Being Kind To Myself

Deb: ‘Be kind to yourself’ has been my mantra this last period since Christmas. I have slipped into a rather rare depression resulting from the reality of some aspects of my life. I am, as I said before, a very happy person. Even in my deepest mourning or sadness, my body just wakes up and wants happy. I reach for happiness constantly, always willing to push aside anything ugly that has happened to me or anything ugly I have been a party to. I love to make amends and move on. And I am very good at it.

This sadness, which I will define as a building ennui resulting from the fact that a part of my life is changing and I am powerless to stop it, has grabbed a hold of me of late. This time though I did not fight it. At all. Not one little bit. There has been something strangely comforting about it. It felt like a thing I needed to go through. It is hanging around, like a friend keeping you company when you are sad, waiting with you until you fall asleep. And believe me, sleep I have been partaking of, most nights between ten and twelve hours. This is all about my parents and their current state. I cannot and will not go into details. Before you ask I will tell you that they are fine. I am fine too. I have crumbled under the weight of pressure and reality. I would normally want to deny this to myself and certainly not want to share it. But I am sharing it because I think it is important for me to realize that it is okay to not be the rock all the time. Human frailty can be a beautiful and important thing after all, both to our minds and to our hearts.

Barb has always said that one of the things she has admired about me is that I do not go there twice. We have talked about this before in the blog and I have been blissful and grateful at my ability to stay in the moment, feel the pain and resume joy. I had much joy during the holidays but I went there. Went there and stayed there. I handled it by not fighting it. I handled it by letting it take me where it wanted me to go. I move in slow motion doing things at a new pace. Christmas just came down yesterday. Very late for me. But I was enjoying the sparkling lights, the otherworldliness of the holidays, the heightened love and excitement. My sadness was capped off on New Year’s day when we learned that my Dad’s sister Jeanette had died. She had been suffering and she was not really in this world anymore and so it was somewhat a relief, albeit a painful one for her family. My parents wept for her, for all their long gone pals and families, and for the passage of time. My Dad’s family of ten siblings is now down to four. Two men, two women in their 80’s and 90’s. What a wonderful thing that is, right? I know it is.

Still, I sat in my sadness in that brand new year, knowing with full assuredness that the sadness would end, because I know who I am in reality and I know that this is simply a path that I had to go down. I went there without protest, tossing breadcrumbs along the way.

The crumbs that lead me home were the following. My dear darling friend Cheryl sent me a photo from a year ago with me and Dad on New Year’s Eve laughing our exact same laugh with the caption, “THIS is who you are!” My husband accepted my quiet journey with his usual gentle loving way, helping me, supporting me and cooking for me! Barbara and I had lunch with Souzan, a valued member of our blog family who happened to be in town, and her intelligent elegant open spirit gave me a huge boost. She has no idea how the timing of her visit contributed to my soul. Well, I guess she does now actually!

And just as the final decoration was coming down from the tree, the florist arrived with the most beautiful white orchid to grace our now toned-down surroundings. It was from my parents and the card said, “To the nicest, happiest couple we know. Love, Mom and Dad”. These were welcome breadcrumbs! So after a somewhat rough day yesterday, I decided to challenge myself today to something I have only ever done twice in my life. I decided to read a book in a day. Now to be honest it was only 200 pages, but to be frank, I feel like I have just conquered the world. The meaning of the book was deepened for me as it was a Christmas gift from a dear friend who is facing this week the second anniversary of her husband’s death, an anniversary that falls on our wedding anniversary. The book is about Paris and about love and about loss. It is called Paris A Love Story. As I relished every page, it reminded me of our own family trip to Paris when the boy was twelve. I thought of our darling friend Sean’a and her and her husband’s recent Christmas trip to Paris, the daily diaries of which were some of my favourite parts of the holidays. So I sat down to read this morning and, as I picked up the book, I saw a phrase I had scrawled on a piece of paper. It was the title of this blog that I had yet to write based on my behaviour towards life these last couple of weeks. It said, “Be tender with yourself”, which is a choice I made when I realized I was increasingly sad and overwhelmed.  A few pages into the book, the author, reeling from sadness, said she decided “to be kind to herself”. And there we are.

Breadcrumbs:

Barbara: Dear Deb, as you know, I’m well aware of what you’ve been going through and, because I didn’t know if you would talk about it here, have sketched out my own blog-post about depression and transformation—not just as a result of our few conversations about this, but because it seems to have become a recurring theme in many conversations I’ve been having of late. I think I will let your deeply-felt and conveyed words stand here today, as they are, and leave my thoughts on this for my next post. Because the other thing I’ve noticed about myself is that I no longer feel the need to earnestly cajole someone out of a slump. I respect your need to “go there” this time, and I respect your wisdom and intelligence in dealing with this as you must. I think it’s vital that you do what you are doing. I’m just here. Just so you know. Here.

When Good Brows Go Bad

Deb: My eyebrows are antsy. Apparently no one told them they were lifers. As a result, they are trying to escape. Taking the cowards way out, they plot after hours, when I am asleep. Unlike the hairs on one’s head, eyebrow hairs do not suddenly stick up or fly away in broad daylight while you are looking in the mirror. Head hairs are the fair players we depend on them to be.

When you are losing head hair, you know it. It falls out. When your ends are splitting or your grey is growing, head hair is totally upfront about it. No so with the sneaky brows. They possess the stealth clandestine traits of Geisha who’s late for work.

I guess we should have known all along we couldn’t trust the brows. I mean, come on, look at how easily and swiftly the brow can change your emotions or express your thoughts. They are the Hal of facial parts. They are con artists, these brows. These shifty, funny, happy, crafty, devilish, sheepish, angry, pained, disappointed shape shifters.

The mistake we make, I fear, is the plucking. For at that point, just as we are reaching puberty and our bodies start to party, we start plucking the brows. Poor plucked bastards. And we pluck and we wax and we weave. And finally, with themselves raised, the tables turn. And now they are in control. We are hapless Keir Dulleas.

And while I sleep the vengeful brows are curling and twisting and reaching for the light, looking for the end of the tunnel. And when I wake up, there is nothing I can do about it. So I pluck.

And the cycle repeats. Your move brows.

