Getting Old Sucks, Episode 5

We went to Wichita, KS a couple of weeks ago for a family thing. 


Here's one artsy picture I took while there, gratuitously placed for the sole purpose of pimping my photo:  

Old Town

Fast forward to Sunday morning. 


We were discussing breakfast, which was complimentary at the hotel where we were staying. But I really wanted an Egg McMuffin.* 


Mitch hemmed and hawed and went on and on...  something about spending money for breakfast when we could get it for "free"...blah, blah, blah...eventually we came to this compromise: He and Libby would eat the continental breakfast and we would stop at McDonalds on the way out of town so I could get my beloved Egg McMuffin.  


It was 9:30 a.m. McDonalds stops serving breakfast at 10:30 a.m. so we had plenty of time. The only thing I had to do was finish packing and load the car while they were eating. 


(Foreshadowing. Just in case you aren't familiar with my writing style.)  


I brought a load of stuff out the car and was going to leave it open while I went back for more but thought better of it.  After all, I had just loaded the camera and a laptop in the trunk. Even though I didn't really think anyone would run to the car and rob me blind in the three minutes it would take to make a round trip from the car to the hotel room, I went ahead and locked the car ensuring the hotel room key was in my pocket.  


I came back out with load #2 of stuff, reached into my back pocket for the car keys...


Huh.  


Not there.  


Other back pocket?  


Hotel card. No keys. 


Front pockets?  


No.  


Jacket pocket! Which was back in the hotel room.  


Whew.  


Except no. Keys weren't there either. Or in the bathroom, or sitting on the counter, or sitting on the little table by the front door.


Clearly I put them in my purse. 


Now where did I put that?  


A quick scan of the hotel room left me empty handed.


Oh, God no.  


Did I leave my purse in the car??  


Say you: You locked your keys in the car. 


Say me: Oh, dude. I'm just getting started. 


I met Libby and Mitch returning from breakfast as I was going back out to the car and gave them the rundown. Mitch suggested they look in the hotel room (fresh eyes and all that) but one look on the front seat confirmed my fear: there sat my purse.  


They went back and tore apart the hotel room looking for the keys as a precautionary measure anyway, plus looked all over the place outside on the chance I dropped them. But I was convinced they were in my purse. That I couldn't remember when I put them in my purse was irrelevant (half the time I don't remember getting out of bed these days). I took some time to clean out the car a bit when I was loading up, it was probably then. 


So we called a locksmith.


And waited for really not that long. It just felt like forever because I was sitting in the hotel room watching the clock as my chances for having an Egg McMuffin for breakfast were slowly deteriorating. 


I mean, let's talk priorities.  


As I continued bemoaning my fate, Geek Man went outside to greet our savior. I knew when the locksmith finally appeared and got the car open, along with the entire south** side of Wichita. Because my car alarm started going wailing and it would NOT shut off.  


What the hell, Mitch? Click the alarm off already! Geez!  


I trot out to the car fearful we were close to getting a ticket for disturbing the peace, only to find Mitch frantically searching for my keys.  


As it turns out, they sorta weren't in my purse. 


And no one turned them in to the front desk. Which OK, we probably should have checked with them first before we called the locksmith, but whatever. In this case it didn't matter because they weren't there. 


Commence tearing apart the car. (With, I might add, the car alarm blaring. Yeah, we were those people.) Including unpacking all the bags I had loaded up already and stripping the trunk to the point that you could see the cement under the car because the keys HAD TO BE THERE especially since I insisted they were and we just paid someone 50 bucks to open the car!  


They weren't there.  


I then return to the hotel room, and after ripping all the covers off the beds, again, looking under the towels, again, and unpacking the few bags left in the room, again, I start in on looking in all the weird places. The sink in the bathroom. The fridge. The freezer. Inside the microwave. 


Denied. 


Where the hell are the keys? 


Panic sets in. 


I went outside to find Mitch, who had the nerve to get all rational on me. 


