Have a Nice Guilt Trip (11 page)

But soon I got the hang of it, and it was a blast. I saw the sun shimmering over the Hudson, I found the best view of the Statue of Liberty, and I even got some tips from the expert trick-skaters who hang out in Battery Park.

And the few times I did fall, there was always a handsome runner to make sure I was okay. Is this what they mean by a “runner’s high?”

Coming home from my solo ride, I ran—or rolled—into one of my neighbors, a young woman who I recognized but hadn’t met. Turned out she had a pair of Rollerblades in her closet, and within minutes we made plans to go out together later that week. She’s since become a new friend.

Yay!

If my other pals had been reluctant before, my newfound enthusiasm convinced them to go ahead and get skates of their own, marking my first time as a trendsetter.

Who knew?

And although I’m happy to have company, I’m even happier to find that I can enjoy something alone. I surprised myself to learn that I didn’t need any validation to try something new, even something I wasn’t particularly good at. Being alone is a skill. Having fun alone is empowering.

After all, a grown woman doesn’t need anyone’s approval to have fun like a kid.

Happy Thanksgiving

By Lisa

I just saw on the TV news that women are getting their toes cut off to fit into high heels.

Great idea!

I’m wondering if I should cut off my butt to fit into my jeans.

This being Thanksgiving weekend, after turkey, stuffing, and pie, you might be thinking the same thing.

In fact, I bet you are. You probably woke up wondering, what can I hack off to fit into something I don’t wear?

So don’t put away that carving knife.

Put it to good use!

I’m still trying to imagine how you carve out a waist. Maybe like a blazer? Take a little off the sides?

By the way, I’m not making this up. I saw it on an actual news report, that women are getting their toes cut off or shortened to fit into sexy shoes. When I watched it on TV, I remembered I’d heard it somewhere before, then I realized that it was in an old-school version of
Cinderella
I used to read to Francesca when she was little, which gave us both nightmares.

It’s not a magic slipper, it’s a magic clipper.

The TV news report said that most women get centimeters taken off their second toe, which is the common culprit. That, I couldn’t relate to. My second toe is one of my favorites, so I’d never stick it in the guillotine. But my pinky toe is another matter. When I’m barefoot, it looks stuck to my fourth toe, like a clingy friend.

Still I wouldn’t cut it off.

It’s not ugly, it’s needy.

In fact, it’s leaving on its own. Each year it gets smaller, and I’ve gone from having an amazing disappearing toenail to an amazing disappearing toe.

In other words, this little piggy went wee, wee, wee, all the way home.

And never came back.

Wee!

The TV news report said that the women are very happy with their foot operations, and so are their husbands.

This, I don’t believe. I give men more credit than that. But if he exists, I’d like to meet the man who wants his wife’s toes cut off so she can fit into high heels.

I’d like to introduce him to my carving knife.

I’m not sure which part I’d cut off first.

The choice would be between helping him fit into his pants, or helping him fit into his hat.

And if you ever saw me carve a turkey, you’d know I’m a lousy tailor.

The news report also said that 87 percent of women’s foot problems are caused by high heels, and that got me thinking, too.

How can we get that number up?

We’re slacking, ladies.

Too many of us aren’t trying hard enough to be sexy. Maybe if we cut the peep-toe larger, we could cut off more toes and get more peeps? Or maybe we could just cut off all our toes but one and have one giant toe, which would make the shoe fit perfectly.

Hubba hubba.

I also noticed on the dumb reality TV shows I watch, like
The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills,
that the women wear such high heels that they can’t walk around by themselves, but have to hold on to their husbands’ hands so they don’t fall. To me, this is poetic justice. If you cut off your toes to please your man, he should have to walk you around like a toddler.

Because you cut off your nose to spite your face.

But in the end, I’m not criticizing women for the dumb things they do. I’ve done plenty of dumb things myself, and I’m thinking especially of my second marriage.

