“I have a quick question.”
Sure, and the check is in the mail.
It’s not so much that the question is long, but I am betting the answer to the quick question will take more than a minute. And a minute is a long time.
Sit with my favorite sister at a soccer game, with her son’s team leading and Brandon playing goal. That last two minutes – when, for some reason, the refs stop the clock but the game time runs, just unbeknownst to the anxious fans – seems like an eternity. So many times we have looked at each other and said, “This game can’t end fast enough.”
Yeah, a minute can seem like a lifetime.
You have no idea how long a minute is until you are waiting for the light to change at Route 206 and Hillsborough Road. How long can it be, right? I don’t know the answer, but, if I am making a left, I bring a book to read (think War and Peace). There is one particular light I hit on my way home from Rutgers basketball games where I am the only person around, in the dark, and I am soooo tempted just to go ahead and make that left on red. After all, no one is coming, and who’s going to know? I can get home a minute sooner, right? Yikes, I can almost hear the sirens just thinking about it.
It makes me nuts when I see people leaving a close game with a minute left on the clock. What do they have to do that is so important that it can’t wait another 60 seconds? Congratulations, you will be sitting in the traffic in the parking lot a full minute ahead of me, I think. Why not just stay and see the end of the game?
The longest two minutes of my day are when the electric toothbrush is working its way through its cycle. I can’t really do much else besides letting it run its course, so I spend that time thinking and solving the problems of the world. By the end of the two minutes I have run out of ideas and have forgotten the solutions I came up with, which shows you how really long two minutes is.
It drives me crazy when I am watching “American Idol” and Ryan Seacrest so cleverly promises to tell you who is going home – after the break. I’m not competing, and still, that break seems to take forever even to me.
Or say you are waiting for the plumber, delivery person or someone else whose arrival is promised in a “window” of either morning or afternoon or four-hour blocks. His/her imminent arrival is predicated on whether you are actually there. Chances of the service person showing up early are greater if you are not home or are racing to get there. If you are home, you know someone won’t show up until the very end of the promised period – if at all.
Try being on hold for the insurance company or the cable company. Every now and then the music is interrupted by a semi-friendly recording says that your call is important and promises that someone will be with you shortly. Meanwhile, I keep the phone on speaker while I pay the bills on-line, sort out the coupons and try to remember the name of Lucy’s neighbor (Mrs. Trumble) or the answer to some other burning question.
Go to the doctor’s office, where you are either the last one in the waiting room or are left in the examination room with no magazines. Time creeps by ever-so-slowly. Once I was so bored that I started taking pictures of the office décor with my cell phone camera. Now I always bring along my own reading material.
Yet, as the song says, “time passes much too quickly when we’re together laughing.” Think about how many times have you been out with friends and suddenly – after what seems like a half an hour – someone looks at his/her watch and says, “Wow, I’ve got to go, we’ve been here for hours.”
Back to the soccer game. If your team is trailing, the time flies by and there never seems to be enough time to get back into the game. The hell with the other goalie’s mom, I say. I don’t want to see this game end!
I guess it all comes down to the fact that I realize that time, especially as I get older, is finite, and I appreciate it so much more now than when it seemed unlimited. I just don’t want to waste it at red lights and holding for insurance people. I’d rather spend it doing things I really enjoy, where the time is worth investing. Time flies when you are having fun, you know.
I realize that I enticed you to read this essay with the inherent promise that it would only take a minute, and you have now realized that it took longer than that. I hope the time flew by and that you loved every minute.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Movie Madness - December 2009
I never said it was noble. I never said it would be easy. But I did it. I decided to try to watch 100 movies in 2009, and I exceeded my goal by watching 111.
Sure, it seems silly. Couldn’t I/shouldn’t I have set loftier goals? I could feed the hungry, build houses for the poor – whatever. I could have set a goal better for my health than for my cultural interests, like losing significant weight. But I didn’t. Instead, I watched movies.
It all started when I saw a list from the American Film Institute (AFI) that listed the top 100 movies of all time. There were many movies on the list that I had never seen (“Citizen Kane”) or had seen so long ago that I barely remembered seeing them, and I decided I should revisit them in my spare time (and when you retire you have lots of spare time). So in 2008 I watched “Chinatown” and “Mrs. Miniver,” among others, for the first time. This year (2009) I decided to watch more – to watch not just the AFI’s top 100, but any movie that struck my fancy. And my fancy was struck quite often, it seems.
My goal was simple: I vowed to see 100 movies in 2009, and I did. My first movie of the year was the Oscar-winning “Slumdog Millionaire,” which, though hardly a feel-good movie, nonetheless emerged as one of the best I saw all year. Movie #100 – “Precious” – was similar in that it showed people living in horrendous conditions, overcoming poverty and rejection to simply survive. I thought both movies were great, and I never want to see either of them again.
In between “Slumdog” and “Precious” (there’s a sequel for you), I rented movies from Blockbuster, downloaded them from iTunes, watched them on demand or pay-per-view, viewed DVDs borrowed from friends, recorded movies on my DVR, watched them on cable (especially Turner Classic Movies) and ventured to a movie theater, alone or with friends. The only way I didn’t watch movies was from Netflix. Ironically, I don’t subscribe.
