I never signed up for this...

Rock the Rules

I didn't watch the Super Bowl but I did watch the halftime show.  And the Boss blew me away.

Watching him reminded me of a statistic that blew me away when I heard it the other day in a speech: 2/3 of ALL the people who have ever reached age 65, are alive right now.

That sure got my attention.  What a snapshot of the staggering shift in the population of the planet. 

Way more of us are getting older.  And what we consider "older" is changing, too.  In 1900 the average lifespan was 47 years.  Today it's 78.  With a bullet.

Which brings me back to Bruce.  The hero of halftime.  Boss of the Boomers.

Two weeks ago, he rocked for Barack.  Tonight once again, he rocked the world.

The world was different when Bruce Springsteen and I were kids.  No one could have imagined a 59-year old man as a rock star---unless they had rocks in their head.   We assumed when we reached age 59, any rocking would take place in a rocking chair. 

There were understood rules.  You started off in school learning the 3 R's--Reading, 'Riting,'Rithmetic.  You knew what to do and when to do it--get an education, get a job, get married, have a family.  When you got somewhere near 60, you'd be ready for a new set of 3 R's: Relax, Recede, Retire.

Somebody forgot to tell Bruce Springsteen that part.

He's about as far as you can get from retiring.  And the rest of our generation is no different--rewriting the rule book on retirement and refusing to go quietly into the sunset.  While Bruce rocks onstage, his fellow boomers do the same--whatever that means in their own lives.  Instead of winding down, many are starting up---in schools, new jobs, new careers.   

So thanks, Bruce Springsteen.  For providing a performance that was Super in every sense.  For proving we can all push the envelope of age.  For rocking the rules of what it means to grow older.

Outrage Over Octuplets

I'm sure 8 babies make plenty of noise--but it doesn't begin to compare to the loud clamor over their births.  The blogosphere is buzzing.

Not surprisingly, mothers have especially strong opinions.  Lots of moms around the country write, as I do, for Silicon Valley Moms Blog.  Here's what they're saying about the California 8:

Amy Zimmerman,  50-Something Moms

Melissa Chapman,  NYC Moms

Florinda,  Los Angeles Moms

Jessica Gottlieb, Los Angeles Moms 

Jennifer Kamienski, New Jersey Moms

Alma, Chicago Moms

Jen, Deep South Moms.

Fear of football

Except for Bruce Springsteen at halftime, I don't plan on watching the Super Bowl.  I try to keep my distance from football.

As a kid I thought the idea was for guys to run towards each other and jump all together onto a big pile.  Later on I learned the rules.  Sort of.  But I knew a boy who died playing football and I developed a pathological fear of the game.   I considered football a dangerous and dumb sport.  Just like I considered the guys who played it.

Okay--so my sister married the quarterback of the high school team.  I gave Paul an exemption from being considered a dumb jock---but not until he graduated from law school and became a highly regarded attorney.  LOL.

And then....I was forced to make one more exception.  When I married my second husband.   V played high school AND college football ---thus forcing me to revise my opionion about football players and the value of the game. 

I did NOT revise my opinion about my son PLAYING the game.

Since the day he was born, I whispered my mantra into the ear of my only son and assumed the fact that he was Jewish would do the rest.   "No football, no motorcycles."  I drilled this into Daniel so repeatedly that I have video of him promising he would play baskeball-- repeating in his cute baby voice "I promise, Mommy.  No football.  No motorcycles."

Then the hormones kicked in and the cute baby voice changed.  And changed its tune.

I never signed up for this...

 For 4 years of high school, my son played in every single football game.

So far so good on the motorcycles.

I've got it bad....

....for Barack.

Since I dropped Hillary last winter and fell for Barack, I've been waiting for the other shoe to drop.  Like you do when you start dating a new guy who could be THE ONE but pretty soon you find out he  snores or smokes cigars or something.   Not enough to be a deal breaker but enough to slow the heart rate and inject a little dose of reality into the relationship. 

So all this time with Barack, I'm waiting.  For the other shoe to dop.  But both shoes are still on.  And he's still walking.

Someone called his attitude "Aloha Zen."   Perfect.   He's the calm eye in the storm; the warm  center of a chocolate souffle (doesn't sound very PC but to me the ultimate accolade).  In everything he does, the guy hits just the right note. 

