#URBAN DICTIONARY: #Black Don’t Crack: The skin of African Americans does not wrinkle and show age as much as individuals from other ethnic backgrounds.
Why did I choose the name “My Black is Not Cracking?” Well, for years I had heard that phrase. Well into my 30’s I would get carded and there would be a surprising response upon inspection of my driver’s license. If the guy carding me happened to be African American, I would often hear that phrase. “Black don’t crack.” I used to think it was funny. And it felt like a compliment. I mean who doesn’t want to be mistaken for someone younger?
And that is the issue that bugs me the most now. Why are we all so obsessed with being mistaken for someone younger? With Anti-Aging? Why is it not okay to be the age that you are? Why do we live in such a youth obsessed culture? I totally understand that looking good makes us feel good, but what I want to get to is “feeling good, making us look good!”
I don’t mean to be the bearer of bad news, but black most certainly does crack. It might crack slowly, but it cracks! I’m watching it crack…daily. And I feel bad about it, but should I? Yes, it is true the skin of African Americans doesn’t wrinkle as fast as it does for those of other ethnic backgrounds. But, as good as we may look on the outside, we disproportionately suffer from hypertension, diabetes and obesity.
Now not to get too deep into the science of why black skin doesn’t crack as fast, in a nutshell it’s because of the type of melanin found in our skin. We are walking around with natural sunscreen on. And the darker our skin, the more UV protection we get. Further, we have a type of collagen in our skin that also helps prevent sun damage.
I found this in an article in the paper some months back, that Skin specialist and aesthetician Bianca Estelle, also states that we typically have a higher oil content, so we have a natural skin hydration system that makes black skin look hydrated and smoother. In the same article, Dr. Almaani stated that although our skin does well with sun, it is still prone to discoloration, pigmentation issues from sun exposure and hormonal effects.
Another doctor, Boris Paskhover, again, same article, who is a facial plastic surgeon stated that black faces also maintain structural support longer. We are born with denser bones in our face that don’t break down as quickly as other ethnicities.
So, those are the reasons that our faces take longer to crack. In addition, we are less prone to osteoporosis. But what I really want to address is not just how we look, but how we feel. (Inside and out) Why was I so devastated when I looked in the mirror one day and pretty much every day since? (with my glasses on!) When did my face shape turn into a square?
Why are we obsessed with anti-aging, instead of aging well, with style, grace and dignity? Why is the anti-aging industry revenue projected to be some $400 BILLION, by 2027? Why do many seem to be more concerned with their face, than their bodies, minds and spirit?
That is what this is about. The title was just to get your attention. Intrigued? Offended? Curious? Whatever. You got here. I hope you will stick around because this is for all women AND those that love them.
A friend and I recently spent the afternoon together sitting on a restaurant patio enjoying a glass of wine. We sat and chatted for some time. About twenty minutes into our conversation, I realized something.
Almost everything we talked about happened a decade or two ago.
Remember when we took that road trip?
Remember that party?
Remember when everyone was still alive?
Remember…
We laughed at the stories we’ve probably told each other dozens of times.
A welcome relief occurred when a DJ started playing songs from our teenage years. Something happened that only music seems capable of doing.
For the next few hours, we weren’t in our sixties anymore.
We were sixteen.
It’s funny how music can do that. A song begins, and suddenly you’re transported back to another place and another version of yourself. A place before mortgages, careers, children, grandchildren, doctor appointments, dental problems and retirement planning. Before grief. Before loss. Before a mountain of responsibilities piled up one after another.
I learned this while researching another post, but music, especially, is remarkable because it activates parts of the brain tied to autobiographical memory and emotion. A three-minute song can unlock memories that have been sitting quietly for decades. It’s why people with dementia can often remember every word to songs they learned as teenagers, even when they struggle to remember what they had for breakfast.
Hell, I remembered the name of the group and every lyric from one of the songs that came out fifty years ago! Yet can’t remember what I entered a room for only moments later!
Back then, our biggest problems were figuring out what to wear to the dance, hoping someone would ask us to dance, or wondering if our parents would let us stay out another hour.
At the time, we probably thought life was complicated. And to our teenage mind, it was. Looking back, while it wasn’t perfect for either of us, but it was definitely a lot simpler.
A week or so before, I had a similar experience at home. I was cleaning and found an old CD I hadn’t played in years. I turned the volume up and dusted to the rhythm.
For the next hour, I wasn’t thinking about bills or work or the endless list of things that needed my attention yesterday. The music carried me back almost fifty years to a time when the weight I carry today simply didn’t exist.
When the last song ended, I found myself wondering something.
Was that healthy?
Was I escaping?
Was I avoiding the present? Or was I simply giving myself a brief vacation from it?
Maybe for that hour, I was simply the girl who had her whole life in front of her. There’s something incredibly comforting about that.
But here’s where I think the distinction lies.
If we visit the past like tourists, it’s healthy. If we move in and refuse to come home, it’s not.
The past can be a wonderful place to visit. It reminds us who we’ve been, what we’ve survived, and what once brought us joy. But if every conversation begins with “Remember when…” and ends with wishing we could go back, nostalgia can quietly become dissatisfaction with the present.
It wasn’t just my conversation with this particular friend. The older I get, the more I notice how often conversations with lifelong friends drift backward instead of forward. We reminisce about people we’ve loved, places we’ve been, adventures we’ve had, and versions of ourselves that only exist in memory now.
It made me wonder if that’s what happens as we age. Do we spend more time looking in the rearview mirror because there are simply more miles behind us than ahead?
Curious, I did a little research.