I saw something old (“A Tree Grows in Brooklyn”), something new (“500 Days of Summer”), something borrowed (from Blockbuster) and something blue (“My Blue Heaven,” a Steve Martin comedy, not some raunchy movie). I wanted to see classics I had never seen (”Bridge Over the River Kwai”) as well as classics I had seen but wanted to see again (“An Affair to Remember”). I didn’t watch any movie more than once (which meant passing up repeated showings of favorites like “Apollo 13” and “The Notebook”) and, while I did see some of my favorites (including my all-time favorite movie, “The Graduate”), I tried to expand my horizons, which worked to a degree. I watched light, frothy comedies (“Paul Blart, Mall Cop”), romances (“An Officer and a Gentleman”) and documentaries (“Man on a Wire”).
I saw movies about boys, teenagers and men (“About a Boy,” “American Teen,” “The Last Detail”). I watched movies about kids in a band (“The Leopards Take Manhattan” and “Ballou”), about the demise of Enron (“The Smartest Guys in the Room”), and about a type face (“Helvetica,” a movie with not a lot of memorable characters but of interest nonetheless).
As an aside, I must say that I have become a fan of documentaries, seeing nine this year alone. Whether it was “Schmatta, From Rags to Riches,” a documentary about the garment industry in New York City, or “Kick Like a Girl,” about a girls’ soccer team, documentaries always teach me something I didn’t know or manage to warm my heart. The documentaries I watched this year and in recent years have run from 30 minutes to two hours and I think of them as time very well spent. I urge you not to overlook the documentary as a form of learning and entertainment.
The year was full of movies I loved (“Julie and Julia,” with the incomparable Meryl Streep), movies I barely tolerated (a terrible semi-musical remake of “Goodbye Mr. Chips,” with Peter O’Toole) and movies I hated (“Live Free or Die Hard”). I watched as many as 13 movies in a month and as few as five. One day, I watched three movies, from drama to comedy to documentary, all without leaving the house or spending a dime (assuming you don’t count my cable TV bill).
I watched movies about teachers and preachers (“Conrack” and “Doubt”), wrestlers, queens, lawyers and phony lawyers (“The Verdict” and “Catch Me if You Can”). I saw 11 movies about sports (among them were “The Blind Side,” “Invincible” and one of my all-time favorites, “Rudy”), that focused on high school baseball and football, girls soccer, college football, professional football, boxing and Olympic ice hockey. I even watched one movie I had waited 40+ years to see again – “Good Morning Miss Dove” – only to have the DVR recording interrupted just as the handsome doctor was about to tell the sick woman whether she would live or die. I had seen this movie as a teenager, so I honestly don’t remember what actually happened, and I have to admit it wasn’t worth waiting 40 years to see again. However, now that the star, Jennifer Jones, has died, I figure a Jennifer Jones film retrospective on TCM is inevitable, so chances are I’ll finally know what happened. I’m guessing that the main character, like the actress who played her, didn’t survive.
In case you are wondering, I’d say my favorite movie of the year was “Gran Torino” with Clint Eastwood, which actually came out in 2008, followed by “Slumdog Millionaire.” I liked “Up in the Air,” the George Clooney movie that opened in December, but not as much as the critics who raved about it.
I know, I know, you’re thinking, “She has too much time on her hands,” and that might be true to you, but not to me. I worked for years without having time to do just what I wanted to do, so now, sandwiched in between committee meetings for the organizations I serve as a volunteer (lest you think I am completely self-centered), aqua aerobics, attending basketball games, photography outings with my camera, going to plays and museums and spending time with friends, I managed to accomplish my goal. Maybe I’ll save the world next year.
Or, maybe I’ll finally get to see “Citizen Kane.” It’s on my DVR as we speak. And if I start it now, maybe it can make the 2009 list…
Sure, it seems silly. Couldn’t I/shouldn’t I have set loftier goals? I could feed the hungry, build houses for the poor – whatever. I could have set a goal better for my health than for my cultural interests, like losing significant weight. But I didn’t. Instead, I watched movies.
It all started when I saw a list from the American Film Institute (AFI) that listed the top 100 movies of all time. There were many movies on the list that I had never seen (“Citizen Kane”) or had seen so long ago that I barely remembered seeing them, and I decided I should revisit them in my spare time (and when you retire you have lots of spare time). So in 2008 I watched “Chinatown” and “Mrs. Miniver,” among others, for the first time. This year (2009) I decided to watch more – to watch not just the AFI’s top 100, but any movie that struck my fancy. And my fancy was struck quite often, it seems.
My goal was simple: I vowed to see 100 movies in 2009, and I did. My first movie of the year was the Oscar-winning “Slumdog Millionaire,” which, though hardly a feel-good movie, nonetheless emerged as one of the best I saw all year. Movie #100 – “Precious” – was similar in that it showed people living in horrendous conditions, overcoming poverty and rejection to simply survive. I thought both movies were great, and I never want to see either of them again.
In between “Slumdog” and “Precious” (there’s a sequel for you), I rented movies from Blockbuster, downloaded them from iTunes, watched them on demand or pay-per-view, viewed DVDs borrowed from friends, recorded movies on my DVR, watched them on cable (especially Turner Classic Movies) and ventured to a movie theater, alone or with friends. The only way I didn’t watch movies was from Netflix. Ironically, I don’t subscribe.
