On ideas...

Every now and then, someone will ask me where I get my ideas for writing each blog post. I have had quite a few people express the thought that it would be too hard to come up with something to say week after week. [They probably haven't read my blog much, since they don't seem to have noticed that I don't actually have much to say, either.]

I'm not sure if they think there is a list out there somewhere that I can refer to, sort of a Blog Topic of the Day, that all the bloggers subscribe to in case we run dry on the whole "idea" thing. Perhaps they think I have created my own list of topics that I want to spout off about. Or maybe people who stumble across this blog think that I make up the stories or situations I talk about, simply to provide humor or make a point. I assure you, I rarely have a point, and I do not have that good of an imagination.

No, if I am writing about it, I have up close and personal experience with the topic, and for one reason or another, I find it entertaining. I am driven to share that with others, in the belief that they, too, will also find it funny, and it will brighten someone else's day. Sort of like a comedy fairy; Tinkerbell with laughing gas.

Besides which, real life is the funniest thing there is. That's why "America's Funniest Home Videos" is still on the air.

The truth is, life is funny enough each week that I can generally come up with a topic that is interesting enough to spend the time on without keeping a list. Eventually, I can find the humor in almost anything that happens to me, even my divorce, which is not fun, but can be funny, when seen through the right filter of perspective.

Currently, the only topic about which I have a hard time finding any humor would be the IRS, which is not only usually not funny, but is genuinely terrifying. Did you know that they are the only entity in the United States that is legally allowed to consider you guilty of wrongdoing at the start, (that is, in fact, the premise on which they begin each and every audit,) and it's up to you to prove yourself innocent? [I am not making that up - ask a tax attorney.]

It's a scary agency, with even scarier people running it. I promise you, they do not care one whit about you or your family, or the fact that they hold the power to ruin your entire life in their hands, even if you have made an innocent mistake, or no mistake at all.

And yet, although humor and the IRS are rarely found in the same location, even the IRS has its moments. One of these days, I will write about my experiences whilst held captive in their clutches, and I promise, you will giggle.

I will obviously have to begin with the story of how I received a missive from them recently, informing me that they approved of the results of their own 1.5 year examination. Which, I might add, they already signed off on when they sent the results to me in the first place. Yes, you read that correctly. They sent me a letter to inform me that they agreed with the letter they have, in fact, already sent. In and of itself, that was pretty funny.

But I was rendered hysterical when it was followed up by another mailing, just a couple of days later, informing me that they were refunding part of the money they had taken from me as per the last letter, because a mistake had been made. There's a confidence builder.

Anyway, I generally pull my topics from my life. I always try to see the humor in my world, and at the end of the week, I pick a topic to talk about, and somehow, it seems, I usually have a blog post worth of stuff to get off my mind.

For example, I might read an article about how people suffering from chronic depression feel reluctant to reveal that fact openly, because they fear others will look down on them for being "weak" minded or whatever. That strikes a chord for me, because I have suffered from chronic depression most of my life, and I am not embarrassed or ashamed of it.

My life has had its rough spots, and I responded by being depressed about it. Frankly, I would worry about someone who has gone through my life experiences and not felt depressed at some point. So I write about it, in the hopes that someone, somewhere, in the depths of their own dark night, will find it, and it will help them through a similar rough spot in their own life.

Some weeks the blog post is my therapy, because I need to work something out in my own mind, and writing my blog is my way of thinking out loud. I can start a blog in one frame of mind, and by the time I'm finished, I am thinking something entirely different, because I have worked my way through the issue, and have now talked myself into or out of my original thought.

Sometimes I just want to share an amusing happening or a funny anecdote, because I think other people will find it funny. If I could have a career in which I was guaranteed success, I would choose being a comedian, because what could possibly be better than making people laugh day in and day out for a whole lifetime? Unlike Hollywood, I don't think something needs to be Significant to be valuable. Sometimes, it's good just to laugh out loud, and that is of value in and of itself.

There are a lot of things that happen during my week that make me think, oh, I will definitely have to blog about that one. Of course, by the time I sit down to write my blog, usually I can't think of them, because if it's not written down, it doesn't happen. One of these days I will write a blog post about over 40 syndrome, just to warn the under 40's out there what's coming down the pike for them.

Or perhaps my blogging is simply proof positive that I, too, suffer from the American affliction of reverse voyeurism, where I want to display myself and all my problems in public for the world's enjoyment, like a paper reality show. "Sliding Through Life with Sarah." Doesn't have quite the kick that "Keeping Up with the Kardashians" does. Better not give up my day job, I guess.

