Day 29 (and 30, 31 and 32)

So I took a little vacation ...

Here's what I learned about pushing 60 during my holiday visit with family in Ohio:

• No one should ever, ever smoke.
• Smoking will more than likely kill you -- slowly and painfully.
• Smoking will rob you of your breath, your strength.
• The 60s appear to be when the stuff really hits the fan if you are a lifelong smoker.

I have four older brothers, three of whom smoked most of their adult life. Two have quit, but only after their health went south. The third says he's in the process of quitting. That process has been going on since the first of his two heart bypass surgeries.

The brother who never smoked is 70. He's in good shape. In fact, he's in better shape than any of his three younger brothers. He does not gloat about this. It's just too sad to see the damage cigarettes have done to people he loves. People I love.

We lost our dad to lung cancer and heart disease just after he turned 69. I hope ALL my brothers make it to 70 -- and well beyond that.

Day 28: Pass the Mylanta

Our national celebration of overeating is just about over for another year. This year finds me in the company of family in Ohio, where most of us are either pushing or past 60. So it should come as no surprise that our digestive tracts have been a frequent topic of conversation today.

This is not something we would have spent a lot of time discussing when we were all in our 30s. Politics, not polyps, were more apt to be the topic of our conversations.

Such is life.

I don't half mind comparing symptoms. After all, I share genes with some of these folks. What happens to them could predict what will happen to me (thought, thankfully, I'm not a smoker and thus expect to avoid the smoking-related ailments that three of my siblings suffer from).

The good news is that we seem to be keeping our collective sense of humor as we stumble into this next phase of our lives.

I hope we never lose that.

Day 25 (and 26 and 27)

OK, I admit it: I've fallen behind in my posts on this blog. So this is me catching up with a short post from Ohio, where we've just arrived for a Thanksgiving visit. It's good to be back home, and though the family home is no longer in the family, we'll have good family time in various locations over the next few days.

Enjoy the good food, especially if you're still young enough not to need anti-heartburn medication.

Day 24: Why postpone joy?

Family members just sent me a list of wise thoughts written by an Ohio woman who recently turned 90. I was struck by how many of those thoughts emphasized her belief that live should be lived now -- that we ought to light those candles we've been saving for a special occasion, ought to wear that special outfit and use the good china because, she said, every day is special.

Maybe it's easier to say that at 90 than it is at 59, but I appreciated the reminder. I tend to daydream about all the good things to come instead of recognizing what I have right now. Maybe one day I really will have a space all to myself where I can write and paint and think, but the fact that I don't have that now shouldn't be an excuse for not writing or painting -- or thinking. Maybe one day I really will be physically fit, but the fact that I'm not at the moment shouldn't be an excuse for delaying the changes I need to make. Keep up that sort of thinking and sooner or later you run out of tomorrows.

We can choose to postpone joy, and we can choose to be happy now. I'm choosing to be happy now, even though life isn't quite what I'd like it to be.

Because even when I finally think it is, I'll probably find something else to complain about.

Day 23: Friends in need

I spent part of my morning with some old friends, and some new ones, at a meeting for people whose lives are affected by a loved one with an addiction. I hadn't been in a few years; life was feeling balanced enough and my loved ones who have struggled with addiction seemed OK enough for me to stop going.

And then ... one day I needed to be reminded that we can change ourselves, but not those we hold dear.

We're not in the driver's seat of other people's lives, but once you've been a parent it can be easy to forget that. We so want to make things right for our children, to knock all the barriers out of the way, forgetting that it's learning to contend with those barriers that helps us grow and develop into capable individuals.

I have so much to learn. I hope I don't run out of time.

Day 22: Queen of the mountain

This brisk, gray November day found me scrambling up a hillside with my 3-year-old grandson always a few steps ahead of me. It was a bit muddy after a heavy rain the night before, but he'd been planted in front of the TV set all morning. I wanted to air him out.