Barbara: Hilarious, Deb! I’ve noticed the eyebrow rebellion—mostly on men, whose brows tend to be more … hirsute. The head turns, it hits the light just so, and there it is this strange, otherworldian filament, doing god knows what, but not in the least resembling a “normal” eyebrow anymore. That said, for myself, I have to say, the brows are more in “disappearing mode”. As is most of my body hair. I guess it’s still a good development—chores like shaving and plucking and waxing have taken more and more of a far-backseat (compared to grooming days of yore). Of course, I may still face the errant brow escapades one day, but for now, the escape seems to be all a disappearing act.

Blogging Out Loud: Aging and Ageism

Deb and Barbara: Here's another instalment of our ongoing video blogs! Hope you enjoy (and that you have something to say on the matter in the comments section below...)
xo

Old Before Your Time

Deb: I have a few friends who are old before their time. Do you know what I mean? I am not talking about “old souls” here. I am speaking about the people who act their age. Or what they perceive to be the way someone of their age acts. When we are young we tend (mostly girls I think) to want to be older. This can start as early as six or seven, when a girl has her first cool girl babysitter or is perhaps visited by a cool older cousin. It can also happen when a little girl gets her first crush and longs to be taken seriously by said crush. I did not have this particular trait. I always loved the exact age I was and I was serious, silly, mature and immature within the framework of any particular year. Still am. 

But as I watch these friends “acting their age” I marvel at the progression of it. Suddenly they are stuck in their ways. They have lost their openness. They are unwilling to try new things. They must have what they eat and what they drink no matter where they are or whom they are with. And for the record, I am a picky eater but I don’t travel with my own tea or my own biscuits or that ilk. I like to try and go with the flow as much as I can, given the givens of my allergies and dislikes etc. But people who are old before their time seem to lose their sense of adventure. They seem to become stuck, fixed, planted, immovable. 

As I listened to one of these friends on the phone the other night I thought wow, she sounds eighty years old. But she didn’t. Or at least she didn’t sound like the eighty year olds in my life. My Mom still sounds eighteen in her attitude towards life and adventure. So I realized that she wasn’t acting any particular age, but instead she was acting an attitude. A fogey attitude. She was behaving in a way she thought was befitting her number and her stature. And she is far too young to be this much of an old coot in attitude. My other friend has even affected a voice, a slow admonishing pinched voice. And seriously she is a doll and I love her. But what the hell? I felt like yelling “you are my age! What’s with the nosy neighbour demeanor?" She was all “we don’t vacation out of the country any more, it’s too dangerous. We stay fairly close to home.” She said that they travel on day trips with their own food (not because of the expense or diet) but because they are more comfortable knowing they have their own food with them. She went on to express some political opinions that so shocked me, as she was one of the instigators back in the day of many a good “sit in” for great causes. She has gone from left to right and I mean RIGHT and I realized in talking to her that it is partly out of fear and more surprising, out of embarrassment. I cannot tell you how many times in our conversation she expressed embarrassment about something she saw or something she did. It’s as if the simplest act like riding a carousel at the park would reduce her to a red faced sweating heap. Anything that she used to consider fun was now beneath her and humiliating to even think about. 

I told her about a trip we were planning with friends and a website that allows you to gamble with where you stay. You put in how many stars you want your hotel to have and what area you want to be in and it places you in the best hotel. I am so excited about this concept and she would have been as well in the day. But she scoffed.  She was in awe that I would even consider this radical idea I could tell I had just gone down in her estimation. She used to play a mean guitar and I asked her if she still played at family gatherings or at the local pub. She said she has not picked it up in years and that did not surprise me. After all, it happens to all of us from time to time when we drift away from something for a while. But her reason shocked me and it was the only time I responded by slightly challenging her. She said “the guitar! For heaven’s sake I am fifty-eight years old!” I was so taken aback. I told her that I drum. She asked if I was any good. I said no but that I loved it. She asked if I ever played in front of people and when I said yes, she reminded me of my age. Well that got my rebel dander up and I told her I was starting ukelele lessons this week and that I also sketch, often and badly. And then she hit the nail on the head. She actually stated exactly how she felt. I didn’t have to surmise her feelings for this post because the words flowed out. 

She said she was shocked that I would do that because there were so many other pursuits that were age appropriate and when I asked her when she started down this path of least fun, she responded by saying that with each decade since high school she has felt the call of propriety. She has felt it was imperative to act her age, whatever that means. She said that when children came along she felt and still does, that her fun was over. She is a good mom but very strict. She has lost her joy. Joy is to be observed now from a distance with a disapproving frown. Joy is for others. She is a grown up lady and she is going to act the role. I got off the phone and just sat there. We have made a date for lunch in September. I am meeting her at the restaurant in her town that she and her husband eat at twice a week. She will not try other spots because ... well, because “this is the restaurant my husband and I eat at twice a week.” And I will love seeing her because I loved her so much when we were young. And we will meet and we will be the same age. She looks great for her age but does everything to make herself look older. Her clothes, her hair, her make-up is so beyond her. If you had known her young self you would be as shocked as I am. So I will go and I will be who I am: the ever-changing Deb. And I will accept her for who she is and enjoy our time together. And she will be embarrassed by me and I won’t care. 

And when the lunch is over I will get in my car and when a great song comes on the radio I will make the car dance. It’s one of my favourite things. 

Too Old To Be Sexy?

Barbara: I was gobsmacked the other day to read a Facebook-linked article about the fact that Harry’s Law—the TV show featuring Kathy Bates—was cancelled … not because there weren’t enough viewers, but because they were too old! Too. Old. How depressing is that?

I always knew that networks favoured the younger demographic, but I truly thought it was because they must watch more. Even if that didn’t actually jive with my reality (my daughters are NOT loyal TV watchers). But when the viewer-numbers totally support a show and then to find out that those great numbers still aren’t enough to secure a show’s future because it's geared to older viewers is soooo disheartening.

I hate to rant about this inequity because it’s kinda like ranting against bad officiating at an Olympic soccer game between Canada and the US ;) –if you can’t change a bad call, might as well accept it, right?

But do we have to accept it? According to the article, baby boomers spend—get this—400 BILLION DOLLARS MORE THAN ANY OTHER GENERATION. EVERY YEAR. Yeah. Every year!! See? I’m hoping that if I yell it loudly enough, advertisers will want to not just take my money, but maybe, maybe, tell my stories too.

In fact, you don’t have to look farther than Deb and I to hear tales of authentic and charming film and television ideas (if I do say so myself) that have been embraced by producers for these qualities … and then rejected by networks for their target demographic.

