Is There Sex After 60? (Navigating Single Life After 60)

Author Archives: istheresexaftersixty

• Reflections on Being Mortal

  Posted at 12:25 am by istheresexaftersixty, on December 14, 2018

   

  In the last three weeks  I wrote about the fact that, I fell in my bathroom and broke my nose.   My teeth almost when through the roof of my mouth.  I had bruises everywhere, there was blood everywhere, and it hurt to move. I went in an ambulance to a hospital.  At the time, I had no idea that I would be another ambulance one week later.  As I was still getting over that fall, at my apartment when, all of a sudden, another problem reared it’s head and I went to the hospital, once again, in an ambulance.  I had a series of tests and now all looks perfect.   I don’t have anything to be worried about.  I won’t go into the details about my last hospital visit, because that is the boring part of the story.  I was home the next afternoon looking like my old self and feeling, as good or as bad, as usual.  The very best part of my last excursion to the hospital was when the pretty young woman who accompanied me in the ambulance, looked at me, with a quizzical expression on her face and said, “Your husband told me that you were 66 years old, she went on,  I think he was very nervous and worried and he didn’t know what he was saying.  Are you 56 or 46? “

  Well, I didn’t care if I died at that moment because I was already in heaven.  You realize, at the time I was wearing a pair of yoga pants and a short sleeve navy shirt.  I wasn’t wearing any makeup and I had two black eyes and a slightly swollen nose from my previous fall the week before.  My hair was in a loose braid.   SHE SAID, “ARE YOU 56 OR 46 YEARS OLD!!! “   Hallelujah!  Maybe she wears contacts and she had forgotten to wear them, that day.  Lately, when I look in the mirror at myself,  I often think to myself, “Who on earth is that old, old, woman staring back at me?”   The whole experience was worth it for the fact that a pretty 30-year-old woman didn’t believe that I was 66 years old.  (BLESS HER LITTLE HEART!) She asked me the date of my birth.  Even though I’m not the best at math … I do know my birthday and my Social Security Number and I rattled them off to her.  She also asked me what day it was and who the President was … I told her the name of the Vice President and the Secretary of State.  She didn’t ask those last two questions but I threw them in any way to impress her.  (Have you noticed how kids today don’t know any pertinent information regarding our country??)

  When I arrived at the hospital they asked me more questions.  They asked me if I had a Living Will, I don’t, however, I have let my children and family know my wishes.  Then she asked, “Who is responsible for you?”  I repeated that line out loud.  I mouthed the words, “Who IS responsible for me?”  I had no idea?  It is usually only me.  I am the one who is always responsible for everyone else and I am responsible for me.  Then she said, “Who do you trust to make decisions for you?”  Once again I mouthed the words.   “Who do I trust to make decisions for me???”  I couldn’t answer her and I never did.  She stopped asking, and went on, “ If it ever becomes necessary, do you want to be resuscitated?”  Hmmm?  “Do I want to be resuscitated? “   This time I answered, “Yes, I guess I do.  Just once.  If I have to be resuscitated, not more than once; let’s give it one chance, one more chance, for the Gipper.”   I know she didn’t understand that last line, because she was young and she probably doesn’t watch TCM movies.  She ignored my statement as she wrote down that I wanted to be resuscitated, if necessary, only one time.

  My husband and my son and our three animals were visiting me, because it was Thanksgiving the week before and I had fallen and broken my nose and wasn’t quite up to par yet.  I seriously had to think….  who in my life would or could or would want to be responsible for me?  My oldest son is very steady and reliable, however, he would always worry if he would make the correct decision.  It would weigh on his conscience. My youngest son has a volatile personality and is too unpredictable and emotional.  He could make a fast decision that he might later regret. Then there is my Was-band; I really don’t know what he would do in an emergency?   Oddly enough, I think he might try to keep me alive even when I would rather be dead.  Therefore, once again, I discovered that it’s just me.  I only have me, to rely on, in an emergency situation.  In a way we are all like that.  We come into this world alone and we leave the world alone.  I did learn one important fact.  I am not afraid to die.  No, I ‘m not facing death now … I am alive and well and healthy, but no one knew that for sure when I was in the ambulance.  I wasn’t in the least bit afraid of dying.  That is comforting to know.  I actually think sometimes it is harder to live than it is to die.   I was only afraid of not being 100 % like my usual self.

  When I first realized that I was mortal I was eight years old.  I am not sure what happened to make me aware that I was a mortal human and that some day in the future between my eighth birthday and my 100^thbirthday, I will not be an alive breathing human anymore. It popped into my head that all of us die and that I was, and still am, included in that most important group, the human group of mortals.  We are all here and alive and breathing and thinking and pretending that this life of ours, won’t end, but it does, and it will.  The good news is … that this gets easier and easier to handle and accept, with every passing year.  In the last three weeks, I have had to remember my mother and sister’s birthdays that were only one day apart.  They are both gone.  I’ve been to the hospital twice and last but not least, this last Tuesday on a December evening, my building was on fire.  A loud-speaker that is on the wall of each apartment made the announcement that we must leave the building immediately and the voice told us not to use the elevators. I walked down 16 flights where I took time to breathe in the beautiful, crisp, fresh, air.  I stood outside with the rest of the human beings from our high-rise building and their dogs and cats and I looked at the stars and the sky, and I was still alive, and well, and happy to be alive, to keep on, keeping on.

