Dear Diary – Week 3, 2023

Tags

covid-19 diary, covid-19 humour, dear diary, family, hair, haircuts, humour, midlife crisis, school

Dear Diary – Once again, that awesome job of grocery shopping has come around again. It come around so often that I feel like I’m feeding an army, even though there are only 3 of us in the house!

Occasionally I pick up a few specials at a local store. But generally, even though “everyone” says “Covid is over”, I’m still ordering online and picking them up curbside. It has its downfalls at times. Selection is limited, and I have to trust the shopper choosing my fruit and veggies. Sometimes the expiry dates are a little too close for comfort. But it beats dealing with stupid people and that one shopping cart with the wonky wheel.

This week, I was running late and the store was moving slow. It took me 10 minutes to get a live person on the phone, just to tell them I had arrived. As if they were waiting with bated breath. I feel guilty, as if I’m some sort of entitled princess, too good to shop for her own groceries., so instead of have an underpaid, underappreciated serf roam the aisles and slog through the slush so I can fill my gob with yummies. But, to be honest, with my bum ankle, it’s been a real blessing. And I don’t miss the cold slush sloshing over the top of my sneaks.

I was supposed to meet Youngest Son at the strip mall across from the school. It would save him from walking home in the fog and drizzle, and it would ensure I had help getting all the bags inside the house. It made no sense. Somehow, I defied all known universal laws and I pulled into the lot as he was crossing the road.

I whipped into a parking space and beeped the horn.

He did not appreciate that!

Sometimes grocery items get missed, and I have to call and complain. Usually I just get a refund. This is the first time the store noticed I was missing some items and called me. I don’t know how I missed missing a giant slab of pork ribs and 2 cuts of pork tenderloin. Still, while my freezer is now less pork-less, and I have no idea if I’ll actually get my refund (and what to cook those nights the pork was planned), the store didn’t miss passing on some free samples !

What a creative product name!

I started this blog over 10 years ago to enjoy my mid-life crisis. How? By pushing myself to go new places and try new things. And I did…at least at the start. I got a tattoo with great meaning. I nearly died ran in Mud Hero with Eldest Son – also a BIG deal. I tried axe throwing and shooting firearms. I had no idea I had such good aim in real life; I can’t seem to hit the side of a barn in video games.

Soon the adventures slowed down to dabbling in photography, dusting it up with baking, and learning Italian (in the hopes of an Italian adventure). Covid ruined the Italian adventure. I spent my 25th wedding anniversary eating take-out Italian and sipping wine in front of the t.v. on my burlap sack couch!

And this…[Scroll to view]

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There were no places to go. Even the parks were overrun with people desperate to escape the four walls of their homes and I couldn’t snap any shots without infringing on the 6 feet rule.

All this to say, I threw caution to the wind and I drank my Not Milk.

It was delicious – rich and very chocolaty. And free. It was free!

Dear Diary – It’s been almost 2 weeks since I had my hair cut and I still haven’t decided if I like it or not. But I thought if I attempted to style it and take a selfie, it might help.

I’m still undecided.

I used to be indecisive but now I’m not sure.

Unknown

Dear Diary – It’s Youngest Son’s final 6 days of Semester 1 in Grade 12, and this semester has been nothing short of an uphill battle. He’s smart. He’s articulate. He’s responsible. Or so I’ve mentioned to one of his teacher who has emailed several times. With every email, my PTSD kicks in. Getting Eldest Son through school felt like a full-time job. But we did it! One day. One class. One bloody assignment at a time.

I don’t know how, but despite loving school at home during Covid, Youngest Son has lost his love of school. Actually, “love” might be too strong a word. He loves sloppy joes. School, he tolerated. I don’t doubt that the looming deadline for college applications and just plain being sick of school has done a lot to dampen his motivation.

I can remember “hitting the wall” and having to push myself to get to the end. But I had the perfectionist, “good girl” type of personality on my side, as well as a deep desire to move out of my parents’ home. I had the added responsibility of a precious little guy and I wanted to give him a “good life”. I didn’t want to be stuck on government assistance, barely scraping by and wondering what might have been. So I worked. Hard.

