Clothes Woes

I have entered a stage of being a grown-up where clothing has become a real difficulty. I've never been big into clothes. My desire to sneak through life unnoticed means I gravitate towards plain, casual clothing. No bright colors, tassels or rhinestones. I do not want you to look at me. I do not want you to know I exist.  Where does this come from, you wonder? Teenage boys. But that's another post.

Something has happened whereupon thin, breezy fabrics suddenly look obscene on me. This has prompted lengthy, genuine consideration on my end, because I can’t make sense of it. My frame is not different. It is not a matter of girth or thinness, short legs or a long torso. Structurally, nothing has shifted. And yet, something is different. Is it the “soft” skin that was once unknowingly pulled tight? What does that have to do with how polyester drapes across my shoulders? Why do I look cheap all of a sudden? This is the real question. Is this why older women gravitate towards dense corduroy and shapeless tweed? Do we need to be propped up by our clothing?

But I hate thick fabrics and multiple-shirts. I do not want to feel bound in my clothes. I hate “winter layers” twisting around opposite each other in the sleeves of my coat. I hate the restricted movement of coats, the bulk of cozy sweaters, socks oozing under my heels.

Brett doesn’t like most of my clothes and in his defense, I bought most of them in college. They got me through undetected back then, but by now they are even more schlubby. He has taken it upon himself to occasionally purchase fresh garments for me as gifts (for himself). I like when he does this because I’m too stingy to buy nice clothes and he is, admittedly, higher-brow than I am. The problem we've run into when it comes to dressing a skinny woman in her mid-thirties is that the options fall into two categories with a lackluster in-between. The first category offers the affordable, flammable options that suit perky college girls who look cute in cheap, little clothes. They look cute because they are young and poor and are having a great time deciding what they want their lives to be. We are excited for them. How cute she looks in a pineapple print skirt and strappy halter top. Truly! Adorable and fun! 

But I can’t shop there. What once looked adorable and fun, now looks like lost dreams and sadness. Brett says I’m being too harsh about this, but that's because he wears man-goggles that only see the big picture. It’s a little like being presented with the aging hookers you see in movies. It’s all a jarring and irksome contrast even when, structurally speaking, the lady can pull it off.

Can I look cute in a short skirt? Sure, of course! But “floucy” just looks wrong these. There’s nothing flouncy about middle age. That short skirt needs some structure now. Which is a bummer.

Ok fine, let’s go shop in the Industrial Strength section. But that doesn't work either, because designers suggest that if you are not in your early twenties, you must have a hideous shape that should be hidden from the world. There is no way you have toned limbs and a small waist. No, you most certainly need extra room in those pants. Make that cotton extra thick so we don’t get a glimpse of any curves, and while you're at it, make sure the zipper section sticks out a bit to really accentuate the soft part of her gut. 

My options seem to be Forever 21 or Partly in the Grave, and there is no in-between. I’ve been discussing this with my friends and the consensus is mixed but that's only because my friends are gay and they like the hefty, shapeless clothes one might wear while rock climbing. My other friends are moms, and it’s dicey territory to say what looks good on them because I realize they have a whole new shape sometimes - but a lot of them don’t. They look just like they did before several small humans burst forth from their bodies, so I don't know why so many of them resign themselves to the frumpy options from the aforementioned graveyard collection. (And for the record, what you wear at home doesn't count. Checking emails, wrangling dogs and kids, all that behind the scenes stuff, that's about comfort and warmth. This is not the same at preparing oneself for visual representation.)

So where do those in-between shop? If you ask people they’ll send you to a handful of places with “classic pieces” that I don't like; pants that don’t reach further than the ankle, button-ups with stiff collars, jeans from the 90s. I’m confused by those that think this looks good while also acknowledging that what I wear, which is not this, also doesn't look good. Is it simply that I just don't like clothes? For someone who doesn't like clothes, I sure have a lot of opinions about them. Is the reality just that I can’t afford the clothes I do like? Mom told me early on that I have expensive taste. But also, mix in the fact that I live in a beach town, so anything fancier than smart casual looks like you're lost, snobby, or trying too hard. I wish it wasn’t true but it is. I don’t make the rules. 

But also, and here's the biggest thing to consider: who cares?

Certainly not me, right?

Here I am with Ellie who looks effortlessly cool no matter what she has on. You can't get a good look in this picture but Brett refers to the pants I'm wearing as my 1940's lumberyard pants. "You on shift today?" he asks when I come out in them.

