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.

My girlfriend, who is a mammography technologist, told a group of us something the other day that gave us all pause.

I’m not sure how we got on the subject, but she said whenever she asks her patients if they’d like a warm robe to go over their hospital gown, the majority of older women say no.

We wondered – is it a Midwestern thing? After all, a Midwesterner could have not eaten for days and still wouldn’t take the last pumpkin bar at a party.

Or it could be a Catholic guilt thing, I said.

Heads were nodded. For those who are currently in or are recovering from that faith know, self-denial is not only a virtue but a way of everyday life. Denying oneself a warm robe, when one straight from the closet will do (Thank you very much, but I’m fine”, followed by pursed lips) would be an excellent topic to bring up at the next funeral luncheon.

Or is it an age thing? Perhaps it stems from being raised by parents who lived through the Depression, at a time when matters of comfort were a luxury that most Americans had to forgo in order to have food and shelter.  

We also wondered – is their reasoning that they don’t want to inconvenience the technician or take a robe away from someone else?

Is it a woman thing?

Or is it that, deep down, we think we – whatever demographic we derive from – don’t deserve it, especially if it’s something we may not have expected.

I’m not telling women to accept things they don’t want (that in itself is another whole conversation) but if a luxury, no matter how small, can be afforded to us, why not accept it?

However, I’m as guilty as the next lady.

Take my new car, for instance.

After two years of listening to my husband and kids say I need a new car, I finally caved. I’ve driven used cars the past two decades; the last two were handed down to me from my folks. Neither vehicle was particularly pretty and both had issues, but it was great not having a car payment.

But that wasn’t just it.

I admit that I’m not the most conscientious driver. I tend to get door dings (from me as well as from others) and the husband always says I scrape up my front right bumper (taking turns too close to curbs or whatever). I’m also not the best at backing up. The proof is in the paint, I’m afraid.

I had come to believe that I didn’t deserve a new car. Plus, there were always those pesky things that our family needed to spend money on, such as kids’ sports, cool clothes, and college tuition.

But you know what?

It’s been almost two months since I’ve had the car, and life is just so much better. I enjoy driving my new wheels. I enjoy not hearing weird noises coming from the under the hood. And I enjoy pulling up to my friends’ houses with a new vehicle and getting all kinds of oohs and aahs over the design and the new car smell. I sit up taller in it and feel pride when I’m walking towards it when I leave the yoga studio or grocery store.

Once this Midwestern, former Catholic, 53-year-old woman allowed herself to accept this amazing gift from her husband, she felt seen, important, and nurtured.

Ladies, don’t deny yourself comfort. Or happiness. Throw off the stifling cloak of self-denial.

And if the offer is there – take it.

Accept the warm robe.

Why do some people put so much pressure on themselves to find their soul mate?

I believe there may be one for some people or perhaps several. There could be – and probably are – soul mates I’ve never met, or ever will.

To search far and wide and wait for that one while passing up others who may be a beautiful, compatible, worthy friend or lover can only be called delusional.

Besides, how much pressure is placed on people – your friend? your child? – to find The One while dismissing potential mates?

And how much pressure is put on the one who is, well, The One? There’s no room for disappointment or failure, that’s for sure.

I’m not saying people choose friends or lovers willy-nilly, but rather be open to how others can change and improve your live – and yours to them.

Soul mates are, after all, a two-way street.

Instead, let’s hold the highest standards to ourselves. Be our own soul mate. Love ourselves enough – tell ourselves – we are enough, and everyone else is icing on the cake.

I, myself, prefer to be surrounded by a lot of people. They each have known me at different points in my life and each has shared unique experiences with me.

Indeed, there isn’t one person, even my husband, to whom I’ve told every single deeply personal thought to and I’m OK with that.

Because, though it may have taken me 53 years to discover, in the end, I am enough.

I am my soul – and sole – mate.

I went to the doctor the other day.

Nothing significant, right? Except once I took my seat in the waiting area, I took a look around.

Next to me, on a small table, was a stack of magazines.

Could I really – would I dare – pick up something the last person before me touched??

I smiled out loud, if one can be said to smile out loud.

Covid, blessedly, is over, I silently said to myself.

Sure, I’ve heard rumblings and rumors about an uptick in cases, but for now, I’ll enjoy my Architectural Digest and Southern Living (though I don’t live in the South), thank you very much.

I’ve always liked being early or on time (which is actually early) for doctor appointments so I can leaf through the magazines in the waiting room.

