Resistant Gray

Now What?

2016-06-06T21:00:00.000-07:00

I have been offline for way too long. You may be wondering what the heck, Why has Tina been keeping all her made up, totally fictional, imaginary escapades to herself?

The answer is simple, I got married last year.

Before that. . .there was the dating, followed, naturally, by childish giddiness and the wearing of proverbial rose colored glasses (until true colors cast new light); then the breaking and making up; repeat. And . . .

Then negotiations laced with noise about positive changes. "Of course I won't drop my clothes on the floor anymore," and "Yes, I'll do my share of the dishes," and "I agree to take the garbage out regularly," spoken with determination, because when I made those promises they seemed like a good idea at the time.

Finally, the proposal, which went something like this:

Me: You know, babe, it's been six months since we last discussed marriage.

Him: Yeah, I know. I think the groundbreaking [over the last 25 years] has gone well, don't you? Maybe we should progress to the next step: getting the permit.

Me: Ok.

Him: Tomorrow we can take care of that red tape, and get the foundation laid.


Me: Alright-y then, well, should we shake on it?

Him: No need. Later we'll consummate our agreement. [long pause] Babe.

Pretty romantic, huh? Although, I kinda wished he had handed me a dandelion or something.

Death Becomes Her

2014-09-09T12:46:00.001-07:00


Death becomes her.

Mortality is a sobering topic, especially when discussing your own. I hadn’t given it much thought until I spent a few weeks caring for aging men and women, some with varying stages of dementia.

I started to visualize myself in 30 or 40 years. It’s not a pretty picture for a woman vain enough to create a blog about resisting going gray, and battling bulges!

In a couple of decades I’ll be blogging about resisting the effects of gravity on my boobies, and lack of elasticity elsewhere . . . probably . . . unless Kegel wards off droop forever. But, I digress.

Death is inevitable. For some it comes early due to trauma or illness. For others, who insist upon controlling their own fate, it comes at their own hand.

Regardless of how the Grim Reaper arrives, he makes no apologies for his visit; he exhibits no sentimentality.

Coroners have the same cold approach in their job–necessarily, of course. When put into the context of yourself, however, the indifference with which coroners sum up the demise of a newly dead human being is . . . well, horrifying.

I inserted my own name into this actual autopsy report, and then experienced a fright-induced temporary rigor mortis, followed by laughing out loud hysteria.

You try it. Put in your name at the top of this report, and fill in your own stats. I dare you.

#2054 12245 Tina Holden

EXTERNAL EXAMINATION
Tina Holden is identified by toe tags, and is that of an unembalmed, refrigerated (ugh!) adult female Caucasian. The body is not clothed. The body weighs 135 pounds, and measures 60.5 inches.

Tina's head is otherwise norm-cephalic, and covered by brown hair, with slight graying at the roots. (Say it ain't so.) There is no balding, and the hair can be described as long and wavy. Mustache and beard are absent.

The cronasal passages are unobstructed. Upper and lower teeth are present. The neck is unremarkable. There is no chest deformity.

Tina's skin shows early decomposition change with a green-gray discoloration of the face and red skin marbling noted over the upper extremities.

Tina's fresh brain weighs 1420 grams. A normal convolutionary pattern is observed.

There are no aneurysms. Tina's cranial nerves are intact.

Scary, isn't it?

Organs of the abdominal cavity have a normal arrangement and none are absent.

Tina's heart weighs 390 grams. It has a normal configuration.

This is, of course, a truncated autopsy report. But, nevertheless, I am grateful that my teeth are present and my abdominal organs managed to attend the autopsy "well arranged", and that my mustache and beard are absent.

I take exception, however, to the comment about my neck being “unremarkable,” but am pleased my chest shows no deformity. (Not even a little sag?)

My heart seems heavy, but who can blame it–I’m dead.

As for the green-gray discoloration of my face–that’s nothing a little Cover Girl can’t handle! Indeed, I think death will become me.

High Maintenance

2014-04-13T12:27:00.001-07:00

Middle age. It's the period where we discover that our parts are in various stages of breaking down, filling out, and succumbing to gravity. This transition is wholly unkind and unapologetic.

In fact, it sometimes feels like the gruesome, writhing metamorphosis Bruce Banner experiences every time the Hulk emerges, only slower. His transformation does look painful--as is ours.

