You Know You Are Middle-Aged When...

Last spring, I sobbed throughout the wedding of our son’s former babysitter, who happens to be the daughter of my best friend. She thought my tears were over the beauty of the ceremony. I didn't tell her that they actually were over the loss of my youth. The week before, her mother was kind enough to point out that in another ten years, she would be coming to my son's wedding.
Thanks, Jill!
It's time to throw in the towel. I've been fighting it for years from working out to stay a size eight to using anti-wrinkle creams. When those didn’t work, I resorted to dimming the lights. Katie's wedding was a sign too big to ignore.
I'm middle-aged.
You know you are middle-aged when you stop getting invited to friends’ weddings and start receiving invitations to the weddings for your friends' children. This brings me to an even earlier sign: You know you are middle-aged when your bedtime is earlier than your babysitter’s curfew.
You know you are middle-aged when you stop receiving invitations from friends for baby showers, and start getting invitations from them for their daughters’ baby showers.
You know you are middle-aged when your friends start looking old.
You know you are middle-aged when the hottest clubs you used to hang out at are avoided by the younger generation, which used to be you.
You know you are middle-aged when sex in advertising fails to sell to you.
You know you are middle-aged when you are no longer listed as a target audience in Hollywood. That’s why you can’t find anything to watch on television or in the theaters.
You know you are middle-aged when the radio stations you listen to switch their advertisement from “the hottest music” to “classic rock” but they play the same tunes.
You know you are middle-aged when the sex symbols you used to go ga-ga over play the current sex symbol’s parents. Likewise, you also know you are getting old when the rock stars you used to follow become eligible for social security. A true sign that your generation has joined the ranks of middle-aged is when you go to buy rock concert tickets and the box office has a sign up stating that they have senior citizen discounts.
You also know you are getting old when you can’t remember your favorite rock star’s name or the lyrics to your favorite song.
You know you are middle-aged when your doctor and your child’s teacher are young enough to be your children.
You know you are middle-aged when you child is old enough to be a doctor or a teacher.
You know you are middle-aged  when you send send your children to bed because you're tired. You're old when you go to bed before them because they are now old enough to stay up without you.
You know you are middle-aged when a top priority in your search for a vacation spot is rest and relaxation, not romance and excitement. You're old when you avoid romance and excitement.
You know you are middle-aged when you now consider a game of monopoly exciting. Exciting used to be white water rafting or skydiving. You're old when you realize that you could die white water rafting and skydiving and, for this reason, start avoiding these types of sports.
You know you are middle-aged when you know people who are listed in the obituaries.
You know you are middle-aged when you start wearing sensible shoes. You also stop looking for a purse to match your outfit to create a whole ensemble with everything coming together for a complete look. Instead you buy a nice sturdy bag that can carry everything your need, which includes all your pills, tissues, snacks, notes, keys, and medic-alert buttons. Who would notice a complete enxemble on a middle-aged woman anyway?
You know you are middle-aged when your parents stop taking you to the doctor and you start taking them.
You know you are middle-aged when no one has to tell you to behave because you are finally old enough to know better.
You know you are middle-aged when you have to tell your parents to behave because while they are old enough to know better, they are now too old to remember, or, if they can remember, care.
You know you are middle-aged when you look forward to the day that you will be too old to remember how to behave so that you can once again have an excuse to misbehave.
Now that I'm over the hill, it is all downhill from here.

