On age...

I've been saying for a really long time that I'll probably live to be 140. Chalk it up to the lack of smoking, partying, having wild sex with strangers, just a little drinking, and being a relative hermit for the last three years, but I think it might actually happen. This is wishful thinking of course, but it keeps me thinking that there's plenty of time yet. No rush to actually get back to dating, get married, have kids, actually attempt some kind of career, still time to get to Paris and Buenos Aires, and to clean out my bedroom closet.

We live in a funny time (not funny ha-ha, funny strange) when it comes to age. I still get carded whenever I bother ordering anything stronger than a coffee. Some youngin's at my work orientation thought I was about twenty (yes!) even though there's increasing fine lines around my eyes that I'm growing a little paranoid about. My younger sister (by only eighteen months, but still younger) often passes for older than me. And I have always, always thought my mother looks about ten to fifteen years younger than she really is.

Someone my mom works with just turned thirty-eight. At her birthday dinner, the waitress guessed she was twenty-nine. The co-worker took it. Some time later (I'm guessing days by the story I was told), she was with her young son at Burger King where the woman (not kid) behind the counter told the little boy to have a nice day with his Grandma. She was irked and told her that the boy was actually her son.

My response to this is that we live in the age of Botox and Olay Regenerist. No one knows what 20, 40, or 80 is supposed to look like anymore. We make guesses and try to undercut what we suspect might be the actual age to make the recipient of the compliment feel good. But then there are those who look remarkably younger than their age, to the point of wonder. Is it lifestyle? Is it genes? Is it that great dermatologist you see ads in your mail for? Who knows anymore. Perhaps we should just tell each other "Hey, you look good" and leave the age thing alone. Our society dictates that our supposed youth dictates so much of our self-esteem and, in a lot of cases, our social standing. In ages past, it was the elders that were revered. What happened to that? It's nice to listen to people with wisdom talk about things they actually know about. How refreshing. Wisdom? Forget youth and beauty. That's my aim in life. (Okay, I'm really aiming for it all, but I figured I'd say that to make myself sound evolved.)

I'm only thirty now. What does 50, 70, 90 look like? It's not that far away you know. But as visually oriented as I am, I'm a bit more concerned with how I will feel. Will I be lucid at an old age, or should I be concerned about the amount of aluminum canned soda I've consumed? How about the fat "experiment"? How will that affect my health and mental state? It's nice to look good too, but there are more concerns than that.

Age - just a number? I don't think so. Apparently, it's part of a greater symbol of something else.

Want to live to be 140? Check out this site I just found. Interesting, but true?

Me - complaining again.

I've been totally slacking with this blog and my cheapskate guide. I admit it. I even added cinema therapy and blog of the week to be fill-ins for any real information. (They are actually fun little indulgences for me - I know you like them - don't judge.)

I guess I can tell you some things that are going on.

Firstly, my arm still hurts from the aforementioned injury. When I related the extent of the height of the pain to my mother (RN and fibromyalgia victim), saying it was an eight on the pain scale, she had the balls to demean my experience.

Mom: Well, an eight for you maybe.

My response: [scoff] What are you trying to say? I have no pain tolerance?

Mom: [rolls eyes and changes subject]

You know, I wait an awful long time before resorting to any form of pain killers. I don't mind minor discomforts. I don't even usually take anything for cramps. But she's my mother, so she thinks that she has a perfect right (and with the fibromyalgia, completely licensed) to belittle any injury I might have.

Am I the only one who gets this from a parent? It's not even right.

Anyway, it's raining a little today. All I can say is that crap better clear up before tonight, because I have a date with a drum and a bugle. I'm supposed to go to a drum and bugle corps show in Greendale. Of course, such events take place outside, and though I'm not opposed to getting wet once in a while (the occasional shower, running between the car and the store in a storm, you get the drill) I'm not a fan of the wet-clothing-sticking-to-the-skin thing. I get itchy.

I am literally ten cents from ordering another magazine through e-rewards. I've decided the next mag pick is Afar magazine. It has an interesting concept: experiential travel. I've noticed that so many people focus their traveling on doing the things that others are doing, activities specifically created and marketed towards the tourist, that and where to shop. At least, most travel mags do (I could just be picky about this, or maybe it's my arm annoying me).

And it seems lately that I'm helping other people with their travel plans, which would be okay if I had my own travel plans to dedicate my enthusiasm towards. But at the moment, not so. C'est la vie.

There is definitely something wrong with me.

So, I've reported on the crick in my neck that's been haunting me for over a week now. The night before last, it shifted to a point in my back/shoulder. Now, it must be pinching a nerve, because I have limited control of my arm (weird? I know, right?). It feels a little bit like my right arm (I'm a righty - this is my luck) is almost foreign to my body. I can only lift it so far, and my shoulder and arm are in pain! Ouch! (I'm trying to type this one-handed.)

It's a little funny. My mom doesn't see the humor. She wants me to see a chiropractor, but I think it's getting better. (This is what I tell myself anyway. Denial isn't always a bad thing.)

If I appear absent for the next couple days, this is why.

Pain sucks. Sam signing out.

I heart IKEA

This is the conversation from 7:30 this morning.

[Phone rings.]

Me: Hello?

Mom: Let's go to Illinois.

Me: [Sigh] IKEA?

Mom: Yeah.

Me: Can I shower first?

Mom: As long as I don't fall asleep before we go.

Me: Fine. I'm driving.

[Note: Mom is an RN that works third-shift in a telemetry/cardiac ward. Today is her one day off before the weekend - her weekend to work.]

Why IKEA?

A few months ago, we jumped on that very large IKEA band wagon. It seems that they can inspire the design imagination in us more than any other store - ever!

We've been to the one in Schaumburg, IL and Bloomington, MN. Bolingbrook is only about another 25 miles south of Schaumburg, so we figured we'd high-tail it on over. Thinking we were slick, trying to avoid the toll-roads, we took the scenic route. A couple of misdirects, some u-turns, and three hours later we arrived. I think by then IKEA lost all of its luster. Still, we made our pilgrimage. We particularly like the "little house" set-ups they have. And of course, these are different in each store; we were curious.

After eating lunch, trekking through the store, being followed by a family with a child that had one very long tantrum through the whole thing, we left.

I guess we would always wonder what this one was like if we didn't go. But, I wasn't that impressed. I don't know if it was the kid or the fact that I was a little beat after the drive or the fact that I was practically dragging around my dead-weight mom. Whatever it was, I think that while I enjoyed myself some, it wasn't the same sort of experience I've had at the others. Go figure.

Why does the drive home always seem longer than the drive there? (I say that now, but when I'm dreading going somewhere, that drive there is the longest in history. Get it over with already!)

Speaking of long drives, when I was a kid, we lived in this town in ND for a couple years - Wahpeton. Whenever we wanted to hit the mall, it was a half-hour drive to Fergus Falls (in MN). That half-hour is the longest half-hour of your life - trust me! We still joke about that. It's funny. The land is so flat and you can see the town slowly getting closer, but it's like you'll never really reach it. In the summer, though, part of the drive was cool because of the sunflower fields. All you could see for miles around was these giant sunflowers. (That's if memory serves right. I haven't been up there in eighteen years.)

I might call it a night early. Six hours of driving and I didn't really get anywhere. It's almost a cruel joke. C'est la vie.