrate and understand what she was teaching when my stomach was churning and my knees were knocking for the entire class period. I didn't fail, but came perilously close. My parents decided that I should go to summer school to take another crack at learning the mysteries of 7th grade math. On the last day of school, I shyly waited for the classroom to empty and told Mrs. Mead that I would be re-taking math during the summer. I don't remember whether I was looking for approval or whether I was instructed to tell her, but I remember the surprised look on her face when she said "Oh, I don't think that's necessary. You'll be fine." I think it was the first time I ever saw her as anything other than my own personal nemesis and it shocked me a little that she even sounded nice. Nonetheless, leaving 7th grade math for the last time was a moment of profound joy for me.
Ah, have I mentioned yet that I was a late bloomer? Just writing that makes me laugh, because in some ways, I don't think I "bloomed" until about 8 years ago. In junior high I was skinny and inept. Back in those days we didn't wear makeup or jeans to school or try to look older than we were. My hair was dark brown and I never seemed to have a good haircut. My freckles were oh-so-plentiful. No cute sprinkling across my nose, not me! Oh no, I was blessed with big old dark freckles all across my face. My clothes were just okay. I always got a few outfits before school started every year, but truth be told, many of my clothes were hand-me-downs from an older cousin. I had friends and hung out with popular kids, but I was a bit on the periphery. If I wasn't present, I wasn't necessarily thought of. I'm not saying that in a "poor me" kind of way, because I never felt that way. I've just always been the type that blends in with the scenery and doesn't stand out or command much attention.
One of the really fun parts of junior high were the parties. One particular girl, a good friend of mine named Sue, would have parties periodically in the basement of her house. Pretty much the whole class would be invited and about 75% would show up. These parties were fairly simple affairs - Cokes and potato chips, a record player and dimmed lights. The exciting part - the truly exciting part - was not knowing if tonight would be THE NIGHT. Would one of the boys ask me to dance? Would that maybe lead to a slow dance? I knew the boys in my class pretty well, most of us had been together since first grade. But in a darkened room on a Saturday night, I could daydream most of them into interesting possibilities.
The 45's would be stacked on the record player. One by one they would drop and play. And the one I always remember because it got played over and over at those parties, was the Beach Boy's Caroline No. To this day, even when I hear it on my Ipod, I find myself in Sue's basement, hoping a boy would ask me to dance.
To be honest, they never did. The smartest girl in the class with the white blonde hair was always dancing with the most popular boy. And another girl disappeared into the laundry area with a boy with a dubious reputation and came back 2 minutes later going steady after an obvious makeout session. I was fascinated, jealous and repelled all at the same time.
In many ways, though nothing really remarkable happened while I was in 7th grade, I feel as if I learned some valuable lessons. I could be afraid of things I didn't understand whether it meant math problems or a budding relationship with a boy. These things seemed both within my grasp and completely out of reach and while I never got a B in Math or danced a slow dance to Caroline No, I never really failed either.
Under the Lilacs
At the perimeter of the back yard of my childhood home there were ten large lilac bushes all in a row. They grew to be over seven feet tall and in between prunings provided a safe, snug den for me at their base.
Like every child, there were times I needed to be alone - away from my younger sister, away from my friends, away from my parents. I could crawl under the lilacs and sit, knees drawn up to my chin, in a space big enough for only me to spin my childhood fantasies.
The branches, heavy with the weight of rain soaked flowers, would arch to nearly the ground, hiding me from the world. The scent of the lilacs were intoxicating and I could not imagine a more perfect place on God's earth.
I could hear the drone of someone's lawn mower several yards away, accompanied by the sound of an insect buzzing somewhere in the foliage. The screen door would slam as my mother made her way to the clothes line with a basket of wet laundry, unaware of my presence just a few feet away. My plaid PF Flyers, only two weeks old were already soiled with grass stains and dirt and my short set (a hand-me-down from my cousin) was already missing a button from the blouse.
But here, in my lilac hideaway, I was a world away. I could be Meg from A Wrinkle in Time or Sam Gribley's friend from My Side of the Mountain. I could be anyone - a poet, the best softball player at school, the owner of a beautiful black horse named Sabre.
But defintely not just a plain young girl with freckles in an ill-fitting short set hiding under the lilacs.
Like every child, there were times I needed to be alone - away from my younger sister, away from my friends, away from my parents. I could crawl under the lilacs and sit, knees drawn up to my chin, in a space big enough for only me to spin my childhood fantasies.
The branches, heavy with the weight of rain soaked flowers, would arch to nearly the ground, hiding me from the world. The scent of the lilacs were intoxicating and I could not imagine a more perfect place on God's earth.