  Until Next Week…

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• “Tea and Sympathy”

  Posted at 11:30 pm by istheresexaftersixty, on November 29, 2018

   

  Last Wednesday night I had a terrible accident. I slipped on the tile and rug in my bathroom. My front teeth went almost through my top lip, I cracked my nose, my hand, my knee and my foot.   I broke the nail on my right toe, almost to the bottom. There was blood everywhere. It looked like a scene out of a horror movie as if the slasher had just run out of the apartment, however, the woman in the bathroom was somehow still alive. Now, anyone who has known me for most of my life knows that this accident isn’t at all unusual for me. I take after my father’s mother who tripped constantly. My grandfather just learned to follow her around and he held on to her most of their married life. Actually, when my grandfather had a heart attack and he went into the hospital my grandmother had to walk on her own and she fell and hit her head and that is what led to her death. I somehow managed to scoot on my fanny out of the bathroom and into my bedroom. There, next to the bed, was my cell phone. The bedroom door was shut as my children, my “was-band’ and all of our pets were visiting for Thanksgiving. I used my cell phone to call my oldest son who was in the opposite side of the apartment in the guest room. My two sons and lastly my ex came into the bedroom. Were they shocked and upset at seeing their mother on the floor with blood all over her? Well, not as much as one would have imagined. My ex looked annoyed. The boys looked perplexed, as if they were thinking, “What do we have to do now? And, “There she goes again.”   My youngest son decided to call an ambulance. I was so sore, I really couldn’t move. I think I might have been in shock.

  Actually, in what seemed like record time, three young, handsome, men, arrived (in maybe 4 minutes?) I was instantly picked up and put on a stretcher, covered up and whisked into the elevator and into the ambulance. They asked me questions and I answered … I believe they wanted to make sure that I was in my right mind and hadn’t had a stroke. As we entered the hospital emergency room the one young man called out, “ A 66-year-old woman arriving with serious facial contusions” As usual, I looked around for that poor old 66-year-old woman who had just entered the hospital. Oh God, once again, I remembered, … that’s me, he’s talking about. I’m that 66-year-old woman. Heck, I couldn’t say my usual phase, “Now, you are supposed to say that I look a lot younger than 66?” I couldn’t say that because I looked like, Hell! I probably looked more like a 99-year-old woman.   I was lifted onto a hospital bed and immediately put on an IV in my left arm. I am writing this, seven days after the fact and I now have a large very interesting bruise in the shape of a heart, with what looks like an arrow extending from the heart, where the IV used to be. The nurse checked my blood pressure and breathing and placed stickers on my now purple chest,  to check my heart. A nice, strong, looking, policewoman was in the room next to my bed. She was kind and she seemed more worried for me than my family had been. I must have looked very bad. After I was settled in and had answered scores of questions my ex had arrived. The policewoman looked concerned and she asked, “Someone is here to see you. Do you want me to let him in or not?” “Yes”, I answered unenthusiastically. I was secretly amused because I realized she thought that he might be the culprit who had beaten me to a pulp. (Mentally, in the past, I thought to myself, but not physically.) Okay, we often get along but I’m human and I’m tired of playing the saint, so sometimes I still want to stick it to him. Especially, when he looks tired and bored and I look like death in a hospital bed. When the policewoman saw him I believe she changed her mind. He is a 5’8” slim, Frenchman, wearing nice clothes, with sliver hair who resembles, Peter Sellers.   So much for me accusing him of abuse. I stopped seeing him in prison stripes begging for my help behind bars. I just saw a tired 61-year-old man who was wishing he could be asleep in bed.

  Well to make this long story shorter. The young woman doctor ordered an MRI and they found out that I had a broken nose. I was kept in the emergency room until about 4:30 A.M. because I was dehydrated and I needed two bags of fluids dripped into my 66-year-old veins from my IV. They also gave me a tetanus shot. One week later, I still have a bruise and now a hot, red, lump, on my left arm, as a remembrance of that fateful night, before Thanksgiving.

  For four days everything hurt and I was in a lot of pain. I had made most of the Thanksgiving dinner during the day, a few hours, before the fall. My oldest son, who is a good cook, made the turkey and the stuffing. My youngest son, the day after my fall, said to me, “Well, for someone who destroyed her face, you don’t look too bad.”

  So, that is my “I fell and I can’t get up story.” What did I learn from this? You might be asking? Well, don’t expect much sympathy from your ex and two adult boys. However, they are there and even if they don’t want to be there, they have to help you, no matter what, because they are family.

  Someday, I have a dream, that there might be a kind, thoughtful, generous, handsome, man, in my future. He will ply me with lots of Champagne and sympathy … (I don’t care for tea) and he will hang onto my arm and he will be there so I don’t slip and fall. Until that day, I am going to try to be careful. At least I will try.

  Until Next Week…

  Posted in Uncategorized | 5 Comments

• Letting Go

  Posted at 6:24 pm by istheresexaftersixty, on November 21, 2018

   

  My two sons and my “was-band” (husband that was) and our dog all came for a visit for this Thanksgiving holiday. What a change from having an empty apartment to having every room filled with people and an animal. I have got to admit there were a few times in the last year for a few brief little moments, when a tiny bit of loneliness reared it’s ugly head and entered my usually lovely, comfortable, modern, oasis. I bought some plants in summer, tomatoes, parsley, basil, mint, and a pepper plant and one night when I got home from a rather long day at my temp position at a roofing company. (Yes, one of the most boring jobs ever), I walked in the door to my rather silent apartment and called out to the plants, “Hello plants! Mom’s home.”

