Even after all the planning and shopping for gifts in early October, something still fell short in my Christmas plans.

I don’t cook or bake much, but there’s one thing I do make to perfection – Russian tea cakes (snowball cookies, whatever you call them).

Basically, I start with a lump of butter and go from there, mixing in sugar, brown sugar, flour, vanilla, eggs, and eventually pecans. After letting them cool from the oven, I roll them in sifted powdered sugar.

It’s a great excuse to eat cookies for breakfast.

But this last Christmas slowly slipped away from me and I didn’t get to my baking.

I could have accepted what didn’t get done and moved on to preparations for the next holiday. Yet, it was an itch I couldn’t quite scratch.  

I felt guilty about this one tradition I didn’t get done.

Was I a bad mom for denying my family the nutty, buttery goodness with which Christmas cookies provide? (Never mind the cookies and banana bread I make throughout the year.)

Did I focus too much of my time on picking out the exact Abercrombie sweatshirt and Sol de Janiero Bum Bum (??) Cream my daughter had on her Christmas list?

Could I have spent less energy on carefully crafting the charcuterie board for when my folks were over?

Did I fail as a mom, a Christian, and an American??

I decided to put all that negative talk behind me and planned a day to bake with my daughter a few days after Christmas. Those days between Christmas and January 1 are always confusing seemingly without purpose, anyway…

While my daughter prepared to make her Hershey Kiss- and M & M’s- topped pretzels, I gathered my ingredients and set to work. We spent a delightful afternoon together and soon had several dozen treats to enjoy. We then nestled them into baggies so they stayed fresh.

In the end, it didn’t matter anyway.

Later that night, we discovered our neighbor’s lab that we were dog sitting ate them all while we were out to dinner.

Without a word, I placed the empty, shredded Ziploc bags, devoid of any trace of powdered sugar or salt, into the garbage.

I love when a meme speaks to me. It makes me feel good to know I’m not the only neurotic person on the planet. But it’s also humbling when I realize my deepest thoughts aren’t original.

Some of my favorites lately include:

Waking up in the middle of the night wondering where a shirt is that I haven’t seen in awhile.

How when you have a plugged nose at night and can’t sleep, berating yourself for not being thankful enough when you were healthy and could breathe freely. 

A reel showed a gal in several situations trying to remember to put her shoulders down. I consistently find myself with my shoulders practically touching my ears even when I’m not anxious or uptight.

Most of being an adult is whispering “fuck this” while doing it anyway.

Well, it’s a new year and new beginnings.

And with that, new goals and new revelations.

This last – a revelation – I discovered, or rather, named, after Christmas Eve spent at my in-laws:

The older I get, the more I detest being bored.

There’s a time and place for small talk. I’m not averse to tedious banter, but only in certain places or circumstances such as a doctor’s office waiting room or standing in line at the DMV.

Sure, it’s fine to catch up – how are the kids? How’s the job going? But at some point, say, after four hours of mind-numbing conversation, I long for true conversation with meaning. Meat instead of salad.**

I’m 54. I’ve smiled and nodded my way through decades of family gatherings.

But that’s just it. I’m older now and I feel like I’m on the backside of my life. It also seems I have an internal and incessant need to soak up all the experiences and activities I can before I die.

Illogical? Rude? Possibly both, but I no longer care.

I’ve started to decline invites to events in which there’s too much down time. In the cases where I’m not able to, I bring my Airpods to listen to podcasts or an audio book or bring a physical book or crossword puzzle to fill up my time.

It’s more difficult with my husband in tow, as I have to gauge his interest in the event, but if I’m on my own, I’ll even do the old Irish Goodbye (sneak out without telling anyone). Poof. One minute I’m there, the next, I’m gone.

I used to fill up silence in groups with talk, and I know those whom I am close to expect that of me. But I’ve found in those circumstances, if I don’t talk, and they don’t talk, the event (dinner or what-have-you) ends a lot earlier, which means I’m free to go home and pick up my book. Or crossword. Or crocheting.

And I also don’t have the patience to pretend I’m having a good time. Not that everything in life must be a good time. But I want it to be worthwhile.

I know, that behavior goes against the very essence of what makes up a Midwesterner. I mean, I’ve racked up thousands of hours staying at events until I wanted to chew my eyelids off instead of risking offense to the host or attendees.

