Stuck in the Middle

     While the universe christened my personal summer as The Summer of Humble, my husband Mike termed (somewhat optimistically) 2015 as our Summer of Social. We had high hopes for lots of cultural outings and merriment with friends. Unfortunately, Mike's work schedule's been significantly busier than planned, so more often than not, I've been making the trips to outdoor events, museums, and the theater without him. One July Friday, though, we managed to check out the evening music series at some beautiful outdoor gardens together.

     Sonnenberg Gardens (and Mansion State Historic Park) is a 50-acre estate in the Finger Lakes that houses a greenhouse complex, nine formal garden areas, including a Japanese Garden and a classic style rose garden, and an impressive 40-room Queen Anne-style mansion.  In the summer months, they string colored lights along their meandering pathways, and every Friday night through July and August, guests are able to walk the grounds and enjoy live music under the stars. 

     The band was set up on the wrap-around veranda of the mansion, and was cranking out classic Rolling Stones as we arrived. Most folks were sitting on folding chairs on the lawn directly in front, leaving a bit of room for dancing if the mood struck. Mike and I hung back a bit and set up farther out in the gardens where the crowd was thinner but the view was still good. We spread out our picnic blanket, got comfortable in our lawn chairs, and secretly sipped our Nalgene bottle full of homemade margaritas.

     The members of the group, like a significant swath of the crowd, looked to be in their late 50s/early 60s - Four guys sporting a healthy mix of gray, white and balding with varying eras of facial hair. They played just about everything spanning the last half century, and what they may have sometimes lacked in technique and pitch, they definitely made up for in enthusiasm. Mike and I figured that these friends had started playing together in high school and had just carried on for the next 40+ years. I appreciate that.  Nice work if you can get it!

     The band was having a great time, and so was the crowd. Most folks stayed seated to enjoy the entertainment, but there were a few pockets of daredevils that frequently jumped up and hit the dance floor. I got out of my chair, too, but stayed near our spot and enjoyed our two-person dance party. I felt like a cooler, younger kid with better moves, and I smirked a bit as I typed an update on my Facebook page:

     I leaned over and shared the sentiment with Mike, and he laughed and replied, "Steph, you are middle aged."

I had no idea.

Seriously.  When did that happen?

     What constitutes “middle-aged?” The U.S. Census Bureau doesn’t define the term “middle age” anywhere on their website, but their data refer to the group before “elderly” - ages 45-64 - as “the older-working population.” (I’m going to get that on a t-shirt: I’m not middle-aged, I’m the older-working population!) Merriam-Webster.com first defines middle age as “the period in a person's life from about age 40 to about age 60,” but then right below, it offers the FULL definition as “the period of life from about 45 to about 64.”  (The dictionary needs an editor, apparently.) Psychologist Erik Erikson defined middle adulthood as between 40-65.

     All of this is to say, none of this looks good for me.  

     I know this was not a sudden occurrence; it was, however, a sudden revelation. 

     It was a Twilight Zone episode:

     I awaken in a field, full of smiling, doughy white folks in long khaki shorts, solid cotton t-shirts, and comfortable shoes. They are gathered in lawn chairs, bobbing their heads to the music, when suddenly the band kicks into a warbly, non-ironic version of “Play That Funky Music.” They glow with nostalgia, and like one somewhat awkward blob, they rise from chairs and motion each other to the open area. They do their best to inhabit the music with their semi-balanced side to side rocking, enthusiastic shoulder thrusting, and clapping on the first and third beats of the music.  And just when I feel myself recoiling in horror, starting to yell, “Two and four! Two and four!” they notice me.  They reach out their arms to me, beckoning. Welcoming. I look down at myself and realize that I, too, am wearing a light pink cotton t-shirt, and khaki shorts.  It doesn’t matter that they’re green; a wild color can’t save me now. They recognize me.  

I’m one of them.  

I’M ONE OF THEM.

     You know, I actually thought I’d outgrown self-deception and denial, but here I am, full-on SMACKED again.