I know young people are sexy for their youthful glow and hot bods, but surely our money and spending potential should be waaaay sexier. I mean, you can sell us houses and cars and vacations and insurance and investment opportunities and expensive creams and, well, I could go on and on, right? My girls? The supposed ideal demographic for advertisers? They struggle to pay for their inexpensive goodies, and then have loyalty to exactly none of them afterward.

Every time I hear another story about how no one wants to tell our stories because we’re not sexy enough, the more I want to go all “cougar” on the networks and prove them otherwise. Except, of course, Harry’s Law, with its 8.8million loyal viewers (for NBC, second only to Smash in popularity) should have paved the way for us and still couldn’t do it. And if they can’t do it, how can any of us older viewers/creators hope to stake our place in storytelling?

I mean, I love the “young people” shows and movies. I’ll go to Batman and I’ve watched and loved Girls. But I can also say that 21-year-old Stefanie is very excited to see the new Meryl Streep film, Hope Springs. And why? Because she “loves watching middle-aged people navigate life”. I swear to god, direct quote. I think lots of young people like to watch older people do their thing. It’s about knowing what to expect down the road. It’s about relating to each other, learning from each other, speaking to each other from all different vantage points. It’s about accepting each other, age spots and all.

Life is interesting in every shape and size. Please open the door to this reality and don’t dismiss us because … I don’t know, because we aren’t as sexy as our kids.

Deb: My blood boils as I read this. Barb is too classy to refer to an exact recent incident because in fact she was my co-writer, but the project was rejected not because of the writing, but because it was felt that Colin and I are too old to be the “leads” in a series. Our middle-aged plot lines are not interesting to the general population apparently.  GENERAL POPULATION???? See above for Barb’s rant regarding just who is doing the spending!!!! But, nonetheless, a few months ago after peddling our pilot around, we were told in various subtle and not so subtle ways that we were, well ... past our TV prime. Now I am pretty darned good at moving on with stuff like this, but I told Barbara that I was frankly daunted by this for a few days. It is the first time in my life, next to the day I found out I was menopausal and could no longer have children, that I felt redundant. So I hope that some other middle-aged couple comes along and does it for us, and for the considerable audience that is waiting to see their stories represented.

Where The Wise Things Are

Deb: This just killed me in its simple message and honesty.

Talking The Talk In The Conversation: Women Dress for Women

Deb: In our ongoing conversation about women and our self-esteem or lack thereof, I started thinking about the source of it. I started wondering what makes us change and nip and tuck and fix and futz with our looks. And more to that point, I started wondering who we do it for.

As opposed to popular thinking, most women do not dress for men. Most women dress for women. I think we have done this for centuries. And along those lines I think that women get “work” done for other women, with the possible exception of breasts. I think a large part of the plastic movement is done to impress our own gender. I think we need to look good for other women and, as a result, we might just be doing each other in. Eating our own as it were.

Wouldn’t it be lovely if every woman would look to a friend who is aging or is less than perfect and say,  “You look great.” There is an oft bandied about phrase which goes, “A smile is your best accessory.” But the truth is, it is! If we feel good about ourselves we look great. Inner beauty has gotten a bad rap for being, well ... inner beauty. Yet there is nothing “inner” about it. If we nail the inner, the outer comes along for the ride.

The world is obsessed with “hot”. We have this burning desire to look “hot”.

What is hot? Really. Isn’t hot chemical? Isn’t hot in the eyes of the beholder? Can we possibly sustain this media image of hot? No one friggin can. But between the “hot” flashes we can, in no particular order, look lovely, pretty, cute, gorgeous, rested, sparkling, happy, sexy, engaged, spirited graceful and ... handsome. I have always been miffed at the use of “handsome woman” as a derogatory term. Some of the most attractive and sexy women I have known have been “handsome”, for the record.

I think Ashley Judd was spectacular, strong and poised in her rebuttal. But thinking forward, what would happen if we all just stopped caring? I know, I know ... but I think we have to spend more time changing our own perceptions of ourselves. And we need to spend conscience time doing this. Like ... equal to Facebook time. We worry too damn much about what others think of us. And people in the public eye have the added worry of what the media thinks of them and as a result, the world.

But here’s the thing. Maybe we have to accept what we cannot change. Because we can’t change what people say publicly or privately about us. But we can change what we put out there. And in the end, the only logical answer is to stop taking the bait. And maybe by doing that, we will change it.

In the meantime, we must find a way to fall in love with the image we see in the mirror. WE MUST! Remember that others do not see what we see. I have a friend who wants to get her neck done. I get it. I see that she has a little middle-aged chin thing going on there. And I admit that when she points it out, I see that. But that is the only time I ever see it. What I usually see is her heartstoppingly beautiful face. And I am not just saying that to ease her saggy chin pain. She is beautiful. But she sees the neck. I know. I have been there. Full disclosure in a later blog.

But the truth is, in the last little while I have worked consciously to not only make my peace with, but to embrace my imperfections. I have been diligent in my attempts to banish them from my psyche. Or at the very least form a truce with them. I have decided to do the best I can with what I have. Because I am aging. We all are.

Jennifer Aniston is going to be an old woman some day.

And it’s not like we weren’t told. This is the life we expected. Getting old was in the offing from the get-go.  And yet we seem shocked and panicked by it. And the media rants and the media belittles and the media mocks.

And they do this because they know that we believe them. And in the meantime we hope they will change.

But I think it’s us who have to.

Barbara: Oooh, so many juicy points here I want to respond to. First off, when you mention how most women dress for women, I know you’re so right. I mean, there is some stuff I wear for Phil, but in the every day sitch, I’m thinking more about “fashion” and “trend” and “style” than I am about, well, sex.

As soon as I read this, I remembered a moment earlier today when I was standing in a bookstore in front of the magazine aisle and a young woman stopped not too far from me—and I was tired and so maybe not as conscious as I would normally be. But I suddenly realized I had literally been eying her up and down for several very looooooong minutes. I am sure—given that my relaxed face now looks (okay, okay, in my mind’s eye, Deb, but I am sure in real life too!) like I am an angry, judgmental bitch— that anyone passing must have assumed I was secretly lambasting her, cutting her up, cutting her down. But the truth is, my face looks like that when it is relaxed!!! And I was absolutely LOVING her outfit. I wanted to drink it in. I wanted to memorize it. She looked amazing. But betchya anything she would’ve been shocked and outraged at my blatant staring, and surely would have misconstrued my utter lack of intent. So there’s that.