I know we’ll get through this (Grad photos were taken yesterday). Grade 12 is just one of a series of challenges to come. In comparison, though he may not believe me, he’ll look back and Grade 12 will seem like a breeze. I’m not telling him that though. He may decide that if this is a breeze, he’d rather spend the rest of his life in bed. And since his bed is in my basement…my lips are sealed.

Being a parent means spending half your life convincing people to stay in bed and the other half convincing them to get out of it.

Unknown

Dear Diary – Have you ever noticed that when you’re waiting in a cold car, you suddenly and desperately need to pee? I had to see my Dr. last week for an ongoing toe issue, but she was running late and I was asked to wait in the car. She’d call when I could come up.

It was a long 30 minutes.

The more I thought about not peeing, the more I had to pee. Watching the snow melt and slide down the windows didn’t help.

She put me on antibiotics, which thankfully has not caused any dietary distress. My toe, however, seems no better.

I see her again tomorrow. I won’t drink tea beforehand just in case. I’m praying she’s on time!

It’s going to be cold enough to snow and snow…

It’s so cold outside, I just farted a snowflake.

Unknown

Dear Quarantine Diary – Week 46

Tags

aging, baking, covid-19 diary, covid-19 humour, dear diary, family, humour, midlife crisis, shoes

Dear Diary – I had to laugh! After all the complaints about feeling old as I struggled with technology, which included an epilogue as I lost over an hour’s worth of writing to you last week, dear diary (and my coffee warmer refused to change settings for me), I had to help someone not much older than me log into a website. Probably, if she hadn’t been talking at the same time, she would have heard me say “dot ca” more than once and she wouldn’t have typed “dot com”. But there were questions after that too, and I felt less dumb! I appreciated the reminder that struggling with something new, just because it’s electronic, doesn’t make me stupid. It just makes me new!

I eventually found that photo I mentioned too…the one I think of whenever one of my kids is tempted to roll his eyes or risk life and limb and actually comment on my “inabilities” based on age:

He was so proud of himself because he got dressed all by himself. He wasn’t stupid…it was new! 🙂

Dear Diary – I will be making a third trip to the store to find sweat pants that fit my friend. If I strike out again, I’m going to wrap the legs around her neck!

Dear Diary – I will never be a city gal. Every now and then Hubby likes to make fun of me for my “hickisms”, as he calls it. The most recent one being the word “titch”. It means a dash, a bit, a smidgen, a hair. I don’t think it’s that odd, and usually I’m aware I’m saying it and I’m doing it to have fun. I grew up in a small town in a farming community, and like most small towns, there are colloquialisms unique to the area.

The ironic thing is that he also grew up in a small farming community, before and after he immigrated to Canada at the age of 6. In fact, his village is so small that if you blink twice, you’ll miss it. There’s a large Catholic church, a pizzeria, a gas station, a bank, and not much else! There used to be a fire station but it burned down.

To top it off, it has “creek” in its name! I grew up in a town with a river running through it, and a waterfall, and over a dozen churches. I have never seen the official creek by his childhood home, unless it was the trickle of water that ran through some woods on a barely paved road kind of in the middle of nowhere.

I’m not knocking his “hometown”, I just don’t think the kettle ought to be calling the pot orange (because orange is the new black)!

While you were busy throwing stones, you left your closet open and your skeletons fell out.

Unknown

Dear Diary – No wonder it’s on sale…

Dear Diary – It was the colour that caught my eye. Bright pink and white. Right beside the sink.

When Hubby and I had covid, Youngest Son did everything he could to avoid the upper floor, where we were sequestered in our rooms. That included brushing his teeth at the kitchen sink. I’ve been trying to break him of the habit ever since. Toothbrushes do not belong in the kitchen.

“Sweetie,” I asked. “What colour is this?”

“Pink,” he replied, with a confused look on his face.

I waited.

He stared blankly at me.

We stared at each other. “And what colour is your toothbrush?

“Purple,” he said with a wrinkled furrow.

Yes, my son was using MY toothbrush. Gross!

I would share almost anything with him. I would give up my life for him. But that toothbrush is sacred. I’m going to need a new one!

Dear Diary – The rose waited too long to bloom.

Dear Diary – Sometimes I wonder why I bother baking…and then I remember that I like to eat baking. Sometimes I enjoy the process too. Especially baking bread. I love the calming, tactile experience of making bread from scratch. It brings back happy childhood memories.The aroma encompasses warmly like a hug, and in a house full of men, warm hugs are preferable to smothering farts any day!

