Category Archives: Aging

About Limitations: Getting Older Doesn’t Have to Suck

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In Rick’s family they tell a very endearing story about his grandparents. His gramma, no doubt spurred on by a story of someone losing their sight, decided that in the event she should become blind, she should probably practice. Just, you know, in case.

The dead of night, with all its present darkness, provided such a reminder to Gramma as she woke up and needed to use the bathroom. She got out of bed and, keeping her eyes closed against any intruding glow, she shuffled her way to the bathroom. Unfortunately for Gramma, she never noticed Grampa was already on the toilet, until she shuffled right into him.

I’m not sure how much she “practiced” after that.

One good thing about practicing for bad things is that you sometimes get prepared for things you didn’t expect. (Let’s just say that Grampa not alerting Gramma to the fact that he was already there did nothing to alleviate her ensuing fright.)

No one should like to imagine worst-case scenarios – unless you make your living as a life-insurance risk analyst. And some people do just fine floating along in their everything-is-awesome! bubble. But sometimes it can help us realistically to look ahead to the future and say, not just What if? but When…

As in: When I get older, I’m gonna be okay with it.

I’m gonna be okay when my skin on the back of my hand doesn’t bounce back but instead stays like that when I pinch it. In fact, I might find it amusing.

I’m gonna be okay in the gym with walking on the treadmill instead of running. After all, my target heart rate is going down as I get older, so I’m just being responsible.

I’m gonna be okay when I am so tired at 9 o’clock at night that I want to cry but then wake up two hours later and am WIDE awake. And I’ll even be okay when I finally feel sleepy again but then have to go to the bathroom. STAT.

I’m gonna be okay when my kids want to show me something on their phone and first say, “Hey, Mom, get your glasses.” Of course, I have a pair on my desk, in my purse, in the kitchen, in the bathroom, on my bedside table, in the car. . . and I keep buying them in bulk at Costco.

I’m gonna be okay when “young people” look at me aghast when I reminisce about phones being attached to walls; about sneaking in to work early to use the photocopier for personal reasons; about writing cheques to pay the rent; about how circus performers, carnies and ex-cons were the only people you ever saw with a tattoo; about getting up to change the channel (there were only two) on the television; about how people used to be able to smoke in restaurants; and about not being able to instantly Google who was the actor that played Steve Urkel. (It was Jaleel White.)

I’m gonna be okay when I know NONE of the nominees for the Oscars by name. (Unless they’re from “my generation”.) In fact, I’m Not. Even. Gonna. Care. And if I do, that’s what Google is for. After all, Einstein didn’t even bother to remember his own phone number because he knew he could look it up.

I’m gonna be okay when I have to have bunion surgery. Twice. Because hey, who’s gonna complain about a two-week stay-cation on the couch? I don’t have to get up to change the channel anymore, remember?

The thing about Gramma was that she wasn’t being morose – she was one of the most optimistic people I ever met. Her middle-of-the-night-blindness-practice was kinda kooky, but it was her way of proving to herself that, come-what-may, she was gonna be okay.

And anyways, if you’re awake in the middle of the night, it is something to do.

About Pain and Limitations

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I hurt my wrist last week.

With Remembrance Day falling on a Monday this year, my usual exercise class was cancelled that day. My trainer texted me that evening and offered me a make-up spot in her Tuesday morning class. Since I regularly go Monday, Wednesday and Friday, this meant I would do strength training two days in a row. Which usually spells trouble for this body.

As tough as I like to think I am, there’s nothing like Heather’s Boot Camp to show me: Oh, I’m NOT.

I mean, I do okay but I’m nothing like the poetry-in-motion that Heather is when demonstrating a new move. Performing her routines run the gamut for me from: I feel awesome! I’m knocking it out of the park! to What fresh hell is this? My execution can be more like a limerick than a sonnet on the poetry scale.

Any time I make the mistake of agreeing to two of her hard workouts in a row, I wind up in just a little more pain than I bargained for. I’m not talking about general exercise soreness – I’ve been at this long enough to have moved past that. It’s more like me standing at the foot of the stairs wondering how to convince my knees to bend again.