I'm not interesting enough to devote a whole national obsession to me, anyway. [Really, is anyone? Just throwing the question out there.] I don't think that's it, because I don't enjoy getting a lot of attention - that whole Minnesota Lutheran thing, again; don't notice me, don't notice me, don't notice me. Blush.

In truth, I have gradually come to understand that my ability to find humor in the everyday happenings of a fairly boring life, and then make it fun for others to read, is, perhaps, my true gift, the one that justifies my presence in this world.

Although I have always been a writer - I cannot help looking at the world from that perspective, and putting it down in writing - it is only lately that I have realized I am a storyteller, a life story humorist. That is my genre, for better or for worse, and people come down on both sides as to how good I am at it.

I spent years trying to write the Great American Novel, and never got anywhere. I just couldn't make it work. For every serious theme, I couldn't resist a wink and a nod at the reader, because honestly, how fun is it to be serious All The Time? I would get bored with my own prose, because I don't take myself seriously, so I can't really see why anyone else should, either.

I finally realized, if I have a larger value to the world, beyond my family and friends, perhaps it is to make people chuckle over how much we have in common. Erma Bombeck is my hero, goddess of the everyday happening, the pinnacle to which I humbly aspire, and consistently fall short. I hope my ramblings make people think back to a similar experience they have had, and it will make them laugh. They can, in a word, relate, and it humanizes us all.

So the short answer, for those who wonder where I find my topics, is that I find them all over, wherever my life takes me. I laugh at the world, I laugh at myself, and I laugh at those I am closest to and care most about. A friend of my daughter's expressed the fear that I did not like him, because I always make [gentle] fun of him. My daughter immediately responded with the statement that he had it backwards, and that, in fact, my making fun of him was proof positive of the fact that I liked him.

I have, on occasion, had people tell me about their own experiences, and then suggest that I should blog about it, because it was an amusing time, or a funny experience. Sadly, it doesn't work that way, and I usually suggest they begin to write their own blog, because they can convey the humor of their experiences a lot better than I can. Generally, I get the response that they cannot write, therefore, their story will go untold.

While there is a definite skill to writing, one which you hone and improve as you do it, anyone can talk about their experiences. I am not sure why people fear the process of putting words to paper so much, since it's really just another way to tell your story, something that people do verbally all the time, often in intricate [excruciating] detail. But fear it they do, and thus, much of the joy of a person's life is left untold.

One of the best things about my blog, I feel, is that when I am long gone, my children will be able to read what I have written, and share it with their children, and they will feel my presence once again. They will laugh with me at the funny events that have occurred in my life, and they will be reminded of how much I loved life, and loved them. My words are the most valuable legacy I leave to my children, because they define my life experiences. They tell who I am, and who I have always been.

So what, then, is the purpose of this, or any blog post I write? Most importantly, it is fulfilling the contract I have with my readers, unspoken, but still important, that I will produce something to read each week; something that will make you laugh, or think, or feel something you haven't felt before. When people look forward to my words, then I have an obligation, as well as a privilege, to provide it as experience has promised them I would, and this fulfills that promise.

But also, triggered by a particular experience this week, it occurred to me that most people ask how I come up with topics because they do not see the humor in their own daily lives in quite the same way that I do. I assure you there is no humor pill, no trick, no device, no set formula to finding your own funny bone. Humor is everywhere, all the time. Look for it, and you will find it.

You always have a choice to laugh or to cry over your experiences, even the really difficult ones. Although I may cry for a short time, the laughter always wins, because life is, at the very bottom of it all, pretty funny. As far as I am concerned, that is the way to win at life, whatever your gifts or talents may be.

Single file....

I am a statistic. Now, I don't generally think of myself that way, and if you want to get really picky, we are all statistics of one sort or another, I suppose.

But in this case, the statistic that I want to talk about is the fact that I am a single, forty something woman. Which, if you believe the male half of the species, means that I am as likely to claim one of them for my own as to get hit by lightning. In other words, it could happen, but it's not likely.

Although, come to think of it, if you do get hit by lightning, you usually die. Or at least you are pretty messed up. So perhaps it's not such a bad comparison, after all....

Anyway, I have always assumed that the getting-hit-by-lightning study was designed and executed by men. Who, as usual, did not listen to a thing she said.

Because, well, I'm going to be honest with you here, [men, listen up, this is important information] - every single woman over 35 is not waiting for you to come and save her from her desolate fate. Some women are even, {gasp,} happy to be free of the constraints of A Relationship. In fact, several studies have now shown that while married men live longer than single men, married women die sooner, and it is the single women who live longest of all. I could have told them that without spending a dime.

I know this borders on sedition, bringing this information out into the open, but I have always liked living on the edge.