Not anymore. Not on my watch (said with the steely-eyed determination of an actor when the storm – or meteor – or villain – is close to killing the good guys).

If I’m bored or tired (mentally or physically) I’ll leave wherever I am if at all possible.

And if, God forbid I’m caught, I’ll have no problem with my response –

I’m bored and I want to go home.

**As the saying goes: Small people talk about other people; average people talk about things; but great people talk about ideas.

Please, for all that is holy and good in this world, do not talk to me on the phone while eating. Especially, and oddly enough, when it is YOU who called me! I do not need to hear every bite, chew, and swallow. Double the annoyance if you PAUSE to swallow and then continue talking.

Thank you, that is all.

Home Depot. That’s where my husband and I pulled up to the other day. He looked over and commented on a gal walking out of the store toward her vehicle.

“She looks really happy with her plant,” he said.

His words gave me pause.

It’s true, I thought. I’ve never been happier since I’ve started gardening.

I’m sure it’s a few things. My kids have gotten older and I’ve had more time to dabble in hobbies and activities. There’s also the comfort of a having a bit more money to spend on such things as my son is financially independent.

As such, I’ve become obsessed with adding to the flora surrounding my home.  Perhaps it’s the nesting phenomena manifesting itself into this latter stage of life I’m in, an innate desire to continue to make my four walls a home even as my children outgrow it.

My flowers, vegetables, and hostas, have become living things I want to nurture and see through to maturity.

Having gardens gives me hope for the future, something as a breast cancer survivor (at least for now) I desperately need. As sure as the seasons change and so do my gardens, life will hopefully go on. Right now I’m thinking, what will be happening in the world when my hostas start turning green next spring? What will be happening in my own small world?

I love that gardening can be communal or private. Each spring I look forward to the shopping dates with my daughter where we pick out annuals and plant them together in our front walkway. She also helps me deadhead on summer evenings as we gab about everything and nothing.

On my own, I oftentimes listen to a podcast or audio book as I water the container plants in the mornings. How fulfilling it is, I marvel, when I weed my vegetable garden and make it look neat and healthy.

I know my flowers and plants aren’t my children, but for now, in this sweet spot of self-realization and exploration before (hopefully) grandchildren, they fulfill the nurturing bug that lies within me.

If anyone is like me, you have a few friend groups. And, with that, thought at least on one occasion how fun it would be to introduce one assemblage to another.

How did it go for you? For me? Not so great.

There’s always someone – or several – who require a lot more attention than everyone else. They, alone or in a group, stand in the corner and look forlorn, their eyes following me wherever I go, practically begging me to talk to them.

And only them.

What’s a host to do?

My brother had this figured out decades ago. He said he never wanted his worlds colliding, a strict tenet to which he always abided.

After my 40^th birthday, which was a while ago, albeit, I decided that I too would make sure not to place myself in that situation again.

There were friends – old and new, current and former coworkers from two different companies, and parents of our kids’ friends. All dearly loved by me, but each with separate inside jokes and shared interests between us.

It left me uncomfortable, on edge, and not having much fun as I tried to make every one of them feel comfortable, important, and included. I vowed never to do that to myself again.

As I’ve seen in memes, there’s work me, friend me, family me, indoor me, outside me – all Teri but slightly different versions. I’m not lying to anyone or trying to hide anything but juggling friends’ unique personalities can be exhausting.

Sure, there are some friends that can freely drift between groups, but they are few and far between.

As such, I’m no longer interested in being the center of attention while trying to put everyone at ease.  

I now prefer to hang out in couples or small groups so I can devote enough time and attention to those I love.

The next time two – or more – of my worlds collide may be at my funeral but hey, I won’t be around to play referee. I’ll just be in my urn, relaxed and content.

There’s nothing like good neighbors, right?                                                   

They hear the same sounds outside that I hear (dogs barking to excess and endless machinery paving the way for more houses being built behind us). Even more fun, they usually share the same grievances as I do relating to other neighbors.

I grew up with my parents having good neighbors, but they aren’t quite like these that live by me. Ones my family can count on to not only let our dogs out if we can’t get home in time or run an egg or onion over for dinner, but to party with. To share in keeping an eye out for each others’ kids when they’re riding bicycles or crossing the street.

My neighbors don’t know my past like my old friends do, and that’s OK (maybe better!). But they know my present.

My here and now.

And though we may never have connected or pursued a friendship if we met at a different time or place in our lives, we are here for each other today.