Except this time, it’s my wrist. My right wrist. Operator of all happy things like pens and can-openers and hairbrushes. It never before occurred to me how important the wrist is to the fine-motor skills needed in pinching and grasping. Administering my daily morning eyedrops? Nearly impossible with my right hand. Lifting my coffee cup to my lips? Excruciating. (I’m not talking about physical pain: I nearly spilled my coffee!)

And may I go out on a TMI-limb here and mention how important a strong wrist is in the act of wielding toilet paper? Yeah, it’s a thing.

Lucky for me, the state of my wrist is not affecting my ability to poke at a keyboard. But it does send me down that rabbit hole of thinking: What if I couldn’t write anymore, via pen or pencil or laptop?

This very painful scenario was demonstrated to me the week before in my writer’s group. That evening we pulled individual prompts from an envelope, which we would have twenty minutes to write about and then read aloud for the group. One of our older members gave an exasperated sigh when she drew: Write about something you can’t do anymore.

Sitting across from her, I noticed that as the rest of the group was scribbling away nonstop, she was writing very little, and nothing that looked like full sentences. When it was her turn to reveal her prompt, it was suddenly clear why: old age had caught up to her and what she couldn’t do anymore was hold a pen and write. We gave a collective groan, understanding that the act of holding a pen and scribbling was an integral part of feeling like a writer.

But.

Does not being able to hold a pen change the fact that she still is a writer? No, it does not. She admitted that she can still use a keyboard. But neither implement is necessary to write. A person could “write” by dictation or by videorecording if conventional options weren’t available.

I have struggled with calling myself a writer, especially for the years when I was writing very little and mostly for myself. But I’m slowly embracing that label as I have come to understand writing as part of my identity and not necessarily what I do.

That being said, while I am able, sore wrist and all, I need to act on that identity and write. Even if no one reads it. Even if it hurts. Even if it’s just a blog. It’s all writing and it all counts.

About a Million Years Ago

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Bill Watterson’s incorrigible Calvin

About a million years ago (okay, it was around twenty – yikes), I wrote a weekly column for our local newspaper. You know, back when people read the local newspaper.

It was a fun little column called Home Front and the essays centered on my life as a mom of three little boys who not only chose to stay at home with them full time but who also morphed into a homeschooler. Of three healthy (read: energetic) little boys that I birthed within four years. Oy.

They weren’t jump-off-the-roof-thinking-they-could-fly little boys. (Although one of them was a draw-on-the-side-of-the-minivan-with-a-rock boy.) But they were constantly hungry and curious and silly and infuriating and they gave me plenty of fodder for my column. Oh sure, I wrote about a few other things but really, it was mostly about them.

After about 5 years, I gave it up. And I sort of gave up writing. Well, public writing anyways.

As much as I wanted to be a writer, it just kept getting overshadowed by everything else: children, homeschooling, our business and, not the least reason, my lack of self-confidence. Instead I descended into my journals and only came up for air once in awhile to submit a re-worked piece somewhere or to write a play for the kids at my church to perform at Easter or Christmas.

Stephen Pressfield, Jeff Goins and countless others of my close, personal writing gurus would all tell me (via their various books on creativity and writing, whose advice I paid cash money for) that, published or not, I AM A WRITER. It’s not negotiable.

And somehow, it’s not. My brain thinks in Times New Roman and in blank pages being filled up. I get excited (no, not that kind of excited) fondling the keys on my laptop. I think about how I would write about some everyday scene I witness on the street and I see the people in my life as characters, not just…well, people. (Sorry, people.) I write all the time, but in an undisciplined, illegible handwriting, only-in-my-head kind of way.

In the last couple of years, the desire to write outside of my head again has been irrepressible. Sort of in an REO Speedwagon I Can’t Fight This Feeling Anymore kind of way. (Or, for those of you who didn’t live the 80s, in a Justin Timberlake Can’t Stop the Feeling kind of way.)

One of the things I have to reckon with is that it’s okay to put it out there. I’m a 52-year-old woman who doesn’t have small children to hide behind anymore – they’re all very big and while I could actually hide behind them, they’ve all moved out. But I still have things to write about. Even if I never had kids, I would have things to write about.

