That 50th Birthday - A View From The Other Side Of It

Here comes a long post, but this topic, I've discovered (now that I'm past my 50th birthday) is a complicated one.

My mother was 52 when my father died. I was 21. I thought, at the time, "Gee, she's sort of on the young side (SORT OF) to be a widow, but then again it's a sort of (SORT OF) reasonable-ish age to be a widow too." (!!!) Now, I'm in that area myself; feel as the same as I did when I was 25 (and sometimes even 14, sometimes even 6); and I now think how horribly young she was to be a widow.

I was fortunate enough to have no signs of any changes in my complexion all through my forties (and I've noticed some other people that haven't either). Right after my 50th birthday, though, it was as if the fine lines under my eyes came in overnight. My hair is still it's natural brown, but I now have some gray streaks that I've been trying to pass off as bad blond highlights. I almost think it has been more of an adjustment for me to see those visible signs of aging show up, because for so long I actually kind of believed (kind of) that they never would.

I'm kind of in an identity crisis because I'm not quite sure how old I really look right now. I see the fine lines, but since I do now need reading glasses, I don't see them without glasses on. (People say God makes us lose our 20/20 vision so our partners will look better to us in old age. Maybe the real reason is so we won't freak out when we look in the mirror.)

If I put the reading glasses on the fine lines are magnified - which is particularly horrifying. Sometimes I do a quick over-the-glasses/under-the-glasses thing to see if I can figure out how bad the fine lines really are; but then I realize it doesn't matter. Someone who is 20 and has 20/20 vision will see them as bad. Someone else who is older won't see them without glasses, but will see them worse if they're wearing glasses. I've figured out, I look different to everyone - but the real problem is the fact that, in reality and regardless of how bad the fine lines really are, they're there; and I'm not too thrilled about that. :)

To my surprise, though, I've discovered that necks, arms, hands, etc. don't look any older than they ever have. I guess tissue paper neck and "old" arms and hands must be more for the 80-year-old set (or the 60-year-old set, in which case my remaining "good years" in that department are numbered - but our days are always numbered; so there's never an easy figuring out of all these aging issues).

I'm fortunate enough to feel as energetic ever and (knock on the wood computer desk) remain healthy and arthritis free. I just ordered a whole workout program because the Massachusetts Winter didn't let me get out and walk the many, many, miles I had been walking until last December. A few extra pounds did creep on; and, I think, faster than they would have 20 years ago.

I'm kind of horrified at the number, "50". Then again, it doesn't feel bad to be this age. I'm pretty much horrified, horrified, horrified to see that the fines lines are just staying there (rather than magically disappearing as if they were just a bad dream).

What may bother me most about my age is having all the people who haven't gotten to be this age yet think I'm old. I don't really care if they think people over 50 are old. I just don't want to be treated as if I'm 110, when I am, after all, ONLY 50-ish.

My sister (in my age range) and others my age seem to notice the same thing, though; and that is that even if we feel great and are fortunate enough to be healthy, there's a new feeling that "it's all just a matter of time" - and good health seems more like good fortune now than something to take for granted.

Part of my loves my age because I know so much more now than I did when I was younger. Part of me has noticed, though, that all my relatives in the generation before me have gone now. There's something a little sadder about living without all those people who once pretty much made up one's world. Then again, I've discovered - to my surprise - that I remain incredibly happy with, and still enjoy, my kids, even though my youngest is old enough to be in college.

I still would like to change the world. I'd still like to do any number of things. It doesn't feel as if I don't "have the rest of my life ahead of me". Then again, sometimes I realize that so much of my life is behind me.

It took a lot of thinking before I showed my age online. It wasn't so much that wanted to make people think I'm younger. It was more that I don't want people thinking I'm older than I am (inside). Then again, it occurred to me that if I write AND show my age there may be times when "the world" will see that 50-plus isn't as old as lot of people think it is. (Of course, my "old, fuddy-duddy" side comes out often enough too; but sometimes I'd rather be that than be the way some of today's teenagers are.)

If we really think about, age can both be "no big deal" and be "a very big deal" - and since it is sometimes both at the same time, it isn't anything we can always get our minds around. I've figured out that not thinking about works best.

Sometimes I'm proud to be as old as I am and still look and feel as ok as I do. Sometimes, though, I am depressed to realize that the signs of face aging have set in I imagine how maybe I'll never leave the house again. (Isn't that horrible? :) ) I've discovered that the insecurities I had as an awkward teenager have come back (not all the time but sometimes, at least when it comes to the fact that I don't look the way I wish I did).

My mother was in her 70's when she said how she didn't realize how young 40's are until she was well passed her 40's. She said how she had wished she had realized, in her 40's, how young she really was. I've done the opposite. I've continued to feel like I am 20 years old. The trouble is when you feel 20 but see 50 in the mirror (or, I like to think, 45 in the mirror) you both worry that others may think you don't realize how old you are; but also feel the need to get reality into your own head as well.

As with most matters of age, there are the two different ways of thinking going on at the same time: 1. I'm glad I still feel 20. 2. "Hey, self, you're not 20. Stop thinking you ought to look it."

When sports reporters interview professional athletes after a game one of the most frequent replies they get to their questions is, "Is it what it is." I would love to know exactly how many times the words, "It is what it is," have been uttered by athletes (for some reason, football players in particular - maybe because football is such a rough game).

When I was in my forties I guess I worried about what was to come once inevitable signs of aging showed up on my face. The forties were, for me, a time of realizing there was "no going back to young, and only getting closer to older if we're lucky." The forties were knowing that the next decade was fifties, which, without a doubt, cannot be glossed over as being the least bit young.

It wasn't until my fiftieth birthday passed (and those lines showed up three days later, it seems) that I found myself faced with having to deal not with what was coming, but what has arrived. After a blend of both supreme "ok-ness" with my age and also needing to adjust to the whole idea of it, I came around (as those my age usually do) to realize that it is what it is.

