Author: Bev

This week my partner and I had to overcome mind-boggling sticker shock over the obsolescence of our business accounting software. When we called customer service for help transferring the old software to my new computer, the only option we were given was to pay a mafia-esque toll for an upgrade.

We had been avoiding this moment for months. I purposely ignored the “critical alert” signal every time I opened the software. I had developed a work-around to use it, knowing it might explode in my face any day, also knowing how avoidance ultimately works.

You see, rumor and research had it that the upgrade cost was phenomenal. Also, I use a fraction of the bells and whistles of the old software, notwithstanding the new version. Not to mention that retirement may not be that many years out. So, I delayed, until my options timed out.

A few months ago we got a new desktop computer for my end of the business. My old one ran as slow as molasses. I’m not exaggerating. I could open a program and go for a bathroom break, a coffee, walk to the mailbox and maybe it would have opened. Then I just had to go through it at least three more times to open essential programs just to start the day.

Thus the need for a new computer. I had already transitioned several vital software programs over to the new computer and it was a whole new world. I clicked and it opened; no time for coffee or a bathroom break, just ready to go. Except for the accounting software.

Throughout my months of avoidance, I juggled two computers for every transaction, forgetting too many times which keyboard I was typing on. In several long sessions, we valiantly tried moving the old software with my work-around, to the new computer. By the way, Google makes it sound easy, as in step one, two, three, and boom; but not so much, considering just one little significant detail. Old software, they insensitively call “sunset,” which is tech-speak for obsolete, can’t move into a new operating system.

It’s somewhat like trying to wear the same size and brand of underwear you wore as a teenager. Try it if you want a good laugh.

After we recovered from the two hour process of upgrading to a new system, we both marveled at the built-in obsolescence of so much of today’s technology. All of this is to make a buck off the backs of those of us with no more options.

Don’t you hate it when you’ve finally found a product that suits you just right and all of a sudden it’s been “discontinued?” Oh my goodness. For us, it happened this week with ham.

I reminisce that we used to get a certain cut of ham steaks at the Everett IGA Foodliner at a reasonable price. Before they closed, handing the reins over to a new store, we stocked up.

During the transition to the new grocery store in town, we were delighted to find those steaks in another local store, at the same surprisingly low price. We bought a few for the freezer but sighed a small gasp of relief that this silly little hiccup in life was solved.

Until this week. We went straight to the refrigerated section to check ham steaks off of our list and to our shock and dismay, a new product covered the section where those wonderful little ham steaks once dwelt. I stood a few seconds in statuesque disbelief. What once was redemption melted into a “what just happened” moment of disappointment.

I know it was just ham, but it felt more like cultural upheaval. I wonder why it feels so personal when stores discontinue items that we’ve come to expect will always be available. We depend on them being there.

It’s so disillusioning when you go to a store and head right to the spot where you “always” found a certain item and it isn’t there. You first doubt yourself, thinking you’re just missing it, your eyes are deceiving you. But you look closer, even at the shelf signs to make sure it isn’t miss-shelved. But nothing, nothing.

Even though you sort of know the answer, you check with a nearby employee who’s stocking shelves and they check with their hand-held computer device to reply puzzlingly, “we must not carry that anymore. They’re getting new stuff in all the time. I’m sorry.” Yeah, so am I.

It’s an all too familiar refrain these days. So much new stuff is replacing and discontinuing what we’ve gotten used to and loved. “Good grief,” said Charlie Brown. He’s probably obsolete too.

That phrase, “good grief,” is an oxymoron or contradiction, combining good which is positive and joyful, with grief which is sorrowful and wrenching. It seems to me that contemporary culture is filled with such oxymoron’s. Good grief, good grief, good grief.

New and better products fill the store shelves and upgrade after upgrade comes across our computers and phones. But is new better? Not always.

When new, not better is the only option that we have, we must choose option A, or option “only.” We can stay mad that option B has gone poof, we can grieve that option C is missing in action, or we can go back to English 101 in the school of life and examine the changing forms of the words and concepts, good, better, best; and bad, worse, and worst.

Life is a progression, like it or not. God forbid we should succumb to the concept of progress. Accepting new stuff, whether it’s literally material things or figuratively mental or emotional stuff, it’s an inevitable part of life as we live it in the twenty-first century. Good grief it’s good to be alive.