I saw something old (“A Tree Grows in Brooklyn”), something new (“500 Days of Summer”), something borrowed (from Blockbuster) and something blue (“My Blue Heaven,” a Steve Martin comedy, not some raunchy movie). I wanted to see classics I had never seen (”Bridge Over the River Kwai”) as well as classics I had seen but wanted to see again (“An Affair to Remember”). I didn’t watch any movie more than once (which meant passing up repeated showings of favorites like “Apollo 13” and “The Notebook”) and, while I did see some of my favorites (including my all-time favorite movie, “The Graduate”), I tried to expand my horizons, which worked to a degree. I watched light, frothy comedies (“Paul Blart, Mall Cop”), romances (“An Officer and a Gentleman”) and documentaries (“Man on a Wire”).
I saw movies about boys, teenagers and men (“About a Boy,” “American Teen,” “The Last Detail”). I watched movies about kids in a band (“The Leopards Take Manhattan” and “Ballou”), about the demise of Enron (“The Smartest Guys in the Room”), and about a type face (“Helvetica,” a movie with not a lot of memorable characters but of interest nonetheless).
As an aside, I must say that I have become a fan of documentaries, seeing nine this year alone. Whether it was “Schmatta, From Rags to Riches,” a documentary about the garment industry in New York City, or “Kick Like a Girl,” about a girls’ soccer team, documentaries always teach me something I didn’t know or manage to warm my heart. The documentaries I watched this year and in recent years have run from 30 minutes to two hours and I think of them as time very well spent. I urge you not to overlook the documentary as a form of learning and entertainment.
The year was full of movies I loved (“Julie and Julia,” with the incomparable Meryl Streep), movies I barely tolerated (a terrible semi-musical remake of “Goodbye Mr. Chips,” with Peter O’Toole) and movies I hated (“Live Free or Die Hard”). I watched as many as 13 movies in a month and as few as five. One day, I watched three movies, from drama to comedy to documentary, all without leaving the house or spending a dime (assuming you don’t count my cable TV bill).
I watched movies about teachers and preachers (“Conrack” and “Doubt”), wrestlers, queens, lawyers and phony lawyers (“The Verdict” and “Catch Me if You Can”). I saw 11 movies about sports (among them were “The Blind Side,” “Invincible” and one of my all-time favorites, “Rudy”), that focused on high school baseball and football, girls soccer, college football, professional football, boxing and Olympic ice hockey. I even watched one movie I had waited 40+ years to see again – “Good Morning Miss Dove” – only to have the DVR recording interrupted just as the handsome doctor was about to tell the sick woman whether she would live or die. I had seen this movie as a teenager, so I honestly don’t remember what actually happened, and I have to admit it wasn’t worth waiting 40 years to see again. However, now that the star, Jennifer Jones, has died, I figure a Jennifer Jones film retrospective on TCM is inevitable, so chances are I’ll finally know what happened. I’m guessing that the main character, like the actress who played her, didn’t survive.
In case you are wondering, I’d say my favorite movie of the year was “Gran Torino” with Clint Eastwood, which actually came out in 2008, followed by “Slumdog Millionaire.” I liked “Up in the Air,” the George Clooney movie that opened in December, but not as much as the critics who raved about it.
I know, I know, you’re thinking, “She has too much time on her hands,” and that might be true to you, but not to me. I worked for years without having time to do just what I wanted to do, so now, sandwiched in between committee meetings for the organizations I serve as a volunteer (lest you think I am completely self-centered), aqua aerobics, attending basketball games, photography outings with my camera, going to plays and museums and spending time with friends, I managed to accomplish my goal. Maybe I’ll save the world next year.
Or, maybe I’ll finally get to see “Citizen Kane.” It’s on my DVR as we speak. And if I start it now, maybe it can make the 2009 list…
Monday, December 7, 2009
Hair Today - December 2009
I am letting my hair grow. At least for today.
I’ve been through this before, but I usually get over it quickly and head to the salon before it even approaches my shoulders. After all, what woman doesn’t obsess about her hair? Is it too long, too short, too gray, too blonde? Should I get it highlighted/dyed/bleached/permed/streamin’/flaxen/waxin’?
I like my hair short in the summer. “Give me the convertible cut,” I tell my hairdresser (I just can’t call him a stylist, because that would sound as if I have style). He knows that means cut it short enough so that when the top is down on my convertible it will simply blow back in place (the hair, not the top on the convertible). However, we are no longer in convertible weather, so, with my top firmly closed, I may be able to grow my hair out for a while.
Usually when I decide to let it grow it is because on that very day I think my hair looks good. It is not unusual for me to make an appointment to get it cut immediately thereafter, having awakened the next day with hair that has grown Rapunzel-like overnight and suddenly is over the top.
We all know our own hair better than anyone else – which is not to say we don’t need hair advice. I’ve been known to ask others about my need for a haircut and whether it looks better shorter or longer (which, granted, for me is a very small range). Once I got a very short haircut that I thought looked completely different. I asked my BFF about how she liked it and she replied, “Your hair always looks the same to me.” I decided to take that as a compliment.
