Don't Take Candy From Strangers - Unless, Of Course, It's Halloween

Why is everyone so seemingly surprised that there's an obesity problem in our country? I mean, we do live in the land of plenty. Why shouldn't we be allowed to celebrate our wealth and abundance with a little overindulgence? Especially during the holiday season. Beginning with Halloween and continuing through New Year's, food is all around us, and not much of it is of the healthy variety. Have you been to Target or Wal-Mart this week? There's more Halloween candy, cookies, cakes, etc. on the shelves than produce. And that, my friends, is not necessarily a bad thing. We may be overweight in the United States, but at least we're enjoying our sweets. If God hadn't meant for us to enjoy sugar, she wouldn't have made our tongues with an entire section for tasting sweet foods, now, would she? I for one plan on eating my share of candy corn and chocolate mini-candy bars this weekend. Why should kids have all the fun? Yes, I'm 50, and yes, I should know better than to eat too much junk food, but the way I figure, if I've been getting away with it for fifty years, it must not be THAT bad for me. I don't have diabetes. I still have my teeth. And my friends always know they can count on me for a chocolate fix when they need one. And, well, if it does kill me one day, I'm gonna die with that proverbial smile (and a smear of Dove chocolate) on my face. Please don't pray for me to see the error of my ways and start eating healthier. If I go to Hell for overindulging in sugar, at least I'll be surrounded by kindred spirits.

Working Girl

After being unemployed and doing volunteer work for the better part of three years now, I'm not sure I'll EVER find a job again. I've had a few interviews during this period, but no offers. And it's not like I'm not applying for many jobs. I've probably sent/emailed/faxed more than one hundred resumes for a variety of jobs, all of which I was sure I was qualified for. It's quite discouraging.
I'm currently an "on-call" employee for the county library system, which means I work when regular staff are out sick or on leave. While I do get paid for this work, I hesitate to call it my job. My schedule is erratic, and there are stretches of weeks when I don't work at all. I guess anyone who's been a temp or a substitute teacher can relate to my predicament. I always try to do good work when I'm filling in for staff, but I have to admit that I'm not very motivated to do great work - I mean, where's my incentive? Doing great work won't get me a raise or a promotion. So I've settled into doing good-enough-for-government-work work. And it seems to be, pardon the pun, working for me. I get paid, I get called for shifts when they're available, and I now have a reason to get out of my house other than going to the grocery store. I have lots of free time for writing and house projects, and since my husband works and makes a good salary, we're not hurting for money. Still, I can't help but feel there's something wrong with this picture.
When I worked, I enjoyed bringing home a paycheck. I also enjoyed interacting with my coworkers and customers and getting to know them. And I had a schedule that gave structure to my week. In my current situation, it's hard to make plans and appointments with certainty because I'm never sure when I'm going to be working. I'm not entirely out of the loop with regard to who's who and what's what in the library, but I'm sure I'm missing out on a few things that would give me a clearer idea of what's going on with "the bigger picture."
I'm pretty sure I'll find a job sooner or later. I live in Northern Virginia, the land of plenty when it comes to jobs, so there's bound to be one with my name on it. I just hope that when I get the offer, I won't be so used to this on-call lifestyle that I turn it down. You'll be among the first to know if I do.

Let Go of Your Ego

I was sure that wrinkles and gray hair were the worst aspects of my frightening descent and bumpy landing on that rocky terrain known as middle age. But that, my friends, was before my colonoscopy last week. Yes, that humbling  rite of midlife passage, the one that so much has already been written about by humorists much more humorous than I. Since so much has already been said about this procedure and its effect on the body and mind of those who have had it done, I will try to keep this brief and only moderately self-pitying. But there are a few things I've learned from this particularly unpleasant medical exam that I'd like to share with you. First, I will never, ever drink a clear, lemon-flavored beverage again, for as long as I live. Even if I have to have another colonoscopy. That's how much I hated drinking it. Not only did it make me poop every twenty minutes, I felt like I was gonna throw up. (Luckily, I didn't, but even writing about it now I feel my stomach churning.) Second, I will never, ever complain again about a short bout of diarrhea. There's nothing like running to the toilet every twenty minutes all night and morning after drinking said lemony laxative to eliminate colorless, malodorous fluid from one's bowels to make an occasional  loose stool seem like a walk in the park. And lastly, and perhaps worst of all, was the part of the process when I was lying on the table being briefed about the procedure by my gastroenterologist and I realized that his jokes about colonoscopies were way funnier than anything I've ever said or written. To add insult to injury, I couldn't come up with any witty comebacks for him. Oh, the horror! I was so preoccupied with trying desperately not to fart that I had no mental energy  for bantering. 
Now that the procedure is behind me (sorry) and I am feeling good, I try to convince myself that it really wasn't that bad, and if I had to do it again I'd be fine. But that's a big, fat lie. Those forty-eight hours of preparing for the procedure, getting it done, and recovering from it seemed like forty-eight years. Hmmm...add that to my real age of 50, and I'm the equivalent of 98 years old now. No wonder I'm so tired today!

