Late Bloomer Blog

I’ve always subscribed to the theory that your dreams are an extension of what you deal with in your daytime life.

Case in point: My daughter had what I call a nightmare the other night. I was sitting on a the knee of a tall, large man. When she came closer she realized that this man was a zombie. The zombie and I were laughing and talking, generally good  time.

Believe!

First my daughter was annoyed because she hasn’t given me permission to date and by the way me and Mr. Charm were acting, our infatuation was obvious.   

She tried to get me away from him but I wouldn’t pay attention to her distress.  Suddenly, Mr. Zombie  leans over and takes a big bite out of my leg.

Wonder if he minded the nubs on my thigh?

Imagine!

The very next day, I’m telling this dream to a friend who then shares with me a freaky nightmare she’d just had. 

My friend was being chased by an extremely strong,  sex-crazed lunatic who eventually caught her.  When he pinned her down, the only part of his body she could get to was his arm. She turned her head to take a chunk out his flesh but when she sunk her teeth down, his arm turned into a stalk of celery.

Now my point is proven. My daughter’s dream is an off-shoot of the fact that she’s afraid I’ll get married again. I try to assuage her worries by telling her that A) I have not dated since my divorce, B) I have no intentions of dating, C) I have no time whatsoever and D) the last time I walked down the aisle, - a marriage ceremony still followed at least one “date.” 

No matter, my poor daughter is so disolussioned that she believes that all men (even blind men  a block away who don’t notice me) find me extremely attractive and want to date me. Hardly! 

All this proves my theory: dreams are on off-shoot of your daytime life.  Both my daughter and friend and friend know about my cat, Basher who last week had his arm ripped open in three spots as the result of losing a fight.  I suspect the winner was a racoon or a zombie. But I have no proof. 

My friend says her dream has nothing to do with my kitty. Could the celery in her dream mean that she was thinking about dieting? Maybe she’s been thinking about buying new running shoes? Could the real monster in my daughter’s nightmare really be my hairy legs that never fail to gross her out?  

Dream!

Anyway, I had a dream last night that mirrors my daytime life.  My birthday (dirty word) was last week. I didn’t remember that I needed to renew my license until the day before. Well, by the time the day (dirty word) arrived, my TO-DO list was a mile long.

Subsequently, I forgot  to go to the DMV. Ever since I realized that I am now living the life of a law breaker, I’m worried about how much the $28 fee will be jacked-up with late charges.  All this was worked out in my nightlife,  when I dreamed that I finally made it to the DMV where I was charged $88 delinquency fees.

Wish!

Now, in my hunble opinion, when you start dreaming about impending late-fees and TO-DO lists, you need to slow it down a notch and make  time to shave your legs!

WOMEN WHO ROCK!!!

I love the spirituality and wisdom of older women. One of the many quests I’d like to complete, involves a serious study of what women have to teach me.  You can not listen to the coporate media or watch television without witnessing how cruel our society is to women; especially women over 50. 

Women get old and seem to disappear from our national conscience. Men get distinguished, gray and wise. Once a woman gets passed child-bearing years, she’s considered unimportant.  

Time is just as harsh as our culture. But does aging mean we have to lose all the excitement that makes us who we are? The message our society sends is that older females are uninteresting and have nothing to offer society.

Ok, so maybe you hear about one older woman here and another there because good genes have allowed them reach the age of 102. They will be like some freak anomaly. You’ll see a photo of her in front of a birthday cake and you know everyones wondering what she’d going to do with the lit candles. 

I’ve often wondered if I was born an “old” soul as I’ve always enjoyed the company of older people. My first go-around at college, I was 19 with three trusted friends who ranged between the ages of 42 and 65.  Each of these women taught me important life lessons. 

Lovely!

Acorean-born Ligia, attends the regular dances at the SES Portuguese Hall in Santa Clara as often as she can. This lady was so adorable, I was immediately drawn to her.   We giggled through a haze of loud music and had a great time.   

Ligia is a hairstylist who lives alone and displays wonderful fashion sense. She shows up looking beautiful with gorgeous jewelry and accessories. The fact that Ligia’s a fashion plate, is not what impresses me. What does impress me is the fact that she cares enough about herself to take the time.  

Precious!

Many times, I’ve thought, “Forget it. I’m too damn old. No amount of makeup will make me look better.” Bouts of  depression would then include me feeling sorry for myself, where I’d wear clothes as charming and flattering as plaid sleeping bags.  No disrepect to sleeping bags.

I’m not Madonna, Nicole Kidman or Sharon Osborne. I won’t be getting plastic surgery. I have to make the best of what I’ve got, no matter how displeased I may be with those attributes. 

