Do you ever gaze at the faces of seniors and imagine what they looked like in their prime? Or look at younger faces and picture them old? I do – a lot. Maybe it’s because of my nursing background, I don’t know.

I’ve looked after a number of elderly patients in my day, and their families would often bring in photos from the past to comfort them. It’s one thing to see a frail and vulnerable older woman all snuggled up in a hospital bed with a crocheted afghan over her. It’s quite another to see pictures of what she looked like in her late 20 dancing at Woodstock or holding her child in her arms.

The elderly had lives before we began discounting them; some of which were a lot more interesting than ours. They laughed, cried and agonized over big life decisions. They actually interacted and explored without technology, and they can teach us one hell of a lot about getting from point A to point B (and I’m not just referring to road trips without a GPS).

I can honestly say that my biggest pet peeve is our screwed up cultural attitude toward old people. Not only do we tend to pass them over for the most part; we actually talk to them like they’re children. I hear it all the time: in grocery stores, shopping malls, and especially in healthcare. It irks me to no end. And trust me, it irks them too.

Do yourself a favor: next time you’re in a room full of people, take a good look around. I’m in an airport right now, which is perfect for this exercise. I’m seeing high powered business people, lovers, backpackers, musicians, and families. Would you walk up to any one of them right now and converse in baby talk? I highly doubt it. Now ask yourself why it would be a good idea to do so when those same people have their hair turn white and their shoulders droop.

We talk a lot about prejudice in our society, but not enough about how that applies to our seniors. Don’t stereotype or condescend. That will be you one day, if you’re blessed enough to actually age.

Converse with seniors like you would a peer. They’re real people behind those weathered faces. Real people with souls and personalities, dreams and desires, and rich histories that deserve our respect. I’ll always give them mine. Join me.

WHY I LOVE FACEBOOK:

1) I can stay connected to people I would have otherwise lost touch with.

2) I can see the things that make my friends smile, and I can watch their kids grow up.

3) I learn some beautifully inspiring quotes.

4) I can keep everyone updated at once instead of having to send out individual emails or make phone calls.

5) I can stay abreast of world events and politics.

6) I can watch funny videos and have a chuckle.

7) It gives me something to do if I’m stuck somewhere for any length of time.

8 ) I can “Like” the fan pages of people I admire.

9) I can find like-minded folks to connect with.

10) I can support the creative endeavors of others and give a shout out for good causes that deserve attention.

WHY I HATE IT:

 

1) I spend a ridiculous amount of time scrolling through my news feed trying to keep up with everyone.

2) I get caught up looking through pictures of birthday parties and watching videos of dog and cat antics.

3)  We tend to recycle quotes from people who are dead instead of having real conversations that could potentially facilitate the birth of an original thought.

4) I’m more likely to post a “Hey, guess what . . . ” update than to have an actual conversation with someone.

5) Everyday I get to read something that disturbs me or pisses me off, which – ironically – is why I don’t watch the news on television.

6) I don’t have cable, because I don’t want to waste time watching shit that takes me away from living a life of purpose, but I’ll click on clips of amazing rat tricks and elephants playing the piano??

7) I rarely get to meet new people, because everyone’s staring that their stupid smart phones in public: elevators, coffee shops, hairdressers. We’re all avoiding each other.

8 ) I’m watching people like Elizabeth Gilbert live their passion instead of fully living my own.

9) I’m developing virtual friendships with writers instead of real ones.

10) I’m now going to have to establish ground rules for my own usage of this brilliant and annoying anti-social obsession. It has come to this. {sigh}

Please note: There’s absolutely nothing negative about showing support for the creative endeavors of others or giving a shout out for good causes that deserve attention. Not one single thing. Maybe we should have a page that’s solely for the purpose of doing just that.

I recently had a conversation with a young woman in an airport who felt incredibly pressured to have the “perfect life.” Within a short period of time she’d obtained a nursing degree, gotten married and moved to a new city to work at her hospital of choice. Her husband, a musician by trade, left Music City (aka Nashville) in support of her career opportunity. It had been three months since their move. Now she says that they hate their new zip code, and she’s feeling guilty, because they’re not blissfully happy.

I listened and I reassured. I even, I’m ashamed to admit, offered a few words of advice (on her nursing career, not her marriage), but I walked away from that conversation contemplating the concept of “perfect.”

Here’s my take: We’re brainwashed by perfect. It’s everywhere we turn. The advertising industry and its clients are making a fortune off of our insecurities by trying to convince us that happiness is only obtainable when everything is just right. Appearance, relationship, house, car, boat, kids, dog, cat, toilet bowl. It’s exhausting.

I could be wrong, but I’m pretty sure that the pursuit of perfection wasn’t so much in the forefront when I was that young woman’s age. I tend to theorize that the reason for this is a combination of advertising and our use of social media. God forbid we portray our lives as anything but flawless to our many “friends.” Hence, only the most flattering pictures, the best vacation shots, and the happiest moments are shared.