Alice's Funeral

Life is what happens while we’re making other plans.
I wish I could say I made that up. A friend told me that several years ago and it stuck with me. If things went according to my plans I would be Earl Stanley Gardner (who happens to be dead), in which case, I wouldn’t be in this quirky family of mine of which I have grown quite fond; and if I wasn’t here, then they would all be dead of starvation because I’m the only one who knows how to cook.
While pursuing life according to my agenda, God knocked me off track to land me here, which, to make a long story short, I have come to conclude is a better place than where I was planning to go.
Life never happens according to our plans.
Nothing could have brought that home more than Alice’s funeral:
My friend Mindy’s late mother had lived a full and exciting life. Alice served in World War II in the Women’s Army Corps. She and her late husband had lived all over the world, including Iran, while raising four daughters. When she was in her eighties and her health went South, her daughters were forced to move Alice into a nursing home.
During the height of the leaf peeper season, her children treated Alice to a New England cruise in the Fall. The Sunday after she had returned from the trip, Mindy went to pick up her mother, a devout Catholic, for Mass only to find that she didn’t want to go. Alice told her she didn’t need to go that Sunday. “God doesn’t mind if I don’t go. I’m going to see Him later on this afternoon.”
Mindy was both amused and upset with this news.
Alice went on to explain that the cruise was the last thing on her list of things she wanted to get done. Now she had done it all and she was ready to go and today was the day.
What do you say when someone tells you that they’re going to die right after lunch?
The only thing Mindy could think of to say was, “Mom, you’re not going to die today. Now get ready, we’re going to Mass.”
Alice insisted that she didn’t have time to go to Mass because she was dying. “My funeral is going to be Tuesday at Rachel’s house.” (This was news to Mindy’s sister.)
Mindy argued that her mother wasn’t going to die that afternoon and that her funeral couldn’t be on Tuesday because she had to work that day. “Mom, we’ll tell you when you’re going to have your funeral,” she was surprised to say.
Well, Alice didn’t go to Mass, nor did she die after lunch. Now what was she going to do? She had done everything she had planned to do with her life. What else did she have to look forward to except her funeral?
At Alice's request, her daughters held her “funeral” the next Sunday, even though she had failed to earn it by dying beforehand.
Unsure of whether to laugh or cry, Alice’s family gathered together at Rachel’s home, where she met with each of her children and grandchildren alone to have their last words together before she passed on, which she insisted would be before the end of the party. Since she didn’t die the Sunday before according to her plan, then she was going to do so at her daughter’s home while surrounded by her family. This was exactly the way she wanted to go.
It was a poignant get together filled with both laughter and tears. Each daughter recalled the exciting life of her mother, who was enjoying her own funeral from a rocking chair in the corner of the family room.
After Alice met with everyone, they waited for the final moment that would mark her departure to heaven where she would meet her husband waiting on the other side…and they waited…and they waited.
Eventually, the punch melted, food was gone, and the guests started getting restless. Mindy and her sisters struggled to keep the funeral goers entertained with more stories from their mother’s life.
While Alice continued to rock in her chair in the corner, the guests stared at her in search of a sign, some sign, any sign that she was ready to go. After all, they had done all they could do. They were having her funeral. Everyone had dressed in black. They were serving her favorite food, including caviar. At this point, there was nothing more within the confines of the law that they could do to help her.
Some of the older grandchildren were uncertain. Should they take a vacation day from their jobs to continue waiting for Grandma to die, which she swore was going to be at any moment, or go on to work. How do you tell your boss that you can’t come in because you can’t leave the funeral of your grandmother, who happens to still be alive, but she says she will be dead any minute? How do you tell Grandma that you can’t wait for her to die any longer because you have to go to work?
Clearly, while dying at her daughter’s house during her funeral was Alice’s plan, it was not God’s.
The hour grew late and it was time to take her back to the nursing home. Mindy was elected to give Alice the bad news that she wasn't dead yet. “Mom, it’s time for us to take you back to the nursing home.”
“But I’m going to die and I want to do it here.”
“Mom,” Mindy gently explained, “it’s late and your funeral is over. We can’t wait for you to die any longer. Everyone needs to go home. They have to go to work tomorrow.”
“So I’m not going to die today?” Alice asked.
“I don’t think so.”
Alice snatched up her cane and rose from her rocking chair. “Rats! I can’t even die according to my own schedule.”