Luckily, there’s a carving knife for that, too, and it’s called divorce.

And for that, I give thanks.

Novelistic

By Lisa

Life is like a novel.

You never know when you’re gonna get a plot twist.

And you hope the ending is happy, and not a surprise.

I learned this last week, though I have been writing novels for twenty years now, some twenty in all.

I might be slow on the uptake.

We begin with some background, which adds irony, always a good thing in a book. In my old broke days, when I was trying to become a writer, I spent five years being rejected before anybody published me.

Like I said, slow on the uptake.

Even after I was published, I still didn’t earn a living wage, worked a day job, and also had a mountain of credit-card debt to pay off, since I essentially lived on credit while trying to become a writer.

Turns out Visa is a passport to a new life, albeit at 21 percent interest, back then.

In any event, during this time, I obviously couldn’t afford health insurance, so I didn’t have any. And by “this time,” I mean ten years.

So for a decade, I prayed that I stayed healthy, because there was no insurance company to rely on if I got sick. Things are no different now, when I have health insurance, but still don’t rely on an insurance company if I get sick.

Because I have Personal Choice, which evidently means that, on any given day, my insurance company has a personal choice about whether to insure me.

Guess the answer.

But back to the story.

Amazingly, I only had one serious injury during that decade, a tear to a rotator cuff, occasioned by carrying grocery bags into the house. I knew that it was a rotator-cuff injury because I went to a doctor, on my Visa card, and he diagnosed it, telling me my options were surgery or physical therapy. I couldn’t afford surgery, but I could afford a few sessions of physical therapy, where somebody taught me how to strengthen the torn muscle by lifting cans of tomato purée.

Fun for Italians!

Miraculously, this worked, but only after I had moved an entire warehouse full of purée.

Now, fast-forward to the present day. Little Tony has been limping around for about three months, with a torn rotator cuff.

If you didn’t know dogs had rotator cuffs, join the club.

The vet tried to treat it with medication, but it didn’t work, and so Little Tony went to a doggie orthopedist, which is another thing I didn’t know even existed, and he decided Little Tony needed either surgery or physical therapy.

Yes, dogs can have physical therapy.

The day they have talk therapy, we’re all in trouble.

(It will be ruff!)

I decided against physical therapy, because God knows if I could find tomato cans tiny enough.

Happily, I could afford to do surgery on Little Tony, so my dog had the operation that I couldn’t, way back when. It was supposed to be routine, so I wasn’t worried about it, and I was driving Daughter Francesca back to New York when the doggie orthopedist called.

“We have a problem,” he began to say, and that’s all I needed to hear before I pulled over.

I won’t keep you in cheap suspense, and the story has a happy ending.

Little Tony survived and lies snoring at the foot of my bed, on an array of narcotics that would impress Dr. Drew. Long story short, the dog had a bad reaction to the anesthesia, and we almost lost the little man.

And it got me thinking, because I didn’t see it coming.

It wasn’t anybody’s fault, and it wasn’t in anybody’s control.

It just happened, because anything can happen, and at any time.

Both good, and bad.

And though I think of myself as someone who daily counts her blessings, I took for granted that Little Tony was lucky to have the surgery. It never occurred to me that it could kill him.

But now I know better.

And that’s the kind of thing that makes life worth living, and novels worth writing.

And reading.

It was a plot twist of fate.

Post-Puberty

By Lisa

You may have heard that AARP started a dating site.

Now we’re talking.

Get my walker.

And my blood-pressure meds.

Mommy’s going shopping.

The site is called, “How About We…”

But I’m not sure what they mean by that name.

“How About We … Compare Our Cholesterol?”

Or “How About We … Have a Cup of Decaf?”

Or “How About We … Take a Nice Nap?”

So I went on the AARP website to cruise for menfolk, er, I mean, to learn more about the organization. The first thing I noticed was that AARP membership begins at age fifty.

Huh?