It turns out nostalgia has gotten a bad reputation it might not completely deserve.
Psychologists have found that HEALTHY nostalgia can actually reduce stress, ease loneliness, strengthen our sense of identity, make us feel more connected to others, and remind us that we’ve lived meaningful lives. Looking back isn’t necessarily about wishing we could return. Often, it’s about remembering who we’ve been. It reminds us that we’ve experienced joy before, which can make us believe we’ll experience it again.
That’s different from living in the past.
There’s an important distinction.
Nostalgia says, “those were wonderful days.”
Rumination says, “those were my only wonderful days.”
Those are two very different emotional experiences. One leaves you feeling grateful. While the other leaves you feeling stuck and maybe a little depressed.
Did reminiscing leave me feeling grateful…or grieving?
Did I finish the afternoon smiling, feeling connected, and remembering how rich my life has been? If so, that’s probably emotionally healthy.
If it ended with me thinking, “Nothing good happens anymore,” that’s a sign nostalgia may have crossed into longing. If I’m being honest, for a few minutes, it felt more like the latter.
I realized the music wasn’t making me wish I were twenty again. Forty maybe, but not twenty! That said, I wouldn’t mind borrowing a little of that twenty-year-old spirit.
The optimism. The curiosity. The willingness to dance without worrying who was watching.
We all need moments of relief.
Some people lose themselves in a novel. Some binge a television series. Some spend an afternoon gardening. I lost myself in an Earth, Wind & Fire CD that day.
For an hour, my nervous system got a vacation. And I’m sure there’s nothing inherently unhealthy about that.
Maybe the healthiest form of nostalgia isn’t about wanting to go back. Maybe it’s about bringing something forward.
When a song reminds you how carefree you once felt, perhaps the lesson isn’t, “I wish I were twenty again.”
Perhaps it’s asking,
“How can I bring a little of that twenty-year-old spirit into my life today?”
Because while the past may remind us who we were, the present is still where we get to decide who we’re becoming.
Third Act Truth: Visit the past with gratitude. Live the present with purpose. Walk into the future with hope.
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I read something in James Clear’s newsletter recently that has stayed with me ever since.
“The measure of a life is not what you consume, but what you contribute. Spend less time owning, consuming, taking. Spend more time giving, creating, making.”
I think it landed because I’ve already been wrestling with those very thoughts.
After months of remodeling, I inherited what used to be an artist’s studio. My goal is to turn it into my own creative sanctuary. I’ve even given it a name: Re’ of Light Studio, named after my granddaughter, Cirè, who was indeed a ray of light.
It feels fitting somehow.
As I’ve unpacked boxes shipped from California, sorted through decades-old art supplies, rediscovered forgotten treasures, and mixed them with the new supplies I’ve collected over the years, I’ve realized something a little embarrassing.
I’ve spent nearly a decade buying art supplies.
I’ve spent almost no time making art.
I don’t think that’s because I wasn’t interested. I think it’s because life got in the way.
Or maybe home did.
I’ve never been able to write at home. Home has always represented responsibility to me. Laundry. Bills. Phone calls. To-do lists. Things that need fixing. Somehow, my brain has never associated home with creativity.
Even though I’ve lived here for four years now, it still doesn’t quite feel like home.
I’m hoping this little studio changes that.
I’m hoping I walk through that door, and my mind understands we’re here to create not clean closets or answer emails. We’re here to paint. To write. To make something.
Anything.
The James Clear quote also arrived while I’ve been thinking about simplifying my life.
During the renovation, I got rid of an unbelievable amount of stuff. Boxes upon boxes. Yet somehow, it still feels cluttered.
I’ve become convinced clutter doesn’t just fill a house.
It fills your head.
Every drawer stuffed with things you “might need someday.” Every closet packed with clothes that don’t fit your body or your life anymore. Every stack of old papers you’ve been meaning to sort “one day.”
They all require energy. And these days, energy feels just as valuable as money.
I’ve also been seriously considering selling my rental properties.
Not because they’re bad investments. Because they’re expensive in a currency that matters more to me now.
Time.
Every repair call.
Every broken appliance.
Every difficult tenant.
Every unexpected problem.
They don’t just consume money.
They consume attention.
And attention is where life happens.
I’m beginning to understand that the only things of real value we have are our time and our health. Everything else is negotiable.
The older I get, the less I want to own and the more I want to experience.
I don’t need a bigger house.
Truthfully, I wouldn’t mind a smaller one.
Less overhead.
Less maintenance.
Less cleaning.
Less worrying.
More living.
Give me a beach and I’m perfectly content. The sand is free. The ocean is free. The sunset is free. Those have always been my favorite luxuries anyway.
I have clothes hanging in my closet that I absolutely loved. But I’ll never wear them again.
They belonged to a different version of me.
So why am I asking today’s version of me to keep carrying yesterday’s wardrobe?
Why do we have such a hard time letting go?
Maybe because our belongings become tiny museums of who we used to be.
The dress from that special dinner.
The shoes from the job we no longer have.
We think we’re holding on to things. Sometimes, the things are holding on to us.
Eight years ago, I stood in a theater and watched hundreds of people react to words that had once existed only in my head.
They laughed.
They nodded.
They thought.
A few probably went home and had uncomfortable conversations with their spouses. I’ll assume those conversations were overdue.
That night remains one of the most fulfilling experiences of my life.
Not because I sold tickets.
Not because I made money. I did not! But I didn’t lose any Tyler!
Because I contributed something.
I shared something I’d created.
That’s the feeling I’ve been chasing ever since.
Maybe that’s why James Clear’s words hit me so hard.
