I don’t know how to tell you this. I’ve been putting it off, because well it’s a little embarrassing. Well, ok, here goes. ‘Member last June when I tripped over a crack in the sidewalk and broke my wrist? Well, uh, it seems, a couple of weeks ago, I sorta did it again? Only this time, my left one? Hey, stop giggling! This is serious! Ok, I’m the first person to see the humor in all of it. My little tumble took place during Tech week of “Fiddler on the Roof”, and there were many jokes about taking the phrase, “Break a Leg” literally. *Har har*. One helpful friend said I should put bubble wrap around my wrists. *Chuckle*. My mom says I need to roll so I land on my well-padded derrière. *Stop. Ho ho. I can’t take anymore*. So funny, right? Until it isn’t. When I fell the first time, it was traumatic, inconvenient, all of the things one might expect. But it was a freak accident, no? Not so much if it happens twice within a year. There are certain triggers in life that tend to make one suddenly old. I remember when my Great Aunt Sabina started to lose her hearing. My Aunt Sabina was what we called the “Iron Arm of Power”. Widowed youngish, she traveled, was always impeccably groomed and dressed and had no second thoughts about telling us when we were putting on a little weight, that our hair looked better this way, and that if we didn’t wear hand lotion, we wouldn’t find a husband. Somewhere in her late 80’s, she started losing her hearing, and it wasn’t long before she was in a nursing home. The last time I went to visit her, she took her teeth out, fiddled with them a bit and put them back in. She died not long after. Somewhere deep inside, the “Iron Arm of Power” knew that once you take your teeth out in public, it’s time to go. There are triggers that change us forever. They could be big, like retirement, failing health, empty nests. But sometimes it’s a small thing. Like falling twice in a year. And suddenly maybe you’re afraid to walk long distances alone. Or you only buy shoes that curve up at the toe, so there’s less chance of tripping. And you now have one good hand and it’s still recovering from the last fall, so you feel a little helpless and a little scared and a little old. So you start using the balance ball that’s been gathering dust under your bed and popping calcium pills every day and eating almonds and sesame seeds and oranges. And praying it’s not to late to take better care of yourself, that this scared, helpless, balance-challenged old lady is only here for a little visit. Just a reminder that the choice is mine. I can let the fear and the frailty rule my days. Or I can choose strength. Physical strength, certainly. But when my physical strength needs a break, emotional strength can take the wheel. Create. Act. Sing. Laugh. Treasure my friends and family. Dance like a one-armed wild woman. Refuse to be old even as I get old. Choose strength.

Art and Design, commission

carynjune

Turning 60 has brought about some positive changes. Something about this milestone finally allowed me to dig out my big girl panties and actually put them on. Part way. I went back to Weight Watchers with a real commitment. And I’ve stuck with it. Fortunate circumstances have allowed us to pay off our credit card debt, and I promised my husband that this was the last time we would have to do that. And I’ve stuck with it. Yea, me, right! Absolutely Yea, me. And yet…As I stopped obsessing about the giant elephants in the room, food and money, I realized there is a pack of little elephants hiding in the closet and under the bed. My jewelry supplies are gathering dust and I’m not taking advantage of the tools my vocal coach has gifted me with to practice every day. Or even every week. My apartment is less than clean and while I know that if I went back to the gym, the pain in my back and legs would ease up, I don’t go. My free time is spent playing video poker and binge watching the Great British Baking Show. I still have the same inability to make a mistake and move on that I had in high school when I had a car accident the day I got my license. Guilt. Shame. More guilt, more shame. I carry on endless defensive conversations in my head in order to feel less embarrassed about the mistake I made, especially if others are involved. If other people know I’ve done something stupid. The horror. It’s a mistake. Everyone makes them. Make amends. Learn something. Move on. The upside of an error in judgment against others is I’m so f%^*#ing embarrassed, I’m less likely to make the same mistake again. Maybe. It’s the disservices we do to ourselves that are so painless and easy to repeat. No one ever has to know that I’m completely unmotivated to create new pieces of jewelry. That although I’m committed to Weight Watchers, my relationship with food remains tense and my bingeing is not under control. That I’m so terrified of growing old and dying because I feel I’ve accomplished nothing in the 6 decades that are behind me. That I feel slightly out of place among young moms and Jewish women, aspiring actors, and free-spirited retirees, successful women, and anyone with a purpose. So like an old dog too frightened to learn any new tricks, I’ll hobble around with my big girl panties down around my ankles and make amends to everyone but myself. Woof.