I baked bread recently, adding cinnamon, craisins and chopped pecans. But it sat on the counter, uneaten by those I wanted to impress to bless, and grew hard. What to do? Toss my efforts? Waste those pecans? Nope! I made French Toast, and I gotta say, Mmm…

My bread may have been wasted on the guys, but it was not wasted on me!

Dear Diary – Saturday evening marked the monthly “walk of shame” as I tried on several outfits so I would be “decent” leading worship on the platform Sunday morning. The most recent medication I’m trying out has been pretty effective in reducing pain and swelling, and has increased my energy levels to a height I have not seen since I was a teenager. I’m still only enjoying long walks to the fridge, but the house is tidier, I’m more organized and creative, and I’m actually looking forward to the possibility that I’ll be hosting for the holidays (first time!) in my tiny home. So though I was warned the medication would make me fat cause weight gain and puffiness, I’m trying to embrace the changes with grace and just get on with living. Active and round is preferable to inactive and round.

While slightly discouraged but not in despair over the clothing situation, I desperately wanted to embrace my high heels again. It’s been well over a year since they have ventured farther than the closet…only to be held in my hand as I sit on the edge of the bed and sigh. I have mourned high heels, as ridiculous as that may seem, mostly because of how I feel in them. I feel empowered, sexy, tall. I know I should pass them on to a good home where they can live the life they deserve, but I keep hoping that that life will be with me.

I’m slowly accepting that my high-heeled boots will be the first to depart. It’s not just the heel that’s the problem. It’s bending my ankle so I can even slide them on. But with the current healing, I was hoping I could take them for one more parade on the catwalk before I was forced to sell them to cover the cost of heavy, ugly, flat and sensible “old lady” orthopaedic shoes for the remainder of my years.

I didn’t have my rose-coloured glasses on. I knew my black stilettos pushed boundaries when I was still spry. Instead, I tried on my rose-coloured leather Miz Moo boots, only to find that while I can stand in them, I can’t really walk in them. Which is exactly what you’re supposed to do on a cat-walk.

Then I starting trying on other footware: my leopard heels, my velvety red heels, my Italian beige heels, my black and white Jeanne Becker heels, even my blush kitten heels. It was the same story. I apologized to my $10 LouisVuitton heels. I never got to take them anywhere. I apologized to my sassy green boots; they are covered in dust.

I blame covid for stealing my final years.

By the time I was done, my room was a mess of sparkles and clasps and heels. I needed to change from my light-weight sleep shirt to a summer nightie (and not a sexy one lest I give Hubby the wrong impression. “Walk of Shame night” is not the night!) because I had overexerted myself!

I cannot say “this too shall pass”. Heels may well be a part of who I was rather than who I am now. But, like the growing list of health concerns, the joys of the raging inferno of my dying youth, and the regrets of what might have been had I not been so lazy, I need to face this change with grace.

My mother always used to say ‘the older you get, the better you get. Unless you’re a banana!

Betty White

Dear Quarantine Diary – Week 35

Tags

aging, covid-19 diary, covid-19 humour, dear diary, family, humour, midlife crisis, shopping

Dear Diary – The house felt completely empty after Eldest Son left last Thursday. We had one final quiet swim before he left and Mama Cardinal in her nest, though watching us warily, was content. We also gave her space. I puttered with sewing. Even though haven’t made any more sales, it makes me happy…and I got Christmas presents covered for the next 10 years!

Eldest son enjoyed camping trip, even if the mat he borrowed from his grandparents turned out to be the one with the hole!

Youngest Son and I continue to silently count down the final days, making every effort not to think about all the changes coming once the “s-word” starts.

I had already had my first back-to-sch*%l nightmare. We didn’t know where we were going, we were running late, and then, I didn’t know if Youngest Son had even arrived. I woke up soaked in my own sweat, my heart pounding! My own education overlapped with Eldest Son’s, and then his overlapped with Youngest Son’s, so bear in mind that between me and my sons, I have had more “First days of…” than most parents! With only a few more years to go, we think, I’ll be ready for retirement, though I suspect my stomach will still be in knots in the early days of September.