I would be one of those women who is happily, cheerfully single. I enjoy the freedom of not having to share my closet and my bathroom. The only crumb to be found in my bed these days is food related. I am content not to be caught in the tangled web of emotional connectedness with someone whose every waking thought, not to mention the sleeping ones, comes from below the belt.

I've never liked spiders. And I don't think much of flies, either.

Why do I even bring this up? I have recently become aware of an interesting phenomenon, and I feel it's important to set the record straight, not just for me, but for women everywhere. Because I'm not sure where men are getting their information, but it's flawed, seriously flawed, and I feel its important to clear up the misunderstanding for everyone's sake.

Single women, even if we are over 40, are not necessarily waiting to become the satellite revolving around the sun of someone else's universe. If we notice you, it may be because your fly is open or you have food on your chin.

Some background on my own perspective is needed here, so you have some context for my resentment. Way back when I was 20 something, I was happily average in every way. I wasn't hideous, I suppose, but I wasn't beautiful, either. While I was smart enough, I didn't expose my thought processes to much rigor. I didn't have money, and I drove a little brown hatchback Pinto, so I was not exuding class and distinction. I was, in a word, nothing special.

However, like most sweet young things, I received my share of attention from the male half of the species. Some of the attention I received was unwanted, but I realized it went with being a 20 something, it wasn't about me personally, and would eventually dry up and blow away.

I got married, had children, aged 20 years, and suddenly, I'm 40 something and single again. In the process, I have learned something fascinating. Apparently that wedding ring is not only around your finger. Evidently, it surrounds your life, too, like a protective cloak of invisibility.

And that's where this story actually begins. Because it seems, against all reason, now that I'm single again, I still attract the unwanted attentions of strange men, who continue to misunderstand their role in my life. Which is, in short, that they don't have one.

The realization that my life has become a bad sitcom dawned very slowly for me. I may not have noticed it at all, in fact, except that my lovely daughter, who is exceptionally observant, thoughtfully pointed it out.

For example, one evening, I was backing out of a parking place at a local emporium when she said, in an exasperated voice, "Mom, that guy did everything but stand on his head to get your attention, and you walked past him as if he wasn't even there." To which I replied, "What guy?"

We both turned to look out the window, and sure enough, he was still standing there, looking at the receding car with a wistful look on his face, as if it were a large rainbow trout that had gotten away. Well. That was a facer.

I love the British. They have such a fun way with words. According to Merriam Webster, for those who do not get out enough and are using my blog as a vocabulary lesson, a facer is a sudden stunning check or obstacle. Check and mate on that one, then.

Getting back to the story....

My daughter was, in fact, annoyed with me for being rude to some poor stranger we didn't even know. I, on the other hand, was annoyed with him for even thinking I should notice him in the first place.

In any event, I figured it was a one-off event, desperate guy, maybe just divorced and doesn't know how to cook, grasping at any straw in the bale of life's hay, I had his whole sad story mapped out in my head before I turned the corner for home, and didn't think much more about it. At least until the next time it happened. And happened again. And again. And again.

[I realize this sounds conceited, and I can only promise you that I am, of all human beings under the sun, the least likely to consider myself anything special. I am, after all, a Minnesota Lutheran to the core. Thus, my mantra is never, ever to draw attention to myself, and for heaven's sake, never monkey around At All, because that will bring God himself, and your embarrassed family, right down on you. But this is just too good to keep to myself, so I am going to run the risk of eternal damnation for my conceit and forge ahead, in the hopes that the tears from the laughter will put out the hellfire I feel singeing my feet.]

Naturally, I cast around for possible reasons why this unfortunate situation has developed. Obviously, I immediately eliminated my witty [some would say stunning] personality as the driving force. These men do not even know me. [Actually, the people that do know me don't pay any attention to me at all, which tells you something.]

I am not more attractive, now that I am mature. [That sounds so much nicer than getting old, don't you think?] I have no money, and I still have not developed any class or distinction.

That is when I realized, it has nothing to do with me at all, and everything, but everything, to do with the fact that I am Mrs. Robinson come to life. Men have confused "The Graduate" with reality. Or maybe they have grown up with the idea that a wicked divorcee is simply awaiting their entrance into her life to be complete, and they are acting on this misinformation to their detriment.

Ladies, if you want to test my theory, try taking off your wedding ring and go to the grocery store. I'll guarantee you some guy will offer to take your groceries home for you. Yes, that actually happened. I could not make this stuff up. My imagination is not that good.

Some men have found creative ways to get the attention of every single woman they stumble over. And the older they get, the more desperate the measures they seem to take. They do get my attention, I will give them that, although perhaps not quite in the way they were hoping for. But they are good for a laugh, if not for a date.