I spent a couple of years a bit unmoored when the empty nest hit me. Lucky for us, my husband and I enjoyed the re-coupling phase when we became Rick & Bonnie again, not just Gil, Tim and Simon’s mom and dad. Because that happens for awhile, or for always, if you let it. But I also had to figure out who Just Bonnie was – aside from Rick and aside from the boys. And like an earwig of song you haven’t heard in forever that reverberates in your head ad nauseum (I’m talking to you Coward of the County), the thing that won’t let go is: I AM A WRITER.

Well, I argue with myself nonsensically, isn’t everybody? Noooooo…apparently not, says Jeff and Steven and others afflicted with this disease. Not everyone is born with this insane desire to spill the contents of their brain, their heart, their guts out for public consumption. Just like everyone is not a reader (gasp!) or a nature lover or a photographer or a lawyer or a plumber or a philatelist (whatever…look it up).

I am surprising myself with this little blog – this will be week 10 for me. I have not figured out everything yet, but I am seeing the beginning of a body of work again, like that pile of newspaper columns I saved from a million years ago.

It’s kind of my blog snowball. When one snowball gets too heavy, here’s hoping I’ll remember to just start another one. And then another one after that.

About the Time I Went Ziplining and Almost Didn’t Make it (Across)

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How cute are we? All of us over 50 and zip-lining for the first time!

Last summer, when visiting with our friends Dave and Lynn at their cabin in Invermere, Rick and I were propositioned with the opportunity to go try a zipline for the first time.

“I was thinking we could…” Any sentence that starts like that from our friend Lynn is a guarantee that she has “plans” – and we have learned to be game and to follow her lead.

On the drive over to Valley Zipline Adventures where we would be hanging our lives out to dry over a mountain gorge, I made the mistake of bringing up the classic early-90s-mountain-climbing-Sly-Stallone movie Cliffhanger. I like to do fun things like that. It’s how I roll. (Can anyone say foreshadowing?)

Specifically, I was referring to the opening scene when (oops, spoiler alert!) someone doesn’t quite make it.

Actually, she plummets to her death.

Some might attribute it to nervous energy. I mean, I was all-in, good-to-go BUT: riding on a zipline does require a modicum of trust. However, I don’t really get scared unless I sense imminent bodily harm. (Like the last time I went skiing and the black runs were very icy and I cried all the way down the mountain. Twice. But that’s another story.)

No, I think it has to do more with agency. If I’m the one driving the bus, so to speak, or propelling myself down a mountain, per se, then my life is in my hands. If I suddenly feel I have no control, then I become a basket case. (Well, maybe another example would be if my husband was driving the bus. Can anyone say back-seat driver?)

But in the case of the zipline, it was no different to me than getting into the seat of a roller coaster at Disneyland and getting strapped in for the ride, which I will happily, gleefully do. (Again and again, please.) I completely trust Mr. Disney’s engineers and safety-checkers. They like taking my money, so they’re not gonna kill me. It’s not good for repeat business.

Maybe it was because my friend Lynn and I were enjoying a chat. Maybe I just think that if Rick listens to the instructions, I will also automatically know what to do. Maybe it was that our trial mini-runs suspended 6 feet above the ground were easy-peasy. “I got this,” I thought to myself.

It’s a bit nerve-wracking, standing on the edge of a very high platform, to will yourself to jump off it, even though I was, so to speak, strapped in for the ride. But that was the only way for the ride to start so, leaving Rick behind, I followed after Dave and then Lynn, not wanting to be dead last. (Did I really just say dead?)

Heights don’t bother me. In fact, they exhilarate me. As I was skimming along the cable for the first time, I made sure to look down and really enjoy the experience. But then the next platform that I was headed for came in close and I heard, “Grab the rope, Bon!”

Rope? What rope?

Needless to say, dear reader, you can guess what happened next. That’s right: gravity. Not gravity downwards, but backwards along the cable. I had missed catching the rope that would secure my landing and my friends watched me now move away from them, going slower and slower, until I stopped somewhere in between where I left and where I was going.

Thankfully, our guide, who was standing waiting with Dave and Lynn, called out helpfully, “This is good! Now you can all see how we rescue someone!”

