Older not Old

When we moved to La Paz fourteen years ago, I was 51.  I wasn’t OLDER then but I did notice La Paz was full of older Ex-pats and even a few really, truly Old people.  Generally, I hung out with others my age.  We studied Spanish, we learned to paint and we planned parties. For the last thirteen years eight women friends and I have met for breakfast every week.  We share secrets and concerns.  We gossip.  We talk politics.  But mostly we chat.  Often everyone talks at once. 

Last month I was in the kitchen putting the final touches on Huevos Rancheros and I heard a rare thing - absolute silence.  I rushed into the dining room. 

“What’s wrong?”  I asked.    Everyone was looking at Sandra.  

 “I just said that now that I’m old, I’m not going to wear shorts anymore”. 

Seven voices corrected, “You mean OLDER”. 

She replied, “No, I mean OLD”.  Sandra is one year older than I am. 

“Are you sick?  Are you depressed?  Did you have an argument with Steve?” we asked.

 She said, “No” to each question. 

“You have almost no wrinkles and your boobs are perky”, a friend reasoned, “so you’re not old”.  The only question we didn’t ask her was, “How do you know that you’re old?”

The eight of us have grown older together but Sandra has entered Taboo territory.  Janice told me that she had a nightmare that she woke up “old”.  And I did a foolish thing.  I put a mirror flat on the table and dared to look down at my face (do not try this at home).   We agreed that, even thought we knew that we’d be old someday, we aren’t now.  But would we know it when it happened to us?  How could a person tell?   Is the solution hidden behind the cataracts of our resistance? 

Oh, we kid about being forgetful. Every day I receive at least one e-mail joke about aging.  Some of us can’t eat salt.  Or fatty meat.  Most take pills.   Others prick their fingers every day and then celebrate the results with a glass of red wine. Chocolate helps.  And so does plastic surgery.  Having a man smile at you can do wonders, also. 

I read an article claiming that when a man we’ve never met enters a room, women’s posture changes. They sit up straighter.  They lift their breasts and hold in their tummies.  It doesn’t matter if the women are married or single. Could this be one of the keys?  Do OLD women take no note when a guy comes into the room?  Perhaps we become OLD when we have no interest in impressing the opposite sex?

Like Sandra, I no longer wear shorts in public but not because I’m old….it’s because I have old knees.  I also have old arm.  But they are only a small part of me….my mind, enthusiasm, and my sense of adventure is not old.  Not yet.

 I wish there was an appropriate and polite way of asking people, “Do you consider yourself older or old?”

And if they answer, “I’m old”, I would ask, “How did you know when you slipped from one to the other”? Who knows, maybe people would like the opportunity to talk about this forbidden subject.     

Learning To Swim

How is it possible that a 65 year old woman, who’s been living one block from the Bay of La Paz for fourteen years, and who has owned a boat most of her married life, is a terrible swimmer?  Last year I decided to learn to swim – properly.

I still remember the frigid Atlantic.  But the huge waves never kept my friends and me out of the water. Our lips turned blue, our teeth chattered and our mothers waved their arms and I imaged them saying, “If you kids don’t get out of that water right this minute, we’ll leave you at home the next time we come to the beach!”  But kids are deaf when they’re having fun.  Plus, we weren’t within grabbing distance.  With the exception of Shirley Winters, I never saw any woman go into the water deeper than her ankles.  They’d stand in the shallow water with blood red toe nails twinkling like minnows.    Talking and watching.  Guarding their children from disaster.  Could they swim?  Or save us?  I never thought to ask but now I believe they served as sentries; their job was to warn:  “Don’t go any deeper…look at the wave behind you….are you cold?  Okay, five more minutes”…and, ”Don’t think I’m going to take care of you if you catch pneumonia”. We ignored them. Only the aroma of almost burned hot dogs enticed us back onto dry land.

