Monthly Archives: July 2018

L is for Lag Time

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You know my favorite household accessory is the fire pit, but my very most favoritest household appliance is…the gas-powered lawn trimmer.
It slices, it dices, it can cut your meat. It’s fabulous.
It’s really a stick with a motor. Literally, a motor-on-a-stick. There’s just no other phrase for it. Then, you add whatever business end item you need.
Got some high weeds? Add the brush hog head thing.
Need some alignment to your driveway? Take off the brush hod head thing and snap in the dealie that has metal blades that spin super fast and spark when they hit concrete. (I really love that one.)
It’s so versatile!
But here’s the rub: at however many RMP that head/blade/spinny thing rotates, whatever that actual number may be, it’s stupid fast. And it vibrates. And it makes my whole body tense up just trying to keep the thing in control because I do love a neat line to my driveway.
Truly, only a few years ago, I was not as aware of this shaking/controlling/using-all-my-strength thing as I was just yesterday when I pulled the cord and let ‘er rip to edge the back acres.
Oh my stars.
Two Aleve, eleven hours of sleep, and I still hesitate to even consider joining the yard for anything more than a hearty hello.
Grow, grass, grow. Do your worst. This chick needs to rest.
That’s the thing about aging: the Lag Time. I don’t remember needing to rest between acres before, or stopping for things like water breaks and catch-my-breath moments. Who needed breath? Who needed water? I had a whirligig on a stick and I was vanquishing hidden corners and I was happy doing that for hours!
Today? Not so much with the vanquishing and a whole lot more with the resting.
Sigh.
This aging thing is really eroding my love of high powered lawn accoutrements And that’s must mean.

A to Z of Aging: K is for Keeping it Real

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Not too long ago, Michelle Pfeiffer said, “The older you get, the less you can cheat.”
My takeaway message was: Michelle Pfeiffer cheats? Awesome!
And continued to inhale whatever horribly over-caloric item was in my greedy hands.
Today, I lost a third pair of work pants to a Mystery Something. The something? I don’t know. Because those pants fit not three months ago. (Maybe six…)
And yet, last week, boom, I lost two pairs of perfectly wonderful, summer-worthy, pocketed pants.
(Casual note to non-female-attire wearers: pocketed pants are like appropriately fitted jeans: RARE! Thus, we ladies hold onto those like they’re made from unicorn hide; I exaggerate not, pockets are that important.)
Both of my favorite buttoned-at-the-fly, zipper-holding-its-own-thank-heavens trousers were down! (Literally. I threw them to the floor like they bit me, which they did, ravenously rending apart my especially fragile ego; the Great Pant Duplicity proved too much that day, though I blamed hot water in the washing machine for shrinkage…because, duh, of course. The second pair? Yeah…a tiny bit of mental reckoning was due because I’m not that bad in the laundry room…)
Today? A third pair, relegated to the floor for trampling, just like my questionable hold on youth and glee.
I wore a pair of lounge pants and an oversized tee to work, unapologetically and sneering, daring anyone to question whether or not I realized I needed to do some laundry.
Remarkably, my morning was great. I was happy, cheerful and able to breathe! (Because lounge pants are the best.)
Then I realized, hey! I faced my middle aged-ness, at least for a couple of hours, and I lived to now tell the tale.
Hold your horses with the kudos for self-actualization…because after work I went straight to the ice cream store, unabashedly begging for just a touch more chocolate sauce and oh, hey, is that an Oreo? Yeah, toss that bad boy on there, too. Sundaes for everybody!
Yep, this morning, I Kept it Real, a sign of maturity, a sign of growth, a sign of colossal dismissal of youth and fitting into a bathing suit, which, all things considered, is a plus.
Also: for the remainder of the day I’m eschewing carbs.
So take that, larger-than-last-year thighs. No bread for you! No more padding for you until dawn, when waffles sound just too tempting…
Yes! Waffles at daybreak! With coffee, and eggs, and a dose of reality, because after breakfast, I must go buy new pants…