Searching for Mr. Right Includes Wrong Turns!

Well, here it is, the weekend is one day away…. tomorrow is Friday - again, another Saturday is coming and then of course Sunday, the proverbial day of rest. Yet by the time Sunday is here, I’ll be so rested, Monday will seem like a cake-walk.

While everyone else (my female friends that is) are out having an evening on the town with a male companion, I’ll be sitting at home watching my telephone. No, I don’t mean my television, well, actually, I’ll be watching that too, but with one eye on the phone.

It’s like the old proverb – a watched pot never boils – well, I want you to know, a watched telephone never rings. If it does, it’s probably one of the cable companies wanting to know about my weekend television habits (how do they know I'm home alone???), or the proverbial tele-sales computer voices with a list of questions that have nothing to do with anything I'm remotely interested in…. does kind of pass the time though.

During my days at University, back in the '90s, I met this really cute, younger guy on campus. He was absolutely adorable. He started to flirt with me and I thought I should be honest and tell him I was a grandmother. His response? ….. He liked older women.

Older women? He was younger than my daughter!! The poor boy followed me all over campus that day like a little, lost puppy. I began to feel sorry for him and actually thought, for a brief moment, that he might be fun to take home and keep for a pet!

Not long after my encounter with puppy-eyes, I saw an older friend of mine at a gala event. He informed me he had a new girlfriend. My “friend” was about 67 years old at the time (pretty darn old in my opinion) and his new girlfriend was 25. I asked him what did they find to talk about. “Talk?” he said, “She don’t talk, but she sure communicates good lyin’ down.”

The following evening, I found myself at what once was considered a rather nice nightclub catering to the "slightly" older generation. I walked in and was immediately accosted by several gentlemen – one almost ran over my foot with his wheelchair.

Another gentleman took 10 minutes just to say, “Hi honey,” all the while wiping the drool away from the corners of his mouth - must have been caused by the false teeth that somehow had a mind of their own! And the other gentleman, well, let’s put it this way – it’s a good thing he had arthritis because he let his fingers do the walking.

However, the music was nice and the place had a distinct ambiance – along the coat rack was a rack for canes, and the coatroom had numbered wheelchairs. I was told the local geriatricians even had a nickname for the club – “Menopause Manor”.

I did meet a rather nice man about my age, salt and pepper hair, nice build, incredibly charming, owned his own business and drove a really cool sports car. Wow, I thought, a “real” man – until I found out about the others. There was a lady friend in Dallas, one in Atlanta, one in Mexico City and then there was The Wife!

Oh well, just my luck; they’re too young, too old or too attached.

www.communicatewithimpact.com

Grow Up and Act Your Age!

How many times have you asked your children, “when are you going to grow up and act your age?” Yes, I’ve uttered those same words time and time again to my kids only to be looked at with eyes rolling, a shrug, a deep sigh and the sound of feet leaving you standing alone in the middle of a room.

Well, somehow the tables were turned. It was after the (ex) hubby decided to search for a more fulfilling life -- one with a much younger woman. I decided I would fulfill my life as well and enrolled in college.

It was during my son’s senior year in high school. I started off with a bang – got straight As the first semester and dear son was horrified. “Geez, mom, why’d you do that? Are you trying to embarrass me?” I told a couple of his teachers who also were my friends, that son and I were studying together – paybacks are hell!

Darling son was never known for his academic achievements; his claim to fame was his famous mooning episode from the back window of the school bus.

Daughter dear, a few years older than her little brother, was quite proud of my efforts until one fateful night. Because I was now a “college person” I wanted to try out my new single, college wings and have some fun on the town.

Daughter phones mom a little after midnight and doesn’t get an answer. Guess who’s in trouble now? I didn’t know I had a curfew. “Mom, says she, “Act your age; you’re not a kid, so don’t act like one!”

Hey, I was just out with some of the other kids from school. Unfortunately, some of these “kids” had gone to high school with my kids. My son informed me that dancing the night away with his friends was not the way a grown woman should act, especially his own mother. “But son,” I explained with a slight whine in my voice, “they asked me to go and I couldn’t say no”.

For some reason, his friends and a few of my daughter’s, thought it was cool to have “mom” (not theirs of course) hanging out with them!

In my quest to find a fun activity at college, and one that fit in with my age, I tried the college pool. I used to be a pretty good swimmer in high school; I even won a few awards, but when I walked in to the pool area the only person close to my age was the coach.

So, there I am, in the pool with gorgeous hunks of male college muscle and of course thin, young, thin, tanned, young, thin coeds. Did I mention they were young and thin? Yes there I am, - ALL of me, my shriveled cellulite, bleached stretch marks and worn wrinkles – exposed for all the world to see. Even though I stayed under water for as long as I could, I still had to come up for air sometime!

While all that exercise was great, all the running, swimming, tennis and racquet ball made this slightly older body feel and look pretty good, what about the other exercise? The one all my new friends do on a one-on-one basis? Yes, I’m talking about the great sport of dating!

I began to seriously enter the dating scene and what did I get? A lecture from darling daughter about safe sex. Didn’t we have this conversation several years ago? I clearly remember discussing the birds and bees with her. Yes she agreed, we did talk about birds and bees – blue birds, red birds and the stork. Come to think of it, I may have left something out of that particular discussion.

My son was in shock. Dating? Not his mother, he proclaimed. That stuff is for young people, not someone “your age”.

