Transition.

tran-si-tion: – noun 1. movement, passage, or change from one position, state, stage, subject, concept, etc., to another; change: the transition from adolescence to adulthood.



I turn 50 in nine months. For some reason, that surprises me. '50' has managed to sneak up on me... or is that 'creep' up on me? I'm not sure which, but I am sure of one thing. I'm in transition. Not from youth to middle age or middle age to old age, but from denial and/or ignoring the signs of aging to "I'm not quite ready to sell the farm, Billy!" The only problem is the bank of youth is wanting to close my account - I get a memo to that effect each time I look in the mirror - and it's not taking "no" for an answer, dammit.

It's the drying up that bothers me the most. Dry hair. Dry skin. Dry eyes. And dare I say it? ("Yes," you're thinking, "we're all in this together - just say it.") Okay. Dry vajayjay. Now, doesn't that just sound sooo sexy? I feel like Coleen Gray in the movie "The Leech Woman" when she was between men, so to speak. Where's a girl's 'young stud pineal gland tapper' when she needs one? (Google it and you'll get it.)

True story. I'm sitting in the driver's seat in my car waiting for my daughter. She gets into the car... and the windows in the entire car instantly steam up EXCEPT for the driver's side window and my side of the windshield. I am so dry, her youthful moisture could not penetrate the parched barrier surrounding me, leaving my small section of the car as dry and arid as the Sahara Desert. Grrr.

Today in the mail, I got a special edition of People Magazine titled "Sexy at Any Age." I perused the photos of celebrities who look younger at age 40-something than they did when 20-something. The beauty secrets of the Stars! Anti-oxidents! Organic diets! 5-mile daily runs! 4-hour daily workouts! Um... no.

By the way, Valerie Bertinelli is totally hot. And she is my age. I'm thinking she might be inspiring me to ... exercise. Gasp! But inspiring and actually "doing" are two different things and I haven't been very reliable in the past in the "doing" department when it comes to exercise. So that leads me back to my transition.

I'm making a promise to myself to do more. I promise to exercise more. I promise to dance more. I promise to protect my skin more with SPFs and pretty, floppy hats. I promise to eat a more healthier diet and to drink less caffiene. I promise to get more sleep. I promise to laugh more (laugh lines, I don't mind at all, thankyouverymuch). I promise to forgive myself when I fail. And the hardest promise I make to myself is to accept the fact that I am aging. I promise to do it with dignity, with grace, with my friends, and most definitely with a sense of humor.

Transition. It can be a bitch, but sometimes it can lead you to the most satisfying time of your life... if you just let it.

Arm & Hammer

I hear my cell phone beep.

I'm tired, and it's hard to get my ass off of the couch. Why did I leave the phone in the other room? Blah.

It's Erica. I know because I have caller ID.

"Hi, Erica."

"Hey."

"What's up?"

"Something terrible's happened."

"Should I sit down?"

"Hammer got hit by a car, and he didn't make it." I hear a sniffle.

Hammer is her labrador retriever mix. A happy 120 lb. chocolate puppy - reckless, fearless, and totally untrainable.

"Oh no!" I cry. "The poor sweetie. Did he suffer?" I silently hope to myself he didn't suffer.

"No. It was instant. Juan is burying him right now... in the backyard, you know, with the others."

Erica hasn't been too lucky with dogs.

First, there was Kenneth Wayne. Kenneth Wayne was a cute mutt of the Heinz 57 variety who developed heartworm because Erica could never remember to give him his heartworm prevention cookie. He died in her arms, gasping for each breath and with a hacking cough reminiscent of an old man with a 30-year smoking habit.

Next was Number 5. She wasn't a particularly nice dog, but she was very loyal to Erica and Juan. She was a gift to Erica from her mother-in-law after Kenneth Wayne died and was the only pure bred dog of the bunch. A black and white springer spaniel, Number 5 oddly loved to eat the green peppers in Erica's garden. Unfortunately for Number 5, she choked to death on one.

Then there was Waldo. Waldo, a mutt with a little german shepherd in him and a little collie in him and a lot of hair on him, was a three-legged dog. That's how he was when he showed up one day just out of the blue. He climbed up onto her front porch, stretched out under the porch swing, and that was where he could be found for the next four years at any time of the day or night - unless he was chasing a rabbit. Waldo hated rabbits. One day Waldo chased a rabbit with his surprisingly fast 3-legged sprint into the woods behind Erica and Juan's house, and he was never seen again. We looked for Waldo for a couple of hours. Erica was beside herself with worry, but we never found him. We hope he now sleeps on another porch and dreams of chasing rabbits.

Patty-cake appeared soon after Waldo disappeared. Patty-cake was huge pregnant and delivered her puppies two days after her arrival. The first four puppies were stillborn, but the last one born, a little female, lived. Erica named her Patty-cake Too. Patty-cake and Patty-cake Too met an untimely end about a year later when Erica and Juan's crazy neighbor to the North decided he didn't like Patty-cake and Patty-cake Too getting into his yard, even though they were harmless. He fed each of them raw hamburger he had laced with rat poison. Juan confronted the neighbor and threatened to sue him, but he never did. He buried Patty-cake and Patty-cake Too next to Kenneth Wayne and Number 5.

Then just about a year ago, someone dumped two lab puppies in the corn field across from Erica and Juan's small farm. Erica immediately claimed ownership and named the two male puppies Arm & Hammer - after the baking soda.

"Oh, Erica. I'm so sorry. How is Arm taking it?"

"He's alright. He's a dog. I gave him a flip-chip and he's fine."

"That's good."

"You know, it just dawned on me now that Hammer is gone - 'Arm' is kind of a dumb name for a dog."

I smile at this. Poor Arm. A big dumb dog with a stupid name and a careless owner. I can't help but think his days are numbered.