What is it about growing older that time seems to speed up just when we want it to slow down?
I got to thinking about this the other morning with the arrival of spring. Its arrival brings on a parade of important birthdays -- my wife's, my daughter's, my son's and my own.
It's the fact that my daughter Elizabeth is going to be 24 and son David is going to be 21 that is freaking me out. (And I'm not going to even try to venture into my mental state over the fact that I'll be 55, and I'll stay away from public discussion of Jane's age to maintain peace and tranquility at home.)
When the kids were little, time took its time, it seemed. Yes, they had their birthdays and their First Communions and their first days of school, and life as a young parent had a certain, predictable rhythm. For the longest time they seemed forever locked in as just being little kids.
And every morning for what seemed years on end I could wake up and look myself in the mirror and look into a face that wasn't any older than, say, 30 … 35 at the oldest.
There was Little League to look forward to and gymnastics camp and all those things they needed from you because you were the parent and they were the kids.
But then they weren't little kids anymore, and I'm thinking it started when they learned to drive. I remember it being weird at the time that my babies were actually allowed to drive a car. It didn't matter that by virtue of their birth dates they were 16 and therefore allowed by law to begin driving. But they were still my babies and babies aren't allowed to drive.
And they weren't around as much. And they were around even less as they became high school upperclassmen. And they were around even less when they packed off to college.
It's as if the distance of having the children around less often has created some inverse refraction of time. The kids move away, and time seems to shorten.
I'm not the 30 year old in the mirror anymore: the gray will attest to that, and so will the wear lines under the eyes and the folds under the chin and the creakiness of getting out of bed in the morning. It's tough on the psyche to look yourself in that mirror and acknowledge you're the parent of two adult kids.
My daughter Elizabeth will mark her 24th birthday in late April, just shy of her completion of her doctoral graduate work in physical therapy. It's amazing to still think of her as a kid when at 24 I was already two years into a job as a newspaper reporter.
My son David birthday marks his being 21 -- an adult in every way, shape and form. And yet he's the Little Leaguer I want to play catch with now that winter has given way to spring.
Make no mistake -- it's great having adult children. We really enjoy each other's company when we can span time and distance to do it. I just wish the time part of it wasn't speeding by me as quickly as it is.
Friday, March 28, 2008
Friday, March 21, 2008
Drop and give me 20, or so
When it comes to health and fitness, I guess I should be happy with being average as I'm knocking on the door of 55 years old.
By average that means when it comes to health and fitness some things I do well, and some things I don't do so well, but when you average things out I'm about in the middle.
I'm not a fitness nut. I do pretty well by way of exercise, so I'm probably a little above average there. But I don't do so well by way of diet. Given the choice of a piece of celery dipped in peanut butter vs. a Buffalo wing slathered in hot sauce and bleu cheese dressing the wing will win every time.
I've gained a couple of waist sizes in my pants over the last several years, no longer the 30 inch waist and 30 inch inseam of an age that now seems prehistoric.
But I work out regularly and can run four miles at a reasonable clip and do laps in the pool without having a near drowning experience.
My latest measure of fitness comes by way of a recent article in the New York Times that said, and I quote: "The push-up is the ultimate barometer of fitness."
After reading this article, during recent workout at the gym, I dropped and gave myself as many as I could do -- 20.
I stopped at 20, thinking maybe I could squeeze another one, but I stopped anyway out of consideration of the blood vessel in my neck that looked like it was going to open up like the Hoover Dam with a crack in it.
The good news is that 20 is the number of push-ups a 55 year old man should be able to do.
According to the article, for those of you counting at home, a 40-year-old man should be able to do 27 push-ups while a 60-year-old man should be able to do 17. For women, the numbers are 16 for a woman of 40, six for a woman of 60.
The push-ups we're discussing here are the real ones, like the ones we did in high school gym class -- palms and toes on the ground, the body ram-rod straight.
The Times article noted that push-ups are important in the biomechanics of aging. The better someone is able to do push-ups, the better that someone will be able to withstand a fall without breaking a wrist or arm.
This attention to upper body strength comes as something relatively new in the fitness game, especially for aging men and women. Cardiovascular health -- the stuff that comes from running and walking and the like -- is one thing, but health and fitness researchers are now saying that strength conditioning -- especially upper body strength -- is just as important.
According to the article, the ability to do push-ups on a regular basis is an important indicator of our capacity to deal with the challenges of aging.
So drop and give me 20 ... or so.
By the way, ever-young exercise guru Jack LaLanne is 93 years old and does push-ups as part of his daily workout, with his hands and feet balanced on three chairs. The article didn't say how many he's doing these days, but he once did 1,000 push-ups in 23minutes. He's definitely ruining the grading curve for the rest of us.