  There are some really great things about living alone. I am a very neat, clean, organized person. I have a place for everything and everything is in its place.   Therefore, for instance, when I go to look for a pair of scissors, lo and behold there they are, in the top drawer exactly where I put them the last time I used the scissors. When my children come for a visit and I look for my scissors they could be anywhere. .   (As every mother knows) I could find my scissors on the kitchen counter or in the bathroom on top of the toilet. This actually drives me crazy. I like a clean kitchen and as a woman, living alone, my counters are clean. Every night I clean the stove and the two kitchens’ sinks. My boys cook for themselves during the day while visiting and they have a habit of spraying grease and food particles in every direction. I like to watch the news at night after which I like to watch a movie or a show on Netflix. My sons spend a good portion of the day playing games on my big screen TV and or watching soccer or Formula One Racing. I say farewell to my favorite programs. Should I mention food? I spent about $350 filling up the fridge and the cupboards with snacks, goodies, drinks and their favorite lunches and dinners. Now this should last more than a day or two, but it doesn’t. The kitchen is an ongoing food dispensary that starts at breakfast and runs through lunch, dinner and into the night.

  Still it is such a nice feeling to hear my boys (now men) laughing in the front room as they battle each other with controllers in hand, knocking off one Transformer at a time. Listening to them they could be back in our den when they were just kids playing together on the weekend.   My “was-band” is in the kitchen pouring himself a glass of wine and munching on peanuts and bread and cheese. (He is a Frenchman and a baguette and cheese are staples in every Frenchman’s home)

  My youngest son is 22 years old and he is a senior in college. He lives in a college town about an hour away with two roommates and a cat.  He was the last to arrive and he arrived exactly at dinnertime, as usual.  My son smiled, said hello to his brother and father and me as he rolled up his long sleeve shirt, which exposed a large tattoo of a horse in navy blue, which is the logo for Ferrari. You see my son loves Formula One racing and he is a huge fan of Ferrari cars and the Ferrari racing team. I stood in shock unable to speak. My boy … my perfect baby boy had placed a tattoo on his left forearm that reaches from his wrist to his elbow. I was horrified. There goes his possible partnership at the law firm after he gets his law degree. There goes his Senate Seat and so much for running for President. All down the drain. The perfect little body that I gave birth to was now forever stamped with a Ferrari logo. To force myself to talk calmly instead of screaming I made myself a double martini after which I drank a large glass or two or three of wine.   “Why,” I managed to squeak out in a voice that sounded odd to me, “Why, would you do that to yourself?”   My son answered in a resolute manner. “Mom, I’m 22 years old and I work fulltime while going to college. So if I want to get a Ferrier tattoo. I will get a tattoo. I paid for it with my own money.”  What can you say in response to that statement? I yelled, “How will you ever become a lawyer? How will you become a senator, and how will you become President of the United States???”  “Mom”, my son answered, “I’m an adult.”

  Yes, he is.  Both of my wonderful sons are now adults. Let’s face it. One of the hardest things in life to face is that we have to, let go. We have to let go all through life. Every bit of letting go is hard. When we are young we let go of a few little things here and there.   As we age letting go is a constant issue that we must face. I had to let go of some dreams. There was a man who I loved … it didn’t work out so I had to…. let go. I wanted to work in television… got married instead and then moved to Europe with my husband …. so I, let go of that dream. Some old friendships…. time and distance changed friendships so I …. let go.  Death, yep, death keeps happening… grandparents, friends, boyfriend, then mother, little sister, father…. gone, gone and gone, let go. Marriage, children, home are all gone, so, I have had to, let go. My sons are adults now. I no longer have the authority to tell them what they can or cannot do, with their lives. I will however, always give them my opinion. I AM ALWAYS GOING TO HAVE AN OPINION. I am, after all, their mother.

  Letting go is a must.   We have to let go and shake off the old. We have to keep our options open. Meet new people. Doesn’t work out? Move on, let go. If you get the hang of this, it gets easier and easier and it is a necessity as we age so we don’t stand still and look back. We must keep our eyes ahead and on the present and the future. Keep learning, don’t stop, don’t get stuck in the past, let go and most of all keep moving, keep adding new people into your life and smile and wave goodbye if it doesn’t work out. Add new dreams and make new plans… keep the best of the past and add new things into your future. So, in one night, I had to learn to let go of my baby boy and say, “Hello” to my adult son, with the tattoo on his left arm.

  After my third glass of wine, I started to consider getting a small tattoo of a daisy on my right hip for my next birthday.  Why? I’m an adult and I like daisies.

  Until Next Week…

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• Sex, Anyone?

  Posted at 10:34 pm by istheresexaftersixty, on November 15, 2018

   

  Yesterday I went out to lunch with my good friend who happens to be younger than me…. We went to a nice Italian restaurant. We sat next to the window so we could see the downtown life walking past us in the street. It was lovely feeling, while we pretended to be carefree ladies who lunch. Neither of us is all that carefree in real life, as we both have lots of responsibilities waiting for us at our respective homes. It was a lovely, crisp, clean day in November, in the big city and the sky was blue and we both somehow found parking spaces not too far from the restaurant. We were slightly giddy that we both had managed to escape our everyday existence to return to the “bright lights, big city” feeling. We both got dressed up. My friend always looks perfect, but I managed to braid my now very long, blond, hair and I added a designer bow to the top of my braid. I wore a new sweater and new shoes that I finally managed to break in. For some reason, I was transported back in time and I could have been meeting one of my single friends for lunch as my former single, 26, year-old-self.