After spending my forties getting my mind around the idea that I was now "middle-aged" and had, without a doubt, left being a young person behind; and after a decade of not seeing any signs of aging and believing that maybe, for some reason, I'd get to look 35 forever, I was faced with the fine lines and the reality that aging is a game even the best of us cannot win. Then again, as each horrifying birthday comes around (and they're all horrifying once you pass fifty), and you're still in the game, that is, by itself, winning.

The thing about 50, for me, has been that thing where you think and feel two things at the same time so much more once you get to that age. I love my age, and I hate my age. It is what it is.

ELECTION DAY REMINDER

If you believe your candidate is winning don't take that for granted.

If you believe your candidate is not winning don't
create a self-fulfilling prophecy by not voting.

VOTE

Also, don't forget that the presidential election is not the only thing on which your vote is needed.

The Uglier Legacy of the Boomer Generation

There has always been something that has made me look at my own generation with some contempt or shame or whatever word should be used to describe, essentially, a bad taste in the mouth.

While it is never really appropriate to generalize, my generation is made of up of a population for whom going to college was almost taken for granted. People of the Boomer generation were children in the 1950's and early 1960's, and born to World War II generation parents for whom buying a nice, little, American-dream, home with a nice yard for young children to play in was what "everybody" did. Nobody was untouched by World War II, so our parents' generation had a particular appreciation for the "luxury" of just living a nice, little, life in a nice, little, neighborhood (often with the help of the GI Bill). Our former-soldier fathers, and our mothers, who may have worked in factories during the war or lost brothers or husbands in the war, started families in a 1950's America that focused on children and families.

Things in the 50's and 60's were perfect, by any means; but the idea that there was such a thing an "ideal" family was not seen as unrealistic. Some of our fathers went to war instead of college. Many of mothers didn't go to college at all. They had come along in a generation when only some people "had the luxury" of going to college; and if a kid didn't have a specific plan for a specific career he was often encouraged to go to work, instead of school.

Our parents' generation, however, seemed to decide that their children would have green yards for playing, pretty dresses to wear to Sunday school, and college in their future. Like all parents, our parents wanted better for us than they, themselves, often had.

And so, perhaps for the first time in history, childhood became childhood - a time for just "being a kid" and playing and going to school, expected to get good grades, behave in school, and do all homework. While there always have been, and probably always will be, families for whom The American Dream was not/is not a reality, an awful lot of people of our generation grew up surrounded by that American dream. Many of us took for granted the idea that we would go to college. Many even took for granted the idea that we would go to college first and figure out what we wanted to be later.

And so, by the mid-60's and early 70's the college-student population was made up of Boomers, who, after carefree childhoods created by parents who worked hard to send their kids to college, often realized they were the first generation in their family to go to college; started to think they were more intelligent and sophisticated than their parents. Parents were seen as people who sold out for a little house with a lawn in the suburbs. Imperfect parents (as all parents are) were seen as hypocrites for attending church each week but being content to remain removed from the peace protests that were going on at the time. Some adults were, of course, hypocrites. After all, in any population there will be hypocrites. The mood at the time, however, was that everyone in the "Over 30" generation were hypocrites, naive, misguided, war-mongering, and untrustworthy.

Seemingly oblivious to the idea that it is parents who are responsible when we are nurtured in a way that leads to our being reasonably intelligent, and that it is having a wonderful childhood that often gives us the confidence to be sure of ourselves when we reach college age, our generation was the generation that would successfully upset all the old apple carts and recreate American society to its own tastes. Some of the apple carts upset by the Boomer generation were long overdue for it, but as with all revolutions, some that should not have been upset were.

Seemingly oblivious that they were as "aware" and intelligent and educated as they were because of, not in spite of, their parents; many people of our generation decided to overturn all the apple carts that their ignorant, naive, unsophisticated, and hypocritical parents had built. At ages when their prefrontal cortexes were not even completely matured, many in our generation decided what was cool and what wasn't - and some were even aggressive enough to manage to convince their parents to become "enlightened" and cool as well. College students were having more than their say, and a good portion of American society was listening.

Since there was alcoholism in our society, our generation decided it was hypocritical to try stop young people from using drugs. Since some of the parents of our generation were, in fact, flawed or too oppressive, our generation decided to be a different kind of parent.

In an age when technology was more and more becoming "the latest thing" young people trained in, and working in, technology were enjoying the prestige of being involved with that latest thing. Non-technological fields, like teaching, social work, psychology, law, and journalism were seen as "caring" professions and/or "intellectual" professions. Surrounding themselves with others like them, people our generation often came to see themselves as a little superior to their blue collar fathers and at-home mothers.

And so, with the positive changes for which our generation was substantially responsible, came some "throwing-the-baby-out-with-bath-water" changes as well - and when you "throw the baby out with the bath water" there's no getting that "baby" back.

The people of our generation are often proud of changes in civil rights, women's rights, reproductive freedom, and any number of other changes that took hold back when all was in upheaval in America. Some look back fondly on their own drug use in their college days. Some are proud of bringing that "enlightened" awareness that sex and love don't always have to go together, and that beliefs about going to "hell" for premarital sex have largely been changed. Our generation may well be the generation, too, that made Bachelor's degrees common and Master's degrees almost as common. It was our generation that switched its "music loyalty" from the light-hearted Beachboys to Jethro Tull.

Of course, our generation was the one that, for the most part, decided daughters would not be ignored in school and that daughters would get to participate in sports. It is the generation that has become part of "The Sandwich" generation, in which parents care for their kids but also take care of elderly parents. Our generation is not a bad generation, but in its youth it may have made done some damage to some apple carts that might even be seen as unforgivable.

More unforgivable, though, is the fact that today, as so many people in our generation have either gone through, or are going through, the stage of life in which they must find ways to care for elderly, infirmed, parents; many still believe they are more intelligent and wiser than those parents. Baby Boomers often see themselves as the big cheeses in the sandwich of the "Sandwich Generation", still not realizing how much the people of our parents' generation learned from lives that were not nearly so sheltered and fortunate as those of their children.

As we watch our children turn from teenagers into college students and young professionals, we, in the Boomer generation, will begin to get a taste of what our parents went through. The difference, however, is that our children have not seen the end of innocence the way so many of us have. Their childhoods, not matter how abundant, did not have the kind of innocence that ours did - and that, my fellow Boomers, is the thing that leaves a really bad taste in my mouth.