I go for a walk most evenings with my dog and my i-Pod, headphones blasting in my ears, oblivious to everything, just the way all the safety experts tell you not to. [Sorry Mom.]

As I was walking along, probably belting out whatever song was playing, I realized a pickup truck, all black and shiny, which had just passed me, turned around in the street and pulled up next to me. While not a common occurrence, it's not unheard of, and I glanced up but kept walking until I saw the window smoothly sliding downward.

Then I saw a head, leaning towards the passenger side of the seat, looking at me earnestly, lips moving rapidly. I tried to think if this face was familiar, but couldn't place it, and then realized that the lips seemed to be forming words that I could understand. I simply could not believe that he had just said what I thought he said, so I pulled out my headphones, and in my best Mom Voice [he had to be at least ten years younger than me,] coldly said, "Excuse me?"

And then, he said it again, in all its humiliating glory. "Hey. You're cute. Do you want to go out with me?" [I must make an editorial remark here, for those who have heard this story before. I have had to modify the language, because my mother reads this blog, and I don't want her to wash my mouth out with soap for talking like that.]

I must say, I was nonplussed. I am mature [getting old.] I may have been old enough to be his much older sister. Since I was out for a walk in the heat with my dog, I had made no effort on my appearance whatsoever. I couldn't think of anything about me that would get the attention of some random guy driving by, much less make him think I would be receptive to that kind of invitation.

This situation obviously called for the right response, which I struggled to come up with, being I never foresaw this eventuality occurring in the first place. So, I paused for a long moment, while gathering my wits about me, and then replied, "I am 48 years old, which means I am old enough to know better than to go out with you."

Too slowly, the window went sliding back up, and I put my headphones back in and walked away, leaving him to consider his sins, which, given the situation he had just created, probably took awhile.

Of course, this is far too good of a story to keep to myself. I don't have any illusions that I will have this kind of humor opportunity too many more times in my life, so I have told it to pretty much everyone I know. Actually, now I've told a whole lot of people that I don't know, too. I try to spread my humor around as much as possible. It's my gift to the world. You bet.

The most surprising thing about the whole episode, though, is not that he did it, shocking as it was to me. The thing that always amazes me is that men of my acquaintance, upon hearing this story, are not only not shocked, they usually agree that while most women won't go for it, if even one in ten does, that makes the effort worthwhile.

Men aren't from Mars, they are from the outer edges of the universe. Ladies, we have set the bar way too low.

That was my best "single woman" story until recently, when another episode took it's place. My new best story is about a special guy I'll call John Doe, to protect him from the humiliation, since I think he is probably basically a decent guy, if a little too desperate.

I got connected with him through work. I sell insurance, and he evidently confused that with a dating service. It was impossible to mistake his intentions, even at the very beginning, but he seemed harmless enough, so I played along, hoping at some point to benefit from the time spent with an actual policy. Eventually, however, he crossed a line and went a little too far, so I decided enough was enough, and took some measures that I thought would end the nonsense.

John was not to be deterred so easily. He e-mailed me back, asking for another quote, which I debated, but eventually decided to do, since I'd spent so much time on it already. I sent him an e-mail in my most business-like tone, explaining that I have changed my last name, but not giving any further information as to why, and received a reply that confirmed that men and women think on totally different planes.

I dissolved in laughter when his sincere congratulations on my new marriage appeared in my inbox.

The dating game has certainly changed since I was young. Even at my age, I find myself at center stage, instead of watching from the wings. It seems, at least from the single men I know, that men are now the ones who want to get married and live in domestic bliss, while the women are out of reach, uninterested in the fetters of relationship and commitment.

I'm not sure when the change occurred, but I, for one, am in favor of it. If you are going to have your life shortened by marrying some guy and making his dreams come true, you should, at the very least, have some laughs first.

In the meantime, I will continue to wait for Mr. Perfectly Right to walk through my door and fall in my lap. I don't know if he's out there, but I sure hope he isn't driving a black truck.

Last week was huge for me. A once in a lifetime event occurred, and I am still trying to get over it. No, I am not referring to the dreaded birthday, which came and went, and apparently is not as big of a deal as I had feared, since I'm still here to tell about it, and don't actually look or feel all that much different.

Surprise.

No, this once in a lifetime event to which I am referring is a truly special occasion - frequently contemplated, often discussed, but occurring about as often as a full eclipse of the sun. Last weekend my cousin came to visit, and since she has never been to my house before, I wanted to let her know I cared.

So I revved my motor, shouted at everyone in range, and got my entire house, top to bottom, more or less clean - All At the Same Time. [No need to hold your applause. I thrive on positive attention. Very un-Lutheran of me, I know. But I haven't lived in the Land of the Lutherans for awhile, and I am busily trying to fit into the Land of Oz, where I currently reside.]