  We decided to order a bottle of Prosecco and we ordered hors d’oeuvre to split. A very handsome man walked past the window and we both turned and stared, he noticed us staring and looked back at us and we both started laughing. I might be a senior but I still appreciate a real handsome man walking past me, a few feet away. As we sipped our sparkling wine my friend made a suggestion that I should write more about sex in my posts…. because I write a blog that has sex in the title. I tried to explain that “istheresexaftersixty” is a euphemism…. in other words…. the title of my blog is supposed to ask the question, “Will life still be important and fun and interesting and exciting, after sixty? I can’t escape the obvious, and sex is in the title of my blog so, here goes.

  I have got to admit that I am a silly, hopeless, romantic. I love a good love story and watch old movies over and over again. I cry at sweet commercials on TV and I sob at unhappy endings. I am still married to my “was-band” (husband that was) for 36 years, but our marriage was really over after 20 years. I am separated and back to being a single woman. So the question is.. “Is there sex after sixty?” I’m happy to report that it looks like sex does exist for a lot of seniors.   I hear from seniors quite often from friends, old and new. People seem to confide in me about their sex lives. Good news! Lots of you are having quite a lot of sex as the years roll by.   People are dating, seniors are falling in love, and some of you are having sex for the sex alone. Yep, sex is still happening. There is texting sex, computer sex, phone-sex, friends with benefit-sex and, it is happening for seniors!  I often hear stories about widowed men and women who have reconnected with past loves and have reunited with their old flames.  Not all of the seniors that I have heard from in the last year, while writing my blog, are all that interested in considering sex as a big part of their senior lifestyles. Some men and women seem be very content with sex being a memory tucked away in the past.  One nice thing I have noticed is that lots of my friends are still very happily married to their high school sweethearts. Happy endings do exist; so nice to know.

  So now you are all thinking, about me, right? How does sex play a part in my life?  Well, I did go on two dates with men I knew a long time ago in the last few months. It was pleasant. No, no, sex, or even a spark. It was nice. I actually had to force myself to go. If you know me, I am not a shy person. I seem to be unafraid of everything. To my children I have had to be the tower of strength. It was and, frankly, still is, a necessity. Truthfully, I am not afraid of much.   I can speak in front of a crowd of people without flinching. I can stand up for my beliefs, popular and “Un”. I have stood before people with varying opinions and given my personal opinion and managed to stand my ground.   There are only a few things that frighten me … two, are illness and poverty. Outside of that, I am pretty strong.

  There is one thing that manages to frighten me. I guess you can say that I am shy where sex is concerned. Always have been and probably always will be. I have enjoyed sex in the past. I have enjoyed it a lot.   What I am afraid of is probably caring too much.   I am done with being sad or hurt. Only one time in the last several years or so have I managed to have a relationship where sex was the only important factor in the relationship and this actually was a surprise to me. One thing that I have noticed in my own life is that sex is still important to me.   Sex is still exciting to think about, possibly more now, than in my past. I honestly thought all this would be in the distant past, but it isn’t. I am still interested. Am I a silly, old, senior? Maybe, but I don’t want it to be over yet. When should we stop considering sex as a possibility? I don’t know? I just know that I don’t want to think that it is over. Romance? Who knows? Maybe there will be that one guy in the next room at the senior living center in my future that will find me irresistible. We will fall into each other’s arms. (Cut to a sunset as the music swells.) Heck, I can dream can’t I?

  Until Next week….

   

   

   

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• Too Late?

  Posted at 1:18 am by istheresexaftersixty, on November 9, 2018

   

  In my mind when I really think about aging and actually when I hear that someone is 50, I still think that the age of 50 sounds pretty old, unless the person has passed away. It still sounds too young to die but for everything else it sounds old. How many times do you hear of a 50-year-old ballet dancer or a 50-year-old basketball player? If someone is just getting married for the first time or having a baby and they are in their 50’s … I think to myself, “gee they are old to get married and heavens isn’t she pretty old to be pregnant?”

  I have always been a little late with accomplishing important stages in my life. I finished college at 23, didn’t get married until I was 30, had my first child at 36 and my second child at 44. For my generation that was old. I was fifty when I was taking my son to first grade. I had worked in high school and at small jobs after college. I went back to college for my second degree when I was 28 and graduated for the second time at 30. I worked with my husband in Europe for about six years but I got my first full-time job with a large company when I was 54 and started my own business at 59. Moved to my apartment, separated and now alone, when I was 65 and just started out as an available single woman again, at the age of 66! Now, here I am single and available at 66 years old!!! That is really pretty old to be out and about dating again. Okay, I will mention the word. What about sex???? Really???? Am I too old to date? Am I too old for romance? Is it ridiculous to even contemplate as a senior?   Sometimes I actually can’t believe that a man here or there actually wants to take me out. Shouldn’t I be sitting in a rocker on a porch somewhere in Illinois, knitting booties for my grandchildren while sipping tea? No, wait, I don’t have any grandchildren because my sons are still relatively young and my youngest is still in college. I hate tea and if you see me at all in the evening I am usually sitting on my balcony on the 16^th floor of my highrise apartment building in a large city in the West, sipping a nice large cold glass of white wine.

