I am not ready for the 21st Century.  I drive a standard shift car and write with a fountain pen when given the opportunity.  When I take notes at meetings I use a yellow legal pad.  Himself loads my iPod with songs to listen to at the gym.  And he bought me the iPod.  So when my birthday present last month was this laptop computer I had some very mixed feelings. 

We have a long-standing rule around here that presents cannot be practical and have electrical cords.  This rule came about when he gave me an electric toothbrush for Valentine's Day about twenty years ago, thus earning him the title "Captain Romance".  I told him the next gift with an electrical cord would find said cord wrapped around his neck while he slept.  And I guess he believed me, because this is the first time he's dared.  But it's growing on me.  I've given her a name (I'm keeping it a secret because my sons already think I'm strange).  She has made it vastly easier to start doing this blog, which I'm enjoying more than I thought I would.  But most importantly, she has enabled me to Skype.  As the kids on Facebook say, "Best. Present. Ever!!!" 

Yesterday afternoon I got to see my younger son in his dorm room in Ohio.  And he got to see me.  And we talked.  I felt like Jane Jetson.  This was our third time on Skype since he's been away, so it wasn't a total shock, but this was the first time that he actually looked happy.  He teased me and had the old twinkle in his eyes, and for the first time I heaved a sigh of relief and thought, "He's going to be just fine!" which was worth whatever Himself paid for this thing. Because the telephone is one thing, and notes are fine (oh who am I kidding...no college kid writes notes!), but a mother needs to see with her own eyes what the real story is. It only takes a look, but we need that look.  It wasn't as good as a hug, but I must confess that maybe the 21st Century has a couple of things going for it after all.  Good job, Captain Romance. 

I had the insurance money all spent this morning.  Himself went for a run.  Sundays are his "long runs" and I should know that.  If I make it through two miles I pat myself on the back and celebrate with a doughnut, but his long runs tend to be between fifteen and twenty miles.  On purpose.  Really.  But when he wasn't back in two and half hours my stomach started doing that "top of the roller coaster" thing and my breathing was getting painful.  Because the worst part about getting older is that you are in on "the secret."  Bad stuff does not just happen to other people.  Good people are not always protected by angels (at least not the way I think they should be).  And people we take for granted will always be there just won't.  I had pictured cars, heart attacks, and killer dogs.  I had police on the way to the house because they couldn't break such news to me over the phone.  Have I mentioned that I tend to be dramatic ?

Some of this comes from the recent loss of my darling friend Flanagan, who added so much joy to my days with his Irish fire and fury and fun.  Some of it comes from losing other people I love...young people..much younger than I am now.  Intellectually I have always understood the fact of human mortality.  I just didn't believe in it.  By the time you hit my age, however, it's rather difficult not to.  So no one (please believe me on this...NO ONE) leaves this house without a kiss and a hug and a prayer.  OK.  Maybe the Jehovah's Witnesses who interrupt my movie, but that's it.  I hug shy people, priests, gay people, poor people, rich people, people who need a bath (remember, my husband is a runner!), I hug them all.  It's not just that I am ridiculously friendly (although that is the rumor).  The reason is that I know as sure as I know my name that any goodbye could be the final one.  This sounds gloomy and depressing.  It's really not.  Think what the world would be like if we all remembered this every time we parted with someone we loved.  Think of all the stupid arguments we could avoid and the silly minutia that we could overlook.

So the worst part of getting older for me is the loss of the illusion of invulnerability.  My boys still both think they can fly and walk on water.  I envy them their ignorance and it worries me, too.  At the same time I am grateful for the knowledge, because it makes me pay attention almost all the time.  My motto is "Life is short and so am I."  It's only partially a joke.  Although I love to horrify people by telling them that if I were any shorter my hair would smell like feet.  But every day really is a gift.  Today's gift for me was the sound of the key in the lock when a very sweaty runner came through the door.  And if you'll excuse me, I think I'll go celebrate with a doughnut.

I don't indulge myself all that often.  I went through the entire summer with embarrassing toes peeping through my sandals, but yesterday I so needed a little pampering.  So while Himself was at work and after visiting my mother at the nursing home and trying to spoon in her lunch (whatever it was) I decided to go for it.  The immediate result was toenails that are a deep rose and look rather fashionable with my black sandals.  It was the feeling surrounding it that took me by surprise.

