Soapbox

      "Uh oh…" Ted said as he shut the front door. I looked up from the bread I was kneading.
    "What is it?"
    "You’re… gonna want to sit down." he said solemnly, looking at the stack of mail in his hand.
    "What?!" I demanded, wiping my hands on a towel and feeling a growing sense of unease.
    "Don’t say I didn’t warn you." he said as he held out an envelope. "Your AARP card is here."

  "What??!!" I shrieked, and he laughed. "No!" I threw the dishtowel over my face. "Noooo! Those bastards!! Why are they doing this to me?!" Reluctantly I took the proffered envelope and regarded it dubiously.
     "Card enclosed?? I didn’t ask them for any stupid card! "
     "Aw Trace, you should get the card. You can carry it in your wallet, and, you know, get discounts and stuff" he said, grinning with delight.
    "On stuff like on dinner at 4 PM and funeral urns? No thanks! Honest to Pete- what makes them think I want to join their stupid club anyway?"

    And I had been having such a nice day! Seriously, I think they have a lot of damn nerve sending a young, vital, happening gal like me a retirement card!! For God’s sake, I’m only… oh holy heck, I’m almost 50. OK, but do they have to rub it in?

  Forget all that baby-boomer crap about how "50 is the new 40" Nuh uh. I’m here to tell ya: fifty is still fifty!! Fifty is half-way to 100! Fifty is "older adult", osteoporosis and bladder control commercials.  At fifty you are "a woman of a certain age" and described as "handsome" instead of pretty. (Rats. I was still working on attaining that pretty thing, and now it’s gone forever) Fifty is a poodle perm hair-do, elastic-waist slacks and velcro shoes.

   You know, I don’t mind the wrinkles so much, or the occasional grey hair. The saggy eyelids are a bit of drag- I always thought my eyes were my best feature. But it’s not like I’m the only one so afflicted: at least my beautiful sisters have aged along with me.  I miss having babies, but I truely enjoy the freedom of having adult children who can drive themselves places and show me how to text. I can still climb mountains with my husband and run up a flight of stairs without really thinking about it. So far, fifty isn’t that bad.

   What I do mind  are the salesclerks calling me "dear" like I"m senile… and my propensity for forgetting names that makes me worry that perhaps am! I mind that it’s so hard to find attractive clothes that fall somewhere between teenaged clingy and old lady polyester.
    I mind that I keep hearing myself saying things like "When I was your age…" to my daughter, and that college kids today have "Ugly 80’s" parties the way  we used to have "50’s dances. (Not that the 80’s weren’t ugly! whoo boy!) I mind having to hand my beeping cell phone to my daughter and beg, "Make it be quiet!"
    I mind all the commercials for miracle creams that promise "Just use this and you’ll be young forever!" as if aging skin is a disease…and I very much mind that I want to run out and buy them! I mind these stupid glasses that I have to wear to read anything and the way I have to peer over them to see across the room.
    And most of all, I hate that I don’t feel old–that is, older. I always assumed that by the time I turned 50, I’d be adjusted to the idea, but I’m not! I get up and head out into the world and feel like exactly the same person I was 25 years ago. It’s only when I see myself reflected in the attitude of those around me that I realize that I am not (at least, not to them).
    Or,  when I get a freaking AARP card in the mail!

    Well I’m not a retired person. I don’t need your  American Association, your magazine and your Medicare lobby, thanks so much. You can keep your membership card, and your discount on heart pills and dentures and funeral plans. I suppose there are a few people my age ready for the blue-plate special and retirement in Boca, but I am not one of them.

  Heck, I’m only fifty!  I’m only half-way to 100, and have you looked at my dad lately?  Man, if he’s any indication, I have a long way to go to old age. There is still lots of time to do all the stuff I haven’t yet done, and fix some of the things I did wrong.
    So don’t take it personally, but I won’t be requesting my membership kit just yet. I think I’ll go program an electronic device, and put on my tight hip-hugger jeans, call a friend and tell them a bawdy joke, and then maybe I’ll do some sit-ups.

    Just because I can.