Dear Diary – On Monday Mom and I had a coffee date. We met a friend of hers, for many years, after not seeing each other for many more years. We tucked up in the back corner and alked fast and furiously. This special lady had supported and prayed for me and my family for many years, and once upon a time, her daughter and I had joked ceaslessly about how clueless boys were, mostly to cover up our teenaged insecurities. That daughter now lives on the other side of the world. I bet the boys are clueless there too! Time slipped away too quickly and she had to run, but it was so good to catch up. It’s certainly an advantage when you visit for more than a couple of days…there’s time for fun things like this!

Dear Diary – This morning our house was buzzed by the paparazzi! I don’t know how they knew I was here, unless you’ve been sharing secrets. Just before noon, we heard the thumping of a big helicopter. Mom and Dad live next to a pipeline station, so it’s not unusal to hear a helicopter or two in a week as it surveys the line from the sky. But this yellow fellow wasn’t so mellow – he was circling the house! I went out with my cell phone to snap some pics. He was close enough, the pilot waved at me. After a few more passes in a large circle, he flew off.

I wonder if he was snapping my pic too?

“Hey Buddy…check out this crazy old lady taking my picture…”

Dear Diary – It’s a simple pattern, they said. Suitable for beginners. A one hour project.

They lied.

It took me nearly 7 hours to complete 4 bowl warmers…including the cutting, sewing, ripping apart, crying, pinning and sewing, ripping apart, throwing things, pinning and sewing, ripping apart, aggravated primal growl, ripping apart, and sewing again.

They are practical and cute…

…but I’d be crazy to try again.

Maybe next week….

Dear Diary – I had to do the inevitable. Back to Sch&%l shopping. Otherwise, Youngest Son would be heading out in highwater pants. He has grown so much, and since he’s been living in his pajamas for the last 2 years, there was no urgency to update his wardrobe. I actually managed to find jeans with a 28″ waist. And they are still too big. I’ll have to see if I can exchange them.

I remember when I had a 24″ waist.

Mem’ries, light the corners of my mind
Misty water-colored memories of the way we were

Marvin Hamlisch, Alan Bergman, Marilyn Bergman, The Way We Were

I also remember when I could wear heels without the very thought of them making my body ache from the waist down. It was only a year ago that I donned my $1100 shoes (which I bought at a yard sale for $10 with the original price tag still on). I wore them for our 25th wedding anniversary, which we celebrated, not in Rome as planned, but in our backyard with goofy photos. And then I wore them to pick up our take-out Italian food. It was the closest we could get to Rome.

I couldn’t walk the streets of Rome this year, not because of covid but a literal inability to walk much farther than around the block. So instead of caressing shiny satin stilettos, I’m in search of “comfortable shoes”. It’s code for stable, ugly, old lady shoes…and every part of my being objects.

It reminds me of shopping for bras when I was a teenager. I wanted the pretty lacy ones…but needed the sturdy body armour of my elders.

I still do.

It’s why I bought that bra online several months ago. The one I break into a sweat trying to put on. The one I need to start doing a daily upper body workout so I can actually use it. It’s like trying to squeeze toothpaste back into the tube, but instead things are oozing everywhere. I’ve tried, worrying that the sounds being squeezed from my mouth will arouse the interest of the inhabitants in my house, and they will come wandering up to see where the livestock in the bedroom. If they ever did walk in on me, they would be forever scarred. It’s not pretty. It doesn’t feel good. It’s impossible.

So is finding “comfortable” shoes. I figure I have at least another month in sandals before I have to cover my tender tootsies. My sneakers will last another year. And I haven’t given up hope yet.

But it’s getting thin…

They’ve starting designing pretty bras for pretty plump princesses, so hopefully shoes will be next?

Give a girl the right shoes and she can conquer the world!

Marilyn Monroe

Dear Diary – We caught up with Auntie M last night after her recent big trip. She survived all the walking, including the one to get to her hotel. After a long train ride and since there were no taxis, she decided to walk to her hotel. It was only 5 blocks away. But it turned out that though the blocks were not particularly lengthy, they were uphill. The engineers who built them were kind enough to add stairs in places. She was very hot and tired after her uphill battle, with the summer sun beating down, when she arrived at her hotel. Imagine her delight when she entered the premises only to be met with a towering set of stairs and no elevator in sight.