But Shirley was different.  She had no children to guard.  She’d walk right into that icy water, cut through a wave and bob up on the other side of it.  She’s swim fast and far. I watched and worried.  Who could save Shirley?  I would.  But first I needed to learn to swim. One day I asked her, “Shirley, how long can you hold your breath?”  She answered, “Judy, Lesson one:  take a deep breath, relax, and put you face into the water…I’ll hold you”.   Lesson two: Floating face down.  Lesson three:  Kicking. But a chubby Greek girl’s genes aren’t made for kicking.  My Mediterranean butt made it impossible to keep my legs from sinking.  Shirley would yell, “Kick.  Kick”.  But my kicks never produced a splash.  Lesson four:  Moving arms.  Lesson Five:  Putting It All Together -  Floating face down, (for now forget about your sinking legs) move your arms like this and turn your head from side to side.” I got dizzy. Shirley sighed.  Then she smiled.  “Judy, turn onto your back, relax and kick”.  It worked.  My toes splashed water onto my chest.  I was moving.  Later, she said, “Now move your arms like windmills going backwards”.  I was swimming.  And for fifty four years I swam that way.  But swimming on my back presented several problems.  I’d often smash my head into the end of the pool because I had no way to judge how close I was to the edge.  Also, because my right arm is stronger than the left, I swam in circles.

Last year I decided to learn to swim properly.  I bought goggles. I observed Marilyn.  She takes long slow strokes and makes tiny splashes with her feet, keeps her face in the water for four strokes, gently turns her head to the right, takes a breath, then returns her face to the water.  Back and forth for thirty minutes without stopping.  She isn’t breathless when she leaves the water.  I tried to copy.  I was aerobic within 5 seconds.  I swallowed salt.  They say the Sea of Cortez is so salty it’s like a natural floatation device but Marilyn suggested a pool might be safer.   I drank chlorine.  But I tried over and over. 

I’ll be sixty six in September.  I’ve learned that swimming, like learning a second language, comes easier before the age of ten. I now accept tools that make life easier.  So, if you see an older woman swimming face down at Costa Baja’s pool, if  her legs are dragging the bottom, if she’s wearing a mask, a snorkel and a yellow life preserver…and if she’s swimming in circles, don’t call the life guard; it’s just me. 

Shopping In The North

For the last two months we’ve been vacationing in the United States – also known as the Land of Return Anything …No Questions Asked.  And, like all good tourists, we’ve abandoned our diets, visited museums, and we’ve Shopped.   We’ve bought cheap jeans, $120 tennis shoes, vitamins, a Home Depot light fixture and, for my birthday - a Mazda Miata. The Miata tops the list of my Best Buys but not all of our choices have been so wise - for example we bought a gas bar-b-que, Trader Joe’s Lime & Chile Mixed Nuts and an Italian-Stove Top-12 cup-Stainless Steel-Espresso Maker.

During the summer we house sit in The States but we own a cute house in La Paz, Mexico.  It has a tiny back patio and an outdoor kitchen which keeps our house cool and odor free.  We have no room for a bar-b-que on that patio.   So, Alex wedged the big box back into the Miata’s adorable little trunk and I prepared my “Why I’d Like to Return This” speech.  I approached the clerk – sales slip in hand and I said, “I’d like to return this because…”  He picked up a telephone and said, “Manager, to the front, please”. My heart constricted.  The Manager appeared and I began explaining again but he interrupted, “Do you want an exchange or refund?”  “Refund, please” and I resumed my speech because, after all, it was a good one.  He handed me the money, smiled and said, “I believe you”.  It was that easy.