     And this is so awfully predictable for the way my life goes.  I start to look down my nose at someone else, and I spot myself in the crowd.  There is no getting around it.  I am everything and everyone I judge. I am.

     Needless to say, I got a lot of great Facebook responses that night, but the most thought-provoking came from my friend, Peggy: 

"Silly lady... you need to be dancing and not watching... When you're dancing you feel ageless ... Never mind what it looks like... There comes a time when you stop thinking about that and just do it!!!"

Peggy's absolutely right.  For most of my life, I've managed to march to the beat of my own drummer (while clapping on 2 and 4).  Seems I'm overdue to embrace middle age with that same spirit.  

It's messy...

Yesterday, I finally caught up with a close friend, a woman I love, respect, admire, and always wish I could spend more time with.  We try to see each other for a monthly dinner, but time's gotten away from the two of us.  Life always seems to get in the way of our plans.

There are very few people I like to talk with on the phone, but she's one of the few.  This friend is someone I can talk shop with for hours, because she knows her stuff about teaching, and her excitement and willingness to brainstorm ideas is never-ending.  Her voice is so animated over the phone that I can hear the speed with which she's wildly gesturing on the other end.   She'll stand in front of her bookshelf and yell out titles of books I MUST read - the woman's a treasure trove.  I am so lucky to count her in my circle.

After a solid hour of unit planning, text sharing, and getting generally fired up about the work we do,  I asked about the rest of her life... and the air left the conversation.  Her answer was stilted and obviously uncomfortable for her.

I knew her mother had been battling sickness for a while, but my friend confessed that it's come to the end.

"The end."  The time when lawyers and doctors enter the picture, when plans are put on hold, when vacation time is reviewed, when calendars are cleared for the imminent.  The eminent.

To say the relationship between my beautiful friend and her mother has been complicated is an understatement. It seems the brilliant, generous, accomplished woman I know has never been enough for her mother, and her mother has always been sure to tell her ungrateful daughter how disappointed she's been with her.  That selfish girl moved away and never calls or visits or supports enough.  After all her mother did for her... gave her strict discipline... a good beating when necessary. It must have been necessary.

The hard truth is that some relationships can't be mended or resolved.  Sometimes we have to resolve those relationships on our own, no matter how much we'd like them to be a joint effort.  My friend has been trying to do just that for years.  But "the end" complicates an already complicated situation.

My heart hurts for my friend. I know that the death of her mother won't be the end of the pain, it will be a new chapter of it.  It will entail not only dealing with her own complex grief, but helping others with their own, of trying to reconcile who her mother may have been to others while not being a loving mother to her at all. It will be the beginning of sifting through what is left and trying to rise above.

I don't know how a person does that.  I know that she will, because my friend is exceptional, but it humbles me to know that even with support around her, she will still experience part of this mourning alone... there are personal dragons that must be slain by one.

...

Today I came home from work to find a large manilla envelope for me in the mail pile.  I picked it up and immediately recognized my dad's handwriting.  Opening it, I found my copy of a cover letter addressed to my brother and me, signed by both of our parents.

The letter outlined their most recent estate plan and newly executed End Care documents. I sat down and read through the documents with my hand unconsciously over my heart.  What could be a more loving and heartfelt gift from our parents than to try and make their departure from this world as easy as possible for us, their children?  They've made sure that every situation has been laid out and considered.  They've cleaned up every possible extra mess.  Oh, don't mistake me, my mourning the loss of my parents will be very, very messy.  It is inconceivable to me as I write this.  But it won't be messy because of anything they've overlooked or forgotten or refused to deal with.  They are handling all of their business.  They will simply leave us, and that is as unbearable as I think I can manage.

Our parents have offered us something that is utterly invaluable.  My brother and I have been adults for many years now, and our parents have treated us as such, but ultimately we all know we are still their children.  They are still taking care of us.  There is a logic to what they have done.

How I wish my friend was blessed with a parent who can lead, who can be the strong figure who takes care of her child the way my parents still thoughtfully care for my brother and me.

I am so humbled by their gift.