Shirtsleeves in the Oval Office; wandering around the halls of the White House; complaining when his kids get a snow day;  he's so damn normal.   Beyond normal---the way he looks at his wife---could he get any better? 

For me, he did-- when I found out today he has the same favorite drink as me, Honest Tea---even the same flavor, Green Dragon.  As if I didn't already know it, the man has great taste. 

There was one little moment of doubt.  We were at the inauguration on the lawn of the Capitol in the middle of a huge crowd and around us everyone is screaming "O-Ba-Ma!" and for one instant it felt like a bizarro combination Stones concert/Nazi rally.  The adoration was almost scary.  And for that moment I felt like screaming back at them, "He's not THE ONE!  He's not a god, he's just a man!" 

And even though he's bound to make a mistake sometime soon, and the expectations and the hopes are so high....the good news is that after Bush, the bar is so low.

 I keep thinking like everybody must be thinking-- this is a dream, this is too good to be true.  How did this happen in America?  It feels like a sappy movie; it never happens in real life. So maybe it's appropriate to describe how many people feel right now about Obama ---he completes us.

Look or Leap

In our long trek across the Potomac, since the 3 guys were way up ahead of me, I had plenty of time to think.  And it was the appropriate moment to wonder what would compel someone like me, with no advance notice, to fling myself across the country knowing very well that mostly what I would be doing at the inauguration would be to stand out in the cold all day without food or water or a bathroom?  (Despite my worries, oddly enough the only place during the entire day that I did NOT encounter a line or a crowd---was outside the Porta-Potty.) 

Anyway on that long walk I did think about whether something in my DNA makes me seek out these experiences when other people--including some of my own flesh and blood---are completely satisfied to experience these same events while enjoying good food and wine and even a bathroom---from the comfort of their own home.

And I happened to witness the perfect example of the differences in human nature. 

I only had around 36 hours in Washington, but I did get to see my family, especially the biggest Obama fans, my niece's identical twin girls.   And while I was visiting their house, I found out why  identical twins offer such a perfect opportunity for psychologists to probe the mysteries of the human personality.  

You look at this picture and they're hard to tell apart.  The girls are exactly a year old; they both recently started to walk.  Their dad was rough-housing with them--he was sitting on the floor in front of the couch, and he'd put them both up on the couch to play this little game. 

The twin in the pink pants is Ellie---she would get to her feet standing on the couch, then instantly and with an enormous smile she would fling herself like a torpedo into her dad's arms, barely checking to see if he was ready to catch her. (He always did---at least while I was there.) 

Ellie (Knievel) did this stunt maybe 40 times while I sat  on the floor watching.  Her dad got tired of the game way before Ellie did. 

Meanwhile her identical twin Marin was also on the couch, playing the same game with her dad.  Marin was having just as much fun as Ellie;  but she was playing by slightly different rules.    Marin sat up on the couch the entire time.  She laughed hysterically and clapped her hands, delightedly screaming as Ellie hurled herself off the couch, over and over and over.  Marin was looking-- not leaping. 

Finally Marin waited for Ellie to jump off---and she took her opening.  She got to her feet and stood there a few seconds, cautiously hesitating.  Then with her dad's encouragement, very gingerly, she jumped into his arms.  Once.  That was enough.

You could not ask for a better lesson in parenting---one I wish I had learned when my kids were the age Marin and Ellie are now.  That we are all completely unique; we all march to our own beat--- even if we share the identical DNA.

Meanwhile, there is one other lesson to be learned from this little game---her parents better watch out when Ellie gets to be a teenager.

Wednesday Worry

I'm trying out something new: a weekly theme.  Just one day a week--to see if I like it.   

For me, this theme is incredibly rich with possibilities.  I can't begin to recount all the times in my life when I've begun a sentence with the words:  "Do you think I should be worried about....."

When I say this to V, he gives me a look--a combination of a deer caught in the headlights--while rolling his eyes.  This look is a useful reality check, and a reminder that I married a WASP who doesn't know the meaning of the word "worry".

Although I could completely imagine converting this entire blog over to this one theme, I'll just confine myself to one day a week.  I won't confine myself when it comes to the worries.  I'll roll with it and see what happens.  It could be a worry from the past, present, or future---or all three. 

I don't want to scare anyone off.  So I'll start small.