I don’t want to spend the next chapter accumulating more.
I want to spend it contributing more.
Writing more.
Painting more.
Creating more.
Giving more.
And giving doesn’t always mean writing a check.
Sometimes it means sharing your story.
Your talent.
Your encouragement.
Your time.
Your heart.
The older I get, the less interested I am in collecting possessions and the more interested I am in collecting moments where something I created made another human being laugh… or think… or simply feel a little less alone.
Maybe less really is more.
Less clutter.
Less obligation.
Less consuming.
More creating.
More sharing.
More living.
If that’s what this next chapter looks like, I think I’m finally heading in the right direction.
Third Act Truth: The second half of life isn’t about accumulating more. It’s about making more of what matters.
Question for my readers: What’s one thing you could let go of today that would make room for something you really want to create?
Smile. Hold It.
A friend recently suggested we take a selfie. Ugh. She’s got a half decade on me and somehow manages to look like my baby sister in every photo.
Anyone that knows me is aware that I’ve never been a fan of photos. Not in my twenties. Not in my forties. Not even when I maybe have believed that I looked considerably better than I do now.
I’ve never mastered the art of posing. You know the look. Chin down. Chin up. Turn slightly to the left. No, your other left. Relax your shoulders. Smile!
Hold it.
Okay, now hold it a little longer.
By the time the picture is actually taken, my smile has evolved into something that looks less like joy and more like I have a gas bubble waiting to explode.
I went for headshots decades ago and it was pure torture! In 2019 I tried again, and my photographer friend told me, “When you force a smile, you look like you’re in emotional or physical pain.”
Well, I don’t want to be here, so forced is all I got for you buddy!
At the time, I laughed. When I saw the photos I thought, “Well…you know, that’s not entirely inaccurate.”
Because here’s something no one warns you about.
At some point, the camera stops showing you the person you think you are.
Inside, I’m still making plans, laughing too loud, starting new projects, wondering what adventure comes next. I still know I could learn French, write another play, start a business, host a podcast, and maybe even learn to play tennis if someone promises to tell me where the ball is because I’m pretty sure I could no longer see it coming!
Then someone shows me the picture and I’m like, who the hell is that woman?
Why does every photograph seem determined to introduce me to an older version of myself that I haven’t actually met yet?
It’s a strange disconnect.
The body quietly changes while the spirit keeps insisting it’s thirty-five.
Some mornings I catch my reflection and think, “Who TH is this?” Other mornings I barely notice.
Aging, I’ve discovered can be difficult because your identity updates much more slowly than your face. And maybe that’s not even the hardest part. The hardest part might be that aging asks us to hold opposing emotions at exactly the same time.
To grieve the face that disappeared while being grateful we’re still here to notice.
To miss people we’ve loved while making room for new friendships.
To mourn our old bodies while celebrating everything they still carry us through.
To acknowledge loss without letting it become our entire identity.
Some days I’m deeply aware of everything that’s gone. (Top lip. Eyebrows. Leg hair!)
People.
Opportunities.
Time.
Other days I’m almost giddy about what still might happen.
Maybe my most meaningful work is still ahead of me.
Maybe I’ll meet fascinating new people. (And recently I have!)
Maybe I’ll finally become the woman I’ve been trying to grow into all along.
Those two realities don’t cancel each other out.
They coexist.
That’s the emotional complexity of aging. It’s like walking a tightrope while juggling. In one hand you’re carrying grief. In another, gratitude.
Then someone tosses you uncertainty. (Gee thanks!)
Hope.
Regret.
Excitement.
A little fear.
A little joy.
And somehow, you’re expected to keep your balance. Some days you wobble. Some days you drop everything. Some days you look ridiculous.
But somehow… you keep moving forward.
I’ve spent a lot of time thinking happiness was a destination. That one day I’d finally have everything figured out. I’d make peace with the past, feel confident in the present, and stop worrying about the future.
Apparently, that is NOT how this works.
Peace isn’t a place you arrive. It’s a practice. It’s choosing, repeatedly, to stop arguing with reality.
To stop wishing your face belonged to your thirty-year-old self.
To stop believing your best years are measured only by tighter skin or smaller jeans.
To remember that wisdom has wrinkles. (“I don’t mean me, but folks!” from the 1991 film, Doc Hollywood!)
Resilience has scars.
Laughter leaves lines.
A life well-lived leaves evidence.
So yes, I’ll probably still cringe when someone says, “Let’s take a selfie.”
I’ll probably still search for better lighting and longer arms.
I’ll probably still wonder if there’s an app that specializes in emergency jowl removal.
But maybe…I’ll spend a little less time criticizing the woman in the picture and a little more time appreciating the life she’s lived.
Because the photograph isn’t really capturing my value. It’s only capturing my age.
Those are two very different things.
And if growing older has taught me anything, it’s this:
You can carry grief for what was, gratitude for what is, and excitement for what’s still possible—all at the same time. (Although it does take practice.)
That’s not confusion and it’s not contradiction.
That’s what it means to keep living.
Third Act Truth
Growing older isn’t about choosing between grief or gratitude, the past or the future. It’s learning to carry them all at once, and still finding the courage to smile, even if it looks a little painful.
Notes from my journal:
I’ve noticed something about myself, and I’m not sure it’s a healthy habit.
I’m always looking forward to the next thing.
The next trip.
The next project.
The next chapter.
The next adventure.
And then, almost as soon as I arrive, I start looking forward, or should I say worrying about what comes after that.
I don’t spend nearly enough time enjoying the thing I’m actually in.
