So This is How to Take a Train in Boston...

Poem:

"North Station 2:00 PM Friday"

Pigeons as thick as pet cats straining greenblue necks

purposefully scouting Dunkin Donut crumbs on the concrete floor.

(Long ago they learned how to open the automatic doors by

crossing the electronic eye...a feat that amazes no one.)

World-wise children in proper strollers avoiding the birds,

scanning steadily ahead

following their intrepid parents’ stone gaze.

The view from the bench is rumps

shifting

under thin short cotton shorts,

under silky stretch jersey skirts,

under breathable fabric dress pants.

Shifting,

each cheek rising and falling

straining

for the call of the loud speaker.

Shifting the weight,

waiting the shift.

Amazing.

So This is How To Keep Young?...

One of the perks of moving to a "young" city like Boston is the optimistic hope that its youth will somehow rub off. Well, not so much youth, but at least its energy.

Last night Boston's own mighty New England Patriots, led by their Gaelic warrior prince Tom Brady, trounced the otherwise svelte Colts in the AFC championship football game. I mention this because my Boston apartment faces Tom Brady's.

I am, at best, an erstwhile football viewer -- captivated only by the fans' hoopla -- so living across from Mr. and his-even-more-famous Mrs. Brady was not a great thrill...that is, until someone who was thrilled that I lived across the street from the famous couple's city apartment told me that Brady is considered 'old' in football years.

That same someone told me that Brady and his model wife are on a mission to "preserve" their youth with diet and exercise. Not surprising considering their bodies are literally their fortune.

Just in case you wondered, Brady is 37. His-even-more-famous Mrs. Brady is 34...or at least that's what Google says, and who am I to argue?

In comparison, the opposing Colt quarterback, Andrew Luck, is a whole 25-years-old -- my middle daughter's age.  Just think, this kid has only had a drivers license for 7 whole years, and there he is leading men into 'war'.

For the record, 25 is indeed 'young', and 37 is in no way 'old'.

But in sports and model-world anything over the second decade of life is freaking ancient!

So I watched the game, intent on witnessing an epic battle of age versus, well, youth.

I confess I also watched hoping to catch a glimpse of human frailty -- perhaps a limping Brady, arthritis knee acting up...nothing too serious, just a little something that betrayed his aging bones.

The hoped-for limp would provide me with proof that Mr. and Mrs. Brady are wrong and one cannot stop time. I would then be perfectly justified to be my 50-something-self, sitting quietly on a couch watching football with my husband, washing down pizza with Cabernet.

But I don't know whether I really wanted to see Brady fail or not.

Had his 37-year-old body crumpled and limped off the field while I refilled my wine glass, I think I would have felt hopelessness. Not 'hopeless', but 'hopelessness' - the knowledge that nothing I could ever do would help stave off the ravages of time.

But, hallelujah, Brady didn't limp but rather pranced, gallivanted, and galloped his way to a resounding win.

I feel sorry for the young man Andrew Luck, but not too sorry -- he's got at least 12 years to catch up with Brady and his 6 Superbowls.

And as for Brady, he's going to have to muster whatever strength his exercise and diet plan can manage when he faces the Seattle Seahawks on February 1st.  That day he will be facing a slightly older opponent, the 26-year-old Russell Wilson.

And me?

Well, Brady's win made me hopeful for all us 'oldsters.

So on February 1st you can find me once again sitting on my couch, watching football with my husband, washing down that pizza with some good Cabernet - ever hopeful.

So This is How to Pick Yourself Up Off the Floor...

