My REAL ID

My REAL ID

For some reason, or maybe for no reason at all, Kentucky now requires her residents to “upgrade” their drivers’ licenses to what is being called a “REAL ID.” This multi-step process requires several items to prove, once and for all, that we really are who we say we are. Had I known that a passport, two pieces of mail addressed to me at my current home, and my latest pay check stub could solidify my REAL Identity, I would have driven to one of those conveniently located regional Drivers’ Licensing Offices years ago!

Decades of struggling with how I prove myself to others, and all I needed was a REAL ID – issued by none other than the state government? What a stunning discovery. Perhaps, like me, you are already calculating the money you could have saved on counseling, and all that chocolate. Who needs comfort food to compensate for personal insecurity? A little laminated card tells everyone who I am, and it’s REAL. No one can argue with this definitive documentation, not even me!

Oh, the stress I could avoided: Overcommitting myself, reading stacks of books promising to help me improve; dressing for success, earning all A’s in college (OK, so I didn’t flourish in “Geography of the National Parks,” who cares?), offering the perfect word at just the right time to someone in pain, none of these things established my true identity like I had hoped. Apparently, settling the matter was infinitely less demanding, and clearly explained on my state’s official website. All I had to do was:

  1. Activate Waze to find the not-so-conveniently-located DLO;
  2. Walk through the clearly marked door with my folder full of required documents;
  3. Retrace my steps back to the car to wait for a phone call (All the black plastic chairs were occupied upstairs, even though I had made an appointment; they were “running just a little bit behind.”)
  4. Decide whether or not to keep my heater running on a below freezing day, complete with gale force winds affecting the feels-like temperature;
  5. Return to the right building when texted;
  6. Take a seat in an over-heated, over-populated room with 8 agent stations (4 of which were abandoned);
  7. Overhear a conversation between one agent and a 96-year-old who couldn’t seem to focus on the blue dot long enough to result in an authorized photograph (so many questions left unanswered there);
  8. Step forward when my name was called;
  9. Produce the proper items;
  10. Initial an incomprehensible statement on an official iPad;
  11. Focus directly on the blue dot (success!); and
  12. Wait 10 days for the new card to arrive in the mail.

So, it was a bit of an ordeal, but nothing compared with all the people, places and ways I’ve tried to establish my true identity over these last 61 years. Come on, friends, step right up and get your own REAL ID! Finally, we can rest secure in our authenticated existence – well, at least until those pesky renewal notices show up in the mail.

Midlife Celebrations

Midlife Celebrations

My young friend across the street has been talking about her thirteenth birthday all year. She’s “finally a real teenager.” Three of my girlfriends from college are equally giddy about becoming grandparents. They’re ordering overstuffed teddy bears and adorable outfits, sizes 9-12 months to 3T. Most of us in midlife, however, are hard-pressed to point out special events worth celebrating in our daily lives. We already own a driver’s license (for now); we’ve been voting for decades. We’re past the life-altering decisions about whether to marry or raise of family, or where to live and work. So, what’s left for middle aged grown-ups celebrate?

Maybe we need to redefine our reasons for rejoicing. A little creativity, and we can pull out the party napkins on a regular basis. For example, how about texting a few friends to share this milestone: “You aren’t going to believe this, I walked out to the garage and actually remembered why!” Or, “As of October 10, I’ve gone 4 weeks without losing my car keys – dinner’s on me!” Let the younger generations roll their eyes and secretly wonder if we should be out in public; these victories deserve a party 🙂

None of us grew up with computers, cell phones, or even TV remotes. Still, we’ve courageously navigated the digital world, embraced emojis, and even signed up for paperless bills – heroic feats that we overlook every day. Next time you’re eating out with friends (at 5:30 “to beat the crowd”), why not shift the conversation from young people’s milestones to our own grand accomplishments? We could create new rituals or design a trendy line of Hallmark cards for these remarkable moments:

  • Remembering where we parked our car at the grocery.
  • Showing up for events at the right time and place . . . on the right day.
  • Writing notes in cursive to people who can actually read them.
  • Still mowing our own lawn.
  • Dazzling the young people at the gym with our self-assured moves at the “new” step aerobics class.
  • Creating a playlist from five to six decades of real music.
  • Keeping in touch with friends we’re known for 30, 40, and 50 years.

