Life and Death

  I recently celebrated my 58th birthday, which is the same age my mother was when she died. I still have many plans for things to do and places to go. It makes me sad for all the things my Mom had to miss. She never got to go to Europe, which she always wanted to do. When the doctors told her that her time was limited, the first thing she looked at me, stunned, and said, "I'll never get to go to Europe."  I wanted to buy diamond rings for her, buy her a new car that wouldn't break down all the time, pay off all her bills, and take her all over the world, but I didn't get that chance. She deserved so much more than she got. I take comfort in thinking that her karma has been cleansed from this reality, and her subsequent life will be easier and more enjoyable. She also told me she wanted me to be happy, so I made a conscious daily decision to be satisfied. That is my gift to Mom. I have seen her in dreams since she died, and she looks happy and healthy. I know I will see her again.

I've been reading books about near-death experiences, and the people in them all seem to have very similar experiences: they watch people trying to revive them, they see episodes from their lives where their lives had a negative or a positive effect on others, and how their lives affected others. They then meet up with loved family members, friends, and pets that had already crossed over and were waiting for them. Everything happens with a sense of joy and pure love, and the people are almost always reluctant to go back to their bodies to live on further, but their guides have told them that they still have work to do and things to accomplish. This is a constant in many religions and is comforting to me. This is how I choose to look at death and whatever happens afterward. You too can believe whatever you like.

I'm not religious, but I respect people who are, except when they try to argue or convince me that their way is the only way to live and die. I prefer to think that we are all tied to the Earth and the universe and we should make the most of our lives here: treat others positively, take care of the Earth and the animals, and leave a suitable planet for future children to live in, whether we have children or not. You shouldn't think you don't have to care about things that don't affect you or someone you love. Everything affects all of us down the line. It may not affect you, but it will affect your grandchildren and their grandchildren. That should be reason enough to do better.

Child free

 People wonder why I chose to not have children. It all comes down to the fact that parenthood is the most important job in the universe and I recognize that I am not up to the job.

I've never understood the love affair people have with children.  Childhood is just a stage of life; it should be made as carefree as possible but not entirely so, because how else will you learn to withstand adversity? Love is not enough to be a good parent, it also takes money and lots of time.

When you grow up the child of a single mother, watching her frustration as she fought to earn enough money to put food on the table or a roof over your head; when she never had any extra money so you could take advantage of opportunities that would probably benefit you later in life, such as extra tutoring for a subject you didn't quite understand or one you were very interested in but they didn't offer at your school; or money to buy new clothes instead of having to wear ill-fitting hand me downs until they were threadbare........always having to hear, "No, we can't afford it. No, we don't have the money. No, not now; maybe for your birthday or Christmas.....".

When you spend years watching your mother having to do without things that she wants because every spare cent goes to paying past due bills or fixing a car that is long past fixing; when you're too embarrassed to invite your friends over because your mom can't afford to feed them too or you're too embarrassed for them to see where you live. My Mom was wonderful and did the best she could for me, but I could see how she struggled.

When you live your life thinking that you're never good enough, that nothing you ever do is right; that you're selfish for not wanting the responsibility of having children because truthfully, you're too mentally ill to be a good parent and you're smart enough to recognize that fact; that you must think you're "getting above your raising" for wanting to travel and have a few nice things, things that won't immediately break or fall apart because they're not good quality. If that makes me selfish, then selfish I am, with no apologies.

Now Roe v. Wade has been repealed, a fact that fills me with fear for my younger sisters in their childbearing years. We're going to have to go through the "Women's Lib" protest all over again. The government has determined that women are not reasonable or intelligent enough to dictate what happens with our bodies. They tell us that the only thing we're good for is being mothers and maids. Bullshit.

This country is regressing.

More Than Average

 I am taller than average, bigger than average, and I weigh more than average. I have thick long dark blonde hair that is slowly turning gray. My eyes are blue/green/gray, depending on my mood. I have a very direct stare that I have been told can be intimidating. I have a smallish nose that is turned up at the end and thin lips. I have high cheekbones and pale skin, which is beginning to take a southward journey down my face.

My teeth are somewhat discolored, but they are straight. I have the Turner family wattle under my chin that will not go away, even with targeted exercises. My shoulders are broad and I have large full breasts that sag much more than I like. I have long arms and small musician hands.  My waist is non-existent. I have a flat ass and muscular legs that seem to benefit from exercise more than the rest of me. My feet are average size. The second toes on both feet are crooked and I have a dead nail on my right big toe.