I'm luckier than most...when I lag behind, there's usually a friend around to kick my ass.
In this case it was a family member who claims he's missed my blog. Well, he didn't exactly say he missed (or even liked) this blog, he just complained I could not keep a commitment.
So, partially in response to Chris, mainly in response to life, I'm picking myself up off the floor and resuming the human march, and this blog.
Falling on the floor is what we do when things don't go our way. In my case it happened in response to the funnel cloud swirling around my father since his dementia got the better of him, and then he died.
Just the act of typing the words "he died" pushed me again into that whirling tunnel, spinning my thoughts towards the emptiness we are witness to when a loved one is no longer there. I chose the image of the funnel cloud with reason - death is a force of nature, that, though understood, is impossible to comprehend or manage. The closer you are to that cloud, the more you are sucked into its vortex, the less you comprehend, the harder you fall.
It's natural to focus on death once a parent dies, or you yourself have lived past that mid-century mark. Given all the thought I've expended on death lately, I confess to not understanding its consequence.
A few years ago, when my husband's dear uncle suddenly died, I read Buddhist tracts because I could not (still can't) wrap my mind around the idea that a person ceases "being". Buddhists (or at least the one I read) explained that it's like a radio in the room: the signal is always there, it just gets turned "on" and "off" occasionally. Okay...I'm Christian, but the idea that the "signal" is still around seemed so much more comforting than the idea that the person left us completely to go somewhere much nicer than where we are.
So it was natural then that when my father died, I saw him everywhere - even in the personality of stranger's dogs who, I reasoned, were nudging me to pet them because somehow my father's being was in them, and he wanted me to know he loved me. I've been told it's common.
When I was around seven, I finally mastered the art of skipping and was showing it off to my father ("Look at me! Look at me!) when I tripped and fell breaking my arm.
Fifty years later, I can still feel his strong carpenter's arms picking me up off that floor, and that wave of comfort that I forever associated with my father -- that I was going to be okay, that he would take care of me, that there was nothing that could hurt me as long as he was around.
I think that's what a good parent is supposed to elicit, and he did.
Recently I took my widowed mother to Boston for a treat. We were walking arm in arm down Back Bay's charmingly wobbly sidewalks to a favorite restaurant when, in a rare moment of blitheness for both of us as we are too similar in spirit, I tripped and fell.
No broken arm this time, just a bloodied lip.
I picked myself up.
Life goes on.

So This is How to Lose 'Weight'

I've been thinking a lot about fat lately.
I trust this is something most of us 50-somethings think about a lot. It's no great secret that one of the burdens of aging is weight - the accumulation of mass.
But what is irritatingly captivating my interest now is not body mass, it's the accumulation of 'stuff' (or, as my husband puts it, 'crap'). Thirty-plus years of adulthood makes you 'fat' - bloated with the weight of physical stuff and emotional responsibilities that make you less nimble and certainly less independent.
This added weight is evident when, as we did, you decide to make a midlife career and housing change. Nothing makes you appreciate the problem of accumulated mass more than lugging boxes of your mother-in-law's bone china, (the ones you haven't used in 10 years because they're too precious), out of the suburban house's formal dining room, across three states, up three flights of stairs, to your new city apartment sans formal dining room, (where they will be put on the highest, most impossible to reach kitchen shelf, never to be used, because they are too precious),
but, having to leave your 22-year-old daughter and her two older sisters behind in the move.
So here's the deal:  you will accumulate much mass as you age: a very large house, your in-laws' bequests, expensive antique chairs, heavy tarnishing silverware ... things you thought in your youth you just had to have to be happy or that legitimized you as an adult with property. Whatever -- you will curse each and every box of it you move.
Material possessions are the real 'crap' of middle-age accumulated weight. But, here's the irony:  though painful, this crap can be surprisingly easy to dislodge and take with you.
Not so the accumulated emotional ties, the real weight of life.
The more important and truly precious your hard-worked-for 'acquisition', (your family, your friends, your community), the more impossible it is to take it with you.
I think most of us don't make changes in midlife because we know this is true. So what are you supposed to do?
For some of us born with wanderlust, moving seems a natural progression of life. Standing still is not an option. Personally, I blame our genes-- really! I think (and science bears me out) we are imprinted with certain traits passed on by our forefathers. My husband and I come from immigrant parents so home for us is a concept, not a place.
I'm not saying that everyone should or could feel like we do, and I'm certainly not saying it's easy or even admirable. It's just that at midlife, you kinda know yourself, and I know I travel lightly.
I have a dear friend, let's call her Adel (because that's her name), who is a few years older than me and though she grew up and lives in another country, shares much of my nature. When I first met Adel she was approaching midlife and had already moved twice, not just across three states, but across continents and oceans, alternately leaving behind two of her four sons. At dinner in our well appointed NJ home Adel admired (as I'd secretly hoped she would) our furnishings and rich tableware. We struck it off from the start and I remember still her offhand comment that she "once" too cared about decorating, but that it didn't seem all that important anymore.
So, embrace your midlife 'fat', the one that is important to keep. Let go of the 'crap'.