There are days (in an office environment where the same people see you every day, everything is under scrutiny) when people have come up to me and said, “Your hair looks so good today,” and I have argued with them. Generally the day that compliment was bestowed was a day I thought it looked terrible. I mean, you know when your hair looks good, and no one can tell you otherwise when you are sure it doesn’t. “Oh, thanks,” I’d say, “but I need a haircut badly and this is not a good hair day for me.” Unless it was the actual day I was getting my hair cut. For some unknown reason, you always have good hair on the day it gets cut. And then it takes, by my count, about 10 days before it looks good again. I always try to get my hair cut 10 days before any big event, assuming, of course, that these events don’t happen weekly, in which case I’d have a shaved head.
My hair is a bone of contention in the pool. At home, I wear a baseball cap to keep my face out of the sun and my hair dry (clearly, I don’t believe swimming pools are actually for swimming). But at aqua aerobics, I just try to avoid getting my hair wet. To quote John Travolta’s Tony Manero in “Saturday Night Fever” after his father smacks him upside the head: “My hair! Watch the hair. I spend a lot of time on my hair.” Alright, I don’t spend as much time as Tony Manero spends on his hair, but still, I don’t want to have to go through all the required steps after I emerge from the pool – washing, gelling or moussing, drying, spraying, etc. There is one man who swims laps while we do our aerobics, and he is the splashiest swimmer you can imagine. I try to stay on the other side of the pool, but sometimes I get caught in his wake. Come on, man, I’m not here to get wet, I think. This is an issue when we play aqua volleyball, since I refuse to dive (or is it submerge myself?) after a ball (this is not the Olympics, believe me). I am usually the only one who finishes playing and doesn’t need to dry her hair. If I let my hair grow, this will be even more of a problem, since some of the exercises require us to keep own shoulders (and presumably our shoulder-length hair) in the water. I might have to resort to wearing the bathing cap fellow AA (aqua aerobics) friend Angela (shout out) so graciously provided. Suffice to say they just don’t make them like that anymore, except for this flowered masterpiece.
It is almost impossible to communicate appropriately with one’s hairdresser. His interpretation of “short” or “long” never quite matches up with yours. I’ve gone to the salon with pictures of hairdos I like in my hand. Yet I seem to exit with the same haircut every time. I don’t dare use someone else in that salon because that is just not proper hair protocol. Once my guy was away and I really needed a haircut, so I went to the person who blow dries my hair (this is a two-person job, you see) for a haircut. She did a great job, but it is her boss who always cuts me, and I didn’t want to undercut him, so to speak. (Oh, Jerry Seinfeld, I totally got that episode when you had the other barber come to your house. You just can’t cheat on your own guy in the same shop.) Yet I am already worried what I will do when this guy retires, since neither of us is getting any younger and I have gone to him for at least 15 years.
But I don’t have to worry about that now, because I have decided to let my hair grow and won’t need a haircut for some time. Or at least for today.
I’ve been through this before, but I usually get over it quickly and head to the salon before it even approaches my shoulders. After all, what woman doesn’t obsess about her hair? Is it too long, too short, too gray, too blonde? Should I get it highlighted/dyed/bleached/permed/streamin’/flaxen/waxin’?
I like my hair short in the summer. “Give me the convertible cut,” I tell my hairdresser (I just can’t call him a stylist, because that would sound as if I have style). He knows that means cut it short enough so that when the top is down on my convertible it will simply blow back in place (the hair, not the top on the convertible). However, we are no longer in convertible weather, so, with my top firmly closed, I may be able to grow my hair out for a while.
Usually when I decide to let it grow it is because on that very day I think my hair looks good. It is not unusual for me to make an appointment to get it cut immediately thereafter, having awakened the next day with hair that has grown Rapunzel-like overnight and suddenly is over the top.
We all know our own hair better than anyone else – which is not to say we don’t need hair advice. I’ve been known to ask others about my need for a haircut and whether it looks better shorter or longer (which, granted, for me is a very small range). Once I got a very short haircut that I thought looked completely different. I asked my BFF about how she liked it and she replied, “Your hair always looks the same to me.” I decided to take that as a compliment.
There are days (in an office environment where the same people see you every day, everything is under scrutiny) when people have come up to me and said, “Your hair looks so good today,” and I have argued with them. Generally the day that compliment was bestowed was a day I thought it looked terrible. I mean, you know when your hair looks good, and no one can tell you otherwise when you are sure it doesn’t. “Oh, thanks,” I’d say, “but I need a haircut badly and this is not a good hair day for me.” Unless it was the actual day I was getting my hair cut. For some unknown reason, you always have good hair on the day it gets cut. And then it takes, by my count, about 10 days before it looks good again. I always try to get my hair cut 10 days before any big event, assuming, of course, that these events don’t happen weekly, in which case I’d have a shaved head.