What started it all? Oh, the lid to the garbage can, situated in my kitchen pantry closet, fixated on staying wonky and I’d had enough.

So, I deemed it closet clean-out time. You must realize that this was not something I woke up planning, hoping, or expecting to do for the next three hours of my Saturday morning; I wanted to work outside.

First things first, I pulled out the trash can with the temporarily askew lid. It seemed relieved to sit up straight while housed for a bit in the laundry room.

The next logical step was to reorganize the dozen or so miscellaneous extension cords which hung on a big hook on the closet wall. There are newish white cords, especially long, brown cords, short, pink “appliance” cords, and cords which we always called “snakes” with a bar of several outlets.

That over-sized hook also houses several yard sticks; one old one, the Sponsler’s Superette one, is missing part of its 36^th inch and another one marked Serial No. N.Y.C. Penna. R-4 is obviously quite old. I don’t know when we acquired these but they’re fixtures in the closet.

Also hanging from little pieces of unassuming string are a couple of 48-inch long “yard” sticks, one from, The Everett Bank, and yet another from the Amana Colonies in Iowa. My husband used to use these for drawing musical staves on black boards back in the day when he taught music theory to eager college students.

These were the unruly culprits which troubled the garbage can lid. I could have rearranged these troublesome accouterments and job done. But, there was too much stuff jammed here and there, to let it go now.

On the pantry floor between the dry cat food bins, the dust pan and the trash can were jammed various large jars of pantry items like mayo, capers, my favorite former IGA pickles, Metamucil, and such. As it happens there is now room to place these overflow items back upon the shelves, their preferred spot.

But the most troubling items which littered the floor are bottles and bottles of various kinds of wine, and cream liquors. One would think we really like to drink over here if you took a random look into our pantry closet. Don’t let your heart flutter too hard, nearly all of those were gifts and most have been in there for quite some time, unopened.

I haven’t touched wine since I was pregnant back in 1989 when I lost my taste for it, and my husband has a glass of wine with a meal maybe once every three months. Thus, the backlog. I’m the cream liquor gal in the house. Mainly in the winter I add a splash of a variety of creams to my hot tea along with some cleansing agents such as cinnamon, ginger, plain gelatin, or chocolate.

What to do with this large, compared to our usage, collection? It’s currently all pulled out of the closet, sitting on the kitchen counter waiting for a new home; where, is to be determined later.

So, back to the hinterlands of my pantry closet. This is where it gets interesting. I pulled out of the very back corner of the space, a lovely three-tier bamboo steamer set, a new aluminum tea pot, a really nice, bamboo picnic silver-ware, napkin caddy, a gallon jug of white vinegar, and two, handled ice-cream pails with lids.

Here, let me say that I’m learning finally in this advanced age, that the back of my pantry closet is not for storage, it’s a dead zone. I don’t think I actually put stuff in the back, I shove it there when I don’t know where else to stash it.

At this point, I’m conflicted, because I might want this or that thing someday but not right now. It’s too cool to toss it. If I give it away prematurely, I may regret it. I have a slight history of getting rid of some stuff and at some point in time, searching high and low for it, and it’s gone.

I made an executive decision to leave the picnic caddy, the buckets, and the vinegar visible but toward the back of the pantry closet floor. The steamer set has been moved to the pots and pans drawer, and the tea pot is visible on a top shelf in another kitchen closet should the current one meet its demise.

So, the back of the closet dead zone has been enlivened and the whole pantry is now much more utilitarian than before. Somehow, now, my pantry reminds me of the children’s rhyme, “Jack Sprat could eat no fat, his wife could eat no lean.” It’s leaner but meaner.

The lid to the garbage can is straight and tidy. I know what’s in the closet. All is right in my storage world, for now.

It’s kind of funny though, that “stuff” grows like weeds in our closets, not because we’re particularly materialistic, and I’m not a hoarder, he-he, but because we might be of an age that gifts accumulate. Let me conclude my thoughts about the back of the closet with a kind of public service announcement by promoting the giving of gift cards to folks of a certain age. Not only are you giving them an open-ended gift to use at their discretion, you’re giving them the gift of clutter-free living and freedom from stuff in the back of the closet.