Every now and then I get the incredible gift of staying at a friend’s apartment in Marina del Rey while she’s traveling. She’s often gone for months at a time and offer me her place while she’s gone. Last year and the year before I went for several weeks, but now that I have a job, that’s not possible.
But back to my stays. The minute I pull into the neighborhood, (my old neighborhood) I can feel my shoulders drop. The ocean breeze. The palm trees. Morning walks along the marina. Coffee on the balcony or sitting in the sand. The slower pace. It’s one of my favorite places to be.
For the first day or two, I’m blissfully happy.
Then something strange happens.
Instead of soaking in the days I still have left, I start counting the ones I have left.
Four more mornings.
Three more sunsets.
Only two days.
By the last few days, I’m already sad because I know I’ll have to leave.
Think about how ridiculous that is.
I’m standing in a place I love, on a beautiful California afternoon, and instead of appreciating where I am, I’m grieving where I’m going. (Anywhere else!)
I’ve stolen today’s joy by borrowing tomorrow’s sadness.
I’ve done this more times than I care to admit.
The truth is, looking forward isn’t a bad thing. Hope is important. Goals matter. Dreams give us direction. At this stage of life, I think it’s essential to have something on the calendar that excites you.
But somewhere along the way, I confused preparing for the future with living in it.
The future deserves some planning. It doesn’t deserve all of my attention.
This summer has reminded me of that in ways I wish it hadn’t. I’ve watched several people, still in the prime of their lives, die suddenly and unexpectedly. They had plans. Vacations booked. Birthdays coming. Retirement dreams. Things they were looking forward to.
Tomorrow simply never arrived.
Every one of those losses has reminded me that waking up this morning was never guaranteed.
Today is.
Right now, is.
As I write this, it is a beautiful day. Sunny. Warm, but not hot. No humidity. Not a cloud in the sky. The kind of weather that makes you want to stay outside just a little longer. (If only I didn’t have to be at my desk in two hours trying to decipher someone’s attempt at bookkeeping!)
Living on the East Coast, I know days like this don’t come around nearly as often. But, as usual, I am thinking about later, instead of right now. Right now, I’m sitting outside a coffee shop, and the weather is perfect, and I have a whole hour and a half to enjoy this. Instead, I’m thinking about 11am, when it ends!
Why am I borrowing disappointment from the future when joy is sitting right in front of me right now?
Maybe that’s the lesson I’m still trying to learn in my Third Act.
We spend so much of our lives chasing the next milestone that we forget today’s ordinary moments are the ones we’ll eventually miss.
The future is a possibility.
Today is a gift.
I’m still going to make plans. I’m still going to dream about what’s next. That’s part of who I am. But I’m also trying to remember to look inward as often as I look forward.
To notice the sunshine.
To appreciate the conversation I’m having instead of worrying about the goodbye.
To enjoy the place I’m standing before thinking about the place I’m leaving.
Because this moment—this ordinary, beautiful, imperfect moment is the only one I actually own.
Third Act Truth
The future is something to hope for, but today is something to live. Don’t miss the life you’re waiting to enjoy.
My daughter looked at me recently with tears in her eyes and asked a question that I suspect millions of people have asked themselves.
“How did I get here?”
She wasn’t asking for directions. We have our phones for that, because God forbid we have to read a damn map!
She was reflecting on the last six years of her life.
Six years ago, things were good. She had her successful career as a stylist, raising her children in a nice home in a nice neighborhood, making plans for the future. Then life did what life sometimes does. Life started Life’n! It kicked the shit out of her. It kicked us all, but it kicked her the hardest!
She was diagnosed with a serious illness and just under two years later, she lost her daughter in a tragic car accident.
Recently, her son lost his father, and she lost her friend and her former long-term partner to sudden death. Followed by yet another loss only eight weeks later.
Last winter she suffered a relapse that has affected the career she has had for damn near 30 years and worked so hard to build.
One loss would have been enough to bring most people to their knees. She’s had to absorb them one after another while somehow still getting up every morning. And most days managing to smile which never ceases to amaze me. She amazes me.
When she asked, “How did I get here?” there wasn’t an answer I could give that would make any of it make sense.
The truth is, I’ve asked myself that same question more times than I care to admit. I still do.
I wake up, head off to work, and think, How the hell did I end up here?
Years ago, I invested a small amount in a single stock that, had I been able to leave it alone, would be worth well over $1.5 million today. But life happened. I was supporting my family, paying tuition, and sometimes survival requires you to cash in tomorrow so you can make it through today.
Between that investment, rental income, and Social Security, retirement could have looked very different. There would be no clock punching. There would be plenty of beach sitting.
I’ve started businesses that probably would have succeeded had I picked better partners, trusted my instincts, or ignored the people who told me I was crazy. Not that I’m comparing myself to my birthday partner, but guessing Steve Jobs was also called crazy along with every other visionary! It’s like showing up early to the party. No one else is there!
I’ve made mistakes and missed opportunities. I’ve taken detours I never planned to take. Life has certainly handed me more than my share of challenges. I was parentless as a teen. Watched my mother die for many years. Became a caretaker when I needed care myself.
But as difficult as they’ve been, they don’t compare to watching your child carry a burden you wish you could lift from her shoulders.
That’s one of the cruelest parts of being a parent. Your children never stop being your children. Whether they’re hurting at five or forty-five, you hurt. Maybe even more. Because you can’t fix it. There is no bandaid for this boo boo.
As we talked, I realized something.
“How did I get here?” is a question that almost always points backward.
And while it’s a perfectly human question, it rarely gives us a useful answer.