The first clue is Banner's eyes stop dead in their tracks, and turn bluish/white. He rears back his head with a grimace on his face, as his neck begins to bulge, veins rising under the strain. At the same time, muscle groups enlarge out of control, bursting through Banner's shirt sleeves and forcing buttons to pop. For me, blouse-bursting happens at the most inopportune times, and without the blue/white eye-change warning. I'm just sitting there trying to enjoy a dessert at brunch with friends, for example, when POP!

And I am thinking, C'mon, give me a break, this top can't contain me and a few bites of cheesecake! Really? That's just wrong.

To keep the monster at bay, I engage in all manner of preventative maintenance. Okay, not really, but I should. I engage in a few. Being a die hard Do-It-Yourselfer, I purchased some exercise equipment for home, lots of moisturizing products, specially formulated shampoo and conditioner, and I stock piled L'Oreal hair color, in Espresso, for resistant gray, of course. So far, I've managed to use these products successfully.

One area of maintenance, however, that I have finally decided needs to be left to the experts is feet. My feet, size 5-1/2, require a lot more attention than one might think for such small pedestals. First, feet have to be marinated in oil, then nails have to be clipped, filed, buffed and polished. Then, calluses have to be sanded with pads resembling S.O.S. steel wool. And you are supposed to take a grater-like thing to your heels.

The problem with trying to maintain your feet yourself is that it's tricky, and involves bending over. Besides, feet are too important to be left to amateurs like ourselves. Steel wool and skin graters can be brutal in the hands of an inexperienced, unlicensed, aging Do-It-Yourselfer. I came to this conclusion after whittling my heels down to a point where I now inadvertently step out of my shoes in mid-step.

I just hope I don't burst through my blouse and lose my shoes at the same time. It could happen, especially if I'm eating cheesecake on the run!

On the Verge of Old

2014-01-12T15:00:00.000-08:00

You may be on the verge of old if . . .

You trade in your purebred greyhounds for an elderly Maltese

Ballet flats replace your stilettos

Elastic waist pants creep into your wardrobe

You gain poise by buying PoiseTM

AARP sends you increasingly demanding promotional offers insinuating that you should respond promptly because your expiration date may be sooner than the one on the coupon

You've gone from no eye glasses to six pair placed strategically about the house and car, but still require 60 minutes to find one

A pre-schooler refers to your undyed roots as "old hair" and is perplexed on your behalf

You think hash tag means chasing your brother around the front yard slinging meat and potatoes

You guess that Twitter is the comparative form of twit (twittest, being the superlative).

You are one of the thousands of Americans who asked their kids what "twerking" is, and why is Miley Cyrus doing it.

Very Small Men

2014-01-01T12:21:00.000-08:00

As most of you know, I am the mother of three girly-girls. Actually they are women now. But all three wear their hair long, they have perfected the smokey eye look with top shelf makeup, and have become fashionistas extraordinaire. At least in my humble opinion they are.

: Grandma Tina, a.k.a. L'ma

They don't shave, they get waxed. And, if I'm not mistaken, they have their hair and nail stylists on retainer, and in the Top 5 speed dialed numbers.

My daughters are not vain, just well cared for. And, oh so feminine.

Whenever they are not at the hospital working as R.N.s. the girls have luncheon with their BFFs and talk Kardashian drama and What Not to Wear.

All three daughters are married; two have just had babies. BOY babies! Each of them exclaimed when the gender was revealed, "I don't know nuthin' bout raising BOY babies!"

And, of course, I am of little use, not having raised BOYS myself. I keep hoping they are not simply Very Small Men. Oy! THAT would be a disaster.

The disaster would look something like this:

A Very Small Man is lying in a crib, scratching his belly and yawning, calling out at the same time, "MaaaahhM! Get me another teat, would ya? The left one this time. And some teething biscuits while you're at it."

Or he's in the tub, peeing . . . ON his rubber ducky's face . . . because HE CAN.

Later, while putting away toys into his toy box he mimics Dad putting dishes in the dishwasher. "I'll just shove a few more in and close the door quick before SHE sees the breakage. I only play with this limited edition porcelain Mickey Mouse on special occasions anyway."

I know I'm getting ahead of myself. Sarah's Luke is only 2-1/2 months old; Sammy Jo's Gavin is two days old.

