"Flight to Athens by Way of Brussels, June 2015"

Noise is the constant.
Hum Hum Hum
Crinkle of food wrappers
Snaps of conversations
The modern Tower of Babel
What the ear senses,
the nose feels.
Sniffs microwave
Bad cologne
First
class
farts.
Headlines spied over the top of seats
read "Greece is Failing".
Tom & Jerry cartoons play on screens.
Hum Hum Hum

Midlife and Other Crises: So This is How to Lose 'Weight'

Midlife and Other Crises: So This is How to Lose 'Weight': I

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 Be Bored...

As tends to happen, January brings boredom to even the most enthusiastic.
Blame the holiday hype...  Blame the eggnog...  Blame the disappointment of bad gifts... 
Just don't blame yourself.
There is something sad about our self-imposed busy holiday season. It's as if we are trying to ward off the January doldrums by expending as much energy as possible before the year ends.
I think us middle aged people have earned our boredom. Wait until you've experienced (and can still remember) 50+ years of holidays come-and-go.  There's remarkably very little that can surprise us or keep our attention.
This December I walked Fifth Avenue and 60th Street three separate times, but not once did I bother to glance at the famous tree or even look at the expensive shop windows. 
I know: that IS sad! 
But in my defense, had those I was walking with even hinted at wanting to experience what many consider the quintessential American holiday display, I would have gone along.  But no one did, so neither did I.
Does getting older mean you no longer get excited?  Is boredom what I have to look forward to from now on?
Boredom is defined as "the state of being weary and restless through lack of interest" (I looked it up  in the Merriam-Webster dictionary just to make sure that was what I was feeling). 
I can relate to the "restless" part, but, gosh, I'm fighting off the "being weary" - it sounds so defeated.

Yawn. Pardon me, I'm boring even myself today...

So This is How to Look at the World...

Lately, there's been a lot of public outrage about perceptions.
We humans like to categorize ourselves into groups. Our shapes, colors, and apparel speak volumes to observers, who make assumptions about us based on preconceived perceptions we express in the current lingo as ‘prejudice’.
In my youth, these perceptions drove me crazy and made me as angry as those currently marching our streets. As a short, olive-skinned, curly dark haired, slightly plump female who prefers clogs to heels, I've always resented having to constantly prove my intellectual and social status both in business and in society. I know in view of what others suffer because of what they look like, my suffering was slight, but nevertheless, I suffered. 
Somehow, I thought once you reached midlife people stopped judging your outsides. That the wrinkles on ones’ skin overrode any preconceived perception of category based on looks. 
In any case, I had not felt that suffering in years, so, for lack of a better word, I thought in aging we acquired the wisdom to see beyond our skin. I thought midlife made people more careful about trusting their perceptions and more willing to have their assumptions shattered. 
I was wrong.
As a perk to being on the board of a public media company that will remain nameless, I was invited to a star-studded meet-and-greet last week. Arriving late, I took my glass of Merlot to an empty seat at a table with a middle-aged couple. After the stars' presentation, there was that quiet moment when strangers know they must either make acquaintance or awkwardness will ensue.
"Hello," I said.
"Hi," said the blue-eyed grey-haired suit-and-tie wearing male of the couple. "Are you with the restaurant they took us to for lunch?"
Stunned, I immediately scanned my outfit for any misguided signs that shouted "waitress":  wool slacks, velvet shell, textured office jacket, Chanel purse, demure gold necklace, big gold earrings, diamond wedding band – nothing that would have alluded to “service help”.
OK, I was wearing booties (it was snowing after all)... Maybe it was the booties? 
No, wait, I suddenly remembered my youth...
"Did they take you to an Italian restaurant?" I asked.
"Yes - great place - you know - so much food!"
That's when the angry young me had a small eruption:
"Oh. Well, I'm not with the restaurant, I'm a board member of (the organization) that took you to that lunch. But I am Italian -- We all look alike."
The blue-eyed man seemed visibly taken aback, unwilling to let go of his assumptions, but he knew how to do a social quickstep and immediately introduced his blue-eyed wife. 
We chatted aimlessly about northern versus southern Italian food (I'm the latter, which they claim to prefer). About the event, and how great public media is (because it's such an equalizer). About their retirement to a warm climate after his wife's back ailments led her to take pain killers (she hates how they make her feel, according to him). And, finally about his ridiculous post-retirement writing and consulting ventures (he handed me two cards, one for each venture - one is an inconsistent blog...).
In return, I purposefully told them nothing about me -- in my unthinking mind this was a way to punish their impudence. 
The truly sad thing about this small encounter was that they were innocuous people. They were not bad people, and, in sincere humbleness, far less superior to me. 
But that single comment betrayed their preconceived superiority based on what my body looked like.
And that made me angry.
That comment reminded me that we retain our presumptuous perceptions well into the "wisdom" of our later years, and that they continue to sting, even when we think we are finally immune. 
Even worse, I recognized in myself a sick willingness to categorize the blue-eyed-couple into something they perhaps are not -- merely because of my own preconceived perceptions of their shape, and color, and attire...
In an utterly benign way, this week I felt a gentile slap of prejudice, and my reaction was blinding, unjustified, hate.
At this point, I suppose I should say something uplifting, like therefore this proves that we should all abandon all our prejudices -- religious, race, gender, nationalism, you name it, just get rid of it all! But then we all know how insincere that sounded and how badly that went for poor Nick in "Gatsby".
What I am now willing to say is that I can no longer write off the anger on our streets, (as I did to my youngest daughter), as mere youthful outrage.

The current marches against the folly and tragedy of preconceived perceptions may just be misspent energy, (a desperate search for a simple answer to a complicated situation), but they sadly point to a visceral unalterable truth.

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.