There is no explanation that makes tragedy fair. Sometimes there isn’t a damn lesson. Sometimes life simply unfolds in ways we never could have imagined. Sometimes life just be life’n the hell out of us.
The better question is this:
“How do I get somewhere better from here?”
That question has movement. It has possibility. It has hope.
We cannot rewrite yesterday.
We can’t undo the diagnosis.
We can’t bring back the people we’ve lost.
We can’t recover every missed opportunity or every dollar that slipped through our fingers.
But we can decide what tomorrow might look like.
We can take one small step.
Followed by another.
And then another.
The last six years have contained some of the darkest days our family has ever experienced. There have been moments when hope felt ridiculously hard to find.
But I still believe this:
Our story isn’t over.
As long as there’s still breath in us, there is another chapter waiting to be written.
So, if you find yourself asking, How the f*%k did I get here?…give yourself grace. Many of us have been there. Some of us are there now.
Just don’t stay there.
When you’re ready, ask a different question.
Not “How did I get here?”
But “How the hell do I get out of here?”
Because that’s the question that just might change your life.
Third Act Truth: We can’t go back. We can only get better at going forward.
People ask me how I’m doing, and lately my answer seems to be one of two things:
“I’m tired.”
Or…
“I’m exhausted.”
I actually hear myself saying it to myself and to others who did not even ask!
I say those words way too often.
Here’s the strange part.
I used to never get tired.
I recently unpacked a calendar from 2017. It had been sitting in a box for nine years and opening it was like discovering evidence from another lifetime.
Every page was crammed with work.
There was usually one day off each week—Saturday. That was it.
And if that wasn’t ridiculous enough, every single Wednesday I flew across the country.
One week I’d work Wednesday during the day, head straight to the airport, catch the red-eye, sit next to the wrong person, land on the East Coast, take a two-hour nap, and go directly to work.
I’d work Wednesday through Friday, have Saturday off, work Sunday through Tuesday, then Wednesday morning I’d fly back across the country, land, and drive straight to work.
One Wednesday lasted twenty-two hours.
The other lasted nearly thirty.
Who needs daylight savings time when your Wednesdays are bending the laws of physics?
And yet…
I still cooked.
I kept the house clean.
Went to the gym.
Did the laundry.
Managed four rental properties.
Met friends.
Spent time at the beach.
Actually, had hobbies.
I even had fun.
I did that for three years.
Want to know something else?
I was 58.
Not 28.
Fifty-eight.
After that, my travel stopped, but the workload didn’t.
For the next four years I worked an average of sixty hours a week.
Some weeks seventy.
A few luxurious weeks… fifty.
Never forty.
And somehow…
I still wasn’t tired.
So, what changed?
Because today I can work half as much and somehow feel twice as exhausted.
I don’t think it’s age.
I think it’s stress.
I think it’s worry.
I think it’s trying to juggle six balls instead of two.
Back then, my life was insanely busy, but it was predictable.
I took the same flights.
Stayed in the same places.
Worked the same schedule.
It became a rhythm.
Today my calendar looks like someone spilled Scrabble tiles on it.
Bookkeeper.
Foundation.
Part-time job.
Property management.
Family.
Doctor appointments.
Bills.
Phone calls.
Emails.
Creative projects.
Writing.
Life maintenance.
Did I pay that bill?
Did I answer that email?
Did I forget that deadline?
Did I leave the clothes in the washer…again? Damn! They’re dry. Damn, no I have to fold them and put them away!
The mental tabs never close.
At night, instead of sleeping, my brain decides it’s the perfect time to hold a staff meeting.
It reviews tomorrow’s to-do list…
Then next week’s agenda…
Then invents three new things to worry about.
Some nights I wake up with my heart pounding so hard I can’t decide whether I’m having a heart attack, or my anxiety is simply trying out for Broadway.
Every Sunday I faithfully write my to-do list for the coming week.
Every Sunday I create a schedule that would require three versions of me and a personal assistant.
Then, at the end of the day, I move unfinished tasks to tomorrow.
Then the next day.
Then next week.
And somehow, I treat this as a personal failure instead of simple math.
I’m beginning to realize something.
Maybe I’m not physically exhausted.
Maybe I’m emotionally overbooked.
Maybe the weight isn’t the work.
Maybe it’s carrying every responsibility around in my head all day long.
Maybe the hardest thing I lift isn’t a box.
It’s expectation.
My own.
I also realized something else.
Somewhere along the way, I stopped making room for joy.
I remember reading a novel for hours without feeling guilty.
Getting completely lost in a painting—even if it turned out looking like a crime scene.
When I lived in downtown Los Angeles, I’d spend Saturday mornings wandering through the Flower District buying fresh flowers.
I’d come home and make three arrangements.
One for the dining room.
One for the bedroom.
One for the living room.
I’d listen to music and crack open a nice bottle of cabernet.
I lived alone. I rarely had guests. Not like anyone else was going to see them. I did it simply because it made me happy. (Although I think I was too stupid to know I was!)
I remember spending entire afternoons in the library.
Leaving with more books than I could possibly read, and usually more than I could comfortably carry.
I’d have to buy one of those oversized library bags because curiosity apparently weighs about thirty pounds.
The art museum was a few blocks away where I would often go and stare at the Picasso’s.
Those weren’t wasted hours.
They were the hours that fed me.
Now, too many of my days are filled with chores instead of curiosity.
Responsibilities instead of rituals.
Tasks instead of tiny pleasures.
I feel like a rat running through a maze I designed myself.
Always moving. (I have one speed! Fast!)
Rarely arriving.
And I’m tired.
Not because I’m getting older.
Because somewhere along the way, I forgot that life isn’t just about checking things off a list.
