You are the best. Honestly the very best. I think you may have broke Facebook because I can’t find all the thoughtful posts from my birthday. If I have not thanked you, I cannot get to the post.
But thank you. Really- tonight I am a giddy, overstimulated, tired, 51 year old swimming in birthday love. Your friendship is a delight.
Today was spent with Hubs doing one of the things we love the most- we skied a bluebird day in Colorado. Friends joined us, toasts were made, skies were clear, snow was great………
On the 51% of a century, I have many thoughts about today, you precious people. and the beauty of this life. But tonight I baste in birthday love like a big ol’ turkey. You all are the best. I delight in you.
I spent my birthday eve with this amazing human- the woman who was kind enough to bring me into this world, my Mama.
Driving home this evening, I turned to my husband, “I’m a pretty lucky person,” I said.
And I don’t say that to be flippant, or trite, I know darn well how lucky I am to have this person in my life. This person who insists that at 51, my birthday still be super special.
And it was:
And now I am tired and off to bed. My belly is full of lobster, champagne and cake. My heart and head are full of gratitude and delight.
I say that knowing I have a super-tolerant body. It’s not a bikini body by any means but I know my quads are strong. I trust that my heart will pound in protest but still get me up Vail pass. My knees? Well, they were good while they lasted.
I am also not a committed athlete….and I use the word athlete loosely. During marathon training, I found a glazed donut to be the perfect combination of carbs and fat.
Protien shake? Heck no! Jelly donut? Bring it.
I am the non-conforming worker-outer.
But I do know, I am better when I sweat. My head is clear when my heart beats fast.
As I get older, I appreciate this flawed, unperfect body even more.
And I as I get older, I realize, this body is getting older too.
Eight weeks ago I tore my bicep muscle. It was a dumb move. I was reaching for something on a shelf, slipped on a wood floor and grabbed the upper shelf with my right arm.
Holy MAMA. It hurt. And bruised. I could move my arm so knew it was a partial tear but I also knew it needed rest. Swimming was out for a while. It turned purple and ached at night…..in truth, this scared me a bit….
Because it was so dumb!
I hurt myself on a shelf. And I can’t help but think that 25 years ago, this would not have been an issue.
And today, some movements are still a little angry, but I went back to Orange Theory. I made have wept a bit as I watched my SPLAT points add up, as my heart rate rose and as the angst in my head turned into strokes on a bike.
I kissed my bicep as it moved through exercises with little protest.
Bicep- you’re a good muscle and I find delight in you. I will never take you for granted or reach beyond my means on slippery floors.
You only get one of these bodies. As I get older, I realize mine is just fine.
This evening was my first session as a horse leader at the Colorado Therapeutic Riding Center. I keep meaning to post of photo with my horsey friends but every time I show up at the Center, my head and hands are busy and the phone stays in my pocket- which might be another delight.
I’ve always loved horses but as I grow older, these beautiful animals are leaving a deeper impression on me; their personalities, the non-verbal communication, the need for me to be aware of my own space as I interact with them.
My gait needs to interact with theirs.
My eyes need to focus on where we want to go.
I need to be cognizant that this beastie next to me has its very own mind and opinion. It’s a delicate partnership.
And it’s all still new for me. Today I was so nervous I relied on help from other very generous volunteers.
But as the sunset over the mountains, I tucked my horse, Junior in for the night. As he ate his dinner, I thanked him for being such a good, patient horse on my first day. His tail swished as he munched.
A holy-crap what did they do to your foot type of surgery
A let’s stick a screw up your foot type of surgery.
None of this is delightful.
But this evening it was quite delightful to drop off a meal and sit with a friend who never sits. In fact, I posted this picture because it’s the only one I could find of her not skiing or biking, or hiking.
My friend never sits still- unless you stick a screw up her foot.
To the delight of our healing bodies, sitting still even when it’s only when you must and to friend time.
Our Nieces came over last night. We didn’t do anything spectacular. We ordered sushi, drank tea and watched Marvelous Mrs. Maisel (another delight). They decided to spend the night. I rustled up some pj bottoms, toothbrushes. And even though they are now adults, Hubs always does one last check in.
The nieces are in their 20’s and I love that they decided to spend a Saturday evening with us when they could have been anywhere else. I love that they complain about our always-chilly home and in response Hubs rustles up the space heater. I love that we are significant in each others lives.
They keep me honest and try to keep me hip. When pulling up an Instagram photo, I commented that someone got really bad Botox.
“Aunt Heather, that’s a filter.”
“Oh thank God.”
They tell me I can wear combat boots. I try to make them teach me the Men in Black Tik Tok dance.
What is most delightful is that as I grow older, I realize that relationships with the younger people in my life are still as important as they were when they needed to be picked up from dance practice. It is more of a give and take now- I learn a lot from these strong, younger women.
The call is different, but we all need our tribe, even if it includes a few elders 🙂
As a really ‘busy’ young child, I was often told to ‘settle down’. It usually meant I was in trouble and I had to sit. Or be quiet. Or both.
As a young women, people who married less than optimal Loves were told they were ‘settling’…..
I always thought settling was bad…..somewhat less than my explosive nature. If I was settling, life was less adventurous, settling was boring. We must be many things…..we cannot be boring!
But tonight, the first Friday of the New Year, my thoughts have settled. I have nothing to wrap, no parties to attend, nothing to bake, the world (thank God) is no longer on fire.
Not only am I delighted to share this post by my lovely and talented friend, Corey. I am delighted that she is my lovely and talented friend.
Wanna a share a delight? Send me a note 🙂
Here’s Corey!
Positive Self Talk
By Corey Radman
“Where should we put this rotisserie chicken?” I asked Ringo as I put the groceries away. He wagged his tail at me like he had a few ideas to contribute to the discussion. Overruling the canine, I said, “Let’s put this in the way back of the fridge…”
I looked up to see my husband standing in the kitchen with a look that said, Should I make fun of you, or should I make an appointment for you? “Who are you talking to?”
“The dog,” I said, a silly grin creeping across my face. My eyes slid to the side. We both knew I’d be chatting aloud even if I was utterly alone.
So, sue me. I talk to myself. Aloud. I’ve always been this way. As a child, I spoke quietly to Laura, my imaginary companion fresh from her little house on the prairie. “This is a telephone,” I’d explain. “You press the buttons, and it connects you to other people far away!”
I quashed the instinct once I realized it made me “weird.” I spent several decades appearing to pass for normal, but then I started working from home as a writer, and well, the words escaped my shower diatribes and splashed into the living room, into the car, out onto the sidewalk where maybe I’m talking to Ringo, maybe not.
Sometimes I’m practicing a conversation I might have or rehashing one I wish had been wittier. I’ve also found if I talk about the item I’m looking for, I won’t forget between rooms, which is how I got to be walking through the house one day, wondering aloud, “Where are my marbles? I can’t find my marbles!”
Some writing gets talked out first, as well… this essay for example. (So meta.) I’ve gotten to the point where I have to think this way; I don’t really know what my opinion is until I’ve heard it aloud. Often, I’m just spitballing until the truth of a matter comes out of my mouth, and it settles into my gut like warm risotto.
At age 47, I no longer care if my spouse or neighbors think I’m nuts. I’m great company. I crack myself up a lot. Not giving a fuck is delightful. Turning into that dotty lady who talks to her dog is absolutely priceless.
Welcome to Samsmom. I'm Heather and this is my journey as we navigate love, loss, rare disease, hope and resilency. Our family carries a POLG-1 genetic mutation that took my two children, Jack and Samantha and most recently, my brother Ryan. It's not an easy place to be, but here we are- with humor, love and grace, here we are. 