I've gone and done it

I've always known it would happen, but I've gone and done it, long before my time. I've gotten old. And here's how I know that for a fact.

Well, first a little back story.

When my girls were young, I swore I'd never get a minivan. I didn't care how much simpler it would make life with three daughters, there would be no dubbing me a soccer mom or minivan mom or any of those other stereotypes. Especially since my kids didn't play soccer anyway (at least not when they were little; Andie did play in high school and college and was a rockin' goalkeeper who sported her bruises and bangs with pride).

Anyway, the minivan-mom life was not for me. I was determined to steer clear of that, and I did. The closest I came was purchasing a Ford Explorer, which was kind of the same, only cooler. Like me. Or like I thought I was. (The fact I'm still driving that Ford Explorer makes me very uncool, I know. But it's very paid for, and that's what matters most at this point.)

Fast forward to the empty nest phase. My dad, a younger sister, and another younger sister (neither named Daryl) all own RVs. Recreational vehicles. A monster recreational vehicle at one point, in my dad's case. The kind that are obscenely decked out, obscenely long, and require obscene amounts of gas to get anywhere. And that require cameras at the rear and monitors at the dashboard so you can see what's going on in the event one's actually crazy enough to try backing that thing up. A monster motorhome so huge my stepmom, the navigator to Dad's driver, had to use binoculars to watch for exits ahead so they'd have time to change lanes without disastrous effects when traveling the interstate.

The RV owners in the family have great stories to tell of their road trips and camping excursions with their motor homes. Yeah, they look nice, travel well, and are a nice place to visit, but I certainly wouldn't want to own one. I prefer flying. Get on the plane, get off, get a hotel. That's my kind of traveling.

Until now. I'm a little tired of wasting the hours that lead up to the getting on and off of a plane, hours that could be spent getting somewhere. In an RV. A mini RV, to be exact. I'm not interested at all in owning or driving or sleeping in one of the monster RVs owned by many a grandma and grandpa. No, like the minivan aversion, I'm too cool for that.

But I recently admitted to Jim my desire to possibly one day own a smaller version, one that's 25 feet long or less. A Class C motor home, is apparently what they're called, according to a little searching I did online yesterday. A Class C mini RV that might look something like this with a cooler paint job, of course, as this one looks rather '80s to me (I did find more awesome ones online, but the photos were not copyright-free):

Yep, I could handle that. I could drive that, sleep in that, bring the dogs along when we go out of town in that. And I could imagine the thrills Bubby and Baby Mac (when he's grown a bit more) would get out of playing in that when Gramma and PawDad visit.

Of course, by the time we can afford such a thing, Bubby and Mac will be older, wiser, and more likely to think such a thing is very not cool, and very much for old fogies. Which, as I noted at the outset of this post, is apparently what I've become, long before my time. That's the only explanation I have for fantasizing about owning such a stereotypically old and uncool automobile...and hotel...all rolled up into one. With air-conditioning and a well-appointed sound system. And a DVD player, a refrigerator, and a bed. And most important of all: a bathroom.

Which sounds to me like a pretty cool way to travel.

Yep, I'm old.

Photo: flickr/The Motorhome & US RV Show

Today's question:

What's the most UNcool vehicle you've ever owned?

Old enough to be a grandma

I often come across women who eschew being called "Grandma." As they put it, they're "not old enough to be a grandma," the distaste heavy on their lips, on their words as they offer the disclaimer accompanying the label.

Well, I am old enough to be a grandma, and it doesn't bother me one bit. Having accumulated the number of years necessary to have borne children who in turn grow, mature and bear children of their own comes with many perks, many privileges, many insights younger women may not be privy to.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I no longer feel it's necessary to sort out my past for the sake of my future. What's done is done, what will be will be. I'm living my future ... and it's far better than I once expected.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I can delight in my daughters as adults, not just worry about them as children. 

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I know it can happen to me. Invincibility is an illusion of youth; reality rings harder and louder as you age. Which means I always wear my seat belt, take vitamins, look both ways. And I savor the moments granted by my precautionary measures.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I trust my gut instinct more. I finally realize it's right more often than not.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I more deeply appreciate and more thoroughly understand the importance of "I'm sorry." And "thank you."