But I do also want to say that I take up the noble and brave gauntlet you’ve thrown: that we need to be aware of how we judge our physical selves so very harshly—and that we need to STOP IT. If we go along with the old credo that the media likes to scare us, then them openly playing to our insecurities would surely fit in with that, right? Let’s take away that power. Let’s take our own power back.

Can we do it??? 

Invisible

Deb: Throughout these last years as the care of my parents has become a more regular part of life, I have made some tragic observations. The most distressing of these is that my bright, funny, interesting, charming parents have become invisible. They have quite faded away in the eyes of most people.

I have been watching this with growing sadness at every social function we attend. As befitting their age and stage of life, they are always greeted by everyone in attendance. I have watched people ritualize them as if they are a King and Queen. They are treated warmly and enthusiastically, but also like figureheads who must be welcomed and respected but not lingered over. The respects are paid with very good intentions. But there is no “engagement”. They are no longer the people with whom you have an “interesting” conversation. So “hello” becomes enough. They aren’t up on pop culture references and what they have to say is outdated. So instead they are asked, “How are you doing?” in a loud voice. They are asked if they can be given more food or beverages. They are asked what they think about the weather and how they are enjoying the early spring. Of course there are those who go beyond this cursory greeting, but I would be lying if I said these were not the rarer breed.

I am not angry as I write this rather; I am heartbroken. I have noticed more and more how people just look right through Mom and Dad and other people of their age. I find it even more distressing given the contrast of my own experience.

When we were growing up, our grandparents were the centre of the visit, the reason you looked forward to going at all. I remember visiting my Granny, her Scottish tablecloth laden with sharp cheese, crackers, bread, canned corned beef, scones, jam, raisin bread, shortbread, and tea. Always tea, lots of tea. And that was just when I visited alone! Every visitor would have the same feast laid out before them. I can feel, smell, and taste those visits. I remember the light from the kitchen window and the sounds from the alley as we sat at that table, Granny and I. We would talk about life and her garden and the family gossip and when I left I felt that we had visited, really visited.

When I see any grandchildren of the invisible, it makes me so sad to think that they are not getting this visit of my past. And they are not learning about their past through these wonderful people who love them so much and just want to be loved in return. They might be surprised to learn for example that the things they think their grandparents are out of touch with are the very things their grandparents are fascinated and in awe of and would love to hear more about. And these grandchildren, without really truly knowing their grandparents, might never be able to say, “I do that, just like Papa” and be proud of their lineage, their connection.

I do know this. Paying respects to your elders at the beginning and ending of an event does little towards building a bond. The most painful thing to observe in these moments is the invisible noticing that they are invisible.  And you can scramble and rush to their side and try to fill the void. But it’s too late. They have already noticed and the hurt of it makes them a little harder to see.

Easter weekend, Colin, the Boy and I hosted an 85th birthday for my parents. We had a casual afternoon gathering and it was lovely. The only gift asked for was one of conversation with each of them. Now this particular gathering is what I would call, preaching to the choir. These are people in my parents’ lives. But even so, they took the invite to heart and chatted ones and twos and threes with Mom and Dad. And as a result, each of them who engaged my parents came away with a new story about their lives or an experience that had previously been unknown to them.

My parents for their part, had the best night. I could tell. Because at that party, on that day, they were the first people you saw when you walked through the door.

**One of my favourite John Pryne songs ends with this lyric:

“So if you’re walkin’ down the street sometime

And you should spot some hallow ancient eyes

Don’t you pass them by and stare as if you didn’t care

Say Hello in there. Hello.”

Barbara: As my parents and their spouses aren’t yet of this age (and by that, I mean they are still mobile, which means they can control their engagement), and as my grandparents, who are older, live so far away, I’ve never consciously observed this heartbreaking trend from centre-of-attention to invisible. But I can feel the truth of it, especially if people are in the mindset of not knowing how to greet our older generation—or even that they should and MUST. Have I engaged Deb’s parents before this celebration and Deb’s gentle request? Of course. And I have loved speaking and laughing with them. But there was something sweet—and not the least bit forced—about doing it consciously at their 85^th. In fact, this is an excerpt from the thank-you letter I sent Deb after the party:

Thank you so very much for the absolutely lovely celebration for your parents. It was a gorgeous and wonderful day. Your parents are such loving and amazing people and deserve every bit of revelry and honour they get! You are a doll and wonderful daughter to always make sure they get their due. I love that you asked us to chat with them and I love that they had so much fascinating stuff to share. I had no idea your dad was such a Western buff and how he only really has patience for non-fiction. He regaled me with some great facts and stories about the wild west! Your mom is just so lovely and honest, telling about her frustrations and concerns, but also her love of life and for her family.

All this to say that by consciously making an effort, by consciously being aware of engagement and taking interest, I got so much out of the experience, so much more than just a superficial exchange of greetings or observations. And I think it’s a worthwhile bug-in-our-ears to make sure people like Deb’s parents get more than just a courteous greeting, but get their real and deserved due. And I guess in order to do that, especially as we get older and older ourselves, we need to remind and teach each other and our children to be aware of it. Open ears, open hearts. It’s another one of those win-win situations we love to embrace here!

Auto Focus

Deb: Barb’s quantum physics classes have brought many fascinating ideas to light and one of them is this idea of focus. Thank you, Barb, for Hocus Focus. My particular focus is that of a gadfly. It is not something I am particularly proud of, nor is it something I relish. But I struggle with my focus, which is why as I have mentioned my love for Transcendental Mediation and why it works for me. Trouble is, I keep forgetting to do it because every time I intend to, my mind flits to another idea or another task. I keep tons in my head. Tons. Really. Tons. I know that we all do so I am not setting myself up here as the busiest or the most pressured.

Although this is about me so...

The problem is, my brain is not orderly. My darn brain works as a catchall. Not a single filter in there. Every time I try to organize my brain into folders I will suddenly have a random thought and, as I turn my head to pursue it, all the ideas tumble out of my brain folders and onto my brain floor, scattered amongst the other grey matter (referring to my brain of course, not the fact that I am old). Although in fairness my hair is grey and I dye it. So full disclosure, from the neck up, I am technically all grey matter.

But, that doesn’t matter. What does matter is that I lack focus.

A small example of this is that while I was writing the first paragraph, I got up four times: once to phone my parents, once to get tea, once to put the dry cleaning at the front door, and once to write down an idea for another blog. Actually, I lie. I really did all those things before I wrote the sentence, “My particular focus is that of a gadfly”, which is what inspired me to write that sentence. The real truth is that between that sentence and the end of the paragraph I also searched through my purse for a chocolate covered caramel that I knew I had put in there and wanted to have with my tea. It was there, as it turned out. I ate it and now I am on a roll.