And I'm still in denial about being a grandmother. Grand. Mother. Grand Ma. Grandma.

I am struggling with the terminology as if it's a tight turtleneck sweater having to be matched up with my head and arms a couple of times first; then pulled, tugged and untwisted down over my defiant body, the neck staying outstretched over my mouth and nose, suffocating me.

But then we come up with an appealing term for my status, L'ma (a derivative of "Llama Mama"--my American Sign Language name sign), and I am no longer smothered. I am overwhelmed with awe. I have grandbabies. Grandsons. Baby BOYS who are not Very Small Men looking for a busty woman 24/7. (It's more like 14/7.)

Each is an amazing combination of his mother and father. And, strangely each resembles extended family as well. Cousins, aunts, uncles, great grandparents appear in their newborn faces. My father and I can be seen when Luke is turned to a 45 degree angle; but for Gavin you can see me in his profile, while his own daddy is there when looking head-on face-to-face.

Halos hover over their soft fuzzy baby BOY heads. And they stretch, lenthening their footed pastel jammies to a full 20 inches. They coo quietly, dreamily sinking into mommy's arms, knowing only warmth first inside and now outside of her body. They are fed and held and loved by mommy and daddy . . .

Until Grandma comes over. Then I hold them, sing to them, stare at them in wonder. I pat them and stroke them. I am in love. I am grateful they are healthy. I am grateful they are handsome.

But mostly, I am grateful they are not very small men.

Hey Buddy, Can You Spare a Latte?

2014-01-01T10:40:00.000-08:00

This blog differs from my usual in that it's more serious, and not so much about growing older except in gaining wisdom through experience. Here goes:

Homelessness in my southern California community has weighed heavily on me for a couple of years now because of what appears to be a great increase in the numbers of people sleeping on benches, loitering at Starbucks, cruising the streets on bikes towing a makeshift trailer, or pushing a grocery cart full of all their worldly possessions, often including a dog either for companionship (Chihuahua) or protection (Pit Bull).

Sometimes groups of homeless gather at a prominent corner to commiserate their state of affairs. At least that’s what I imagine they are doing. Talking about their shared experience. I’ve been told that the homeless tend to be possessive of their meager belongings, willing to fight off anyone who threatens to steal them.

Likewise, they are aggressive in their attempts to gain basic needs–blankets, food, clothing. And anyone fortunate enough to be in possession of a large cardboard box, previously the housing for a refrigerator, is likely to have to fight off a fellow homeless person coveting their prize.

The truth is I have been on the threshold of homelessness myself, and it’s a scary situation. Really scary. So, I may be more sympathetic than the average Good Samaritan.

My sympathies for the homeless among us had kept me on the fence about whether or not to give them some money (or something to eat) or not. Proponents of withholding help argue that giving freely reinforces an entitlement mentality, and doesn't incite them to get out of their rut.

A recent series of interchanges with homeless men has moved me off the fence and into the camp of those who say, “Give a man a fish, you feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish, you feed him for a lifetime.”

The first in the series of encounters occurred when I parked in a strip mall parking lot, intending to get some lunch at Yoshinoya Beef Bowl. I was approached, even before completely exiting my car, by a young man in tattered clothing covered in filth, with straggly hair and beard.

“Ma’am, could you spare some change?”

“No, I use plastic. But I’ll buy you something to eat. I’m going in to Yoshinoya,” I said cheerfully.

“I’m vegetarian. I was going to go to a place where I could get a veggie burger,” was his reply.

Now, I was really feeling charitable since for once in a very long time I could spare a few bucks for someone less fortunate than myself. So, I persisted, “Yoshinoya has veggie and rice bowls. You don’t have to have meat.”

“I don’t like their food,” he said. Oh, I thought, I to help a fellow with a meal and he’s turning me down. Strange.

Later, while dining on rice and teriyaki chicken, I saw him rummaging through a garbage can outside of Yoshinoya. Humph. Suit yourself, I guess.

The next encounter with a hungry, homeless young man happened outside a Starbucks. He was sitting with his extremely large puppy, a black and white mixed breed with gigantic paws.

“Ma’am? Could you spare some change?” Same line as the last guy.

“No, but I’ll be glad to buy you something to eat. I’ll run down to McDonald’s.”