At one point, he turned and shouted, "I'm the king of the mountain!" He was clearly proud of himself as his voice echoed off the surrounding hillsides.

I was inspired.

"And I'm the queen!" I shouted.

OK, I did feel a little silly. But there was no one around to hear us but the dog. And she promised not to tell.

Day 21: Waiting for the rebound

Five days after I first came down with a miserable cold, I've begun to feel human again.

Underline "begun."

I don't want to admit that aging has anything to do with the fact that I still feel as if I'd been hit by a truck, but, well, I still feel as if I'd been hit by a truck.

Day 20: Thinking of home

A week from now I'll be well on my way to Ohio to be with my family for Thanksgiving, the first time I'll have been there for that holiday in years. As I sit here thinking about that trip, I'm listening to Judy Collins sing about her grandmother's house, which is "still there, but it isn't the same."

My own grandmother's house is still there, back in Ohio, still owned by my family, though hanging onto it hasn't always been easy. It was built by my great-grandfather, a German immigrant. My grandmother and my mother were born there. My grandfather spent some of his last hours there.

But, as the song goes, it isn't the same.

My brother lives in the smaller of the two houses on the property. The other, the main house, is occupied by tenants, good tenants who pay the rent on time. But it just isn't the same.

I make a point to drive past there when I make my way home to Ohio. And, as Collins sings, I wish the others who drive by it could see what I see: a porch full of people on a warm summer evening, rocking, swinging, talking and laughing, while the children look for buckeyes in the tiny yard or roost on the porch steps and count the cars passing by.

But that was a very long time ago. My grandmother died in 1980. Her beautiful things have been dispersed throughout the family (though my brother still dreams of one day filling the house with all its original furnishings). And while the house doesn't look bad -- in fact, it looks well for its age -- I've come to accept that it is, after all, just a house.

Thank goodness for memories that don't dim with time. Because when I want to, I can put myself there, on that porch, on a warm summer evening with the nighthawks screeching overhead, watching cars -- and time -- pass by without a care in the world.

Day 19: Gaining ground

The bug that has rearranged my schedule in recent days is starting to yield to chicken soup, clear liquids and bed rest. I just wish I could remember what day it is.

Being housebound for a few days has me slightly befuddled. I keep thinking tomorrow is a teaching day (it's not) and that today is Monday (it isn't). It's a little like being on vacation -- without the fun.

Days like this find me nostalgic for the family doctor who made house calls when I was a kid and for those long days in bed, being pampered by my mom, when I was too sick to go to school.

That doctor -- like house calls -- is long gone, and Mom can barely take care of herself.

Growing up isn't all it's cracked up to be.

Day 18: Still sick, but ...

Guess all that hand sanitizer I've been using still wasn't enough to ward off the bad bugs out there. (Cough, cough.)

At least I've had time to read.

In bed, no less.

Day 17: Sick day

Sore throat.

Swollen glands.

Achy body.

Nasty cough.

Stuffy nose.

Rotten attitude.

More tomorrow.

Day 16: She's HOW old?

Whoopi Goldberg turned 54 today. Funny, I thought she was older than me.

Come to think of it, I used to think most people were older than me.

Then, a few months ago, I met the surgeon who was about to operate on my husband. He's 34. I'm old enough to be his mommy.

Damn.

Day 15: Soccer takes its toll

I never did get my "fitness walk" in yesterday, despite the decent weather. I figured playing soccer with the resident 3-year-old would suffice. We chased a couple of soccer balls around the backyard for half an hour, leaving him with pink cheeks and me a bit winded.

It wasn't until a few hours later, while I was in town doing a little Christmas shopping, that my knees started to ache. In fact, I had to cut short my shopping trip -- which is probably just as well. I headed home, vowing to find a more low-impact way to get myself moving.

My mother has arthritis in her knees and hips. That's why, at 97, she spends most of her day in a wheelchair. She hates to take pills, so she's often in pain.

