So like, I am low key addicted to talkin’ south, for real

 
There are things I cannot say. Not because I object to the language or because I can’t get my mouth around the words. There are things I cannot say because I sound like an idiot when I say them.

My 16-year-old stepdaughter, Sophie, used to say, “Oh, hell to the no.” A lot. I can’t say it a little.

She also calls people, “My Dude.” It’s endearing when she does it. Not so for me. I sound the way a late-middle-aged man looks when he drinks too much at a wedding and suddenly thinks he can dance.

She calls some people “extra” which I thought meant they were over the top. Nope. I looked it up and it means they’re unnecessary. Ouch. And good one.

My favourite is “throw shade.” I love that phrase. I think it’s evocative, which is decidedly uncool of me. I love the image of throwing shade.

But I can’t say it.  

I tend to pick up contemporary colloquialisms a bit late too. Maybe people are still saying it but there was a time when it seemed like everyone under 30 was saying, “I know right?”

I can’t even get away with saying phrases like that ironically. But sometimes I say them anyway.

I don’t mean to but once in a while a phrase will tumble out and as I hear it I want to suck it back in but it’s always too late.
The words hang in the air like a little toot during a pause in conversation at a dinner party. Everyone heard it. No one knows what to do with it.

So I try to cover it up with more words. Casual, easy words but not teenage casual, easy words.

When I was a teenager I had a friend who was pretty cool. She was a runaway named Debbie and she used to say, “Right on,” with a nod while she took a drag from an Export A. It was her way of saying, “that’s cool.”
Sometimes she’d come to my house when I wasn’t home and just wait for me in the kitchen. My grandmother would make her a sandwich and ply her with cheezies.

On one occasion while we headed out the door my grandmother asked where we were going. I can’t remember what I said but I won’t forget my grandmother’s response: “Right on.”

Except she didn’t say it in the cool, casual way Debbie said it. She said it with enthusiasm. “Right on!” She said it like she was responding to a protestor yelling into a bull horn. Not cool. I remember thinking it was cute.

Something happens when you hit a certain age at some point you have to drop the slang. I’m not sure exactly when it happens.  It could have happened when I was 30 or even younger. But I didn’t care then because my generation wasn’t old yet. And we knew it.

It doesn’t do to speak teenage girl when you have orthotics. When I  pick it up I need to shake it off like a stranger-chewed piece of gum stuck to my palm after riding a sketchy escalator.

When you’re middle age. You have to express middle age things in middle age language.

When did I get so uncool, man?

Nameste or Namego?

 
I’m trying to make friends with the elliptical machine at the gym. The machine isn’t having it. As my legs burn it mocks me. If I stop for a moment to peel my dried-up lips off my teeth and have a sip of water it tells me to peddle faster. WTF? The ‘time remaining’ countdown isn’t in real time. It’s in hell-gym time, which is triple normal time. There is no way a minute takes that long.

I joined a gym a few weeks ago. It is staffed by young people who wear ugly blue t-shirts. They stand behind the counter near a sad metal basket of bananas, and say “hello” when people walk in. They’re like toned Wal-Mart greeters—pleasant but not terribly helpful.

Is this right?

Now I’m no expert on gyms but I think it’s kind of a crappy gym. The $20-a-month price tag suggests this is not a top-of-the-line fitness centre. They do have machines, bulky men who can’t put their arms down, and classes, including yoga.

Namaste. That’s about all I knew when I walked into what I think was an intermediate class led by Dave.

If you are a yoga novice don’t take an intermediate class. It hurts and they say things like, “now moving from yackity to smackity in one smooth motion…” And everyone in the class moved into some new pose with ease. I flopped around on the mat like a trout in a fishing boat who had given up.

I was so new I didn’t have a mat, but luckily the gym supplies them. They have them rolled up in a closet to ensure the fragrance of the last eight to 10 users is sufficiently trapped. The mat was about the thickness of a bedsheet but the aroma was about the thickness of a wheel of Camembert cheese. We were in some position that required my forehead to rest on the mat and it actually kinda stuck.