I could hear the drone of someone's lawn mower several yards away, accompanied by the sound of an insect buzzing somewhere in the foliage. The screen door would slam as my mother made her way to the clothes line with a basket of wet laundry, unaware of my presence just a few feet away. My plaid PF Flyers, only two weeks old were already soiled with grass stains and dirt and my short set (a hand-me-down from my cousin) was already missing a button from the blouse.
But here, in my lilac hideaway, I was a world away. I could be Meg from A Wrinkle in Time or Sam Gribley's friend from My Side of the Mountain. I could be anyone - a poet, the best softball player at school, the owner of a beautiful black horse named Sabre.
But defintely not just a plain young girl with freckles in an ill-fitting short set hiding under the lilacs.
Treasure
There are times, when something happens to temporarily turn my life upside down, that I need to take myself back. Back, back… to my thirteenth summer – to some of the sweetest memories I own. I pull them out of my memory and examine them, turning them over and over like a miser checks and rechecks his golden coins. These snapshots in time are almost too precious to describe – as if the mere exercise of putting words to the experience will dim the memory somehow.
It’s the first week of August, and my extended family has all gathered at the lake. After 18 holes of golf, my dad and my uncles sit in a semi-circle on aluminum webbed lawn chairs, laughing and smoking Lucky Strikes while my mom and my aunts work to prepare a barbeque. My cousins and my sister and I go down to the beach. Partly, this is done to avoid being around the kitchen where we’re likely to be called in to do some random chore, but partly because the sun, sand and water call us so urgently that it’s as if we have no choice.
My cousins are older than me – eighteen, nineteen and twenty one. The girls are sitting on the side of the pier, their tan legs swinging to and fro, their painted toes skimming the surface of the water. Their beach towels are arranged in a line, punctuated with plastic squeeze bottles of Sea & Ski and three transistor radios, all tuned to Johnny Mathis singing “Chances Are.” They are like exotic butterflies to me, colorful and beautiful, but not belonging to my world.
My boy cousins are roughhousing in the water – racing each other to the raft and back and noisily dunking each other. They, too, are older that me, but act like rambunctious puppy dogs with their splashing and good natured joking with one another.
I’m on the periphery, laying face down on my green and black striped beach towel near the midsection of the pier. The air is filled with the scent of the suntan lotion and the sound of displaced water as one of the boys cannonballs off the raft. As I lay there sunbathing, I peek through the slats of the pier, lazily count the minnows swimming by and the occasional strands of seaweed floating near the piling. The water is clear and I can see the sand, with it’s meringue like peaks and valleys. I want to touch the lake bottom then, to lay the palm of my hand against the sand or trace my finger along the indentations. Instead, I take it all in – every sound and scent, every moment being stamped and saved into my memory. How could I have known back then that times like this would be a salve against whatever came my way? I am so grateful for my childish foresight. This moment – suspended in time, has never lost its luster or its effect on my soul. It has helped define the essence of me.
It’s the first week of August, and my extended family has all gathered at the lake. After 18 holes of golf, my dad and my uncles sit in a semi-circle on aluminum webbed lawn chairs, laughing and smoking Lucky Strikes while my mom and my aunts work to prepare a barbeque. My cousins and my sister and I go down to the beach. Partly, this is done to avoid being around the kitchen where we’re likely to be called in to do some random chore, but partly because the sun, sand and water call us so urgently that it’s as if we have no choice.
My cousins are older than me – eighteen, nineteen and twenty one. The girls are sitting on the side of the pier, their tan legs swinging to and fro, their painted toes skimming the surface of the water. Their beach towels are arranged in a line, punctuated with plastic squeeze bottles of Sea & Ski and three transistor radios, all tuned to Johnny Mathis singing “Chances Are.” They are like exotic butterflies to me, colorful and beautiful, but not belonging to my world.
My boy cousins are roughhousing in the water – racing each other to the raft and back and noisily dunking each other. They, too, are older that me, but act like rambunctious puppy dogs with their splashing and good natured joking with one another.
I’m on the periphery, laying face down on my green and black striped beach towel near the midsection of the pier. The air is filled with the scent of the suntan lotion and the sound of displaced water as one of the boys cannonballs off the raft. As I lay there sunbathing, I peek through the slats of the pier, lazily count the minnows swimming by and the occasional strands of seaweed floating near the piling. The water is clear and I can see the sand, with it’s meringue like peaks and valleys. I want to touch the lake bottom then, to lay the palm of my hand against the sand or trace my finger along the indentations. Instead, I take it all in – every sound and scent, every moment being stamped and saved into my memory. How could I have known back then that times like this would be a salve against whatever came my way? I am so grateful for my childish foresight. This moment – suspended in time, has never lost its luster or its effect on my soul. It has helped define the essence of me.