I’m sure you could add dozens of events that warrant a happy dance (no sudden moves, now). Once we adjust our criteria for what’s worth celebrating, we’ll be going to more parties than that terrible season in our lives when all we did was a RSVP “yes” for bridal and baby showers.

Two weeks ago, my friend Kim and I were talking (38 years of ups, downs, and inside outs together). It’s back to school season, and her nieces were starting fourth grade – inconceivable – how could the triplets be 10 years old? Then it occurred to me that I crossed a threshold myself recently. “Guess who rocked her bone density test this week,” I bragged. “That doctor’s 17-year-old-looking face couldn’t hide his astonishment.” Now, if I could just remember where I stored that bag of confetti!

In the Middle of Things

In the Middle of Things

Ten years ago, my nephew married his high school sweetheart. Their reception still holds the top spot on my (absurdly long) list of weddings I’ve attended. All ages of family and friends danced, laughed, took turns in the photo booth – it was a blast! But there was a moment, a slow-motion, surreal moment when I saw where I fit into the picture – not the family photo after the wedding – the BIG picture.

Mom and Dad won the “who’s been married the longest” game. Fifty-five years of marriage kept them on the dance floor long after all the other couples took their seats. Winded and shaky, Dad leaned on the dinner table. “They’ve got it wrong,” he announced between breaths. “The couple married the longest . . . they should (gulp of water) they should sit down first!” He had a point. Neither Dad nor Mom left their seats the rest of the evening; they were worn out. Ben and Trish’s friends never sat down; they would have danced all night, if the venue allowed.

While the happy pair shared a slice of cake, I caught a glimpse of something unforgettable. This young couple, standing next to a table overflowing with gifts, was poised to start something. So many hopes, plans, and dreams for the future! Every guest gladly purchased items from their registry, lovely gifts meant to fill Ben and Trish’s shelves, cupboards, and drawers — which is what people need at the beginning of things.

Turning away from the presents, I saw Mom and Dad; I really saw them. A couple in their 80s, with no reason to acquire new kitchen gadgets, bath towels, or power tools. Delighted to share this moment in their grandson’s life, they, themselves, were giving and throwing things away, attending funerals of long-time friends, and paying for someone else to mow the lawn — which is what people do at the end of things.

To my right – a young man and woman with most of their lives ahead of them; to my left – a senior couple with most of their lives behind them. There I stood in between two seasons of life; still intrigued by pretty items in home decor catalogs (um, I mean websites), yet mindful of what already fills my shelves, cupboards, and drawers (and garage, and closets). Grateful for dreams come true, yet aware of unfulfilled hopes. Tickled pink to launch a couple into life together, and at the same time, sobered to witness my parents release their life by degrees.

I know the young experience loss; it’s true that aging offers its own versions of beauty and joy. But at this particular moment, I felt the reality of beginnings and endings, and understood, even if just for a moment, what it means to be in the middle of things.

The Fifties

The Fifties

I’m one of those people who still decorates her closet with inspirational artwork, favorite scripture verses and thought-provoking quotes, like a 1950s Peanuts’ coloring book page of Peppermint Patty yelling at Snoopy, “Stop telling me to comb my hair!” (Yep, I framed it.) For the last ten years, I’ve displayed one particular birthday card featuring a classic 1950s black and white photo of a Donna Reed/Elizabeth Montgomery-type woman. Every morning she has greeted me with a look of wonderment. The caption?

Ellen found her 50s to be continually surprising.

Who knew Hallmark sold a prophetic line of cards (and for only $2.23)? These days none of us knows what the next day will bring, let alone the next decade. In 2012, my nephew married his high school sweetheart; that triggered a festive round of parties, as well as more attention to personal grooming than usual. Diets, pedicures, and foundational garments stretched my annual budget. Unwanted facial hair met its match in the new miracle tool Flawless. You can buy those round razor heads in bulk, which makes sense, given the number of women in their 40s, 50s, 60s, 70s, 80s and 90s who still want to go out into public.

Another life enhancing find in my 50s: Bitmojis. They remind me of those paper dolls I played with as a kid. After punching out the new clothes, being very careful not to tear the tabs, I’d alternate outfits on Skipper and PJ – both very chic dressers. Now I just scroll through 100s of fashion options and change my look for every season, holiday, and mood! Bonus – I can opt out of wrinkles and crepey skin without buying any of the “age-defying” facial products that populate my screen like an old bulletin board border.

