Monday Moanings - August 10, 2015

Sputter, Sputter & Whine

That's about the best I can come up with at the top of this week. My energy levels are lower than low. My inner critic on the other hand is high on her own fumes, happy to be throwing all manner of obstacles against any forward motion on the day. According to this mouthy broad there is no end to the list of my shoulds and oughts, incompletes and outright failures. As if that litany of criticisms were not enough, she has recently discovered that if she casts such charges within the dark cloak of aging, she can really cut me to the quick.

More frequently than I care to admit - more frequently than ever before! - my mind makes plans my body can't keep, or at least can't keep up with. My daughter's wedding last month offered a painful object lesson of just that very thing. I had great plans to celebrate and dance the night away, arise on Sunday to carry on the party at brunch and cruise straight on into Monday to another after-party.

This all sounds overly ambitious now, but at the time in my heart and mind  it sounded like FUN, exciting, wonderful fun! The reality was that what started out so very well on Saturday, all too soon gave way to fatigue shortly after 10pm that same night and exhaustion before midnight. By the time we left the dancing still in full swing at 12:30am, I couldn't see straight and not because of the wine. I had to encourage every step I took. I was deathly afraid of doing a face plant on the sidewalk.

Back in the hotel room I dragged my body into the bathroom to scrub the make-up off my face. In the mirror some old lady's face stared blankly back at me. "Your not one of the cool kids anymore," the critic charged, "you're just an old fart!"

There are times to shut the inner critic up, drop kick her out of earshot and that would have been one of them. But of course it was too late. She had landed the blow. I was crushed. I went to bed in tears. Sleep rendered somewhat clearer thoughts. Deeper rest and time put things right again.

There are also times to let the herald of negative self-judgement rant, let her barrage of outlandish insults pile up in some insignificant corner as crumpled up rejection notices. Sometimes there is a kernel of wisdom buried within that heap of complaint. For me that wisdom is about acceptance: I'm not thirty anymore. Dammit, but I'm just not. It's also about adjusting my plans and expectations of myself to the reality of my age. But don't think for a moment that this all means I'll be pulling up a rocking chair and some knitting anytime soon!

Some of my days are made for pull-out-all-the-stops action. Some of my days are made for do-nothing quiet. Most of my days are a bit of both in dynamic proportion. All of my days are made to be enjoyed, savoured, and celebrated.













And now it's time for me to silence my inner critic while I spend the rest of the day planning our next great adventure.




Cheers!

One of the cool kids!

©2015 April Hoeller

Monday Moanings - June 22, 2015

If the shoe fits...

My daughter's wedding is fast approaching. I need shoes. I hate shoes. I love bare feet. But as age has crept up on me, arches have fallen, ankles have become too mobile and the tendons can't handle the stress. In short my feet can't hack the freedom of being unshod. Shoes - good stable shoes that can accommodate the prescribed aggressive orthotic inserts are my de rigueur footing, especially if I'm going to be upright for a long time and moving around a lot, like at a wedding, dancing.

 I was not blessed with my mother's sense of style, but I have been gifted with her feet (Thanks, Mom). Short and wide, and getting wider by the year, or it could be month. What am I going to find for my feet that won't look like army boots? I went to three shoe stores one day last week. I saw a few, okay three, pairs of shoes that I actually liked.

The first had the same blue and silver colouring of my dress, a solid arch, a low wedge heel and some side support. They were also Italian, something I thought made them truly classy. My mother would have approved. As I sat on the bench I slipped the left shoe on. It looked quite fine on my foot. Then I stood up. My fully weighted wide foot screamed in protest.

Undaunted I went on to the next store. After all, if it was so easy to find a pair of shoes I actually liked, then the Cinderella pair must be just around the corner. A sleek and shiny silver pair caught my eye. I squeezed my foot in just past my big toe, then pulled it off.

Shoes from a few years ago - my daughter's on the left, mine (which don't fit anymore) on the right.

No worries. There's a huge shoe emporium just down the street. I'll go there. Now in truth I should have known instantly that any store with the adjective "Designer" in their name, would be a bust for me. But I was confident. That confidence flowed out of me at record speed as I strolled up and down aisles and aisles of tall narrow shoes. Tears of disappointment stung the corners of my eyes. Dear God, get me out of here.