Okay, now to the point of the blog. I have been focus experimenting. I have been making a point to think only of one thing at a time and seeing where it leads.

My first experiment went like this:

Last week, because spring/summer came early to Toronto I was walking along, with visions of phone calls, to do lists, ideas, worries and tasks in my head. As I walked I decided to clear my head of “shoulds” and focus on the day, the beautiful warm sunny day. So I did. My brain fought back for a bit, like it was resisting being squeezed into a bikini too early before it had a chance to use self tanner. But then ... then it relaxed and all it could see and all it could think of was the stunning rapturous March summer day. And then a feeling swept over me. And it was all encompassing. I was a teenager again and I was walking to school on that first really honest to goodness warm day after the winter. And my coat was tied around my waist and the sun was on my face and everything was new and filled with freedom and thoughts of boys, and I felt teenaged sexy and young, and the world was my oyster and all my dreams were possible, every single one of them!

Now the fabulousness of this focus experiment was that—and this is key to the understanding of it—I had none of these thoughts. None of them. But I had all of the feelings. I was transported. I was back there in that time!

But the really fantastic thing was that at the end of the focus experiment, I was left with the resulting buoyancy. I did not feel that these were memories of a state of being. I was left with a feeling of the possibility of me NOW. Sure it’s easy when you’re young to dump the tasks and worries and chores when you want to. Isn’t that what youth is? We always say that youth is wasted on the young. The idea, of course, is that if I had known when I was young what I could do and what I had going for me I would have done so much more bla bla bla.

But what I have realized is that youth is started on the young and finished whenever you want it to finish. If you’re smart, your youth won’t finish till you’re dead. What a revelation I had. I did the focus experiment to see if I could focus. That’s all. Focus. But the focus gave me a parting gift that I did not expect. It helped me to see that whatever is happening in my life, be it good or bad, it is not set in stone. I can change it, simply by changing it. I can prattle on and on about what could have been, or stress about issues I am grappling with till the cows come home.

Or, I can focus on something lovely and I can become anything I want.

Barbara: Okay, I love this post so much, I want to bite you. I want to squeeze your cheeks and kiss you. I want to laugh uproariously (which, by the way, I did several times while reading. Actual throw-my-head-back laughter) and I want to cry (which, by the way, I also did at the end there). This is just so so beautiful and true. True and Beautiful. And I think I’m feeling kinda freakishly euphoric right now because lately I too have experienced this amazing release of tension and fresh awareness of possibility. Lately, thanks to my recent exercises in focus, and thanks also to a lovely friend (waves at Shalaka) who sent me some guided meditations that I’ve actually been using, for the first time in my life I am practicing focus on a regular basis and it is all these things you speak of. Being in the clean, clear, wondrous moment. Being the best and sweetest part of yourself. Being here.

Thanks for playing, Deb, and for sharing your own experience with us! You guys???

PS a little fun sound-bite to you from Deb!

Liver to Brain

Deb: Yesterday I was at a dermatologist who was checking out my litany of new moles, bumps, calcium accumulations, and other markings of that ilk.

Upon examination of the offending marks, she proclaimed them safe and removable, music to my ears.

So I asked her to identify the marks for me so I would know what they were and how to gage their normality if they started to increase in size, colour, or shape.

She responded by saying they are “wisdom marks.”

“What what????!!!”

I looked at her. She was dead serious. She was selling me on the “wisdom marks”. She was working me on the “new age, age”.

Her intentions were good, granted, but as I looked at this young, modern, educated doctor, I thought, “Wow. You are being trained to say shit like this TO ME! You are being told that this is what I need to hear.”

Does this mean that the onset of wisdomy warts and clever, devious moles brings with it an ability to go back in time and pass Grade 11 Math????????

Me thinkith notith.

So here is what you need to know, doctor. I reached my Holy Shit Trinity years ago and I have grown with the vernacular of liver spots to age spots to wisdom spots. And just so we understand each other, referring to my brown tea-stained facial spots as wisdom does nothing to conceal the fact that I am fine with it, thank you very much.

Liver spots should be my only worry.

ARE we really that fragile?  I don't think so. I'm not.

Barbara: Weird, huh? I mean, I’d rather they didn’t use euphemisms at all, but called them, I don’t know, the official Latin term, or something equally medically official sounding. I’d rather offer a resounding “huh?” than be pandered to (egotistically-speaking). And with the endless shifts and changes to the aging skin/body, it’s nice to believe our vocabulary could actually develop exponentially. Might make up a bit for the wisdom spots ... er, liver spots ... er, lentigos (???). 

88 ... And Booked!

Deb: I have a 88-year-old friend named Melba. She is fabulous and feisty, funny and smart. She was widowed several years back and moved two hours north of Toronto to be nearer her daughter.

My friend, Cheryl, who did a three way with us this summer is also close to Melba. We try to visit her twice a year, spring and fall. This year our fall trip was interrupted by the death of our dear friend Stan whom you may remember me blogging about.

Cheryl came to Stan’s visitation and then the day of the funeral took some other friends of Melba’s with her so she wouldn’t be disappointed. I vowed to get up there in the fall.

So I was thrilled to see that I would be spending some time in her hometown shooting a film and could steal a few hours away to have lunch or tea or dinner with her. Oh, won’t she be tickled, I thought. This will make her day, I was sure of it. I phoned her laying out my offer on her answering machine. Later that day she left a message for me on my phone. She said she was sick about missing me, but that she was booked. Booked for breakfast, booked for lunch, booked for tea, booked for dinner. I know at this point you are thinking, “Poor simple Deb has no idea that Melba does not like her”, but you would be wrong. She adores Cheryl and I. Cannot wait to see us and hates when we leave, so that is not it.

It is simply that she was booked. I called her back, again with the answering machine, and offered dinner the next day after shooting. She called back to say that she had a church social affair. She explained that she would have shifted things around but that she had been booked for some time with these various people and after all, a date is a date. And I quite agree. She said she so hoped we could do it soon and suggested that we try to make it up before Christmas. I called Cheryl to tell her about this, all the while laughing about how booked our 88-year-old Melba was. And not just booked, but booked up the wazoo! Cheryl told me that she and her husband had occasion to pass through Melba’s town recently and thought they would snap her up for a smart tea.