My hair is a bone of contention in the pool. At home, I wear a baseball cap to keep my face out of the sun and my hair dry (clearly, I don’t believe swimming pools are actually for swimming). But at aqua aerobics, I just try to avoid getting my hair wet. To quote John Travolta’s Tony Manero in “Saturday Night Fever” after his father smacks him upside the head: “My hair! Watch the hair. I spend a lot of time on my hair.” Alright, I don’t spend as much time as Tony Manero spends on his hair, but still, I don’t want to have to go through all the required steps after I emerge from the pool – washing, gelling or moussing, drying, spraying, etc. There is one man who swims laps while we do our aerobics, and he is the splashiest swimmer you can imagine. I try to stay on the other side of the pool, but sometimes I get caught in his wake. Come on, man, I’m not here to get wet, I think. This is an issue when we play aqua volleyball, since I refuse to dive (or is it submerge myself?) after a ball (this is not the Olympics, believe me). I am usually the only one who finishes playing and doesn’t need to dry her hair. If I let my hair grow, this will be even more of a problem, since some of the exercises require us to keep own shoulders (and presumably our shoulder-length hair) in the water. I might have to resort to wearing the bathing cap fellow AA (aqua aerobics) friend Angela (shout out) so graciously provided. Suffice to say they just don’t make them like that anymore, except for this flowered masterpiece.
It is almost impossible to communicate appropriately with one’s hairdresser. His interpretation of “short” or “long” never quite matches up with yours. I’ve gone to the salon with pictures of hairdos I like in my hand. Yet I seem to exit with the same haircut every time. I don’t dare use someone else in that salon because that is just not proper hair protocol. Once my guy was away and I really needed a haircut, so I went to the person who blow dries my hair (this is a two-person job, you see) for a haircut. She did a great job, but it is her boss who always cuts me, and I didn’t want to undercut him, so to speak. (Oh, Jerry Seinfeld, I totally got that episode when you had the other barber come to your house. You just can’t cheat on your own guy in the same shop.) Yet I am already worried what I will do when this guy retires, since neither of us is getting any younger and I have gone to him for at least 15 years.
But I don’t have to worry about that now, because I have decided to let my hair grow and won’t need a haircut for some time. Or at least for today.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Packing It In - November 2009
I’m a little confused about the whole vacation concept, now that I am retired. What do I need a vacation from, I ask myself. Am I getting away from it all? From what exactly am I escaping?
Confused, but undaunted, I just returned from a trip to the Virgin Islands, a combination of vacation and a chance to see my beloved Rutgers Women’s Basketball team play in the Paradise Jam tournament. Jam it was, as I took this opportunity to jam all the summer clothes I could find, along with appropriate RU athletic attire, into my bag.
I actually packed fairly well this time, exceeding the weight limit by a mere few pounds (I am still talking about the suitcase here, OK?) and I wore everything I packed except for one pair of jeans and a jacket (too hot) and one t-shirt. I added only a few t-shirts to the ever-growing collection and saved hundreds – if not thousands – of dollars by not buying myself anything sparkly and expensive.
Understand that this sudden packing efficiency is not the norm for me, but I am apparently improving in the overpacking department. For example, prior to the St. Thomas trip, I spent a few days last summer at my BFF’s shore house, where she spotted my regular travel-sized suitcase and asked, “Just this one bag?”
“Yes,” I assured her, deliberately not counting the beach bag in the car full of towels, bathing suits and other beach paraphernalia.
My reputation may precede me, but I think it is genetic, since I come from a long line of overpackers.
Once Mom and Dad were preparing for a week’s vacation in the Catskills. Mom had just about finished stuffing the enormous and heavy-when-empty white suitcase when my sister and I pointed out to her than she had yet to pack anything for Dad. She pondered the spatial requirements for a minute before confidently declaring, “I’ll rearrange the shoes.” Trust me, not even a pair of bathing trunks would have made it into that suitcase after the shoes – and plenty of them – were rearranged.
My nephew spent a week at soccer camp in Pennsylvania last summer. He needed all the usual soccer stuff – t-shirts, socks, shorts, shin guards, goalie gloves, etc. I think it took my sister a week to get it all ready to go. I wondered if he was going to soccer camp or if she was shipping him off to military school.
The glamorous aspects of travel are overrated in my mind. Just once I’d like to stroll through the airport carrying nothing but a trashy novel. But instead I cram enough clothing, shoes, supplies, etc., into my luggage to stay for an extra week.
You have to understand that I don’t wear small clothes. Socks, yes, but you won’t find me in a tank top or those tiny little shorts young girls wear. My clothes are like me – substantial. I always get cold, regardless of the destination, so I’ll have at least one sweater, jacket or sweatshirt with me. You never know what the weather is like or where you might be headed, so I pack the “just in case” clothes. I’m ready for a day at the beach or to be the belle of the ball. A few extra outfits, pairs of shoes and underwear might be needed. Just in case.
Since my luggage either won’t fit in the overhead of the plane or I can’t lift it into the space, I check my bags, a costly proposition these days. Even after checking my bags, I still have a carry-on bag with my camera, chargers for the iPod, phone and camera, books and magazines to read on the plane, emergency underwear, toiletries, medication and bathing suit (in case my luggage is lost I can still get to the beach), passport, wallet, travel folder with info and phone numbers, etc. That bag alone is enough to seek chiropractic help.