Thinking of her is one of my best motivators to get in shape. So is reading recently on WebMD that for every pound of body weight an overweight person sheds, there's a 4-pound reduction in stress on the knee joint.

Talk about motivation.

Day 14: A walk on the mild side

Driving to work this morning I passed two people a few minutes apart who were doing some serious walking. I'd guess they were both in their 50s, and they both had big smiles on their faces.

This despite the overcast sky and the morning chill.

Exercise is supposed to do that for you -- give you a mental boost along with the physical benefits. It took awhile for me to be convinced of this, but I am now. When I don't exercise regularly, my mood stinks. When I do, I actually feel energetic.

So one morning very soon, despite the chill in the air, I promise I will strap on the sneakers, hit the pavement and walk. If you happen to pass me on your way to work, I promise to smile.

Day 13: Early to bed ...

My father had a pretty strict bedtime routine that usually followed a quick check of all the door locks and stove knobs (we didn't know this was called OCD back then). Invariably, he'd be upstairs by 9:30 and nodding off by 10. I used to wonder how anyone could fall asleep that early.

It's now 9:45 p.m., and I've already nodded off twice in the past few hours. The only thing keeping me from heading upstairs to bed is, well, this blog.

Night after night, as I slip into bed, I hear myself declaring that this is the best part of the day. I usually mean it.

I wonder how early my bed time will be in, say, five or 10 years. At 97, my mom is usually in bed by 8:30 and often has trouble staying awake that long.

Such fun times to look forward to.

Day 12: Old friends

I passed the evening in the company of three of my favorite people on the planet, one of whom I'm lucky enough to be married to. The other two, a married couple I've known since I moved to upstate New York more than 30 years ago, have seen me at my best and my worst -- and in spite of that, we're still good friends.

The occasion was our annual dinner out to celebrate three of our four birthdays, which fall within a couple of weeks of each other. Over the years we've compared notes as we passed from our 20s to our 30s, our 40s and beyond. Tonight one of my friends said his wish for the next year was to stay out of the hospital. Given that he's had some serious health problems in recent years, it seemed an appropriate birthday wish.

I'm lucky. I'm in reasonably good health. Out of shape, but in reasonably good health. I credit good genes more than anything. My mother is 97, and her only serious health problem is arthritis. Her mother lived to be almost 94. She lived a full and active life right up to her last year, and she did it on a diet that seemed to consist largely of coffee and chocolates.

But I did inherit my dad's high cholesterol. My numbers aren't exactly off the charts, but they're not great. So one of my goals for this next year is to get those numbers down considerably. Giving up ice cream would probably be a good way to start, but I suspect it will take much more than that.

I hate having to think about this stuff.

Day 11: Out with the old

I saved the best of my children's toys in the hope I'd one day get to share them with grandchildren. And I have. With the joy of passing them on to the next generation, I've also had the joy of remembering when my own children cherished those firetrucks and dolls and toy trains.

But lately I've been staring at the cluttered closets of my life and wondering what I can get rid of. I feel the need to pare down, to simplify, to travel lightly through the next decade.

It isn't going to be easy, not after 30 years of living in the same house.

When my mother was struggling with the decision to sell her house, her home of 60 years, my brother said something like: "Let it go. It served its purpose. Let it serve someone else's purpose now." His words freed her from whatever had been holding her back. Within a few days a "For Sale" sign appeared on her front lawn.

"Let it go. It served its purpose. Let it serve someone else's purpose now." Not a bad mantra for someone who's trying to pare down, simplify, lighten the load for the road ahead.

Day 10: Faith of my father -- and mother

I was raised Catholic and went through the questioning and doubt in college that's typical of many young adults. I stopped going to Sunday Mass, or would arrive late and leave early. I reasoned that all those Masses I had attended growing up had built up my spiritual bank account enough that I could risk staying away for awhile.

I go to Mass regularly now, have done so for more than 30 years. And I've found in faith a source of strength and comfort through the most difficult times of my life -- so much so, that I wonder what people who have no faith in anything greater than themselves do when they feel lost and alone.