The Geek: OK, let's walk through exactly what you did when you got out here the first time with the keys.  


So I did. 


Armed with knowledge, he and Lib went back to the hotel room, and I was now checking under the hood for my keys.  


Because that makes sense.


My mind, in the interim, was steering off into some seriously crazy territory by now. Someone TOOK my keys. Some punk picked them up, and instead of turning them in, she held on to them. Said punk was now holed up in her hotel room and watching our drama unfold. She was probably eating the complimentary bag of microwave popcorn that came in the room. What sort of jackass STEALS KEYS? OMG, how much is a new clicker going to cost to replace? Those things are so expensive....


Then I hear Libby's excited voice:


Lib: Mom!! WE FOUND THEM!! THEY WERE IN THE TRASHCAN!! 


You read that correctly. 


Remember when I said I cleaned out the car? I threw the trash away in the hotel room. Along with my keys. The hotel room was a suite and had a kitchenette. I threw them away in the trashcan that lived behind closed doors under the sink. 


I'm thorough that way.  


I literally started crying. CRYING. Libby was laughing at the ridiculousness of it all, The Geek was hugging me and laughing and telling me it was OK and all I could do was bawl like a baby.  


You want to know what the biggest tragedy was?


It was too late to buy an Egg McMuffin. ->


*Yes, I eat Egg McMuffins. They are, bar none, the best invention on the planet. Well, next to chocolate. And beer. And wine. And Prima Donna cheese. OK, let me amend that: They are, bar none, the best fast food invention on the planet. 


**I'm guessing it was the south side. I actually have no clue what part of town our hotel was located in.  


***We usually bring two sets of keys with us for just this kind of emergency. Obviously I made the decision not to grab my set on this occasion. It was JUST to Wichita, a 2.5 hour drive from us. We were ONLY going to be gone 48 hours...

Getting Old Sucks, episode 4

You know how you start to get older and your body just....does things that it didn't used to do? 


I mean, let's set aside the obvious issue of your hair turning grey. I've got full-on plausible deniability for the aging process in that realm via the bi-monthly ritual entitled Going To My Sorceress Hairdresser. I'm in complete denial that my visits are steadily becoming closer due to the grey going viral, thus resulting in the actual look and texture of my hair changing from smooth and silky to Chore Boy. 


Because there is no grey.  


No, I'm talking about other, more subtle yet infinitely more disturbing things.  


Like my skin. 


It's sagging. 


What. The. Hell? 


I mean, yeah, my boobs have been sagging for years. But that's different. They just don't make bras like they used to. 


No, I'm talking about my actual skin. Since when does it get to take on a life of its own?


I can totally ignore it for the most part. For instance, I've discovered if I don't smile or talk, I have no wrinkles. I bet I look fabulous sleeping. But then there are times when it just slaps me in the face that instead of nice, supple appendages that are firm and taut, I am now carrying around deflated balloons.  


Like when I'm at the gym.  


I know I've discussed the gestapo fitness instructor for several of my classes here before. One of her favorite little exercises to throw our way these days is Turbo Kick moves. You don't have to know anything more about Turbo Kick except it involves a LOT of punching. Punching up. Punching down. Side punch. Back punch. Upper cut. Under cut. Punch your neighbor. PUNCH your instructor. And every time I punch toward the front, which is a lot, I'm pretty much forced to observe my arms.


My skin moves and wrinkles when I punch. 


And let me clear here.  I'm not talking about my upper-arm body fat--that humiliating lump of flesh under my triceps that wags around unchecked and untamed.** No, I'm talking about the actual epidermis on my lower arms. I'm telling you, it wrinkles when I throw a punch. 


Wrinkles! 


Picture, if you will, a slinky. 


Now move it.  


That's what my skin does.


It's beyond alarming. 