I’ve loved magazines since I was young, starting with Highlights and all its Goofus and Gallant (Goofus scared me,  though) and going all the way up to Young Miss and Seventeen (oh how I’d love to be 17 again and what I’d tell younger self – but that’s for a different post).

Medical appointments are usually not the most fun things to go to, so in the past it was soothing to peruse the pages of lives I don’t live. Oh look, there’s a Town and Country photo spread showing the latest clothes to pack when going on a yachting excursion. Or the article in Food and Wine detailing the exact pairing one should order at a bistro that’s tucked into the hills of Tuscany.

I may be sitting here waiting for my blood work to tell me if I’m going to die but by God at least I’ll know what I should pack on my way up to Martha’s Vineyard next fall.

I lamented the loss of magazines in doctors’ offices when I was diagnosed with cancer, which was the exact weekend all hell broke loose and schools, stores, and restaurants were shut down. I went through my treatment sitting in waiting rooms without the comfort of a husband or friend. A magazine would have been a welcome distraction.

As I now looked longingly at the glossy covers, I heard my name called.

Today wouldn’t be the day I opened the magazines, but it was a comfort to know that once again, they were there.

I am officially blonde no more.

After 33 years, I’ve stopped coloring/highlighting my hair.

Prior to this decision, I was addicted to being blonde. Photos of me in my 30s show it almost white. For a while, when I didn’t want to spend the money to get it professionally done, I’d hit the drugstore shelves and choose a box with one of the lightest shades. Then I’d cover my entire head, tirelessly combing through each strand so it was saturated to ensure maximum blondeness.

However, years of doing that eventually took its toll and my hair (what I have of it – it’s insanely fine and thin) began to break off at the ends.

After that, I decided to leave it to the experts. Sure it was more money, but the highlights looked great on me and gave my hair depth.

Until one day, something curious happened.

I got old.

And with age, my hair began to darken a lot quicker than it used to, my roots showing mere weeks after a hair appointment. The added expense and time to keep up the color was getting frustrating.

What was it all for, I wondered?

Because I had been a blonde – or some shade thereof – for most of my life.

It defined me.

I was blonde in college, where I sought – and received – the attention of boys. I was when I met my husband, married him, and had two kids. I was blonde as a bridesmaid in several weddings, looking thin and ethereal, thanks to makeup artists and airbrushing. I was blonde in photos when my kids were young, surrounded by our close-knit group of friends, having the time of our lives.  

The saying was true, I believed: Blondes did really have more fun.

I liked how I looked. I didn’t feel much confidence in other parts of my life, so being blonde was the way I felt important and distinct.

And it was effortless.  

Would letting go that part of me change how people saw me? More importantly, would it change how I thought of myself?

I’m not thin anymore and that’s been hard on my confidence and self-worth. If I wasn’t going to be a blonde, what would I have? I wouldn’t look anything like I once did. I was going to expose the real me, or at least who the real me is now.

In the end, I decided to through with it.

The last time I saw my hairdresser, I asked for highlights in my natural color.

It’s been three months now and guess what?

My husband still loves me and so do my kids. Friends have given me compliments on the color and I’ve inspired at least one to possibly do the same.

Embarrassingly, I thought of all the people, including me, who have had to say good bye to family members, friends, and furry friends. Is saying good bye to a hair color really that traumatic?

Though I can’t help but feel like a shell – on the outside – of what I once was, I am thankful to have gotten to this point in life. I’m more comfortable with who I am than I was in my 20s and 30s and less concerned if people like me or disagree with my opinions. I am content and calm and enjoying life with my adult children and my hobbies.

Blonde no more, you say?

Bring it on.

How blessed I am to have a daughter at college who misses home.

This year – her sophomore year – was much easier on all of us, but she did cry as her dad and I were leaving after moving her into a new apartment. Unlike last time, however, I didn’t worry and wonder if I’d get a call in the middle of the night telling me she was packing up and leaving school.

I knew she’d be OK.

Instead of wishing for her to make a clean break, I’m happy her dad and I have created a house of warmth, comfort, and safety that she appreciates.

Though she’s involved in several activities and studies hard at school, there’s a part of her who longs for her room, pets, and family, she told me later that weekend.

I’m glad she’s far away at school enough (4 hours) that it isn’t reasonable to come home every weekend, for I believe young people should engage in experiences that teach self-reliance, whether that’s at college or elsewhere.