But...booked doncha know!

Man, we laughed. And then I said this prayer:

God, when I am 88 may I be BOOKED.

May I often be double-booked by accident.

May I still need my i-cal to juggle my appointments.

May my days be so filled that I don’t get to my laundry.

May I get off my ass and go out alone to galleries and movies and events.

May I be so full of energy and youthful openness that I blend into events that are youth-oriented.

May I sleep like a log every single night because my day is brimming with activity.

May I only fall asleep in front of TV only at night and simply because I am under the weather.

May I be surrounded by my friends and family who enjoy the same busy life filled with varied and stimulating things.

May something every day shock and surprise the shit out of me.

May I still be learning to play the piano, guitar and drums and may I not be half bad.

May I be interested in what is new.

May I travel to as many of the places I dream of and swoon into the food and culture.

May I still put on a dress I just bought and feel sexy and may my husband tell me that I look it. 

May the holidays find me still hosting and juggling invites to several other Thanksgiving and Christmas feasts.

May I still celebrate my birthday like a national holiday, excited to wake up to it!

And when my time comes to leave this world, may I be too booked to accept the offer.

Barbara: Deb, your ode to the best of a long life brought tears to my eyes. It is utterly beautiful and yes, YES, me too!! I wish for all those things, for all of us who want it.

You wrote this beautiful piece before we heard the sad news of the far too early death of Steve Jobs. I think as we mourn him, we can also remember––as evidenced by his many brilliant and quintessential quotes––that he also lived his life with a dynamic and powerful mantra reverberating inside him. He is a perfect example of one whose life was fully “booked” until his last breath.

I admire all those who live to this degree, whether it’s your inimitable 88-year-old friend Melba, Deb, or the singular, extraordinary people we don’t personally know but who touch us profoundly and set the ultimate example for us.

Nursing The Blurt

Barbara: So we’ve talked here about how we’ve blurted awkward things (“How far along are you?” to someone who isn’t pregnant) and lived to rue the day. But yesterday, I was on the receiving end.

Yup. It hurts.

Last year I wrote about my sister’s amazing dance festival, remember? It is one of my most cherished yearly celebrations. But yesterday, a series of snafus almost kept me from attending. First there was the pounding thunderstorm that caused the cancelation of the outdoor events, then the blackouts that threatened the indoor ones, then when I was finally confident I could make the one hour trek to Guelph and enjoy the scheduled performances, I realized I had to drop my daughter and her friend off at a point halfway between my home and the festival. All this to say that I had exactly one minute to spare to pick up my ticket and find my seat when I finally arrived at the theatre, drenched in sweat and panting breathlessly. “The ticket is under Radecki,” I say to the box office clerk. Who answers, excited, clearly honoured to meet me, “Radecki?! Are you Catrina’s mother?!”  

The world implodes. As does my ego. Did you hear it in Arkansas? It was loud.

“I’m her sister,” I say. I can honestly say I answered graciously. My eyes might have averted a bit. I may have busied myself with some fictitious purse searching. The clerk immediately scrambled. “Oh, I didn’t mean that. It’s just that we were JUST talking about Catrina’s mom and her art. And I was going to ask, Did you have her when you were five? I hope you don’t…” Her cringing was as horrible as my own.

Please believe me when I say: I’m not telling you this to get your outraged support or your encouragement of my youthful good looks. Really. I am telling you because it happened. And it happens to all of us at some time. And talking about it makes it seem way funnier than the incessant reverberating in my brain: “her mother?” “her mother?” “her MOTHER?!!!”

I feel bad for the blurter. We’ve all done it at some time and must be let off the proverbial hook. But I can also say that I am going to have to work frickin’ hard to wash that blurt from my brain and let it go. At least the show was awesome!

Deb: Oh yes. Oh yes. I have been on the receiving end of this one, my dear. My Dad is 84 and I was taking him to one of his many doctor’s appointments and the nurse said “I’m sorry, Mr. McGrath, but I’m going to have to take some blood,” and Dad said, “As long as it comes with a kiss, nurse,” and she said (you know where this is going don’t you?), “Well, Mr. McGrath, I’ll leave the kissing up to your wife here.” Do I need to say anything else? HE IS 84!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And darling Barb, I know you were not looking for an ego boost but all I can tell you, dear readers, is that Barb’s gorgeous photos do not do her beauty justice. She is a stunner. At Stef’s fashion show last year, I thought, “Wow, they look like they could be sisters”. And believe me, that’s no insult to Stef!

PS On a yummier note, we have a new Deco Tip and Easy Recipe for you guys this week!

Too Old To Swim????!

Barbara: I’m pretty flexible when it comes to other people’s opinions. I know they’re just that: OPINIONS. But sometimes an opinion gets so under my skin that I have to rant and rave for, like, five whole minutes. Start your timers, folks:

Okay, read this article—well, not really an article, more like an article blurb—in my paper the other day. Of course, it’s just an abbreviation of several other abbreviated articles of its ilk around the world. To wit: Hillary Moss of The Huffington Post at styelist riffs on it, as does Daily Mail Reporter at The Daily Mail UK (PS: Mr/Ms Mail Reporter, if that really is your name, I’m sorry it's such a pedestrian one, however, if this is the Daily Mail’s idea of attribution, it fucking sucks. Writers unite! Anyway…).

I couldn’t find the survey that they all quote, but apparently it was administered by Diet Chef, a diet service in the UK (and we all know how reliably relevant and important surveys administered by diet services can be). Well, Diet Chef interviewed 2000 women about their opinions on women of certain ages wearing certain clothes. Now, it’s possible we’ve all been guilty of, “She’s wearing that?!” at some point in our lives. But I have to say, it’s one of my least favourite of the womanly clichés.

Anyway, after interviewing these 2000 women, this survey feels compelled to make the following proclamations for aging women everywhere: No miniskirts after 35. No bikinis after 47 (is this my last bikini summer?!). No leggings after 37. No long hair after 53. No wearing trainers except for sports after 44. WTF?! Am I condemned to short hair because of my age??? And I might be grasping here, but aren’t the aging feet of older women––of all feet!––prime candidates for the support and comfort offered by a running shoe when they’re, say, going for a stroll or navigating the aisles of the supermarket (… unless these activities are considered “sport”. Then my bad.)

But the kicker? The unleasher of my wrath and fury? This decree:

No swimsuits after 61.

Yes, you read that right. No. Swimsuits. After. 61.