The only times packing isn’t an issue are if I am driving and can stuff my stuff into the trunk at will or if I am going on a cruise and leaving from New York. Of course, I have to have my own room – just me and the suitcases. Flying anywhere is a challenge. If you travel with other people, just fitting all the suitcases into the car to start the trip is a challenge. Once a friend came to pick me up at the airport in her convertible. No trunk space and a limited backseat forced us to hold the luggage on our laps while we drove. I think she was afraid I was moving in.
That reminds me of the first time my sister allowed my nephew to sleep over at my house. She made at least three trips back and forth from car to house, lugging his overnight bag and extras – stuffed animals (I think he was five at the time, so he took only the VIPs of his animal kingdom), toothbrush, blankie, side rail for the bed (and that was after she insisted I reposition it against the wall), chocolate milk, and on and on. She tried to reassure me by saying, “Don’t worry. We are planning to pick him up tomorrow.”
I can’t imagine what it must be like to travel with kids. I’d probably pack the teddy bears and forget the bathing suits. All those tiny clothes, enough to open a small children’s store. I’m afraid I’d fail miserably.
These days, I am more accustomed to a “staycation” with only occasional days or nights any place other than home. Even so, in the summer time, you should see the collection of pool towels and related items amassed in the sunroom. There are hats, cover-ups, shorts, sunscreens of various SPF strengths, to say nothing of the full pool regalia – pool shoes, gloves and flotation belt, which all, worn together, make a unique fashion statement. All I need are goggles and a bathing cap, preferably one with a large rubber flower on the side (Esther Williams, eat your heart out).
But at least I wouldn't have to pack.
Confused, but undaunted, I just returned from a trip to the Virgin Islands, a combination of vacation and a chance to see my beloved Rutgers Women’s Basketball team play in the Paradise Jam tournament. Jam it was, as I took this opportunity to jam all the summer clothes I could find, along with appropriate RU athletic attire, into my bag.
I actually packed fairly well this time, exceeding the weight limit by a mere few pounds (I am still talking about the suitcase here, OK?) and I wore everything I packed except for one pair of jeans and a jacket (too hot) and one t-shirt. I added only a few t-shirts to the ever-growing collection and saved hundreds – if not thousands – of dollars by not buying myself anything sparkly and expensive.
Understand that this sudden packing efficiency is not the norm for me, but I am apparently improving in the overpacking department. For example, prior to the St. Thomas trip, I spent a few days last summer at my BFF’s shore house, where she spotted my regular travel-sized suitcase and asked, “Just this one bag?”
“Yes,” I assured her, deliberately not counting the beach bag in the car full of towels, bathing suits and other beach paraphernalia.
My reputation may precede me, but I think it is genetic, since I come from a long line of overpackers.
Once Mom and Dad were preparing for a week’s vacation in the Catskills. Mom had just about finished stuffing the enormous and heavy-when-empty white suitcase when my sister and I pointed out to her than she had yet to pack anything for Dad. She pondered the spatial requirements for a minute before confidently declaring, “I’ll rearrange the shoes.” Trust me, not even a pair of bathing trunks would have made it into that suitcase after the shoes – and plenty of them – were rearranged.
My nephew spent a week at soccer camp in Pennsylvania last summer. He needed all the usual soccer stuff – t-shirts, socks, shorts, shin guards, goalie gloves, etc. I think it took my sister a week to get it all ready to go. I wondered if he was going to soccer camp or if she was shipping him off to military school.
The glamorous aspects of travel are overrated in my mind. Just once I’d like to stroll through the airport carrying nothing but a trashy novel. But instead I cram enough clothing, shoes, supplies, etc., into my luggage to stay for an extra week.
You have to understand that I don’t wear small clothes. Socks, yes, but you won’t find me in a tank top or those tiny little shorts young girls wear. My clothes are like me – substantial. I always get cold, regardless of the destination, so I’ll have at least one sweater, jacket or sweatshirt with me. You never know what the weather is like or where you might be headed, so I pack the “just in case” clothes. I’m ready for a day at the beach or to be the belle of the ball. A few extra outfits, pairs of shoes and underwear might be needed. Just in case.
Since my luggage either won’t fit in the overhead of the plane or I can’t lift it into the space, I check my bags, a costly proposition these days. Even after checking my bags, I still have a carry-on bag with my camera, chargers for the iPod, phone and camera, books and magazines to read on the plane, emergency underwear, toiletries, medication and bathing suit (in case my luggage is lost I can still get to the beach), passport, wallet, travel folder with info and phone numbers, etc. That bag alone is enough to seek chiropractic help.
The only times packing isn’t an issue are if I am driving and can stuff my stuff into the trunk at will or if I am going on a cruise and leaving from New York. Of course, I have to have my own room – just me and the suitcases. Flying anywhere is a challenge. If you travel with other people, just fitting all the suitcases into the car to start the trip is a challenge. Once a friend came to pick me up at the airport in her convertible. No trunk space and a limited backseat forced us to hold the luggage on our laps while we drove. I think she was afraid I was moving in.
That reminds me of the first time my sister allowed my nephew to sleep over at my house. She made at least three trips back and forth from car to house, lugging his overnight bag and extras – stuffed animals (I think he was five at the time, so he took only the VIPs of his animal kingdom), toothbrush, blankie, side rail for the bed (and that was after she insisted I reposition it against the wall), chocolate milk, and on and on. She tried to reassure me by saying, “Don’t worry. We are planning to pick him up tomorrow.”