It’s also about putting a few things on the list that make you want to get out of bed in the first place.
Maybe soon I’ll create time to buy the flowers.
Maybe I’ll check out too many library books.
Maybe I’ll read one in the middle of the afternoon on a Saturday without apologizing to my to-do list.
Because if I learned anything from that old calendar, it’s this:
It wasn’t the hours that were wearing me out.
It was forgetting to leave any of them for me.
“I’m Not Tired Because I’m Older.
Age Appropriate According to Who?
Today I changed my top four times.
Two years ago, I ruptured the bursa sac in my elbow. I tripped over some production equipment that fell in my path. If you’ve never done that, I don’t recommend it. It leaked fluid into my arm until my elbow looked like I was smuggling a golf ball under my skin. Four drainings, and one more ultrasound procedure just last week…..
And the doctor’s instructions?
“Compress it for eight weeks.”
Translation…Congratulations! You can no longer put your hair in a ponytail, and your right arm pit might not smell as good as the left now that you can’t apply deodorant.
Now, this wouldn’t be quite as inconvenient if I weren’t left-handed!
Try drawing on your eyebrows or putting on eyeliner when the arm you’re supposed to use is compressed so tight it bends about as well as a two-by-four. Even more exciting is waking up with your left hand looking like a baseball glove because the compression sleeve decided circulation was optional.
At this point I’ve accepted that I may just have an ugly left elbow. Surgery is probably the only permanent fix, and I highly doubt I’m doing that.
Oddly enough, though, the elbow wasn’t what made me change my shirt.
It was my arms.
For the past year I haven’t done any upper-body workouts because I didn’t want one arm looking like Popeye while the other looked like Olive Oyl.
The result?
Both of them deflated.
I used to love my arms. They had just enough muscle, and my armpits didn’t resemble…well…that other body part women would rather not discuss.
Now I put on a sleeveless top, looked in the mirror, and immediately started digging through the closet for sleeves. No matter how hot it is!
The funny thing is, just a few days ago I caught myself judging someone else’s outfit.
Someone my age posted a picture wearing something I personally never would have worn. Okay. Lies! It was something very similar to what I wore to a record release party THIRTY YEARS AGO! My first thought was, That’s a young woman’s outfit. My second thought, That’s a thin woman’s outfit.
Then I stopped.
Who appointed me to the Fashion Police?
The truth is, we all have our own list of things we think are “age (or size) appropriate.”
I wear ripped jeans. Some people probably think a woman in her 60’s should leave those to the twenty and thirty-somethings.
Too bad.
They’re comfortable, they’re soft, and somewhere inside me lives a hippie beach bum who refuses to accept she resides in the suburbs!
I also used to love my legs.
Then they turned into a road map of blue veins.
I tell myself that’s why I don’t wear shorts.
Well…that and the fact that years ago I was walking on the beach when a dog launched itself at my thigh and bit right through my jeans. Had I still been wearing shorts I had on earlier, it would’ve been much worse. Ever since then, exposing my legs has come with a tiny bit of anxiety.
But if I’m honest…
The veins probably bother me more than the dog.
Fast forward a few years to today and changing tops four times.
Not because I couldn’t decide what to wear.
Because I couldn’t decide if I was brave enough to wear sleeveless.
Then of course, I spiraled, and I stood there wondering what society thinks women my age should be wearing.
Meanwhile, on some resort, Pop Pop is parading around the pool looking like a topless pregnant woman in Speedos with his nuts dragging on the concrete!
Where’s the line between dressing for your age…and dressing for your confidence? Pop Pop at the pool seems to have more than enough to go around.
But thinking about pops brings to mind this little tidbit of information…. The tighter the spandex, the more transparent it is! I have seen plenty of asses in front of me on escalators at LAX that probably thought they were covered. I’ve seen less cracks in sidewalks and old buildings!
Everything isn’t flattering on everybody. That’s true whether you’re 25 or 65. Body type matters. Personal style matters. Comfort matters.
But confidence matters too.
Maybe “age appropriate” isn’t really about age at all.
The older I get, the more I realize “dress your age” is one of those invisible rules nobody voted on, yet millions of women seem to accept and follow.
Here’s my new rule:
Dress for your life.
Dress for your body TODAY.
Dress for your confidence—or dress despite your lack of it.
Wear the shorts.
Wear the sleeveless top.
Wear the ripped jeans.
Wear the hot pink dress.
Or don’t.
Maybe it’s about wearing what makes you feel like yourself. Sleeveless today didn’t make me feel like myself. Well, it made me feel like screw the elbow and start lifting weights again!
Definitely wear what makes you feel like yourself.
Just make sure the decision belongs to you and not some imaginary committee handing out citations for showing your knees after 60.
I’m going to go back to working out my arms and will likely sport a compression sleeve for the rest of my life on the left arm, but above it, trust and believe, the muscles will return. Not doing the old lady arms over here!
After all…
It’s hot as hell.
I don’t know about you, but I’m done dressing to make other people comfortable. That said, I highly recommend mirrors and honest friends!
I’ve been thinking. Could finding joy and love be the real key to longevity?
When I say love, I don’t necessarily mean finding the love of your life. You can love anything. A career. A hobby. A cause. Your grandchildren. Painting. Gardening. Music. Writing. (Reading Kay’s posts!) Dancing. Volunteering. Learning. Whatever makes you lose track of time.
I recently watched a documentary called “If You’re Not in the Obit, Eat Breakfast.” The title alone made me laugh. It featured Carl Reiner, Tony Bennett, Mel Brooks, Dick Van Dyke, Norman Lear, Betty White, and a remarkable group of people who were in their nineties and still living full, vibrant lives.