And it gets worse. Because I've also discovered if you pinch your skin, the result is nothing short of a mosh pit of limpy organ. That coating simply gathers up on either side now, like meek fabric folds ready to do your bidding.  Which looks great hanging from curtain rods or from your waist***, but I never bargained for that look on my extremities. 



I'm also loathe to admit the basic texture of my skin now resembles a gecko, even when I'm not working out. Especially in harsh light. Driving in the daytime has now become nothing but an exercise in humility. And NO AMOUNT of uber cream fixes the problem for any length of time. Trust me when I tell you I've tried them all. Temporary relief last four hours. If you're lucky. 


An art project in the wings, that's what my skin is these days. Just add some Rit Dye and go to town. I'm sure the end result from all the creases and crevices provided would be quite entertaining.  


Hello? No one gave me any warning about this. No one told me that my skin would go all rapscallion on me before I turned 44. I mean, yeah, I knew it was coming. But clearly it was supposed to retain the suppleness of an 18-year-old's until my 60th birthday. Then BAM! Overnight, I would wake up and discover my collagen moved to Sun City during my sleep.


Me to my skin: I have another 17 years to go before that happens, dammit! You stop it. 


My skin: Thhhppt.  -> 




*Except I asked her to give my highlights yesterday and I'm not at all sure I like them. 


**I refer to that area of my anatomy as my flags. I'm very sensitive about them, so if you happen to notice them, please don't salute them.


***These days, of course, it's "waist".  

Getting Old Sucks, Episode 3

You know how you go to the store and it's really crowded and you have a lot of stuff on your mind and you're shopping for 15 minutes hours so it's natural that you might have forgotten where you parked before you went in and then you go outside to the parking lot and you can't find your car?  


This happened to me recently.  


OK, it happened to me yesterday.


Before I go any further, let me explain something. When I'm forced to be a Mart of Darkness patron, I always try to park in the little side lot on the south side of the store. The lot only fits about 100 cars or so (as opposed to 6,548 cars the parking lot in front of the store fits) and because of its size, it's much easier to find my car. Sometimes, though, Wal-Fart will close off half of that parking lot to temporary house train cars full of cheap crap made in China really important stuff that I'm sure we all need. Even when those cargo crates are there I will drive through the little lot on the off chance a parking spot is available.  


Yesterday was one of those days. 


This is an important detail to tuck away.  


So I was running last-minute errands, something I'm sure I'll be doing all week, and  my mind was elsewhere. It was an astonishly quick trip for me as I had something quite specific in mind that I was shopping for. I stormed out the door with my goods in hand and walked straight to the section of the parking lot I use when the little section has nothing available.  


Which was pretty impressive, really.  I wasn't completely on auto-pilot and remembered BEFORE I walked to the little lot that there were no spots available in said little lot and I had to use the mammoth lot.  On these occasions I always park in the same vicinity so I can, you know, find my car.  


It was cold. 


It was windy.  


It was wet. 


It was monochromatic: 

I was in a hurry because I had two other places to patron before Libby arrived home from school and time was running short. 


Naturally I couldn't find my car.  


I walked ALL the way down one aisle of cars and ALL the way up another--which if you've been to a Super Mega Ultra Darth Mart you know is easily 2 miles. 


Huh. I missed it on my first pass.  I'll try again.  And this time I'll use my car clicker.  Love that thing, which has a range that goes on forever, so when I click it my car will call out to me and say "Here I am!" with a little beep. 


There I go, being all clever.


Except there was no beep. 


Walking and clicking and walking and clicking and walking and clicking and NO beep.  


Let me tell you something:  


When it's cold and wet and windy and monochromatic and you're in a hurry and you KNOW you parked here somewhere on THIS aisle, (or maybe the one next door, but still, you parked right here somewhere) and you're walking and clicking and walking and clicking and there's no beep, there is no room in ones thought processes for logic or rationality.   


Someone stole my car.  


Clearly. 