Hope is an invitation; an invitation to fear that what I want, might not happen. The stoical antithesis to hope is to walk in the present, bringing now into greater focus.

They say the tone of a dream says a lot about what the dream means. Well, in a recent dream I was calm and matter-of-fact in the midst of a crisis. I’m guessing that the stoic, calm tone of the dream is probably a projection of what I wish I were like.

During the day before this night-time escapade, my husband and I talked briefly about a potential crisis we might face next week, given the trajectory of time. He responded to the possibility with his usual, “I guess we’ll deal with it with whatever resources we have when it comes, if it comes.”

I didn’t snipe at him which is what I’ve often done when I’m faced with a “what if” situation, and he’s calm, cool, and collected. I just said, “I wish I were stoical.” In the dream, I was.

My usual modus operandi with “what might happen if…” situations coming up next week is to project the worst case scenario and start problem-solving, now. That’s me. I’m problem-solving before there’s an actual problem.

How non-stoical can you be? I find it difficult to accept that I cannot control what might happen next week. I put up a valiant fight for what I hope will happen rather than accepting that some, probably most, of what may happen is out of my control.

I realize that one of the definitions of anxiety is projecting a scary outcome on some future occasion, which may turn out altogether different than my projection. Still, I suffer from thinking about what might happen.

I was a half-assed girl scout back in the day, but the one thing I retained from my girl scout days was, “be prepared.” I think I recall that “be prepared” was key to scouting for both boys and girls. At least that’s what I gleaned from the experience.

I’m all about preparation. If I’m not prepared, I’m frankly a little lost.

There are good things about being prepared. I read something somewhere, sometime about the strong bond between grandma’s and their grand-kiddos being associated with her taking the time to prepare for their visits with her, and the effects that preparation has on their tight relationship. Apparently her preparation makes a difference.

I also used to counsel former students who were afraid to give a speech, that if you prepare well, you can give a speech without paralyzing fear. Knowing your subject, organizing it rationally, and remaining confident that you are prepared, is key to successful public speaking.

Preparation has its drawbacks though. The process can be physically, mentally, and emotionally draining, exhausting even.

If you feel that you have to prepare for every contingency, you might be setting yourself up for anxiety, overthinking, and unnecessary suffering. Preparation can easily become a slippery slope.

So, my waking wish that I were more stoical, had me practicing its tenets in my dream. I was calm as a cucumber during the most chaotic event imaginable.

At the risk of oversharing my subconscious dirty laundry, I’ll give you the gist of my dream scenario. My husband and I with our older teenage daughter and tow-headed preteen son (we have no son) had been on a car trip to a favorite city in our vicinity.

On our way back we ended up driving through water which got deeper and deeper until we were driving no more and the car stopped running. We had to get out of the car and swim/walk through the water. We left my purse and all of our belongings in the sinking car. Then I saw buildings up ahead of us, and we knew we’d be able to get to safety.

We walked through a derelict part of town, confirming to each other that we’d walk until we found a place that looked approachable to ask for help. We ended up downtown in a gentrified shopping area. I sat calmly and stoically at a long table inside a mini-mall, with our son, who was present but silent, while our daughter went to the rest room and my husband searched out help.

Having inquired as to why I was soaking wet, I told a kind sixty-something woman, calmly and briefly what happened and that my husband was trying to find help to get our car, money, identification, and belongings out of the river below town. I started to awaken from the dream at this point but lucidly imagined that this unassuming woman was someone of influence and could somehow help us through this crisis.

So how’s that for enduring an unavoidable, stressful reality, stoically? Perhaps my wish for rational calm while dwelling in a mind that would studiously prefer to predict the outcome and panic, is a kind of self-fulfilling prophecy or wish-fulfillment.

Do you think my subconscious was practicing raw, rational calm in my dream? Maybe I was rehearsing for the part of a stoic.

Given the merits of each approach, attaining a better balance between preparation and acceptance, is my goal. I’m thankful for my dreams, which truly help to focus my waking thoughts.

I’m determined to defer hoping for a time and begin to sit down with my week ahead, notably with my calendar, and ask myself one question, “what in this upcoming week can I control now,” and do that. If I can control the events of the first day of the week, then hallelujah, day one is conquered. Then, a forward I will go in faith, prepared and accepting.