I can’t imagine what it must be like to travel with kids. I’d probably pack the teddy bears and forget the bathing suits. All those tiny clothes, enough to open a small children’s store. I’m afraid I’d fail miserably.
These days, I am more accustomed to a “staycation” with only occasional days or nights any place other than home. Even so, in the summer time, you should see the collection of pool towels and related items amassed in the sunroom. There are hats, cover-ups, shorts, sunscreens of various SPF strengths, to say nothing of the full pool regalia – pool shoes, gloves and flotation belt, which all, worn together, make a unique fashion statement. All I need are goggles and a bathing cap, preferably one with a large rubber flower on the side (Esther Williams, eat your heart out).
But at least I wouldn't have to pack.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Seems Like Old Times - October 2009
Today is my birthday, and this date also marks the beginning of the last year I will be in my 50s. 50s! I remember turning 50 and feeling grateful to be alive. But at the same time I knew that 50 felt a bit over the hill. Now, what I would give to be 50 again? I already have some friends who have turned 60 and others in their 70s. But it is different when it happens to you – which for me will be October 28, 2010. Sure, I know that 60 is the new 50, but 50 seemed pretty shocking at the time. And while the alternative to aging isn’t preferable at all, it seems odd to be what used to be considered old.
“They” say you are only as young as you feel, and that’s comforting for some of us. I can still run around in sweatshirts and jeans, driving my convertible and wearing a baseball cap. Yet, there are plenty of signs that age is creeping up on me. If you are anywhere near my generation, you have probably seen the signs yourself.
Can you picture yourself in any of these situations, or have these already happened to you?
You read the obituaries every day just to see who you know – and to make sure your name isn’t there. You also want to verify that these people are much older than you.
You belong to AARP and so do your friends, and you discuss articles you read in the AARP magazine. You’re really into it if your BFF goes to the AARP Annual Meeting and claims, “We had a lot of fun.”
When someone you know loses a parent, you can commiserate from personal experience. But secretly you are thinking, “She still had parents?”
You go to an event of any sort and you’re more concerned with how many rows of stairs you have to climb than whether the seats are good.
You want to get home before it gets dark. And going out after dark? Boy, that better be for something really special.
When you drive and there is the least possibility you might get lost you turn down the radio, as if silence will magically guide you to your destination.
When you give directions to someone, most of your landmarks are places that don’t exist anymore or have different names – “You turn right after where Johnny’s Diner used to be. It’s on the same street as Mary’s parents used to live.”
Every gathering of friends includes a segment of the conversation devoted to ailments – yours, mine and someone else's.
You can get a recommendation for any kind of doctor you need just by asking your friends. Someone will already have what you have or know someone who does.
You are older than the people running for president and VP (except for John McCain).
You or your friends are grandparents. How did this happen? Aren’t the kids still in pre-school, you wonder?
The baseball players getting into the Hall of Fame are younger than you are, and you remember when they were rookies.
Ira is no longer that nebishy guy from your Hebrew school class but is now part of your “retirement income.”
You realize that with your orthotics in your very plain, flat shoes you are this close to wearing orthopedic shoes and those stockings that roll around your ankles. Can the Eleanor Roosevelt look be far behind?
You make noises with virtually every move you make – getting up from a chair, lifting something, etc. – that sound like your father used to make.
You watch the TV commercials for pharmaceuticals and are sure you have all the symptoms of every disease and condition they cure. Once I walked in on a commercial for some kind of condition and thought for sure I had that, too, until I realized it was for prostate problems.
You can name all of the TV series 82-year-old Cloris Leachman has starred in, because you have seen all of them, and not in reruns.
You watch exercise shows that include sitting on a chair and tapping your toe (see “Sit and Be Fit” on PBS).
You remember when gas cost 32 cents a gallon, stamps were six cents and a movie was 50 cents – and you talk about this to your children, grandchildren or much younger friends, who find it (and you) boring.
You remember when Alaska and Hawaii became states.
You remember when Joan Rivers’ face actually moved. And you notice when people have a little too much cosmetic surgery – not that you’d rule out just a bit for yourself.
You remember when only drunken sailors and bikers had tattoos, and you find it a little disconcerting to see someone with gray hair and a butterfly on her ankle (or worse).
You decide that the gray appearing in your brown hair merely adds a sparkle to your blonde highlights.
You go to the supermarket to get eggs and you come back with two large bags – but no eggs.
You talk to yourself, but you figure that’s OK because no one listens to you anyway.
When you hear the U2 song “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For” it reminds you that you never did find whatever it was you were looking for, and you only hope that you will remember to look for it again.
You go into a room but don’t know why (see previous item).
You see the Senior Citizens bus zipping around town and wonder what route it takes.
Your technology IQ, which once was admirably high, now lags behind the typical 8-year-old. Texting is a big challenge.
You can’t complete even one song on “Guitar Hero.”
You remember the original versions of songs that kids hear as covers (and they are amazed that they existed before).
You find that kids not only don’t remember that Paul McCartney was in the Beatles, they don’t even know him from Wings.
You buy vitamins for people 50+ on blind faith, because you can’t read the tiny print on the label. (In my case, I buy them at Costco, where the bottle is large enough to have wheels on it and the pills are the size of a sub sandwich.)
