Lives Well Lived

The following posts may be broken into several sections. It is difficult for me to say everything I want about this subject. There are a lot of memories and emotional components that might get in the way of brevity. I apologize in advance and will absolutely understand if you don't want to follow or go along for a prolonged ride. It might get wordy. I am not sure how it might turn out, but I will try hard not to make it pedantic and deathly boring. I will also try to infuse some humour. There will definitely be some sap and for that, I apologize.

There is a conversation to be had about our "stuff". George Carlin began this dialogue back in 1986 with his brilliant soliloquy. I highly recommend you watch it. Not only is it wickedly funny, but it is truly an excellent distillation of conspicuous consumerism. Carlin was truly on the cutting edge of modern philosophy; an iconoclast ahead of his time. 

It is easy to dismiss the things we keep as unimportant. 

"Why the hell did Bubby keep a drawerful of rubber bands? What was she thinking?"

Bubby probably filled a drawer with what we see as junk because she grew up when everything could be used again. Bubby wasn't necessarily a hoarder, but rather an early adopter of environmentalism. She understood the value of renewable objects. Tossing that stuff into the trash was anathema for her. It was her "stuff" and judging it from across the chasms of time seems disrespectful.

There are so many memories attached to our stuff. The Playbills I keep from live theatre performances are of no value. They are simply printed magazines with pretty covers. But when I see them, the joy I felt sitting in those theatres comes flooding back in jubilant waves. What is the harm in holding onto them? 

The same goes for artwork or chachkas that are accumulated over a lifetime of collecting. Maybe you have mugs or little silver spoons purchased during your travels. Perhaps you are a connoisseur of local artisans. If you are a traveller, buying some knickknacks brings back memories of adventures well-spent. Surrounding oneself with "stuff" can bring joy and contentment. I am certainly not advocating hoarding or a troublesome addiction. I am merely looking at the memorabilia we all collect. At this moment, I am having a difiicult time seeing the downside.

Which brings me to the reason for all of this nostalgia. We are at a point in our lives where we are dealing with downsizing my parents' "stuff." This isn't the first round of divesting. They have moved several times in the past decade, so all of us who are involved are well-versed in the task. This time it feels different, more permanent. As such, there are many emotions that need to be managed and many egos that need to be stroked.

As I write the first of these posts, I am sitting in The Southern Home. It is unusual for us to be here in the heat of a South Florida summer, but my parents recently sold their condo and we were tasked with cleaning out their "stuff". This space is filled with memories from their globetrotting days. They were true collectors of local artisans from all over the world. When we first started this exercise back in the winter, knowing that they would be selling, I watched my mom wander around the apartment in a wistful haze. She and I would decide on what needed to go; I would take it out of the cupboards to mark it for removal; and then twenty minutes later, I would find it back in its original location. It didn't matter what the object was. It could have been a broken serving dish or a drawerful of dried-up pens. My mom found comfort in knowing her "stuff" was where she left it. While Toronto is where their family is, South Florida has always been home for them. Over the past three and half decades, this was the place where my parents thrived. Their relationships, their social situations, and their activities were all far more engrossing and engaging down here. They didn't simply visit for five months of the year. They lived here. My mom and my Other Mom would spend weeks at a time here, just the two of them, while their men commuted back and forth between the countries. The memories here are vivid and colourful and the sadness at them having to part with this place penetrates my soul. 

We knew early in the spring that The Husband and I would be the ones to deal with the sale of this place. (We didn't know how quickly we would have to rearrange things in order to fly down, but that story is for another post.) After all, we are also here a lot and we fully understand the importance and magnitude this space has for both of my parents. My brother and I have the luxury of being on the same page when it comes to my parents' and helping them to continue to live their best lives. Not all families are this fortunate, so I will count my blessings. Walking into their condo on Tuesday was heart-wrenching for me. I could hear my aunt's voice. I could smell the cookies baking. I could see my dad sitting at the pool. Thirty-six years came flooding back in an instant. It was a lot of years, and yet not enough. 

Some of their most prized stuff was shipped to grandchildren and beloved families in Toronto. Some were given to dear friends down here. The buyer wanted a few things, so The Husband made some deals. We had building friends walk through and take mementos. We gifted some things to workers in the building who are forever sending items back to needy families in Cuba and Central America. (We also gifted the staff here all of my dad's booze and told them to have a blowout fiesta in his honour.) Photographs were lovingly boxed to be shipped at a later date. We cancelled their phone number. The same number they have had for thirty-six years. We called charitable organizations to take the furniture. And we called the junk people for the broken and battered "stuff". We did it all in five days. Thirty-six years of memories and "stuff" dispersed in five days.

I have cried more than once during this exercise. I have silently told Marie Kondo to go fuck herself on numerous occasions. The Husband has been my rock. He celebrated his birthday in the middle of this week. It is not an ideal way to celebrate, but he has been unbelievable. He has given me the space to work the problems, and more importantly, the space to grieve. Nobody has died, but a chapter of our lives has closed. (Once again, another post.) 