Are you self-aware? Do you consciously observe your own internal state? Are you one of those folks who recognizes and understands, to an extent, your own thoughts, emotions, strengths, and weaknesses? If you can answer in the affirmative to these questions, you’re self-aware.

When you say, “I know what you’re going through,” or “I’ve been there,” I think you mean it. You’ve absorbed the emotions associated with the circumstances of others, and can say, “I feel your pain.” Your situations may not translate exactly, but your emotions cross over the boundary of exactitude.

Self-awareness allows one to project what you know about your own internal goings-on, to what might be going on with others. It’s called empathy.

Taking this a step further, if you know how it feels to be sad, left out, wronged, delighted, surprised, or enlightened, in other words, self-aware; then theoretically you can “know how you feel,” and extend compassion and understanding toward anyone else. In other words, you’re empathetic toward them. It takes self-awareness to be empathetic, you can’t be one without the other.

You might ask, what do self-awareness and empathy have to do with feedback, the topic of this article? Well, let me start with a Dictionary.com definition of feedback from a cultural perspective, where feedback is “a process in which a system regulates itself by monitoring its own output. That is, it ‘feeds back’ part of its output to itself….feedback is used to control, monitor and adjust its output.”

Self-aware and empathetic people need feedback in order to control what they put out there in the future. It’s not as simplistic as people-pleasing, which is a no-no toward well-being. If you’re self-controlled and self-aware, you don’t need wholly to please others with your output, you need to feed yourself first.

We need to be self-satisfied first, before it’s helpful to obtain feedback from someone else. It’s kind of like loving and understanding yourself before seeking a partner to “complete” you.

There’s some popular wisdom out there that perpetuates the thought that when you’re older, you don’t really need feedback anymore. You’re not supposed to care what other people think of you, your business, your personality, or lifestyle.

I’m not so sure that’s the way it is. I do know that as I get older, I have a lower tolerance for run-of-the-mill, day-to-day BS.

But, in my opinion, genuine, personal feedback about work that you fulfill, kindnesses that you extend, people whom you help, that kind of feedback doesn’t grow old. I’m talking about personal acknowledgment and appreciation for who we uniquely are and what we do.

Form letter, watered down, thank you’s, for me are akin to adding an habitual “have a nice day,” at the end of an insult. I guess a pay-check is a certain kind of feedback; as are sales for the self-employed. But, to me, a psychologically genuine comment of appreciation is needed more often in today’s hustle and bustle in the marketplace.

My husband has the kindest habit of asking the name of service personnel as we go out and about living our lives. He may or may not forget that person’s name, but he genuinely wants to acknowledge that they’ve been seen, at least in that moment. As an aside, most of these people are a bit wary, when he asks their name, thinking they’re in trouble or going to get “reported” for some such sin. He genuinely surprises them when he laughs and says,”it’s nice to have met you, (repeating their name).”

For a few weeks, since I saw a quote on social media, I’ve been ruminating about it. It is this: “the highest form of peace is having no desire to be seen, validated or understood by anyone.” We all want to live in peace, so this is a mouth-watering philosophy.

To want to be noticed, affirmed and understood, and to be left wanting, is painful. Effort without reward is a hard kind of work.

So, I get the temptation to try to adopt existential philosophies, especially the ones that are watered down through the simplistic sieve of social media. However, the quote mentioned above originates in some form with the French philosopher, Simone de Beauvoir, and frankly seems completely self-centered, even narcissistic, in a world full of social and relational humans who need feedback.

The philosophy of existentialism, highlights personal freedom in an absurd world where we’re too often driven by the opinions of others. Existentialism attempts to eliminate the anxiety of people-pleasing by giving back to the individual, control over one’s own well-being without relying on the input of others.

But I think, since so much political and social division controls the environment in our country nowadays, we would benefit from coming back to a philosophical medium ground. How do we do that?

Perhaps we could be self-aware but not self-centered. Be aware of the needs of others without their needs controlling us. Acknowledge that we want to be understood as a prerequisite for connection or community. Learn how to encourage ourselves when external approval and social confirmation is lacking.

In our business letters, I usually add a closing remark something like, “Thank you for your business, we appreciate you.” You might be surprised to hear that quite a few colleagues and clients notice that simple but genuine note of thanks. It is my firm belief that people need to be seen as unique and valued.

