Whoopee!

I’m on a serious binge. No, not chocolate. Chocolate is no longer at the top of my favorites list. I’m on a Netflix binge, hooked on “Grace and Frankie.” I am having so much fun! Laughter is far better for me than chocolate, anyway.

            I identify with seventy-ish Jane Fonda and Lily Tomlin. How I laugh as they bemoan the frustrations of their age, the chin hairs and flabby biceps. Even glamorous ex-Barbarella-Jane needs help getting up from a sitting position on the beach, and her hands are as wrinkled as mine. Laughing about these embarrassing signs of aging is very liberating; they become easier to accept.

Jane and Lily inspire me to be a little crazy and silly and throw off my cloak of ladylike demeanor. I want Frankie to send me some of her marihuana-enhanced, quirky, shamanic, Buddhist vibes. The humdrum of my daily life – planning what the heck to have for dinner, taking out the garbage, changing the sheets – offers few opportunities for risk-taking. I must be on the lookout – maybe strike up a conversation with the beggar woman on the street corner, read a science fiction book (not my usual fare), attend an art exhibit alone – and accept new challenges, even if they’re a little scary.

This past year I did just that: river rafting and hiking over a glacial moraine in Patagonia and riding as a passenger on a stranger’s motorcycle in rural Colombia. I foresee more adventures on an upcoming solo trip, touching down on the East coast, Midwest and West coast of the good ol’ USA. I look forward to acquainting myself with unfamiliar American landscapes.

 I’d welcome a “yes” night (Frankie says you’re not allowed to say “no” to anything suggested to you) but then I’d have to have a goofy friend to do it with. My oldest friend back home would be the perfect choice. She loves to laugh and talk to strangers. I’ll soon be spending time with her. I wonder what excitement we can stir up.

I haven’t given up chocolate. In fact, the ideal binge would be watching “Grace and Frankie” while savoring creamy, dark chocolate.

Bad idea. I just did it. Wolfed down the whole damned thing.

Hugs are on my mind. Yesterday the grand-girls came to help decorate our Christmas tree. Artificial. I succumbed several years ago as every live, potted tree I bought over the years turned sad and spindly, and I couldn't keep it in a pot forever, so I’d end up guiltily euthanizing it. Tree lots are non-existent in Chile.

Back to grandchildren and hugs. We also made Christmas cookies and then they invented making lemonade on the back patio ("they" meaning the girls, not the cookies). Results: Lots of fun and laughs and VERY sticky surfaces inside and out.  But, well…..hugs. Children are made for squeezing!  I can’t resist those plump arms and legs, though they clearly let me know when enough is enough.

I spent this morning rubbing my mother-in-law’s hand (the one not connected to intravenous tubes), interspersed with hugs and forehead stroking. She is 103 years-old and stopped eating and drinking several days ago. I've never found it easy to hug or caress an older body. With my aging mother, I made a great step forward when I rubbed her swollen legs with body lotion. Now I lament that I didn't give her more hugs.

Maybe I’m trying to redeem myself with my mother-in-law. According to her children, she was not a physically affectionate mother, but in the past year she began seeking more contact. She’d rub my hands and lift her face for a kiss. Now I sit next to her deathbed and give her what I know she wants, though she can no longer express it. It has become easier for me. I hold her thin hand in gratitude for reminding me that we all need hugs and for showing me how to leave the living world with dignity.