It’s NEVER been my life’s ambition to be a cautionary tale for anyone. But the fact was, I was stuck until my cheerful guide came sliding back along the cable to begin the arm-over-arm task of hauling me to the safety of the next platform. Which took a little bit of time.

Hanging from a cable several hundred feet above the ground inspires several thought processes: admiration for the quality craftsmanship of the German-made straps and carabiners that were holding me up; humility for my life held literally in suspension; and wonder at what the hell I was thinking when I didn’t listen to the directions for landing my first zip.

One of the best things about getting older is that I have learned to stop taking myself so seriously. There was a time that I would have been humiliated at having missed the rope, at having to be rescued. I might have cried. I still hate to put anyone out, but the fact was, I had paid for this adventure and part of that included being taken care of by my guide. Even if I didn’t listen to him.

I used to let things like this hold me back – the idea that i would look stupid (Look at me! I’m the only one who screwed up!) or unattractive (Does this harness make me look fat?) or incompetent (She can’t even catch a bloody rope!) But one thing life has taught me is that, for the most part, everyone else is too concerned with themselves to really care what I’m doing.

Put another way, it’s just not that big a deal. Sure, everyone had to wait for me. But then, I guess I dragged out the experience so we got more value for our money, right? I was with Rick and my friends, who love me, and were more concerned for me than disgruntled. Which is actually a good strategy for adventure: try to travel with people you love and who love you – they’re more gracious when stuff goes: Oh no.

And, let’s face it, making stupid mistakes is a surefire way to at least remind you not to do THAT again. I landed all of my subsequent jumps brilliantly. You could say that I was an excellent student. Well, you could, except for that first time, when I almost didn’t make it across.

But then, it really wouldn’t have made a very good story.

About Axe-Throwing and Bucket Lists

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Bucket List # 826: Learn how to throw an axe.

I have a friend who recently spent a year fighting breast cancer. The hits kept on coming after that with a knee surgery and that awful-cancer-chemo-fatigue that wanes only ever so slowly. But even so, she kept on going, showing up to our Tuesday night meet-ups; resuming her Aquacise classes and other out-of-the-home activities; and as much as she could, keeping up with her duties as the female half of their dynamic family farming operation. Tired-ness just makes me wanna crawl into bed, y’know? But not Mavis. She knew when to call it quits but she also seemed to know when to push it just a little.

A friend of hers had also recently gone through her own health scare. so she thought it seemed fitting to put it behind her with a bucket list of sorts, a “50 at 50”, the number she had just turned. Mavis (age withheld to preserve friendship) created her own list. The criteria: all items had to be brand-new-activities or milestones not yet touched and all were to be attempted in the year 2018. We Tuesday evening friends found out about it one night as we chatted about what was coming up in our respective weeks.

“Well, tomorrow, I’m going axe-throwing,” Mavis reported.

Oh, yeah, sure, and I’m going pillaging on Friday.  

But, it turns out that axe-throwing is a thing. And not just on some Survivoresque reality show. As I googled a local website, I discovered that the venue also hosts archery games. Ohhhhhhh…now I get it. It’s all about the target and the challenge and maybe just a little bit about the competition.

Anyhoo, it was something new for Mavis. And after all, nothing ventured, nothing gained, right? Except I was hoping no one would lose an eye or an arm. (Because that’s not what you should pay for. Just sayin’.)

There are many things I haven’t done yet. I haven’t kissed a banana slug, like my youngest son Simon. (And yes, there was a “reason”.) I haven’t leapt off a cliff into a river like my eldest, Gil. I haven’t eaten an entire Costco chicken alfredo pasta (serves 4-6) in one sitting like my middle child, Tim. Those were opportunities that happened to present themselves and my boys took to them with enthusiasm. And hopefully learned something about themselves in the process. (Like how much your stomach hurts after eating so much pasta.)

A bucket list, however, is less serendipity and more quest, crafted specifically to enhance, challenge or just finally do something you’ve long hoped to do. If you’re like me, unless you actually spend some time making the list and then making it happen, you just wind up spending another year of evenings on the couch watching House Hunters International. Which doesn’t qualify as going out and seeking adventure yourself.

Sometimes, it doesn’t work out, at least maybe the first (or even the second) time, like my bucket list item to join a book club. But then other times, you get rewarded with a beautiful experience and a wonderful memory.