When I Was Young and Tired

My first son was five when I was expecting my younger son. I was five months along, and there was something "iffy" about the baby's position. As a result, I stopped getting a full night's sleep around then - and it wasn't until my youngest son was seven that I finally got more than three or four hours' sleep. I remember it well: He was seven, his baby sister was four, and their older brother was nine - and one Friday evening I slept for a whole six hours.

My little son was born prematurely, so that meant watching him more closely than some mothers need to watch their babies (although, of course, all newborns mean "little sleep"). The baby got one virus after another, and he did that until he was past two. He was, fortunately, a generally healthy baby. It was just that when he'd pick up his older brother's Winter viruses he had to be watched more closely. Of course, just as he was turning three years old I was expecting his sister. Call me "not really suited for pregnancy", but, as with my pregnancy with her brother, I wasn't able to sleep more than a few hours a night. Besides, it was Winter (again), and he was still getting his share of viruses brought home by his elementary-school brother.

With children spaces 8, 5, and 3 years apart there was always juggling preschool, elementary, and middle school events; as well as different baseball fields, different music lessons, and other activities to numerous to mention. Christmas shopping and change-of-season, clothes, shopping meant bringing three different children to three different sections in any store.

Then, too, I kept close watch on my little daughter through the nights; so for a while, I was something of a "night watchman". I had to be up early for my school-age son, and I had developed the habit of doing work once the children were all asleep (and I'd had a chance to have coffee and watch Nightline).

Besides getting little sleep, there was always the fact that with each child came one more person to be thinking about - whether that was worrying about four showers/baths (mine and theirs), five sets of meals (theirs, their father's and mine), or three people' s health/emotional/educational matters. There was no such thing as "just running out to the store". It always involved four sets of outdoor clothing, one infant seat/stroller, and needing enough eyes and arms to keep track of three people in varying stages of mobility. It was a happy time in my life, and I didn't mind the chronic exhaustion. I was a "good kind of exhaustion".

One at at a time, however, each grew old enough to grab his/her own jacket when errand-time came. One at a time each stopped that aimlessly spinning and milling that little kids in stores tend to do. One at a time each entered high school and then college. Today, a semester away from the last graduation from college, it seems I woke up today, suddenly aware of how much freedom and time I have. As I spend a little more time thinking about it, I realize that somewhere along the way I started to gain more and more energy. (I think it happened around the time I began gaining a full night's sleep.)

I realized how I can find the time to do things besides just keeping the house in order. There's time to, for example, listen to music AND talk radio. Do you know that I went through the last half of the 80's and whole of the 90's never listening to music? Whatever was on television during the 80's and 90's is nothing I know a thing about (which isn't a bad thing - just an interesting thing to realize). I lived in a whir of children, and when they were asleep or in school I spent all my brain time thinking about what doctors they needed to see, what their education required, or whether someone needed a haircut or a cupcakes for the Halloween party at school.

As much as I loved all of it, when I say it all "slipped away" I'm not saying that in a sad way. Somewhere along the way, after kind of losing the person I once had been, I started to find that person again - the person who liked listening to music, the person who liked getting involved in one project or another just for the enjoyment of it, the person who had time to think uninterrupted thoughts sometimes for hours on end.

Contrary to what some people say about no longer being young, I have discovered that I have more energy now that I had since I was, maybe, "out-playing-in-the-neighborhood" age. What's more, I've stopped thinking about how much I wish I could "just sleep".

What I've discovered about having grown kids is that they're still the same people they've always been - only they can take of themselves. Sure, I miss the sweety, snuggly-bugglies that I can pick up and smooch on the nose; but - wow - looking at these fine young folks now has its own overwhelming sense of joy. Sometimes, too, it can just feel kind of good to be back in touch with the "old me", approaching life from a "me in this world" way of thinking, as opposed to "all-three-of-them-in-this-world (and sort of me too)" way of thinking.

There was a time when I would have believed that as I aged I would grow older and more tired. What I've discovered, now that I'm on this side of parenting, is that I've, in a way, grown to feel a little younger and a whole lot less tired. When the children were little I never, ever, could have imagined that "life on the other side" could possibly mean getting back in touch with the "me" that, at times I guess, I kind of lost. It turns out "she's" apparently been there all along. I was just too busy to pay much attention to "her".

I'm not a grandmother yet. (I've told my three kids I'd prefer to be in my seventies before becoming a grandmother. I just feel way too young to even imagine being a grandmother (and for now I wouldn't want the reality of any grandchildren to break the illusion that feeling so energetic and not-tired can create).

For now, I'm kind of enjoying being "the me I was before I had children" (only with the children all here and a few fine lines around my eyes).

When my children first came along it was as if a whole part of me that I didn't know I'd ever be came out and rose to the occasion. Now that the kids are grown, that person is still there; but "she" no longer over-shadows the girl I was before I was the mother of those beautiful little folks.

The song from Fiddler on the Roof comes to mind ("Sunrise/Sunset"), but I realize that from where I am now that song just seems a little too sad. I would more think that the Diana Ross song, "It's My Turn" seems to say it a little better.

And Then There Were Three (On Siblings)

The first Mother's Day after all three of my children were in a position to
be able to do what they wanted to do as far as gifts for me went (rather
than having to rely on their father to assist with gifts) was a Mother's Day
that I will always remember.  As my three pretty-much grown kids skulked in
and out of the house in secrecy I realized how very much the same three
children they still were.  My two sons and my daughter were clearly
delighted as their secret plans fell into place over the course of an early
afternoon, and before I knew it they had created an elegant and thoughtful
Mother's Day afternoon for me with a level of taste and loveliness that, I
guess, I just wasn't expecting.  They decorated.  There were flowers and a
new vase, gourmet chocolates from a shop near one son's work, a bunch of my
favorite buttercream poutpourri tarts, some nice earrings, and a CD that was
just my taste in music.  The larger gift, though, was seeing them as the
capable adults they'd become; and more importantly, seeing them work so well
as a team.  I think every mother hopes her children will grow up to be
close.   Those three kids of mine are close, and I know how important that
is.