I sometimes get compliments on my hair and eyes. I do have "resting bitch face" so I try to keep a pleasant expression. People used to ask me why I looked mad, or sad, or tired. Like many women with body dysphoria, I feel a disconnect between my mental picture of myself and what I see in the mirror every morning. If I need confidence for any reason, I skip looking deeply in the mirror.

I have been the poster child for self-loathing for most of my life. Even when I was dressed up, I only looked "OK" in my estimation. No one ever made a big deal about my appearance except for the fact that I dress for comfort, I don't look girly enough for most people in the South. Since I've been working from home, I don't bother with makeup unless I have to go out somewhere. I'm a personality type, rather than a good looks type. I would love to be one of the  self-confident "I know I'm fantastic" types, but I'm not. I cannot even imagine what that's like.

Time Marches On

 Why do I get so depressed on Sundays, even if I get to go somewhere and do something fun? Lately, it seems to be time pressing on me more than before: my husband and I talking about retirement coming up soon, my friend starting to have age-related problems with driving, my health, the current political situation, and my innate fatalism are most of the issues. How can I make peace with getting older without "giving up", as it were? I have regrets. I've been too scared most of my life to really go out and experience it. I never drank or did drugs, I was never brave enough to try starting a band, I never got into trouble, I mainly stayed in my room, inside my head, listening to records or reading. My imagination was vivid enough to comfort me while I was isolated.

I have to admit, I'm envious of some of the wild episodes my school friends indulged in. They sowed their wild oats while young, and then settled down to raise their families.  I suppose that I've always wanted to "fit in", yet the thought of that horrified me. I'm different and that should be OK. Still, a warm and comforting base would be so nice to have when I get tired of raging at the masses.  I liken the thought to being able to troll people from your mother's comforting embrace or a little kid staring out of the back of car, sticking her tongue out at you.

I don't mind getting older, I just mind being old and unhealthy. I know how many of my friends and relatives talk about how they're dealing with aging parents and most of the time. They're entering an extremely difficult phase in life and I sympathize. I took care of my Mom when she was dying and I was not bitter about it at all. I spent as much time with her everyday as I possibly could. 

I would have been absolutely no use to Mom or anyone else if I didn't have something else to think about during that time. My mental state was bad enough to start with. Mom would not have wanted that either. She would have known that I would be miserable and she never wanted that. Mom never had a problem with my needing so much "alone time", but members of my family sure did. They made me seem selfish, like I only cared about myself and no one else. The opposite was true: I cared too much probably about everyone except myself, and being alone was the only respite  I had. My college classes also helped;  it was something else to think about while I had to watch my Mom die before my eyes and I could not do anything about it.

The Plain Blonde who Plays Along With You

There was a young mechanic that worked at Lance during the terrible period in which I worked there. All of my co-workers lusted after him; he was handsome, quiet, and did his work very well without drama. I wasn't particularly attracted to him, but he was nice and seemed interested in me. He used to flirt with me during our conversations, which was flattering, and sometimes I would flirt back. This incensed Slim, a very skinny older co-worker. 

Slim had worked at this company for many years. She probably weighed 80 lbs. soaking wet and sported a hairnet over the cloth turban she wore everyday. She was the "elder" of the Lance production line tribe. All of the women on the production line deferred to her.

One evening, the mechanic spent about 30 minutes hanging around my machine talking to me. Slim stared at us with a comical frown on her face. At break time, she sidled up to me at the vending machine and tapped me on my shoulder. I smiled and greeted her.

"Hi, Slim. How are you doing today?". 

Slim peered into my eyes. "Girl, why are you flirting with that boy?", she sternly queried.

She stood in front of me with her hands on her hips, her head cocked quizzically.

I was surprised at her question. You needed permission to flirt? What the hell?

"Well, he was flirting with me and he's a nice guy. What difference does it make? He's not married and I'm not married, so I'm just trying to be nice".

 I was only 21 years old at the time and had not had a boyfriend to speak of yet. 

Slim looked sadly at me and shook her head. Her bony finger pointed at my face. 

She whispered, "You're way too plain for a good-looking man like him. He needs a pretty girl, not a heifer. No offense."

I looked at her astonished and chuckled. Heifer? Really?