As I made my way from the back of the store to the exit a pair of light grey sneakers with wide white laces cleared my blurry eyes. Just for a moment I considered them: accommodate orthotics - check; colour match - check; comfort over long hours - check. I slipped one one. Perfect - for boating or the cruising the boardwalk, but a summer garden party wedding? NO, No and no.

My job this week is to pluck up the courage to once again get out there an find a pair of shoes for the wedding. Shoes that fit me as well as the grand occasion. Wish me luck.

©2015 April Hoeller

Monday Moanings - May 25, 2015

An Old Bag of Bones

I went to the gym this morning only to be confronted with too many things I couldn't do. I lurched and stumbled through my routine. I had to back off all the weights. I had to settle for the treadmill, my least favourite cardio machine. Why you may ask?  Because my back has betrayed me. It has up and decided to go out on strike because I asked it to do something it has been doing without complaint for nearly forty years. Now I ask you, is that anyway to be treated? Of course not!

I know what I'm doing. I've honed my skills over the years to near perfection and great satisfaction. Like a diamond cutter choosing just the right spot to cleave a rough stone, I study each sixteen inch high piece before hefting the axe high overhead. Then with full body swing I bring it down across the wood face. A sharp decisive crack announces a perfect strike. With a straight line splintering, one becomes two. It's magic!

Though we get almost all of our firewood cut, split and delivered and have done so for the past ten years or so, I still manage to get my swings in each year. There is always dead fall to be cleared out of the forested part of our land. A week ago we set our sights on the mighty poplar which came down in a wind storm some eight months ago. Chain saw, splitting wedges, sledge hammer and wheel barrow got trekked into the woods. Umpteen loads of pre-cut logs came out. Time for my splitting skills.

For the record, I do wear steel toed boots when working in the wood lot.

Day 1 went really well! Though I did note a little muscle stiffness along my right side. Given size of the tree we were working I was neither surprised nor alarmed. Day 2, I threw myself once again into my work. Split wood fell left, right and centre. Then a twinge of pain developed in my left lower back, not a terrible pain but one that announced itself clearly with every swing of the ax. I finished off with half a dozen more swings, (but maybe it was double that?), then called it 'job done' for the day.

OUCH! The sledge gave way too.

Hindsight is such a marvellous thing - I really should have stopped at the first twinge. But I've always split wood! Every year I hone my axe swinging skills and I've never suffered more than sore triceps and abs. By last Thursday, the anticipation of the explosion of back pain suggested by a mere hint of a sneeze coming on, was enough to send me into a panic. I am somewhat improved now, no meds, and it is safe to sneeze, cough and laugh, but still I feel like an old bag of bones.

Are my axe wielding days over?
Am I really too old, as a few have suggested, to be doing this sort of thing?
Is this the beginning of back issues for me?
Will life ever the be same?
And what if...
          Whine,
                     Whine,
                                Whine,

WINE! Now there's a idea!

©2015 April Hoeller

Monday Moanings - January 20, 2014

A Letter to my Seasonal Amour






Dear Old Man Winter,
I have been a big fan of yours since forever. I quicken to the first touch of your fresh breath each year and my heart warms in anticipation of your star crystals and icicles. I love the melt in your mouth taste of fresh snowflakes and the squeak of wintertide footsteps on super cool ground. And that polar vortex thingy ya got going this year? Well, that's got everybody talking, even the BBC!













I remember with delight the screaming joy of hurtling down snow packed slopes on my red "flying" saucer or
sometimes even the big old wooden toboggan with my Dad or sister on board for ballast.

And honestly nothing can top one of your bright, crisp snow sparkling days set underneath a sky so blue that it is beyond words. I love the cocoon you encourage me to burrow into when the weather outside is frightful; thick fleece and hot tea by a crackling fire, so warm, so safe and oh so very content.







Indeed I have loved you all my life, BUT here's the thing dear old, yet somehow ageless friend bounding with ceaseless energy, I am not six or sixteen or even six and forty any more. Though I still revel in the gifts you bring, at least at first, you must know that snow and ice now present a great threat to life and especially limb. Age has brought me a huge fear of bone breaking tumbles, occasioned by the meeting of a slower reaction time with a slippery slope. Also my old arthritic hands can never come to terms with your new-fangled  polar vortex. So, I think it's time for you to go. I still love you. I will still eagerly await your return, same time next year. Just remember to schedule your departure for January 20th, give or take a day - I am after all, flexible.