Not just existing.
Living.
I remember watching Tony Bennett perform with Lady Gaga at the Academy Awards years ago. Blew me away. He was old! But NOT old at the same time.
As I watched the documentary, I noticed something all these people had in common.
None of them seemed to retire from life.
They kept creating.
They kept laughing.
They kept working.
They kept making plans.
They kept surrounding themselves with people they loved.
Carl Reiner wrote six books after turning ninety. Think about that. Most of us are wondering if we’re too old to start something new in our sixties, while Carl was beginning entirely new creative projects in his nineties.
Why?
Because he loved what he did.
The documentary wasn’t really about living to ninety or one hundred. It was about having something that made you want to wake up in the morning. It was about staying engaged with life.
One of the themes that kept coming up was the importance of human connection. These lifelong friendships weren’t casual acquaintances. They laughed together. They supported one another. They had decades of shared memories. They genuinely enjoyed being together.
Joy seems to grow when it’s shared.
Then there was Ida Keeling. Her story stopped me in my tracks.
She had endured unimaginable heartbreak. I could totally relate to that! She lost her husband to a heart attack, and then, within two years, she lost both of her sons to gun violence. She fell into a deep depression.
Her daughter encouraged her to start running. She was sixty-seven years old at the time!
Most people would have said she had missed her chance. Instead, she ran her first 5K.
In fact, she kept running for decades and lived to be 106 years old, while holding world records.
Her story wasn’t just about exercise.
It was about rediscovering purpose and joy. Rediscovering a reason to keep moving forward.
One quote from the documentary has stayed with me:
“You can stack the deck to a better life at any age.”
I love that because it doesn’t promise perfection. It promises possibility.
Carl Reiner also said something that struck me:
“We told the truth about ourselves, and everybody is similar. If you write about who you are, you’re not that different than anybody else.”
What a beautiful way to describe connection and a rule that I try to follow with my writing.
Our stories may be different, but our humanity is the same.
Dick Van Dyke offered another simple philosophy:
Never act your age.
I laughed when I heard that because in 2022, I wrote a monologue for my Hormones & Happy Hour show called “Never Act Your Age.”
Maybe that’s really another way of saying…
Never stop being curious. Never stop playing. Never stop finding reasons to smile.
Norman Lear spoke about living in the present, describing it as lying in a hammock suspended between “over” and “next.”
What an image.
Not living in the past.
Not worrying about what’s coming next.
Simply appreciating this moment. This really spoke to me because it is something I struggle with. My mind is always on the next thing. I’m already on what I have to do tomorrow. My never-ending to-do list. Something I should have done last week, or ten years ago!
One of my favorite lines from the documentary was:
“Just being alive is a glory.”
That isn’t the outlook of someone merely trying to add years to their life. It’s the outlook of someone determined to add life to their years.
Watching all of these extraordinary people made me wonder if we’ve made longevity much more complicated than it needs to be.
Yes, nutrition, exercise, and sleep matter.
But maybe they all work a little better when we have something we’re excited to wake up for.
Something we love.
Someone we love.
Something that gives us purpose.
Something that makes us laugh.
Maybe joy isn’t just a nice feeling. Maybe it’s medicine.
Some days, finding joy is easy. Other days, it’s work.
Grief, disappointment, loneliness, and loss can hide it so well that you wonder if it’s disappeared forever.
Keep looking.
It may be hiding in plain sight.
Just try to love every day.
Someone.
Something.
A project.
A dream.
A friend.
A grandchild.
A sunrise.
A song.
A really good cup of coffee, a delicious meal or a great glass of wine.
Whatever reminds you that you’re still alive!
Maybe that’s the real key to longevity.
I find myself constantly thinking and writing about loss these days. I guess it comes with the over 60 territory.
I’ve mentioned a few times now that I’ve been exploring and writing a book about loss. And of course, there are different kinds of loss. (And grief.)
The kind of loss we talk about most is death.
But there is another kind of grief we don’t acknowledge nearly enough.
One is the grief of outgrowing people. (I touched on this in my post about shedding.)
Not because anyone did anything terrible. Not because of some dramatic falling out. Sometimes it’s simply because the person you used to be quietly disappeared… and the people who loved that version of you never really connected with the new one.
Sometimes the old you dies long before your body does. And not everyone attends that funeral.
I used to have people at my house all the time. Barbecues. Dinner parties. Holiday get-togethers. Last-minute “stop by for a glass of wine or a margarite” evenings that somehow turned into midnight conversations. (We killed many a blender!)
One of my favorite memories was what eventually became known as The Hat Box Crew.
I had flown home from Los Angeles because I desperately needed a dose of my girls. Out west, my crew was a group of guys. Fraternity brothers I met over the years while visiting before I made the move. I became one of them and had a blast. Men are hilarious! (As long as you’re not dating them! I learned so much about men hanging with the fellas.)
So, I planned a trip home, and I invited my crew over for brunch.
Brunch became dinner.
That’s usually what happens when you mix women, wine, and absolutely no reason to be anywhere else.
As the wine disappeared, so did our filters. The stories became funnier, more outrageous, and considerably less appropriate. At one point, one friend confessed that she kept all of her secrets—and a few other mysterious items—in a hat box.
Naturally, we laughed until we cried.
The next time I came home, we all gathered around another friend’s dining room table decorating our own hat boxes. They became our private vaults. A place to store letters, memories, dreams, disappointments… and maybe a few things that would require an attorney if discovered.
It wasn’t just about the boxes.