“I don’t really like their food.” Here we go again. “But, of course I’d be grateful for anything.” That’s more like it.

“And a couple of burgers for my pooch, please.” He’s thinking there’s no way she can resist Buster’s hopeful look. I couldn’t. I bought the dog a couple of burgers, all the while thinking this homeless kid should really learn to live within his means.

The third experience I was at a gas station, needing to fill up, and needing even more, to wash my windshield. Lo and behold there was a poverty stricken man across the parking lot with a squeegee in hand. To my surprise, he did not approach. But another, looking equally poor, did approach me.

“Ma’am, could you spare some change, or maybe buy me a doughnut or somethin’?” This time, I was feeling less charitable and more curious about how this would play out. I bet he offers to wash my windshield when he sees me go for the scrubber.

“Sure. Just a minute,” I said, scrubber in hand. Wait for it. Wait . . . for . . . it. Hmm. No offer to ‘work for food.’ Instead, he plopped his dirty, but able bodied self on the island dividing the lanes between gasoline pumps. Really? What about WWFF, “Will Work for Food?” Have all y’all become entirely without even a drop of work ethic? C’mon, there might be a 10 dollar bill in it for ya.

My charitable inclination diminished then and there. I gave him 50 cents.

The final encounter occurred again at a Starbucks. A pitiful young man explained that his wife and he would be grateful for a cup of coffee. I reasoned, It’s chilly outside where they are restricted. Coffee is a modest request. Here is my opportunity to give a little. How much could a couple of cups of coffee set me back? Not much. The least I can do is see to it they have a beverage to warm them up.

“Okay,” I said, feeling that this man would redeem all homeless. He would gratefully accept a small token of my charitable nature: a simple cup of coffee which I can afford to provide. Win/win.

“We’ll have two Venti blended Caramel Macchiatos with extra whip,” he said.

“Oh! Get outta here with your greedy self.” That’s what I wanted to say. Instead, I controlled my reaction, and said, “I’ll buy one Venti for you and your wife to share. They’re pretty big.” Sheesh. My esteem for the down-and-out was beginning to evaporate. Venti Caramel Macchiato, indeed!

Since the last of these situations, I have become a believer in supporting organizations working to help the homeless help themselves. I’m working three jobs to make ends meet, but still find opportunities to donate clothing and toiletries to shelters, and I gladly pay to have my windshield washed . . . if anyone does that kind of job still.

Student Driver

2013-08-16T11:59:00.002-07:00

First, let me say that I feel so ashamed for taking such a long hiatus from "Resistant Gray" writing. I really do love this little site despite the apparent neglect. I've been working with a couple of weightier writing projects: ghost writing memoirs for a client and my novel. So, let's all move on, shall we?

Recently I have been paying close attention to stuff that weaves its way into the life of a stalwart Resister-of-Gray moonlighting as a community college student. Below is a short list of some of those truths recently discovered behind the wheel.

On driving. . .
-- The longer your driver's license is expired the more carefully you drive.

-- An able bodied person ought to be able to use an unoccupied public parking space reserved for handicapped people who are "no-shows."

On attending junior college. . .
-- A 50-year-old student can go places on campus where 20-year-old students are not allowed, providing you appear to be a perfectly sane professor. And you do not even have to carry a clipboard!

On driving on a junior college campus. . .
-- If you are a daring 50-year-old junior college student working your way through campus by car, you may find an unoccupied parking space reserved for handicapped people who are "no-shows." You may want to borrow the space for a few minutes. If you choose not to risk borrowing said space, and you proceed further along your current path, you may end up where all the picnic tables park. If you end up where all the picnic tables park, your Lexus will stand out like a sore thumb, and the drivers of the picnic tables will stare at you as if to say, "Get that gas guzzling, snooty 4-door sedan outta here before we call the cafe police. This is an exhaust-free area."

On driving on a junior college campus wearing multi-purpose clothing. . .
-- Bike shorts or long leg underpants? How can you tell them apart? They are like those pictures that you stare at until the hidden image comes into focus. Recently, while driving on a junior college campus, I had to explain this phenomenon.
"These are bike shorts, officer, not long leg underpants. If you look long enough you will be able to tell that. And this, my good man, is a sports bra. Now kindly remove these bracelets. They don't go with my ensemble. My driver's license? You want to see my driver's license? Hold on, I think it's on the clipboard I left on the seat of my picnic table."

