12:36 TO BOSTON

About noon today, we set out to find the Beverly stop and conquer the train.  The plan was to catch the 12:36, ride to North Station; take the Orange line to State Street and then Blue to the Aquarium.  We agreed ahead of time that we would define success as getting on to begin with and getting back home.  Any other achievements would be considered fortuitous, but not necessary to the final celebration.  Our first break was to find an even closer stop at Montserrat, barely 5 minutes from the house.  We got ticketing info from other passengers, climbed the icy platform and boarded the train. 

üObjective number one successfully completed

At North Station, we exited the terminal and entered the building next door for the underground, color-coded portion of the trip, an icy, windy 35 steps.  At this point, I began rearranging my wardrobe.  The understated, faux-cashmere scarf that I had insouciantly draped across my shoulders hiked up over my head, giving me the look of an elderly immigrant who probably has a great recipe for cabbage soup.  I need longer sleeves, warmer gloves and a serious hat.

Good signage and Hubby’s advanced research brought us directly to the Aquarium – no sweat, so we braved the elements again and walked a short block to Legal Seafood for lunch.  After enjoying incredible food, and a visit with a 15.8 lb lobster (112 years old, $274 cooked any way you want it) we set out on the return trip, feeling like kings of the world.  When we arrived at North Station, we discovered that the commuter trains do not run as frequently on Sunday, so we had to hunker down for a two hour wait.  So much for advanced research…Ugh!

*****And then it happened*****

North Station is tucked beneath a sports venue called the “Garden”; evidently the home of the Bruins and Celtics, if the giant posters are to be believed.  Cavernous and spare, the station is the utilitarian hub for northbound commuter traffic, but about 45 minutes before our train was scheduled, the escalators came alive with Princesses.  The rainbow of acetate gowns and showers of glitter didn’t initially signal anything momentous, but then we saw the crowns – with mouse ears.  Yep – Disney…on Ice.  North Station fairly seethed with little girls.  We saw Belle and Cinderella, Jasmine and Ariel all dressed to the nines, in WINTER finery.  Snow White wore Ugg boots and Pippi’s longstockings under her frock; Tinkerbell accessorized with ladybug Wellies and fuzzy mittens.  Sleeping Beauty’s curls were tucked under some type of Peruvian knit bonnet with yarn braids tumbling over her shoulders.  Of course, not all of the Princesses were in commercial garb.  Many were free-styling: tutus and Christmas dresses and all descriptions of flounces and ruffles, satin and tulle.  I was in awe.  Heck, the sheer number of magic wands with flashing stars ensured that the place was enchanted!!

Eventually, our train was called, and we boarded with our royal coachmates for a pretty uneventful ride back to Montserrat.  We arrived to find the landscape wrapped elegantly in the snow you have been seeing on the news.  We stomped through the 4 – 5 inches that had accumulated in our six hours away to find the Yukon, buried.  Driving home, we followed tracks in the snow to identify the roads, but arrived safe and relatively dry.  Jeans and sox in the dryer; coats and scarves hanging on hooks by the back door; middle-aged bodies cuddled up in flannel jammies and warm slippers. 

üObjective number two successfully completed

Home for the Holidays

Thankfully, I am no longer homeless. 

It’s hard to imagine that a month ago I lived on a tiny island in the West Indies.  The Tradewinds were just retuning for the winter season and the sweltering days had begun to cool enough to be almost pleasant.  Then we moved.  Last week in Danvers, the temperature rose to a balmy 42°.  This is about half the temperature in Antigua, and it’s a huge improvement over the sub-freezing weather we have been enjoying since we arrived! 

Our new apartment is “adorable”.  That means small.  Our wish list includes a lot of organizers.  It felt like Christmas, as I opened boxes packed with treasures that have been stowed for nearly two years.  Each time I cut the tape and peeled back cardboard flaps, my heart leapt:  A jewelry box, a favorite blouse, the attachments for the vacuum cleaner…each a warranted a squeal of delight as they revealed themselves.