The best part of my 50s walked with me through the worst. Family and friends with 20, 30, 40, and 50-year track records, stood by my sister and me as we endured two, bedrock good-byes, one in 2013 (Dad), and the second in 2017 (Mom). These new and old friends are still listening; we’re still meeting for dinner, for yoga lessons, Bible study, college roommate reunions, vacations, flea market excursions, and even for birthday parties.

In the midst of gut-wrenching endings and tender beginnings, tucked in between my orthotics, compression socks, the Advil bottle and dark chocolate stash, God populates my life with cherished friends, beloved family, who made my 50s continually surprising and indescribably rich. There’s a new card in the picture frame now, with a quirky-looking middle aged woman announcing,

Some people call them Decades – I prefer to call them my “collected works.”

I changed the “my” to “our” because, Lord knows, and time has testified to this grand truth: I am not traveling through my 60s alone.

Oh! Christmas Tree?

Oh! Christmas Tree?

OK, I know our US version of Christmas is nuts. It’s mid-December and most of us are already exhausted, not to mention way past our saturation point with holiday music. Even the good songs get on our nerves. Still, there are some traditions that usher in the season thoughtfully, nostalgically, even quietly. Watching “A Charlie Brown Christmas” is one of those traditions for me. Making snicker doodles and wearing my Mom’s and Aunt Louise’s Christmas pins are two others.

The Christmas tree and I, on the other hand, have a not-so-quiet, love-hate-love relationship. I love the idea of getting the tree up and decorated. I hate the process of wrestling with the awkward box and tree parts. Truth be told, I’ve usually lost my personality by the time all three tiers are connected and settled in the corner of the family room. When I can’t locate the electric plugs buried somewhere in the center, the next thing I lose is my religion, but not for long. Every year, unwrapping ornaments that all tell good stories saves the day.

One of my favorite Advent traditions (the season that leads up to Christmas day) is focusing on light. Right after we turn our clocks back an hour and right before the Farmer’s Almanac reports the longest night of the year – we plug in our outside decorations, light candles, and, of course, enjoy those twinkling Christmas trees. I love this; I need this.

So, imagine my dismay one evening when I noticed a strand of lights had gone out – right smack dab in the middle of my Christmas tree. Hey, no big deal; the last 21 months have taught me to adapt, so I cleverly rearrange the ornaments and tinsel. Ta Dah! The gap between strands three and six is barely noticeable. Two nights later, strand five catches my attention; it’s brighter than the rest – a stark, clear, white that shouts for attention. “Hey, watch me; this is what I look like right before I burn out. Enjoy me while you can!” Blink. Flash. Fizzle. Lights out.

Oh, this is just perfect – TWO strands of lights are gone – both in the center third of what was my favorite Christmas decoration. What is this, a living parable of my life? I can’t possibly disguise this mess now; my Christmas tree looks like a reverse Oreo cookie. To top it off, this week I’m supposed to light the “Joy” candle on the Advent wreath. #you’veGOTtobekiddingme

While this ordeal has been exasperating, it’s not a complete loss. Staring at a half-lighted Christmas tree inspired me to write a new verse to a holiday classic (I went went the English version; I mean, what rhymes with tannenbaum?):

            Oh, irony, Oh irony,

            How funny is your trick on me. (repeat)

                        I’ll light the candle anyway,

                        Another Light has won the day!

            Oh irony, Oh irony,

            Your trick a gift turned out to be.

Think it’ll catch on? My favorite Christmas special star (who also struggled with Christmas trees), captures my sentiments exactly: “good grief!”

Midlife Invisibility

Midlife Invisibility

I’m from the Midwest, where modesty is always in style. We wear heavy chenille robes over our flannel pajamas, for heaven’s sake, and T-shirts under our turtlenecks, under our sweaters. Being noticed by the opposite sex rarely shows up on our list of personal goals (at least not the list we show anybody). Most girls raised in Indiana understand that the spotlight is reserved for head majorettes, cheerleaders, and an occasional athlete. The rest of us were too busy mowing the lawn or playing four-square to care (well, sort of). It’s okay, really. My unnoticeable teenage years were salvaged by the classics: “Dallas” on Fridays and “Love Boat” on Saturdays 🙂

It turns out that flying under the “woohoo – whatta looker” radar all those years prepared me for midlife invisibility. I actually heard about this syndrome years ago at the gym. An older man in the weight room often told stories about his invisibility to women in their 20s and 30s. Most of his episodes occurred in the chips and crackers aisle at the grocery. A pretty gal would struggle to reach the top shelf. This man (why can’t I remember his name?) would reach up and secure the bag of whatever for the distressed damsel, only to be rewarded with an exasperating, “Where did you come from?” Or my personal favorite, “Oh, I didn’t see you. Do you work here?” I thought what’s-his-name was making these stories up. Turns out, he was forecasting my future.

