The F-Word: Forty

As I write this, I have a scant few days left in my 30s. My family and friends have been tossing the "f-word" around in my direction for months now: forty. A whole new decade, and although Google does not consider forty middle age, I'm keenly aware that a lot of people do (I'm firmly with Google on this one). My granddaddy used to always say that getting older beats the alternative--because if you aren't aging, you're dead, and I see the wisdom in that...it's just that I seem to be leaving my good ol' youth in the rear view mirror and it's not easy to let go.

According to the Internet, I'm not there yet. Preach it, Google. 

When someone in their thirties does something stupid, people assume it's part of a learning curve. When someone in their forties does something stupid, people assume it's because they are an idiot. Yikes. This new decade I'm about to embark upon also means a whole new check box on forms in the "age" category. I keep seeing articles with titles like "40 Things To Do Before You Turn 40" or "What To Expect at 40," and I'm not reading a word of it. I already know too much. Apparently, this is the turning of a page. It means I get to experience a mammogram in all its glory, something I have been dreading pretty much since the time someone told me what a mammogram was, everyone's talking about hormone changes, and now, apparently, I have to think about fun, exciting things like triglycerides. I've obviously known I would turn forty at some point, I just didn't think it would happen so soon. I mean, the 1990s were just a decade or so ago, right? I was just in college, wasn't I?

But there have been some subtle indications that I *might* be getting a bit older. Where I used to blatantly ignore face creams and lotions, I have suddenly developed a fixation with anything that bills itself as anti-aging/wrinkle preventing/fine line reducing/skin renewing. Every night before bed, I'm like a chemist with all my vials and tubes and bottles of what I'm really hoping are miracle products. I've also already earmarked a portion of my future lottery winnings for Botox and varicose vein treatments.

Our Friday nights now consist of dinner at Jason's Deli on a very regular (read: predictable) basis, which may or may not be followed by a visit to the bookstore. We are back home by 8:30, in pajamas and anxiously awaiting Dateline. Of course, we do vary our routine somewhat: some weekends, we skip the free ice cream at Jason's and get coffee at the bookstore. Occasionally (and very disappointingly), Dateline won't air and we will watch something in Netflix instead. We've also become big fans of jigsaw puzzles and have discovered that 1,000 pieces will fill Saturday and Sunday afternoons quite nicely.

I get mysterious aches and unexplained pains now; my back will hurt for no particular reason, and thanks to my broken ankle from two football seasons ago, I always know when it's about to rain. Vitamins and supplements are part of my regular rotation, and I never travel any more without my freezer bag full of medicines to cure whatever might ail us while we are away from home (although my mom has pointed out that I only use a gallon size bag, whereas she is up to a two gallon bag, so it's nice to know I still have room to grow). We now make low calorie, low carb "noodles" out of zucchini or carrots, and our rice is made of cauliflower. So are our mashed "potatoes," come to think of it...maybe that's part of getting older? You replace things that give you joy with cauliflower?

Since I am being labeled with this f-word, I feel a small victory any time I discover a celebrity A-lister who is older than I am: I think of Reese Witherspoon and Jimmy Fallon as forever young, and it gives me great joy knowing they are both several years my senior--well, two and three years, respectively. Ashton Kutcher, Jennifer Aniston, and Drew Barrymore? All older than yours truly. You can't hear it, but I'm singing Rod Stewart's "Forever Young" to myself right this very minute.

In fact, before you get ready to put the tennis balls on my walker, I should also add that I still retain a healthy dose of youthful vitality. I have never stopped sleeping with the security blanket I've had since I was a baby, I have a deep, unapologetic love for Lucky Charms cereal, I remain a night owl who loves to sleep late, and I still threaten to roll people's yards (do kids today even roll yards anymore? Or if there just some app that lets them virtually toilet paper someone's house? Sigh.) And just this week, a nurse practitioner told me during my appointment that I am what they call "AYTS"--appears younger than stated. If that won't put a spring back in your step, go ahead and order your Life Alert and and pour yourself a glass of prune juice. I'm fighting the good fight, even if these birthdays do keep coming and coming.