Like going dog-sledding, another item Mavis checked off her list. Like driving across Texas, which we did earlier this year. Like all the other hundreds of bucket-listable ideas you can Google.

Or like zip-lining across a valley in the mountains with friends. But that’s another story.

About Maturity: Be Boring

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From Austin Kleon’s brilliant book Steal Like an Artist

The great myth about prolific artists and entrepreneurs and people who, in general, just get a lot of sh*t done, is that they are more talented, have better connections or are just luckier than the rest of us. It’s the legend of the overnight success that has us green with envy and groaning that we couldn’t possibly ever get “there”, wherever “there” is.

Sure there are the crazy stories of someone who wrote one song about a pen, a pineapple and an apple and made a million dollars. (Disclaimer: this is all unsubstantiated hyperbole). You hear about these people because it’s so crazy and extreme. And that kind of stuff goes bonkers on Twitter, YouTube or Instagram.

The more likely story for someone who is trying to write a book, start a business or promote their fabulous line of cat backpacks looks like clocking a lotta hours on your passion project. And to the outside eye, it actually looks kinda boring.

“Be Boring” is one of the creativity secrets that Austin Kleon, “a writer who draws”, advocates in his book Steal Like An Artist: 10 Things Nobody Told You About Being Creative. What Kleon is saying is not “sit on the couch and watch TV and never go anywhere or do anything.” Instead, he says that creativity requires a lot of energy so you need to set parameters on the rest of your life: keep your day job, stay out of debt, buy an calendar and use it, and make good marriages – both romantic and in business.

Austin Kleon is one of my favorite authors, but even more impressive to me is his practice of blogging every day. In my short experience as a twice-a-week blogger, this is just plain old impressive. I am finding it an uphill battle to be consistent, to find those pockets of time to write, to Keep Going – it even seems a little well, boring sometimes, compared to a night on the couch watching TV.

But that’s the lie. Don’t get me wrong – I like taking a break just as much as the next gal. The lie comes in when I tell myself, Oh, I can write or do the dishes or work out later. Instead, later finds me still on the couch and I’ve done nothing to move my life forward in a positive direction.

Growing up is a lot about being boring. Except boring might not look the same to everyone. It can look like sitting at my desk, going for a walk, or nurturing those habits that will shape my life like the tide slowly carves out a rock.

This advice from Kleon rings true to me. I know in my heart that the only way I will get those important big things done is by being consistent with those gentle boring everyday habits.

About Adulting: Eating the Crusts is Good For You

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This morning I looked into the bread bag and out of the three slices remaining, I selected the single crust that was left, shunning the two symmetrically sliced middle pieces. (Or maybe just saving them for a proper grilled-cheese sandwich for later.) I toasted the crust, buttered and jammed it, then enjoyed every warm, delicious bite. And then I toasted myself with my coffee and said, “Here’s to growing up.”

When I was younger, much (much) younger than now, I was a cut-the-crusts-off-my-sandwich-or-I’m-not-gonna-eat-it kind of kid. It was an indulgence, I suppose, but my thrifty mother would have saved those cut-offs for the pan in the oven that held all the dried-out bread that would become breadcrumbs for some future delicious use like in hamburgers or fried chicken, which I would happily eat. (So, the joke was on me.) My defense at being a crust-shunner? That I don’t remember the first crust-less slice of toast placed before me – it was all I knew and then it became all I demanded.

[Philosophical side note: Why did I like buns, which are essentially all crust?]

As I got older, my toast and my sandwiches matured along with me. My mother, who still made my lunch for me all the way through high school, eventually stopped cutting off the crusts. And I dutifully ate them, but always first, saving the soft middle yumminess to savor last. Crusts didn’t kill me, but they weren’t my favorite. And then when I had kids, I started cutting off their crusts. I knew they were capable of eating them, I knew it was silly, but like the proverbial story of the cook cutting off the ends of the ham like her mother did, I repeated for my kids what my mother did.