She had always been nice to me until then. I thought it was ironic that a wizened, bony old woman with maybe 4 teeth in her head considered me to be "plain". I was amused at her assessment. My sense of self was still pretty strong despite being constantly at battle with my ego. I wasn't a super model, but I wasn't plain, either.

"Slim, I own a mirror. I know what I look like; I don't need you or anyone else to tell me. Mind your own business." , I replied, amused.

I looked impassively at her, not wanting to start a fight, but also not wanting to put up with any bullshit, either.

She stalked off back to the machine she was supposed to be running. Slim never spoke to me again in my last 6 months at that job. I would get eye daggers whenever I talked to the mechanic, though. These looks didn't kill though; they merely kicked you in the shins when you didn't expect it. The whole episode was a funny anecdote during a trying period in my life.

Lily and Beastmaster

The last place in Dallas we lived in was a two story brick duplex. My husband and I lived in the bottom part and there were a constant stream of tenants upstairs, who would usually move out when they realized that the police would be called if they had loud parties at all hours of the night. It had previously been the male tenants who caused the most issues with noise, so we were glad to see two young women move in upstairs. The girls owned two pugs, curiously named Lily and Beastmaster. Those dogs barked at everything; it didn't matter what it was. The wind could be blowing too hard and they would bark at it. Whenever anyone knocked on the door or drove into the driveway, the dogs would yap almost insanely. 

Far from being annoyed, I was glad they were loud because the lack of a fence separating our yard from the alley made me paranoid. Our bedroom window faced the alley and I was always worried. about someone trying to break in. These dogs could be a burglar alarm for us as well as the girls upstairs. 

The duplex was in a "trendy and upcoming" (aka starting to get expensive but still very sketchy) neighborhood and there was a very small back yard with a dark alley in back. Unfortunately there was no fence to keep anyone from walking right up the alley to the back door, which entered into our kitchen. That door had three locks on it, just in case.

One cool day, I had burned some popcorn in the microwave, so I opened up the back door to allow the acrid smell to escape. I was startled by the two pugs in the back yard, barking fiercely at me. They were so rowdy, I had to shut the back door so they wouldn't attempt to come inside. I love dogs, but I didn't know if they would bite.

I wore old-style hard contact lenses then and after I took them out and cleaned them, they had to soak in their solution for 4 hours before I could wear them again. I was blind as a bat and I didn't have any glasses to wear in case I needed to see clearly.  My lens prescription was so strong I could only afford contacts OR glasses at the time, not both.

One night, I had cleaned my lenses and we had both gone to bed. We were just drifting off when we heard noises right outside the bedroom window.  A sudden snort startled us both fully awake. 

My first thought  was that I wished those dogs were in the yard now so they would bark and scare any intruders off. The girls upstairs couldn't leave them in the back yard since it wasn't fenced. I looked wide-eyed at my husband and he looked back at me; was someone fixing to break in? Was it a rapist or a pervert? Had he been spying on us through the bedroom window? From the sound of it, it must have been an asthmatic rapist or pervert from all the snorting and heavy breathing going on. Maybe we wouldn't have to fight him very hard before he passed out. The night was so dark we couldn't see anything out of the window, so our minds were running riot. I imagined a scary, gasping dude armed with guns, knives, and maybe hooked up to an oxygen tank.

My husband and I quietly got out of bed and crept toward the kitchen. I had recently purchased a Three Stooges-sized meat cleaver at a local restaurant supply store, so I took it out of the drawer. My husband slowly eased the back door open a crack. We were sure that we were going to have to confront a wheezing crack head right on our back doorstep. I summoned my inner Moe Howard and brandished the cleaver, ready to bring it down on anyone we found lurking outside. A hot rush of summer breeze blew in our faces. There was nothing there. 

Then the barking started. Luckily for us, it was only the pugs.

The pooches had been let outside to relieve themselves and I guess the girls forgot they were out there. The wrinkly-faced pups barked, growled, snorted, and gasped breathlessly at us. We both exhaled. The relief was immense. It was a very warm summer night and the poor things must have been out there for a while with no water. I filled a bowl with water for them and they slurped it up fast. The girls then came downstairs to fetch them.

 After that night, those pugs never barked at us again. 

New blog

 I have a new blog about being diagnosed with ADHD as an older adult. It's called ADHDME and it's here: ADHDME

This blog will still be my personal writing blog, so bookmark both please.