I realize this may not sound like much of an achievement to the uninitiated Martha Stewart wannbees out there. So let me just pause for a moment to explain the significance of this event. I am thoughtful that way - I don't want to leave anyone behind. [Well, that and I want full appreciation for the achievement.]

I am not a housekeeper. I do not get chills from seeing a freshly vacuumed carpet, all the little marks neatly lined up in a row. I don't get a thrill from looking at a clean counter or table top, although I am often exasperated that I can never find anything in this place, and can find no room to work. Anywhere in the entire house, because every available space seems to be covered with stuff. Laundry is anathema to me, and while I do manage to run the dishwasher occasionally, it is not enjoyable to put the clean dishes away, either.

I used to have a decorative wall hanging, given to me by a well intentioned relative many years ago. [Might have had something to do with an ill fated marital decision, but I'm not telling.] Anyway, it talked about being happy to serve in the kitchen, because that meant there was food on the table, and happy to do the laundry, because that meant there were clothes to wear, and happy to sweep the floor, because that meant there was a home to live in.

Oh-kay. I am thrilled about the food, the clothes, the home. I still hate to do housework. [That wall hanging has since gone the way of the marriage it was intended to enrich, by the way. I hate to have lies hanging around the house, showing me up for a hypocrite.]

Housework, from my point of view, is boring, mundane, and never ending. I vacuumed two days ago, but I have two dogs, a cat, and a bird, not to mention a kid or two. Need I say more?

Wash clothes, and then you have to fold or hang and put them away. I get bored just thinking about it.

Dust, if you don't mess with it, will just lay there in a nice layer, not hurting anyone. It's only when some spoil sport runs their finger over it that everyone notices your table top is not, in fact, opaque. Hmmmm.

So anyway, I wanted my cousin to come back some day, so I thought I had better make the premises a little less scary. So I whipped my daughter into action by laying down the law. Which, in my case, means plaintively pleading with her to please, please, please pick up her stuff and put it somewhere it won't be visible. And then, in a masterly wave of action, I got busy and cleaned, cleaned, cleaned.

My house was a showcase, at least for a few fleeting moments, and I was reminded why I liked this place way back in the beginning. The layout is very open and free flowing, and it feels airy and light and welcoming. At least as long as there isn't so much stuff you can't walk through it without falling over something.

That's when the momentous realization dawned on me. It's not that I'm lazy, or even that the house is too big for two people [which it is.]

No, the real problem here is that we have too much stuff. WAY too much stuff. We have enough stuff to furnish several houses, and a random apartment or two. I don't know where all this stuff came from, because I am not a pack rat. I am not afraid to throw or donate. And yet, I have entire house filled with stuff, most of which I don't even know I have, and which I will probably never use again.

I have baking dishes in my kitchen that have never seen the light of day, or the oven. I have fancy utensils, ghosts of Pampered Chef parties past, that have never been taken out of their packaging, still pristine in their unused state. I have newspapers commemorating everything from the Pope getting shot a few years back [we don't need to dwell on how many,] to the Minnesota Twins winning the World Series [yes, I DO have a homer hanky, thank you very much for asking.] I have samples of my children's schoolwork going back to preschool. [My youngest is a senior in high school, and the stack is probably higher than she is tall, so that should give you the correct visual image.]

I have a storage room full of discarded pieces of furniture I no longer need, but can't really bear to part with, because they still have some use in them. I can't throw away a book, that is a mortal sin, in my world, but I have plenty of them that will never have their cover cracked again, either.

Now, I don't want lay blame on anyone in particular for this situation, which is frighteningly close to disaster proportions.

I'm sure that it couldn't have anything to do with a childhood spent observing a parent of the female persuasion obsessively squirreling away every obscure item in her domain in a jar or a drawer or on a shelf, because you never know when you might need it.

I can't imagine that my farm upbringing, where you made do, reused, and recycled everything as a matter of course, could have brought about this inability to monitor my own possessiveness.

No, good Lutheran that I am, I'm not interested in blame at all. I am all about grace, and moving past the disaster, so I can emerge on the other side a better person. I am going to forgive myself, and anyone else who may have contributed to this situation. [Notice how I did not name any names, that's the sweet and generous kind of daughter I am.] And then I'm going to wipe the slate clean.

Just as soon as I find it. Which, given the condition of the storage room, is going to be awhile.

Then I'm going to use it to make a list of all the stuff I don't need any more, so I can once again have a house that doesn't make me cringe every time someone comes to the door. I have tasted the elixir of cleanliness, and I'm not going back to the prison of materialism. Give me liberty or give me... well. That might be going a little far.