I appreciate you, all of you. Thank you for reading.

My reaction to negative news is not exactly “zen.” I’m self-aware enough to know that a negative reaction to a negative situation is not helpful, to say the least.

When I’m faced with a stressful situation, I respond. This, according to mental health wisdom, is my first mistake.

It’s always seemed to me that a response is needed when you get hit with some sort of negative influence. But, the longer I live, I’m thinking that it’s not doing me a great deal of good to react quickly to stressful input.

It’s just not “kosher” to react to negative events in anger or even annoyance. I’m not Jewish, but as a Christian, mindful of our Jewish roots, I learned a Jewish word, helpful when I’m faced with negativity. It’s “Selah.” It means to “pause and think about this.”

We’ve all heard of the infamous, “gut reaction.” My understanding of such a reaction is that it’s when you act almost instinctively to something coming at you from the outside world. You respond without thinking.

However, I vaguely remember from my ethereal academic past that one of the characteristics which make humans “higher animals” is that we are mindful rather than instinctual. We are theoretically better than our gut instincts. We should really take a think break before responding to any major input.

I’d prefer to selah, but I don’t always do it. As crude as it sounds, and I don’t like the phrase so much, but it describes accurately how I react to negative input, or a typical Monday; I get “pissed off” and I yell.

I’m surmising that our usual gut reaction is the total opposite of the mindfulness of Buddhism, the selah of Judaism, and the calm acceptance of “it is what it is” of modern mental health wisdom. One of the definitions of reaction is “an action in a reverse direction or a reverse movement.”

Do I want to be moving in reverse? If that’s what a reaction is, I’m not so sure I want it.

I have problems with the whole concept of reverse. I get totally discombobulated with the reverse gear on every lawn tractor I’ve operated. Seriously, I’ll go around in circles before I’ll try the over-complicated reverse gear.

When I think of going in reverse, I think of vehicles and the rear-view mirror. There is a saying about the rear-view mirror that serves as a metaphor regarding perspective. “The windshield is bigger than the rear-view mirror because where you are going is far more important than what you are leaving behind.”

Do I want to go back? No, I do not.

My husband once had a comical reaction to our British rental car. He exclaimed, “it has no reverse!” His immediate response to the complicated right-seat driver, left-hand gear shift, was shear panic. We laugh now, but it was terrifying then. However, he was brave enough to chauffeur our daughter and me through seven countries in Europe using that wildly unfamiliar vehicle with “no reverse.”

Lord knows, I have plenty of opportunities to practice the pause. But, unlike all of you perfect people out there, I don’t take advantage of all of my opportunities. I react. You know they say that “practice makes perfect,” so there is hope for me yet.

Like Quick Draw McGraw from the 1959 animated television series of the same name, I react prematurely to situations and sometimes come out of it looking inept or foolish, if not to others, than to myself. In the TV show, the anthropomorphized horse, sheriff character, is confident and well-intentioned but dim-witted. A quick-draw reaction is never pretty and it might just make one a horses (expletive), if you know what I mean.

I can confidently say that when I step back for a moment from stressful Monday morning input, I gain perspective. My instant responses are often tempered, not always totally changed, but softened after I take a bit of a pause.

I’m grateful that my quick reactions to negative events are usually private or shared only with my husband-partner. That way, I’m able to regain perspective before anything is “recorded in the books,” so to speak.

The ancient phrase, “look before you leap” comes to mind. It is a tenet of emotional intelligence and good communication to “think before you speak.” Taking it a bit further is the topic of this treatise – “pause before you react.”

I’m trying. I’d really like to earn the “higher animal” designation and stop reacting to negativity. God help me.

A homemaker can be anyone who makes a home. I imagine there are plenty of people who live in some form of a residence but do not make an effort to make that place a home.

Let me be clear that a residence is a physical building. A home is the emotional and psychological experience of living in a place.

Homemakers make their dwelling a home, often through invisible work. Much of a homemakers work in maintaining a home is felt but not always seen or noticed.

For example, while my fellow homemaker was relaxing on the deck, I cleaned the filter in, and filled the cat water fountain with clean, filtered water. I also cleaned the mat and the corner where our cat’s water fountain sits. I’m not sure those gestures will be noticed by my house-mate nor said cat for whom the effort was made.