Do we hate ourselves so much, must we be so controlled and self-conscious and uptight, that we aren’t even allowed to SWIM!!! after a certain age?! Or perhaps these 2000 surveyees believe that if an older women absolutely MUST slip into that refreshing lake or pool, then she should do so only in the dead of night and only after donning a full body suit, thus avoiding egregious insult to the delicate vision of all youthful beings who inhabit the earth.

Makes me want to don thigh-high leather boots and a bikini top, throw a see-through blouse over it, brush my long hair into a ponytail and jump into the fucking lake.

‘Nuff said.

Deb: Deb: As I write this, I am piercing my naval with a bobby pin.

STOP THIS BULLSHIT. Everyone should stop doing it! But women especially. I heard a young girl last week say that it is gross to think of people over 50 having sex. Man, I was so sad to hear her say that. And now this BULLSHIT. People say “don’t revisit what you have worn any other decade.” It is a stupid rule for people who are afraid, for people who conform. Wear a hat full of red blooming roses with a peekaboo blouse. Or wear a sensible skirt and cashmere twin set. I DON”T CARE! But wear what makes you feel lovely and happy and damn everyone who says you can’t!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


PS Oh, and in case anyone missed it, we posted a new deco tip and recipe last Saturday!

The Truth About Aging: It Grows On You

Barbara: The other day I read this interview of Diane Keaton—who is a wonderful, quirky

actress and an icon of aging gracefully. She was quoted as saying that when she goes on lecture tours––despite all her adventures and achievements––the number one question from her audience is how she deals with the aging process.

Man, we’re obsessed with this, aren’t we?! Of all the things we might want to discover in our older years––but this, apparently, is the conundrum that most distracts us. (Proviso: I know many people, women included, who do NOT focus on this at all, or have made peace with it. If you’re reading this, come along for the ride anyway, and please feel free to leave tips and thoughts in the comments section.)

Okay, now for those of us who have thought about it—even a little—here’s my latest aha moment. Aging? You get used to it. No, really. You just think you’re constantly worried about those sags, bags, and lines. Aching bones and weak eyesight. But the truth is—like adolescence and parenthood and renovation hell and debt—you get used to it. Sure, you might obsess for moments at a time that you’re not doing the right thing or the best thing (or anything) to combat it. Sure, the latest unflattering change can be surprising or depressing. But, think about it, it’s just a matter of time before that new reflection in the mirror is as familiar as, well, as an old pair of shoes.

I know that at 47, I’m on the upswing of the road of major aging changes, but I remember vividly my shock and dismay at finding (ten years ago) that the smooth waist I’d kinda taken for granted was suddenly resting comfortably on top of my pants’ waist. Or (seven year ago) when I realized that my mouth was beginning to turn down at the edges and two neat lines were forming between my eyebrows, both conspiring to make this normally upbeat, positive gal look dour and angry no matter how happy I feel. (My husband routinely asks me what’s wrong when all I am doing is calmly, relaxedly, even happily reading a book.)

Each time something major has changed on my body or face, I've panicked. Oh, it's been just a slippery, slippery slope and I've been flailing and desperately grasping for any tether around me. What can I do to stop the carnage … how really, really bad is it going to get … will I ever be able to make peace with it???

Let me take this minute to remind us all that we do get used to it. We do. We wake up one morning and we don’t begrudge those lines and sags anymore. We hardly notice them. They just are. And our reflection is simply that: our reflection. Ourselves. Let me get hokey: our beautiful selves. And instead of berating Diane Keaton for advice, we should hold each other’s hands in solidarity and remind each other that we will all get used to it at some point. Maybe not at the same point, and maybe not for good (there are bound to be regressions for every triumph), but we can be here to remind each other of that. You know, like we did with labour pains: “Don’t worry, the pain doesn’t last long and pretty soon you won’t remember it.”

Deb: Barb, you have no idea how great this concept is. You are right. It does grow on you. And for me, after the bombardment of aging surprises that accompanied menopause and post-menopause, everything else is lame. Like, hey, new liver spot. Already have two. So ... whatever. Hello, new grey hair. That ship already sailed.

So I truly agree that it is a wonderful thing––which I shall be adopting––but it is also a slippery slope of acceptance. There is always that day when you meet someone you went to high school with ... and they don’t recognize you. BAM!

Barbara: And that’s when it’s their turn to get used to it.

Age Inappropriate? Dubious Tricks Of The Trade

Barbara: When I wanted to share the great things I’ve done for myself over the years, I knew at some point I’d have to write about the ridiculous ones. I’ll admit, I don‘t mind embarrassing myself for the sake of a good eye-roll and/or laugh. I’m cute that way.

So, when it comes to the inexorable aging process, desperate times call for desperate measures, right? Okay well, in my superficial brain—or the superficial part of my brain (would this be the “susceptile” brain?)––they have often seemed like “desperate” times.

This is my miss list.

I have long been obsessed with skin care and over the years have tried many at-home facials: everything from the toweled steam over the pot of water to the homemade masks. I read somewhere that mayonnaise was highly beneficial for your skin. That seemed easy enough. Too bad they didn’t think that idjits like me would assume Miracle Whip was the same thing. You know, the processed, chemicalled, sweetened version of what should really just be olive oil, egg, lemon, Dijon, and bit of salt. My skin looked like I’d massaged it with a cheese grater. Needless to say, it turned me off the stuff forever.

Vitamins? The jury’s out on how effective these are—are they much-needed replacements for our depleted produce, or are they big-business manufactured money-makers with no real value? I don’t know, but I have had every type of vitamin go through my body at one point or another and I can’t tell if life is any different now that I don’t take them at all anymore. I eat well instead (you know the boring stuff: lots of veggies, and very little sugar, caffeine, or processed foods).

Some beauty tricks are so embarrassing that I'm mortified even if no one is watching. Like being in a department store dressing room trying on a Spanx (or some variety thereof). I was attempting this trick because I had an event I wanted to be super-cool for and I’d found a super-cool outfit that would make me so. If only it didn’t show every lump and bump that wasn’t supposed to be there. Well, I was determined and undeterred. I’d heard the raves, I’d read the beauty mags: Spanx were it for smooth, sexy curves. I put that thing on and knew the moment it clamped its spandex jaws around my torso that I was in danger of deadly asphyxiation. As the breath was slowly sucked out of me, I tried desperately to remove it. Panic set in as that ungodly contraption refused to release its stranglehold. I couldn’t get it off; I couldn’t leave it on. I couldn’t call the dressing room attendant (don’t ask me why) (No, I’ll tell you why: pride *sigh*). Me and the Spanx, locked in combat for several long sweaty painful minutes-that-seemed-like hours before I finally managed to extricate myself. I quite literally do not know how women wear these and survive. (I wore the super-cool outfit, lumps be damned.)