Back in my day (did I really just start a sentence with that?) we had a close knit circle of friends who we got together with for a literal version of face-time. We were not only unable to hide our imperfections, we talked about them openly. Sure we wanted to fit in and be accepted like everyone else, but generally only a smattering of folks appeared to have truly enviable lives – in my hometown, anyway. Now we check in with hundreds, sometimes thousands, of people on a daily basis. I’m not suggesting that we start sharing only bad things on Facebook (FB), but I think we should remind ourselves that every person – with their perfectly crafted little pages – is struggling with something on some level. It’s the human condition.

By the way, I also told this young woman to give her new surroundings a full year before giving up. Every city deserves a chance to show its good and bad side before being fully judged. Every person does, too, which is why I’ve decided to leave that tagged picture on FB that makes me look like I have two chins.

Guess what, folks. Our lives aren’t going to be perfect, and what in hell would we have to strive for if they were? I like things just fine the way they are.

I ate a cheeseburger, chicken tenders, french fries, and dessert, and I felt great! Phenomenal, in fact, and I followed it all up with umpteen alcoholic beverages and an all night dance-a-thon at my favorite club – without gaining an ounce. When? About thirty years ago, that’s when.

I can’t tell you exactly when it started to happen, but here it is: the inability to consume carbs without ballooning up to elastic waist proportions; the sluggish cholesterol-laden blood flow that won’t allow me to stay awake past 11 p.m.; the agonizing hangovers that last two days after consuming only small amounts of alcohol. Not to mention the scales that have got to be lying when I step, ever so daintily, onto them every
morning. Only a texting acronym is befitting of this new and unimproved version of myself: WTF?!

I used to think that “middle-aged spread” meant some kind of face cream that old women used before bed – or maybe a prune based condiment for toast. Nope. It’s actually a harsh reality that comes wrapped in snug dress pants and an expanding collection of Spanx.

Why couldn’t I be one of those women? You know, the ones that can still wear a size zero well into their 50s, or shop in the junior section and forget to eat. Forget to eat? I’ve forgotten to put on deodorant, but eat?! Uh, no.

So now I’m mad as hell, and I’m not going to take it anymore. Not going to take the doughnut, the Big Mac, the bacon, the key lime pie, the pizza, the onion rings, the sour cream or the chocolate chip cookie – for starters. Sad? No, because I’m also not going to take Crestor, Metoprolol or Insulin, if I have anything to do with it. Besides, I’m coming to terms with the fact that I’ve had my days of high metabolism, slim fits and all night parties. The time has come to embrace change (the change) and be the best that I can be for the next chapter instead of trying to linger on at the start of the book.

And one more thing that I won’t be taking? My dress pants to Goodwill. This ass is going to fit into my wardrobe again, if it kills me. Spread that, menopause!

I don’t pretend to have all the answers, not by a long shot, but I have managed to figure out a thing or two about what works for me. A lot of trial and error has gone into this “figuring out” business, but one thing became pretty clear early on: I can’t stand television.

When I first heard John Prine’s song, “Spanish Pipedream,” in the 90s (it was released in 1971), I hollered a resounding “Yes!”

“Blow up your TV,” he warbled. “Throw away your paper.”

“Yes, YES!!“

It made so much sense. Not the part about moving to the country and raising kids on peaches, but . . .

Even then I wanted to disconnect from our idiot box. It grated on my last nerve.

Yes, I do own a television and generally pick a particular series on Netflix, watching one episode a day until it’s done, so I’ll never blast the thing to smithereens; I just hate the overall cultural effect. I mean, TVs are now creeping their way into public restrooms and elevators, and the last thing I want to see on an elevator on vacation is CNN sensationalizing the latest “protect yourself from” disaster.

I’ll stop the tirade, and share, instead, my top ten reasons why I think it’s beneficial to leave the damned thing turned off:

1)  It saves a ton of money. Don’t get me started on the price of cable, and think of all the cash there’d be on hand with less exposure to advertisers.

2)  Conversations become a source of entertainment and genuine connection.

3)  More reading takes place, and there aren’t any commercials between chapters.

4)  Self-confidence increases when we’re not spending several hours a day comparing ourselves to perfect looking people.

5)  Those who are even the least bit creative will create more, and/or finally find time to learn to paint, write, dance, play guitar, whatever.

6)  Less time gets wasted, and we’re only allotted so much.

7)  Not being part of the status quo makes people nervous. Ha! Couldn’t resist that one.

8 )  More exercise takes place, because just lying there on the sofa is downright boring.

9)  Less fear. Have you noticed that even the seemingly benign Weather Channel has a show called, “It Could Happen Tomorrow?” Really??