My old nemesis…
Stairs!!

Po, Kung-Fu Panda

We remarked that at least her departure would be swift. Just set her suitcase on the edge and give it a good boot. She agreed, but unless it was raining or she was too sore to make the trek back to the station, she would be walking, not taking a taxi there. She’d need her suitcase wheels to work. Mom piped up, “ no you don’t…just ride your case down the hill”.

This is one of those times when I wish could draw a cartoon…Auntie M with arms and legs akimbo sitting on her case, mouth wide screaming and hair flying, as her suitcase rolls haphazardly over the crest of the stairs on the sidewalk. The big question is…suppose she made it to the bottom, how does she stop?

Dear Diary – Sometimes when it rains, God paints the sky with colour.

Last night was going to be our last meal together, so we went out with Auntie M. The day had been a mixture of blue skies and sun one minute, and dark clouds with heavy rain the next. I spent a portion of the day packing our belongings. I even took Youngest Son for his back to sch*%l haircut. But then Hubby texted that sch*@l’s start was a day later than tradition, and then Grade 9 only on the first, so Youngest Son wouldn’t be starting as early and we could stay longer if we wanted.

We wanted.

Rainbows were a sign of a promise and I felt like this one was for me. I may not ever walk the streets of Rome, or if I do, it might be in old lady shoes. My body will wrinkle and sag. My children will go off to make their own way. My business may fail. My hair will gray. Promise is a big word. It either makes something or it breaks everything. But I serve a big God. Whatever happens this year or next, I am not alone. It will be ok.

Hello September. Thank you for the reminder that change can be beautiful.

Unknown

Dear Quarantine Diary #12

Tags

covid-19 humour, games, humiliation, humour, life, midlife crisis

Dear Diary – I read a great post about the best way to eat a “chocolate  biscuit”. Turns out The Mottled Macaroon and I eat kit-kats the same way. Care to weight in on The Great Chocolate Biscuit Debate?  Anyone want to go buy me chocolate?

Dear Diary – what was I thinking? Maybe it was the foreign sense of freedom, the excitement of Spring, the vastly empty shelves of the grocery store garden centre. But I bought a pepper plant. I brought it home with visions of juicy red bell peppers. Only it’s not a bell pepper plant. So with red, skinny peppers starting to bud,looking suspiciously like a number of hot pepper, I cut one and brought it inside. Hubby washed and sliced, and tasted it. He said it wasn’t hot. So he sliced a piece for me. It tasted like a red pepper…for about 3 seconds, and then it started to burn. I spit it out and grabbed a slice of bread, all the while Hubby apologizing. The piece he ate was an end, no seeds, so it wasn’t spicy. What am I going to do with hot peppers?

Dear Diary – She’s back! I was asked to reprieve my role as Ima and to write the skits for our online VBC. It was no small task! On Friday, Little Guy and I braved the hot sun to film my parts…in a tent. By the time we finished, we were both wet rags. I should have watched the first couple because Little Guy cut off the top of my head. I hope no one minds that it has a “blair witch project” feel to it now!

Dear Diary – Have you ever recorded a show…and when it ends, you keep watching whatever was recorded after it? Even if it’s a crappy show. We did this and I learned about the 1958 movie Macabre. I’ve never seen it. I probably never will. I’m ok with that.  What caught my attention was the marketing ploy they used to gain audiences: A certificate for a $1,000 life insurance policy from Lloyd’s of London in case they died of fright during the film. Of course there was a disclaimer: the policy would not be honoured in cases of suicide or for those with pre-existing conditions. In addition, actors were hired to play nurses in the lobby during the film, and hearses were parked outside. Were the promotions successful? Macabre grossed as much as $5 million. 

Dear Diary – Every day is starting to feel like the Hunger Games. What new disaster will challenge me until nightfall. My “frozen” shoulder just keeps getting worse and the more I stretch it, the more other things hurt too. I refuse to go bra-less or stop shaving, even if it requires crying and yoga! The two aren’t mutually exclusive anyway.

I’m now pretty much reduced to unfashionable shirts that button up the front or are really baggy. Hubby had to help me get my top off yesterday. Normally I would perceive that as a “hey baby” move, but this was desperation. It took 2 attempts and one minor panic attack before we got it. My next plan was to cut it off.