Shopping with Grandpa

The baby-boomers have officially grown-up, not so much motivated by ambition, but because there is no one else to be in charge. Our children are still too young to rule the world and our parents have been forced to pass on the torch as the effects of time have taken its toll. With this transition, the generation that brought disco into the world and took it out; invented hip-hugging bell bottoms that our children have re-invented under the guise of low-rise jeans with wide legs; and can legally call the Rolling Stones, Elton John, and Rod Stewart our own, has been renamed the sandwich generation. We’re the filling between our parents and our children.
Now, we’re in charge. Scary, isn’t it?
Imagine giving up your independence to move in with someone whose diapers you used to change, someone who you had to bail out after they learned the hard way that the down side of credit cards is that eventually you have to pay up.
For a man who was once the king of the house, relinquishing independence is a losing fight in the war against aging. Simple things that once were taken for granted can become battle grounds. Each battle lost brings eventual surrender.
One such battle in the war for independence is the car. We baby-boomers can easily recall the days when we counted down to receiving our drivers’ licenses. Getting our first car was a symbol of freedom.
The status symbol of the car and the independence that comes with driving does not diminish with age.
Six years ago, my wheel-chair bound eighty-one year old father-in-law moved in with my family. The transition of moving from his home in Arizona to our West Virginia home provided the opportunity to get Grandpa off the road. With hardly any feeling in his legs, he would crawl behind the wheel of his New Yorker, speed up to 50 mph, set the cruise control, and go. Of course, with no feeling in his legs, there was a delay in lifting his leg with his hand and placing his foot on the brake if he had to stop. My sister-in-law saw her life flash before her eyes two times before he came to a halt when a deer jumped in front of them.
Rather than sell his New Yorker, Grandpa put it in storage when he moved in with us. He felt secure just owning a car, even though it was halfway across the country. “I feel trapped being here without a car. Granted, I can’t drive, but I still feel trapped.”
So, Grandpa sought independence where he could find it.
Shortly after he had moved in, I packed Grandpa up in the SUV and took him to the grocery store. He had only twelve items on his list, but wanted to get them himself. After loading him into the handicapped scooter at the grocery store, I went to the pharmacy next door for a quick errand and returned to the grocery store, where I ran into a friend. While chatting in the wine aisle, I glanced up and down the aisles for Grandpa. Since he was unfamiliar with the store, I feared that he would become confused if I took too long to find him.
Behind Ed’s back, I saw Grandpa whiz by on his scooter at a high rate of speed. He didn’t appear to see me. Minutes later, I saw him speed by again. Assuming he was looking for me, I tried to end the conversation. Before I could, Grandpa raced by again. This time, he was in reverse!
Hurriedly, I ended our conversation and ran off with my cart to find Grandpa.
Oh, I thought, he must be confused and wondering where I am. Finally, I spotted him racing along on his scooter at what appeared to be top speed.
“Grandpa!” I ran after him with my grocery cart.
He didn’t slow down.
I gave chase.
Grandpa turned a corner and kept on going.
Running after him, I noticed that he didn’t appear to be looking for anything on the shelves while speeding along, nor did he appear to be searching for me. People were dodging out of his way while he charged full speed ahead and hugged the corners to speed up the next aisle.
Three aisles later, I finally caught him. “Grandpa! Are you looking for something?”
A look of disappointment crossed his face when he saw me.
Noticing that he only had two items in his basket, I could see that he had not been shopping while he was in the store alone.
His expression was similar to that of my young son when I stopped him from sled riding down the fastest hill on our mountain, which happened to be major road used by cars.
I had ruined his fun. Such is my lot in life being the filling in our familial sandwich.
“What are you looking for?” I asked.
He dug his grocery list out of his pocket and studied it a moment. “Butter.” I led him to the refrigerated section.
For a moment, while Grandpa was racing up and down the grocery aisles on his scooter, this man who used to fly patrol plans over the Atlantic during World War II was once again in the driver’s seat. With the wind in his hair, he was king of the road at our local grocery store!
I’m just glad the grocery store manager didn’t give him a speeding ticket.
(Posted in Memory of Grandpa John A. Zaleski.)