Until then, if you need anything, call me. I'm pretty sure I have it somewhere, and I'd love to give it to you.

I have an unhappy moment arriving this week. It is a day I have been dreading for several months [years] already, but it has arrived despite my best efforts to ignore it. I'm depressed to announce that I am about to turn 49, and my journey through the 40's is ending all too soon.

When taken in their entirety, the 40's have not been fabulous for me. Born in 1960, my 40th birthday was celebrated with the turn of the millennium. As I toasted the beginning of the fifth decade of my life, I had no idea what was ahead. I'm not talking about the colon blowing up, or the divorce, or my son graduating from high school and surviving without me overseeing his every moment.

All those things happened in this decade, and I was unprepared for any of it, it's true. But I have coped, more or less, and not only accept my life now for what it is, but I'm happy and at peace for the first time in many years. Life is, by and large, pretty good for me, [except, as my children will be the first to point out, for the whole being broke thing. :( ]

No, the part of being 40 that no one warned me about, and I must say, I would have appreciated some notice, is the part that I find hardest to take - you Fall Apart. The name of this malady to which I refer? Over-40 Syndrome. Boys and girls, I am not joshing about this. When people tell you that once you hit 40 it's a downhill slide from there, they are not kidding. I would call it more of a freefall, but without the compensating thrills.

It starts small, with little changes that are so subtle, at first you don't even realize what is happening. You can't drink caffeine after 5, then 4, then 3, then breakfast. Sudafed becomes Vivarin, and you will be an insomniac if you take it after noon.

Your memory is not what it used to be, especially when trying to recall things like why you walked all the way upstairs, or what you were looking for in the garage. Or correctly identifying the kid you need to yell at. [Some days I'm lucky I remember my own name, to say nothing of them.]

Your body parts begin to play this bizarre game of hide and seek, where they aren't where you left them. Suddenly, the clothes that looked good yesterday now simply accentuate what has moved south. Or out. (For the younger set who are deluding themselves that diminutive mammaries will not so suffer, I have a flash for you. Who knew what you thought you didn't have could suddenly show up in the wrong place?)

As you move through the 40's, the problems get more pronounced. My joints and muscles and bones are almost 49 years old, too, and they want me to know it, Every Single Time I Move. If I do any little activity out of the ordinary, suddenly I am a mass of aches and pains in places I didn't know about before. (And frankly, if I didn't need to know about them previously, I'm not thinking I need to have anything to do with them now, either.)

Worst of all, though, your vision, which once worked so flawlessly you never thought about it, goes downhill rapidly until you are incapable of sight except in extreme lighting conditions. For awhile there I thought that light bulbs were getting dimmer, but it turns out that the low lighting is in my eyes, not the lamps.

I understand that I am not alone in this wellspring of misery. I have heard (and seen) my friends struggling with the same realities, and they appear to be as confused about it as I am.

We go out to lunch once a month, a group of friends, and suddenly, glasses are being passed around because no one can read the menu any more. We have serious, and intense, discussions about which are better, reading glasses or bifocals. And some of us have passionate opinions on the topic, for heaven's sake.

I don't know about men, because I missed out on the whole growing old together thing[which may not be so bad after all - it's bad enough watching myself fall apart, I'm not sure I really need to do it in stereo,] but women usually realize they have reached a Certain Age when they look in the mirror and find their mother staring back at them with a shocked expression. From what I have heard, that is a bad moment for most women. I have escaped that particular vision due to being adopted; instead, I look in the mirror and think, who the heck IS that, and what has she done with my face?

It is an odd juxtaposition, to feel 25 inside, and look 50 on the outside. I am still gobsmacked every single time I look in the mirror and find the older me looking back.

I was surprised, when I expressed my dismay to my own mother, who is a truly lovely 82, to be informed that she still feels 50. It was disconcerting, I must say, to realize that at some point in the way distant future [okay, that is also a delusion, but I am okay with it, so leave me alone,] I would actually look back on 49 as the time when I was still young. Because from my angle, it is looking positively geriatric, and I simply do not understand how I got here so soon.

I realize, given that I have a 24 year old son, feeling 25 is probably a stretch, and I may need to bump that up to 30 soon. My baby will turn 18 on her next birthday, and I do understand, intellectually, that has to mean that I can't be as young as I used to be. But I don't understand how 49 arrived so soon, so unexpectedly. I am now one step away from being 50, when you can't avoid being classed as middle aged, no matter how hard you work to maintain the youthful illusion.