Going to a gym can test anyone’s self-esteem, but middle-aged woma face a unique challenge. We’re invisible. On one hand, it’s an answer to prayer. Gals in their 50s, 60s, and 70s who show up for Zumba class in baggy T-shirts and shorts congregate in the back, hoping to escape everyone’s notice. As luck and midlife would have it, we do. Earlier this spring the group exercise coordinator nearly cancelled Zumba on Tuesday nights because of low attendance. Then we discovered that the 24-year-old employee who conducted the weekly headcount didn’t include the last 3 rows in his total. Apparently, he couldn’t see us. Perfect.

I no longer worry about people’s reactions to me while I’m swimming. Will people be appalled when I emerge from the pool with thighs that arrive at the locker room five seconds before I do? Not if they can’t see me – and miracle of miracles – they can’t! OK, sometimes invisibility gets old. When I yell at a guy and grab his foot mid-flip turn to see if he’ll share the lane with me, Mr. Oblivious just keeps on swimming. A 23-year-old lets out a tiny sigh and every male occupant in all 6 lanes stop mid-kick, and campaigns for her attention. I let out a big sigh and make my way over to the section usually reserved for aqua aerobics. The octogenarian (who can see me) rolls her eyes and motions me in.

Along with those slightly irritating moments, invisibility can result in injury. More than once the front door of the gym has slammed into my face. I made the mistake of assuming that the young and very fit man holding the door realized that two women were exiting the gym. Turns out, the courtesy only extended to an adorable young gal you could pour into a freeze pop wrapper. Thump! “Oh, I’m so sorry, ma’am, I didn’t see you there.” How is that possible? I’m twice as big as . . . oh, never mind. If this travesty happened just once or twice, I’d chalk it up to a funny coincidence. But my bruised forehead, forearm, and toes tell another tale.

Now when I walk through a door that’s not being held open for me and the awkward “thump” startles the young fellow from his trance, I jump right in and apologize first. “Oh, I’m so sorry, I forgot to take off my invisibility cloak. Trust me, it’s so not your fault.” Or, “Oh, now don’t you worry about slamming that door in my face, honey, you can’t see me – it’s a scientifically proven phenomenon.” If I’m in a particularly a good mood that morning, I skip to my car. This leaves young men mystified and wondering things like – “Where did she come from? Does she work here?”

I just wish I could remember the guy’s name who warned me about this whole midlife invisibility thing. I can almost see him. He was, I think he was average height, and his hair was, well, I’m pretty sure he had hair. I’d look for him at the grocery, but it would be no use, seeing as how we’re both invisible now.

WATCH YOUR STEP! (ON THE PEACE PATH)

WATCH YOUR STEP! (ON THE PEACE PATH)

Seventy miles southwest of Lexington, Kentucky, tucked within a working farm, lives the Loretto community. It was once an active convent that now cares for retired nuns, tends pollinator gardens, and displays magnificent sculptures for starters. https://www.lorettocommunity.org/about/motherhouse/  A few historic buildings (the Motherhouse, Knobs Haven) and half a dozen 2-room cabins are available for anyone seeking some quiet reflection; for groups on retreats; even for middle-aged women in spiritual slumps – all are welcome.

I’m grateful to say Loretto is one of my homes-away-from-home, and has been for over thirty years. It never fails to teach me something important or reveal an unexpected picture of God – like the time I pushed open the heavy chapel door, only to find a traditionally dressed nun wearing camouflage muck boots. She carried a bucket, a hoe, and a kick-butt attitude about weeds. Yep, I can always count on instructive surprises at Loretto.

This summer I enjoyed a couple days in the “Grace” cabin. Thankfully, sister Susan didn’t assign me to the Hope or Joy dwellings – I wasn’t capable of either at the moment. But grace, well, that was something I was eager to receive. Winding around the cedar chip prayer labyrinth, I tossed branches out of my way. “Of course there’s debris on the prayer path.” I even snapped a photo to capture the irony.