   I have had short hair for the last 30 years.  My mother always had short blond hair. She had very thick, really very pretty, hair. She always told me that she wished that she had enough nerve to let her hair grow out so that she could wear it in a long braid down her back in her 60’s.  She never did.  So about two years ago I decided to grow my hair.  I now have very long blond hair that reaches to a few inches above my waist and I often put my hair into a long blond braid. I am lucky because I too have thick hair. My mother was very pretty and very stylish and very smart but she was shy. Everything actually scares me too but I think I have my father’s push and even though everything scares me, I do it anyway. So even though I am 66 I have a long blond braid and I did it for her. My mother was also a single woman when she was in her 60’s. She was tall and slim and really always very pretty, therefore, men were always interested in her and she occasionally went out on a date or two. She was very shy and I think it was difficult for her to consider a serious relationship. I am shy too and it is shocking to me that anyone would want to date me however, I bit the bullet (so to speak) and actually went out on two dates in the last few months. They were with men that I knew years ago who happened in town on business. I frankly didn’t want to go out, but then I thought about my mother. She was such a beautiful woman but she was so modest and reserved. She could have been anything and done anything with her life. I so wished that she had more faith in herself. Well, I forced myself to go out on those two dates and it was a pleasant experience. I really forced myself to go in honor of my mother.

  This afternoon I went out to lunch with my friend. She is going back to school to get her Master’s degree and then she wants to go on to get her doctorate degree. I just told her how proud I was of her. My mother would have been proud of her too. We really  have all kinds of possibilities ahead of us. Yes, I am afraid and shy but I think maybe it is a good idea to just close our eyes and take that leap off of the spooky cliff. Okay, I am not a spring chicken anymore, but I want to write a book or two and maybe a play and a movie before I kick the bucket, that is waiting out there inevitably for me and really for all of us, in the future. Until then, why not pretend that, that inevitable day, is very far off and let’s start planning our futures right now.  I don’t want to keep thinking about the past. Why not start planning ahead? I might have the romance of a lifetime waiting out there in my late 60’s or early 70’s. Who knows???  At the very least I can make one up and write a book about it.

  Until Next Week…

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

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• My Most Important Person, Surprise, It’s Me !

  Posted at 10:13 pm by istheresexaftersixty, on November 1, 2018

   

  There is a fellow I met through my blog many months ago. He has become a friend although we have never met in person. He sends me funny jokes and occasionally poems and songs and pictures that I might find interesting. He will call me every once-in-a-while to say hello. He actually has even given me over-the-phone lessons on a subject or two that for some reason, I am sadly lacking even rudimentary knowledge of. Yes, he is a nice, normal, man and single so he occasionally flirts and yes, I guess, I occasionally flirt back. This has been fun and having a new friend has added a nice new little spark to my everyday life.  Lately,  I wasn’t hearing from him as often as I had in the past and I actually was slightly concerned.

  He isn’t a complainer. He is a cheerful man. Therefore, the next time we spoke on the phone I hinted that maybe something was wrong. He did explain that his life is full and busy and yes, he has a lot of things going on in his life.  I felt relieved that he was okay but then he said, “You know you are not the most important person in my life.”   This statement actually felt like a slap in the face. It must have seemed like that to him too because then he added, ”just like, I am not the most important person in your life.” Both statements are true. All of a sudden I felt a sad feeling that felt familiar. I realized that, that was the feeling that I couldn’t put into words.   This was the feeling that I had been sort of pushing back to the back of my mind for the last year. I had stopped being the most important person in anyone’s life. This actually has nothing to do with my friend at all. He was my friend and he still is my friend. However, this feeling I had for a while, was finally put into words.

  I separated from my husband and moved about this time last year.   Actually, my old life as a full-time wife and mother and pet owner had complexly changed. This move has been a big change for me, from being everything to everybody for over 36 years to being on my own. Even as a single woman in my twenties I know my mother and father and sisters depended on me for many different reasons. I had dear very close friends that I saw constantly.   In my twenties I fell in love three times. The third time was a charm and I married and six years later had my first son … almost eight years to the day I had my second son. Therefore, to a lot of these human’s, on and off, I was the most important person in their lives and they were the most important people in my life. Time passes and my best friend passed away. I still miss him. My mother passed away. My little sister passed away and then a year later my father was gone. One year after that, I moved alone to my present apartment. Now, don’t get me wrong. I chose to move and was planning on this move for at least a year. I love my apartment and I always loved my solitude… I loved being single in my twenties and I enjoy being single now. Still it was a shock to realize that yes, now I am probably not the most important person to any one person alive. Okay, maybe I still am the most important person to my two children … just for the time being, until they meet that special person. As adults they really have other things to concentrate on such as their, college life, their jobs, and friends and their future. That is how it should be and these facts are facts and life moves on and sometimes it is without you. I understand. It was simply a shock to have to face the fact that, for this time in my life, I am not someone’s most important person. 

  If you are happily married you are your spouses’ most important person.  If you have small children you are, of course, their most important person. If you have parents you are their most important person. Heck, even if you are a dog owner you are your pet’s most important person.

  I finally made a realization that this fact isn’t really important at all. Everyone in my life has a clear and important place in my life. My friends are all important to me for their particular type of friendships. Okay my children do come first for me and always will, as will perhaps, the possible grandchildren that I may have in the future. My men friends old and new and my wonderful girlfriends (yes, even though we are in our fifties, sixties and beyond we still call each other “girlfriends”) are very important in all of their special ways. Heck, I have even had two men friends, from my past, that I have come to visit me this year and yes, I was flattered and both evenings, I had a nice time.

  Things change and life changes and I keep learning lessons. I just learned a lesson. I don’t have to be THE MOST IMPORTANT PERSON in anyone’s life anymore. This is a time in my life that I CAN BE THE MOST IMPORTANT PERSON IN MY OWN LIFE. I can finally think about me and what makes me happy and who makes me happy. I can actually be selfish and I don’t have to feel guilty about being wholly important to me!!! I am going to keep riding my stationary bike and I will add going to the gym because it is good for me. I will however, buy myself some sparkling wine because I like it. I’m not going to make dinner tonight because I don’t feel like it. I’m going to binge watch my favorite show on Netflix because I am the most important person in my life.