You don't even have to be a Jewish mother to get this one.

I am assuming that every parent does what I've always done as soon as you hear a siren.  No matter where you are, what time of day, your mind frantically catalogues the immediate whereabouts of your children (and maybe your husband if you have a good relationship).  You calculate the probabilities that any of them could be passengers in the ambulance.   And the incidence of worry doesn't totally disappear until you know they're safe--just one of those things that comes with the parental territory.

Lately I've learned there's light at the end of this tunnel.  The end of siren-stress.  It's called the empty nest--and it puts a very positive spin on the benefits of having your kids move out of town.

There's even more benefit---and more light-- now that I wrote about it.  Maybe I can magically limit my worrying just to Wednesdays.  Hah.  But even releasing one little worry at a time--out into the universe--or the internet---makes me feel better.  And lighter.  

Maybe you'll try it--and let me know if Wednesday Worry works for you, too.

Special occasions.....on occasion

Yesterday I wrote a post about birthdays-- which got me thinking about my daughter's birthday, coming next week.  It reminds me not only to send her gift--but it also reminds me that she'll spend her birthday the same way she spent her anniversary two weeks ago.

Alli and her husband Shane are very happily married.  But he didn't give her a gift.  Didn't take her out to dinner.  Didn't send flowers.  Or a card.  He didn't even call. 

He couldn't. 

Alli will be in their apartment in El Paso on her birthday.  While Shane will be in the same place he was on their anniversary.  They call it NTC.  In the army everything is an acronym.  NTC is the National Training Center.  A place out in the Califoria desert somewhere that replicates the conditions  in another desert across the world.  It's where we send our soldiers for special training before they leave for Iraq.

He's been there since right after New Year's.  In a way, spending 5 weeks apart with no communication is good practice for the 12 months Shane will spend in Iraq.  And they're already used to this--he was gone 15 months in Iraq last time.

To Alli and Shane, this is part of the job.  Business as usual.

Because this is what Alli signed up for when she married him and this is what Shane signed up for when he entered the army.

This reality is something easily overlooked amid all the changes coming with Obama.  Because even the end of this war, or any war, will never change our need for a military.  Our need for people like Shane and their families to serve;  their willingness to accept hardships and continue making the sacrifices that require celebrating birthdays and anniversaries and all special occasions far apart from the people they love.

Since they got married 4 years ago, Alli and Shane have only spent one anniversary together. 

To me, that's an unthinkable situation for my daughter who, after all, inherited my drama queen DNA.  But it's not unthinkable to Alli.   Her drama gene seems dormant when it comes to the army and the sacrifices required.  She doesn't make a big deal about the separations.  She doesn't complain.  She accepts that as part of the deal.  She doesn't feel sorry for herself about spending her anniversary alone; and I'm sure she won't feel sorry for herself on her birthday next week.  But I will.

The perfect present

V and I went to a movie tonight and ran into another couple we know who were seeing the same one.  Afterwards we joined them for coffee--and found out it was the husband's birthday today.  

That could never happen with me.  Maybe it's because since cancer I feel so lucky to get every additional year of life---but I require a little more attention.  A little more celebration.  At minimum--- a birthday cake.  

It could be a guy thing.  V had his birthday recently, and I think we went to a movie that night, too.  He was perfectly content.  And even though in theory it should be his right to have a low-key birthday, I find that difficult to accept.  No matter what he says.  Somehow I still  feel pressure to celebrate.   I'm always glad when it's over because there is no greater challenge than figuring out a birthday gift for my husband.   

There was one time I got it right.  Years ago, we had a tradition for his birthday: a  mystery golf game.  V is obsessed by golf, and we live on the Monterey Peninsula which is a golf mecca.  So every year, I would tell V where to show up on his birthday.  And he would find a mystery partner waiting to play with him.  It was always someone he'd never played with before. 

This went on for a few years until the year I came up with the ultimate idea for his mystery partner: Me.   He would never suspect because I had zero interest in golf and had sworn never to learn. 

So a few months before his birthday, I started taking golf lessons on the sly.  I didn't expect miracles;  I just wanted to play 18 holes without holding up the play of everyone else on the entire course. 

This was not as easy as I thought.   Hitting that little ball was so confounding there were days when I felt like giving up and buying V a sweater.  But I stuck with the lessons and by the big day I was ready.   I arranged for another couple to make a foursome--and let them in on the surprise.