I can’t even put my hair in a pony tail. I was terribly hot Saturday evening and asked Hubby to do it. Obviously, with 2 sons, this was a foreign skill, and without 2 functioning arms, I couldn’t demonstrate. Little Guy, having had long hair himself, was slightly more adept, but didn’t wrap the band that extra time to keep it tight. Still, it served its purpose until the hot flash passed. I now wear 2 braids like a 12 year girl, or 1 katniss braid, like a 12 year old girl in 2012.

I refuse to go down without a fight!

Let the Games begin.

 

Friday’s Tune: Afterlife

Tags

faith, Friday's Tune, midlife crisis, switchfoot

I find it hard to be motivated in February. As I write, the temperature is starting to dip, the wind is picking up, and the driveway is covered in snow. I should have tackled it a hour ago, but I just wasn’t…motivated.

Eight years ago I was motivated. 40 was just around the corner. I started a blog on a whim, determined to push myself to try new things and find joy in the every day. I would laugh more and cry less. I had already wasted so much time believing the lie that I didn’t deserve to be HAPPY. It was time to change the narrative.

I’ve tasted fire I’m ready to come alive
I can’t just shut it up and fake that I’m alright
I’m ready now
I’m not waiting for the afterlife

And among the things I was motivated to do, was to run in Mud Hero – a 5K obstacle race in the mud! It required training, serious training to get this old girl in “good enough” shape to NOT DIE on the course. I inspired a friend to join me. I even inspired Big Guy to and his friend to come along, which was great  because I needed someone to know where they buried my body. So I terrorized the neighbourhood children by “jogging” and terrorized my family by exercising and weight lifting at home.

Obviously I survived the ordeal. I managed to turn the epic tale into a series: Mud Hero (Part I to IV, Mud Hero Finale, & why mud hero was a big deal to me). Every year since, I feel motivated to try again, but the feeling quickly passes.

Today’s tune was one of the songs that helped motivate me to stop waiting for excitement in life and to go for it!

It’s Friday – what are you waiting for? Stop reading this post, click “like”, tell me what you’re up to, and go do it!! Happy Weekend.

Lyrics                             Youtube

Afterlife, Jon Foreman / Tim Foreman  © Warner Chappell Music, Inc, The Bicycle Music Company

 

Gaming for Seniors

Tags

games, humour, midlife crisis, video games

As a parent, I normally take great pride in my children’s accomplishments. I’m pretty sure it’s a written rule somewhere in The Parenting Handbook…which was buried centuries ago on Oak Island. But I’m competitive too, and that’s not always a good thing. Especially when those accomplishments overlap. I’m pretty sure there’s also something in that handbook about being a gracious loser, and I am. Or at least I try really hard to be. We all have our moments of parenting fails, and that’s when we have to admit our mistakes and trust our kids are gracious with us.

Don’t worry – I’m not writing about a parenting fail. At least, not right now.

It’s no secret I like video games. The obsession interest took shape just before Big Guy moved out. He got me hooked on Guitar Hero. And since his Xbox 360 went with him, he conspired with Hubby to give me my very own. I’ve wasted hours of my life since.

Unlike Little Guy, I’m not obsessed with earning all the trophies and racing through the levels. I try to enjoy the journey. Until I get stuck and force one of my kids to get me over the hump. I’ve helped them through a few too, but at an ever decreasing rate. Worse, I’m at a higher level than both of them, but can’t seem to kill it quite the same way. And the algorithm groups me with players who are levels below me.

It can be frustrating!

In the Summer, after a particularly brutal game of Monopoly, I felt conflicted, so I wrestled through this question: When did my kids get better at everything than me (leaving me feeling like a washed up loser who is ready to sit in a senior centre and weave baskets while singing Kum Ba Ya)?

An aging gamer, Theo Karasavvas described gaming in his younger days as “breathing…then all of a sudden, after thousands of hours spent playing across genres and platforms, boredom hit me hard for the first time”. He assumed he need only find a different game to stimulate his interest once again. He also blamed more responsibilities and stress in life for ruining his appetite. But is his reasoning completely accurate?