It was about having women who knew your stories before you had to explain them.
Women who finished your sentences.
Women who could make you laugh so hard your stomach hurt.
Inspired by all of this, I suggested we write a screenplay together.
Everyone loved the idea.
We met once or twice. Talked about characters. Shared more stories.
Then life happened. The meetings stopped. The script never did. Eventually I wrote the outline myself and finished a draft, creating fictional characters inspired by each of those amazing women.
Then I saved the file…..into the Hat Box folder on my laptop. Where, ironically, it still sits.
I thought about all of this over the weekend and it occurred to me that if I hosted another Hat Box Party today…
I’m honestly not sure anyone would come.
One friend died.
One relationship quietly faded after I lost my granddaughter. During the hardest season of my life, I noticed who wasn’t there. Once you notice an absence that profound, it’s difficult to unsee it.
Another friend simply drifted away. To be honest, I’m still not entirely sure why.
The others didn’t disappear because they stopped caring. Life claimed them.
One spends nearly every week traveling back to Chicago to care for her aging father and lost her own son.
Another is caring for her elderly mother and won’t even take her birthday off because caregiving doesn’t recognize birthdays. As someone who cared for my own mother, I completely understand.
You don’t stop loving your friends. (Well, some you might!) You just run out of hours.
I’ve made new friends over the years, but one is juggling work while caring for two aging parents. It became impossible to make and stick to a plan without an emergency derailing the plans.
Another is helping an aging mother, a brother in a nursing home, and a sister dealing with health problems. Every time we try to make plans, one of us experiences another loss, another obligation, another emergency.
Welcome to your sixties.
Where everyone’s calendar comes with a side of grief.
Outside of that original crew, I’ve watched other friendships quietly expire too.
Some naturally. Some intentionally. Some because we changed. Some because they changed.
Some because growth isn’t always mutual. Sometimes the new version of you simply doesn’t fit inside old relationships anymore.
That’s a strange kind of heartbreak. No arguments. No betrayal.
Just… silence.
I miss having a crew.
I miss laughing until someone snorted.
I miss having people who knew me before I had gray hair, glasses planted all over the house, and a collection of flat shoes and Nikes.
These days, I’m alone a lot.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I actually like being alone. (SOMETIME!)
I treasure quiet mornings, uninterrupted writing time, and the freedom to be silent.
But there is a difference between enjoying solitude…and living in isolation.
Lately, I’ve realized I’ve crossed that line more often than I’d like.
Most of my closest friends now live thousands of miles away. Ironically, one of the people I talk to most is a guy.
I do have a cousin in New York, and every month or two I go visit her. She has this incredible circle of women.
They’re funny. Diverse. Interesting. Supportive. (Mostly!)
The kind of group that reminds you what community feels like.
Every time I’m with them, I feel alive again. Every single visit, I find myself wishing I didn’t have to come home. Because when I’m with them, I remember what it feels like to belong to a circle.
Maybe that’s what this season of life is teaching me.
Not every friendship is meant to last forever.
Some people are there for a chapter.
Some are there for a sentence.
Some are around for the entire story.
And some leave behind a hat box full of memories that still make you smile years later.
Maybe the answer isn’t trying to recreate the crew I had. Maybe it’s having the courage to build a new one.
Because somewhere out there are other women sitting at home on a Saturday night wondering what happened to their crew.
Maybe they’re missing laughter and like me, they’re missing connection.
Maybe they’re waiting for someone else to send the invitation.
At a certain age, every email, text message, and phone call becomes, “Congratulations! You’re due for another medical screening.”
My inbox and voicemail have become a damn digital stalking operation.
“Time to get those boobs smashed like pancakes.” a/k/a mammogram.
“You’re due for anal probing.” a/k/a colon screening.
“Bone density scan reminder.” (Have you been using your rebounder?)
“Eye exam.” (Because you need to see how you really look.)
“Hearing test.” (Because the commercials might need to be even louder!)
“Dental cleaning.” (Get ready to take out a 2nd mortgage!)
“Vaccinations due.” (Because you don’t want those shingles coming your way!)
The list is so long it resembles a CVS receipt with the coupon that expires before you get to the car.
Apparently once you hit a certain age, your body enters a loyalty rewards program where every month earns you another opportunity to get poked, prodded, scanned, smooshed, smashed, swabbed, inspected, or have cameras inserted into every orifice except the fun ones.
And the advice? OMG, the advice.
Fast.
No, don’t fast.
Take supplements.
No, supplements are expensive urine.
Walk every day.
No. Lift heavy.
Go vegan.
Eat more protein.
Actually, eat a side of grass fed beef drenched in grass fed butter.
Juice.
No! Don’t juice. Eat whole fruits and vegetables.
Drink red wine for heart health.
Drink in moderation.
Don’t drink at all.
AS IF.
Then just when you’ve barely wrapped your head around your body becoming a high-maintenance appliance, Social Security starts sending smoke signals.
Take it early.
Wait to take it.
Medicare options arrive looking like a 700-page encyclopedia written by people who hate happiness.
By this point, the internet has become less of a source of information and more of a giant room full of strangers yelling contradictory instructions at you.
“Coffee will save your life!”
“Coffee is killing you!”
“Eggs are healthy!”
“Eggs are tiny cholesterol bombs!”
“Sleep more!”
“Wake up at 5 a.m.!”
Meanwhile, I’m standing in my kitchen holding a protein shake, a vitamin, a glass of wine, wondering if I should eat kale or just lie down.
Who knew getting older would be so stressful and confusing?
Nobody warned us that one of the biggest side effects of aging would be trying to figure out the instructions.