I don’t think my kids have any crust baggage. Of course, being homeschooled and eating hot homemade lunches every day, they didn’t have years and years of school-sandwich torture either. (Reason #512 Why I Homeschooled My Kids)

Sandwiches don’t bother me anymore. (Unless they taste like they’ve been stored in a plastic lunch kit in a locker for 4 hours.) But then there’s a lot of things that don’t bother me anymore that I used to find distasteful. Or hard to do.

I keep my room clean. I wash my face every night. I eat fruits and/or vegetables at almost every meal. I wash the dishes. I turn off the TV and go outside. I work out.  I use sunscreen. I check the weather before I go anywhere. I wear a toque and don’t even care if it’s not cool because: Hey? I’m warm.

Sometimes I wish I’d done these things earlier in order to save myself some pain – like, I dunno, adult acne? (So much for the promise of outgrowing zits, the only thing that made the acne years bearable. “This too shall pass.” NOT.) Or I wonder if I would have been a more diligent worker-outer (well, it’s a word NOW) when I was younger, if I would find it easier and maybe would be, oh, I don’t know, slimmer?

The truth is, many lessons aren’t learned until life has smacked you upside the head a little bit or until you use up all those get-out-of-jail-free cards that come with youth, like a high metabolism or the ability to stay up all night to finish a project. Or the wherewithal to ignore the long-term consequences of wearing stiletto heels to hockey games or the detrimental effect on a bank account of buying so many beers at that same hockey game.

Growing up (or adulting, that chic new verb that used to only be a noun and sometimes an adjective) has a lot to do with making those connections between Now Me and Future Me. They’re the same person, it’s just that Now Me wants to have fun and doesn’t really give a crap about Future Me. Until it either starts to click or starts to hurt, which sometimes happens at the same time. Sometimes it’s a little click like: Eating the crusts on a sandwich will not kill me. Or a big hurt, like: If I don’t exercise everyday, depression might kill me.

I can’t do anything about Past Me, except to forgive her and love her, uneaten crusts and all. But I’ve got nearly fifty years to go in this journey of a century. I need to remind myself everyday that Future Me IS Now Me. It’s like retroactive love and forgiveness from the future. It might be a little boring, like walking on a treadmill to nowhere, but it works.  

Bonnie 2.067

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We Canadian babies born in 1967 are known as “Centennial Projects”, coming into this world in the year of our country’s 100th birthday.

I’m not sure if it’s because of this, but when I turned 50 a couple of years ago, the number 100 entered my mind – as a “goal”, a target per se. I have a tendency towards melancholy on the eve of any birthday but the night before my fiftieth I had a good cry to boot, knowing that youth and young adulthood and even middle age were now behind me.

I woke up the next day, already 50 years old, all my life having recognized that the turn happens in the middle of the night – I was a four-o’clock-in-the-morning-baby. The first thought (well, the first one after acknowledging that I wasn’t dead yet) was: “I have every intention of living to be a healthy 100-year-old. So yeah, I’m only halfway there!”

Think about it! What can I get done in another 50 years? Omigoodness…I could actually read all my favorite books again. I can travel to far-flung places like Egypt and Moosejaw. I can eat anything I want…well anything without dairy or gluten or other inflammatory, cancer-causing, dementia-inducing properties. (Right?) I can choose to watch an entire season of Friends in one sitting on Netflix…OR NOT. Because what’s that they say about fashion? If you lived through it the first time, you shouldn’t repeat it? Yeah, same goes for me with Friends. Been there, done that.

The point is, I want to look back and remember all the good things and even mull over what the bad things cost me or taught me. But I don’t want getting older to be a death sentence where I stop trying new things, stop growing, stop learning. If anything, getting older has hammered home that what won’t kill me will only make me stronger (or, at the very least, won’t kill me), that with great risk, sometimes comes great reward (sometimes hard knocks just learn you real good for next time) and above all you are alive until you are dead. So dammit, keep on swimming, Dory. (Which reminds me, I never did see Finding Nemo 2. THAT goes on the to-do list!)

And so, this blog. Before I turned 50, I said I was gonna start a blog. I had a false start (my not-so-famous one-post blog) and it has taken another two years to start again. Life is too short not to do the thing that I’ve been wanting to do, which is write. Or more specifically, put my writing out there. You know, use my outside voice. You can listen if you want to. It might get loud.