Are you aware that many a homemaker “processes” groceries? I’m aware that some homemakers simply shove the refrigerated foods into the refrigerator or freezer, job done. But, I’m one who processes food on its way to storage.

For example, I cut raw broccoli heads into florets and store them inside a slide-lock bag with a paper towel inside. Then, I squeeze the air out as much as possible, zip, then store in the refrigerator. I do something similar with raw spinach. This is sous chef behavior, I’ll have you know.

Preparing for visits from my grand-toddler, I buy berries and process them. I wash raspberries, blueberries, and cut up strawberries, put them into a container with a paper towel in the bottom, and they’re ready to grab and include on a “plate” of finger foods that he likes. I also prepare bacon ahead of time, microwaving it in batches, cut it into snack size bites, and “voile,” finger food.

I’m sure my grand-toddler doesn’t notice the work that goes into his meal-prep, but I’m just as sure that he feels it when gammy pulls a plate of his favorite finger foods out of the fridge. Not noticed, but felt.

Did anybody notice that I changed the empty paper towel roll and the tissues, with one left in the box? This homemaker is the one who put “hand soap” on the list because there are no replacements in the bathroom cupboard.

I’m the homemaker who trooped outside, step-stool in hand, to tape some foil temporarily on our front windows to keep that highly annoying male cardinal from beating himself up over his reflection, and from making these home-dwellers completely crazy. I also prepared a box of dirt with mini-excavators and trucks in it, for my grand-toddler to play with even on rainy days on the front porch. Maybe I’ll put flowers in the planter this year or maybe I won’t, but I’ll always have that beautiful soul brightening my days.

This homemaker likes tidiness, order, and nice things as much as the next homemaker. Well, maybe I like these things more or less than other homemakers. But, I totally value the souls who come and go from our home so much more than the structure which welcomes them. So in my list of priorities, I will value the souls over the stuff any day and if tidiness, order and nice things must suffer, suffer they must.

I make the bed. I fold the laundry. These things may not matter to you and good for you if they don’t. But, they matter to me. I appreciate the order that they bring to our home and my house-mate appreciates that they give me peace of mind. I’m not sure he cares about either of those chores, but he appreciates me for doing them. That makes all the difference.

I sort garbage. I know, that seems a little bit obsessive. However, my mom did it and I don’t know if that means something, but I do it too.

We recycle aluminum cans, placed into a designated bin. We re-use our plastic grocery bags and all clean plastic wrapping as packing material for shipping items for our business. We recycle glass, plastic, and steel containers as well as redacted junk mail. We burn paper. We compost vegetable food waste. Once in a while, we send everything else with the trash hauler.

I clean once in a while, not obsessively but not never. I am always sorting stuff. Clothing and household items pop up that are not worn or used and must be donated to someone who wants such things, and which have become clutter to me.

Having a small house, this homemaker is constantly storing and retrieving seasonal items. As everyone in these parts knows, this spring has been a merry-go-round of weather variations. A few weeks ago we had a taste of summer so much so, that I cleaned the fireplace and all of its accoutrements, thinking that winter was done and dusted. Then, we had a week of freezing weather, and this frenzied and cold homemaker pulled all the fireplace gear back out of its hidey-hole, including the todder-safety gate. At least I remembered where I put them this year.

It is not unfair to say that a lot of homemaking involves invisible work. It’s almost like magic that so much gets done around the house, without a thought of the sacrificial effort put into it.

However, many a homemaker has a partner who doesn’t always notice your homemaking magic. But he or she feels it. They know their unconscious comfort and ease, wasn’t provided for by fairies.

My partner, is one who verbalizes his appreciation for my homemaking effort. Sometimes, I remind him of some of the invisible work that I’ve done and he’s quick to thank me and applaud my willingness to do what he didn’t think to do. Would that we would all be so blessed for homemaking partnership.

As wicked as she was, you may feel a bit sorry for the Wicked Witch of the West from the Wizard of Oz, when she cried, “I’m melting,” into a green and black puddle. It’s sad to become nothing, from something.

Melting, shrinking, disappearing, aging, all have a tinge of farewell to them. Sometimes you just don’t want to bid adieu to what was. Then reality hits and the best way to say goodbye to what was is to celebrate what is. This may take the shape of a pity party.