My siblings and I are at the point in life where both parents have gone.
When I think of my own sister and brother and me working together as a team
I can't help but remember those days surrounding the death of my mother,
when the three of us, shell-shocked and numb, went about doing all the
things that needed to be done after losing the mother who had been bedridden
for over a year and who suffered terribly.  It wasn't just a matter of
funeral arrangements.  There was a world of things to be done when it came
to her house and finances and whatever else there was to deal with.  When
our father died we were all young, and our mother was the one to deal with
things.  Since she would remain in her own home there weren't the issues of
dealing with an estate, as well as as some of the complicated matters that
came about as a result of her long illness.  When she died, though, there we
were - just us "kids" (39, 44 and 49) - feeling strangely united while
feeling equally and woefully alone.

I am the middle child and was (appropriately) seated in the middle the day
we went to the funeral home to at least take care of those arrangements.  To
my left was my "baby brother".  To my right was my "big sister".

Let me tell you about my big sister.  For five years she and I were two
sisters.  She was the big one.  I was the baby for a while until I turned
into "the little one".  We played together much of the time.  Santa Claus
brought us pretty much the same things, although we'd get a few things for
our own age-group.  We would name the dolls we got for Christmas and play
house.  (We'd call one another, "auntie" in a very peculiar and high voice,
and my father never knew why such a voice and the name "auntie" for each of
us was necessary.)  As "aunties" we'd pretend that potato chips were fried
clams (because we have never seen fried clams).  On Saturday mornings we
would sit in the living room with a "magic slate", and each of us would draw
people and tell stories about our people and then whip up the film on the
magic slate and draw more and talk more about what the people we drew were
doing.

My sister and I got along all the time when we were young.  I saw her as
big, and I saw the fact that she was in school as "important" and grown-up.
We were happy little girls, and one Saturday morning our father popped his
head in our bedroom door and announced that the doctor had called and said
we had a new baby brother.  He said that the doctor said, "He's little but
he's healthy."   I've never quite figured out when my mother went to the
hospital or whether my father was there and when the aunt who came to be at
the house showed up and then left - but my sister and I were delighted to
have a baby brother.

When I think of my sister, besides recalling the annual and boring dancing
recitals I got dragged to even though I hated tap dancing, I think of two
other particular things:  We shared a bedroom.  One night she apparently
wanted to create some magic for her little sister, so she told me when I
went to sleep and woke up a fairy would have come and left me a present.  I
was - needless to say - excited about this fairy that would be coming in the
night.  I was probably 4 or 5, and she was 9 or 10.  When I woke the next
morning on the chest that was mine was a peculiar toy (one of the "Three Men
in a Tub" I think, and I'd never liked it) that had been hers when she was a
baby.  When I got a look at what this so-called "fairy" was supposed to have
left two things hit me:  1) I was incredibly disappointed and 2) I was
incredibly moved to think that she was willing to give me this toy that had
been hers most of her life.  I began to cry pretty hard, and when my
mother came in to see what was going on and found out about the fairy story
she kind of scolded my sister.  I was crying too hard, and I was too little,
to explain to my mother I wasn't crying because I was disappointed but was
crying because my sister had tried so hard to create some magic for me.

Just before my seventh birthday and just before I was about to make First
Communion my mother got pneumonia, and there was a question that it could
also be tuberculosis.  She was in the hospital for several months, which
meant that it was a good thing she had brought me to get my beautiful First
Communion dress early but which also meant she would not be there to see me
lead the First Communion line or to curl my straight hair (which she had
done every school night since I'd started school).   One memory that stays
poignantly with me all these years later is that of my twelve-year-old
sister, who wasn't all that much taller than I ( compared with adults),
standing directly in front me and trying to get my hair right as her tears
fell right past my face and onto the ground.  She would be the one to stand
with my father in the church and cry as her little sister led the First
Communion parade.  During those months when my mother was hospitalized
she and I would cry every night because we missed her and because we were so
afraid she would die.

At the time, our baby brother was a toddler.  Because he had been premature
he was sick a lot, and he got pneumonia a couple of times.  Every time he
would get a fever he'd take a seizure, which was absolutely terrifying.  My
sister and I would stand by, scared to death, as my father took care of the
baby and got him out to the hospital.   A few times he was admitted, and
we'd watch our father go between one hospital and another, calling one
hospital, and then calling my mother, and then another hospital.   She and I
were pretty grown-up as we worried together about our mother, our little
brother, and our exhausted father.

My aunt had quit her job, and my father paid her to watch us while he
worked, and, of course, my brother was allowed to run wild as a two-year-old
because everyone had been so terrified at how sick he'd been.    I was an
extremely small seven-year-old and he was a good-sized two-year-old, and he
started to terrorize me and even my sister (twelve) in a way that nobody
would ever think a toddler could do to older kids.  He would tease and tease
and get us upset, and one day my sister was so upset she ran after him and
fell down and did something to her nose.  Another time my out-of-control
brother leaped off the arm of the couch and through the glass on a french
door (without much injury).  He had become a happy, teasing, wild, fresh,
little boy who was king.

In a few years my sister outgrew his torture, but I remained for the long
haul.  In pictures he and I almost look like twins, so it was rough even
though I was older.  For years he and I hated each other a good part of the
time, although he had also become my playmate in view of the fact that I
still needed to play and my sister was now too big.  There would be times in
the backseat of the car when we'd get a whole big fight going because
someone was looking at the other one.  Sometimes, though, we'd play "club"
quite well.  He would announced that we were "going to have a club" and that
he'd be "president".  Even five years older, when I said politely one time,
"I'd like to be president", he said, "I'm the president.  You're the
treasurer".  (Not that the treasurer or the president ever did anything past
stating their office in these do-nothing clubs).  We didn't seem to like
each other a good part of the time, and yet - oh so many memories of playing
Vacu-Form, Creepy Crawlers, GI Joe and Barbie in a boat, and Erector set!