By average that means when it comes to health and fitness some things I do well, and some things I don't do so well, but when you average things out I'm about in the middle.
I'm not a fitness nut. I do pretty well by way of exercise, so I'm probably a little above average there. But I don't do so well by way of diet. Given the choice of a piece of celery dipped in peanut butter vs. a Buffalo wing slathered in hot sauce and bleu cheese dressing the wing will win every time.
I've gained a couple of waist sizes in my pants over the last several years, no longer the 30 inch waist and 30 inch inseam of an age that now seems prehistoric.
But I work out regularly and can run four miles at a reasonable clip and do laps in the pool without having a near drowning experience.
My latest measure of fitness comes by way of a recent article in the New York Times that said, and I quote: "The push-up is the ultimate barometer of fitness."
After reading this article, during recent workout at the gym, I dropped and gave myself as many as I could do -- 20.
I stopped at 20, thinking maybe I could squeeze another one, but I stopped anyway out of consideration of the blood vessel in my neck that looked like it was going to open up like the Hoover Dam with a crack in it.
The good news is that 20 is the number of push-ups a 55 year old man should be able to do.
According to the article, for those of you counting at home, a 40-year-old man should be able to do 27 push-ups while a 60-year-old man should be able to do 17. For women, the numbers are 16 for a woman of 40, six for a woman of 60.
The push-ups we're discussing here are the real ones, like the ones we did in high school gym class -- palms and toes on the ground, the body ram-rod straight.
The Times article noted that push-ups are important in the biomechanics of aging. The better someone is able to do push-ups, the better that someone will be able to withstand a fall without breaking a wrist or arm.
This attention to upper body strength comes as something relatively new in the fitness game, especially for aging men and women. Cardiovascular health -- the stuff that comes from running and walking and the like -- is one thing, but health and fitness researchers are now saying that strength conditioning -- especially upper body strength -- is just as important.
According to the article, the ability to do push-ups on a regular basis is an important indicator of our capacity to deal with the challenges of aging.
So drop and give me 20 ... or so.
By the way, ever-young exercise guru Jack LaLanne is 93 years old and does push-ups as part of his daily workout, with his hands and feet balanced on three chairs. The article didn't say how many he's doing these days, but he once did 1,000 push-ups in 23minutes. He's definitely ruining the grading curve for the rest of us.
Friday, March 14, 2008
A car with no name
I wrote recently about two cars in my past -- Tex, the Midnight Rambler, and Donny Dart. They had mechanical quirks that gave them personalities; they were partners in adventures.
It got me to thinking: Why is it that I don't have a name for the car I currently drive, a Honda Accord? Horace, Howard, Hillary?
I had traded in my wanderlust for the responsibility of marriage, family and job. Barreling around town in a slant-6, three-on-the floor, two-door Dart didn't make much sense with an infant in the back. There was more than the freedom of the road and the companion of a car to contend with.
And it came to pass that the passion for driving that we had when we were young was replaced by a need to drive as part the day-to-day hum-drum rhythm of our middle age lives. We've replaced the desire for character with the need for airbags and electric windows.
I remember several years ago as my sister was thinking about the need of a safe, sturdy family sedan, her husband Tim derided the car, saying, "It has no soul." And he was right -- and is right -- most cars are utilitarian machines that get us from Point A to Point B in a most antiseptic way.
When it came time for me to trade in wanderlust for practical, we bought a Volvo sedan. It was no Tex, it was no Donny. Driving Tex -- a 1966 Rambler Ambassador -- was an adventure in the rain because the pump that controlled the windshield wipers was failing, so it required a rope that I tied to the wiper arm, threaded through the driver's side window vent and pulled as needed to wipe the windshield. Driving Donny -- a 1976 Dodge Dart -- was an honor because it had muscle and it took me and a former spouse on a six-week cross-country trip in the late 1970s without one word of protest or hiccup.
I think I did give the Volvo a name out of tradition -- Vinny as I remember -- but it was the beginning of a string of bland sedans that I would and currently own. The Volvo became transportation, not a ride. It safely cocooned the family, first daughter Elizabeth then son David.
From the Volvo I migrated to a series of Honda Accords -- fine cars each and every one, but soulless.
The two cars I currently own are a 2000 Accord and a 2002 Mazda. I was driving the Mazda and Elizabeth, almost done with graduate school, was driving the Honda. But the Honda started to have health issues, so Elizabeth and I have swapped cars; she's driving the Mazda while I tend to the Accord. See? There's no fun, no passion here. Who drives what car is based on the pragmatic decisions of which car is suited for whose purposes.