The Thing about Thongs

I was walking down the street the other day with a younger, hipper friend of mine when two lovely, leggy young women strutted past us wearing jeans that appeared to have been painted on their taut, curvy booties. With a mixture of envy and judgmentalism, I turned to my friend and said, "Okay, where are their panty lines? Haven't they heard of underwear? I mean, as cute as their little pre-baby-birthing butts are, do they really want the whole world to see them under their jeans?" She replied matter-of-factly, "Oh, they're probably wearing thongs. That way they won't have panty lines under their jeans. It makes their butts look nice and smooth." Duh! I hadn't thought that they might be wearing thongs. People my age don't wear thongs. Or at least we shouldn't wear them. Even our significant others don't want us to wear them. They just point up how saggy and flat our butts have gotten. I grew up in the pre-thong era (this was the era just after dinosaurs became extinct on the historical timeline) when panty lines were inevitable under tight clothing. But it wasn't a problem  because everyone else had them too. Nowadays, if you have the dreaded VPLs, you're showing the world not only your underwear, but also how clueless you are about making the most of your ass-ets. Well, at the risk of being labeled a prude or an old fogey, I'm going to have to say no thanks to thongs. Not only am I too "mature" for them, they're uncomfortable, they necessitate more shaving, and they don't sell them in multi-packs at WalMart, so I'm not buying them. I'm saving my money for my next pair of Spanx, thanks.

F-F-Fifty is not the new Forty

Take it from someone who just turned 50- you can just forget you ever heard that  pseudo-comforting phrase, "Fifty is the new forty." I celebrated my half-century mark on September 24th, and let me tell you, ain't no way 50 is anything like 40. The two ages are as different as Jon Stewart and Rick Perry. Nothing in common, nada, zilch, zip. Turning 40 was, for me, not such a big deal. I didn't really look or feel significantly older than I did in my 30's, and I was confident that most doors would open to me if I knocked on them hard enough . Oh, and I had a pretty good photo on my driver's license then, too, which made me feel good about my appearance since the DMV seems to take pride in making even the most attractive people look hideous in their driver's license photos. Turning 50, though, was a complete game changer for me. The only groups that court me and my money now are AARP, the alumni association of my college, and long-term care providers. Employers don't want me (I've had three interviews and no offers in the past few months) any more. Neither do fashion designers, whose new and trendy styles make me look like a woman who's trying in vain to relive her forties. Not pretty. Oh, and I had to turn in my driver's license with the flattering photo on it and get a new one with a black and white photo in which I am not smiling -- not because I didn't want to smile, but because smiling is not allowed by the Virginia DMV in driver's license photos. Also not pretty. Aches and pains are now a surefire conversation starter with my peers, not the conversation killer they were a mere decade ago.
I can only wonder with trepidation what other unwanted changes 50 will bring my way. Will I soon be partaking of the "early bird" special at my favorite restaurant on the weekend?  Will I happily accept the grocery store bagger's offer to carry my bags to the car for me? Will I be one of those people who doesn't request but demands the AARP discount at hotels I stay in? I promise to keep you, pardon the pun, posted.

I TURNED FIFTY - NOW WHAT?

Well, I'm happy to report I survived the Big Day. I am now 50 years old. Friends, family and coworkers are all telling me that turning 50 is no big deal. And to them I want to say, Shut the f**k up! It IS a big deal, and I AM getting old. There's no need to whitewash it. We Americans live in a youth-obsessed culture, and I am no longer youthful. Sure, there are times when I feel youthful, but that feeling only lasts until my tennis elbow acts up,  or I catch a glimpse of my butt in the mirror and see new dimples forming on top of my cellulite. I try to cheer myself up by reminding myself that along with age comes wisdom. However, this only works until I realize I don't know what today's date is.  I must admit I'm looking forward to a few things that will happen as I navigate my fifth century of life, one of them being that I will no longer have to buy or use tampons. That will be superb! I'm also looking forward to inheriting some money from my father when he passes away. That sounds awful, I know. I do not, repeat, DO NOT want my father to die any time soon, nor do I think he owes me any money when he does die. But if he wants to leave me a few bucks, I'd have to respect his last wishes, now, wouldn't I?  I definitely wouldn't spend it all at once. That would be very un-wise of me to do...
...but let me get back to the present. I'm adjusting to this new number that is my age as best as I can. I am grateful for friends, family and good health. I have a great husband and I live in a nice home. I wouldn't trade any of these things for another shot at youth. No, the only "shot" at youth I'm considering at 50 is a shot of Botox in between my eyebrows. Stay tuned...

FIfty is Nifty - NOT!

This is not an easy post to write. Not only am I reluctant to admit that I am about to turn f-f-f-fifty soon, but it's literally hard to write this because my fingers and hands are achy with what I can only assume is arthritis, the bane of those of us entering or in the half-century club. In a few weeks, I'll be fifty years old. Officially. I've been telling people I'm almost fifty for the past several months because I thought that would help to cushion the blow when the dreaded date actually arrived. But even so, I am still not loving the thought of very soon becoming a has-been to advertisers and employers. Fifty is NOT nifty. Not in my book. I'd gladly give up my AARP discount at the Holiday Inn in exchange for better eyesight, healthy joints, and naturally blonde hair. I know there's no way to stop the clock from ticking, but that doesn't mean I have to be happy about it. When I'm struggling to keep this aging thing in perspective as the Big Day gets imminent,  I try to remember something my father in his infinite and blunt wisdom told me. He said,  "You think 50 is bad? Just wait til you're 75!" Thinking about him saying that to me always lifts my mood a bit. If only it would lift my sagging face, too. Oh, well. I suppose that boost will have to be left to a plastic surgeon to accomplish.