10) We can live out our own cool realities instead of spending time watching others live out their dysfunctional ones.

I’ll never get cable again; not unless they eventually let us purchase individual channels, not that I see that coming anytime soon. And I didn’t ditch cable because of some song I heard. I ditched it for all ten of the reasons above, and because I spent more time looking for something good to watch than actually watching anything at all.

I remember it being scary disconnecting and no longer contributing to the water cooler conversations at work. “What do you mean you haven’t watched it?” All worth it, my friends. Now I connect with people through much more meaningful topics.

Oh, and here’s the song, in case you’re interested. 🙂

John Prine’s “Spanish Pipedream”

This blog is also available at www.leanadelle.com

I recently went to see Little Mermaid – The Musical as part of a season package that I purchased, and the entire production far surpassed my expectations. Thoroughly impressed by the performances, I found myself the verge of tears more than once as the vocalists channeled God Himself, but the story? Well . . .

Girl meets boy, girl loses boy, girl finds boy, girl marries boy. End of story.

Okay, so here’s my issue: What happens next? Does she go to school? Does she get a degree in oceanography? Does she sail around the world, teach swimming, design wet suits? Surely there’s more to make a splash about than just this??

During the show, I watched the faces of the numerous little girls in the audience and my heart ached for them. The message of the story is that love conquers all, and that finding “the one” is not only the mission – it’s the end goal. What we need to show them is that relationships are icing. Potentially fabulous icing, it’s true, but the cake underneath has to all come from within or the thing will collapse down into a heap.

I’m actually a hopeless romantic, believe it or not, and I like to feel like a princess as much as the next girl, but come on! A large percentage of these little theatre goers are going to grow up wanting $40,000.00 weddings in their 20s and wondering why the hell they feel so empty in their 30s. They’ll then leave that relationship, because “surely it must be his fault” and repeat the whole damned cycle over again. Not to mention the poor guy who grew up just wanting to slay dragons, and who doesn’t know that he’s supposed to sing love songs for the rest of his life and not fart. Who can live up to that level of expectation? It’s not fair.

Poor old Walt. It’s not really his fault. Finding the guy was the end goal in his day, and it made for a lucrative business, so I get it, but I think that we need to present a picture that’s a bit more realistic, and stop filling the heads of impressionable young children with hogwash.

Or maybe, just maybe, I need to be a bit less cynical.

Thoughts?

I passed another milestone last week, and in so doing, found myself reflecting on the past year(s) and wondering what the future holds. Funny (or maybe not so much) how birthdays of my youth were so much more about outward thinking than they are now.

‘What will I get for presents?’

‘Where will I go to party?’

‘Who will party with me?’

‘How many of us will there be?’

Now it’s more about presence than presents. Just being here is pretty special, and that appreciation has led to a whole new variety of questions:

‘Who are the quality people I most want to spend my day with?’

Or . . .

‘Where can I go on a work night that will allow me to get home at a decent hour and not feel like I danced with a Mack truck?’

That may sound depressing to some, but it’s really not.

I’m blessed to still be here and healthy. No, I’m not old, unless you’re looking at me through the eyes of a child (or a 20 year old birthday girl) but I have reached the age of facing one’s mortality. The newly diagnosed of my generation – close friends among them – seem to be multiplying, and I have learned to appreciate the people I care about with an open heart.

Being long past the age of feeling immortal, and thinking that my generation will last forever, I now make a point of practicing gratitude on a daily basis. True, I’m often too fatigued to fully grab the world by the tail and swing it over my head, anymore, but I do think that I’ve become better equipped at recognizing a decent tail when I see one (mind out of the gutter – I was referring to opportunity).

The key, I’ve discovered, is presence, and I want lots of it. I want it in the conversations I have with friends, the time I spend with family, and the daily task of just being me. I think we should all ask for presence on our birthdays, and we should be generous with it, as it just occurred to me that it’s the present we give ourselves.

The movers arrived in Ottawa a few weeks ago, and I watched their comings and goings from my sofa until they kicked me off of it. I’ve moved umpteen times in my life, so I pretty much have the process down to a science. The things I always take in the car with me include: an inflatable bed with linen, towels, CD player, toilet paper, a few knives and forks, clothes, two pairs of shoes, some tools, and a small cooler for water and snacks. When everything else gets moved out, I have just what I need to get by on.

I think that presents the obvious question, don’t you? If that’s all I need to get by on, why in hell did I have so many boxes to go on the truck?

I do purge during my moves – both at the start, and at the destination – but it doesn’t seem to cut down on much. I wonder what I’d really miss if – God forbid – the moving van went off the road into a ravine. Probably not a lot, although I’ll admit to have jonesed for my couch more than once this time around. Just something comfortable to sit on. I’d never want to give up my guitar, my pictures or my laptop, but the rest of it . . . I think I’d get by without just fine.

