nina turns 60

California

I didn't go to Texas, but I did go to California because my parents and sister were there. They were staying at a nice resort in the desert, but it was not a vacation. My parents are having a hard time resigning themselves to their limitations. I can't blame them, so am I. My sister and I were happy to be there to help them, and glad to have the chance to observe them at the same time in the same circumstances. We gave each other breaks, she to play tennis; I drove to a coffee shop in a nearby town. My parents had a three week trip planned, with visits to friends and other resorts, but instead they flew home with me. I stayed with them until the shuttle van came to bring them to their car. I headed back toward the baggage claim area to use the bathroom and buy a coffee. As I passed over the skybridge to the terminal, I looked down and could see them boarding the van with the other passengers, who helped them with their luggage. It is very like taking care of your child in the world, but the destination is so very different.

alive || not alive

I've been setting metal type in the physical world rather than typing in the digital one, and it feels really good. The meticulous care with which one must operate to make a beautiful page (or even just a clear, easy to read page) is impressive. The feel of the type in my fingers makes me grounded. The presses themselves, so beautiful and heavy, still doing their work after 100 years, give me joy. I marvel at their ingeniousness, their various parts working together just so. They don't seem alive, but they don't seem entirely not alive either. 

Next week I will go to Texas with 10,000 or so other people who care very much about words and language, about fitting it together just so, both by meaning and by its physical properties. I will get to eat and work with beloved colleagues whom I normally only interact with digitally. It will be warm, at least outside. 

My parents are flying out to California on the same day and same airline that I am flying to Texas. I hope I will see them at the airport. The last time my father fell down was at an airport. The helplessness of watching your parents grow old and start to falter—

my parents have grown old

Spent the weekend with my folks. It was their 62nd anniversary. They didn't know I was coming, and they were happy at the surprise. I sometimes find it hard to be patient with them in this new iteration of themselves, these old people who have taken over where my parents used to be. I want to be better. I work consciously toward being better. But the dynamic shift has thrown me. I had underestimated how much I still depended on them in my mental world. That sense that they would always be there for me. It's been true my whole life. And now it's not. They can't be anymore. It's my turn to be there for them. And I am happy to do it. But really, it's much harder than I am prepared for. 

It's not unlike when you become a parent and you have no friggin' idea what you are doing, but you have to figure it out because you've got that baby and that baby needs you. Except now you are much older and even more tired and you aren't as desperately in love with those in your care. Oh, you love them deeply. But the mama bear thing does not drive you. There is a tenderness. There is also mourning. You miss your parents the way they were even just a few years ago. You worry about them—so much worry. So many questions about what is the right thing to do. Instead of leading them toward independence, as with a child, you must start to take their independence away from them. Everybody is a little bit afraid. 

 

old ladies

I do and I don't want to grow up to be an old lady. It's bad enough being a middle-aged lady. As has been (and is being) amply demonstrated on the national political stage, no matter how competent, accomplished, talented, kind, funny, HUMAN you are, you won't be seen that way. It's worse, of course, when you don't have certain kinds of privilege. It gets worse the older you get.  It pisses me off. It pisses me off on behalf of myself, and on behalf of women in general. Even from within this knowledge and this anger, I find myself sometimes treating older women in a way that shows I've internalized a lot of the contempt. It's kind of horrifying to realize this, but I'm glad I can see it and therefore work against it as much as I can.

One of the things I'm going to do with this space is to celebrate older women. 

 

my fat body

I want to write about being fat. About how people bristle when I describe myself as fat. Well, not bristle, but rush to assure me that no, I am not fat, because fat is bad and I am not bad. I want write that I did not stop eating sugar to lose weight. I have not tried to lose weight for decades. I have defiantly not tried to lose weight. But then, when I stopped eating sugar for a few months I did lose weight. People noticed. People commented on how good I looked. People assumed I'd been trying to accomplish this thing they were praising me for. It was both weird and satisfying. I thrive on praise—for good or ill. I glowed under this positive scrutiny. But I am also disturbed by it. I'm endlessly outraged that women's bodies are always considered an appropriate subject for public commentary. That my body, the shape of it, how it is or isn't pleasing to others is something that my family, my colleagues*, etc. think is fair game for scrutiny and discussion not initiated by me, the owner of said body. If I were fatter and/or lived in a more populous place, strangers would also have their say. 

It's been this way since I was a tween and there was much speculation around the neighborhood on what my boobs would look like when they came in, this transformation of my body into something public, something that was for others.

I just want my body to be mine. Who would have thought that would be such a radical notion?

 

*My family and colleagues are lovely. They are just doing what's expected. I don't blame them. Too much. 

 

ride

A woman came into the Press yesterday in motorcycle gear and a helmet, which she never removed. Someone had told her about a place that had free calendars with local art represented each month, and when she saw that we were a press she thought that it might be us. It wasn't, and we directed her to where we thought she should go. She thanked us and walked outside. I hesitated a second, but then followed her out. 

"I wanted to see your bike," I told her.

"Do you ride?"

"No, but I've always wanted to learn." It was always one of those things that I thought I might do after Hijo moved out. It always seemed so far in the future. Not anymore. 

"Do it!" She smiled at me. "I bought my first bike when I was 50. I love it!" 

So many possibilities for my life now. So many ways to shape it. 

I ran into some neighbors at the local market; their son is the same age as Hijo, and going to the same school. When I started talking about the difficulty of sending Hijo off, the other mother started tearing up. I was grateful to see her tears, to have my own sense of grief echoed. I have been mostly a mix of excited and sad, but as move out day approaches, the sadness is coming to the forefront. Facebook shows me a photo of Hijo at ten, and I burst into tears at my desk, knowing there are so many moments that are gone forever, moments that I won't even remember.