I am hoping that, like with most things, the dreading of it is worse than the actual fact, and once it happens, I will be comfortable for awhile again being a young 50, instead of an old 40. I hope that when 50 actually happens, it will be a fun and fabulous decade, filled with the good things of life.

But in the meantime, I am going to hang on to 48 until the last possible second. And when 49 arrives, I will be 49 forever, at least in my mind, until the calendar turns my page for me in 2010. If I could make a visit to the Wizard of Oz, I would ask to turn the clock back and be 30 again [see, I'm making progress already.] In the meantime, I will click my heels together three times, start shopping for my red hat, and show the world that 49 can be fabulous instead of frightening.

Yikes.

Evolution....

Back when I was young, we graduated from high school and went off to college, and gradually lost touch with most everyone we had known and gone to school with our entire lives. (Keep in mind I grew up in a small town where everyone knew everyone. And everyone's parents, and grandparents, and cousins....)

It wasn't intentional or willful, or even desirable, necessarily. There was no easy way to contact them and remain in conversation with them - phone calls were long distance and expensive, and letters took too long - and it just sort of happened.

Even remaining in the same small town didn't guarantee maintaining those old friendships, because other people moved away, and, well, life evolves. You would occasionally hear about people from your parents, of course, or have the happy moment of running into them when one or both of you were home visiting, and you could catch up briefly, and it was really fun.

But gradually, in the normal course of living your life, you would lose touch with most people until you realized, one day, that you no longer thought of this or that person as a "friend," in the current sense of the word. Instead, they were now someone you knew "when I was in high school." You remembered them fondly, but it would have been awkward to just write a letter or call them out of the blue, and that was another mild regret to add to the ever lengthening list.

That was something that went along with growing up, and living your adult life. I barely see my neighbor and close friend who lives across the street, much less someone living hundreds of miles away. For most of my life, it was just the way things were, and there wasn't much you could do about it.

My son and I had a conversation on that very topic awhile ago that has now come back to haunt me, but in a good way. As a member of the Millennial generation, he has never known a time when there weren't computers and e-mail. Cell phones were not science fiction, a la Maxwell Smart or James Bond or Batman, but an everyday reality for most of his life. He was an early user of Facebook, back in the day when it was limited to college students only, and it's main intent was to help kids connect with other kids who were attending their same institution of higher learning.

He is not suspicious, like I am, of every new technological advancement. He takes advantage of anything that makes his day easier or which he perceives to enhance the quality of his life, and he embraces technology with enthusiasm for all the benefits it brings to his life. He immediately understood the advantages of a Facebook world, and as I said, he was one of the first people to sign on, before he even arrived on his college campus.

Anyway, on this particular day that I mentioned, we were discussing "real friends" versus "Facebook friends," a term which has instant meaning for anyone who has been on Facebook for any length of time at all. I will explain [as briefly as is possible for me] for those who haven't heard the term, and don't understand what it means.

Most people have friends they know well, whom they see regularly, or at least with whom they remain in regular contact, just as people have done since time began.

They also have acquaintances that are encountered in church, at school, at work, or wherever people congregate. You don't really know them well, you wouldn't call them to go to a movie or meet for a cup of coffee, but you know enough about them to at least say hello and have a conversation with them when you see them out and about.

Now, in this computer age, there is another set of people with whom friendship is primarily found in cyberspace, and it's a weird sort of relationship, indeed. You may know more about them than you do about your next door neighbor, because Facebook keeps you up to date on everything they are doing (to say nothing about Twitter, but let's not even go there.) Every time they post a picture or update their profile or simply have a thought, you are notified by the server on the mothership in the cyberspace universe, but you may not recognize them if you run into them on the street or in a store.

While you are generally connected to your real friends on Facebook, you can now add everyone that knows everyone you've ever known, and the people who know them, as well. Friends of friends will suddenly friend you, and before you know it, you have over a thousand Facebook friends (my socially adept daughter, for example,) made up mostly of people you've never met.

[On the one hand, it's sort of creepy to know that your best friend's cousin's girlfriend's brother is on an extended visit to Peru. But it's also sort of hard to resist looking at the pictures that he posts from his cell phone each evening, too.]

It seems kind of weird to me, this accumulation of names and people that have no genuine connection with you, other than as a number in your list of competitive friending. It was that phenomenon which got the conversation with my son going, but we quickly expanded beyond that to discuss how he has kept in touch with high school classmates and never really lost those relationships, although they have, as expected, evolved.

His most persuasive argument for this type of social networking was simple and compelling; why lose touch with people when you don't have to? And what is the harm in remaining friends, he pointed out, even if only Facebook friends, with someone whom you haven't seen in a long time, and with whom you may not have a lot in common now, but who had shared the experience of growing up with you? Since I didn't really have a counterpoint to that very logical and reasonable position, the conversation ended with my feeling slightly dissatisfied about having been on the wrong side of an argument that should have been obvious, since I have lost far more friends than he has over the years!

