No I'm Not Having A Breakdown

I am not having a breakdown, but I am having something, I know that for sure. I want change, but have gotten stale in my desire to take chances. Perhaps it all has to do with my damn hip issues. But I am working on getting myself up and moving again, my hip replacement surgery (this time for the right hip - the left hip was replaced in May) scheduled for this April. Yikes, Déjà vu. Been there, done that, got a T-shirt. Who the hell wants to do it again? But if I don't I will forever be walking on my cane, popping pain meds, and overall feeling handicapped.

I watch everyone, watch how they move, and want to move freely, too. It has been almost two years that my hips and I have done this dance. And not the type of dancing I like. Although, I have to admit, in the aftermaths of my last surgery, dancing to Bruno Mars Uptown Funk on my walker was exhilarating.

I wonder what craziness will follow. I looked at a house in a quaint little town over the weekend. My desire to move to an old house on a small parcel of land, and I mean old house, one older than I am, is constant. Life plays tricks on me, I feel content, and so I abandon this dream because I am having fun in town, close to my friends. The feeling of contentment lasts a few months, and then I am back to my dreams of finding, not Mr. Right, but the Right House. (Mr. Right has been gone now almost eight years.) The old age thing that bothers me, is when will it be to late to move? The drive after exiting the freeway was full of pastures with cows, for heaven's sake. COWS. Black and white, hundreds of them, grazing in fields. Charming. Could I look at cows on my drive rather than all the traffic and buildings surrounding me now? Perhaps. My farm fantasy is bigger than any man fantasy. Men fantasies: Been there, done that, got a T-shirt. But I've never had a farm. I've never had a Victorian cottage.

Every year, the same thought, I should move, change, be daring. Every year something holds me back. What does the universe have planned for me. I do believe this period of my hip issues is for a larger issue. Giving me time for the next big chapter. I'd have already made some sort of a move if I could physically move better. I know I am in a growing, discovery period, but, enough already. I need something more.

Being grateful is important in life, and I am happy, thankful, and grateful, I never doubt for a minute I am blessed. My question is this. At what point does being grateful keep you from moving forward? Change is growth. There is always a cliché for every thought. This one: Bloom where you are planted. I'm blooming. I need to be repotted, perhaps.

So, Saturday night, after a glorious day in the country, I am back in my hood with a friend, eating dinner, watching younger folks dancing to old rock music.  Tapping my feet to the beat, and drinking wine, I think about my upcoming birthday in August. If things go as planned, I will be dancing on the floor, not moving to the music at my table. A young woman was dancing that evening, and I want to be like her, at least, bolder in my dress like her. Wearing a dark Fedora, a blazer, short skirt, black tights and tennis shoes, she danced a few minutes with her wine glass and then vanished into the night.

My sixty-fifth birthday I was wearing a straw Fedora at a Steppenwolf concert at a Harley Davidson dealership. That photo is my current avatar here. I don't see why I can't update to a black Fedora for my sixty-eighth birthday. That, and a lot of red lipstick. A girl needs a little color.

In the interim, I am working on a new book. Years ago, in 2010 to be exact, after the launch for my widow memoir, I sat on my patio, dogs by my side, watching the moon slip in and out of the night clouds, and thought my house was the perfect setting for a Nancy Meyers movie, the movie adaptation of The Unfaithful Widow. (I love all her movies, my favorite, It's Complicated) Now, I wonder if I wouldn't like to be sitting in a rambling quirky Victorian farmhouse in a quiet, but literary community, an hour from Atlanta, if Nancy comes calling.

Time will tell, and if you know me, I will tell all. But no, I'm not having a breakdown. I'd like to say I am having a life surge, trying to figure my next move. Wherever I am, what ever I am doing, my faithful dogs will be by my side. I just need to keep their hair off my black fedora!

 

I'm not going bald. . . I am just going crazy!

Clip art from The Wonders Of Disney

Okay, my friends will be howling at this one.  The ones I told my story to earlier this week.  Tee-hee. I can't believe I am writing this, but you know, I've written worse.

I have worried that my hair was thinning, especially on the left side of my temple. Concerned the blood pressure medicine I had been taking for a year was the problem,  I Googled the pill to see what danger lurked in the background  and a possible - mind you, just possible, not really for sure - side-effect is hair loss. Yikes.

Convinced that this small possibility was my huge reality, I called to make an appointment with my doctor to discuss alternatives. Like, get me off the darn pill. The doctor was out of town, but I could see her new physician's assistant. The next day I was at the office, my speech memorized on why I did not need to be on blood pressure medicine.

The physician's assistant was great.  She is the age of Susan in Danger In Her Words.  We chatted like girlfriends on that visit, well I did. I told her about the book I was working on and that she could be the main character. Well, not really, she was married, in the medical field, and not the least neurotic. But she did have long dark hair and was the right age.

"Let me take your blood pressure now." She smiled sweetly and put the cuff on my arm.

Easy Peasy, I thought. She'd had me talking and laughing, she would see how low my blood pressure could go.

"Oh my. It's rather high." She shook her head. "Perhaps we should up your dose."

"White coat fever." I made a cross sign with my fingers and backed away from her.

"Make an appointment at the desk for next month. Let's keep an eye on this." She laughed at me. "I want to hear more about your book too."