    I went in for my annual (drat being old!) mammogram the other day. By now I know the drill: strip to the waist, put on the lovely paper "shirt" they provide and go sit and wait for your name to be called.  I have had several now, and I must say, I don't recall ever being "manhandled" in quite the way I was this time- and by a woman! But as with a pelvic exam, one stares at the wall and tries to pretend that what is happening isn't happening, I guess.

   For the last image, the technician stood back and frowned.
   "Could you turn a bit more to your right?" she said. "I'm trying to get more breast tissue."
    I laughed.
   "Let me know how that works out!" I said "I've been trying to get more breast tissue for 30 years!"
    Ha ha. Well, it's an awkward situation, you know?

   Afterwords I was sitting in the little waiting area beside a woman who, when she arrived, must have been well-dressed.  I took in the nice shoes, slacks and expensive haircut and considered my own blue jeans and scuffed chukka boots. I noticed that we were both sitting in the exactly the same manner, however: arms tightly crossed, clutching our paper shirts closed, hunched slightly forward in our chairs. And because I have a perverse sense of humor, I sat back and grinned.

    "I love mammograms" I announced to the wall before us.
    "Uh… really?" she said. She cut her eyes nervously in my direction, and I suspect she was wondering how much longer she would have to sit there next to the crazy woman, but politeness won out and she asked, "Why is that?"
    "Oh yeah. Because it doesn't matter if we arrived in a Mercedes or in a Chevette, wearing Gucci or Salvation Army. And it doesn't matter if we're built like Dolly Parton or, " I looked down ruefully,  "like Boy George. Yep, when we're sitting around waiting in the ole pink paper shirts… we're all just women. It's the great equalizer, don't you think?"

   She smiled at that.
    "I think they're making these shirts smaller every year" she confessed tugging at the bottom of her paper shirt. "I swear I'm colder every time I'm here. What would it cost- about 3 cents to make them a little longer?" We both laughed as a technician approached.
    "Patricia? Your films are good- you can go. We'll send you a card in the next day or two to let you know the results."
    The woman stood and collected her purse. "Good luck" she said to me with a quick smile as she went to get dressed.

    Oh yeah. That's another time when we're all the same: when we're waiting for the results. Good luck to all of us.

Well, I got myself a Facebook page.

   I…haven’t decided how I feel about it. I had assumed Facebook was something 16 year-old girls did to, you know, like totally talk about  boys and stuff, you know? But then I heard that my older sister had a page… and was hearing from people. In our family! People that I never hear from!
   Huh uh. No. If Barb can do it, I can do it.
    And so I did.
    I don’t yet understand half the ins and outs of this thing. Like, what is "poking" someone? (Or do I not want to know?) And there are "groups" and "events", and I know you "friend" people and get them to friend you back….

   I’m starting off slowly. I have a few people from high school on my list, including one guy who was a jock and I doubt he knew I, the theatre groupie, was alive back then. Now he’s old like me, with grown kids and he "friended" me out of the blue, which I thought was nice.  We’re all grown-ups, after all. And I have a few people in my family on my list. Facebook keeps suggesting others, but here’s how I look at it.  Imagine you’re 17. Do you want your mother’s old lady cousin to be your friend? Probably not, ’cause then you keep getting links to all her old lady friends and updates on what she’s doing. So I’m giving the kids a break.

   I did friend my former next-door neighbor, who is now a big-time photographer, thank you. I was a little nervous that he’d think it was stupid… still feeling like a wallflower, even on Facebook. He just posted some lovely photos of the inaugural on his site. I remember leaving my bike in his front yard all the time, and my Dad looking at his photographs and giving him suggestions, back in the day.

   Last night Facebook informed me that my husband (who is one of my friends- thanks honey!) has joined a group called "You Know you’re from Lancaster County When…" and I started to wonder what other groups are out there. First I checked the ones of which my friends are members:  Allison Krauss fan club… Friends of Nelsonville... not really for me. Is there anything about writing poetry, or getting your writing published? Or maybe a Beatles fan club? Ah, "search groups". Sounds promising. ~click~

   Whoa. Talk about going through the Looking Glass!

   After scrolling through 45 pages of groups I struck out completely on the Beatles club (shocking!) and poetry writing, but I did make some interesting observations.