My brother was messy, and I was neat.   My sister was messy, and I was neat.
Nobody understood why I wanted to be neat, and neither of them
appreciated my pickiness.  My brother at all his Trick or Treat candy.
My sister at all hers.  I would store mine and never eat it.  My mother
would eventually throw it away after a long time had passed.  I am the
middle child, as I said.  I had had the benefit of being close to both my
sister and brother. I think I came to see myself as some sort of glue in
the family (although I know that each of us, in his own way, has, at one
time or another, been "glue").

My brother was 16 when our father died, and it wasn't until I had grown much
older that I realized how awfully young he was to lose his father.  My sister
was married when our father died.  With my brother going through his own
thing and her married, I sometimes almost played man-of-the-house (in some
ways) until my mother began to take on more of her new role as widow
(and until my brother got a little older).  It wasn't that our mother was, in any
way, incapable or lacking in ability to be strong (very much to the contrary).
It was just that for a while she wasn't quite used to doing some things around
the house.

The most meaningful memory I have with my brother is the Thanksgiving when
my mother had died the day before and when my youngest children were with
their other grandmother; and when he, my oldest son, and I sat at the
dining room table to eat the dinner my brother had cooked (I guess because
we had nothing better to do that day.).  My grown baby-brother has done a
lot for me.  So has my big sister.

What siblings share grows with them in ways we don't really expect.

When my sister and I go shopping and see little, tiny, elderly, ladies who
must be sisters we smile and say, "That's how we're going to be."

When I see my kids with their siblings I'm proud of them.  My parents would
be proud of me and my siblings too.  Siblings can hold things together when
it seems all could fly away.

Is It Realistic for Baby Boomers to Start College and Aim for a New Career?

Is It Realistic for Baby Boomers to Start College and Aim for a New Career?

The Verdict Is In: Boston Legal Is On Its Last Season

Boston Legal is a bizarre-but-fun show that, as far as I can guess, is most loved by adult viewers. It's a one-of-a-kind program that manages to deal with issues while making unlovable characters lovable, brilliant characters foolish, and giving viewers a unique view of people in, and well over, middle age. The show is in its fifth season, and each year after sitting through the first two or three episodes (never as good as the ones that air later in the season), I find myself amazed that I even like such a "foolish" show. The fact is, I love that show. Now it is in its last season, and I'm already trying to imagine life without Boston Legal on Tuesday nights at 10:00 p.m.

I'm not a big fan of television (never have been). Let's face it, though, there are times when a person is home in the evening and looking for something that's at least a little entertaining to watch. I actually spent all of the seventies and eighties and most of the nineties pretty much oblivious to television. Still, when sitcoms were king there was always something harmless to watch once in a while, should the wish arise. I didn't watch much television in the seventies because I was young. In the eighties my kids were little. In the nineties I was still too busy.

It was in the late nineties that I began to pay a little more attention to television. There were lots of good sitcoms most evenings, and the 10:00 p.m. slot often offered my first preference, news programs, or else some version of a crime drama (not my preference, although if nothing else was available I would watch the occasional, and very watchable, Law and Order).

To whatever extent television had its meager offerings, over the last several years all has gone to pot (and most people I know agree with that statement). In all the dullness and dreariness of 10:00 slots having first been monopolized with violence, crime, and autopsies; and later being taken over by yet more "reality" or "competition" programs, there has been that one beacon of light each week - good old Boston Legal, in all its bizarre foolishness and brilliance.

Alan Shore (played by James Spader) made the move from The Practice to Boston Legal's Crane, Poole, and Schmidt, after being "the bad guy" in The Practice. He wasn't someone I "loved to hate" in The Practice. He was just an unlikeable character brought in toward the end The Practice's run. I couldn't imagine that this character would be able to move the newer, shinier, brasher, Boston Legal and make it work. He did. In fact, when Boston Legal first aired he was the most "solid" among the characters. Denny Crane (William Shatner) was an eccentric and obnoxious but capable attorney. Shirley Schmidt (Candice Bergen) joined the show as a no-nonsense, take-charge, partner. When Paul Lewiston (Rene Auburjonois) showed up he was the stable, somewhat stodgier, man-in-charge, who put order to chaos. Less prominant characters came and went, but it didn't matter much because over time some of us tuned in just to watch Denny and Alan and the week's plot. Paul Lewiston left last year, and Carl Sack (John Larroquette) took his place. Besides these characters, the show has had lots of other interesting characters (let's not forget Jerry Espinson (Christian Clemenson), too numerous to mention.

This show (unapologetically absurd and yet smart) was the one show I really enjoyed. My sister is a fan too, and she and I have often talked about how the writers have managed to mix the absolute silliness with the depth of characters in a uniquely entertaining way. Even with my lack of interest in television in general, I actually considered ordering the Crane, Poole & Schmidt Old Fashioned glasses (even though I only drink wine) or the BL coffee mug, sold on ABC's Boston Legal website. I never got around to it, but I had imagined how funny it would be for my sister and me to each have our Crane, Poole & Schmidt glasses (or BL mugs).

Now I hear that getting the show to this fifth season was questionable and that it may be replaced by yet another reality show. Whether or not that's true, it appears there's question that Boston Legal will soon be gone. I know it's too much to expect a show to last too much longer than five years (although we're all familiar with that little program called, "Law and Order", which has grown so old it now has children). I'm a grown-up. I will, I suppose, adjust to losing Boston Legal, the way I've adjusted to losing so many other types of entertainment that someone has deemed has had its day. As it is, I guess Boston Legal is now on Monday nights, rather than Tuesday nights (which may a good thing, in view of the fact that every time there was a presidential address or any other news special it would preempt Boston Legal). Still, I liked saving Tuesday nights for Boston Legal.

It's not easy to find a show that has writers and actors so clever that we admire the writing and acting, rather than just sitting back and watching the story line. It's not easy for television shows to perfectly blend serious story lines with bizarre humor and sentiment. There is straight drama (Law and Order - no laughs there), and there is comedy. Boston Legal somehow has always just gone ahead and done whatever it seems to want to do (including allowing Alan and Denny to occasionally step out of the show and make a comment as actors, rather than characters in the show). I'm not the type to write fan letters, so I thought I'd write this as some way of saying, "thanks", to the people who have made Boston Legal what it is.