I got in my car to head home somewhat discouraged. At the first red light, I pulled down my visor and peeked at my face. Don't do that in the bright sunlight is all I will say. Then I pulled back my hair on the left side and cringed. Where was the hair under the dark layers above it? A question I was sick of asking myself. I also noticed a small halo of grey right at my forehead and knew it was time to color again.

Not to drag this on until you shake your head and call me crazy, or boring, both names I have been known to answer to.

I color my own hair, and have forever. I cut it too. In earlier years, I did my own perms. Sitting at a beauty shop was not for me. Tried it, spent the big bucks, came home and hated what I'd pay for. At some point I made the decision if I didn't like the results, I could not like them for free, and do it myself.

The drug store was on the path to my house and I decided I needed to tackle this issue right away. I had actually colored my hair the week before, but only left the mixture on my head for half the suggested time. I had dinner with friends and could not wait longer. I've seen touch-up kits, but never tried one. It was time to do something different. The box had a mixing bowl, two tiny tubes, and a small brush. Ten minutes was all the time needed for results.

I mixed the color, grabbed the tiny little brush with my fingers, and went about lifting the layers of hair around my face, especially that dreaded area that made me sad, and slowly brushed color on every strand from roots to end. This was different than how I normally colored my hair, with haste, running my fingers and a nozzle over my head and rubbing in.

When my buzzer went off I washed my hair and blew it dry. I looked in the mirror and almost let out a yelp of joy. Where I thought I'd been bald was rich with color. I wasn't loosing my hair, I was an idiot who didn't know how to color it. What I thought was bald, what I had looked at without my glasses, was pale, almost silver white hair. Hair that I missed when I colored my hair in haste.

I called all my friends with the news. No one realized I colored my hair. Cat out of the bag.

Did turning sixty-five make me more peculiar than I normally am? I'll get back with you on that one. Right now I feel like my old self again. No pun intended with the word old. I bet if I had my blood pressure taken now, I'd get off that darn pill.

Clip art from The Wonders Of Disney

 

Age doesn't bother Minnie and she was created in 1928!

So I'm not letting it bother me . . .

 

 

Disclaimer: My thoughts on grey hair in the great debate if you should go grey or color. I color my hair because if I let the grey come in around my face I look tired. If I didn't color my hair, I'd have to wear more make-up! Some of my friends look damn sexy with their grey. When I finally kick the bucket, some good friend of mine better come color my hair or put bright red lipstick on me before the viewing at the funeral home. Just saying.....

 

 

Holy Crap, I Just Got My Medicare Card or Sparkle At Sixty-Five - It's All In Your Attitude

My new mantra for age sixty-five.

My first reaction to filing for Medicare was not a pleasant one. It was a symbol I was getting really old.  I'd ignored AARP for years, but you can't ignore Medicare. Of all people, I knew this better than most. Ten years ago I retired from my job with the federal government, working for Social Security. 

I called my best friend and whined. "What if my Medicare card falls out of my purse while I'm out with a young guy!"

She brought me back to reality. "You haven't dated in months. If you do go out, keep your purse and your mouth zipped."

I filed for Medicare the end of July. My coverage began August lst. For those of you reading this, my birthday is August 21st. Feel free to help me celebrate. But no old age jokes. They are off my radar and have been since I was very young.

The day my card arrived (last week) I looked in the mirror to see if I'd changed overnight. A long critical moment proved what I needed to know. I was exactly the same gal I was the day before, the month before, and actually all the last year, and maybe even a year or two before that! My daily routine of slathering my face with ROC at night paid off, I didn't see any more wrinkles. My lip-gloss shimmered and made my smile and teeth look good (all mine pu-lease, what were you thinking?).  My short hair (which I cut myself and have for twenty years) had that bedroom look I love. I still needed to lose weight. I was still ME!

What I needed was an attitude adjustment so I could put the fear of sixty-five behind me.

Then a close encounter of a romantic nature and a plan for my books gave me the kick in the pants I needed. I also found my word for age 65 to guide me through the year!

              

 S*P*A*R*K*L*E

 

The day I filed for my Medicare card on the phone ended with a perk that made it the best day I'd had in a dog year! (you do the math)

I filed my claim at 1:30. At 7:30 I was making out in the back seat of a car parked at Starbucks with an old boyfriend I dated in the late 1970s. He'd rolled into town to visit family and we had a small window to reconnect. Talk about perfect timing. In a matter of a few hours I went from feeling old to the high of a teenager steaming up windows in a rented car. The back seat was so small we couldn't get into big trouble . . . but passionate kisses were the best prescription for what ailed me that day.

Follow your bliss at any age. That is what I am doing this year. My two books are turning into a reality. A romantic, erotic thriller "Writer Beware" is almost completed and my long talked about sequel to my widow memoir should follow behind.

A new website and blog complete my goal to feng shui my writing portfolio. If you follow me at all, I have too many blogs, too many websites. I plan to simplify with one main blog and website for all my writing this year. We'll see how long that lasts. You know, two dogs eventually led to six. I will never get my old shop merchandise out of my house, because I still buy more. If I get an idea that inspires, a new blog could sneak in. But this blog will be my home base. So I hope you will book mark it and come back to visit.

Then look for Gilbert Street Press to build its business to include book and cover designs for others with my talented sister Pam King at the helm.

When you follow your bliss it doesn't hurt to sprinkle it with glitter. My new word for sixty-five is Sparkle!