As I reread my ramblings about wanting to get in shape, I wonder how much stronger my spiritual health would be if I paid it half as much attention as I do my waistline. Faith is a muscle, too. I let it grow weak at my own risk.

Day 9: Part of the harmony

A quote attributed to St. Therese of Lisieux is posted on the door of our fridge: "Each little task of everyday life is part of the harmony of the universe." I think of that quote when I'm trying to catch up on the laundry, or I'm doing the dishes (and wishing I could get off my feet), or struggling with a 3-year-old who doesn't want to go to bed just yet.

I used to think that by this point in my life I would have accomplished great things, which may be why, at times, the mundane "stuff" of my everyday existence feels like a kind of failure.

Then I remember that quote. And I find myself thinking that maybe, just maybe, all that "stuff" is helping to keep the universe (or at least some small part of it) humming along. If the laundry didn't get done, if I gave up on the dishes or, God forbid, gave up on that child, a small piece of the universe might spin out of control. Then another. And another.

And if we all gave up, the whole shebang might collapse.

So I'll get up in the morning. I'll fix breakfast. I'll drive my grandson to day care and head off to teach -- and do my bit to keep the universe in harmony and intact.

I think that qualifies as an accomplishment.

Day 8: Excess baggage (Part 2)

As I try to let go of some emotional baggage, I also need to let go of some other baggage -- better known as a spare tire.

I recall my mom saying once that when people reach middle age they tend to "spread out." She made it sound inevitable.

So I took it as a challenge, even though she didn't intend it to be. So far, it's looking more and more as if Mom was right.

Then I see someone around my age looking fit and trim, and I know I'm just making excuses. I'm pushing 60 -- time to quit fooling myself. My spare tire is inevitable only if I give up and don't try to do anything about it.

So this is me, promising me, that I will, at long last, do something about it.

Day 7: Excess baggage (Part 1)

My mother clings to memories of painful moments in her past. And at 97, she has a lot of moments to mull over.

Hurtful remarks from 50 or 60 years ago still sting as if the offender had said them to her only yesterday. I wish she could let those memories go.

I once suggested that she try, in her own good time, to forgive the people who had said those things to her. It didn't work.

I'd like to believe I didn't inherit this tendency. But lately I've noticed that some very old insecurities -- insecurities that caused some pain when I was still a kid -- remain with me.

I'd like to think I've grown up enough to feel secure in my own skin, but I have my weak spots. I can easily be made to feel "not good enough" in the presence of someone who bubbles with confidence or someone who's clearly affluent. At such moments I'm back in my childhood neighborhood feeling as if I didn't measure up to my best friend's rich friends.

And you'd think by now I'd have gotten over the need for approval -- validation, they call it -- from someone other than myself.

But no.

Not yet, anyway.

So I'm making it a goal to let go of this baggage as I work my way through the 358 days before I turn 60. I don't want to start another decade toting all that junk on my back.

Wish me luck.

Day 6: The antidote to death

I really should stop reading the death notices in the paper every morning. Sometimes I even check the notices on my hometown newspaper's Web site to see if yet another of my high school classmates has died.

Most days when I check the obits in my local paper, I see one for someone who's my age or younger, a sober reminder that I'm not a kid anymore. On gloomy days -- and we're prone to those around here -- I can get in a real funk about this.

An article in The New York Times last year, written by an oncology nurse, told the gripping story of a patient's death, a death that clearly left its mark on her. The writer, Theresa Brown, concluded with a statement I copied over and printed out in large type so I could tack it up and read it often. It's a marvelous prescription for someone who's fretting about mortality:

"What can one do? Go home, love your children, try not to bicker, eat well, walk in the rain, feel the sun on your face and laugh loud and often, as much as possible, and especially at yourself. Because the only antidote to death is not poetry, or drama, or miracle drugs, or a roomful of technical expertise and good intentions. The antidote to death is life."