Don't get me wrong, I still love a birthday and I will, in usual fashion, milk it for all it is worth. Birthday month commences this weekend, and since it coincides with Easter and we will be at my parents' house, my mom is the grand marshal of this year's festivities. After that, I've already made plans for cocktails, a brunch, and two celebratory dinners, so I think birthday month is shaping up nicely. Oh, and lest I forget: I decided it must be impossible to feel old while drinking an umbrella drink out of a coconut shell, so we are going to put that theory to the test by spending the week of my f-word birthday in Tahiti, sunning ourselves and enjoying one of those over water bungalows with the thatched roof. Come to think of it, maybe forty isn't going to be so bad after all. No matter what, you can bet I will keep you posted.

No Good Deed

Have you ever heard the expression "no good deed goes unpunished?" Well, as much as I hate to admit it, I have proof. There is an organization I've been wanting to volunteer with for quite some time; I have called their offices, emailed, and every year without fail, I fill out their online volunteer form with information including my work and education experience, in hopes that they might have a need for any type of help that I could provide. I won't give the organization's name, to protect them from what I'm about tell you, but let me assure you that their very noble cause is near and dear to my heart.

That said, I was thrilled when I was finally contacted by someone within this association and asked to volunteer, even if what they were seeking was less-than-thrilling work. I said I would assist them in any way that I could, so I guess I couldn't be particular, right? Let me show you what people assume you are capable of when you have a degree and work experience in marketing:

Mmhmm, you read that right. Hey, marketing, have we got a job for you! Throw some glitter on these decorations, would you? Think you can figure out how to put together this lantern, or does that require a Masters degree? I digress.

Unfortunately, the day I was supposed to go assemble those lanterns and make those mason jars sparkle, the volunteer coordinator, Anna, emailed me to say the entire office would be in a meeting and she needed to cancel our arts and crafts session. We rescheduled my visit for the next week, but sadly, the lanterns and mason jars were for an event and would no longer be part of my duties.

On our agreed upon day and time, I went by this charity's office for my first volunteer day. When I opened the door to their suite, there was an empty desk with a bell--the old "ring for service" type.

Well, this immediately gave people-pleasing ol' me a burning ulcer. Was I really supposed to ring this thing, or was it a test? Was someone just waiting to see how long it took me to ring, so they could judge my temperament? Ring too soon, they'll think I'm impatient; wait too long, they'll think I'm a pushover? I stood and waited for a few minutes (sure that I was being observed), then reached out a sweaty palm and gave that bell one purposeful ring.

Anna, the ever helpful volunteer coordinator, appeared from around the corner and informed me of my job for the day: making name tags for an upcoming banquet. I hate to admit it, but visions of grandeur danced in my head. Anna, have you come to the right place, sweetheart. Of course, I am at this point imagining handwritten name tags, and I am somewhat of a penmanship professional. In college, I was so good with a paint pen that I once decorated 23 sets of cups for my fellow sorority sisters and their dates before our fall party--so many, in fact, that the fumes from the paint made me sick and I nearly missed the festivities (not to worry, I rallied). As Anna escorted me down the office hallway, I began font planning in my mind. Heck, I might even go retro on these folks and use that "dot" font they used back in the '80s at Names & Things in the mall...you remember the one I'm talking about:

Imagine my disappointment when Anna showed me, not to a vast array of colorful markers and a chance to shine, but to a spare drab cubicle and opened up a Word document already formatted for said name tags. She gave me a list of names to input, then informed me she was leaving to run errands, but would be back to the office "in a while." Gulp. I had been in the office for a total of five minutes and the only person I knew was leaving me without introducing me to another soul or showing me where anything was. Namely, the printer these name tags would need to come through. Never fear, I was born to be resourceful: I simply hit "print" and then ran around the office like a maniac listening for any signs of life. After two false alarms, I found it! Now, to figure out how and where on this massive machine the perforated name tag sheets actually went. I'll go ahead and tell you that office machinery is not my forte.