And then there’s Vivian, a lady who owns a beauty supply store on El Camino Real. Vivian is a member of Santa Clara’s Soroptimist’s Club. She used to have a chain of beauty supplies and also was a hairstylist.   

“I’d like to interview you,” I said to Vivian the day we met. “Are you at your store everyday?”

“Sure,” Vivain replied. “But you have to get there early to catch me.”

Of course. I should’ve known that a woman with Vivian’s verve would be hard to catch.  This lady laughed when I asked her age and revealed that she’s the designated driver among her same-age friends. 

At 5 ft. 8 inches, Vivian towered over me with a straight as a board spine. She was a vision of serenity and grace in white slacks and an aqua short-sleeved top. I think she ever wore low-heeled shoes.

Laura is a  local community leader. There’s much I need to find out here.   

Now, I’ve always loved makeup. Hate to leave the house without it. But the fact that these women wear makeup is not what intrigues me.  What I get a kick out of is that they still get a kick out of life. Wearing makeup is simply one way they show it.

These women have goals and keep on going. That’s what I admire!   

I’m getting questions together for a story: Were you always optimistic? Were you always like this? Did you have a life-changing event? What was your mother like? What are your friends like? What does your family think? Do they tell you to act your age? What’s your philosophy of life?  

At this point, it appears that most of the women I’ve found to interview  are all beauticians.  An old throw-back word my childhood! But I don’t believe this line of work is a necessary commonality that keeps some women interested in life.  By the time I get the interviews together, I expect to have lots more questions.

Are there any questions you’d like me to ask?

Yesterday was an interesting day.  I sat with a group of people in a  beautiful garden and ate delicious food. 

To my right sat Laura, an adorable 83-year-old newlywed. You, read that right. Laura and her long time  beau just married two weeks ago at a beach ceremony.  And I’m delighted to say that her cheeks still glow.

Yum!

I had to laugh when Laura tried to turn me on to the thrills of dating.  It only took a few minutes for her to realize that I am truly happy  with my lifestyle.

But it did do my heart good to see a sweet elderly lady dressed up nicely and happily holding hands, posing for photos with her new husband.   

As my birthday approaches, I need to remind myself that there’s no age limit to happiness.

 And like Laura says, “Age is just a number.”

My friend and mentor Mia influenced me into acquiring a new hobby in 2002. Reading obits (obituaries). Now, before you tell me I’m warped, I will explain that reading obits can be a lesson on life.

First, I met Mia through WWW.COMPASSIONATEFRIENDS.ORG  a volunteer group of parents who’ve lost children. They offer support to other parents who’ve lost children. 

I was truly able to be myself with Mia. I never measured my words or actions. Finally, I had permission to simply “be.” Mia will always be an angel to me. She called almost every day for two years, much longer than she’d done with other CF’s members.  Sometimes she’d bring minestrone soup, books, candles,  anything she thought I might like.  This lady I barely knew, became a regular visitor to my home and my lifesaver. She even brought little gifts for my daughter, Britt.

Free

The first and most important thing Mia said was, “Breathe.”

My family and friends stopped grieving. I became a drag to them, but not to Mia.  Sometimes we’d just sit silently. When I tried to sell the dolls I’d made, she bought some and tried to pass the word around. Mia gave me so much emotional and practical support.

When my husband started cheating I’d call Mia. Somehow  she  deciphered my  words through heavy sobs and streams of tears.   

According to Mia a disservice occured when people stopped wearing black for mourning and started wearing it as a neutral everyday color.  “It used to be a signal,” she said. “And people would treat you with extra kindness if you were in mourning.”  

Peace

Mia lost her 17 year-old son to a mysterious virus that doctors couldn’t explain.  She said that how I dealt with my loss was my own personal choice. What I chose to do on my daughter’s anniversary was my choice as well. Words I chose to tell the story were mine to pick too.   She gave me permission to “please” only myself.  Nobody else understood my new-found dread of holidays. That was normal, Mia said.

“It’s backwards. You try to protect your child with your life. Parents are supposed to die first,” she said

Well, the reason  I went into this long diatribe was to say that I got back to reading obits today.  Mia reads obits too. She looks at the photos. Reads the stories and says a prayer for the grieving families.

I love to see the “young” and “older” photos of people side-by-side. I love to read their stories and imagine what type of person the world just lost.  What lessons did they learn about life?  Did they have regrets?  Obits are written by someone else, sometimes a newspaper staff writer. What would they say was the high point of their life? 

 Some stories are intriguing and others are awe-inspiring.  And sometimes, truth is more interesting than fiction.   

One day after two or three years of serious-handholding, Mia said, “I’ve never spent this long with a member before.”

And that’s when I knew that it was time for Mia to save someone else’s life. I haven’t heard from her since.  And that’s okay. She’s got an awful lot of wounded parents out their who need healing.