When I was a teenager, I fantasized about living out of VW van on a beach in California (same dream every kid had in the 70s). I’d don a leather band around my hair and have a golden retriever named Aura at my feet. Everything I’d need could be stored in the back of that van, and I’d want for nothing.

I still dream that dream in my mind, and I relive a little piece of it every time I head out on one of my lengthy road trips. Mind you, I no longer want to sleep in the van. I just want to sit on the tailgate and sing before pulling in to a Marriott Courtyard, but I’ll always possess a bit of gypsy longing.

Alas, my accumulation dilemma. Stock pile it, throw it in cardboard, tape it up, then unpack the unsightly mess and try to find room for it all. Once it’s put away behind closed closet doors it can be ignored again, although my junk drawer already needs going through, and I’ve lived here two weeks. <sigh>

I think it’s good once in a while to see all of your stuff piled in one room in boxes. It makes you think twice, if nothing else, and thinking more than once is kind of what moving’s all about.

Oh, yes, it’s true. Every year as a child, I got so excited about Santa that I became physically ill. No lie. I couldn’t eat Christmas dinner until the age of seven, or so, and the smell of turnip turned my stomach for years.

Okay, so maybe it wasn’t this particular Santa that I got excited about. He appears a tad bit sinister, but the jolly version that came down our chimney? I’d go into a frenzy over his arrival.

I don’t know what got me so excited in hindsight. It wasn’t entirely the toys, as much as I loved to receive them, and obviously I didn’t anticipate dinner. Maybe the magic of the season caused the upset stomach and pasty shade of pale. Believing that someone with that generous a spirit would visit our house, eat our cookies, and think in some way that we were special? Wow! Then again, maybe the fact that my older brother made the nice instead of naughty list made my stomach turn. Tee hee.

I don’t know how kids can stand it in this “modern age.” It’s ridiculous how advertising for Christmas begins right after Halloween. If they’d done that in the 60s, I would have ended up hospitalized.

Is it just me, or does Christmas come far too early now? Must we perpetuate the commercialism of the season by advertising on the first of November? Could we not just let kids feel the mystery and magic of the season in a less price-tagged, down-your-throat manner, and for a shorter period of time? Postpone the insanity by a few short weeks?

Of course, the question that begs to be asked here is: “Has Leana finally reached the age where she’s spouting off sentences that start with Back in my day . . . ?”

Yes, I suppose I have, but back in my day things seemed a whole lot simpler, and I’m grateful to have grown up when I did. Of course, if you don’t know any different, I suppose it all seems just as magical to kids now as it did to me then.

Does the prolonged Christmas madness deprive kids of getting sick over Santa’s arrival, or does it save them from it? Maybe having more time to think about it stretches the nauseating anticipation out to a thin, benign thread.

I have no idea, but I do know one thing: If I hear Madonna’s version of “Santa Baby” one more time, I’m going to vomit.

Ah, yes. The open road. I honestly love driving as much as I love writing. Dare I say it? Maybe even more. Now, if I could just write while driving . . . I’d be in heaven. Quite literally, actually. Not such a good idea.

I’ve had a few discussions lately about long road trips and how much I love them. Generally, unless people actually get it, I see a glazed and befuddled expression beforeme that translates into something like . . . Drive across the country? For days? Alone?? You can’t be serious.

But I am serious. It’s so cathartic making a journey like that by yourself – especially if you’re moving from one part of the country to another. There’s time to process and reflect, and somewhere around half way to your destination, you begin to shift from what was to what will be. You transition from one physical and mental state to another, and you do it without interference.

Spending time alone – lots of it – has, for me anyway, been integral in my defining who I truly am. The thing I’ve come to realize about my love affair with long road trips, is that they force me to do one thing, and one thing only, while being fully present in the moment. You can’t text (unless you’re a complete idiot) or type, or surf the web. You can’t scroll through Facebook or email friends. Sure, you can talk on the phone, but why in hell would you when there’s a new and inspiring scene around each bend in the road that’s ready to inspire? Multi-tasking, be damned.

I’m gearing up for another cross-country trek in January, and I can’t wait. I’ll be taking a familiar stretch of highway this time to fit in a little research in Paris, TN – the home base of the protagonist in book two. My final destination’s familiar to me as well, but I’ll be arriving there with new eyes and a new vision for the future – all facilitated by five glorious days on the road.

I can’t imagine being prepared for a new start without a transition mission. I’d never want to get on a plane to begin someplace new – not unless I absolutely had to.

As long as I’m able to make the journey on two legs and four wheels, I’ll be doing it – solo. Nothing, and I mean nothing, makes a free spirit feel more at home than spending quality time alone without one.

What about you? How do you feel about road trips, and why?