I caught a glimpse of my new friend Anna out of the corner of my eye, about to make her exit. Before she could slip away, I asked which of the five paper trays on this printer/copy machine/computerized office machine of terror might be the right one for printing up some tags. Anna replied that she had no idea, and that if it were her, she would load up tray one and tray four and see how that worked. People, things like this are the reason I was so happy to leave the workforce to begin with, and now here I am, a free woman being subjected to such cruelty on an otherwise lovely Wednesday afternoon? With no choice but to press on, I started the print tray guessing game.

Each and every time I attempted to print a page of tags, the printer would start (loudly) beeping and telling me to load tray five. Then, as I loaded tray five, the name tags would begin to print from another paper tray...onto plain white copy paper. Inevitably, whatever trays I put the name tag paper in, the machine would choose another tray. I looked around to make sure I wasn't on Candid Camera or Punk'd as I feverishly opened and closed trays, loaded and reloaded paper, ran back and forth to my loaner computer to press "print" yet again (yes, I know one or more margins are set outside the print area and yes, I would like to continue printing anyway). I'm pretty sure it triggered my corporate America PTSD because my palms were sweaty and my heart was starting to pound.

About a thousand tries later, I finally emerged victorious with six sheets of not-very-impressive-nor-festive looking name tags. As I had been instructed, I separated and alphabetized all of them and placed them in a neat pile on the empty cubicle's desk. And then I waited for good ol' Anna to make her return. As I waited, I looked around the office, which was pretty much an entirely gray cubicle farm. I decided then and there that, when I won the Volunteer of the Year award for my exemplary work, I would use a portion of my prize money (surely these type of awards come with money) to buy plants and cheerful accessories to spruce up the place. What can I say? I love to give.

Times goes by slowly when you are sitting in a semi-empty cubicle in a room sparsely populated by strangers working in hushed tones. After I finished my mental redecorating, I waited as patiently as I know how for our girl Anna to return. After fifteen minutes of shuffling papers around on a desk that didn't belong to me, I wandered around the office to see if there might be something else I could do. Hello, is there another tedious task, preferably involving temperamental office equipment, that I can help you with? I didn't have the nerve to wander into the cubicle farm unannounced, so I sort of ambled along the periphery trying to make eye contact with anyone. Not a soul. I finally got my purse and decided that if Anna could take her leave, so could I.

As I headed to my car, disappointed that my stint as a volunteer lasted a full 48 minutes, I came dangerously, heart-poundingly close to becoming roadkill, courtesy of one fast moving U.S. mail truck. I stood, paralyzed, as the truck came within about two inches of flattening me as it barreled along in reverse. I was still unable to move or speak from the near death of it all when the mail lady hopped out and yelled (I cannot make this up): "Oh, Lord! I almost hit you with my truck! Did you see that?" Ma'am, I did see it. I came within an eyelash of the back of your vehicle so there is no way I could have avoided seeing it. We were literally eyeball to truck. I went to my car and took deep, cleansing breaths while giving thanks for this second chance at being alive.

To recap, I spent my volunteer afternoon playing a mean game of Guess Which Paper Tray, sitting alone in an abandoned cubicle while the only person I knew in the office went out for coffee, and then almost became a stain on the pavement outside the charity's headquarters. I long for glitter and mason jars. I yearn for paper lanterns that require assembly. A couple of days later, just when I was beginning to wonder if Anna ever came back to her job and noticed I wasn't there, I got an email from her, asking if I could come back and help out again.

I'm going to take a good, long look at my schedule and get back to her.

Chin Up, Buttercup

It seems like the world and the weather have gone crazy lately. The headlines are full of things that will make you anxious, annoyed, and angry. The Reverend Billy Graham has left us, the Russian interference stories still dominate the nightly news, and the weather has been so unseasonably warm I've been debating about cutting the sleeves off my sweaters. Flu season is the worst it has been in years, and my friends who haven't been stricken with the flu have been dealing with their own surgeries, sicknesses, and other maladies. I can barely wrap my mind around all the craziness; it's enough to get you down if you don't take every precaution you can to guard that heart of yours.

