Thank goodness I was not standing in front of a mirror. There was no need to see my reflection. I could feel what was happening to my body. Alone in my home office, I stood with my feet shoulder width apart, placed my thumbs on my lower back, bent my knees slightly, and attempted to pop my rear end up and down.
Almost immediately, I felt pain. The pain of twerking was not only caused by trying to move my lower back and hips like a stripper on uppers, but also because what I mistakenly thought was muscular began to shake and slap, colliding into other long-neglected parts of my body. In that moment, I realized I am too old to twerk. Continue reading
We all know her. She is the timeless woman: classic, ageless, gracefully accepting each challenge of getting older. Her lithe limbs glide across the room. Upon close examination of her skin, we wonder what night cream she uses. We assume she has spent her entire life in the gym and has never seen the sun. She looks stylish in flats. I am not that woman. In fact, I hate her. She is the epitome of “aging gracefully.” I, on the other hand, am aging disgracefully.
Over the next few weeks, because there is just too damn much to write about on the subject of aging disgracefully in one post, I will examine every aspect of how my body has begun to betray me. Continue reading
When I was four years old, sitting in the tree house of my first childhood home, I looked over the fence and saw a little girl of four in her own backyard playing on an old metal swing set. A tiny, strong voice, already thick with Alabama twang, called to me, “Hey! Wanna play?” From that simple question my first friendship immediately formed. Two summers later, my family moved forty-five miles away, leaving Angela and her swing set behind.
Now, as an Army Spouse, the devastation of moving occurs nearly every two years. Jay and I recently unpacked the boxes from our latest move, and I feel a nasty case of Friendless Loser Syndrome coming on. After so many moves, I still have the desire to walk out my new front door and ask the first woman I see if she wants to play. However, I have never had the courage Angela had when she was four.
So, I ask you, why is it difficult for adults to make new friends? At what age did the idea of approaching a stranger and requesting friendship become bat-shit crazy? Continue reading