  Until Next Week…

   

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• Shedding Our Skin

  Posted at 10:02 pm by istheresexaftersixty, on October 25, 2018

   

  As Halloween is just around the corner I have been thinking about all the Halloween’s from my past. I can remember many, if not all, of my Halloween costumes. Most of these costumes revolved around princess costumes and fairy costumes, later I was Alice in Wonderland and Snow White,. One year I was a hotsy-totsy witch with a blond wig carrying a small broom and in college I was Raggedy Ann. In my 50’s I decided to be a benevolent Queen for the foreseeable future and I now wear a diamond tiara when answering the doorbell while confronting little goblins and ghosts and Star Wars’ characters at my front door.   Queen Elizabeth II is 92 so perhaps I can get away with this costume for a few more years.   I realize that in our lifetime we also seem to be wearing costumes. The baby costume from birth to school age, then comes elementary school and high school, next college and then as a single working man or woman, marriage, children, change jobs and more work, then often retirement, becoming grandparents and if we happen to be very lucky we become great-grandparents. Then on we go to the great biggest mystery of all … the afterlife.

  I recently read an article about the Luna Moth. It was fascinating reading. The Luna Moth has six stages of their life cycle … well seven if you include their mating as adults. The Luna Moth starts out as an egg then it hatches from the egg to a larva and then 4-th instar larva to a 5^th –instar larva to crate a cocoon, to a pupa leaving the cocoon behind, to a moth that must wait to dry it’s wings. The adult Luna Moth then mates.

  Thinking about costumes and the Luna Moth I came to the conclusion that we really have our own life cycle and we actually do sort of wear costumes that fit us for a time in our lives and yes, we have to cast off those costumes and evolve much like the moth, to a new form … to reach our final stage, the stage that we were meant to reach since we were born or hatched as the case may be.

  Looking back, I see that I have formed opinions and reached conclusions at different stages of my life that seemed right and reasonable at the time. I made decisions that were right for me in my 20’s. I knew what I thought and what I thought was right and perfect for the time and for me.  I was in a kind of cocoon that fit perfectly. Then before I knew it I was uncomfortable and I started growing out of that particular single girl costume and I left the single girl behind me in the past where she belonged. I no longer belonged there. My ideas had changed. What I knew for sure had changed.

  So I got married and had children. This was right and felt right.   The part of wife and mother was right and this costume fit perfectly for many, many years. I had strong beliefs about marriage and children and life that were very strong and I knew exactly how people should be and how life should be and right was right and nothing could change my believes. Yet, strange as it seems this life went along for a while and it too became uncomfortable. Slowly I grew out of this stage and had to cast off another layer. My ideas that I knew were right started changing again. So one more costume didn’t look exactly like me anymore.

  Before I knew it my children had grown and I was working and voila, I am a senior. I am just getting comfortable in this particular skin. Have I changed from baby, to single girl, to wife and mother, to working senior woman over sixty? Yes, a lot of things have changed. Lot’s of my old ideas and opinions have changed and some have dramatically changed. I have learned that I am not as sure or as positive about anything anymore. One big change is that I cannot and do not judge people or situations unless I have lived it myself. Let’s just say that the more I know the more I realize I still have to learn. Right and wrong aren’t as easy to figure out as they used to be when I was young and knew the answer to everything. I now see my children facing the same larva stage that I faced so many costumes or so many cycles ago.

  This final stage isn’t over yet; at least I hope it isn’t over. I am just starting to fit into this particular costume and it feels pretty good so far.

  Until Next Week…

   

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• Older Than Springtime

  Posted at 9:50 pm by istheresexaftersixty, on October 18, 2018

   

  About three years ago there was an article in our local paper about the bridge that is located in the town next to my town that needed to be torn down and rebuilt because the bridge was too old and dilapidated, and well, in the state of disrepair or ruin…. and would become dangerous if it wasn’t replaced immediately. They said the original bridge was built and finished in March of 1953. I had to read this twice before I rolled the newspaper up in a ball and tossed it across the room hitting the nearest wall. You see, I decided to write this blog because it has been so difficult for me personally to believe that I am now over the age of 60!!!   This has been a running theme with my posts during the last year. You see the bridge that was so old and decrepit and dangerous to mankind was one year younger than me. I arrived on the scene on March 3^rd, 1952. Yes, they torn down that OLD bridge to make way for the young, strong, new, efficient, beautiful, bridge. The old bridge was replaced and it was replaced in record time.

  Okay, I know I’m not a bridge …. at least my common sense tells me I’m not that particular bridge but in my heart of hearts … my mind told me that I could possibly be that dilapidated bridge needing to be torn down and replaced by a new, shiny, pretty, stronger bridge. This actually induced a feeling of genuine anger that started in my feet and rose to the top of my (over 60) skull.