A Reminder from Dorothy
A few weeks ago I became completely exasperated with my iron. The bottom plate had spray starch residue that wouldn't budge when I tried to clean it off and I finally chucked it into the trash with the intent of going to Target that day to pick up a new one.
I was shocked when I checked the prices of irons at Target online beforehand. $89 for an iron? Really?? As we near retirement I've tried to be more fiscally responsible - to research before I buy and separate wants from needs, but the inexpensive irons were bereft of features with dubious life spans. Sigh. All right - I'd forego a new pair of shoes or outfit that would have cost the same $89 and buy a nicer iron.
I was backing out of the driveway when I dimly remembered a couple of cast off irons in the closet of the guest bedroom. They were probably broken or cheap - left overs from my children moving out after college, I told myself. Keep going and get over to Target so you can get back to attack that pile of Mike's shirts before the day gets away from you. That somber, humorless voice in my head that keeps me from blowing our budget on "wants" got the better of me and I stopped and went back in the house to check and see if there really were irons in the closet.
There were three. The first two were indeed broken, low cost models which made me marvel that they sat several years in the closet taking up real estate without having been thrown out. The third, though, was a nice one. Would it work? I filled the well with water, plugged it in and waited.
As I tipped the iron over to begin pressing a shirt there was the familiar and reassuring hiss of the steam as it met the fabric. Yes!
And at that moment, I realized that my morning had been filled with research and thought processes about a simple appliance when all the time there was an eminently suitable replacement just a few feet away in my own home. I was reminded of Dorothy, at the end of the Wizard of Oz, telling everyone around her that she realized that before she went to search for her heart's desire in the future she would first look in her own backyard.
I know that comparing my heart's desire to replacing an iron is a huge over simplification, but I think it's also a bit emblematic of something I needed to be reminded of.
I've found myself envying my friends sometimes for the nicer, bigger houses that they have or the newer models of cars. There have been many times when I have resented having to watch our pennies or regretted career choices that my husband and I have made that netted us less income than my friends. But suddenly, in this iron-inspired light bulb moment, I took stock of what I had and it nearly took my breath away.
A husband of 32 years that I am madly in love with and who loves me right back. Four wonderful, well adjusted and happy adult children who keep in constant touch with us and choose to live close by so we can all stay connected. A precious new granddaughter and a grandson on the way. Jobs that we have been able to hold onto throughout uncertain economic times. A house in a nice area that's paid for. Our health. Our faith. The list goes on.
So I spent the afternoon ironing shirts and I can honestly say I never felt more content and happy with my life.
I was shocked when I checked the prices of irons at Target online beforehand. $89 for an iron? Really?? As we near retirement I've tried to be more fiscally responsible - to research before I buy and separate wants from needs, but the inexpensive irons were bereft of features with dubious life spans. Sigh. All right - I'd forego a new pair of shoes or outfit that would have cost the same $89 and buy a nicer iron.
I was backing out of the driveway when I dimly remembered a couple of cast off irons in the closet of the guest bedroom. They were probably broken or cheap - left overs from my children moving out after college, I told myself. Keep going and get over to Target so you can get back to attack that pile of Mike's shirts before the day gets away from you. That somber, humorless voice in my head that keeps me from blowing our budget on "wants" got the better of me and I stopped and went back in the house to check and see if there really were irons in the closet.
There were three. The first two were indeed broken, low cost models which made me marvel that they sat several years in the closet taking up real estate without having been thrown out. The third, though, was a nice one. Would it work? I filled the well with water, plugged it in and waited.
As I tipped the iron over to begin pressing a shirt there was the familiar and reassuring hiss of the steam as it met the fabric. Yes!
And at that moment, I realized that my morning had been filled with research and thought processes about a simple appliance when all the time there was an eminently suitable replacement just a few feet away in my own home. I was reminded of Dorothy, at the end of the Wizard of Oz, telling everyone around her that she realized that before she went to search for her heart's desire in the future she would first look in her own backyard.
I know that comparing my heart's desire to replacing an iron is a huge over simplification, but I think it's also a bit emblematic of something I needed to be reminded of.
I've found myself envying my friends sometimes for the nicer, bigger houses that they have or the newer models of cars. There have been many times when I have resented having to watch our pennies or regretted career choices that my husband and I have made that netted us less income than my friends. But suddenly, in this iron-inspired light bulb moment, I took stock of what I had and it nearly took my breath away.
A husband of 32 years that I am madly in love with and who loves me right back. Four wonderful, well adjusted and happy adult children who keep in constant touch with us and choose to live close by so we can all stay connected. A precious new granddaughter and a grandson on the way. Jobs that we have been able to hold onto throughout uncertain economic times. A house in a nice area that's paid for. Our health. Our faith. The list goes on.
So I spent the afternoon ironing shirts and I can honestly say I never felt more content and happy with my life.
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