HonBons: And Other Cup-Filling Things

A brief visit to Topsail Island resulted in chaos; laugher, heartbreak, rivalry - it had it all. A real Hollywood blockbuster. Lollie and Don rented a house for about a month with a revolving cast of characters coming and going throughout the weeks. We were up for week two-ish, so Mom, Dad, and I came busting in ready to party.

As usual, we were received with HonHugs.™ These are special, meaningful hugs that say things you would be too embarrassed to say out loud in such tough, capable company. There was a quick distribution and cataloging of snack foods before we settled in to commence the storytelling. We began by discussing aches and pains, my debut into perimenopause, assorted grandchildren, upcoming plans, things that have gone awry since our last meeting, Dad and Laurie's shared enthusiasm for Aldi grocery stores, business ventures, recipies and medication-induced senility. Then we ate cookies.

We had overcast skies during our visit, so our time on the sand consisted of two beach walks that only the women participated in. Who knows what the Papas got up to while we were gone - though I do think naps were involved. Though not unheard of in previous HonUnions, the ready acceptance of pausing the fun for afternoon naps is a sign of the collective aging of the clan. 

In addition to the snacking and happy chatter, we played lots of Shanghai, admired the sunsets, spent long stretches watching a small, digital frame of Lollie and Don's family photos, and we doted on an ailing Gus. 

Ol' Gus was having some trouble with his back legs. It was a new, fairly sudden thing, and we could see it getting worse in real time. It was hard for him to move and hard to help him move. Lollie covered the floor in yoga mats to help him keep his footing. Papa Don helped him up and down the stairs. Gus didn't want to be left alone and struggled to help himself to what he needed. It was tough to watch, and worse to do research on it and realize that it was likely going to get worse quickly. I felt guilty being in Lollie and Don's space while they prepared for the incoming heartache. They'd just lost their other pup, Doc, three weeks ago. This is completely unfair.
But as I mentioned, they are tough capable people, so whether they wanted to or not, they just kept moving forward.

There's no telling what I said to earn this classic Don expression.

On our last evening we had the quintessential HonUnion experience. In once fell swoop, we all developed the giggles and played a bleary-eyed game of Mexican Train. We laughed at the music, laughed at the commentary delivered in regional accents, laughed at our fairly unanimous determination to keep Dad from winning. We became slaphappy, too sleepy to keep playing, too amused to quit. We made concessions to make the game a little shorter, and each time, Don would sneak in a different starting point that would prolong the game. We'd all groan and complain, but immediately accept the news and continue playing.

In their delirium the parents become terribly amused by all the ways their bodies are failing them. They laughed about things they can no longer do, as if that's funny at all. Then they laughed that I was next. "You know what else Aldi has great prices on?" someone would say, as if the previous comments on painful mobility was a minor bother. They'd argue over who's turn it was, no one remembering where we were in the game. "Who sings this song?" someone would ask, and then an argument would take place.
Moment's later you'd hear, "Isn't it my turn? You just went!"
"No I didn't... did I?"
There would be random outbursts of joining the chorus of the song playing, Don was quietly mumbling "turd" every 10-15 seconds, and a few times, Dad let out a singsong "maaww" sound for no reason. It was like being at the old folks home at sundown.

Speaking of, here are our attempts at a family photo.

Our departure the next morning was reluctant. We had a final round of breakfast foods and hot beverages, and then debated which snacks to bring home and which ones to leave for the family. Will n' Katie n' family were coming up next, so Dad left them his Halloween-themed Oreo's and other snacks that no one wanted themselves to eat but couldn't turn down.
We received our goodbye HonHugs™and piled into the car in that post-fun stupor. As usual, it was a soul soothing visit, a selfish filling of the cup. Even getting a preview of life tending to "the dementia ward" didn't put me off, so you know I'm in deep. 

The next day we got the news: Gus took a dramatic turn and went on home to find Doc.
Here's to Big Happy and the joy he effortlessly created.

A Nick and Liv Appreciation Post

I really like my niece and nephew. I really like my four other nephews too, but of course they belong more to the Eisenhauer clan and I don't see them as often so my preference to ridicule, harass, and spontaneously pants small children would seem odd in non-blood company. 

I noticed the other day, after shoving Livvy sideways onto the sofa, that I might be treating her more as a little sister than a precious niece. I never had a little sister you know, but I was one (and still am), so the only lessons I learned on how to treat precious little ones came from bruiser Ellen who did not regard me as precious at all. She hit, slapped, shoved, and pantsed me, and now I find myself doing this to Liv when I want her to pay me some attention. Livvy is so bright and patient and cheerful that she seems to enjoy the abuse as much as I do. 