This conversation has come back to haunt me in the last few days, as I said before, in the best possible way. I have suddenly reconnected, all in the last week, and thanks to the internet and Facebook, with several people with whom I shared my growing up years, and it has been the most fun I have had in a long time. To catch up and talk with people whom I knew, and who knew me, when we were five or ten or 15 is even more fun that I would have imagined. Not surprisingly, it turns out we are avidly interested in what each other's lives look like now, and very happy to suddenly have a way to find out again.

I have never attended a class reunion, I never understood the desire before, but suddenly, I am having the class reunion anyway, without ever leaving my sofa. I am annoyed to find out that my mother was right again; it is a lot of fun to catch up and see, not only how all those people turned out, but how varied and interesting they all are. All those sullen and hormonal teenagers, (myself more than anyone, I'm sure!) suddenly revere their parents, have serious careers, have gotten married or divorced (or both,) have difficulties with their children, and actually make plans with the siblings they couldn't stand when we were young. Who knew?!

One of the reconnections for me came through a roundabout path. A woman, Patrea (isn't that a lovely and unique name?!) that went to elementary school with me, and who attended my church until her family moved when we were about ten, was traveling through my hometown, and actually remembered me from way back when. [Trust me, I am far more shocked than anyone at that.]

She asked someone at my little country church to pass her e-mail along to me. It traveled from there to my mom, who then passed it along to me, and eventually, when I found a few free minutes, I sent off the first attempt to reconnect.

I was nervous, sort of like a first date with someone you have heard about, but don't really know. I didn't know what to say about myself, or my life, because I didn't know if she would be interested or not, so it was an awkward attempt, to say the least.

A few days later, I received a wonderful and enthusiastic reply, with the tale of her life in brief, and the wish that we would now stay in touch. I replied with a longer and more forthcoming story of my life, and am now awaiting her reply with happy anticipation. Without e-mail, this would never have happened, and we would have missed out on something that has brought me, at least, pleasure I didn't even know I would feel.

I have a cousin, Mary, who is very socially engaging. Her laugh is irresistible, and she is a warm and caring person. So it's pretty obvious why everyone wants to be her friend!

Hearing from Pat made me start to wonder about other people I had been friends with growing up, and naturally, I turned to Mary's Facebook page. [Yes, that's correct, I continue to be the little cousin dogging everyone's heels!] As it turns out, she is, not surprisingly, ridiculously talented at locating people online, and I raided her friend list to find a few for myself. Mary has obviously been very busy rounding people up, because she has pretty much everyone I've ever known in her list of friends, and I have been slowly but surely adding them myself.

It turns out her younger brother, my cousin Tom, was on Facebook, so I was able to wish him a happy birthday, something I haven't done in years, despite always thinking of him on that day, because all it required of me was a simple click. From there, someone else found me and friended me, and we have now had a fun and interesting conversation.

I found another girl I knew my entire life, and whom I have missed over the years, but never thought to contact, because it was just too complicated. Suddenly, we are writing back and forth, comparing notes on life, and divorce, and our kids, and it is not only fun, but rewarding to find that no matter how far we have come, those people you cared about so much growing up, and who cared about you, still do. It is like discovering your long lost relatives, in a way, and it is very gratifying.

I am, as most people who know me well will attest, a pretty confirmed introvert. As anyone who reads this blog regularly knows, I am cynical and jaded by a life that has had more bumps and scrapes and bruises than it should have, mostly self-inflicted, and I find it difficult to trust and make friends with people.

So for me, this is a different kind of experience. Not only do I not need to explain where I come from, or who I really am, they already know the most important things about me, because they were all there while they were happening. That small town farm girl still lives in me, and that is someone they already know.

While there are certainly some dangers involved in the internet, including identity theft, online stalking, and that whole creepy Googling-pictures-of-my-house-where-you-can-see-my-furniture-on-my-deck thing, the benefits have always outweighed the risks for me. I understand the attitude of the young, who regret the parental intrusions into their formerly out-of-reach online world. But now that even my 82 year old mother has a facebook page, it is evident that Facebook is here to stay, and it is a good thing.

[Brief update: My lovely mother decided it was just too complicated, and had me delete her page!]

If you haven't gotten yourself a Facebook page, I encourage you to go online and get one. At best, you will find out who you didn't even know you were missing until you find them, or they find you. At the least, you will find yourself more in touch with the people who matter most to you. Evolution in the computer age simply means adding to your list of friends, and it's a lot of fun.

Happy hunting!