    First, while teen-aged girls may indeed be gossiping about boys on Facebook, most of the groups here seem to be started by teenaged boys who want everyone to know how bad-ass they are,and that you are totally missing out if you’re not having sex with them. (Clearly boys are just as full of it now as they were 30 years ago.)
    Second: way too many people  think it makes them look cool to use profanity in the title of their group, as in the "F**k yes I’m Hot, my Ni**a!" group. Which might as well be called the "Hey everybody- I"m an immature jerk!!" group, or "Emotionally arrested at age 15? Join Us!"

    And what is with groups started about your cell phone? I must have seen 30 called "Tom lost his phone and Needs your number" or "Renee finally got a phone, y’all!" I just don’t get it. Too old, I guess.

   But there were some groups that fascinated me. For example: "Zombie Defense Force" . Who knew they were on Facebook? Now that I think about it,  to date there have been no Zombie attacks at all, so I guess they are doing their job well!  There is one called "F**k Islam!" which claims to be a group about "spirituality’. Yes, very spiritual, I’m sure. They probably all have bracelets that say "Who would Jesus give the finger to?"

    A group called "I Bet I can Find 1 million People who Hate Abortion" has 32,000 members. So …not yet, huh? (I wanted to start one called "No one Loves Abortion, you moron!" but common sense prevailed. )

    The group called "I Love Nuttella" has 47,000 members. Uh oh, looks like more people love Nuttella than hate abortion. Too bad. But Nuttella is just so yummy!

    There was a "Stop Hillary Clinton!" group with over 800,000 members. She’s Secretary of Defense now… so did they fail, or succeed? Perhaps they should have gotten together with the Zombie Defense force… I know people who would see some similarities!

    "I Flip my Pillow to get the Cold Side" has 800,000+ members. Well sure, I mean- who doesn’t? But I can’t imagine what there is to talk about in such a group.
    "Dude- totally flipped it 6 times last night."
    "Cool". 
    Umm… pass.

    "When I was Your Age, Pluto Was a Planet" intrigued me (58,000) as did one called   "I Judge You When you use Bad Grammar" with over 800,000 members. I do judge, actually… but I really don’t want to brag about it. Moving on.

   I found one called "World Domination" which has to date just 3 members. But really, I think it best there not be too many people interested in World Domination, don’t you? The world has enough problems without too many little Napoleons running around.

    My personal favorite was definitely the one called "I don’t Care if I’ll Die at Midnight, I am NOT Passing on your Chain Letter!" If I had a nickle for every prayer chain I have broken I would be recession-proof right about now!

   Well I did not yet find a Facebook group I want to join, but I’ll keep looking. Maybe I should start my own. Perhaps I"ll call it "Old Broads who Don’t Totally get this Facebook Thing Yet"

… and love Nuttella!

Willful ignorance is a sad, frustrating, human trait.
I read in the paper today that Japan is resuming its annual whale hunt. Damn.

My soul has been torn from me and I am bleeding.
My heart it has been rent and I am crying.
All the beauty around me fades and I am screaming-
I am the last of the great whales,
And I am dying.

    The story remarked that after WW2  many Japanese ate whale meat as a cheap source of protein. And now it has become a custom, to which they seem to feel they are entitled.
   "I don’t understand why the world would expect us to give up a custom we have had for so many years" a spokesman said.

This morning the sun did rise crimson in the north sky,
The ice was the colour of blood and the winds they did sigh.
I rose for to take a breath: it was my last one-
From a gun came the roar of death
And now I am done

    Ummm… cause they’re going EXTINCT? Because you are on a course to make your precious  "custom" impossible forever?
Forget the majestic beauty, forget the gentle intelligence of the species or their place in the ecosystem of the oceans… if you exhibit a little self-control now, one day your grandchildren might be able to "enjoy" whales too!

    I guess that’s just me: wanting to stop wars and end hunger and save the whales. Always tilting at windmills and crying when I lose. But it’s so frustrating how willfully ignorant people can be: all people, in so many areas. For some of us bleeding hearts, this area holds a special sorrow. I have never seen a whale. I wonder- will I ever? The killing of whales is so unnecessary, and so barbaric. Ah, but then again, so much of what humankind does IS.

Now that we are all gone there’s no more hunting.
The big fellow is no more, it’s no use lamenting.
What race will be next in line- all for the slaughter?
The elephant or the seal,
Or your sons and daughters?