Loose Leaf Notes

Maybe age is a clock to wake us from dreaming…Or maybe it is the dream…Like counting the number of pages in a book…when we should be reading the story…

 
I like to paint my toenails on my birthday. It’s usually just the right time to start wearing sandals, to put up the window screens and set out the ant traps. I mark my birthday by what flowers are blooming on May 17th. Lilacs in Massachusetts. In Virginia it’s Irises.

 
I lie about my age, usually by only a year, because I need a little leeway to get used to the number attached to my persona that my culture won’t let me forget.
We’re all hung up on age, like we’re hung up on time. We count things down to the nano second. I suspect that our ancestors weren’t so obsessive. They looked at the sky, and they knew the difference between morning, noon, afternoon, and night. Traditionally, Native Americans didn’t count their age. Neither did the Irish. And when they came to this country and it was socially accepted to count “birthdays” many of them lied, as my beloved and now deceased Irish aunt’s death certificates attest to.

 
Most of my friends don’t know exactly how old I am. So when I came out of the closet and read the following poem at the Pine Tavern Open Mic a few of years ago, some mouths dropped open.

 
After my on-stage confession about my age, I went back to lying. I like to keep my friends slightly confused.
A poem I wrote in my early 20’s goes like this:

 
I was born in Quincy in 1950
My father was in the Navy
and my mother was pretty

 
Are you doing the math in your head yet?
Here, want a pencil?

 
I lie about my age
like I save chocolate to eat later
like I don’t get a tattoo
don’t fill in “caucasian”
on a job application
or even want a job

 
Have you seen the new Saturday Night Live skit
with Molly Shannon in red polyester pants
pulled up around her breasts?
Big purse, Big hair (probably a wig)
She proudly announces, “I’M FIFTY!”
Then she kicks and does a split

How come older woman aren’t considered debonair?
And can you think of a male term for “old hag”?
How come men in their 60’s in Hollywood movies
are usually paired up with young chicks?

 
I’m writing this poem while I’m still 49
It’s called a loophole, a safety net
But it’s almost my birthday so I’ll make a wish
that we all stop keeping score
in a game where old people lose

 
How come age isn’t like art or poetry?
How come it’s hard cold facts?
A labeled box that never fits
A branded number that follows your name
And just when you get use to it – it changes!

 
The first time I heard about “The Change of Life”
was when Mrs. Coveny wandered in our yard
and splashed in our wading pool fully clothed
“What does it mean?” I asked my mother
Something that happens when your 50

 
In high school the year 2000
sounded like science fiction
But I did the math and then announced
“Yeah, I’ll probably still be around
but I’ll be so old!”

 
Age is a strange orbit spinning on its axis
We know it’s moving but we can’t feel it
Then we arrive and ask “How did we get here?”
Do I have to be 50? Am I really?

 
I remember the invention of panty hose
more than the moon walk
and electric curlers more than computers
Before that it was garter belts
and sleeping on coke cans

 
I always thought 50 was my Aunt Gertie
bobby pins and elastic waist pants
But what do I know?
I was raised on sitcoms and the generation gap

 
What do I know?
I haven’t even had my first hot flash or mid-life crisis

 
My father used to say
that my mother was like wine
better with age
We laughed and said
“Don’t trust anyone over 30”
What did we know?!

 
“50 years old” sounds so final
So let’s just say “I’m 50 rotations around the sun”

 
I’m not cured of lying
or secretly counting
I need glasses to read
but not to see the girl within
myself and other women

 
I have to write lists
of “things not to forget”
but those are just details not meanings

 
Turning 50 feels like second puberty
only this time I’m aware of it
and taking good notes

 
A poem I wrote when I turned 50’s goes like this:
I was born in Quincy in 1950
Daughter of Bebe and Babsy
Child of the 60’s
Niece of Gertie

 
I’m the mother of young men
in the year 2000!
Loving partner to my true husband
and true to myself
What more could I ask for?

 
Maybe age is a clock to wake us from dreaming
Or maybe it is the dream
Like counting the number of pages in a book
when we should be reading the story