Waxing....

...Poetic?
Not so much!

I brush my hair every morning... and every morning I notice there are more and more hairs on the brush, in the sink and on the floor. And on my upper lip.

Is there some magic moment when our bodies decide to do some sort of biological switch and transfer what's supposed to be on our heads elsewhere?

Don't get me wrong - I still have what I consider to be a healthy head of hair. It's graying relatively slowly, which is a relief, and although it's become a lot coarser recently, it continues to cover my scalp nicely, and seems to be growing and replacing what's been falling out at a reasonable rate.

But the hair on my upper lip - and now, according to the lovely young woman who does my regular waxing - my chin -is also growing and spreading at an alarming rate.

Every morning I shove my face as close to the mirror as I can (this procedure must be done before I put in my contact lenses, otherwise my close-up vision is far too compromised to accomplish anything, even with my $9.00 flea market 'readers'), and try to remove the hairs that have sprouted over the previous 24 hours. I never know where these little shoots are going to be - under my nose, on the side of my lip, on my chin or even, as I discovered this morning, much to my dismay, on my cheek. The very worst ones are beneath my jaw: try lifting your head, holding onto your chin, feeling around for the sharp prick of a coarse yet invisible hair while wielding a small pair of sharp tweezers. Then see if you can latch those tweezers onto that hair and pull it out. Without, of course, catching the side of your neck and leaving angry little welts on the skin.

I was able to avoid waxing for a long time. Mostly because I was chicken and didn't like the idea of paying for pain. I succumbed several years ago when during a 'once in a blue moon facial' (it was my birthday present to me) the esthetician convinced me that it was the right thing to do 'at my age.' Who was I to argue with someone who was gently massaging my scalp, neck and shoulders in a candle lit room, with ocean, bird and cello sounds playing softly in the background? I said 'Do it', and she did. Ouch.

However I liked the smooth feel and the look of my freshly waxed vermillion (look it up!), and I decided the pain was worth it. At first, I did it once every 6-8 weeks. The hair, when it did grow back, remained soft and blonde. But then things started to change - just about the time, I now realize - I noticed the aforementioned increasing amount of head hair loss.

So I began to schedule regular appointments. Every 6 weeks. And then, every 5 weeks. You get the idea.

It's not that I mind the pain. Really, I don't. In fact, I almost welcome it, because I know the result will be the removal of those blasted little hairs. I just wish it didn't seem as if each time another chin hair appears, another head hair hits the floor.

My next wax is in 2 1/2 weeks.

DeFeet

I used to have feet.

Don't get me wrong, they're still there, attached, as they always have been, to my ankles, but they're different now. They used to be somewhat cute (if feet can be cute), neat and compact. I had no hesitation about displaying them in chic little sandals and pumps. But now, it seems, they've grown, flattened, spread and somehow even changed direction. And I really hadn't noticed until yesterday when I went to buy new sneakers.

I thought I was being very clever when I wrote down the size, model number and style name of my old shoes. "I'll just replace them exactly," I thought. "Go into the shoe store, tell them what I want and that'll be it. Maybe I'll try them on, just in case..."

Good thing I did.

Those exact same sneakers - just like the ones I've been wearing on my morning walk for the past two years - didn't fit at all. They looked the same all right, but when I put them on... nope. Not even close. I needed a half size larger, and a wider fit. And a different make entirely. (I've been wearing the same brand for years - I'm a very loyal consumer.)

Now I've been having 'foot issues' for a while. Heel spurs (hurt like hell) have made orthotics a necessity. I have two pair - one for 'party shoes' the other for 'sports shoes', and they work quite nicely. I've found sandals with good support (Mephistos if you're interested - too expensive, but they last for seven years; then you send them back to the factory and they'll rebuild them for you for $75, which means they'll last for another seven years. Therefore the actual exorbitant price can be amortized over 14 years or so, which makes their cost somewhat justifiable... but I digress). However through it all my feet - at least the look of them - stayed the same. Or so I thought.

I looked at them - really looked at them - this morning. They're definitely wider. The toes are... well... lumpier, and they seem to be pointing in a bit of a different direction. A couple of the toenails are looking thicker and slightly off color. (Bright red polish will fix that, no doubt).

So no more cute little 'Betty Crocker F*^k Me' shoes for me. Not that I've worn them in ages, but I still felt I could justifiably eye them in the shoe store when I saw them. No more. I'll head right to the sensible section and shop there.

Isn't that grown up of me?

I'm going for a walk...

Question

I've been thinking about a conversation I overheard between my mother and one of her childhood friends. It was probably about 15 years ago.

We were walking ... it was a magnificent Vermont evening just turning to dusk. I was slightly ahead of the two of them, walking one of our series of beloved sheepdogs - far enough in front to
allow her to snuffle and sniff to her heart's content, but close enough to be able to listen in on
their conversation. At first it wasn't a deliberate attempt to eavesdrop, but their discussion intrigued me and I slowed down in order to hear them.

I can't recall who said what, but I'll never forget what they said:

"How did I get to be seventy? I don't feel like I'm seventy."
"I know. I get out of bed in the morning and my feet hurt and my back aches and
I desperately have to pee. But in my heart I'm maybe... twenty-five."
"Exactly. It's so odd. I think I can do things - and I can. But I seem to do them so much more slowly."
"It's like it's me, but it's not me. And the person in the mirror in the in the morning is definitely not me, either. I know I'm in there, but who's that stranger looking back at me?"

And now, from my current perspective, I understand.

Steps in time...

I recently took a giant step - whether it was a step forward or backward is a question yet to be answered.

I left a steady, paying - not that much, but it was a regular paycheck - job in order to do
freelance work from home. There were lots of reasons - 50 - 60 hour weeks, board of director
politics (what else is new!), and sheer exhaustion. I loved the work itself - that was never
an issue. But... it was time.

Time. I see a theme evolving here.

Was it time for me to leave my job? Yes.
Was it time for me to spend more time with my husband? Yes.
Was it time for me to spend more time with my grandchildren - and the people they live with? Yes! Most definitely Yes!
Will I use my new-found extra time well and wisely? I hope so.
Will this so called freedom - which is making me extremely nervous - allow me to spend more time doing the things I enjoy? I hope so.
And of course the biggest question of all:
How much time do I really have left - is it running out? I don't know.
This is a question that has occurred to me more often recently than ever before.
Perhaps, because I've got too much time on my hands...

Aging Gracefully

So here I am.
I don't feel 58.
And I hope I don't look 58... maybe 55?
It's hard for me to even wrap my head around the fact that I've reached this age.
(Hell... it's hard for me to wrap my head around the fact that I'm a grandmother... three times over.) But I have, and I am.
And I've come to the conclusion there's nothing I can do about the actual passage of time.
But I can, if I want (and I do want) do my best to enjoy my age; live with my age; and sometimes even act my age.
Can I do it - will I do it...
All this remains to be seen...