The good news is that my wife Jane has cars with personality and thus names. She owns two black Honda Civics that are like Irish twins -- they share the same look but are separated by a couple of years. The older Civic is Thing 1 and the newer car is Thing 2. And yes we have the dolls of the Dr. Seuss characters -- Thing 1 and Thing 2 from "Cat in the Hat." She drives Thing 2 each day and she keeps Thing 1 around a) as back-up and b) as a car for her younger daughter to drive when she's home from college.
Thing 1 sits around most days, just waiting for attention. For much of this winter it was covered in a thick icing of frozen snow. It wasn't until a recent weekend that the grip of winter loosened enough for us to get it on the road again. It's got a problem with the fan for heat; when the fan is on for heat is makes a terrible racket. So what do you do? Turn the radio up real loud. It's what you have to do when a car tries to assert its personality over yours.
It got me to thinking: Why is it that I don't have a name for the car I currently drive, a Honda Accord? Horace, Howard, Hillary?
I had traded in my wanderlust for the responsibility of marriage, family and job. Barreling around town in a slant-6, three-on-the floor, two-door Dart didn't make much sense with an infant in the back. There was more than the freedom of the road and the companion of a car to contend with.
And it came to pass that the passion for driving that we had when we were young was replaced by a need to drive as part the day-to-day hum-drum rhythm of our middle age lives. We've replaced the desire for character with the need for airbags and electric windows.
I remember several years ago as my sister was thinking about the need of a safe, sturdy family sedan, her husband Tim derided the car, saying, "It has no soul." And he was right -- and is right -- most cars are utilitarian machines that get us from Point A to Point B in a most antiseptic way.
When it came time for me to trade in wanderlust for practical, we bought a Volvo sedan. It was no Tex, it was no Donny. Driving Tex -- a 1966 Rambler Ambassador -- was an adventure in the rain because the pump that controlled the windshield wipers was failing, so it required a rope that I tied to the wiper arm, threaded through the driver's side window vent and pulled as needed to wipe the windshield. Driving Donny -- a 1976 Dodge Dart -- was an honor because it had muscle and it took me and a former spouse on a six-week cross-country trip in the late 1970s without one word of protest or hiccup.
I think I did give the Volvo a name out of tradition -- Vinny as I remember -- but it was the beginning of a string of bland sedans that I would and currently own. The Volvo became transportation, not a ride. It safely cocooned the family, first daughter Elizabeth then son David.
From the Volvo I migrated to a series of Honda Accords -- fine cars each and every one, but soulless.
The two cars I currently own are a 2000 Accord and a 2002 Mazda. I was driving the Mazda and Elizabeth, almost done with graduate school, was driving the Honda. But the Honda started to have health issues, so Elizabeth and I have swapped cars; she's driving the Mazda while I tend to the Accord. See? There's no fun, no passion here. Who drives what car is based on the pragmatic decisions of which car is suited for whose purposes.
The good news is that my wife Jane has cars with personality and thus names. She owns two black Honda Civics that are like Irish twins -- they share the same look but are separated by a couple of years. The older Civic is Thing 1 and the newer car is Thing 2. And yes we have the dolls of the Dr. Seuss characters -- Thing 1 and Thing 2 from "Cat in the Hat." She drives Thing 2 each day and she keeps Thing 1 around a) as back-up and b) as a car for her younger daughter to drive when she's home from college.
Thing 1 sits around most days, just waiting for attention. For much of this winter it was covered in a thick icing of frozen snow. It wasn't until a recent weekend that the grip of winter loosened enough for us to get it on the road again. It's got a problem with the fan for heat; when the fan is on for heat is makes a terrible racket. So what do you do? Turn the radio up real loud. It's what you have to do when a car tries to assert its personality over yours.
Friday, March 7, 2008
Whistle a happy tune
I had about five hours to myself in the car the other day. I had to make a day-trip to Connecticut to see my daughter Elizabeth.
So how did I pass the time on the road? I listened to Broadway show tunes ... the whole way ... and I loved it.
My wife Jane thinks it a little girlie of me that I love musicals so much, that I can hum the overture of "Camelot" during an idle moment or spontaneously break into "Defying Gravity" from "Wicked." I like to think that I'm tapping into the creative side of my Geminian personality. After a work week of spreadsheets, deadlines and process control analysis controlled by the left side of my Gemini brain, it's good for the right hemisphere to let loose with a rousing rendition of "Whistle a Happy Tune" from the "King and I."
And I was able to do that at full throttle during my solo trip.
My iPod electronic music device holds mostly the kind of tunes you'd expect of a baby boomer -- lots of Bob Dylan and Neil Young and Paul Simon and Bruce Springsteen, with some Guster and R.E.M. and U2 and Who and Green Day thrown in for good measure just to make sure I completely lose my hearing some day.