Nick is more sensitive to my play ridicule, so I stopped that immediately. Could you imagine being mean to a precious little one? 

Several Sundays ago at family dinner, I cut through the living room and saw that Nick and Liv were watching a monster truck race on tv. The contrast tickled me: sweet, gentle, delicate little children watching multiple roaring machines crushing other clumps of metal for a raucous crowd. 

"Why are y'all watching that?" I asked.

"It's Monster Jam." Livvy said.

"What's that?"

"That's Sparkle Smash," she responded, referencing the truck zooming by. "She's a unicorn."

"Sparkle Smash? You know their names?" I guffawed. The camera cutaway to another truck waiting it's turn.

"Dat's gwave digga," Nick informed me.

"Grave Digger? Since when do y'all watch monster trucks?"

"We love da twucks!" Nick responded.

I recalled a monster truck rally I attended as a little girl and I remember finding it too-loud and excessively destructive. I remember thinking of the waste of it all when I was in elementary school. I'm tickled in particular by Livvy's interest.

Back in the dining room, I said to Ellen, "Your kids are watching a monster truck rally."

"Oh yeah!" she said enthusiastically, "They love the trucks. The rally comes here in March. We're going to take them to see it. They're so excited."

Later in the evening, Nick came rushing into the dining room with an urgent request. I don't remember what he said. It was something in the realm of needing someone to change the channel for him, but his deep sincerity mixed with his winsome lisp made us all bust out laughing. His expression melted from wide-eyed urgency to bashful amusement and he revealed the gap in his teeth with a big smile and then brought his ear to his shoulder. 

It don't think it's possible for him to be any cuter.

Meanwhile, Liv is a big kid that knows things, and even explained a trendy jargon phrase for me. She's already more plugged in than I am. I love hearing about what goes on at school and what she likes and what she doesn't like. She has girlfriends she hangs out with and references, and I would love to sit in on their discussions.

I spend a lot of time thinking about what Nick and Liv will be like as teenagers, and twenty somethings, and then spouses and maybe parents. I wonder what sorts of innovations will emerge that they will adopt with the effortlessness that we took on cell phones. I wonder about the future of social media and traditional media and if there will be enough fresh water left when they are old, or if they'll have to go back to boiling salt water on the stove first. Who knows. 

What sorts of jobs will they have and will they be good employees or the not-so-reliable but charming, beloved ones we've all shared a shift with? Which one of them will inherit Lee's gift of gab and impressions or Ellen's sense of urgency to complete any given task? Will they work hard to be kind even when it's not worth the trouble?

Oh I love to think about it. There is so much potential and so much good hoping to look forward to.

End of Summer Bits

As we rounded out our summer weeks, our weather turned delightful - the kind of delightful that makes you feel suddenly capable of life’s toughest challenges, like cleaning out the workshop, getting a jump start on your taxes, or eating one less cookie after dinner because crisp air reminds you that life is worth jumping into. You should keep spry and fit. Do you think that’s why those Scandinavians are so progressive? This crisp, hopeful air? 

I have a reptilian love for the hot weather, so I’ll rarely complain about it hindering my enthusiasm, but after months in the nineties, the seventies almost tickle your skin. I’ve also noticed that this kind of Hawaiian weather can fool you into thinking that you want to do things you don’t actually want to do - like move into an bungalow in a schlubby part of town where you could afford to buy a house without needing a mortgage. Because in this weather, even 

The Hood feels picturesque and well worth the savings. “This weather is dangerous.” I told Brett, and he agreed. 

Here we are after our Triple-Decker September Birthday Blowout dinner for Lee, Mama, and Ellen.

I had my official first day as an intern at Brett’s company when he bit off a huge job in Hilton Head that first resulted in needing to book a hotel room for “just a night” and then resulted in asking his wife if she’d drive down and crawl around under the condos with him. I thought of the hundreds of hours Brett logged at ol’ Lux n’ U tearing down wedding decor at midnight, so I left Mom and Dad some pet-care instructions and barreled down the road to my first and second days as an assistant (to the) engineer. It was a dirty, slightly sweaty job up under a crumbling building from the eighties. We were measuring the piers it sat on and that required sliding around on your belly, climbing up over insulation and HVAC tubes, and doing a wispy swatting maneuver to get the cobwebs off your nose. I logged a number of hours sitting next to disturbingly motionless spiders.

Brett and I decided it would make him look unprofessional if the point-of-contact person found out I was Brett's wife, so we decided I was just an office assistant (This is true. I write a lot of Brett’s more complex or confrontational emails.) and that I volunteered to give Mr. Brett and hand in the field. On my drive down I came up with a whole backstory. Brett poached me from my family’s property management and development company. I’ve worked in Mr. Brett’s office for a little over a year now. My husband, Casey, works in IT and we have two cats. 