Next to the labyrinth was a wooden sign announcing “Peace Path.” The wind in the fir trees and bird songs created the perfect setting for a lovely walk . . . for the first hour. But now I was out of water, sweating like a horse, and had no clue where I was in relation to, well, to anything. “Blasted peace path; this is a joke. They should mark the trail better, post distances, and set up a food truck at the half-way point.”  Yes, I was saying these things out loud in a tone that was less than serene.

It’s no secret that anxiety takes a person’s focus off of present reality and on to imaginary horrors, like going more than 5 hours without chocolate or being eaten by a bear on a working farm populated with nuns who wear muck boots. Those boots would have come in handy, since my next step landed my left foot in, well, in something that shared several qualities with quicksand. I lost my tennis shoe (with custom-made orthotics, mind you) AND my balance. In that slow-motion moment, I actually yelled to myself, “It’s okay, you’ve going to be okay.” I was walking on a trail called the Peace Path, retreating in the GRACE Cabin, at a CONVENT, ON A SPIRITUAL RETREAT, FOR CRYIN’ OUT LOUD – what could possibly go wrong?!?

Two days later, I’m sitting in an Urgent Treatment Center room, waiting for the (absurdly young-looking) nurse practitioner to return with my X-Ray results. “You’re going to have to wear this thing for a while. How did you manage to fracture your ankle, anyway?” Strapping on the dreaded boot of shame, and grabbing my purse, I seriously considered lying. But why make something up when the truth is unbelievable?

“I fell while walking on the Peace Path; true story.”

The Shift

The Shift

As a rule, Marmons (family on my dad’s side) don’t want their picture taken. At Thanksgiving my Uncle Kenny would sneak up on unsuspecting relatives and capture moments with his polaroid camera. Waiting three minutes felt more like thirty, but the image finally came into focus, and we’d laugh at our faces in various stages of surprise. There was another rule in play, however; every five years we lifted the photograph ban for one event only – you guessed it – the family reunion (at a park, in July, with no shade, not even a sprinkler).

The predictability factor ran absurdly high at these things. We devoured all fourteen casseroles (mostly from the starch food group), one token salad, and at least five fruit and cream pies. Then, like cows heading for the barn, each generation shuffled over to the staged area and took its place in the customary lineup. First, the grandparents sat down in the woven green and white lawn chairs, you know, the ones with blazing hot metal arm rests. The adult children and spouses stood directly behind those chairs, in close proximity to their parents. Finally, the kids would plop down in front of their grandparents. Sitting cross-legged on itchy crab grass and anthills, the “young people” begged for no more than three tries with the camera timer. Truth be told, that’s all any of us could stand – then it was back to the picnic tables to scour for leftovers, ice down the grandparents’ scorched forearms, and head home.

One unforgettable year, my cousin lined up the lawn chairs – as always, we waited for the elders to take their place. Nobody moved, so we waited a tad longer. Awkward silence, a communal shifting of weight from one foot to the other – these were unfamiliar practices in a normally familiar routine. Without warning or expectation, something indescribably deep shifted – and all the adults knew it. Aunt Louise startled us out of our disbelief: “Oh my God, we’re the old people!” Just like that, our parents were now the grands and greats.

Exchanging knowing glances, our parents took their new place in the old green and white lawn chairs, and in our family. My sister, cousins, spouses and I slowly lined up behind our elders. The children sat down front, blissfully unaware of the seismic, generational transition in process. To ease the tension, Mom turned toward the back row and joked, “Don’t worry, you’ll be standing behind these chairs for a long time!” Everyone chuckled, but the expressions on the faces of rows two and three in that year’s photo looked more surprised than one of Uncle Kenny’s sneak-attack polaroid pictures.

I’m not saying where I fit in the family line-up now, but I am happy to report that we finally threw away those hideous lawn chairs 🙂

Here goes something!

Here goes something!

So lately (ok, for the last 9-10 years), I keep finding myself in the middle of things. Like, for instance, being in the middle of a conversation and forgetting my topic; or standing in the middle of a room wondering why I’m there; or, my personal favorite, wondering in the middle of a class I’m teaching if I put on deodorant that morning. Midlife is filled with unique quirks and questions; it’s a curious season offering big doses of hilarity and heartache, oftentimes all in the same day.

I know you’re busy, but it sure would be fun (and meaningful) to explore this crazy midlife together. A more respectable-sized blog will be coming your way this weekend. I’ll be ready to go just a soon as I find my car keys.