An abridged running commentary in my head:  


HOW could this happen?  It's broad daylight out and this parking lot has security and why on earth would someone want to make off with my little Subaru anyway? (click--no beep) I guess it's pretty new but still...This close to Christmas to boot! Nice. (click CLICK--no beep) Way to go asshole. (CLICK CLICK--no beep) I hope you feel good stealing a woman's car. A woman with CHILDREN. OH MY GOD. How can I possibly work out later if I'm in the middle of dealing with the police about a stolen vehicle? That's going to take forever. (CLICK CLICK CLICK--no beep) Mitch is going to have to leave work early so he can be home when Libby gets there. OH. My. GAWD. Insurance is going to be a living nightmare. I don't want to have to drive a rental again. (CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK--no beep.) I can't believe someone STOLE MY CAR.   


I was out of my head and near tears but had to yet to make any kind of phone call but was thisclose when out of nowhere it struck me.  


The realization that yes, I actually did park in the little lot by the side of the store. I just didn't park in an actual parking space--I sorta made one up.  


The good news is no one stole my car. -> 

Getting Old Sucks, Episode 2

I was doing the whole "mom thing" recently, hanging out as a chaperone with Libby and her 4th and 5th grade buddies during their chorus party.

They were in the school gym playing with old fashioned toys: Hop Balls*, jump ropes, basket balls, scooters...it was kind of cool to see them running around, making noise, laughing, dancing to music and being perfectly content with not being plugged into anything.  

I was genuinely enjoying the moment until I saw her. 

That little show-off girl named Brooklyn.  

Who was hula-hooping.  

For like, hours. 

Non-stop. 

Self-disclosure: Even when I was a kid, I could never hula-hoop very well. I always envied those other little girls who were so graceful with the hoops. You know the type: the ones whose hips barely seemed to move and the hoops seemed to have a life of their own, effortlessly rotating round like the hands of a clock. 


Any time I tried, my body was not unlike the inside of a washing machine. Maytag, 1930.     

I've never quite gotten over the shame.  

And there little Brooklyn was, casually walking the entire length of the gym, which, I'll have you know, is three-quarters of a mile long, while simultaneously hula-hooping and chatting up a friend.  

Can you believe the nerve?  

I wanted to give her a spanking for being such a braggart. You would have thought her mom would have taught her better. 

Then came Libby, who, like only a  9-year-old daughter can, honed into my insecurities and offered me a hula-hoop.

I wanted to give her a spanking for her impertinence.  


But not willing to be outdone by a mocking, plastic circle of painful memories once again, I gave it a whirl.  


I would like to point out that 30 years have done nothing to improve my hula-hooping technique.  Suffice it to say I went after it with the subtlety of a jackhammer. 


The hula-hoop landed on the floor within seconds. 


Libby laughed.  


And then brought me a jump rope.  


Which hey, I can do that. Right? 


RIGHT? 


Turns out when you're nine, or 14 for that matter, you don't really have to worry about any parts of your body going rogue. 


Not so when you're over 40, possessing not   boobs so much as watermelons. Which even when constrained, can do some impressive acrobats.  They not only bounce up and down but head off in diagonals and rotate in circular motions. The fact that my boobs can likely hula-hoop better than me is concurrently humiliating and painful. Especially when the left one gets all excited and whacks me in the chin. 


And don't even get me started on the bladder, which goes about reminding you of your age in a much more secretive, yet emotionally deleterious way.  


My bladder: You're not young anymore. 


Me: *ignoring bladder.*


My bladder: Hello? You're not young, Tanya AND you've had two children. You really think you need to be jumping rope?


Me: *ignoring bladder.* 


My bladder: Two pregnancies. Do you get that?


Me: *ignoring bladder.*  


My bladder: DO YOU? 


Me: *ignoring bladder.* 


My bladder: NO? 


Me: *ignoring bladder.*


My bladder: *Squirt.*  ->  


video 1:07 

*This is why I love Google.  I literally typed in "bouncy ball you sit on" and the second image was the one I needed.