In Mexico the experience would have been different.  A few years ago we decided to buy a gas kitchen stove.  We drove to the local appliance store, pondered which of their three models we wanted, packed one into our Blazer, paid someone to install it, and prepared to roast a chicken.  I put my hand on the temperature knob and froze.  The dial was there but there were no numbers.  I looked more carefully.  In place of numbers I found the English equivalent of Low, Medium, and High.  How can you bake without numbers?  Impossible.  Alex disconnected the stove; wrestled it back into the Blazer, and drove back to the stove.  I handed the sales receipt to the formally friendly sales clerk and said in my best Spanish, “There are no numbers so we need to return the stove”.   Mr. Hyde scowled, “No refunds allowed.  Didn’t you see that the model doesn’t have numbers?  You should have bought the more expensive model; that one has numbers”.   I explained that we’d be happy to exchange the numberless model for the more expensive one – with numbers.  He called over three men who talked and shook their heads.  After an hour of frustrating negotiations, we drove home with an oven that has number but in the end, those numbers are only a vague representation of: Low, Medium and High.  However, we did learn to be careful before we buy anything in La Paz because the rules say “no sales slip – no refund”

My favorite market In the States is Trader Joe’s.  I love the tiny cups of free coffee.   I’m awed by the purple haired and tattooed personnel.  I buy 99 cent greeting cards and $14.99 orchids.  Waiting in line at the checkout, I always salivate at the chocolate choices.  Last week I selected a No-Sugar Added Chocolate bar and asked, “Can I return, if I don’t like it?”  I carefully watched the ringed tongue lisp, “Of course”.  The chocolate was great but I made a painful error when I put a cute little green chili into my mouth that was hiding in the bag of nuts. Nothing but time put out the fire.   The following day I returned the nuts.  Without the sales slip.  No problem.  They never asked for one. I wanted to describe the agony I experienced but by the time I was ¾ of the way through, I had received my money and an apology.

And finally, my latest hand-wringing, much researched choice to purchase an Italian made, Stainless Steel, stove top, 12 cup Espresso maker. I ordered over the internet then I waited. I anticipated the taste of the strong coffee we’d soon be drinking.  Finally the box appeared.   It felt like Christmas.  I read the instruction in English and Spanish.  I ground the beans.  I used bottled water. I turned the burner on low.  Just as promised steam escaped the release valve.  The problem was that a small amount of water was squeezing out where the top and bottom units connected.  I reread the instruction.   I screwed the two parts tighter.  Same problem.   I e-mailed the company asking for suggestions.  Neil instructed me to send the machine back.  I wrote again and asked about shipping charges.  “We’ll refund them”.  I wrote a third time, “Gee, Neil, I don’t know if I can go 5-7 business days drinking the weak coffee that the home owner’s machine brews”.  He wrote, “Okay, Judy, use the first machine until the new one arrives then send the original back”.  I think Neil and I have become buddies.   I wait for the UPS truck confident that if this machine isn’t satisfactory, I can return it.  I walked back into the house humming, “Everything’s Returnable in Amereeeeca” from The West Side Story.

I don’t need to leave Mexico to go to great museums.  And I can gain weight without crossing the border.  But customer service in the States is …different. So, as I plan our next shopping expedition, I realize that vacations are about doing things that you don’t do at home.  And, for this Older Woman Living in Mexico, being able to return my mistakes is an exciting adventure.

 

First Love

The love affair started when he was just a boy.  Her aroma intoxicated him; he said that she smelled like honey and he loved her taste.   She was thin and pale and Alex would do anything to be with her - even lie to his mother. He’d sneak out of his house to spend five minutes with her.  He felt like an adult and used her to impress friends.  He grew up. We met and married, but the affair continued. Old movies taught that a good woman’s love could save a bad boy.  They lied. She was demanding and expensive; through guilt stained teeth he promised to leave her but it never lasted.  Alex was totally hooked on cigarettes. 

I refused to share my home with her so when we lived in Boston stood outside puffing his way through snowstorms; he smoked in our Minnesota garage during minus 30 degree winters and the  rain of Vancouver had him huddled under our overhang.  Through cold, snow and rain he smoked outdoors while I stayed warm and smoldering indoors.

Fourteen years ago we bought a small house in La Paz. The climate is almost perfect.  We tossed out ties and pantyhose and threw open doors and windows.  Paradise?  Not quite.

