Archive for December, 2018

maybe we ain’t that young anymore”..*

The Day after my 60th Birthday.  (11\11\1958)

I  am writing this posting as I wait for Alicia to come and work her masseuse magic on my back, neck and legs.  Yes, while at our home in Mexico, we indulge ourselves in an almost weekly massage, in front of the living room fireplace, while listening to soothing spa instrumentals. It is a Sunday, so no daily housekeeper:  Ben has told me that he will tackle the dirty dishes in the sink from last night and this morning and not to touch them.  I wouldn’t dream of it:  it’s my birthday week and I am in full “princess” mode.

Later, we will sit in our living room, watching the birds flitting in and out of the cedars by the pool.  It is a little cliched to say how grateful I am for all of the good things, experiences, and of course, the good people in my life.  (My handsome husband is of course the top of that list.)

But its true.  If being truly grateful makes you happy, as current research says, then I am joyful.

Never mind that I have a 14” zipper scar on the top of my head, and a head which, post 7 weeks of radiation, bears a strong resemblance to Mr. Maggoo. Then there are all of the other annoyances of aging that you were warned about but blithely think won’t happen to you:    hair that behaves like a weed which grows where you don’t want it (facial), and thins out where you do (scalp), the skin under your upper arms has a life of its own,  enlarged pores and diminished sight.  To my surprise, my bedside table suddenly looks like my mother’s, crowded with skin cream, reading lamp, tissues, used & new tissues, lip gloss, and alarm clock.

Ben comes into the bedroom to find me crying:  as I do every year on my birthday, I read family stories of loss from the Great War and World War II.  And at 11am, no matter where I am in the world, I stand straight backed, arms at my sides, to observe the silence at 11:00am on Remembrance Day (Veterans Day for my American friends) , the 11th of November.  This little gesture is made in honour of the fallen, for whom the wind blows between their graves in Flanders Field.  (Canadians will understand the reference). I think about the freedoms that I enjoy, and give thanks that there were young men willing to die for God, the Queen and Country.  I will not sanitize that statement, even though it’s not very current or politically correct.   That would be a betrayal and a dishonour to their memory.  I am here, enjoying the personal liberties of a liberal democracy because they are not.

We have arranged a birthday party this evening at a San Miguel Karaoke bar.  I had this idea that Karaoke would be a great way to have our groups of friends mix and mingle, have a few alcohol induced laughs and possibly embrace the microphone as the evening progressed. We are starting off the fun with a romantic, upbeat duet from the 50’s called “Come Go with Me”.  We are Karaoke neophytes, and our single rehearsal was a performance on the stage of a grungy bar/restaurant/betting shop in an Oakville strip mall.  (If you drop something on the carpet, you pick it up gingerly, and with a napkin).    It wasn’t the sort of place where the WASPy tennis ladies from The Oakville Club would soon be having afternoon tea. But the small crowd of truly idiosyncratic regulars was enthusiastic, accepting and I really appreciated that the DJ cranked up the canned applause as we left the stage.  A Star was not Born….but she didn’t fall on her butt either.

“Show a little faith, there’s magic in the night…you ain’t a beauty but hey you’re allright”*


*lyrics from The Boss of course. 

Health Update:  after the bitch, aka,  the tumour, reared its ugly head in the spring, I had 7 weeks of radiotherapy.  Based on my recent MRI, the doctor thinks it has been halted in its evil tracks.  Begone and good riddance!**

**from Shakespeare, 1609, for those of you whom like me, find that sort of etymology fascinating.  


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