Sure, our appetites changes as we grow older, but (sometimes sadly) so do other things. Like our priorities, our sense of accomplishment changes too. High scores pale compared to a lower body mass index, especially as muffins tops sprout exponentially with every decade.

The desire to compete also decreases with age. The core gaming market targets 18-30 year olds. Many of the first-person shooter-style games, like my favorites, Halo & Overwatch, take time to develop skills. Older gamers simply don’t want to invest that amount of time, and prefer slower-paced, or solo games.

And who can forget that our bodies and brains are slowing down with every passing birthday! We tend to buy into the lie that we can’t keep up with our younger counterparts and our struggles become a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Sometimes we can’t keep up, but gaming continue to have benefits as we age.  There are a number of reasons why I play video games. And as long as my kids don’t mind if I sometimes slow them down, I’m going to keep playing. This “senior gamer” prefers to call it – leveling up!

Happy weekend!

The Golden Touch

Tags

hair, haircuts, humour, little old ladies, midlife crisis

Spring has sprung, and I have no longer lost my will to live…outside of the confines of my warm bed. Another inevitable year has passed, so I decided it was time to kick-start my midlife crisis again, before I’m starting my golden years.

When I start my golden years, however, I don’t intend to be like the “lady” I met today on my commute home from work. She was in a pretty ordinary blue sedan, and crawling along at 40 km/hr in a 70 km/hr.  I waved a couple times, as if shooshing a fly, and then I changed lanes to pass her. No biggie! As I passed her, I glanced over to see who was driving. Was the driver new? 112 years old? That’s when this well-healed, mature woman with white hair and Jackie O sunglasses, gave me the finger. I didn’t tailgate or peep the horn. I didn’t gesture in any rude manner, or swerve around her like a crazy person. I may become a sassy old broad who intentionally crosses at a crosswalk slowly out of spite, but that was just rude!

So back to my midlife crisis… Every stereotypical cartoon old lady either has silver hair or blue hair. So naturally, I had to choose one or the other. Flip a coin (and consult my hair stylist)!

My stylist’s last name is Golden, so I can now say, I’ve received “The Golden Touch”!  Time to start planning some adventures for this year! Any suggestions?

Happy Wednesday!

Losing Focus

Tags

faith, midlife crisis

“I’m tired. I’m distracted. I’m disappointed in myself. I feel slightly used and more than slightly used up. I’m a little overwhelmed and a lot worn down” – Lysa Terkeurst.

“I want more.

I’m not a quitter, but I’m just not sure what to do next. What do I keep? What do I relinquish? What gives me pleasure? What gives God pleasure? I’m not afraid to work hard, to sacrifice much, to push through boundaries. But I often feel like I have nothing left to give. I want more than this. I want joy. I want purpose. I want unbroken companionship with my Father.

I’ve heard well-meaning people spout how Jesus can change us. He can, I confidently believe He can! But these well-meaning people ignore our part in it. Our desire to be changed; our willingness to seek it. Instead , we allow a culture of fear and blame, regret and shame dictate our actions. Or inaction. We view a holding pattern as faithfulness, when it’s faithlessness. I feel pressured to “hold the fort” or “tow the party line”, but it feel just as meaningless as those cliches. I want more. I want to step out in faith. I want to take risks, even if the risk means getting hurt. I want to be truly transformed into the image of Christ.

But what is my part in this?

It was easier to find peace on vacation. I can see why authors often seclude themselves away. It’s easier to wrestle with deep questions on the edge of a dock, than at the dining table at home. Out there, I had no telephones jarring me from my revelry. There were no worries about how my house looked should an unexpected guest arrive on the doorstep. Our needs were small; our meals were simple. It’s harder to reclaim that sense of peace when I’m likely to be interrupted by someone who can’t find the t.p. or who wants to know at what time they expect food to be ready so they can fill their pie-holes. At home and work, the lists are longer, the expectations higher, the deadlines shorter and I’m expected to do it all with a smile on my face. Life strips any sense of significance and joy….but only if I let it.”

“The lives we live determine how we live our souls.” – Lysa Terkeurst

***

I wrote these words last Summer as I sat reading the book, “The Best Yes” and pondering  how it related to me. A book, I should mention, that I have yet to finish. And while I certainly feel more peaceful than I did then, I can still sense the same heartache, or hunger, just below the surface.