We were halfway through my first day, eating our lunch, when the Head Guy came over. Brett introduced me just as “Laura” and I made some comment about being glad to get out of the office. Then, when we found out the guy is originally from Syracuse, NY, Brett blew our cover by talking about our last trip up to see our friends in Rochester. The man’s eyes flicked suspiciously back over to me where I responded with a look of professional defeat. Days later, on Thursday of Brett’s “I’ll be done by Tuesday” job, he saw that guy again and was asked, “Hey, that woman that was helping you? Is she your wife?” 

So now Brett looks silly, bringing his wife to work. We are hopeful he assumes this is a family business. 

A Folly outing with friends.

In other news, I have been trying to harness- train Cam, the handicapped cat. “Handi-Cam” He is as happy about it as Brett is, which is to say they are both bothered by my intentions. Brett is horrified that a neighbor will see me “walking a cat,” while Cam maintains that when wearing the harness, he cannot move his legs. I scoot him along in the grass and he just lets all four legs drag behind him. 

He wants to be outside, mind you, but he doesn’t like the harness. So mostly we just sit out in the grass for awhile and then I carry him back in. On our most recent “lesson” he army crawled away from me, so I’ll mark that as progress. 

I'm not crazy... I feel sad about his boring life!

Mom and I recently stepped out for a day of errands together and when I jumped in her car at our rendezvous spot, she was fiddling with her shoes. “The bottom of my shoe just fell off!” and then she held it up. We laughed and laughed at this because she and I (and Grandpa Bob) notoriously wear our clothing items until they combust and the people around us think we are absurd because of it. It is very “Mom” to be wearing shoes that you can feel pebbles through. When we finished laughing I suggested we run into the store and grab some glue but Mom said it was fine. She’d carry on without the bottom. 

A couple hours later, as we walked into a consignment store, the bottom of the other shoe just dropped right off in the parking lot. Mom simply bent down, picked it up and tossed it in the trashcan by the store's front door. “Shall we?” And we stepped in to look around. She walked along, remarking that she could feel everything she stepped on, but also managed to find some cute seashell pictures to hang in a bathroom. We went in opposite directions and while I was sorting through a rack of clothes I heard Mom come up behind me, giggle and simply say, “Hey Laura?” I turned to find her stifling her laughter. 

When we finished guffawing, she shuffled (literally) back to the car while I waited in the checkout line with her seashell pictures. 

Ever since we've gotten back from Florida, I’ve found myself deeply missing Olivia. Seeing her everyday was the best. Now she’s at school and I only see her on Sundays. She’s all long-legged and talkative and I’m disheartened by how fast its all going. I think the best word for it is crestfallen.

Loosely related, I watched a show about centenarians the other day. They're all ready to die. They had lots to say about life and young people and grief and what not, but what really struck me was how none of them looked much older than their mid-eighties. "Why, you don't look a day over 86!" It made me wonder if you get to a point of decrepitude where upon the skin has sagged as far as possible given the volume and mass within it. Sandbags finally settle somewhere, you know? The hair goes wispy. The ears go long. The bottom teeth become quite prevalent. BUT, you only look 84, so... a silver lining?

Lastly, I joined Dad for a day of his Handyman/ Problem-solving services and we wound up on a small farm in Ravenel working on what Mom calls The Crapper 2000. The organization that took Dad to Burma a few times to get clean water at the orphanage, is now working on getting a version of gas cooktops available in some small villages in Africa. They discovered a manure-based opportunity for such undertakings and ol' Popples U had to go out and troubleshoot it. 

They'd put too much water in the crap bag so the gas wasn't drifting out. While Dad tinkered with valves and tubes, I wandered the property, cooing at animals that seemed burdened by my presence. I looped back around to help Dad. It was hot and sunny, and we were in a shadeless area next to a huge bag of cow crap with off-gasing capabilities, so.

I'll zoom ahead and tell you that when we saw we were missing a part and couldn't get things moving, I suggested we just press down on the crap bag. Dad thought it was a good idea, so he held the valve while I gently laid my body upon the giant bag. Dad was looking up at me, waiting to hear or smell the farty gases, so he didn't noice that all the poo water was bubbling up and puddling around his hands. When I noticed, I yelled, "Oh no!" and Dad simply continued looking at me with a pleasant, curious look on his face. "It's getting all over your hands!" That's when he looked down to find the warm poo particles flowing between his fingers. 