Is there anything better than your adult children coming to visit?

Even if they don’t say much, they’re here and they’re safe, sitting on the couch, scrolling through their phones.

I don’t want to hear the doorbell ring when they come over, I tell them both, whether it’s for a weekend (our college student daughter) or a Tuesday evening dinner (son in his mid-20s with a house of his own).

Come in and stay awhile, I tell them. Bring me your conversations, discussions, worries, and opinions.

Or grab a quick snack and leave.

I’ll gratefully – and happily – take whatever you give me.

I drove by a new apartment building the other day with a banner on the front advertising rentals for those “55 and Better.”

The cynic in me scoffed at the owner’s attempt to placate elderly people, as if the word “older” is a disease and needs to be softened.

Then I realized that’s me in two years. That’s my husband now.

I know it isn’t possible but why does it seem like I’m catching up to my parents in age?

I’m amazed when I see memes that show the ages of people when they were on TV. Take Mr. Roper, for instance. He always looked old, but he’s the same age as my husband is now and my hubby doesn’t look nearly as old as Stanley. And Alice on Brady Bunch was in her mid-40s. I always assumed she was at least 15 years older than that.

When it comes to me and my friends, I thought, we don’t look – or act – like we’re old.

I mean, I still love to go to street dances and drink beer. Love fashion magazines that have models the age of my daughter. Pout to my husband when I don’t get my way.

Yet…

I’ve also been acting like an old lady since I was a kid. When I was young, my friends used to make fun of me for always having those small Kleenex packets in my purse and ripping my Juicy Fruit gum in two pieces to save one half for later. And my favorite activities have always been reading, crossword puzzles, crocheting, and jigsaw puzzles. I still watch a soap opera religiously.

Perhaps “better” is where it’s at.

After all, the discounts may be nice.

Our local newspaper lists what’s for lunch at the senior center daily (for those, again, who are 55 or older (BETTER, damn it!!)) for the ripe price of $5.

I like pot roast, mashed potatoes and gravy, and dinner rolls, I thought.  

And I like cheap.

Could being 55 and older really, actually, be better?

God willing, in a couple years I’ll get to find out.  

How can four years affect the rest of your life?

The cooling temperatures, the falling leaves, the cloudy skies – they all bring me back to my autumns at the University of Minnesota.

My first year at school, I resided in the high-rise dormitory that loomed large over the quaint West Bank. Long walks on the bridge that crossed the Mississippi River led to me the East Bank, where most of my liberal arts classes took place.  

Every fall, strolling across the expansive campus, I’d be reminded of the scene in St. Elmo’s fire, where Rob Lowe’s character spends a lazy day playing football with his old buddies, clad in their college sweatshirts, on the Georgetown lawn.

There’s something about autumn and college. True, I spent 13 first days of school in my youth, but at university, gone were the worries of who would be in my classes or if my best friend – or any friend – would be in my lunch period.

But it was in college that I bloomed. I was excited about the classes I chose to have (literature, American history) which overshadowed the ones I had to take (College Algebra – 3 times, unfortunately – and never passed). I greedily anticipated all the cute guys I’d meet (or at least get to look at) and the parties my friends and I would attend or throw.  

A friend of mine has a friend who got a job at our old university after graduation, one she kept for years. Could it be she wanted to hang onto the memories of being young, cute, available, and ready for anything without mounds of responsibilities?

I recall there’s a book and/or movie that says the times we remember most were spent with other people, not alone.

Absolutely, I say.

The family dinners at my childhood home, with me, my brother, and parents huddled around our kitchen table.

Crocheting with my grandma in her living room on a summer afternoons.

The dancing at nightclubs with friends and date nights with my now-husband, playing darts and pool.

The evenings spent on the couch lounging with my kids and husband, our pets each sprawled out on a different lap.

But there are also quiet times, moments spent alone when I wasn’t lonely. I cherish those as well, and keep them close to my heart.

Memories like walking across campus with a backpack slung over my right shoulder, leaves crunching beneath my shoes, on my way to a class and a life full of promise.

I’m grateful I had the experience.

I didn’t really appreciate it then; didn’t hold on tight like I should have. But even if I did, the years would have come and gone just the same.

All I can do is spend a few minutes each September admiring the changing colors of the leaves and taking in the smell of bonfires, feeling comforted that, at least briefly, I can recapture a time that was about me, just for me.