I wrapped a few small items to take home to my parents. I packed a small mezuzah designed by Agam and a small ceramic gator. They will find places of honour in my parents' new space in Toronto. I also shipped home my mom's favourite wine goblets. I hope to have a toast with her when they arrive north. Because in the end, it isn't just stuff. It is a reminder of lives well lived.

He will have a place of distinction in Toronto

Thanks for reading. We fly home tonight and I will continue this series of aging and downsizing when I return to The True North Strong and Free. 

An Update From My 60s Project.

Depending on my mood, I promised you a series of posts that would celebrate or lament my upcoming milestone birthday at the end of the year. In typical Dawn fashion, I have found dozens of things far more essential to occupy my time and writing has become an afterthought. And while surfing the intertoobs for comfortable socks was a massive priority during those many months of lockdown, reconnecting with friends and family has taken precedence over fiddling around in this space or any space online. There are people to see, places to go, and celebrations to attend. We do so with great caution, masks, and lots of testing, but off we go. This brings me to how lovely it has been to see all of the happy pictures on social media over the last few days. Photos of newly minted graduates, happy couples celebrating engagements, weddings, new digs, and brand new babies have filled my timelines. It is a happy reversal from the usual doomscrolling, and with the improved weather, my disposition has definitely shifted. To facilitate my reemergence into the land of human interaction, I was in desperate need of some new clothes.

I can't possibly be the only person on earth who spent significant chunks of the pandemic clad in yoga pants, sweatshirts, and Crocs? It was almost as if my lifelong fashion choices had been validated by seven billion people. Every few weeks, I would slip on a pair of jeans to make sure that they still fit, but comfort was definitely the watchword of the lockdown. And now I find myself in a crisis of conscience. What does an almost sexagenarian wear to a wedding these days?

An aside. How great is that word? Sexagenarian. I am all a flutter at its provocativeness. I realize that its roots have absolutely nothing to do with erotica, but I very much like the idea of a sexy sixty.

Where was I? Ah yes...clothing.

I have never enjoyed clothes shopping. It is the furthest thing from a passion, and I have always been far more about functionality and comfort than style. Also, I loathe trying on clothes at a store with the fiery passion of the seventh circle of hell. One simply hasn't lived a full and complete life until one has had a salesperson remark on the size of one's breasts or the glaring lack of one's butt. These are encounters that have been imprinted on my psyche, and a lifetime of positive affirmation statements won't diminish them. In addition, trying on clothes that countless others have already squeezed themselves into seems unsanitary right now, but accepting social invitations means dressing in something more than a tank top and workout bra. Knowing that several weddings and functions were coming up this spring gave me the "dry heaves" when figuring out an outfit for my figure. So, I did the unthinkable.

I surfed the intertoob waves. 

I can hear the screams of derision coming through the screen. 

Yes, I shopped online for a dress for my nephew's and almost niece's wedding. And, here's the kicker.

I WAS SUCCESSFUL!!

I am as stunned as you must be. It isn't like I'm an easy fit. The options don't exactly overflow when you are under five feet tall, have short legs, a long waist, and big boobs. Standard sizing has been one of the banes of my existence. But, I was running low on options. Omicron was everywhere, and I was extraordinarily uncomfortable venturing into a store. I don't sew. (The Mother of the Groom/aka The Yin to the Lil' Bro's Yang, is the artsy one in the family, and she is making her dress. I have no doubt it will be of Vera Wang quality.) So, I was left with the intertoobs or sackcloth and ashes.

In February, I was in the Southern Home and was taking a cursory peek at some online dress shops. I was looking more for the style than an actual dress. I was stunned to find a shop that carried a variety of appropriate petite outfits that 1) didn't make me look like a dowager, 2) had a variety of colour palettes, 3) were made of fabrics that were both easy to keep and very forgivable in all the right places, and 4) wouldn't make me feel as though I was mortgaging my grandchildren's future education. I closed the computer and said no. This can't be possible. But, Jeff Bezos and internet cookies changed my mind. 

The site followed me around the web to Amazon. It seems as though this shop also has an Amazon shop that carries the same merchandise. They were willing to ship the dress via Amazon Prime with a one hundred percent refundable return policy. And on Amazon, it was thirty percent cheaper. I hovered over the keyboard for a while before hitting send. I figured that I would simply return it when it came and was wholly unsuitable.

The next evening, the dress arrived at my door. The Husband was incredulous.

"You know you'll hate it, don't you?" he said. (Everybody needs a supportive partner.)

I went into the bedroom, slipped off my sweats, and tugged on the dress. When I tell you that it fits as though it were made to measure, I am not exaggerating. It doesn't require hemming; it covers my problematic body areas; it's comfortable; I can wear a regular bra, and it has a bit of bling on the hip. I walked into the other room to show The Husband, and his reply was,

"How did you do that?" (SUPPORTIVE!)

Still totally flabbergasted, I made my way to my mom's to show her. I was confident that she would have some concerns because moms are trained to see the big picture. 