My husband said yoga is relaxing and that he once fell asleep during a yoga class. He didn’t take a class with Dave. Dave means yoga business.

We planked, a lot. And stretched things that usually face down up to the sky. There’s a lot to see in a yoga class. And as my bits and pieces were up in the air and Dave walked around adjusting people, I couldn’t help but wonder if everything was looking OK back there. I’ve never seen myself from that angle. I don’t think I can replicate the position and balance a mirror, so a small part of me will remain a mystery, at least to myself.

Before I left Dave asked if I was new to yoga. He could tell “a little bit” but encouraged me to come back.

I have to admit I felt more limber even after that first class. I can almost touch my ankles.

So I went out and got a mat. It smells like a toxic plastic factory but maybe those fumes will help bring on a sense of inner peace. I’m practicing beginner yoga at home before I go back to Dave with my shiny new mat.

For anyone interested in trying some yoga at home, I’ve been learning from Adriene at Yoga with Adriene. She has videos for beginners and for people with bad knees!

A change is gonna come

 
I’ve been getting my period for 36 years. It’s a regular inconvenience that I’ve come to expect every time I go on vacation or I’m about to do something I think is important and need all the self confidence I can muster.

I was 10 when my grandmother sat me down to explain the facts of life. For such a big thing as life there weren’t many facts. We sat across from each other at the yellow Formica kitchen table and she waved a big pad around. She stressed how lucky I was to get to wear one of these sticky things. In her day they had to wash out rags and later wear some belted contraption I still can’t visualize.

The talk lasted about three-and-a-half minutes, not unlike my first sexual experiences. I had no idea what she meant by any of it so I asked Steven, one of the kids down the street. We were the same age but he knew everything. When he explained tampons I was skeptical and a bit nauseous but I didn’t question his authority. He was right about all of it.

I had one more year of freedom before the burden of surprise periods at school and cramps that made me want to die became a staple of my teen and early adult years. It still appears on cue but weird stuff is happening to my body again. It’s all very ominous.

I wake up at four a.m. I don’t know why, I just do. And when I do, I’m sweaty like I’ve just run a marathon through Ethiopia during a hot spell.

I feel like I’m premenstrual all the time. There’s a two-day window where I don’t want to kill anyone. Instead of killing people I lick the salt off of potato chips and try to satisfy sweet cravings by roasting marshmallows over the electric burner on my stove.

My hands look like they’ve been switched out. I have old lady hands all of a sudden. My skin is all papery and the blue veins kind of bulge underneath.

Of course I’ve heard of menopause but I was less familiar with perimenopause which is the big lead up to menopause. It’s like the opening monologue to the Oscars— a bit ridiculous and torturously long. The idea of no longer having periods is appealing but you have to get through so much crap to get to it.

I Googled perimenopause and scrolled through a list of symptoms as long as a King’s Buffet takeout menu. The menopause transition phase can last eight to 10 years so there’s plenty of time to sample all the symptoms. I regularly get the bloating, sleeplessness and night sweats with a side of anxiety or depression. But who knows what I have to look forward to in the coming months and years. I know a lot of women who are hot-flashers. I don’t mean naked women in trench coats that give unsuspecting pedestrians an eyeful. I mean they suddenly turn red and wander around pulling their collars away from their necks as they sweat profusely and fan themselves with their hands. I’m hoping to dodge that one. I’ll take my profuse sweat in private at 4 a.m., thank you very much.

By the time I get half way through my perimenopause literature, I’m moody, exhausted, and all I want to do is stand over the kitchen sink with a tube of sour cream and onion Pringles. And that’s the cruelty of it all. I could eat Doritos for breakfast when I was 23 and didn’t need to. Now when I need to my pants get tighter if I so much as walk down the chip aisle at the grocery store. I have to eat healthy now. Now. When I’m prone to anxiety and depression. I see other women my age who seem to handle life like Cirque du Soleil acrobats, smooth and graceful, while I go through life like a cat falling from window blinds.

I don’t feel any more prepared for the changes to my body than I did when I was 10. It’s going to be a bumpy ride.