You attend a lot of reunions, and all of them are for at least 25 years. The people you meet all tell you that you haven’t changed a bit. (Please, I beg you, don’t tell me I looked like this in high school!)
But at least I haven’t resorted to using the term “my lady friend” – yet.
It doesn’t matter that I run around in a convertible, air flowing through the hair on my head (or upper lip), baseball cap and leather jacket on. I haven’t quite reached old age, but even with macular degeneration, I can see it looming large ahead. And if you are too young to appreciate this now, trust me – someday, you’ll understand.
I hope I remember all this next year, when I turn 60.
“They” say you are only as young as you feel, and that’s comforting for some of us. I can still run around in sweatshirts and jeans, driving my convertible and wearing a baseball cap. Yet, there are plenty of signs that age is creeping up on me. If you are anywhere near my generation, you have probably seen the signs yourself.
Can you picture yourself in any of these situations, or have these already happened to you?
You read the obituaries every day just to see who you know – and to make sure your name isn’t there. You also want to verify that these people are much older than you.
You belong to AARP and so do your friends, and you discuss articles you read in the AARP magazine. You’re really into it if your BFF goes to the AARP Annual Meeting and claims, “We had a lot of fun.”
When someone you know loses a parent, you can commiserate from personal experience. But secretly you are thinking, “She still had parents?”
You go to an event of any sort and you’re more concerned with how many rows of stairs you have to climb than whether the seats are good.
You want to get home before it gets dark. And going out after dark? Boy, that better be for something really special.
When you drive and there is the least possibility you might get lost you turn down the radio, as if silence will magically guide you to your destination.
When you give directions to someone, most of your landmarks are places that don’t exist anymore or have different names – “You turn right after where Johnny’s Diner used to be. It’s on the same street as Mary’s parents used to live.”
Every gathering of friends includes a segment of the conversation devoted to ailments – yours, mine and someone else's.
You can get a recommendation for any kind of doctor you need just by asking your friends. Someone will already have what you have or know someone who does.
You are older than the people running for president and VP (except for John McCain).
You or your friends are grandparents. How did this happen? Aren’t the kids still in pre-school, you wonder?
The baseball players getting into the Hall of Fame are younger than you are, and you remember when they were rookies.
Ira is no longer that nebishy guy from your Hebrew school class but is now part of your “retirement income.”
You realize that with your orthotics in your very plain, flat shoes you are this close to wearing orthopedic shoes and those stockings that roll around your ankles. Can the Eleanor Roosevelt look be far behind?
You make noises with virtually every move you make – getting up from a chair, lifting something, etc. – that sound like your father used to make.
You watch the TV commercials for pharmaceuticals and are sure you have all the symptoms of every disease and condition they cure. Once I walked in on a commercial for some kind of condition and thought for sure I had that, too, until I realized it was for prostate problems.
You can name all of the TV series 82-year-old Cloris Leachman has starred in, because you have seen all of them, and not in reruns.
You watch exercise shows that include sitting on a chair and tapping your toe (see “Sit and Be Fit” on PBS).
You remember when gas cost 32 cents a gallon, stamps were six cents and a movie was 50 cents – and you talk about this to your children, grandchildren or much younger friends, who find it (and you) boring.
You remember when Alaska and Hawaii became states.
You remember when Joan Rivers’ face actually moved. And you notice when people have a little too much cosmetic surgery – not that you’d rule out just a bit for yourself.
You remember when only drunken sailors and bikers had tattoos, and you find it a little disconcerting to see someone with gray hair and a butterfly on her ankle (or worse).
You decide that the gray appearing in your brown hair merely adds a sparkle to your blonde highlights.
You go to the supermarket to get eggs and you come back with two large bags – but no eggs.
You talk to yourself, but you figure that’s OK because no one listens to you anyway.
When you hear the U2 song “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For” it reminds you that you never did find whatever it was you were looking for, and you only hope that you will remember to look for it again.
You go into a room but don’t know why (see previous item).
You see the Senior Citizens bus zipping around town and wonder what route it takes.
Your technology IQ, which once was admirably high, now lags behind the typical 8-year-old. Texting is a big challenge.
You can’t complete even one song on “Guitar Hero.”
You remember the original versions of songs that kids hear as covers (and they are amazed that they existed before).
You find that kids not only don’t remember that Paul McCartney was in the Beatles, they don’t even know him from Wings.
You buy vitamins for people 50+ on blind faith, because you can’t read the tiny print on the label. (In my case, I buy them at Costco, where the bottle is large enough to have wheels on it and the pills are the size of a sub sandwich.)
You attend a lot of reunions, and all of them are for at least 25 years. The people you meet all tell you that you haven’t changed a bit. (Please, I beg you, don’t tell me I looked like this in high school!)
But at least I haven’t resorted to using the term “my lady friend” – yet.
It doesn’t matter that I run around in a convertible, air flowing through the hair on my head (or upper lip), baseball cap and leather jacket on. I haven’t quite reached old age, but even with macular degeneration, I can see it looming large ahead. And if you are too young to appreciate this now, trust me – someday, you’ll understand.
I hope I remember all this next year, when I turn 60.
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