Our patio is tiny and walled.  Our bedroom is within puffing range.  Each morning I woke to the stench of cigarettes. Paradise is gardenias not Marlboros.   I complained.  I nagged.  I begged.  Finally, I closed the doors and windows.  Once again I stayed indoors while Alex spent most of his days on our patio watering plants, reading, enjoying the weather and smoking. 

All that changed four years ago when Alex got pneumonia. Trying to smoke became so painful it was like swallowing a volcano. He quit.  He now claims he hates the smell of tobacco.  I’m thrilled.  For his health.  For the money we save.  And because I no longer smell Marlboros 50 times a day.  I love our patio filled with flowers, hummingbirds and, in the evenings, the kissing sound of geckos. But it’s odd how unexpectedly things work out.  Most of the time I’m alone.  Alex stays indoors using the computer or reading.  He says that it’s so sunny that the glare gives him a headache.

Is he avoiding me? No, he’s happy when we’re inside reading or chatting. It was in deference to me that he spent his time outdoors and I appreciate it.  So while Alex waters the flowers that I get to enjoy, I take pleasure in his company until he turns off the hose and goes back indoors.  As I sit alone on the patio I accept the vow he’s made; when he gets terminally ill, he’ll reach into the back of his closet, pull out the ancient pack of Marlboros, inhale deeply, and rekindle the affair that started long before we met.

Housesitting in the States

For the past three Summers I’ve been house sitting in Escondido, CA.  The beautiful house sits on three acres packed with colorful flowers, orange, apple, peach and fig trees.   There’s a housekeeper and a gardener.  I feed and brush the two large dogs. It’s very quiet here.    

In La Paz, Mexico roosters and church bells are my alarm clocks. Trinidad, the newspaper hawker drives by at 7 o’clock in his old van with a loud speaker. Neighbors play Ranchero music.  I shake these old hips in a Gringo version of Salsa.   Mothers walk their children to school and say, “Hola, Senora”.    Mexico is a country full of sounds.

In Escondido the only sounds I hear are crows, lawn mowers, and the click-click of dog’s nails on the wood floors.  I’m suffering from “Too Much Quiet”…sometimes called Loneliness or Boredom.

I daily walk passed huge homes with lawns mowed in straight lines.  I don’t see kids. I did see a basketball hoop above a garage door (which was probably against the CC& Rs) but no children.  I’ve glimpsed enormous motor homes behind fences.  Do the home owners long for human contact?  Do they leave their large homes to wedge themselves into camp sites?  Is it possible their temporary neighbors will offer them coffee.  Perhaps their kids will play ball together. I wish I had my pup tent.  I’d take the dogs camping.  We’d tent close to a family. We might overhear them talk.  Or watch them play a game.  Maybe I’d offer them coffee.

Walking Sunday morning I passed a woman wearing a long beige skirt and heels.  She said “hello”.   Had she been to church?  People gather there to listen to something uplifting.  They sing.  And afterward have coffee. It’s called “Fellowship”.  Instead of camping…maybe I’ll try church. 

Huffing up a hill, I noticed a weathered sign, “Lost Parrot.  Reward.”  And a phone number.  The same sign was there last year.  Have they found their pet and neglected to remove the sign?   I have a talkative umbrella cockatoo.   When I walk with Howlie in La Paz, locals ask “How much did she cost?  Where do you live?”  Afraid that someone might steal Howlie, I lie.  “She was a gift. I live over there” as I wave my arm in an arc.    I have empathy for owners of missing birds.  Maybe, instead of going camping or going to church, I’ll call and ask if the bird was found.  Who knows?  They might invite me over for coffee and we can talk about parrots.

 I thought of how quiet it is in Escondido, empty streets, hidden motor homes, lost parrots, Mexican roosters, church bells, salsa music, Trinidad’s loud speaker. And as I neared the house, I realized I was no longer bored; I was playing with ideas and getting ready to write this piece.  Maybe I don’t need to camp, join a church or call the parrot person - I just need to write.  It’s so much easier in Escondido because it’s quiet enough that I can actually hear myself think.