Vacation (Only If You Want To)

Me and my Grandma kickin' back at my goddaughter's Baptismal luncheon, after a LBI beach vacay with other family. I lived in Denver at the time.

My grandparents famously told all of their children and heirs apparent that they would get no money from them after they died, because they were going to spend it all, and I (for one) laughed the loudest at that. Shit, man, they gave their childhoods to work in the city, so that their dependent immigrant families wouldn't starve during The Great Depression, forestalling their own dreams about education and travel to send their four children to college. Of course, I had serious doubts about the logic behind funding four spoiled kids who were (and still are) almost completely inept at times, but I admired their effort.

My Grandpa humped underground for ConEd for more friggin' years than he cared to count, so when he and my Grandma told everyone at family get-togethers they inherited a condo out in Cali that they wanted to sell to spend on trips, I loved the idea behind it. I can't think of two more self-sacrificing people in the world who deserved a really good party away from the crazy kids and grandkids than my two maternal grandparents. They were the glue that kept their dysfunctional brood together, having almost no respite from birth to elder status, except for their senior escapes with the local Senior Citizens Club that my Grandpa was so avid about.

So they sold some condo that they'd never seen to go on some real trips. It was fun getting swept up in their excitement. They got awesome AARP discounts that my Grandpa liked to brag about, which was well-earned several times over, for their more than 60+ years of paying into the system. And they want everywhere: Morocco, Alaska, Hawaii, South America...if they could cruise to it or fly to it, they'd go. They both had iron seaworthy constitutions, never getting seasick even under threat of capsizing in the middle of some great ocean. 

Then, they'd come back to show us their fun photos, like dining at the Captain's table, or ballroom dancing the night away, and the huge buffet that was there whenever they wanted. I loved it all; the excitement in my grandmother's eyes when she shopped for her glamorous evening dress, so deserved for a woman who had worked at a factory as a very young woman so that her family could eat. I couldn't think of a better reward for all their years of loyal familial service than dancing the night away and eating whatever they wanted to, whenever they wanted, without having hungry mouths to feed, or someone whining about that evening's meal.

Compared to all the hard times and heartache they had had in their long lives together, the right to live out loud and without prejudice seemed like justice had finally come into my grandparent's lives for the first time in their lives, and at just the right time, when they had the time, health, and money to do it. They taught me how to not be some typical ugly American tourist, but to learn something about the country I was visiting beforehand, like those cultures shown in the bright glossy brochures we would pour over happily with them, along with the audio tape or language book my Grandpa bought, so he could at least order dinner at the table for them both in the lingua franca, and do native people the courtesy of saying "hello", "goodbye" and "thank you" to them in their own language.

They taught me how to live, and how to live well. I'm so grateful that I saw them make themselves happy for once, instead of it always being the other way around. We so rarely had those times together on our own. Happy travels this summer, and don't just "go away" someplace to spend time and money because of your own personal boredom, but have a ball. I know my grandparent's did. Live well.

On Aging

 

For the first few months I attended a full free hour of basic yoga at the library, the group of retirees who frequent the class gave me all manner of reactions. There's the bitchy overgrown cheerleader-type who gripes and gossips and bullies people, insecure that she won't get an "A' in yoga mat while she bosses around her cadre of Irish nannies, the crusty old man who, each and every time he sees me practicing martial arts, challenges me to a fight out of insecurity, not unlike the schoolyard bully who says he'll meet you at noon by the lockers for an ass whoopin' between classes. There's the twitchy small man with space issues, because he's paranoid about being touched, and also extremely touchy about "his" spot in the large conference room we use for community activities, which is, again, like an absurd older version of "This is my cubbyhole!" scuffles in grade school, even though it's clear there are no names posted or assigned areas.

Old people are weird and they stay weird, because they were the weirdo kids you weren't friends with way back when, either. I found a few gems mixed in, too, just like it was in my former school days: the lovely Brooklyn woman who sits in the first student position each and every class, coming in at the last moment, just before the teacher begins, in a stunning show of excellent timing, and placing her "blankie" at the head of the class and to the left of Teacher, in recognition of her advanced status as a student with extensive experience in yoga and Tai Chi (her flexibility is astonishing and enviable). There's also the former magazine employee at, none other than, Mad Magazine and, had I heard of it? Uh, yeah I have! There's also a pretty, charming British lady who griped with me about the local school office politics tellingly, as we looked around the yoga class in recognition of the same archetypes.

But just like my affinity for "old" activities like online Mah Jong, Tai Chi, and this retiree-only yoga class that's been, so far, only been braved by one middle aged person in town, and that person is me, I remain unswayed in my devotions, despite the lingering Western stigmas about them. I know practicing these arts regularly will keep me happy and healthy in the long run. Every time my friends joke about me being the "youngster" in class at 44, I remind them of simple arithmetic, like 2 x 44 = 88, which means I am indeed in the middle of my life if I live to see 88, though I hope to surpass that modest goal by remaining alive and active well into my late 90s. Their former teacher was a spry German women who taught the class until 93, and then she died. Awesome! That's what I want. I aspire to be each and every member of my "Cranky Senior Yoga" class, because I want to be them when I grow up, er, I mean, grow older. Here's to doing it with style.

http://www.cbsnews.com/videos/aging-in-america-crisis-in-long-term-care/