Battling the Bulge

2012-07-23T16:05:00.001-07:00

Ugh! How else is one to begin writing about "the bulge?" Or, in my case, the bulges--plural, as in more than one. Okay, more than two, but whose counting? I am. And, apparently, The Man-I've-Admired-For-Years is counting (see Tennis Anyone? posted May 2012).

So, I started (again) putting in extra effort to defeat the enemy--those sneaky, covert extra pounds, a.k.a. lbs. LBs. How very appropriate. LB can stand for "Losing Battle," "Lots o Bulges," "Limit Bacon," "Load Bearer" and "Lard Bottom." I could go on and on. But you get the point.

Now, make no mistake, anyone engaging in this warfare must expect to come face to face with 360 degrees of ugliness. Afterall, combat with this particular foe requires unfailing concentration, stern will power, grocery shopping prowess, and . . . standing naked in front of a full-length mirror.

Once I did that, I regained the motivation to return to the gym and consult the chiseled expert, that lean, muscle-bound, cream soda smelling "A.J." whom I wrote about in "On Working Out" (posted December 2011). We agreed to start with my legs. I anticipated a rigorous, even military style, regimen. Sure enough, like a platoon sargent, with a sober face and booming voice, A.J. gave orders.

"Give me twenty minutes on the treadmill, soldier."

"Now, on the floor step. Up,down. Up,down. Up,down. Faster. FASTER! What do you think this is, a playground for sissies?"

"No, sir."

On to lunges.

"Ready? Forward RIGHT. Switch Left. RIGHT. LEFT. RIGHT. LEFT. Keep it up. Let's go! RIGHT. LEFT. RIGHT. LEFT."

Whew. By the end of that boot camp-like session I was exhausted and ready to head to the mess hall. But, I must say I felt victorious.

And I was victorious. As of this writing, I am gaining ground on the battlefield, having lost 3.5 pounds of excess enemy so far. Yes, siree, I have dropped a half-size. No longer a size 6, but a leaner 5-1/2. And I've gone from 34DD to 34D. Grrreat. My feet and boobies are smaller!

I'm afraid to exercise my arms and core for fear my wrists and navel will shrink! A.J., help!

Resist the gray: Strategy #1

2012-06-08T12:19:00.000-07:00

One way to resist the gray, divert the eyes of all onlookers to your shoulders!

Tennis, Anyone?

2012-05-29T11:25:00.003-07:00

In high school I was introduced to the game of tennis. And loved it. That was, of course, a long time ago. Recently I completed two semesters of tennis at the community college, starting with beginners. Well, I was no beginner. I could serve, volley, and hit forehand strokes pretty darn well for having had a decades-long break from the game. Yeah, I was feeling pretty good about my game. The other newbies were out of control. Their balls sailed over the fencing into the parking lot, or they missed the ball altogether. Some cowered as the ball came their way, using their racquet as a shield. Silly kids. How utterly uncoordinated, and so young and athletic looking. My, have they got a lot of skill building to do.

So, I joined the USTA, United States Tennis Association. Big league. They put me in touch with team captains. One of the many was willing to take a chance on me. I played doubles with a seasoned partner. I planned to wow her with my one-handed backhand and hard driven serve. Our first match I was transformed . . . in a bad way. My balls sailed over the fencing or I missed altogether. My hard driven serve took out the diamond stud from my partner's pierced ear! My, I had a lot of skill building to do.

I took more classes and was ready to join friends on the court. I had improved my serve and my forehand, and was already fine tuning a two-handed backhand. Boy, would they be impressed. I bought athletic clothes for the court and new tennis shoes-- to be worn only while playing tennis. Slowly I was becoming a tennis snob, like the country club set. I was ready to compete. Bring it on, sisters. During that match my partner and I won one set, lost the other. We left with the sets tied, one and one. How very cordial are lady tennis players.

The next step in my progress at the game I loved again: play with a man I have admired for years. Surely, he will appreciate my attempt to get involved in a sport he adores. Surely he'll be a good coach and mentor. Maybe he'll even ask me out. I put on my sportswear, my court-only tennies, just a touch of make-up-- going for the natural look with a healthy, athletic glow. During the games, my balls did not sail over the fencing, I did not take out anyone's earring and I did not fall into the net and hang up my nose--I didn't, I swear.