It was a spectacular surprise.  V approached the first tee, looked around for his mystery guest---and I leaped out from behind a bush.  The shock of seeing me was enough to throw off his swing.  But it was a far greater shock to him--and to me---that I actually played 18 holes.

My learning how to play golf represented more than the moment---it had future potential.  We could have something to share, bonding as a couple and being out together in nature.  It was a birthday gift that could keep on giving.

It was truly the perfect birthday present---but it did present a few problems.

For one thing, I knew I could never come up with a gift to top that one.  And I never have.

The bigger problem was that this took place almost 10 years ago---and I have never played another round of golf again.

  

Enough said....

....at least, for now.  

Attending the inauguration had a huge impact not only on my body, but on my brain.  It inspired a lot of ideas--and I could go on writing about it every day for the foreseeable future.  

I could, but I won't.

This is definitely probably my last post specifically about the inauguration.  

In fact, this post doesn't really count since I'm not writing anything.  Remember, it's my day off.

Besides, right now I don't need to say any more about the inauguration--other than this:  click here.  (and give it time to load.)

Woodstock in Washington

Part of what made the inauguration such an extraordinary experience is that it felt so different from  other times I've been part of large crowds.  I remember gathering in huge human masses because I was AGAINST something.  A war.  A president.  A policy.  I can't remember gathering like this when I was FOR something. 

This event was all about politics; and yet in some ways it wasn't. In a sense it was as far as you could get from politics.  It reminded me of Woodstock--even though I wasn't there.

It might seem odd to compare a music festival on a dairy farm out in the country---to the inauguration of a president in the middle of the city.  Yet I think the comparison holds up.  And here's why.

I was in Europe during the summer of 1969, and always regretted missing the chance to attend what was maybe the signature event of my generation.  In some ways I think the Obama inauguration could be the signature event of my children's generation, so I'm grateful my son was there to witness it,too.

People all over America heard the siren call---and flocked to the Mall the way they flocked to Yasgur's farm.  At Woodstock, people knew they would not get close enough to the stage to touch or see or even hear Janis Joplin.  The way two million people knew they would never come close to seeing Barack Obama, even on a Jumbotron.  Yet still they wanted, even needed to be there.  To bear witness.  To be part of something big.

I'm not trying to imply that Woodstock compares to the the magnitude or importance of a presidential inauguration.  But it did turn out to be something more than just a concert.  It was a  moment in time that expressed the mood of a generation.

At Woodstock, the mood was peace.  The mood was love.  The mood was coming together.  And that's  what I experienced in Washington: Peace.  Love. Coming together.

In the election of Barack Obama, the mood of fear and anger that has gripped our country for 8 years seems to have vanished overnight.  At least for now.

I'm a classic worry wart.  As I stood surrounded by a crush of thousands of people, I would have expected to feel a little threatened.   Or nervous I could get caught up in one of those riots at soccer games or sports events when dozens of people get trampled.  

On the surface there was reason to worry. I was part of a mob---while nowhere in sight was a cop, a soldier or even an official volunteer.  No ropes.  Not even  a traffic cone. There were just people.  Lots of them.

But no one was rioting.  No one was trampling.  No one was shoving.  Instead, they were talking.  They were smiling.  They were singing.   Everything from Beatles songs to America the Beautiful.

I've traveled all over this country and seen all its most beautiful sights.  Yet  I've never seen anything to compare with what I saw in Washington that better defines America the Beautiful.

The problems at Woodstock became legend---not enough toilets, the lack of creature comforts.  The problems at the inauguration are already becoming legend--people with tickets shut out of the gates, people shut out of the Metro stations.   But you don't hear of people getting hurt.  Or violent.  In Washington this week, despite monumental logistical glitches, people handled things calmly.  Everyone, everywhere was happy.  Mellow. 

Of course everyone was mellow at Woodstock--they were all high.  Even for those who hadn't taken any drugs, there was probably enough stuff they were breathing in the air.

The same was true in Washington.  At the inauguration of Barack Obama, all you had to do was breathe the air--to be instantly intoxicated.  Just like people were high at Woodstock--In Washington, people were high-- on hope.

Cross-posted at Midlife Bloggers