So This is How NOT to Buy a Bed if Your Apartment is a Walk-up

Step one in realizing our midlife adventure as empty nesters was to leave the burbs and move to the city.

This wasn't too hard.  Boston, we were told, moves en-masse every June. Like lemmings and other clueless creatures, Boston's denizen of students habitually vacate and relocate after the end of spring semesters creating an ebb and flow of apartments up for lease.

Not too surprisingly, if one is willing to pay enough, one can find the perfect brownstone apartment in Boston's adorable Back Bay neighborhood across the street from Tom Brady from which to begin this adventure.

The trouble starts when one wants to fill the apartment.

As we painfully learned, a walk-up brownstone in Boston's Back Bay presents a host of "challenges". 

For starters, there's the staircases. Beautiful as they are, they were not crafted for moving furniture.

And so, that's were our adventure stalled -- literally -- on the second landing of a 36" wide staircase. Much like G.O.T.'s valley of the Vale, the staircase was apparently built to halt all intruders, including our awesome Crate and Barrel storage bed.

After struggling for a half hour, the nice Crate and Barrel deliverymen gave us one choice:  return the bed and get our money back.

Which is what we did, opting instead for a C&B bed that comes apart.

But, until the new bed is delivered, here we are..sleeping on a mattress on the floor -- like teenagers.

Lessons Learned:

(1) apartments are not houses -- don't assume all furniture will fit up stairs and through apartment doors (the Crate and Barrel saleswoman who is helping us find a new bed told us one of her clients had to have his table hoisted through a window...);

(2) furniture either comes delivered as one single piece, or many pieces that are put together after transporting - again, the nice Crate and Barrel saleswoman explained that few beds don't come apart -- we were just lucky enough to have chosen one of the few that don't;

(3) buy expensive items from established retailers - they will always treat the customer right!

(4) measure your staircases, doorways and landings when buying furniture for apartments - even if you're over 50 and think you've done this before, you can eyeball it  :)

So This is How NOT to Start a Change in Midlife

After 30 years of a happy stable marriage - 15 of which were spent in the same 5,000 suburban house - having finished shuttling 3 kids through colleges, my husband and I decided we needed "an adventure."  Call it 'midlife', call it 'what-the-hell-are-we-doing-in-this-big-house' syndrome, call it whatever you like: we (I) wanted change.  So we got it. 
No: we didn't split up. I love my husband too much and am pretty damn sure he loves me back (according to him I still look like the 'vision' he say walking down that church aisle almost 31 years ago, but I credit that to his stubborn refusal to wear glasses...). 
What we did was leave suburbia for the city. 
We didn't do it the easy way either. We could have just moved 20 miles across the Hudson to NYC, but why make it easy?  Apparently the midlife brain needs challenging, so we opted to put our non-working brain cells into use by making them figure out new, demented, traffic patterns and frustratingly oblique parking rules designed to accrue the largest numbers of tickets. 
Yes, you guessed it:  we moved to Boston!
Doing so, we realized a curious thing - we're actually going backward. We are a dying breed; consummate baby-boomers who believed in the American Dream.  As two low-middle-class kids who fell in love in college, we saved all our pennies so we could marry and immediately afford a mortgage for our very own house in the burbs.  I confess - the American Dream worked.  We live well and are fundamentally healthy and happy.
But we had never wavered from this path, and heard the howl we had only read about in Kerouac biographies beckoning to us.  
We never rented, never lived in an apartment - let alone a city - and, frankly, had no idea what we were getting into.
So, this is what this blog is all about -- learning from our mistakes (and our successes), seeing what works, and what doesn't, and feeling it out alongside you.
It's a brand new world for us and we're embracing it, including this newfangled thing we ironically call social media. 
So, welcome. 
Keep reading, as we've learned, you'll never know what can happen next. 
Good Academic Study on Midlife