A part of me probably kind of wishes (if Denny must retire or otherwise leave Crane, Poole & Schmidt) that Alan and Shirley could leave the firm and start their own next season (even if some of the bizarre humor must be retired with Denny). Then again, Alan in his own firm with Denny as a retired mentor might be good. I'm guessing neither of these new shows will happen. As I said, I'm a grown-up. (That's probably why I liked the show in the first place.)

I understand that the actors, themselves, may want to move on to new work and characters. James Spader may be sick of being Alan Shore, considering Alan Shore first appeared on The Practice.

In any case, I am not the least bit happy to see Boston Legal go. I pretty much assume that means returning to my earlier, mostly-no-television-at-all lifestyle (which is not such a bad thing). It's just that I've come to enjoy making that big pot of coffee on Tuesday nights, settling in, and truly enjoying Boston Legal. A part of me wants to yell, "OMG - Boston Legal won't be back next year!!" I won't do that, though. I am a grown-up. We grown-ups just need to learn that media, for the most part, is seldom aimed at us; and that the things grown-ups like are usually the things that will be taken off the air.

No Senior Coffee, Please - Not Now, Not Ever!

The workers in my local
McDonald's restaurant gave me a complex years
ago, and I have yet to get over it.

I was in my mid-forties. Some people said I
looked in my thirties. My hair was (still is)
brown (not gray), and it wasn't until I passed my fiftieth birthday that I really noticed any fine lines around my eyes. I didn't look like a super-model (but then, again, I didn't when I was younger either). Still, I felt it was safe to believe that I looked six or seven years younger than I was.

Then it happened - I went to my local McDonald's for a cup of coffee, and I discovered I had been given a "senior coffee" - the "Senior Discount"!!

I knew that there was such a thing as a senior discount, and I suppose - somewhere in the back of my mind - I was thinking it was about twenty years away. Upon thinking about it, I don't think. I'll want
a senior discount when I do get to that age, because I don't think people should get cheap food just because of their age. That day, however, I was in shock. Did I really look twenty years older than
I was? Never, in my life, would I have thought I would be given the senior discount so early in my life!

I told myself that everyone looks old to sixteen-year-old McDonald's workers.
That was my story, and I was sticking to it. I was not about to let this small incident shake my belief that I looked at least six or seven years younger than I really was.

Life went on, and - as I so often do - I kept buying my cups of coffee at one fast-food place or another. On one of my subsequent visits to McDonald's, however, it happened again. I got another senior coffee! My companion said I should be happy to get my coffee for less money, but I wasn't! I didn't know
how old someone needs to be to be eligible for a senior discount, but I knew the age was not mid-forties. I made the mental note to find out, because I needed to know how insulted I ought to be.

Over the months to follow, it seemed that every time I got my coffee at McDonald's I would get the senior discount. The people working there were different each time, so I couldn't explain it away as "one stupid kid".
What I did notice was that it didn't happen at any other restaurants. Because I had noticed that the lights in McDonald's' rest room make me look worse than I look in any other mirror, I started to tell myself that the
problem was the lighting in McDonald's. (Of course, if a person truly looks young there is no
worry about the lighting.)

I didn't know how to stop the insults; because if I started telling the person at the counter that I wasn't senior-discount age, it would get it "established" that I was apparently really old-looking. Also, it
could make the worker feel embarrassed as well. Not saying anything, however, meant that each time I went into McDonald's I was subjected to the insult. Should I have really cared if some
kid thought I was - what - 65? Of course not - and yet I did. Nobody wants to look twenty bloody years older than she really is! Five I could have lived with. A bad hair day could have explained
away looked five years older than I am. There is no acceptable explanation for apparently looking twenty years older.

For the months following this string of insults I kept paying attention to every coffee I bought at any restaurant, checking to see if I looked 65 to everyone, or just to the people at McDonald's.
Apparently, it was just the people at McDonald's, so I hung onto that shred of reassurance (for whatever that was worth).

This was years ago, and somewhere along the way the people at McDonald's stopped giving me the senior discount. The complex temporarily turned into paranoia, as I wondered if one of my friends kids knew someone who worked at McDonald's, and if - for some reason - he/she mentioned knowing me and my age.
In any case, the senior coffees stopped (at least for now). Of course, as time continues marching on, senior coffees will - one of these days - start showing up on my restaurant receipts once
again. I'm still not old enough for them, so I hope they don't show up again until I am.

After being give the premature opportunity to consider the matter of senior coffees, however, I decided years ago that I don't want them - ever. In fact, when I get to senior-discount age I hope I
look ten or fifteen years younger than I am, and that nobody offers me the discount until I'm well into my seventies.

Even if I can't manage to look younger than I really am by then, though, I won't be wanting any senior coffee. I like to believe that not older people are in need of a special discount. If the reasoning behind senior discounts is that people have earned them just for living that long, I still won't want the discount. When I'm old enough for the senior discount I would like to still be just part of the rest of the world - without special acknowledgments or perks because of my age.

I didn't want those senior coffees when I was getting them. I don't want them today. Neither will I want them when I get to be of discount age. Most people appreciate getting something for less,
but I'd rather pay top dollar (or should I say "top change") for my coffees, the way everybody else does. I just think that - regardless of our age - feeling "part of the mainstream" is so much more
important than saving a few cents. After all, I am of The Baby Boom generation. It is a generation known for trying to redefine age.

Dealing with Grief

When we lose a loved one, in the beginning it isn't so much a matter of moving on, as it is of getting through the day. That period referred to as "the beginning", however, is a long one, and it doesn't end all at once. Its ending is more aptly described as "slowly fading". Even, too, as we cannot imagine moving on, we do; because each day comes and goes, and here we still are, going through the motions and getting through each of those days.

After losing my parents, several aunts and uncles, some close friends, a baby nephew, and my own unborn baby I had come to the realization that it takes five years before it feels as if we are really ourselves. My conclusion was confirmed, too, when, on the fifth anniversary of September 11, 2001, Diane Sawyer interviewed the families of some of the victims. She said that it was noticeable that the fifth anniversary had seemed to bring change in the progress of the family members, when it came to their grief. She noted that upon interviewing them for that fifth anniversary program they were finally showing signs of looking forward to new futures, and that it seemed clear they had entered a new phase.

