Saturday, December 20, 2008

Not As Good As I Once Was...

Hey. You know what's weird? I'm not really a country music fan, but lately I have been stuck on Toby Keith. Personally, I know nothing about him really except I heard he and the Dixie Chicks hate each other. Oh well. The publicity machine at work is what I figure.

I like musicians, actors, comedians, and the like that do not take themselves too seriously. I think that is why I like Toby Keith. His "Wanna Talk About Me" video is a riot. I get a kick out of "I'm Not As Good As I Once Was" and "Beer for My Horses" makes me laugh too. I mean, Willie Nelson singing about bringing evil forces to justice? This guy has avoided paying his taxes for aeons from what I understand...and he has quite a drug business going on the side with the whacky weed. I suppose I don't really know those things as a fact. This is just what I have heard in the news. And we ALL know how truthful the news media is, right? (for those of you who may have missed it, that was sarcasm).

The "Not As Good As I Once Was" video I think is something I can sort of relate to...I mean, bars were never my scene, so I won't say that I got in barroom brawls or tried picking up twins or anything, but I'm almost forty. I am finding some things are starting to slide. I'm not as flexible as I once was. My memory kind of sucks, especially since my hospitalization last summer. My eyes are definitely a lot worse than they used to be. So, I guess I'm "Not As Good As I Once Was."

My how the years pass. I was never exactly "hell on wheels," but I could pull a mean all nighter in college with or without coffee. Now if I don't have that extra shot of espresso in my Dunkin Donuts latte, I'm out for the night around one thirty...or I make it through the night (a more likely scenario) only to not be able to function in the morning.

As I approach forty, I am surprised at how much it bothers me. I truly didn't think it would. I was never exactly the party type anyway. But it DOES bother me. I don't think I will try to hide my forty-ness though. I don't think as the greys come in that I will color them. I don't think I will try the various cremes and lotions designed to get rid of or hide the age spots, wrinkles and crows' feet. Maybe I am full of crap. Maybe at some point it will bother me enough to do it, but right now I feel like doing all that stuff is just trying to live in the past. The past, where I was unblemished (yeah right), beautiful (puh-leeze), and carefree (wait a minute, I need to wipe the tears from my eyes and stop laughing long enough to breathe).

As much as I didn't really like the change, I think I understand Mike Gorman. For those of you who don't know who Mike Gorman is, he is a sportscaster for the Boston Celtics. He often calls games with Tommy Heinsohn. Until a few years ago Mike had a gorgeous head of dark brown hair. He was actually kind of cute. All of a sudden one day he was on the broadcast completely gray. I was horrified. He looked like a death's head to me. His face was drawn and his hair was cropped short. I asked my husband, who keeps up on all things Celtics, if he knew why Mike had done this. He said that he had read somewhere that Mike had decided to stop coloring his hair. I made a comment to the effect that I thought this was a bad decision. Hubby just shrugged his shoulders and went back to watching the game.

Superficial of me, I know. Who really cares if Mike Gorman colors his hair? Well buster, I do. I think when I think back on it I probably care more than I should because, deep breath here, it makes ME feel older too. Remember, I told you I am a narcisist. All things relate back to me. How exactly does Mike failing to color his hair relate to me you ask? Because I have to look at him and be reminded that time marches on. Mike looked young for so long. Now he looks old. Which means that I definitely don't look the same as when I started watching Mike with Steve as a "fan-by-marriage" back in 1994. How dare Mike make me feel old by not coloring his hair? He did not submit the proper forms in triplicate to get clearance to point out that I am indeed aging. Now I have to think about my own age. I don't want to Mike, and you can't make me. But he has. His refusal to pray at the fountain of youth known as hair dye forces me to think about it. Thank goodness he didn't choose to wear a toupee.

The other reason I just can't bring myself to color my hair is that I am lazy. I just do not want to spend that much time preening. I don't want to have to do root touch ups. I get a haircut about once every 3-6 months. Not as often as I would like, and definitely not enough to hide any color line that would be created by my roots growing out. Every time I think of it I think of a comment my daughter made when she was about three. We were visiting my sister-in-law (since then she has divorced my brother and moved on) and Allison said, "Mommy, how does Colleen get her hair to look so pretty?" I asked her what she meant specifically since I wanted to answer specifically. She said, "You know, how does she get that pretty dark hair near her head when the rest of her hair is blonde?" Colleen shot me an ugly look, as you were not supposed to notice such things. I told my daughter that while she was admiring Colleen's hair, she should probably not mention to Aunt Colleen her dark hair as she wouldn't appreciate it.

My how the years pass. I haven't seen Colleen in about fifteen years. I have a niece that is in high school that I haven't seen since she was Christened. Isn't that terrible? I am a terrible aunt. My brother split up with her and that was that. I didn't have much of a relationship with her and now I have none. This was not how I thought it would be. I thought I would be a good aunt. But quite honestly, I suck. I don't keep up with the nieces and nephews as I should. I think of myself as "Scary Aunt Sheri," when it comes to them. I love them, but I am just not the fun type. If you need to see an example of what I mean, I'll give you one. A comparison is what I will show you. If you read an earlier post of mine about my brother Rob, you will see what I mean. Uncle Rob is cool. He is loved. He is fun. Aunt Sheri (Scary Aunt Sheri) is responsible. She takes care of meals. And she makes sure you follow the rules - if you call someone a butthead be sure that she will come down on you. That's just how it is.

Back in my prime I used to laugh at the word butthead. Nevermind disciplining you for saying it. Now I have to police my children's language. I am the purveyor of time outs, the sultan of sitting in the corner, the hander-outter of chores. I am the enforcer. I make sure to follow through. I insist that you finish your homework before you play videogames with your friends. I insure that your pull up is free from debris before you go out to the yard to play. I am the proverbial wet blanket. That's my life. And I won't color my hair to show how much more fun I am.

Before I sign off, I thought I would give you my five things that I am grateful for. So here they are in no particular order:

1.) My mother arrived in New England safely. She flew from Florida to visit for the holidays and is currently with her friend Linda in Maine.
2.) School was cancelled today. I got to play Scrabble with my kids and not feel quite like the drill sargeant I usually do.
3.) I got to work safely. I left two hours before I needed to be there and arrived an hour early. The snow was pretty intense, but nothing too terrible.
4.) I do NOT have diabetes. I finally took the blood test and the nurse reading the test results to me over the phone said that I am "well within the range of normal," for my blood sugar. Phew.
5.) My husband is working for a secure company and is not likely to be laid off. I won't say that he definitely won't be, you never know, but it seems unlikely. That means we can pay our mortgage so all is well. Another BIG phew!

Goodnight. Hope you found something interesting to read here tonight. Something that made you smile or at least something that you identified with. If not, sorry, but ultimately, this blog is for me.

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