Category: Guest Bloggers

 

Nothing I have ever said has caused more of a reaction than three little words I uttered last week: I’m going gray.

Seven years ago, I let my medium brown color grow out to its’ natural salt and pepper. Then after a few years I hit the bottle again. Fell right off the wagon and into Miss Clairol’s open arms. I got my state cosmetology license back in 1978, so I can dye in privacy if I like. I wasn’t even that upset when I accidentally dropped a glob of color on our new floor. (BTW, Magic Eraser will remove permanent hair dye from hardwood without removing the sheen!) Then last week I decided I was sick of my chin length, choppy bob. And so I got it cut short; very short. With that cut came the decision to go back to my natural color.

I got positive comments on the cut. The comments about the color decision have been interesting to say the least.

“I’m not ready for that!” was a popular reaction.

“You’re so brave!” Actually it was more brave (stupid) standing over that new floor with color glopped on my head.

My favorite, hands down? “You look like you’re about 35 on this picture. Let’s see how old you look when that color grows out.”

Well, I am going to be 55 in May. So maybe I will actually look -gasp, choke- FIFTY-FIVE!

I’m not able to understand what is so bad about looking one’s age. And even if I color my hair and that shaves a couple of years off of how I LOOK, that doesn’t change how old I AM. I think back to when I really was 35. The next year was one of the most difficult of my life. Not sure I would want to repeat that one. I happen to think gray is lovely, and I happen to think that it’s not such a bad thing to look my age. Most importantly, I stopped caring what other people think about how I look YEARS ago. Probably when I was about 35.

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This week I said yes to afternoon duty for my friend’s 15-year-old dog. My friend passed away last summer. This dog was her baby, the same as my two cats are my feline children. When the nest gets empty the maternal instinct needs a focus, I suppose. Adult daughters have jobs to go to, and elderly pets that lose their primary caregivers deserve to be kept to their routines as much as possible. Somehow a pet seems like a living reminder. They become even more precious. This “baby” needed some day care.

It’s nice to have something be that excited when it hears your key in the door. It’s nice to have someplace to be every day at approximately the same time. It’s great to have to take a daily walk, no excuses; because after all it’s not for YOU it’s for something else. It’s somehow inspirational (and yes, hilarious) to administer heart medication concealed in a potato roll to a geriatric dog and then have that dog drag you down the sidewalk. One rather small, extremely well loved and cared for elderly dog that has lost her human parent. I think we’re an excellent match.

I’ve never owned a dog. I like dogs; I just never knew what to do with them. I’m learning, though. I have a teacher named Sweet Pea.

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Last week I posted a photo of a miniature snowman being melted in my oven, captioned “Piss off, Frosty!” as a way to say I am ready for spring. (Our snow blower had broken mid storm that day.) That got more likes than almost anything I have ever posted, and the comments were all laughter and humor.

I also posted a story about a mysterious water puddle in my basement and my husband’s and my search for the source. That one ended with him flushing the powder room toilet upstairs, while water rained down on my face as I was looking up at the basement ceiling. Again, lots of “likes” and laughs from my friends.

Then I took note of the people who posted their little challenges as full-blown, stress inducing complaints. Sure enough, the comments were all friends joining in the outrage. These were life shattering catastrophes like not enough foam on top of their latte and the “stupid idiot working the drive thru window forgetting the ketchup packets for my French fries!”  I almost expected to see an angry, torch-bearing mob marching through the snow in the direction of the golden arches.

Lesson learned: Anger and frustration are contagious. But so is humor. It’s all in how we choose to spin life’s little challenges.

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“Do you hate him for abusing you all those years?”

I knew a woman who carried it with her, holding tightly to her hatred, for 90 years. She held it close in her heart until the day she died. I wondered if the same were true for everyone whose childhood memories of a leather belt extended beyond an accessory that held up their pants.

“No. If I were to carry around hatred for him then I would still have to live with being abused every day. I’d be abused by my hatred. I learned to let go and live the life I want for myself. That is how I made it stop. I learned to become the father I always wished I’d had. None of us can rewrite the past; what we can do is to make sure the life we create will some day be a past that our children and grandchildren look back on with love and happiness.”

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