These particular games were really only practice for the man I had admired for years and his mixed doubles partner. They were preparing for a league match. My partner and I were faux opponents. We gave them a run for their money, though. What with me being able to get the ball over the net and between the lines pretty often. I just knew there were kudos awaiting me after the playing was done. The man I had admired for years would give positive praise for my ground strokes, and fuss over my powerful, newly mastered two-handed backhand. We would play again--maybe even on a regular basis.

I had my chance to ask him about my game as we all were putting equipment away and having much needed gulps of water.

"So, Man-That-I-Have-Admired-For-Years, based on my playing tonight, what comments do you have to offer?" (Kudo coming, wait for it.)

"Just two things," he said, "practice more, and uh, don't wear spandex."

"Gee, thanks."

Three Days of Every Month of Every Year

2012-03-02T16:03:00.001-08:00

Recently I had an experience that reminded me that I can be Positively Monsterous Sometimes--a real She-devil stirring accusations and complaints in a cauldron, concocting Potent Messages to Spew at unsuspecting subjects. Picture a Monster Seething. I become a Pitchy Mutation of mySelf.

I decided to do something about it. Reminiscent of the "Serenity Prayer," I dropped to my knees and lobbed a plea heavenward. It went something like this:

Dear Lord,

Grant me the ability to

hold my tongue,

unclench my teeth,

and

retract my eyes,

or possibly

avoid boiling over altogether

because I have a tendancy

to scald people standing too close.

What's that you say, Lord?

Asking too much, am I?

How about giving me family

and friends who are flame retardant,

a boss who recognizes the signs

of temperatures rising,

and a hubby who knows how

to turn off the heat and clean up the mess?

Yes, Lord, I think that is the best fix.

Let's go with Plan B--make everyone else

Immune. Much better. I like it.

Plan C, Lord?

Strike me with Premature Menopause Soon?

Mood swings, night sweats, constant irritability.

No, nevermind. Kindly disregard this plea.

I'm up, off my knees,

back to stirring the pot.

Mothers and Other Strangers

2012-02-23T14:58:00.005-08:00

How well do we know our kids? My daughters are grown up now. I learned about some of their secret adventures from their middle- and high-school years only recently. Their exploits, as revealed from a perspective of adult liberation, were very telling. Here's what I took away from their decision to share with me their adventures playing hooky, encounters with heartthrobs, rule breaking and other minor misdeeds: I must take to the grave my own school days shinanigans at all cost!

I know I committed to posting primarily humorous stories. And, for the most part, that will continue. I have, however, written a short-short story specifically for a first person characterization exercise in Creative Writing. This is a fictional account inspired by a set of photos and a discussion with a trusted confidant, who survived parenting boys. The story appears in its entirety, however diminutive, below. Please let me know what you think.

Cookie and Me

Tina Holden Burroughs

“C’mon, Zi. Let’s go. They’re waiting,” Cookie urges me from my seat in Mr. Clanahan’s sophomore biology class the way she does every day at 2:15 when school lets out at George Washington High.

Cookie took my ordinary name, Suzanne, and dubbed me, not Suzie, but Zi in September when we became friends. For three months I have felt like a sleek, agile, kickboxing star of a video game or graphic novel. Zi! I imagine myself in a tight blue spandex leotard and tights with metallic thigh-high boots. A lightening bolt adorns my chest. My eyes are oversized with heavy lashes and I frown, anticipating the appearance of a teenage menace whom I will defeat. A shock of thick yellow hair hangs over one eye in signature Anime style. Cool. I can take on a cartoon world.

My mom doesn’t know that I like to be called Zi, or that I hang out with Cookie. She wouldn’t like it.

“Coming,” I say, shoving my Cover Girl compact into my Vera Wang cosmetic pouch, and grabbing my Eddie Bauer backpack—the one with sterling studs outlining the pocket where I keep the iPhone my dad gave me for getting A’s.

I always jump when Cookie speaks. I don’t mind. She’s a year and a half older, after all. She’d had to repeat fifth grade the year her mom died and her dad went to prison. Sad.