  First, let me explain …. all of me (so far) is exactly the same me that arrived on the scene in 1952. I have the same nose, the same face, the same breasts that haven’t been lifted. Nothing has been lifted. My teeth are my teeth. I didn’t add new covers to my old teeth and so far I haven’t had them bleached…. although I think I am going to whiten them the next time I visit the dentist.   I haven’t had any Botox injections as of today’s date. Even my nails are my very own nails. They aren’t fake or gelled …. just my own old nails. My lashes are my own as well. I do add mascara to make them look longer and a bit thicker however, underneath they are my own lashes. My hair is now long and (so far) still pretty thick and somehow it has kept it’s shine… maybe that is because once every 8 weeks or so I add color to it to keep it naturally blond…. I know that somewhere under this color is gray and white hair that is longing to show it’s true colors to the world … but I am not going to let that happen as long as I have two hands to apply the natural blond color, that comes in a box, to my head and hair. I do ride my stationary bike but not as long and as regularly as I should … I have just added the gym to my very short workouts. My goal is to workout one hour a day and six days a week. I will do this to add to my life and to my strength but really it is so that I look better when I look in the mirror. So much for good health. I did do one thing 34 years ago that I believe has added to my health and maybe helped fight off a few wrinkles. I quit smoking. I loved cigarettes more than, food, alcohol and yes, probably more than sex. Somehow I stopped smoking and it might have been one of the hardest things that I have ever done in my life. Another thing I really like, is vodka. I loved to have a martini or two or a Cosmopolitan or two as my nightly cocktail hour….  along with a glass or two of wine. I decided that this was too much for my aging body, so now, I limit myself to martinis for special occasions, not every night.

  I have made it (so far) to the great age of 66 years and counting. Sure, I have some aches and some pains here and there and when I buy wine and the girl or guy at the checkout counter asks to see my ID I secretly hope they are shocked when they check my birth date on my driver’s license. After the cashier has carefully checked the date of my birth ( this is a law in my state no matter how old you look) I ask the cashier if they are surprised at how good I look for a woman of my 100 years.  The cashier usually gives me a confused glance as she continues adding up my groceries.

  Well, I decided to keep pretending that I am still the young girl who could dance all night. I will continue to be the same girl who was interested in and by art, history, politics, literature, as well as new Netflix shows that I can binge watch while sipping on Champagne and munching on popcorn. I will continue to keep up with technology so that I am not left behind as I age. I will try my hardest to embrace at least some “rap” and I will try to keep learning new things to keep my mind from hopefully fighting off the possible dilapidation of old age. I will still flirt, at least with men who are from ten years younger on up. I might keep dating … and who knows, I might even  consider some romance…. I’m not dead yet. I realize I am not younger than springtime anymore but I am young at heart. As the song says, “If you should survive to 105, think of all you’ll derive out of being alive. And here is the best part you’ll have a head start. If you are among the very young at heart.”

  Until Next Week…

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• Too Many Things

  Posted at 11:34 pm by istheresexaftersixty, on October 11, 2018

   

  This week I was going to write a funny story about age. I still have this story residing somewhere in the back of my mind, however, for about a week or so there has been an idea sort of flashing in and out of my thoughts, especially after I have seen the devastation that, that rotten fellow, Hurricane Michael, left in it’s wake.

  First and foremost, let me say that the pictures I have seen so far on Facebook, MSN, and on television are heartbreaking. We have seen lovely little spots of paradise turned into bleak depressing war zones. Whole neighborhoods and in some cases whole cities have been destroyed in a few short hours. So everything that was, is now lost and gone forever. Homes and businesses have disappeared and often only splinters left in their place. We can’t imagine how this must feel to the bewildered people who left their homes filled with the everyday things that we rely on to get us through each day…. the necessities are very important but then there are the knickknacks and wedding gifts … the Tiffany lamp you picked out at that cute little store during your sightseeing trip with your five best friends. The jewelry box that your husband gave you for Christmas that cost him a fortune made from the finest wood. He was so proud of it even though you thought it looked like a monstrosity … however, after a few years you grew to love it. Gone, all gone. It’s awful. I know it is awful and it will take a while to get over the sadness and pain of so much loss and all this loss arrived in an instant and took away everything.

  There is something you good people who have faced this tragedy will learn about this loss. If you haven’t lost your life or the lives of your family and friends the other stuff is just that …. it’s stuff.  The only thing you have really lost are THINGS . I have lost a lot in my life. I lost (at one point in my life) everything I ever owned. It took a long time for me to get over the loss however, the older I have become the more I have learned that things aren’t as important as we once imagined. In the last 18 years at one time I had possessions from three different houses. My mother had passed away and I had to empty her vacation home. What do you keep? What do you sell? What do you give away? My husband and I had rented a large home and we filled it with furniture. A few pieces from my mother’s vacation home some paintings from my mother’s home in Chicago and lots of new furniture for the new large home. Three years later I bought a darling smaller home in Arizona. I put most of the furniture in storage and sent a small truck with movers to the new home. I bought new furniture that fit the adobe style home with it’s sandy front yard filled with cacti and the pool with a hot tub and waterfall in the backyard. Large furniture where it snowed nine months out of twelve just didn’t fit a house in Arizona.

  We spent only two years in Arizona and once again our lives changed. To make a long story short. In the next several years I had to sell, toss and give away almost three houses of furniture, life and memories. My last move was to move to a lovely two bedroom two bath apartment with a small office and a small dining area and a small kitchen. It is perfect for me. In the last several years I have donated literally tons of bags of shoes, clothes and accessories and bags and bags of clothes from my children’s closets. We kept moving to smaller homes or apartments. Suddenly I lost almost all my sentimentality to my things. It got easier and easier to donate maybe 12 or more boxes of books, old cd’s, knickknacks, the wooden giraffe from Disney World, the painted egg also from Disney World, the old chess set … (I don’t play chess) the marble game (I never learned how to play). I sold, donated, tossed and tossed and donated and donated. Big, black bags of stuff filled my large Jeep weekly as happy thrift shops welcomed the merchandise. I pictured mother’s faces who might be on the receiving end of the perfectly good clothes and toys and books that were no longer of use to my family. I can’t tell you how freeing it was to me. I now have a clean, neat apartment with a set of two bookcases. The bookcases aren’t full. I have room for more books I have an office with two shelves of books and papers neatly filed and white cloth storage bins. Most of these bins are empty. I do have a few sentimental items … lots of paintings on my walls and some of my sculptures on a shelf or two. I still have my jewelry box and a closet filled with clothes and shoes. However, it isn’t stuffed and I’m thinking right now about getting rid of some of the clothes and shoes I haven’t worn in a year.