“Pity me, I’m shrinking.” Mind you, I was never tall and that was just a fact that I accepted. For years, as an adult, I measured five foot four inches at the doctor’s office. Then, all of a sudden my height was undoubtedly five foot one. What?

The thing is, I feel shorter, even diminutive, at times. Standing next to my grown daughter who is also not tall, I feel shorter than before. My husband feels taller than he used to, when we stand side-by-side; although he’s shorter as well.

Feeling shorter and feeling older are not exactly synonymous, but me thinks they’re related. Compared to someone younger and taller, I somehow feel less than, rather than equal to, if you get my drift.

Don’t get me started on the BMI index and what that dastardly number makes of my shrinking stature. Oh, and the maddening occasional message from my fitness tracker, “you’ve been at risk of undertraining recently, are you ready to get back on track?”

“It’s called rest,” I scream at that animated device on my wrist! I can’t win with that thing. One day I will do an insane amount of yard work and it yells at me for overtraining So the next day I simply take a long walk and call it a day. It chastises me for not doing enough.

Having studied human development, I’m comforted by the fact that we’re aging from the moment we’re born. However, aging takes on a life of its own when one passes a certain double digit number in age, the exact number which of course differs for individuals.

Some people feel “senior” at 60, others at 70, 80, or not until 90. But I wonder when exactly one feels shorter? Science documents that it may begin at 40 and accelerates at 70.

Many a shrinking spine has bellowed at a toddler’s plea to “play with me on the floor.” When any X-ray interpretation of your torso includes, “degenerative disc,” in your spine, you know you’re shrinking.

I digress, egress or in some way divert my thoughts for a moment, to the concept of sin. Not sins, as in personal shortcomings from a divine standard, but universal sin.

From the Adam and Eve narrative, marking the beginning of time, sin entered the world and it remains our battle for all time. Sin is in the world and we either recognize it and deal with it or we ignore it and deal with it.

However, “love covers sin.” From I Peter, my favorite scripture says we’re covered. We can overcome all that’s amiss in the world if we can but harness love.

So many of the negative aspects of aging are associated with an inherited state of brokenness present in the world. It’s not our fault.

It’s my opinion that it’s not wrong to complain about those aspects of aging that are hard to accept. I mean, people have been complaining about just about every life stage since we emerged from the womb.

Toddlers complain that they want to “do it myself.” Children can’t wait to be teenagers. Teenagers just want to be left alone to do their thing. Young adults have discovered that “adulting” is hard. Middle aged folks have the “spread,” and “midlife crises” to complain about. It’s all part of the human development pity party.

Older adults have aches and pains that seemed to have just started sometime yesterday, we don’t know exactly when. And the disappearing fluid that our joints used to swim in, irritates the heck out of our knees, hips, and spine. Adding insult to injury, our skin, nails and hair are dry, and we’re shorter.

Please don’t rub it in by telling me that you’re the one in a million who is “growing old gracefully.” I concur with you that it’s true and valid that growing old even with all of its challenges is so very much better than the alternative.

Socially, however, we try to counter our natural aging process with hair color, lotions and potions, hip clothes, young-slang, fillers and shots to counter wrinkles and the thickening of our bodies.

So, complain away. But please don’t get bogged down by your complaints or use them as excuses for entitlement or a free pass to whatever you want out of life. We’re conflicted about whether we like or don’t like aging. Maybe it’s just not an either/or situation.

I think it’s okay to have a blooming pity party, celebrating getting older. And please don’t let nary a whisper of the word, “senior” be uttered at my pity party. It seems condescending, like calling a toddler, an infant – “no thank you,” to borrow a phrase from my toddler friends.

I have a pet peeve when a full-fledged older person is treated like a child, talked to like a child, or made to feel childish. We’ve all earned our age. We should be treated with respect for having gotten to this stage, no matter which one it is.

As it turns out, aging is kind of cool when your body, or your fitness tracker, isn’t screaming some sort of new and crazy obscenity at you or accusing you that you’re doing something, or not doing enough, to cause this mess. I guess the mantra of we aged persons, should be to “embrace the mess.” Go ahead and have a fabulous pity party.

We might be living in a world of sin, but we can live in it without living of it. We’re overcomers, each and every one of us who have aged a little bit and been covered again and again, with love.