She stood stunned, and her only question was, "Do you have shoes?"

I DO!

The dress is now hanging in my closet, awaiting the chuppah this weekend and two other functions later this spring. 

A lifetime of shopping trauma had led to this moment. It was the most accessible and least miserable retail experience in my almost sixty years. 

There is a moral to this story. Clothing can look great and be comfortable. There are ways to dress without torture and expense, and we women shouldn't have to wait until we are sixty to figure it out. So, fuck standard sizing, fuck hating our bodies, fuck overpaying for an outfit you will only wear once, and fuck others telling you what is fashionable.

Here's the dress.  I promise to post a photo of me in it after the weekend. 

My 60s Project

I haven't written a great deal lately. You might consider that a hidden blessing, depending on your perspective, but the truth of the matter is that I haven't had anything all that interesting to say. It would be so easy to comment on every ill and injustice that is happening right now but screaming into an empty void isn't really my style. If you all are anything like me these days, you are exhausted. I mean, "fall on the floor ten minutes after you've gotten out of bed because the world is a flaming pile of pigeon dung" exhausted. It is my guess that you are probably even more stonkered by amateur hacks like me spouting bullshit from every corner of the internet. My malarky metre pings actively these days. I have wearied of friends, family, and mere acquaintances posting whatever brainfart they conjure and I have yet to figure out if that is a product of my advancing age or the first real signs of my own personal apocalypse. For the sake of my mental health, I am going with the "getting old" theory and I have decided that after more than two years of stunted personal development and growth, I am ready to re-engage with society. I pray to whatever deity who is listening that I don't bore the crap out of my tens of readers. Rather, I wanted to embark upon a year-long project of essay writing. You see, I have a pretty big and round-numbered birthday approaching at the end of this calendar year. I am hoping to record some of my thoughts about where I have been and where I see myself going as I climb that mound of advancing years and slip quietly into dotage. My goal is to find something worthwhile or trivial to examine in pixels every month. As it is now March, I am obviously already behind in this quest. Chalk that up to the aforementioned soul-crushing exhaustion. I promise to catch up so that hopefully, there will be a dozen or so essays at year's end. Don't feel obligated to read or to follow along. I am simply sending out a fair warning of my upcoming intellectual masturbatory tendencies.

As that decade of doom rapidly approaches, I really don't feel all that different from when I entered my thirties, forties, or fifties. Many of my old anxieties still haunt me. I still feel a roiling discomfort in my own abilities that I am certain to never fully shake. I don't want to suggest that I haven't evolved at all. I have definitely mellowed and the shit doesn't hit the fan nearly as often as it did twenty years ago. I have suffered loss and change and I have been witness to great joys. I have come to terms with the realities of life and have found most of them to be pretty damn good. If the past two years have taught me anything, it is to live every day as if there might not be another. It has been tough to do when fear and disease are everywhere and the boredom of isolation has fully ingratiated itself into my psyche. I will admit to thinking about death far more often than I ever have before. When you have lost people to this disease, pondering one's own mortality is an inevitable by-product of the process. I am not trying to be morbid but rather existential. How do I want to live the rest of my time? How do I wish those days to unfold? Nora Ephron once said, "Eat every meal as if it's your last; when the last one comes, you probably won't be very hungry." Do I really want my last meal to be a bowl of All-Bran because it aids in my digestion?

Lately, I have been giving thought to some of these questions. What do those next days and years hold? And so...I am answering one of the many niggling issues confronting me right now. There comes a point in every woman's life when she looks at herself in the mirror, sees the image before her and asks that age-old question, "Colour or grey?

The pandemic has made this question moot for so many. Allowing the grey to flow freely has been a wonderful side effect of the lockdowns. Those roots that cost so many of us thousands of dollars to eradicate are now liberating hues of silvery-white. And age has nothing to do with it. I've seen women in their thirties who are embracing the natural. I am fascinated by their serenity and the ease with which they have welcomed their new shades. They are so beautiful, each and every one of them. I see that shimmering halo of grey around my own crown and as I hope to embrace my inner Gloria Steinem, I yell into my reflection at the top of my lungs...

AH, HELL NO! I'M NOT READY YET!  

I still feel the need to look in that mirror and recognize myself. Call it vanity or call it insecurity. I am going to continue to embrace the colouring bottle for a wee bit longer. Does it make me weak? Maybe, but the greatest part of feminism is being able to choose how I deal with my own body. This week, I watched a wonderful contestant on Jeopardy who was coming out of her last course of chemotherapy. In that first episode, her hair was long and flowing as she discussed her recent diagnosis and recovery. In the next three episodes, we discovered that she had been wearing a wig and that she wanted to show herself with her new growth post-chemo hair. She talked about how sometimes, cancer patients will wear a wig not only for themselves but for the comfort of others. She was insistent about removing the stigma and being seen for all that she is and all that she had been through. I admire her and her authenticity so very much. 

Maybe when that birthday creeps up on me in December, I might try on a new colour. What do you all think of fuchsia?