But I've also made an effort to load the musicals that are part of my DNA because I grew up with parents who loved Broadway shows and would buy the albums and play them on the hi-fi. The ones I remember the most are "Camelot," "The King and I," "Man of La Mancha," "The Music Man," "My Fair Lady," and "South Pacific."
I didn't see any of the musicals on Broadway, but I knew them as well as anybody could. In addition to their frequent play in the house, my Dad was part of a theatre group at the U.S. Air Force Academy in the 1960s that staged "South Pacific" and he played the Luther Billis character, complete with the coconut bra and grass skirt during one scene. Rick Flood, my good friend from high school in upstate New York, was Lancelot in an Oswego State College production of "Camelot." This "Camelot" and other musicals were staged at Oswego State by the father of my girlfriend at the time; he was chairman of the theater department so we saw a lot of musicals. I saw community theatre productions of other favorites at the North Shore Music Theatre while living on the Massachusetts North Shore for many years in the 1980s and 90s. I've seen "Wicked" twice -- at the Pantages Theater in Los Angeles and at the Opera House in Boston.
In total I have 154 Broadway songs loaded into my iPod, about seven and a half hours worth of music to keep me company on solo road trips. It helps wile away the miles and the hours to imagine myself as Robert Preston as Harold Hill, Richard Burton as King Arthur, Richard Kiley as Don Quixote orIdina Menzel as Elphaba (oops, there's that girlie part again).
My mom's favorite musical is "Camelot" with Burton, Julie Andrews as Guinevere, and Robert Goulet as Lancelot. Mine is "Man of La Mancha." The knight errant story has always resonated with me -- the idea that sometimes we indeed tilt at windmills, not because we're crazy but because we believe the cause is right and just:
"To dream the impossible dream,
To fight the unbeatable foe,
To bear with unbearable sorrow
To run where the brave dare not go."
Sung at full voice, of course ... armor, lance and steed optional.
So how did I pass the time on the road? I listened to Broadway show tunes ... the whole way ... and I loved it.
My wife Jane thinks it a little girlie of me that I love musicals so much, that I can hum the overture of "Camelot" during an idle moment or spontaneously break into "Defying Gravity" from "Wicked." I like to think that I'm tapping into the creative side of my Geminian personality. After a work week of spreadsheets, deadlines and process control analysis controlled by the left side of my Gemini brain, it's good for the right hemisphere to let loose with a rousing rendition of "Whistle a Happy Tune" from the "King and I."
And I was able to do that at full throttle during my solo trip.
My iPod electronic music device holds mostly the kind of tunes you'd expect of a baby boomer -- lots of Bob Dylan and Neil Young and Paul Simon and Bruce Springsteen, with some Guster and R.E.M. and U2 and Who and Green Day thrown in for good measure just to make sure I completely lose my hearing some day.
But I've also made an effort to load the musicals that are part of my DNA because I grew up with parents who loved Broadway shows and would buy the albums and play them on the hi-fi. The ones I remember the most are "Camelot," "The King and I," "Man of La Mancha," "The Music Man," "My Fair Lady," and "South Pacific."
I didn't see any of the musicals on Broadway, but I knew them as well as anybody could. In addition to their frequent play in the house, my Dad was part of a theatre group at the U.S. Air Force Academy in the 1960s that staged "South Pacific" and he played the Luther Billis character, complete with the coconut bra and grass skirt during one scene. Rick Flood, my good friend from high school in upstate New York, was Lancelot in an Oswego State College production of "Camelot." This "Camelot" and other musicals were staged at Oswego State by the father of my girlfriend at the time; he was chairman of the theater department so we saw a lot of musicals. I saw community theatre productions of other favorites at the North Shore Music Theatre while living on the Massachusetts North Shore for many years in the 1980s and 90s. I've seen "Wicked" twice -- at the Pantages Theater in Los Angeles and at the Opera House in Boston.
In total I have 154 Broadway songs loaded into my iPod, about seven and a half hours worth of music to keep me company on solo road trips. It helps wile away the miles and the hours to imagine myself as Robert Preston as Harold Hill, Richard Burton as King Arthur, Richard Kiley as Don Quixote orIdina Menzel as Elphaba (oops, there's that girlie part again).
My mom's favorite musical is "Camelot" with Burton, Julie Andrews as Guinevere, and Robert Goulet as Lancelot. Mine is "Man of La Mancha." The knight errant story has always resonated with me -- the idea that sometimes we indeed tilt at windmills, not because we're crazy but because we believe the cause is right and just:
"To dream the impossible dream,
To fight the unbeatable foe,
To bear with unbearable sorrow
To run where the brave dare not go."
Sung at full voice, of course ... armor, lance and steed optional.
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