AARP stands for American Association of Retired Persons, but if you live in America, you can’t retire at fifty. You can’t retire at a hundred and fifty. I’m thinking that my tombstone will read, RETIRED … FINALLY.

In fact, if you’re a man who retired at fifty, I want to meet you. Maybe you’re on “How About We … Retire While We Still Have a Heartbeat?”

In any event, I read through the website, which was full of articles with titles such as, How To Have Sex Without Intercourse.

Fascinating, but I’ve been doing that for quite some time now.

Sex without intercourse is chocolate cake.

I read the article, but I still wasn’t sure what they meant. There were too many euphemisms, presumably because I wasn’t old enough to be told the truth.

So I skipped to another article, entitled “Ten Great Cities for Older Singles.”

Stop right there.

I’m not an “Older Single.”

An “Older Single” is a slice of cheese that’s past its expiration date.

I haven’t expired yet. I know because I’m still working.

Still, I read on and found good news. According to the article, Philadelphia was the eighth greatest city for us older singles.

Wahoo!

The article suggested that “icebreaking opportunities for first dates” include a trip to Independence Hall.

What an idea!

When it comes to the forefathers, who doesn’t think foreplay?

The article also suggested a first date to the Philadelphia Zoo.

Another spot that spells romance!

Who hasn’t felt primal at the Primate House?

But of course, the more I read through the AARP website, the more I actually began to find articles that interested me, even though I’m not retired. I started to think that maybe I should join AARP. It felt fraudulent, since I’m not retired, but that seemed kinda technical. And two friends of mine, both my age, joined, and they got discounts at the movies.

I clicked through to the membership page, which said it cost sixteen bucks a year to join, which was cheap enough. I would have saved money if I joined for five years, but by this point I was feeling so old that green bananas were off my shopping list.

Still, I couldn’t decide whether to join.

I felt ambivalent about classifying myself as Officially Old.

I told myself, I may be middle-aged, but I’m not aged.

And after all, Mother Mary is an AARP member. Would I really want to join a club that would have us both?

But that may be a different question.

Just when I was mulling this over, an email request came in from my book publicist to go on RLTV, a channel that I’d never heard of. So I went online and found out that it was Retirement Living Television.

Me? Fresh cheddar that I am?

It’s a funny thing.

Puberty is a line that’s clearly delineated. Your breasts pop.

But how about old age? Your breasts drop?

Enough said.

I went online to the RLTV website, which had photos of people I admire, like Jane Pauley and Bob Vila. Neither of them are retired, but they’re still cool, even though they’re as old as I am, or even older.

Except that the website did have an article on “Benjamin Franklin—Science Superstar.”

Yikes.

But still, that kind of thinking seemed mean-spirited and wrong.

So I joined AARP.

I love being my age, and I’ve learned that age is arbitrary, anyway. So what if I’m lumped in with sixty-, seventy-, eighty-, and even ninety-year-olds?

I consider myself … lucky.

Gym Rat

By Lisa

How many people can say this:

I don’t belong to a gym, but my dog does.

Little Tony had shoulder surgery, and now his vet has prescribed rehab for him, or physical therapy.

I had no idea they had physical therapy for dogs, much less that I would open my wallet to pay for it, but I always find the dough for my pets.

I take it out of their clothes budget.

I know I’m not alone, in that I’d spend money on my dog that I wouldn’t spend on myself.

Call me crazy.

Or dog-crazy.

My only other choice would be that Little Tony limps the rest of his life, and I couldn’t take the guilt.

Also how would he get back to the NBA?

So my dog works out, twice a week. He just had his first session, where he was evaluated and walked on an underwater treadmill. Lucky for me, he didn’t need the massage, laser therapy, or acupuncture. The gym also offers a shampoo and blow-dry, but I didn’t get one.

I mean, he didn’t.

And on the days he doesn’t go to his gym, Little Tony is supposed to work out at home. The gym gave me a list of fifteen exercises that target his “Hindlimbs, Forelimbs, and Core.”