The Monster Under the Bed

carynjune

Tomorrow is my 60th birthday. I have spent the better part of the last 6 decades, and most of this blog complaining. Whining. Griping. Muttering under my breath and cursing the heavens. It has taken me years, eons, epochs to figure out the only thing standing in my way to complete and total peace is me. That I can change enough in my life to make that life exactly as I want, but wishing for someone else’s life is futile. If my career path is not satisfactory, I can change it. If I want to. If I’m not happy with the financial situation I’m in, I can budget. If I want to. If my weight and my relationship with food is making me miserable, I can eat healthier, I can exercise. I can explore what’s really going on with my therapist. If I want to. If I feel, sometimes that I am not Jewish enough to fit in with conversations in my synagogue, I can study. I can take classes in Torah. If I want to. But here’s the flip side. It’s completely ok not to want to. I have heard many times that Happiness is a choice.  Chances are being thinner, being richer, having a career that is the envy of all I meet, and being able to converse with a room full of rabbis is not the only answer. The answer, the real and true answer, is to look into both sides of your heart. The side that wants and the side that has. To accept the side that wants but never gets. And cherish the side that has exactly what it needs.

Little Bit, Heart Series

carynjune

There is a big difference between giving it your all and giving it all up. Between changing gears and changing your mind. Between throwing your hat in the ring and throwing in the towel. I can never seem to quite figure out when it’s the right time or what the right choice is. I spent 7 years of college and a smattering of years in LA being an actress. I got my cosmetology license in California. I took an intensive class in wall finishing years ago and I started my jewelry business in 2012. I’m good at a lot of &$^*%, and great at nothing. Or, to put a more positive spin, I have a bunch of different passions and it really doesn’t matter to anyone how good I am at any of them. As long as I love doing them. Do I? Believe it or not, That is a very tough question to answer. I knew almost immediately that not only did I not love doing hair, but I wasn’t particularly good at it. I moved to NY, let my California license lapse and never looked back. I did an entire foyer wall in my apartment in different finishes and loved doing it. Haven’t touched any of the crap since. I walked away from acting for 20 years until I started doing local theatre just for fun and couldn’t be happier. And my jewelry business? I have given that much more time and money than most endeavors. I have dragged my tent, my displays and my mother from this fair to that festival, with only moderate results, always blaming the high price and the uniqueness of my work and the venue for my slow sales. Labor Day weekend I finally got accepted at the New Paltz-Woodstock Arts Festival. I was sure that I was going to sell, sell, sell! This was a big deal. And people came to buy, buy, buy! But not from me. I sold a few things. I covered the booth fee. But not the gas, or the hotel or the food. And on the third day, as I listened to other vendors crowing about their “best day ever”s and tried to keep the tears from rolling down my face, I was done. I can not do one more of these fairs. I no longer have the desire to pump money and time into venues that no longer make sense. It makes me feel bad. Plain and simple. And if it makes me feel bad, why am I doing it? I love the creative process. Acting, singing, writing, taking a flat piece of metal and beating it into submission. Am I great at all of it? Meh. But I love it. Because it’s an expression of me. Not to stock up for a show that I could care less about. A good friend of mine brought her husband to New Paltz, and he said my jewelry belongs on Madison Avenue. Har. Maybe some day. Maybe I will take the time to improve my skills, to figure out how to say what I want in a way that people will want to hear. Maybe I’ll just do it because it’s fun. Maybe I will just take the time to figure out how to fail without being a failure. To get back up when I fall. Because there is a difference between getting up and giving up.

Red-Headed Woman Talks to Herself

carynjune

I took the day off today. Again. Not because I wanted to, but because I had to go see my PCP so I could get a referral for physical therapy. Which, BTW, I already have from the doctor who did my  surgery. But, no I need one from my PCP, who won’t give it to me without a visit. A $60 visit. I have not shed a single tear since I fell. But yesterday, dealing with the red tape blankety-blank b%•*^#t, I became a bit of a blubbery mess. I than went home and ate an entire box of Skinny Cow ice cream bars. Sidebar: Have you ever actually seen a skinny cow? No. No you have not. I wish I could say that it was a rough day, and one day isn’t going to derail my otherwise healthy habits. (Spoiler alert: can’t.)  You’ve all heard the saying, “the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.”? I had coffee with my wise friend, Gila. She is a great sounding board, because she does not tolerate bullshit. She knows what her priorities are, and will not budge on making sure her needs are met. Whatever sacrifices there may be, she is willing to pay the price to keep herself healthy and vibrant. I can picture myself, healthier, leaner, able to dance my way through my vintage years. It’s like Alice looking through the Looking Glass. The healthy me is downward dogging on the other side while the me on this side is rolling around in jellybeans. Am I using my injury as an excuse to do absolutely nothing? Without a doubt. I’ve been playing this game my entire life. There’s always something else l have to do that keeps me from doing what I know is good for me. Oh, crap, I was gonna go to the gym, but I have to eat this donut instead. It’s a running joke at work. When I go off the rails, I really go off the rails. It’s hilarious. Until it’s not. So, what’s next? I don’t quite know how to answer that. I know what I’d like to say. That’s it, enough. I’m going to commit to the things that will make me healthy, physically, emotionally, financially. But I think I will say nothing. After a while it’s like listening to Charlie Brown’s mom. “Wha wha wha wha.” So for now, Ima just hold my breath….

Calaveras 

carynjune