Tuesday, September 13, 2011


I think I’m coming to a realization about my life.  I’m aging backwards since my breast cancer diagnosis.  Or maybe it’s been over the course of the past twelve months?  (Personal matters still not ready to share quite so publicly…)  Or it might have begun three years ago when I started to help my sister with my now four year old niece?  Little kids tend to make adults just act silly – or in my case, I act like a downright idiot.

When this began and why it began doesn’t matter.  The only thing that does matter is that this Backward Momentum is just fine with me.  I may be mortifying my late 20-something kids and I am apologizing here and now to both of you, not that either of you is reading this, but I am sorry for being The Mom Who Refuses To Grow Up.  That is an all-encompassing apology and will cover every moronic thing I do From Now, To Infinity And Beyond.  (I have previously apologized for every mistake I believe I made from birth to date and, I paid for the Toy Story toys back in the day, therefore, I get to steal the quotes, too.)

I am beginning to understand the concept of reaching a certain age or coming to a certain point in life where, in my best Clark Gable voice, frankly, I don’t give a damn.  To be perfectly clear, my body most certainly is NOT aging backwards and my brain still functions in the proper decade (ahem, in most areas).  And, because I’ve apparently morphed into Rhett (one “T” or two, frankly, I don't give a damn so I'm not checking right now and I’m not entirely sure I even have his name right and do I really even care? NO.) Butler, I am comfortable and prepared to do what is totally unacceptable to most women.  Admit my real age.

I am 54.  Actually, I will be 55 in less than two months.  November 10, 1956.  Mark your calendars please as I would appreciate proper acknowledgement from total strangers.  Thank you in advance.  It’s “double nickels” (whatever the hell that means…. )  Fifty 5-FU’ing Five.  (I am going to get around to posting up a vocabulary list of my own dictionary, but I think the 5-FU’ing is self explanatory.)

Sounds like it should suck, the age I mean.  It doesn’t.  For the life of me, I don’t understand it.  Fifty sounded positively awful when I was in the latter part of my 40’s.  I spent at least three years dreading fifty.  What a waste of three good years.  If you are in that place with the numbers, do yourself a favor.  Kick back and stop thinking about the number.  It’s just a number.

Why does this matter?  Because I am a fan of all sorts of things that would completely mortify my kids.  And I make no apologies.  I got hooked on Entourage.  I am too 5Fu’ing OLD to watch that show.  But yet, I love it.  Correction.  Loved it.  The series finale aired the other night.  I am completely depressed.  The ending was satisfying, but the ending had everyone on planes to Paris.  A bit unnerving for me but again goes in the category of “personal matter I’m not quite ready to share.”

As long as I am mortifying my kids who have no idea I am mortifying them because they are not reading this anyway......what is up with the obsession with “Hits 1” on my satellite radio?  WTF is that all about??  I have no business fist pumping and dancing behind the wheel of my car to some guy named Pitbull (with a sidekick whose name I can pronounce but not spell despite the fact it is displayed on the radio for me to see) begging me to give him everything tonight.  However, the guy’s voice is kinda haunting and it just gets me jumping.  I had a truck driver pull up beside me at a red light the other day in an attempt to get me to open my window.  Note to truck driver:  I was on my way to get a touch up to cover my GREY HAIR.

It’s taken me all of these years to realize I can be multi faceted.  What a waste of all of the prior years when I felt I had to be “mom” or “wife” or “daughter” or “sister” or “perfect employee” or “whatthef*kever” … to the exclusion of all else.  I am ME.  I am AnneMarie.  And there are many sides of me.  And some of those sides have been squashed for far too many years.

Don’t get me wrong here.  I’m not just some completely off the rails, this woman belongs in the padded room with bon bons and magazines person.  I am involved in some very “grown up” things, too.  I spent an evening at a meeting at Sloan Kettering last week in absolute awe of the people in the room.  Cancer survivors whose stories were nothing short of inspirational and a pioneer female psychiatrist whose words were so astounding I can’t find a proper thesaurus word to capture how I felt.  (And yes, for the record, I did check, not only Word’s thesaurus but a googled thesaurus AND my dog eared, yellow pages from age desk version, too)

I was in the presence of greatness (Dr. Jimmie Holland, just in case curiosity has anyone… and for anyone who was in that twitter chat last night, her name was mentioned by a number of the docs).  It was around a small table of just a dozen people.  I was surrounded by miracles and this very brilliant doctor was seated at the table with the group.  And me.  And this is the beauty of 55.

A few years ago, I would have been intimidated.  I would have felt like I did NOT belong.  I would have felt like I had nothing to contribute to the conversation.   I’m not that person any more.  I sat confidently and damn, it felt great.  Come to think of it, there was a table discussion and it began to get a bit tense for a few moments.  It was a “majority rules” type of thing and two of the people at the table had completely oppositional views.

I made a suggestion.  ME.  And it was The Suggestion That Solved a Silly Problem.  And here I sat being acknowledged and THANKED for a good solution.  By BOTH of the people who were at the polar opposite sides of How Do We Handle This Problem?  I felt like Julia Roberts in “Pretty Woman.”  You know the scene?  She’s in the bathtub and she submerges herself in the bubbles as she shouts, “Holy Shit.”  I was that whore on that night.

We parted company and I got into my car.  Lady Gaga is blasting, I’m fist pumping and singing along to my "feel good" song (Edge of Glory) and two days later I’m sending a text message to one of my kids about the Led Zeppelin song they used to bring Entourage to a conclusion.   I’m an official moron for texting and driving but I did wait for a red light, just saying……

“fyi, entourage, best zeppelin song ever. great choice.”

Now THIS is my music.  Go back to your own damn generation and stop stealing Gaga from the young'uns......  “Goin’ to California” …..and the line that simply MUST rank in the top ten lyrical lines every written:

"Standing on a hill in a mountain of dreams telling myself it’s not as hard as it seems"

And, ya know what?  I’m on the hill and it’s not so hard after all…..


  1. Your posts are so entertaining! And I'm a sucker for a clever headline.

    For me, BC (more than age) has allowed me to grow a bigger pair. And I'm not talkin' foobs.

    Be well, stay sassy! ;-)

  2. Good point... on the size of the pair.... BC played a bigger part in this for me, too. And, fwiw, surgery #7 which was less than a year ago?? Now that I'm really thinking about it..... mine got REAL big after that!!

    Thanks, Renn.



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