His reaction was understandably elementary and I could sense that he would not appreciate my laughter. I struggled to keep it to myself. He immediately went running off towards the barn in search of soap and water. That's when I was able to indulge in my amusement. We rode the 45 minutes home, both drench in sweat and smelling like farts. A special memory for sure.

I have since checked on the status of The Crapper 2000 and it is up and running -certain to debut in Africa soon.

Peri-Peri Disease

You want honesty? Book an affordable hotel room and then go look at yourself in the bathroom mirror. Do I not have true friends? How many rouge facial hairs will a girl have to sprout before someone will gently recommend their favorite barber. Because that's what I need now.
Gone are the days of a quick, cute pluck from the brow. "Oh, why look at that little straggler!" We're checking cheeks and chins these days. What I need now could be best described as grooming shears - wire cutters, even. And again, how did this happen so quickly? And so young! Am I not barely out of high school? 

Rage is a new sensation I'm experiencing. Its often not aimed at anything. I'll be sitting, minding my own, when red hot aggravated energy washes through my blood stream. I'm infuriated - at nothing. And then it subsides. After all, nothing was wrong. It's like the panic attacks. Those weren't about anything. Am I going insane? Maybe my brain is sick. I do see things moving in my peripheral vision. It's easy to write it off as one of my many cats (another symptom?) but when I look, there is no one there. And by the way, do you smell smoke? Who is following me around with a lit cigarette?

I'm not done. 

Other problems: a workout I did easily last week will be marked incomplete this week. My strength seems to only be  available according to an unreliable A/B schedule. And why is my heart racing? What is that sharp electric zap in my chest? Also I have a little pimple farm up by my hair line. And the brain fog. "You know ma'am, I can't actually remember my birthday. Is there a different security question? I promise I really am her!" 

Who's body have I been dropped into? And why don't they tell you this is going to happen? The night sweats alone could irrigate a small lawn. "Oh menopause? You'll be hot for a bit and then you'll run out of eggs [like a lizard] and can't have any kids." 

Well that sounds easy enough.

This is why people have trust issues. You mean the perpetually reliable, strong and ready body that I have lived in for 36 years, that has never missed a morning poo, never failed to carry the groceries in on one trip, that never bloated even once, that could enjoy a single, celebratory margarita without needing intensive care the next day, that never forgot a birthday... that brain that kept negative feelings at bay, that never got mad enough to lash out or sad enough to cry at a commercial, dextrous pain-less fingers, eyes that can focus up close... you mean all of that just ends in a two month window and no one warns you? Frankly I'm appalled. 

I saw a menopause specialist last month. I am in perimenopause, the build-up to menopause. All that that I just mentioned, all those things that have happened to me in the last few months or so, those are typical, minor symptoms. 
And I'm just supposed to carry on like I know how to tend to his body. 

I don't know this body. It doesn't do right. It doesn't respond to the things I've always done. It's like having to learn a new language now, but if you try out the wrong word, you may have to go see a joint specialist to undo what you did. Because this body doesn't heal linearly, oh no, it swaps out aliments for new sensations, fat pads that erupt in the night and settle into odd locations before you wake up in the morning. Itchy inner ears. The gentle suggestion that something is on fire.

And have I mentioned that I smell? Because I do. Forget deodorant. I need a chlorine gas to neutralize the smell of my existence. 

Oh, and my face - yes, the hotel mirror that set off this whole rant; I can see it beginning its gentle descent from 30,000 feet. Nothing major. No emergency landing. Just a subtle shift, as if gravity has discovered me personally. I have always claimed to be excited about aging. I imagined myself as a fabulous older woman with strong opinions and a dramatic coat. But suddenly it is here and it kind of hurts. 

And my friends are getting minor cosmetic tweaks. They look shiny and polished, as though someone has buffed them lightly with a soft cloth. I, too, would like to be buffed. But I also resent the idea of participating in society’s “Forever 29 Pageant.”

I just thought I had more time before I’d have hip pain and thinning hair, before I had to do protein math to keep the osteoporosis at bay. (Doc says I'm a shoo-in for ol' Osteo.) I don’t feel like I’m done being young yet… but what does that even mean? 

And when I tell all this to people (of all ages and genders) they dismiss it, because I'm too young. The dismissal is one of the worst parts of the whole ordeal. "You're just tired. Well you don't eat enough. That's not what it is, you're too young."

Well I'm not. I've done the research and talked to the specialist - she suggested HRT.

But don't listen to me, I was born yesterday.

Leave it to the harsh light of a hotel bathroom to be more honest with you than your friends.