We rush passed dorky freshmen who are meandering in the halls all slow and sheep-like. We ignore fellow sophomores who do the same. The juniors actually sneer. But that could be because of Cookie’s fashionably ripped fishnets and blue hair. Or maybe because they aren’t allowed to get piercings or tattoos. Jealous. Of course, I’m not allowed either. If I were allowed, I’d do my eyebrow and lip. But probably not my tongue or nipples like Cookie.

Then we strut passed the senior jocks. Cookie showed me how. They are playing a lively round of One-Up. I am certain Joaquin looks my way. Great hair. Nice tan. Hot bod. I give him a sideways glance and wish to myself, Notice me. Notice me. Notice me. Darn. What do senior jocks know, anyway?

We are finally off campus. Mr. Clanahan pulls up in his slick, red two-door Ford Mustang, revving the engine. Mr. Walters, the track coach, is in the back seat. What?

“You first. Get in,” Cookie says.

END

On Working Out

2011-12-12T11:51:00.000-08:00

As the title of my blog implies, I am reluctant to grow older, resisting it every step of the way. Since I can't actually grow younger like Benjamin Button, I have decided to fake it. And that, in and of itself, is hard work. There's the twice daily face cleansing and moisturizing ritual. There's the parafin hand treatments and nightly lubricating of feet. And there's the denying oneself of some of the most exquisite pleasures in life, the things that help you through the rough times, the delights that make getting up in the morning worthwhile: cream and bacon!

Having made my decision to fake being young, I had a consultation with a personal trainer. I went to the appointment with a handful of questions, the most important being, "Is it possible to keep cream and bacon in my diet and still attain a figure like Jennifer Aniston?" and "Can Ashley Judd play me in the movie of my life without first having to binge for months on cheesecake?"

Armed with my delusional questions, I headed to the gym. Let me tell you, these "fitness centers" have masterful marketing, but the staging within the facility is pure genius:

Staging Strategy #1: At the front desk are the cute, shapely young women. Young women that all women want to look like and all men want to be with. They are slender, perky, and very pretty greeters.

Staging Strategy #2: The trainers are muscular, handsome, young men. Young men that all men want to look like (or beat down) and women want to be with. They are tall and fit, of course; and they smell of cream soda. Mmm . . . cream. At least my personal trainer did.

To add to his mystique, my personal trainer goes by only initials: A.J. I'm guessing he's Andre or Aubrey or Alexander--some name that is uncommon and masculine. He walked me through several exercises. Curiously, they all involved me needing to lean on his biceps for support, or hold his hands for leverage, and look into his big brown eyes to stay focused. I could have danced, uh . . . I mean "exercised" all night. And he marked me as a "10" on his consultation sheet--that is the highest rating possible . . . for "motivation to lose those pounds of ugly, bulging fat."

We never actually got to my questions. I left expecting never to see A.J. again. I was under the impression he was a fictional super-hero that never leaves the holy grounds of the fitness center. He was a chiseled masterpiece come to life who would dissolve if he stepped outside the gym. I had finally figured out his name--Adonis.

I did see him again. And he saw me. I was shoving a powdered sugar donette into my mouth in the parking lot of 7/11. I'm pretty sure he changed my rating after that.

The Good, the Bad and the Procrastinators

2011-10-26T09:55:00.000-07:00

According to Dr. Oz, it can actually be a good thing to procrastinate. Dr. Oz attributed the tendency to procrastinate to immaturity--teens and college students who are notorious for playing when they should be studying, drinking when they should be writing and pranking when they should be figuring. The reasoning behind the notion that there is an up side is that when the time comes to take action on the delayed matter, adrenaline kicks you into high gear and, voila!, you accomplish your goal just under the wire. It's wonderful, trust me. Adrenaline causes a rush that cannot be duplicated by any street drug, except maybe...no, none that I can think of. The "procrastinate then take-action-as-fast-as-you-possibly-can-without-suffering-penalties" is a trip, man! What we Resistant Grays used to call "a natural high."

OK, we never called it that. I was the only one in my school clique engaging in that risky behavior. I used to eat when I should be studying, shop when I should be writing and daydream when I should be figuring. (Visualize Prissy from Gone with the Wind, strolling home at a leisurely pace, sliding a stick across the fence slats, humming a slow dirge.)