Not 20 anymore. Not even close.

I have to type quickly, because my muscles are starting to seize up and I'm not sure how long I have.

Do you hear that?  That's the sound of muscles screaming.  I never knew they did that.  They do.  Oh, they do~

I took my first CrossFit class tonight.

Have you heard of CrossFit?  You essentially pay someone to put you into traction.  That's probably unfair, because if I were in better shape, maybe I wouldn't be in such trouble now.  But here's the thing.  I  think - well, I thought - that I am in relatively decent shape.  I run!  I cycle! I ski!  I don't double over after walking up four flights of stairs!  I was sure I could hold my own in a one hour CrossFit class.  Puh-lease.

And then I met Syn at CrossFit Harlem.
There's a reason that their logo includes a skeleton.

The WOD (Workout of the Day) was "cardio," and when Syn wrote that on the blackboard, I inwardly exhaled.  Cardio is mine. I own cardio.

Ha!

First, we ran two laps around the armory next door.  Easy, breezy, beautiful.  I started feeling cocky.  I got this, I smirked.

Uh-oh.  Then we did cardio with weights, and not just my usual 3-5 pounds... no.  Syn gave me a 35 lb. bar with 15 lbs. on each side (that's 65 lbs. for my fellow lazy mathematicians).  I had to take that from chest to over my head 100 times in 6 minutes.  I'll tell you, time has never been so relative.  I'd read on the CrossFit Harlem website NOT to complain and NOT to give up, so I was prepared.  I lifted that bar 12 whole times over my head and then struggled to lift it the remaining 88 times about 3 inches off my chest, but I did it. Humbling.

p.s. The woman in front of me did a full 100 like she was brushing her teeth.  I'll be so sore tomorrow I won't be able to brush mine without whimpering.

Oh, but we weren't done with that bar yet.  Syn had us take the plate weight off, so that we were left with the weight bar.  We had to hold the bar at our chests and go down into a squat, and stay there until all nine of us had been checked for form.  I don't squat that low to tie a shoe anymore.  Every part of me was shaking. I was hoping that alone was the exercise, but at this point, I knew better.  Syn yelled at the other newbie and I was relieved that someone else was the last of the herd.  Terrible, but true.  Thank God for a weaker one!

Sure enough, there was more.  This was our starting position for the next 100. Our next round was to be lifting the bar from a low squat to up over our heads in a popcorn-popping, cardio-fast motion.  FAST!  Syn said to keep track of our number.  I may have miscounted.  A couple of the consecutive numbers in my head may have stuck together so that one lift over my head counted for two.  When I put down my bar after 100, it may have been a creative 100, but I will tell you, I am guilt-free.

Next up. Syn told us to grab weight vests.  I leaned down to pick one up with one hand, because really, what's it going to weigh?  20 lbs. tops, right?  Try 50.  I couldn't lift the thing over my head by myself, especially after the weightapalooza I'd just experienced.  I can't remember the name of the woman who helped me because I was delirious, but someone strapped me in, and we then had to run another 3 laps around the armory.

I managed to not finish in last place, which I felt was a huge coup.  I was so high at the end of the class that my body hadn't registered the impending pain.CrossFit Harlem did ask me to sign a waiver AFTER the class, and I could barely move my arms, but I still felt (or didn't feel) pretty good.

So, what did I decide to do?  That's right... jog on home.  I made it two blocks and then slowed to a lope.

I waddled up the 3 flights to our apartment, B-lined to the bathroom for ibuprofen, then collapsed.

Mike brought home a half-case of tequila and asked me to store the bottles above the kitchen cabinets.  I've never, ever come so close to dropping those bottles, which I must say are the closest things to children that I'll ever know.  But tonight, it was dangerous.  Dangerous!

Anyway, the bottom line is... I'm tightening up like the Tin Man.  I can't move.  I did manage to mix a margarita for myself, and thankfully my mouth is operable even as the rest of my body is shutting down.

Have I mentioned that I haven't planned for my classes tomorrow?
SMACK.