Saying that it takes a full five years to feel back to oneself isn't saying that we feel equally horrible at four and a half years as we do when only one year has passed. With each day that passes we move farther and farther away from that initial shock and grief, so we don't feel the same several months or two years later as we do in the beginning. It is a gradual fading, but what I found was that the grief remained painfully close to the surface far longer than I once imagined it would.

As one year passes we expect to feel a lot better than we may actually feel. What I discovered was that there is that numbness that occurs when loss is so terrible our minds can't bear it, and as the numbness wears off the thoughts that need processing emerge. I found that those painful thoughts were thoughts I could bear only in small doses before becoming overcome with grief again. What I discovered, though, was that as the grief flared up again the numbness would return. This was a process of dealing with the more difficult thoughts a little at a time in small doses, over the months that followed a death. As the first anniversary came, however, I was dismayed to discover that after a year of being numb so much of the time, the numbness would wear off; and then I would begin to feel all the grief, almost as if for the first time.

What always helped me was that "get-through-each-day" thinking that seemed to come naturally. I gave myself permission to not think about the grief or the person if at all possible. I told myself that the person I loved would understand if I had to wait for a while before thinking about him/her. I reminded myself that I had the rest of my life to think about this person, and that my main objective at the time was to get through each day.

We all have our usual daily activities we must do, and that helps. One thing I realized, too, is that grief seems to creep into our minds and push all the positive, nurturing, thoughts and memories we have to the back of our minds (or even into a "closet" along "the outer edges").

It's as if our minds are one, big, room full of sadness and grayness. The longer that "grayness" takes up most of the space in "the main part" of our mind, the more chance it has to "take hold" and seem to harden.

As the days and months pass, though, if we have even small moments of joy or at least positive thoughts, those small positive thoughts and "bits" of joy start to move into that "gray emptiness". Sometimes those positive moments may be as simple as laughing at a televison show or enjoying a walk on beautiful day. They can come if we do something new or buy something that gives us pleasure or get out and have some good conversations and coffee with friends. They're small and seemingly minor, but they start to accumulate; and if they don't push all that grief into the background completely, they at least brighten the "gray". As time passes, if we make it a point to keep finding just those small joys in life the "grayness" no longer takes up our whole mind. If we're lucky, time also brings some big joys in life; and when they occur they have a way of rushing in and pushing the "gray" into the background a little farther.

When we are grieving it is unbearable a good part of the time, and barely bearable the rest of the time. When we're in acute grief we're in shock, and it isn't a time to even think about moving on. Moving on isn't something we can always just decide to do. Instead, moving on seems to kind of slip in, take us by the hand, and lead us away from the grief. That is, I guess, because "moving on" and "time" are pretty much the same thing.

My advice to anyone going through grief would be to take care of your own emotions. Give your mind a chance to rest from the grief and just think of neutral or pleasant things as often as possible. Being with someone can help, although we can all find ways to bring small joys into our days by ourselves. Sometimes something as seemingly silly as buying a pretty set of potholders can brighten a day. Cheerful music, enjoying a morning or evening walk, going out to have a coffee alone at an outdoor table, spending time with a child, having a pet - anything that helps keep our mind on more pleasant things is good. We may not be able to control what big joys come or when, but we can control whether or not we find some small ones.

I don't believe people should worry about things like whether or not they give away or pack away the deceased person's belongings in a hurry. For some, clearing out belongings is a way of trying to move on; but my opinion is that clearing away belongings can be more painful too early; and the presence of someone's belongings (as long as they aren't, say, out and in our way each day) doesn't stop us from moving on. I'm not sure feeling pressured to get rid of them helps us move on either. My approach has always been to make a reasonable effort to put away or pack away things that would be too ridiculous to leave around, but not be in a hurry to make permanent decisions or to get rid of every last item that had belonged to the deceased. I found that time, as always, was the thing that told me when I was ready to do that type of thing.

Developing an "I'm the star of this show" attitude can help guide us through grief. Once someone is gone, in the beginning they are "the star of the show". After the funeral or memorial service, though, we become "the star of our own show". The focus - at least for the immediate future - needs to be on us and on getting through the most difficult period. Sleeping when we can helps our minds rest. Eating well if possible helps us give our body what it needs to help our mind deal with things. Getting our daily work done, even if we're just going through the motions, help keep our mind occupied; but if there's a day when you just don't feel up to getting some things done, giving yourself permission to just rest or find one of those small joys is important.

Reminding yourself that your loved one would want you to do what it takes to get through the grief can help. So can realizing that if you don't think about them for a while it doesn't mean you'll forget them, aren't grieving, or didn't love them.

When we lose a loved one we never get over it completely, but we get to a point where we are back to feeling like ourselves (even if we still have that little part of our mind that remains a little gray). When we first lose someone it is an unbearable shock that's hard to believe. Once the shock wears off the grief swoops in and over us and can sometimes make it feel as if we can't even breathe. Grief is a monster that we can't kill or tame all at once. It is a monster that, when met over time with moments of a neutral, pleasant, or joyous nature, will start to shrink and retreat, leaving behind only a small footprint. We need to accept that that footprint will always be there, but as the weeks and months go by the grief does die down a little at a time.

What we may be surprised to discover, though, is that far sooner than we would have thought we do laugh again. We have those moments when we feel pretty much like "the real us". There is no doubt that we continue to battle our thoughts and fight off either tears or the overwhelming horror that come with tears we can't fight off. Still, it is surprising how soon so much of our days is spent feeling reasonably normal. I suppose what happens is that even while we are consumed by, and in the grips of, that overpowering, huge, monster that is grief; time's force continues to pull it away from us; and the resilience of a heart that has loved so much eventually prevails.

Sometimes others will worry that we're not "moving on", and they can even make us feel as if we should stop talking about the loved one if we talk about him a little too much, or get rid of his belongings faster than we have, or simply start a new life sooner than we appear to be. My advice to the grieving would be to stay strong and stay true to yourself. Deal with your grief that way you need to, and don't feel pressured by others who would deal with it differently.