This is a weird trick I refuse to give up, but that I live in fear of it biting me in the ass. I don’t like to wash my hair every day. But my hair is too oily to leave as it is on the days I don’t wash it. So I sprinkle cornstarch baby powder into my hands and massage it into my scalp. I think it works great. But I know––I KNOW––that one mortifying day, that baby powder is going to reveal itself for all the world to see, either dusting my hair where the brush missed it or my clothing where I accidentally sprinkled it. For the sake of beauty, I actually risk looking like a complete idiot. This is an intervention waiting to happen.

And my last one for today is courtesy of Deb: facial exercises. She does them religiously. And her skin looks absolutely amazing: tight as a baby’s bottom, no word of a lie. And describing the exercises, she makes a very valid point: facial muscles are muscles too and benefit from exercise as much as any other. I tried them for a while and I swear they actually worked. But on the one hand I felt ridiculous and on the other I am too damn lazy.

Deb: I do confess to being the Jane Fonda of the Facersize world. Well, not really “world”, I suppose, as I do not think it has hit craze level yet. But I am diligent with them once a day, twice if I can. Am I being duped by this facial placebo? Well, it makes sense that if we can tighten and strengthen the muscles in the rest of our bodies, why not the face? And for what it’s worth, it makes me feel better, so what the heck?

Vitamins? I so hear you, Barb. I do take my multi sap and my cal/mag but as far as the multi's are concerned, I don’t know. I fight lots of colds and always think, “Hmmmnn”. Cold FX as I have said before, works like a miracle for me, if I get the cold at the first sign. But other than that, I don’t know. I guess I’d rather not stop them at the beginning of winter though.

Cornstarch––check! Just started doing it this year when a friend––who’s hair NEVER looks dirty––told me this secret. But yes the dandruff avalanche is always an unwanted side effect if you are not diligent, post inspection.

The Spanx make millions of women happy, so far be it from me to cast aspersions, but I have worn Spanx two or three times and they drove me mental all damn night. I was in and out of the washroom pulling and yanking and begging them to do my bidding. It took me right back to the strapless bra years when I would spend the evening in the loo, bent over at the waist and yanking the bra up from my stomach back to the general area of my breasts. But the worst, the thing no one should ever see, is when you are pulling up the Spanx and your body is popping out these bubbling flesh sculptures as the Spanx slide over it. John Hurt’s alien encounter wasn’t as horrific as this hideous humbler.

No sir. Never want to see that again. 

PS Two wonderful blogs for middle-age beauty tricks that actually make sense are Middle Ageless by Rosina and The Best Of Everything After 50 by Barbara Hannah Grufferman. These women actually know what they're talking about. 

Age Appropriate––Our Tricks Of The Trade

Barbara: On Monday, we bemoaned our aging bodies, while still maintaining our deep-rooted respect for same and our absolute certainty that life does indeed get better.

So today I thought it would be appropriate to give props to those things each of us do and/or have done that we actually think paid off in the long run. Think of it as words of wisdom to our youngers and well-deserved pats on the back for each other.

I’ll go first. Cream. It’s a pain, it’s slippery, it’s time-consuming, it can be expensive (but doesn’t need to be). It works, no question. I’ve been creaming myself up for going on 30 of my 47 years. Body, hands, feet, face. What can I say? What I already said: it works. Wrinkles run in my family, on both sides. Gloriously youthful faces, but wrinkles. I believe I have staved them off as well as can be expected given gravity and climate.

I used to have these little hard calcified bumps on my upper arms and legs. Cream after my shower softened them and finally made them disappear. My skin is smooth, I tell you, smoooooth. I had cracked dry skin on the soles of my feet. Creaming day and night got rid of that. And here I actually have to name names because I have tried a zillion other hand and foot creams and the one I keep coming back to is Glysomed. Nary a cracked fissure in sight.

I also use natural “castor oil” for everything from keeping my spider veins at bay to easing a bruise in record time to softening my (normal everyday) moles. Desiten (yes, the diaper rash cream) is great for pimples or rashes (it’s all the zinc). And a smidgen of 15% tea tree oil on a q-tip then dabbed on a zit will dry that thing up in a few hours.

And then there’s exercise. Absolutely works. I am not addicted. I am not a machine. I don’t have Deb’s discipline. But still even once a week makes a huge difference.

Walking. Daily if I can. A dog is a great companion, but not required. With these, my body has been in more consistent shape than I would’ve guessed possible (not what it used to be, of course, but given the givens).

Yoga, also once a week. Oh, yogahhhhh. This is where I learned to breathe and relax. Without yoga, my mood is much trickier to manage and the bright side is not quite as bright. With it, I have time to myself.

Which brings me to: time to myself. This is my absolute. Without some precious quiet time in my day or week, I am worthless. With it, I get way more done with way less anxiety, stress, or guilt (which is ironic because guilt used to prevent me from taking time for myself!). Just do it.

What are your tricks?

Deb: My tricks are all done with mirrors! In fact, Barbara has never really seen what the actual Deb looks like...

No seriously. I am ALL ABOUT THE CREAMS TOO! For face alone I have:

Special cream wash

Toner

All over lifter and smoother

Eye serum

Eye cream

Liquid Gold all over face

Neck lifter

Night and Day cream

Night emulsion

Warm water!

Body also gets the treatment, emphasizing hands and elbows just before bed.

I get regular mani-pedi’s, which solve that cracked skin problem.

I just found out about a cream that reduces and fades liver spots, but I will have to get back to you on the name.

Barb, I love your tips and will use them! Castor oil, huh? Not just for breakfast anymore!!!

And I meditate, but not as much as I should. Been doing T.M. since 1973! And yes, I love love love to exercise. I work out 6 days a week. Cardio, weights resistance, Zumba and I am starting lyrical jazz in January. I walk the dogs, ride my bike, and I skate almost every day in the winter. My husband and I met a couple of young doctors at a wedding a month ago. We asked, “What is the secret to longevity in your opinion?” They said, “Exercise, first, second, and last”. So that made me feel sooooooooooooooo much better about red wine with dinner every night!