So Happy Together

In an effort to dispel the bluesy feeling I had all weekend I turned to one of my best weapons against sadness...music. My old friend who has seen me through dark days and lonely times. The most recent funk having been born of frustration with the cynicism, inertia and insensitivity I had been encountering of late could only be conquered by it's polar opposite; peace, love and freedom. I needed to reconnect with my inner flower child, the free spirited little girl who was lucky enough to grow up in a decade and an environment where the adults around me spent their days making music and art, wearing flowers in their hair and life was a seemingly endless party. Our house was frequently visited by people who had made pilgrimages to San Francisco and returned with tales of communal living, concerts in the park and some other experiences that, although I didn't quite understand at the time seemed to leave them feeling very complete and at peace with the world.
As with most music genres many of the popular songs are about love, or some close approximation anyway. As I went through the playlist of some of my early favorites and sang along I felt, for a brief moment, a fleeting sense of sadness that I have no one to sing these declarations of love and devotion to. But I realized that one person alone shared all the memories that accompanied these songs. One person knew all the secrets they evoked, which songs were matched with which crush, which break up, which life event. One person knows what song was playing when I lost my virginity (well okay, two but I have no idea where the other is or even if he's still alive). While songs croon of lifelong love, few of us are lucky enough to experience that ideal. There is only one person we spend our entire lives with...ourselves.
This is not the first time I've written about this topic. I had posted a blog about spending my first single Valentine's Day by being my own Valentine. And I probably have a few more out there. It is something that has taken me nearly a lifetime to truly grasp and a few more years to accept, that I am my best friend. Yeah it sounds cheesy but, trust me, I have enough dimensions to my personality to keep it interesting. So today as the music lifted me out of my gloom, pulled me off the couch to dance through my apartment waving my arms around like a damn fool and singing "so happy together..." I was singing to the only person in the room, the only person who knew the exact moves to the accompanying dance that I've been doing the same way for over 40 years. Me.
http://youtu.be/9ZEURntrQOg

© 2010-2013 Nanakoosa’s Place, authored by Jennifer Hazard

The Gifts of Getting "Older"

A funny thing happens when I hear individuals being referred to as "older". My ears always perk up and I immediately scan the conversation for clues as to the age of the person in question. If the conversation involves people in my age group, most likely older means elderly. I happen to be in contact with younger adults on a fairly regular basis however and often "older" refers to, well somewhere around my age.
Funny I don't feel older. Or do I?
There is a part of me that will always be young at heart, as the saying goes. In my heart, or my soul, I feel, well, youthful. I am generally optimistic, idealistic and free spirited. I prefer jeans (not "mom jeans"), t-shirts and sneakers; I don't try dressing like a teenager but I do. I don't try to look like a teenager and maybe that's the difference between looking ok in jeans and looking desperate.
Physically I sometimes forget I'm "older" but that happens less often, each time I injure myself doing something that reminds me I'm not 20 anymore, like trying to climb a fence to avoid walking all the way around a parking lot. Or roller skating.
If I strain my back it takes weeks, not days, for it to heal.
There are other things that remind me, since I do seem to forget, that I am "older"
Getting out of bed in the morning hobbling to the bathroom on feet that are stiff and achy (why? I haven't done anything with them for at least 8 hours!) and those feet can barely carry me quickly enough because my bladder capacity is not what it once was in my younger beer guzzling days.
Not having a period. It's been over two years now and I hardly remember what it was like, really. I can wear my "good" undies any day of the month (unless of course my bladder fails)
Not knowing what music is popular.
Walking through neighborhoods where every store has changed ownership at least several times and I can remember most of the previous businesses and how they were superior to what is now in place.
Walking though neighborhoods that used to be houses and now are condos.
My notions of classic cars and classic music are different than the dominant culture. Most of the cars I have owned would now be collector's status.
I call people "honey" and "sweetie" and not because I'm coming on to them.
I understand the concept of patience, and am able to put it into practice.
My only thoughts about Mr Right are the hopes that my daughter will meet him.
I am at last truly happy with who I am and really do not care if other people are not. And that, my dears, is the greatest gift of growing "older"
I know my readers have other "gifts of age" to share, I welcome anyone to add to the list, call it a virtual stitch n' bitch.
Peace,
Jenny Nanakoosa

Image courtesy of Photobucket, http://media.photobucket.com/image/older%20women%20funny/shymartinez1/_%20FUNNY%20QUOTES%20AND%20SAYINGS%20_/FUNNY.jpg?o=1
© 2010-2012 Nanakoosa’s Place, authored by Jennifer Hazard