Then suddenly that report would be upon me. (In Prissy's case, Melanie's baby was pushing through and Scarlett was fuming.) "Report? I don't know nuthin' about no report, Ms. Shea." My friends never accidentally played "beat-the-bell" in grade school or "quick, is-the-teacher-watching?" in middle school. They sure as heck didn't succeed in unseating the girl sitting at the desk nearest the door one particularly rushed morning in the fall of 1977--not easy to do at five-feet-zero, 106 pounds (but where there's a will there's a way.)

Of all my flaws, procrastination seems to wreak the most havoc for family and friends. And they are not buying the "I have a gap in my prefrontal cortex" explanation. Well, I'm here to tell you that some of us are, by nature (due to a gap in our prefrontal cortexes), hardcore, unapologetic, lifelong addicts to procrastination. Here's the problem with being this sort of junkie at age 50: we can't run as fast as we used to.

On Forgetfulness

2011-09-13T14:51:00.000-07:00

While I tend to be in denial about having turned 50, it's more difficult to deny the forgetfulness that creeps up on you throughout your forties, then becomes a full blown case of empty headedness by
FIVE-O. I've compared stories with friends and we all seem to have the same propensity for losing keys, books and the like. I've managed to devise ways of compensating. For keys multiple sets helps. For books, commit to reading in only one place. Recently I had built-ins put in the bathroom.

Admit nothing. That's my way of compensating for my troubled memory whenever possible. Recently at breakfast I forgot I am lactose intolerant. I ate a melted cheese toast and a carton of yogurt, followed by a hot chocolate chaser. My 30-year-old daughter, an R. N., was on the receiving end of my discomfort. "Mom, you know you're lactose intolerant. You could've spared me."

For a denial to be convincing, I recommend clinical terminology and not even a hint of doubt. "That has been neither proved nor disproved. I'm still waiting for an official diagnosis. Today, it seems, there is evidence in support of that theory. Sorry."

When caught in the act of absentmindedness it's a little more difficult to feign ignorance. For example, if you forget to take the house keys with you, and can't remember the code to the automatic garage door, it's probably best not to climb up onto the cable TV housing, scale the adjoining neighbor's wall and dangle from their balcony railing (you forgot, of course, that you no longer possess the upper body strength to actually hoist yourself up onto the balcony floor). This gives rise to questions by people wearing badges and their syringe-wielding friends.

"What are you doing up there, ma'am?"
"I forget."

"Do you live there?"
"No."

"Where were you going?"
"My house. It's right there." You manage to point with one hand, while supporting your weight with the other Pilates-sculpted bicep.

"Why don't you use a key?"
"Forgot it."

"Why don't you use the garage door code?"
"Forgot it."

"How 'bout I call your daughter again? What's her name?"
"Forget it. I saw her earlier today. She's not talking to me."

"Why not?"
"I'm lactose intolerant."

On Turning 50

2011-08-31T14:30:00.000-07:00

I've been contemplating writing about growing older for some time now. . .two months, 28 days, 12 hours and 18 minutes. I would mention the seconds, but that would be going overboard, wouldn't it? Ever since I turned the big FIVE-O I've been enormously preoccupied with it. Periods of contemplation on the matter, however, resulted in a number of positive discoveries:

There is now a more flattering term for this section of my life. I don't have to refer to it as "middle age" or "winter" (both of which conjure up visions of darkness, bleakness, DEAD of winter-ness). It is now called an "encore performance". I can't remember who coined the phrase, but I want him or her to win a Nobel prize.
FIVE-O is popular, as evidenced by the fact that the TV series "Hawaii FIVE-O" has been recreated--with actors who are no where near 50. (What's up with that? Jack Lord was the epitome of crime-fighting maturity. And Dan-O was no spring chicken, either. No offense to James MacArthur. The late James MacArthur.)
AARP sends you free stuff. They coax you toward your encore performance with 1,000 free address labels, discounts on dining out, and articles (with photos) of celebrity members encouraging perseverance. All this implies that a) you aren't going to be moving (you've retired and have nothing better to do than send snail mail; b) your culinary taste has declined to a point where Norm's is your restaurant of choice, and c) you are in the company of beautiful people, like Sting, Stevie Nicks and Betty White. (Of course, when you die of old age you are in the company of beautiful people. They conveniently leave out that part.) Very sneaky, those AARP-ers.

Anyway, I'm going to persevere with this Blog titled, "Resistant Gray", intended to be a comedy of elders, since writing is what I do for my encore performance.