What can I say, I was in college and wasn’t I supposed to act like a college kid? I enjoyed going to parties, complaining about too much homework, watching TV when I should be studying and I even liked the exercise.

So how come I kept hearing “When are you going to grow up and act your age?”





www.communicatewithimpact.com

Feel the Burn!

Back several years ago, I decided to do something healthy for myself. I took the plunge and became a full-fledged member of a health club. This club was the kind where you see strapping young men with muscle shirts – and the muscles in them – and curvaceous women scantily clad in thong leotards, which of course no self respecting woman over the age of …… let me rephrase that…. MY age…. Would dare try to wear!

Joining the health club was a no option choice. I worked in an office where cakes, candy, donuts and potlucks were a way of life. All that good food gave my body an extra dimension – one I was not too happy about.

So despite the grumbling over the cost, the idea of embarrassing myself in front of scads of gorgeous shaped young bodies and actually having to do some real exercise, I bit the bullet and wrote the check.

The first item on the club policy’s list was to have the club’s physician conduct a fitness test to ensure I was healthy enough to spend my money on some dumb-bells. I filled out all the forms, answered all the questions – except how old I was and how much I weighed.

The physician, with his stony face, informed me he needed to have ALL the information in order to assess my training needs. He made it sound like I was enrolling in obedience class.

So, glaring at him, I wrote down some numbers in the age and weight brackets just as he asked, daring him to say another word.

He said another word all right. He looked at me, handed the forms back and said “I want the CORRECT numbers. I don’t know what made him think they weren’t the right ones.

He then put me on a Lifecycle machine and told me to keep the RPMs at 80 mph. First I had to get the pedals moving…. And sitting on that seat….well, now I understand why they call it a “banana” seat! I was lucky to be able to get the darn thing going at all much less at 80 mph. Then he set it on level four, which must be for the guys out there on the gym floor playing with those big, round manhole covers.

I pedaled up longer, higher, steeper hills then the cyclists on the Tour de France. Every couple of minutes the doctor would look at me through the glass window separating us, nod and give me a little smile – I think it was a smirk. I grinned back at him realizing the glass window was probably bullet proof.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he came into the “how fit are we” room and said “Ok you’re finished.” How right he was! I toppled off the machine and with rubbery legs and a sore bottom, wobbled back to his desk and sat down – gingerly!

He then handed me a list of all the exercises I needed to put this body back in shape, along with the repetitions and the number of days each week I was supposed to do them.

The list was nearly two pages long!

He sent me – list in hand – to the main workout area where the receptionist called for THE TRAINER.

Each brand new member gets their own individual trainer for the first few workouts to show him, or her in my case, the ropes. (I would loved to have shown that doctor some rope.)

Over walked a huge, muscular, big hunk of a man. Did I mention he was huge? This was my trainer? At that moment, I began looking for the nearest exit. This man looked like he could single-handedly lift a house off its foundation! Before I knew it, he grabbed my hand and shook it like it was attached to one of those WW whatever wrestlers. Thank goodness I’m ambidextrous and can write with my left hand.

He started me on the exercycle – the twin to the Lifecycle and said I would have to start with this machine each time I came to the gym as it would warm up my leg muscles. Not that they weren’t already warm. By the time I finished this part of the exercise program, my leg muscles definitely were warmed up – they were burning, as was my behind – again – with another of those skinny banana seats! Why do they not put seats on those bikes that would accommodate behinds like mine?

Then he started me on the other machines, rather, they started on me. I did leg presses, leg lifts, shoulder lifts, tricep pulls, bicep pulls, abdominal crunches and last but definitely not least the Butt Blaster. That is one machine that does exactly what it says.

By the time I was finished with my routine, I was finished. My trainer, Mr. Big Hunk, (did I mention he was huge?) was grinning ear to ear as he helped me crawl my way to the treadmill informing me that I had another 20 minutes to go – walking briskly at four – count ‘em – four mph (that miles per hour for all you non athletic types).

He did take pity on me when I gave him a sad, pathetic look and lowered the speed to 3.5 mph.

Two full hours after I arrived at the gym, I carefully waddled and limped my way out to my car. Why do they call it a “health club” when you are in so much pain afterwards?

I sat in my car, with its nice full, cushiony, soft seat and headed home. When I arrived home, I cautiously put one foot on the concrete driveway, picked up my other foot with both hands transferring it to the driveway as well, and putting all my weight on the door, slithered down the side of the car. As I sat there, I ruminated on why I was doing this to myself. Stumbling and staggering, I made it to the front door holding on to anything I could grab and once in the house, I collapsed on the couch and passed out!

One full week after joining the “club” and working out semi-faithfully, I could walk out of the gym standing upright with just a slight rubbery wiggle to my legs.

I started to feel pretty good and I thought I noticed a difference in my hips and waist and even my derriere – thanks to the Butt Blaster.

I told all my friends how wonderful working out was and how great I felt afterward. I had a kind of superior feeling when I mentioned it to them especially when they were sitting on their sofas in front of the television.

I was off lifting those weights, pumping that iron and crunching those abs and maybe, someday, I would have Buns of Steel!

Fast forward to several years later…. The only iron I’m pumping is my daily intake of iron tablets, my abs can be found somewhere near my waist wherever that has gone and my buns can best be compared to hamburger buns – soft and doughy!

www.communicatewithimpact.com