But as I look around the house, empty without her in it, I’m proud she loves it here.

College students (and really, all of us) can have more than one place we call home. We can spread our wings but also have a nest to which we can always come home.

You know the parents of athletes.

The offseason teams. The specialized instructors and programs costing hundreds (thousands?) of dollars. The secret meetings with coaches.

And where are those kids now?

After spending a decade and a half in the trenches, I can tell you.

A few go to college for their sport. A couple kids actually get any playing time. Maybe one or two from the entire school and entire athletic program go on to college greatness.

One in a decade makes the big time.

However, leading up to that, I witnessed parents pitted against one another, trickling their dreams and jealousies down to their kids and subsequently, into the locker rooms.

What was it all for? A scholarship? I mean, sure, who wouldn’t want help paying for the exorbitant funds it costs to get a college education?

I get it. There was a time when I bought into it myself. The notoriety and the popularity it would bring to my kid. I was young and it was my first foray into youth sports. I spent many sleepless nights worried that if Junior didn’t make the A team, his life would fall apart (not to mention ours); he’d be ridiculed at school; he wouldn’t have any confidence, and, subsequently, he’d end up killing himself. Yes, dramatic, but those were honest thoughts.

Looking back, however (and it’s so easy and smug to do that, right?) I can see the error of my ways. The ache for a “do-over” sometimes visits me at 3 a.m., even all these years later.

I know my husband and I didn’t force our son to play in the off-season. He enjoyed – and was good at – working on his skills and meeting kids, some of whom he still sees today.

But in hindsight, maybe I should have had my son play on the B teams, right off the bat. Forgo the grueling tryouts and sleepless nights worried about where he would place in the rankings and accept what will happen will happen.

I’d have our family use the time (and expense!) of summer camps and specialized teams instead for camping or trips abroad.

In the end, our son played his sport throughout high school, though he didn’t get much playing time.

But know this:

There is life after high school. There are other outlets.

Today, my son is now coaching a team of 5^th and 6^th graders, and loving every minute of it. He’s played on men’s (re: beer) leagues in college and beyond and had a blast.

And the best part?

He remembers what it was like to try out, and what it felt like to make a team, or not.

My son told me the other day he wants to change the culture of try outs and where a player lands on a team by removing the parents’ expectations, money, connections, and influence.

I’m a parent of this athlete. And I couldn’t be prouder.

**The shower. Where I think about past grudges, perceived slights, and conduct imaginary discussions in my head to things I should have said during arguments and what I’ll say next time they come up (which, alas, they rarely do).

**I’m at a sweet spot in my life, where our kids are grown and (mostly) flown, we have no grandkids, and most of our friends are in the same boat. We can go out to eat on a whim instead of attending sports or activities. Those days were a blast, but busy. Now, meals are taken slower. TV shows can be enjoyed distraction-free. It’s an easy, delicious time…

**It’s annoying when people start slurping before they take sip of coffee or soup. Does it help the liquid get in faster or easier? I tested it out. It does not.

**Quit telling me about the traffic irritations around you while you’re driving and talking to me. I’m not there. This guy just cut me off! This huge semi almost blew me off the road! A cop just went by on his sirens. Unless it involves you personally, I don’t care.

**Why are denizens from the city always hard on suburbanites patronizing their food and drink establishments?

They may not want to hear this, but many of us from the boring and banal suburbs actually go to the cities and spend money. Moolah.

It also doesn’t mean we never ate there or drank there or shopped there years or possibly decades before the whiners were even born. Must we as Americans care so much about where someone is from? It’s usually these urbanites who preach about acceptance of all kinds. And that’s great. Just realize that zip codes shouldn’t be exempt.

The onslaught of bugs in the summer in the Midwest got me to thinking of other things that bug me.

An exclamation point or laughing emoji used by someone on social media to let other people know what they said was funny.

I like my humor dry and unassuming, thank you. If you think you’re that witty, let the words stand for themselves. My guess is, however, you laugh at your own unfunny jokes in the real world, too, which actually cracks me up, to be honest.  

Bobble heads.

Useless and trite dust collectors designed to be funny, what with their wobbly heads and semi-accurate facial features and all.

I hated carrying the free ones around at the ballpark. Why would a family of four need four Kent Hrbek’s at home?

Crinkle fries.

Nobody likes them. French fries are one of God’s blessings he bestowed to Americans, in particular, and I truly believe restaurants who offer crinkle fries as their only potato side don’t care about their customers.