Sometimes you need to stop, take a deep breath, and reflect on the sure certainties in life that will keep you anchored. All may not be right in your world, but there are some things that remain an encouraging constant. I don't know what the future holds, but I do hold these truths to be self-evident:

Every woman looks better with lip gloss. Every. Single. One. You can be as all-natural as you please, but a shiny lip will trump a pale, colorless one every time. Your life can't be perfect, but your lip gloss can be, and it's a cheap, quick fix. As my grandmother would say, put on a little color, would you?

A life hack if ever there was one: there is nothing on this earth that won't taste better with cheese. A perfect, if unlikely example? Apple pie! Who would have thought, but there it is. I gave up dairy entirely for a couple of months over the summer, and I felt great. Then, one day, I ate a piece of cheese, and guess what? I felt even better. A life without Brie, Gorgonzola, and Havarti is a life not reaching its full potential. What the heck: pass the Velveeta, too.

Down here in the South, waves are required. Someone lets you in their lane? Wave. A driver stops for you at a crosswalk? Wave. You walk past a group of people that you don't even know? Wave. When in doubt, throw that hand up and make the world a friendlier place. It's free, and as an added bonus, it seems to really tick off unpleasant people when you smile and wave in their miserable direction. Hey girl, hey!

Growing up, the closest Chick-fil-A was a solid 45 minutes away, the always crowded star of the food court in the Anderson mall. Now, I have my choice of multiple locations and nearly daily opportunities to let that deliciousness soothe my jangled nerves. A few weeks ago, after a particularly dastardly week, I went through the CFA drive thru, pulled over in their parking lot, and ate lunch while feeling extremely sorry for myself. By the time I was finished, I was full and my pity party was over. One caveat: Chick-fil-A is always tasty, but you will never crave it the same way you do on Sundays, when they are closed. There are many Sunday mornings when I wake up almost able to taste that savory fried chicken, only to realize it's the one day of the week that it is out of my reach. Ah, that forbidden fruit. I suppose the positive part of this equation is that the other six days of the week, you can dip your waffle fries in Chick-fil-A sauce to your little heart's content.

There are two books (for starters) every Southern woman should own: a Bible and an etiquette book. The good Lord and Emily Post will keep you out of all kinds of ugly situations if you will just let them. Faith and good manners can move mountains, so say your prayers and write thank you notes.

If you do not yet own a pair of UGG slippers, let me recommend that you procure yourself a pair immediately. Yes, they are pricey for bedroom shoes, but once you slip your feet into these amazing, fur-lined, foot-loving creations, you will be hooked. It's basically like getting a new pair of feet. I become a nicer person once I get my hateful real world shoes off and slip into those UGGs. I swooned a little just typing this.

Much of my life is held together by either hot glue or hairspray (in fact, Hot Glue & Hairspray was a name I considered when I started my blog). I get great satisfaction from both of them; whether I'm tackling a household project or securing my beach waves, I get a sense of command when I'm wielding my trusty glue gun or an aerosol can. The world can't fall apart when I'm busy sticking things securely in place.

Whatever comes your way, please know that a casserole will soon follow. Housewarming, illness, new baby--any and all life changing events mean a caravan of casseroles. The absolute most important committee in a Southern church is the casserole ministry. You can't run and hide, but you can be well fed. There is no better way to show someone love than with a 9x13 Pyrex dish of comfort food.

Other things that tend to make me happier and/or make the world a little better are, in no particular order: dogs, jigsaw puzzles, the "skip intro" button on Netflix, anything that sparkles, The Walking Dead is back on TV, '90s music, the smell of Murphy's Oil soap, a good (or terrible, depending on your view point) pun, and the fact that Peeps season will soon be upon us. See? Things aren't so bad after all.

No matter what your world has been like lately, rest assured that this too shall pass. This is just a bump in the road, and when you are over that bump, there will be another one...such is life. Take heart in the fact that we have each other, and cheese and Chick-fil-A. Now, put on a little lip gloss, give your hair a quick spray, and get that chin up, buttercup.

In which case, I should be bullet proof. Bring it on.