I wish I'd been more present, wish I hadn't always been so exhausted. I wish I had the chance to do some things over. I'm a better parent now, but it doesn't matter. 

It's such a strange thing to be a mother, to grow a child inside of you, to feed him from your body, to know, finally, how much love you are capable of. And then, because you've done a good job in spite of all the mistakes you've made, he is excited and ready to go. You are excited for him. 

And so you dream of motorcycles and camper vans, you dream of traveling and never staying too long in one place. You dream of all the places you might go. Because staying put in the little house that was yours and his for so many years seems like something you cannot quite make yourself do on your own.

cactus

It's been a tough week. Something that I thought was going to be good turned out to be, well nothing, really. I have this Christmas cactus that is a cutting from my grandmother's big giant one. And I am the worst with houseplants. Which is why people now try to give me succulents and see if at least those might be able to survive under my care. One year the cactus put out a bud! It sat in its wee pot doing its thing and miraculously not dying, but it had never had any flowers. I was ecstatic that it had a bud, and I watched it get bigger every day. I was so excited to see this thing bloom, I was sure it was going to be gorgeous. I didn't care that it was only one bud. I was happy to see it. It grew and grew until finally it just fell off. It never opened. Just fell off onto the window sill. 

I went over to my friend DeeAnn's house awhile ago, and loaded up with wine and cheese and cherries, we sat outside and drank and snacked and talked about the near impossibility of finding a relationship that is better than what we have on our own. It was a testament to the lives we've each built for ourselves, our quests for interesting and rewarding work, our creative passions, the activities we engage in and places we like to go. We aren't dependent upon men for our survival or even to make a good life. How lucky we are to live in this time when that is true. How frustrating that it seems to raise the bar so high. 

Among the many profound changes that happened to me after my son was born, I found I had a severely limited tolerance for bullshit. My priorities were suddenly very clear, and the stakes were high. By the time the baby turned one, I had left his father. Yes, you can draw a line between those two points. 

I have re-potted that Christmas cactus, put it into a bigger container, given it fresh soil, some fertilizer. I thought I might kill it during the transplant, but it has adapted to its new home. It's even put out some new leaves. I suppose it might actually bloom one day, but I'm not holding my breath. If it does produce a flower or two, the soft colorful petals will only last a short time before they too wilt and fall off leaving only the resilient segmented cladodes.

 

 

birthdays

On my 30th birthday I was feeling sad about a boy who'd broken up with me. He worked in the restaurant at the Space Needle, and I decided to go and wait for him to get off work so I could talk with him and see if I could change his mind. It's my birthday, I thought, I get to do what I want. So I sat on a bench beneath the Space Needle, near the door where I knew he'd come out after his shift was over. He was surprised to see me, but came and sat with me on the bench. He did not change his mind.

On my 40th birthday, I was on a date that had started the night before. It was technically a first date, though we'd had lunch once before. He made a mix-CD for me, took me to dinner, and then we went for coffee and dessert. He drove me home and we sat in the car for a minute chatting while I waited for him to kiss me goodnight. He didn't. I looked over to him, put my hand on the car door handle and said, really? He laughed and then he kissed me, and then we went to his apartment. I only left the next day because I had to get my driver's license renewed and he had to wrap up some things at the office. As soon as our errands were done, we went back. It was the best driver's license picture I've ever had.

On my 52nd birthday, someone I was hoping would remember, someone I reminded more than once, forgot. Somebody else was unexpectedly sweet. And my family, as always, showered me with love and gifts (and a really good steak). I got pulled over just blocks from my house for having a headlight out, which I hadn't realized. I had forgotten to print up my new proof of insurance card at the beginning of the month, too. I asked the cop to please cut me whatever slack that it being my birthday might afford me, and he laughed. I did not get a ticket. I thought of the ease of being a middle-aged white chick with your son in the car on your birthday in PT vs. being a black teenager walking down the street with a friend in Ferguson (or so many other places).

 

Perio-Periods & Other Messy Thoughts

It's my birthday tomorrow, my 52nd birthday, and I am currently bleeding heavily into the biggest size maxi pad they sell at the grocery store. I have a foggy Monday morning brain after waking up in the middle of the night - as I always do now - to change another soaked maxi pad and red stained panties. It took me forever to fall back asleep because I immediately started bleeding through again. It's become necessary to have "period sheets" because there's no way to keep the flow contained on those first couple of nights. 

This is my first period since mid-August, over nine weeks coming. I was hoping it was gone for good, though I knew that was unlikely. Menopause is a big transition, and like other lifebody transitions, it takes its own sweet time. The only option is to ride it out. 

It's not just messy physically, it's sloppy emotionally, too. My highs are higher and my lows hang on longer and dip down deeper. The sense of big changes on the horizon goes far beyond what is happening to my body. Hijo will graduate in 2-1/2 years. My parents are elderly. There will come a time in the not-too-distant future when I will be unmoored from the largest forces in my life. I have to figure out what to do with this terrible, exhilarating freedom.

I watch Hijo go through adolescence and in a way, I am too; a middle-aged version of figuring out who I want to be, and what I want, and what's really, deeply important to me. Just when I think I know one thing for sure, another thing occurs to me and I'm back in a messy world of vast possibilities. There is no single, clear path. All I can do as I move forward is to keep putting out absorbent materials and to do my best to wash out the inevitable stains. 

 

I miss writing here. I miss having something to write about, as if something has shriveled up inside of me, and just lies there, wrinkled and dry. I want to pick it up and soak it in rum. Let it get plump again.

All these big life transitions are heading toward me. One I can see clearly: Hijo will graduate from high school and go away to wherever he goes. The other is impossible to predict. But someday, maybe soon, maybe several years away still, my parents will both be dead. I will have this terrible freedom. I have to figure out what to do with it.