I began this year excited to have a “word”, a verb to make my own: Focus. But I find I’m still struggling to focus on anything. My to-do lists are endless. I feel like I am always looking ahead to what has to be done in order to get through the next day, the focus on surviving to the weekend when I can steal a day at home. But weekends become days to catch up on what didn’t get done, and to compile a whole new list of tasks. I’m too tired to enjoy what little down time I have. I’m pretty sure most of you are nodding your head in agreement right now?

It’s not supposed to be this way.

I know I’m an adult; adults have responsibilities. But it wasn’t that much easier when I was younger, and I’ve never struggled so much with focus before. I started saving for a trip to Europe when I was 8. In high school, I quit figure skating so I could focus on my studies and get into university. Life took a detour, so I went to college instead. Twice. I focused on high grades so I could get a good job and support my son. I focused on being a good mom and a loving wife (I still do). So where do I go from here?

***

I’ve wrestled with these thoughts for weeks now, hoping that by writing it out, I would discover and seize upon a tangible path. Maybe I even secretly hoped I would have a brilliant, positive, inspiring conclusion, just like a one hour drama on tv. If only it were that simple. Instead, I’m just going to continue to focus on finding joy in the “opera of the every day”, and see what the future brings. And maybe focus on finishing that book!!

Never despise the mundane. Embrace it. Unwrap it like gift. And be one of the rare few who looks deeper than just the surface. See something in the every day.
– Lysa Terkeurst

Have a happy weekend!

Secretary with a …

Tags

games, humour, midlife crisis

Dolly Parton, in 9 to 5, was a secretary with huge assets. Donna from Suits was a secretary with a can opener. Even the assistant in Dilbert has a crossbow. So what’s my “secretary with a …”?

This week we discovered that it could be… Secretary with an Axe!

I went from being the worst in the pack at the beginning…regularly missing the target completely, or bouncing it off the wooden cookie…to fighting my way through 3 grueling rounds in the winning Round 2 of “The Championship”!

Not only did I get a bullseye…in the course of the afternoon, I got 10! Only 2 were in a row.

I won a t-shirt, which I wore the very next. It sparked a conversation with some construction workers at Tim’s that made me laugh. Never underestimate short people!

It required focus and a great desire to just have fun! One more thing to knock off my Mid-Life Crisis list! Secretary with an Axe. It does have a ring to it, doesn’t it?

Happy Weekend!

It’s the Weekend

Tags

humour, midlife crisis

I can almost feel myself losing weight. Oh, not the kind that is bunching up around my hips and around my bra straps. Or my chin. Or arms. Or…well, you get the picture! I’m talking about the mental weight of worrying about stupid things, like,

• Where am I going to live when I get old? After all the Halloween costumes and school projects I’ve helped cobble together for 2 boys (who didn’t attend school concurrently), I can probably cobble together something with cardboard, duct tape and plastic grocery bags. Big Guy has a balcony – if I sleep standing up, I’ll be fine.
• When am I going to have time to finish this project, renovate that room, or buy lettuce at the grocery store? It doesn’t matter. No one has died because I never finished crocheting that tablecloth. No one is losing sleep because their bedroom is yellow instead of blue. And no one has starved to death on my watch. If I focus on the most important things, they will get done. And some that are left until later, or perhaps never done at all, probably won’t be remembered. The time spent with friends and family will be.
• Will there be photos of me on display one day at my funeral, where I look like the Marshmallow Stay Puft guy from Ghost Busters? Yes. I just won’t ever purchase a sailor suit. I’m doing my best to keep my weight down (but it keeps bringing new friends to the party)!
• Who is going to change my diapers when I get old? I’ll probably be in them long before I’m old and research suggests that after only 21 days, you can form a habit. By the time I’m old, I’ll be functioning on muscle memory and it won’t be an issue. Unless I’m on Big Guy’s balcony.
• What will happen if I lose my job? Since an alternative career option has presented itself twice already, there’s a good chance it will happen again. Or I can work at McDonald’s. Even completely senile I am confident that I could do a better job, with a smile on my face.
• When will I die? Who cares?!?! Every day is a gift! You’re still breathing right? So grab Henry (O Henry) and get out there! Maybe get dressed first.

It’s the weekend-make it a good one! I’m already way ahead of you!