Today is Christmas, and remarkably, it is okay.  We miss our kids, and the tree was looking a little bit naked without all the family presents, but we are making do.  Last night, we assembled the new decorations, lit the candles and stashed anything visually unsuitable into a decorated box and hid it under the tree.  I awoke this morning (on the hide-a-bed in the living room) to a twinkling tree and warm pajamas – which Don had put in the dryer at 4am.  Now he is making French toast for breakfast.

And I feel so spoiled.

This isn’t the Christmas I wanted – filled with kids and commotion – but this is a truly blessèd Christmas.  I am curled up on my couch, listening to CD’s gleaned from the used book store, while the smells of a delicious breakfast drift in from the pass-through to the kitchen.  Once we have eaten, we will peruse the travel books that I gave Don, and map out exploratory trips to New Hampshire, Boston and Maine (There is a Cabelas store there!)  I am wearing the Swarovski crystals he found for me – with a bracelet Christina sent. I’ll spend the afternoon hemming his new jammies and writing on the computer while he watches football and roasts prime rib and new potatoes.  We miss you all, but we are safe, warm and content.

                         Merry Christmas!!

PS – A neighbor just stopped by to introduce herself and bring cookies!  What a lovely gesture!

WHAT'S SO FUNNY?

Hello again – I’m back online after our cross country migration.  More about that later!!

I wish I liked movies.  Our friends gather frequently at the theater and I’d love to go along – except for the part where we sit in the dark, watching people slaughter one another or writhe in naked ecstasy.  I am “high strung” so all those amazing special effects leave me agitated.  And most of the people who are exchanging torrid looks and stroking …nevermind…I just do not want to share the love. 

So I don’t see a lot of movies; well… except for Boomer Humor.  Nothing  entertains like a bunch of geezers seasoned actors in a comedy.  Loved “Bucket  List”.  Howled at “It’s Complicated”.  Give me a clever line and I’m yours forever.  Nicholson had me at “Somewhere, some lucky son-of-a-bitch is having a heart attack.”  Articulate, wry, not overstated and (thank you!) not banal.

Which brings us to stand-up comedy, which is ideal for my short attention span.  In a movie, I’m committed to believing the nonsense for hours and, even worse, caring in order to appreciate the humor. Whereas a comic routine allows me to hear, react and move on…I’m not stuck forever in a fraternity house of horrors.  Even better, good comedians play with their audiences – adapting and interacting so each performance is a conversation – a really funny conversation. 

One of my favorite theater experiences is “Late Night Catechism”.  Tears ran down my face!  The sharp, intelligent humor caught me completely off-guard.  And it was real.  I know, I know – she’s not really a nun…but the premise is simple: an evening catechism class for adults.  No aliens, no billionaires, no collection of beautifully painted mannequins pretending to be waitresses and soccer moms.  No special effects and no canned laughter.  Just a really funny idea and a great performance.  I not only sat still for the whole thing…I went twice! 

I know this is beginning to sound like I’m fixated on receding hairlines and double chins – but that’s not true.  I just want entertainment for grown-ups.  Why should I shell out a bunch of $$$ for amusements that were written to appeal to sixth graders?  Or, even worse, jokes so predictable that you see them coming for as soon as the first line is spoken.   

Or maybe it is just me.

Dancing with the Stars

Kansas City was among my favorite venues when I traveled for a living.  My team (SOS) worked really hard all day and then shopped and dined in KC’s Country Club Plaza in the evenings – except of course, when Dancing with the Stars was on TV.   I could not believe that these two sophisticated, articulate, well-traveled women were hooked on anything so – so – well, I just don’t know…

                     And then…I tuned in.