  I bought a few pieces of modern furniture. In my bedroom I have a lamp from my mother’s last apartment. I added a new shade, a bed table of my mother’s from her vacation home and a set of drawers in lovely dark wood with brass handles that match the table and a chair from her vacation home that I covered in a dark golden velvet. I bought a new floor lamp.   I kept the Tiffany lamp and it is sitting on the stone granite counter in the kitchen. There are two new tall chairs sitting in front of the counter that I bought for the new apartment with my new modern metal dining table and chairs. The apartment is perfect for me at this time in my life.

  One thing I have learned. It is nice to keep a few pieces here and there of your past. It is nice to keep a few sentimental items as well, however, I have learned that I can get along without them too. These are things and things can be replaced. I noticed that many people over the age of 60 often have too many things sitting around as clutter. These things clutter your home and keeps you living in the past and often clutter your mind. It is nice to remember the past however, un-cluttering is good. The past is the past. Toss out that old couch, give it away or send it to Habitat. The coat your husband gave your for your 15^th anniversary … donate it and get another coat. Clean out those closets. You will feel freer and here is a surprise … you will feel younger and you may be able to look forward to your future, your neat, uncluttered, future.

  Until Next Week…

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• A Life Worth Living

  Posted at 9:56 pm by istheresexaftersixty, on October 4, 2018

   

  A few weeks ago a friend of mine asked a question on Facebook. She asked, “What are three things that make life worth living.” I can’t remember if I answered the question or not, however, the question did keep going around and around in my mind. What makes life worth living? The question also comes to mind when, in less than a month, three very wealthy, famous, beautiful people with seemingly perfectly marvelous lives decide to commit suicide? Why? Don’t get me wrong. I know life can be hard. There are times in some of our lives that make living almost unbearable. Yep, I’ve seen it and I’ve felt it and I’ve lived it. Maybe it is when one terrible unthinkable thing happens and boom, another terrible thing zooms right in front of you, then slam-bang, another disaster comes racing around the corner and just as you catch your breath… BING, Bang, Boom, catastrophe hits you on the back of the head. So, what makes us go on? What makes life worth living? Believe it or not I think I know.   Here are some things that I believe we should hold on to when life gives you every reason to stop trying and give up.

  “ART ORGANIZES THE CHAOS OF LIFE.”, WYTON MARSALIS (A QUOTE STATED ON THE DICK CAVETT SHOW.)

  Art, all art, lifts us up from the ordinary to the extraordinary. Feeling blue, go to a museum and take a look at the fascinating beauty that humans have created since the beginning of man. Gaze at the paintings, sculpture, drawings, portraits of people through the ages that are long gone but who’s lives are captured on canvas, or on wood or on paper or on walls or on glass. Take a walk down the streets of Chicago and take a look at the genius of the architecture that surrounds you from the far North Side to the far South Side.

  The Arts, don’t stop there. Oh no, there is music … from Beethoven Symphonies to Jazz to Rock to the Beatles. Thank God for Frank Sinatra and Nat King Cole. Sit and listen and see if music doesn’t carry you away while it lifts your heart and your spirit to new heights of joy.

  Dance, watch a ballet. Watch, dancers practice their art. Margot Fonteyn and Rudolf Nureyev on tape. Ask your partner to dance, take a dancing class. Turn on TCM and take a gander at Ginger and Fred, notice Bob Fosse in the background? Rita Hayworth as Gilda, Bill “Bojangles” Robinson, The Nicholas Brothers. Take a second look at Gene Kelly, Debbie Reynolds, and Donald O’Connor. Then try to remember why you were feeling blue.

  Then there is poetry, plays, novels, biographies all have the beauty and love and laughter of poets and authors that have taken all real feelings and parts of life and they  showed us that we aren’t alone. Others have felt our thoughts and feelings all through history. You aren’t facing life alone…. you are facing what others have had to face again and again.   Some awful things have to be faced and lived though. Like it or not. Some great moments … love and laughter and happiness and boredom, illness and death and joy and birth … new seasons. We are here and we have this great opportunity to live this life to the fullest while we are here. What a gift.

  Take a walk in the woods, smell the air, walk on the beach, look at the clouds, visit a new town or a new country. Take a drive in the mountains, swim in the ocean, or sit on your balcony and view the life around you with a nice cold glass of wine. Smell the roast that is cooking in the oven. Call your kids or talk to a friend. Flirt with that cute guy or get up your nerve to ask that girl you like on a date. Hug your lover or hug your dog.

  All of these things make LIFE WORTH LIVING.   It is called Passion.   Enjoy the Passion that comes with being alive. Don’t hide your passion. Feel it, taste it, breathe it in, all of the good and all of the bad. Passion is what makes life worth living. Embrace life, art, nature, and human contact. The bad stuff doesn’t seem as bad when you immerse yourself in the beauty of art and let the passion into your soul.

  Of course, all of these things revolve around love. That’s it, LOVE. Feel it, grab it, hang on to it, enjoy it, give it to others and keep remembering it and showing it to others… keep finding it anew. So what did we learn about Life? Keep living life, it is really, really, worth it!

  Until Next Week…

   

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