Smile When You Say That

I tried an experiment this past week. Not normally known for my smiling visage, I trotted out my pearly whites and flashed them around town. I was kind of surprised by the results.

At the Barnes and Noble, I approached the counter with my purchase. The clerk looked shopworn. I handed her my frequent buyer card and smiled a greeting. The transformation was amazing. I chatted a little and kept the smile thing going. She responded with a smile that lit up her features. Very cool.

The response was much the same with the turnpike toll-taker, various co-workers and a librarian. Smiles are magic and they're contagious.

I'm off to practice mine today on an unsuspecting public! Will you join me?

Love and Marriage, Ginley Style

A typical conversation between my husband and I...

Me: I'm glad I love you. I'm really glad I love you.
Him: What did I do to get from "glad" to "really glad"? I must have done something really good. Do I get a book or extra chocolate or some kind of prize?
Me: Okay, so we're back to just "glad."

Artist's Rendering

If men are from Mars and women are from Venus, my husband and I are both from some weird, as-yet undiscovered planet. We do not fit any of the models that define the sexes. I'm not a girly-girl. I played with dolls as a child, but I was never into dressing up and wearing make-up. I didn't do the dance recital circuit. But I wasn't really a tomboy, either. And I showed absolutely no aptitude for sports.

As for my husband, he's never cared much about cars or the latest electronics. He does love sports, which bonds him with others of his gender. And he is definitely the alpha male in the house. But he was the one who stayed home to take care of our son while I went to work. He does the laundry. He vacuums.

Long ago, I was told by a psychic that he and I are soul mates. That in another life, we fought in the Crusades together. I think it's amazing that, not only did our paths cross, but that we got together at all.

I sit here and struggle, trying to pinpoint what it is that keeps us together. Is it the fact that we talk all the time? Or that we laugh a lot? Or that we have shared 25 years?

Maybe the best thing to do is throw away the book and accept the fact that we belong to each other. And it's really good. And leave it at that. And be glad. Really glad.

The Pause that Depresses

The last two nights have been wonderful for sleeping. Cool, quiet, and rainless. I crawl into bed, slip into unconsciousness,  and emerge the next morning reasonably refreshed. This ended a period of hot, muggy, rainy nights when I tossed and turned -- and burned from the inside out. I'm talking about hot flashes.

If you're a guy, take a deep breath, smile, and thank the higher powers that here is one more thing on the list you won't have to deal with. That list includes, but is by no means limited to, bleeding like a stuck pig once a month for most of your adult life, wrestling your way through pregnancy and childbirth, and trying to find a bra that fits.

For those of you who have not experienced the joy of super heating from the inside out, count your blessings. The condition seems to worsen when the mercury rises outside. Which means that it occurs several times a day this time of year. I was heartened to read the other day in the paper that there is a drug you can take to reduce your hot flashes. It moonlights as an anti-depressant. The side effect is suicide. Well, I suppose that's one solution.

As an aging adult, I have also experienced depression and forgetfulness. Or maybe I just blame the fact that I can't remember anything anymore on menopause. I used to be very good at remembering people's names. Not so much anymore. Rather than risk embarrassment, I find I have to rely on the standard, "Hey, how are you doing?" as a greeting. I know these folks, I really do. My brain just doesn't identify them quickly. Three or four minutes later, from the depths of my cranium, springs forth a name to go with the face. Some days I feel like I'm using a Univac in a Microsoft world.

As for the depression, yes, it's there, like a dark cloud, menacing. I know the techniques for keeping it at bay. Breathing, meditating, exercise, listening to my favorite music. I know I'm blessed not to have debilitating depression, just the garden variety. Mostly it's manageable, especially during the day. It's the wee hours of the morning, when my brain wakes up before my body is ready, and I start to fret. About life, the universe and everything. This seems to have gotten worse since menopause kicked in. I thought once my son was older I'd have less to worry about. But, of course, the worry just shifts to bigger and not-so-better things.
I think it's the getting old part that bothers me more than the menopause. The fear of a time that is coming when I won't be able to do what I love doing because my brain has gone all soggy. But, since there's nothing I can do about it, I guess I'll just have to pull up my bootstraps and get on with it.

Now, where did I put those bootstraps?

What's Your Story?

I love reading biographies. More specifically, I enjoy reading autobiographies. Most specifically, I enjoy listing to audio autobiographies, especially when they are read by the author.

However, not all autobiographies are created equal. Some are very candid and honest, others, not so much. But all reveal more about the author than even the author realizes.

Rob Lowe, Penny Marshall and Valerie Harper spring to mind as the best autobiographies I've read recently. They put it all out there, the good, the bad and the ugly, and let you figure it out. I like that. Their stories are funny, heartbreaking, compelling, but never dull. And they are not afraid of making themselves look bad. It is just part of whom they are.

I have slogged through many autobiographies that read like a laundry list. "I was born here, I lived there, I did this, then that, then something else..." I haven't finished every one of them, but more than enough. In their quest to tell the world about their time on earth, they don't realize they aren't really telling the story of their life. There is a difference. Reading between the lines, you come to see the author is either just stumbling his/her way through life without a clue or is so concerned about revealing too much that they emerge at the end of the book as a cardboard cut-out.

Sometimes the subject of the biography is more fascinating than you would think. For example, I remember reading a book about Harpo Marx. Yes, I knew he was one of the Marx Brothers. What I didn't know was what an intellectual he was. That he was part of the Algonquin Round Table, palling around with the likes of Dorothy Parker, Edna Ferber and Alexander Woollcott. He was also a second father to Groucho's children. Oddly enough, I was less impressed with Groucho's story. He was very quick witted and incredibly entertaining but a less-than-stellar human being.

There have been many instances when I wished I hadn't read about someone I admired. Because once their true self was revealed, it tainted my appreciation of their talents. I have read enough about the Beatles, for example. I'd rather just listen to their music. For all of his shouting about peace and love, John Lennon did not bring much of either to many of the people in his life. Maybe it can all be forgiven because he was such a talented person. Maybe. There have been a lot of charismatic, intelligent, gifted people throughout history who were just lousy human beings. Is it okay that they trample over those around them if they produce something lovely in the end?

It does make me evaluate my own life. If I were to write a book right now, what would it reveal about me? If someone were to write my story, what would they say about me? How honest would either of us be?

All things considered, maybe it's just as well that I'm a nobody!