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I find contentment more often in the small things, have stopped pining for the big things. For the most part.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I no longer stifle my feelings simply to keep others comfortable.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I find truth — sometimes ugly, sometimes freeing — in discomfort. Mine and that of others.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I forfeit the beauty competition, having accepted that I will never again look like I did at 18 nor will I ever look like a moneyed celebrity. (One of those freeing truths mentioned above.)

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I put more effort into accepting others for who they are, less effort in trying to make them who I want them to be.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I like my siblings more than I used to.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I say "I love you" more often ... without hesitation or embarrassment.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I am a grandma. I'm proud to say so, proud to be so.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I feel thoroughly, thankfully blessed and will gladly take the title — and the years — over the alternative.

Today's question:

Fill in the blanks: Now that I'm old enough to _______, I ___________.

Please step aside, ma'am

My pretty teen daughters — June 2003I recently started reading "29" by Adena Halpern. It's the story of Ellie, who, on her 75th birthday, wished while blowing out the candles on her cake to be 29 years old again — and was magically granted the wish.

I've so far enjoyed the amusing story of the cantankerous grandma made young again and her exploits with her 29-year-old granddaughter and 55-year-old daughter.

Ellie's desire to be young and attractive like her granddaughter reminded me of the pivotal incident that led me to realize I was getting old. Or at least deemed an older woman in the eyes of others and involuntarily required to step back as a female garnering male attention and watch as my daughters moved forward.

Yes, it was one incident, several years ago, during what would have been an otherwise ordinary trip to the grocery store.

Now, let me first say that I would never claim to be ravishing, a head turner, one hot mama, or any one of a million adjectives describing a gorgeous woman. Yet I admit to getting a fair share of looks from males throughout the years, as most females of a certain age do. It was never a big deal, nothing I put much stock in. Until I was no longer that certain age, until I witnessed in one fell swoop the move of male attention from me to my daughters and remain that way going forward.

On the day of which I write, one of my teen daughters and I ran into the grocery store to pick up a few things. As we reached the register, I expected cheerful banter with the cashier, a man in his mid-30s. So I opened my mouth, about to say, "How are you today?" But he looked right past me ... and started up the "Did you find everything you need?" conversation with my daughter. It was as if I wasn't even there, except for a cursory glance my way when it was time to pay.

The cashier, clearly closer to my age than my daughter's, didn't talk to her in any smarmy way that had me pegging him a pedophile and wanting to rush my little girl out of there. No, he was simply interacting with who he apparently considered the most vibrant, most conversational of the two customers before him. My daughter pleasantly rose to the occasion; I stepped aside.

It was the first time I'd experienced such an obvious shift — outside of the times I'd watched boys in their teens and early 20s fumble to impress one daughter or another while conducting business with mother and daughter(s), times that don't count. But from then on, it was the norm when in public together, be it dining out at a restaurant, attending performances, shopping in the mall. No matter which daughter was with me, my daughter was the one males smiled at, struck up conversation with, held a gleam in their eyes for. Eyes that dulled when they turned to me to take my order, my ticket, my money. No matter the male's age, no matter the reason for interaction.

I didn't cry over the matter, harbor ill will or animosity. I honestly was okay with the transition from front and center to a supporting role. My lovely, vivacious daughters were coming into their own, and the attention, well, most of the attention wasn't sexual or predatory in any way. (There are always a few creeps outside the norm, of course.) So I didn't mind stepping aside, didn't mind watching my daughters shine. I just found it interesting. And surprising. I always thought age crept up on you, as is the case with crow's feet, hot flashes, and inability to read past 9 p.m. at night without falling asleep. This, though, was sudden, immediate. And it caught me off guard.

I was — and am — completely and wholeheartedly accepting of my age, of the need to step aside. Funny thing, though: Now, years later, I've started noticing more and more looks coming my way. It's surely — and thankfully — not because I'm some cougar in the making.

No, I'm pretty much chalking up the increased attention to the ever-increasing, ever-impossible-to-conceal collection of age spots unattractively converging across my face. It's understandably difficult to tear one's gaze away from the artful display.

Just one more aspect of aging that has caught me off guard. One more I'll surely, eventually, come to terms with.

Disclosure: I received a copy of "29" by Adena Halpern free from the publisher for participation in the From Left to Write book club, with no obligation and no compensation for this post.

Today's question:

If you could magically be 29 again, would you want to be or not? Why?