Talk about going to the dark side!  One week, I stayed up until 11pm to see if Bristol Palin would be eliminated.  Did you hear that?  If you know me at all, you will recognize immediately that the time is well into double digits – and I seldom see those numbers on a clock.  And – Bristol Palin?  Who cares!  What has become of me?  Hubby and I critique costumes, fuss about music and compare this week’s Tango with last week’s Waltz.  We are so glad that Kurt learned to flex his knees properly and hope that Jennifer will hold up until the end.  Both of us miss Audrina – I mean, really, what was THAT about?

You see what I mean.  It makes me want to throw up.

So what has become of me?  The artistry astounds me.  Gorgeously costumed women stalk and spin on stiletto heels and then fall gracefully into the waiting arms of equally dazzling partners. For a minute and a half, my eyes can’t leave the screen.  I can live without all the silliness; the backstage arguments, the “suspense” of the reveals, the positively adolescent audience polls.  I roll my eyes when the host chats up contestants with “The judges said you were clumsy and looked like a duck.  How does that make you feel?”  All of that is hooey.  And I truthfully can’t tell a Rumba from the Hokey Pokey.  But when the music starts…I’m rapt!!

The risqué costumes, sultry music and sexy moves mask fabulous athleticism.  Did you see Florence Henderson?  That woman is as old as my mother, and she was tangled up like a pretzel with that nice young man.  I should be so nimble!! 

So I watch for the glitz; and I watch for the moves; but mostly, I watch because the show is about excellence.  Those folks are working hard to be amazing.  In a world where anything you are bold enough to display can be accepted as art, regardless of its merit, I am grateful for performances that are practiced, polished and (damn-near) perfect.  So, I watch, and I marvel.  And sometimes, I even stay up late!!

AGING

I have an announcement:  I, am old.  Okay – not quite yet, but I ASPIRE to be old.  That definitely puts me in the minority.  I LIKE oldness.  I value age.  I am not just being contrary, or living in denial.  I have given it a lot of thought and conventional wisdom about aging doesn’t make much sense.

I work with young people, and, as many of you may know, I used to be a young person, so I have some experience.  Being young is just not what it is cracked up to be.  Being young is really hard, and confusing, and full of pitfalls.  Consider the difficulties of “coming of age” or “biological clocks” and then, of course, there is angst.  Old people don’t have angst.  We have stress and we have dementia, but angst is reserved for the young.

Every day, I talk to someone who is terrified to see youth slipping away.  Good Riddance!  Really, turning 29 is not the most wretched thing that will ever happen to you; neither is turning 59.  Bring on the birthdays!!  As long as you can still see candles, you’ve got reasons to celebrate.

A whole bunch of codgers my age have been overheard whining that they envy youth – but why?  What can 23 do that 63 cannot? (outside touching toes, which, frankly, is not that satisfying!)  At 23, I was pregnant, short of money, and still not sure what I wanted to be when I “grew up”.  At 57, I am not pregnant and never will be again – that alone should make this part of my life desirable.  I know who I am and where I want to go.  I have actually BEEN some of those places!  I have even achieved some of my goals.  I still have work to do, but I’ll get to it eventually, or maybe, with the wisdom of the old, I will decide I don’t want it anyway.  Either way, I win!

The reasons we hate being old don’t really have much to do with how old we are.  We hate age because we are not as healthy as we used to be.  Well that makes no sense.  Is diabetes more enjoyable when you are 7?  Maybe it is the illness that is problematic, and not the age.  It makes sense that we have collected more aches and pains –we have also collected more joys.  Show me a 30 year old who can brag about her granddaughter’s graduation!!  We overlook those joys so we can sulk about the laugh lines they produce. 

Some of us hate age because we no longer feel sexy.  And why is that?  Is “sexy” something that happens outside you?  It is true that Playboy has not called me lately, but if I give it a little thought, I may remember that they never did have me on speed dial.  Truly – your lost youth wasn’t as cool as you remember.  I know – I was there.

Old-ness is freedom.  The kids are grown.  The car is paid off.  And AARP gets me great discounts.  I love being old, because I have a lot to DO.