Like most women of my generation, I have  habit of putting myself last on the "to do" list.  The family comes first.  Himself, and the two boys, my mother, my mother-in-law, the local church, whatever.  They all seem to get my attention long before I do.  So when I actually got around to sitting down in the big chair with the massaging rollers making their way up and down my back and having the sweet Vietnamese teenager gently massage and tend to my feet I was a little surprised to find myself in tears.  You'd think it would be a pleasant experience, wouldn't you?  And you'd be right.  Except I realized that I'd been traveling at warp factor six away from the things that were bothering me.  I tended to them.  I took care of them.  I just didn't think about them.  When I stopped for a moment there was a massive highway pile up of stress.  I'm nervous about finding a new job.  I miss my two sons who are away at fabulous (expensive) schools.  I'm not nuts about watching my mother fade like a picture left on a windowsill too long.  And Flanagan went and died on me without saying "See ya!", the jerk! There's a lot going on and I need some tender attention from myself.  Flanagan always admonished me to "put my own oxygen mask on first" so I could take care of everyone else and I always waved away the suggestion with a "yeah, yeah, I know", but the truth is I need someone to remind me because I forget.  We all need to take care of ourselves first. 

And how are YOU doing on that score?  I have rose-colored toenails.  It's a start.

It's happened again.  They sneaked away when I wasn't paying attention.  I distinctly remember June, when I'd wake up at 4AM to trot down the hall (why do I keep having that late evening beer with Himself?) and being amazed at the racket that was coming through the window, absolutely guaranteeing that sleep would evade me for the next two hours.  And it was light already.  At 4AM.  That's the middle of the blooming night.  Since I wasn't sleeping anyway I lay abed and listened for a while, and I was charmed.  There was an amazing array of different songs.  I am always mystified at how such tiny vocal chords (I mean THINK about it) could create a sound that could carry so far.  Then the weather got warmer and I suppose the fans went in the windows, then the air conditioners took over for a couple of months so I could sleep, and now that I need neither I am aware of an eerie silence when I do my wee hour trot (pun intended).  Oh there is the odd crow, and the blessed faithful starlings and sparrows who stick around all year through thick and thin and snow.  There is even the occasional cardinal (non-denominational).  But the rich fabric of the morning has changed.

Those of us "of a certain age" as the French say (they make everything sound sexy) may remember the old Judy Collins song, "Who Knows Where The Time Goes?" which asks the question about the birds, "Ah, how can they know it's time for them to go?" and I often wonder the same thing myself.  Their brains can't be all that big, yet I hear about these incredible distances they travel without benefit of a GPS.  I must say, I am very impressed. But I'm always a little disappointed that I don't notice the transition.  When does the song start to thin out?  Do they post on Birdie Facebook in August "This is it.  Next Saturday.  Stock up on bugs."?  Do they have one last bash in the birch tree outside my window before taking off?  Or do they, like too many of my aging friends, just slip away quietly, one by one until I look around and realize that I'm not living in the same world anymore.  It's still nice but it's different.

Soon it will be time to close the windows altogether because the nights are getting so much cooler, and then even the crows will be muffled and maybe I'll get more sleep (if I knock off the late night brew with Himself), but I must confess that I'm already looking forward to the racket that will accompany the spring.  And this time I'll pay attention!

It's trash day and I'm missing "my staff."  Granted, the trash is a lot smaller when the boys are away at college, and also that I am quite healthy and capable of hauling the recycles and bins out to the curb, but it is still making me sad.  I'm finding that I don't like having less trash.  Or noise.  Or chaos.  I rather liked being the center of the cyclone, and now that it's quiet around here I need to figure out what my days will look like.  There is a loneliness involved in this. 

The fact that autumn is fast approaching is not helping a bit.  Fall is supposed to be the time of new notebooks, backpacks that would make a burro cry, and endless papers and forms to sign.  And it is.  But not here.  Not this year.  I am so excited that my sons are getting a great education at two very wonderful (and expensive...never forget expensive) schools.  People ask me how I am doing with the "empty nest."  I get the feeling that I should either respond to this with a tear in my eye and a quivering chin, or a lurid wink and the impression that my husband and I are chasing each other through each empty room of the house and rediscovering the wild passions of twenty years ago.  Neither one is quite true.  And each is a little true.  It's nice not having to figure out what I'm making for dinner for four and not having to play chauffeur (that's right...neither drives) to various and sundry social engagements that really mess up whatever it is I want to do.  And, yes, it's very nice not to worry about who is going to come bursting through the door when Himself is working from home and we "break for lunch", but the truth is the house does feel empty.  What is my purpose these days anyway, if it isn't to be "Mom"?  I could be cleaning up around here, but that doesn't strike me as particularly fulfilling...or likely.

l guess this is my "back to school" time for a change.  Time to figure out what it is I need to learn.  Learning something new always makes me feel better.  I picked up piano 7 years ago.  Maybe I'll dust off the Evening Programs catalog from the local high school and see what they have to offer.  Because the evenings are worse than the afternoons around here.  The storm door gets locked a lot earlier than it used to, because once Himself is back from work, or his run...we're all in for the night.