Have a great trip back south of the equator. I'm sure they'll be thrilled with your early arrival!
Hugs and kisses,
April

p.s. Our snow blower is busted and in the shop. BACK OFF!
p.p.s. The solar panels can't enjoy your brilliant sunshine. BACK OFF!

©2014 April Hoeller

Thursday, or Thereabouts - Sept. 5, 2013

Time flies!

1970

Thirty-eight years ago today I was enjoying the last day of my life as a single woman, or as read in the banns of marriage, "a spinster of this parish."  All of 22 years old and already a spinster. Imagine that! The old language would seem to have credited me with far more experience than I actually had. I was still living at home in 1975 and like my older sister before me and my younger after me, I went directly from my parents' home to married life without ever truly experiencing the world as a single woman.

I have never lived alone and had to fend for myself. Now this never bothered me back in the day. I was thrilled to be marrying my high school sweetheart, the love of my life. The wonderful world lay before us and we wanted to live it together. We still do, even though the world isn't quite as wholly wonderful as we thought way back then.

If I had to do it all over again, knowing what I know now of course,

September 6, 1975

I'd have taken some time on my own, just a couple of years to learn something about it all. On gloomy days, with both my love and I being now in our sixties, it worries me that the day may well come when I will have to go it alone, and I don't know the first thing about it.

It's best not to get too caught up in such solemn truths, yet it's also folly to deny them, so I'll just render these grim realities a brief nod of acknowledgement, then carry on through our days together.

Thirty-eight years ago my boyfriend and I went out on our last date as singles. The midnight curfew was still in effect but I scared the bejeezus out my folks by returning home at ten. The colour slowly drained from Mom's face and Dad walked toward me, arms outstretched,"Everything all right, dear?"

"Yup, everything is perfect."
And it still is.

Grow old along with me! 
The best is yet to be, 
The last of life, for which the first was made: 
Our times are in His hand 
Who saith "A whole I planned, 
Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be afraid!''
Robert Browning

2011

2013

The Pity Party

I don't recall receiving an invitation to this loathsome affair, no pretty little note card festooned with balloons and sweets pushed its way into my mailbox. And I certainly did not offer to host this event nor offer my space as the venue. Apparently that doesn't matter, for here I am flopping around, a fish caught out at low tide.

Popular wisdom would encourage any of us stuck like this, to surrender all resistance and fully enter the experience. "Be in the moment," some would say. Well I don't like this moment, thank you very much and I can't possibly get out of it fast enough. I'm hoping the next wave will pick me up and carry me back out into the sea where all the action is. A good long walk in the forest, so wonderfully decked out in her autumn wardrobe, would go a long way to busting me outta here -- if only I could actually walk the distance.
I am struggling with tendonitis in my feet (the lower extremity equivalent of tennis elbow). First it was the extensor tendon in my left foot, followed shorty thereafter by the posterior tibial tendon in my right. I have endured physio for six weeks now. The guy does this thing called "frictioning the tendons". I have another name for it, a unique sequence of expletives that quite possibly would catch the attention of the cyber police. Let me just say that if you asked me to rate the pain on a scale of 1 to 10 that this frictioning inflicts, my response would be, "FORTY-BLOODY-SEVEN!"
I have iced my feet 3 times a day and faithfully done the prescribed exercises. I do solemnly confess though that I have not rested as I ought to have rested, and as a result there is no health in me, which is another way of saying recovery has been extremely slow.
For the past week however, I have repented from my waywardness and abstained from anything more than minimal walking. Sadly this sabbath appears to have put out the welcome mat for a pity party. Limited mobility it seems yields a whole lot of manure. For someone on the cusp of their sixtieth birthday, this is great fertile ground for reflections on personal morbidity and mortality, creeping decrepitude oozing from every crack and crevice.
Bring on the Pity Party!

Wait! Hang on  a sec -- I've actually accomplished something worthwhile today! I've not only taken time to write, but I've even posted on my blog!  That's TWO things done. Woo Hoo - I'm riding the wave...

Oh crap, I gotta go ice my feet. Sheesh!