Difficult as it is to believe when we have just lost someone, we all just keep moving on, whether or not we want to, and whether or not we appear to be. If you ask how to get through your days, rather than ask how to move on, time will move you on, and your heart will will tell you when to take another step.

To Color Gray Hair or Not - That Is Eventually Always The Question

Allowing hair to go gray naturally is the healthiest approach for the hair, and the right hair care can make even gray hair very attractive and healthy. Fine, straight, hair often makes prettier gray hair because it is less coarse and can remain shiny more than coarser hair does. This works out well, though, because while fine, straight, hair is more likely to show damage from coloring more dramatically and sooner, coarser hair can tolerate coloring better.

Coloring hair too young and for too long can cause serious damage (including extreme thinning, breaking, and even balding). I've known women with thick, luxurious, hair who began coloring their gray as early as their fifties or before. By the time they've gotten into their eighties they are nearly bald.

When and whether to color gray, though, isn't a question that has completely simple answers sometimes. If a woman has a very young face in, say, her late forties or early fifties but her hair makes her look older then it may make sense to do a little coloring for a few years until her face more matches gray hair. The same applies to people with prematurely gray hair. The woman who is fortunate enough to have only a few gray hairs in her mid-fifties, however, may prefer to let the hair be natural for as long as possible and then color it for, say, the first five years of her sixties. This would let her her own hair color (for the most part) during her fifties and then for a few years past that. By the time someone is in the mid-sixties gray hair she may be more comfortable with her gray hair.

The decades in which the issue of coloring gray seems to require attention are generally the fifties and sixties. In general, people in their forties don't get a whole lot of gray (although anyone can have gray hair at any age). It is generally the fifties and early sixties when gray hair makes itself more known, when some people may actually look ten years younger than they really are, and when the general transition from original hair color to gray occurs. There are, of course, those fortunate people who actually have reasonably little gray hair even into their seventies.

There is also the question of how hair turns gray. Some gray hair begins with graying temples. Some begins with a few strands that come from the top of the head. Graying temples can sometimes be camouflaged with a certain haircut. A few silver strands that grow from the top of the head/hair can be turned into blond highlights on some shades of brown hair. Some gray hair sets in with the entire head of hair losing its color gradually. Using a mild coloring product or a rinse can offer a color boost during this transition time.

Many older women take advantage of their lack of pigment and color their gray hair blond. We all know that even Scandinavian people don't have blond hair at 68 years old, so I think older women with an originally light hair color need to be careful not to select a blond that's too pale or too yellow if they do color their hair. For light-haired people, though, it almost makes the least sense to color gray because the difference in what pale hair does to the lighting of a face isn't that dramatic.

Very aged faces don't always look very enhanced when dark dyes are used, so I think that needs to be a consideration for older women. Silver hair can actually lighten or even highlight a face, while a dye in black or brown can seem to overpower the paler skin tones of the elderly. In advanced age blue, gray, or green eyes can become paler. Silver hair can make those stand out more. Nice, dark, brown eyes may stand out more with silver hair as well.

The sixty-five-year-old woman who can look fifty-five with a good hair-coloring job may want to take advantage of that for a while; but, in general, I think once people are close to seventy gray or silver hair isn't just age-appropriate, its often more attractive.

Healthy hair will always be more attractive than unhealthy hair, and naturally gray hair on a person of a certain age can be attractive, as well as "just kind of right". It is, though, those few years and few hairs (both which increase in number) which make exactly when one allows hair to go completely gray that is a very individual matter.

Comfortably Dining Out Alone

If you're uncomfortable at the thought of dining alone you may find this hard to imagine, but dining alone can a very pleasant experience. Its a great opportunity to be alone with your thoughts, enjoy a meal, and relax (even if for only a short time).

Most people will find dining at a fast-food restaurant the easiest. (Some fast-food restaurants don't have a bad atmosphere.) Find a table by a window (and face the window - looking out a window is a very normal thing to do) or one that's off in a comfortable corner. If the restaurant isn't crowded you will be able to choose a seat that doesn't have you looking at other people as they eat (and having them watch you eat). If the restaurant is crowded you may still find a seat that doesn't face others, but have something to read just in case. Fast-food places often have newspapers available. You can always take a notepad and make a to-do list too.

Men are usually comfortable eating, but women may feel uncomfortable eating a big fast-food meal. If you're a woman you may find you feel less self-conscious ordering a salad, water, and fruit slices - with coffee for dessert. Smaller sandwiches and a cup of tea are perfectly lady-like. If you want a big sandwich get one, but you may want to ask for flatware to prevent awkward, messy, eating.

Then there are restaurants that are "a level up" from fast food. These are often the sandwich or pizza chains, although they may be a little local place. The above tips apply to these restaurants as well. Remind yourself that in fast-food restaurants or "one level up" restaurants nobody really cares if you're dining alone. Working people eat alone on lunch hours and on business trips. Non-working people may take a break from shopping to have lunch. People eat alone near hospitals, court houses, and corporations all the time. Nobody pays much attention or cares - so keep that in mind. Ask for a knife and fork regardless of what you order. You may need them.

Whether its a fast-food restaurant or a casual "one level up" establishment, you can always bring out the cell phone (on silent, of course) and delete recent calls or messages or else play a game. Change your wallpaper from one graphic to another. There's always something you can do with a cell phone (other than talk) that will give you something with which to busy yourself if you need to do that.

Nicer restaurants are more of a challenge. Many people would not choose a nicer restaurant

when they will be dining alone, and that's a viable option. Still, there is no reason to stay out of nicer restaurants just because you won't be with a companion. You can, of course, ask to be seated by a window or in a corner (facing away from the crowd). If it makes you feel better when you're making quick chat with the server you could mention that you're from out of town or that someone recommended this place for a certain dish. There is usually a little chat between customers and servers when items are brought to the table. This can break up the "isolation" of dining alone. As with less upscale restaurants, most of the ideas offered here apply to these restaurants as well. Depending on the level of upscale an establishment is, you may not want to entertain yourself with your cell phone wallpaper or a big newspaper in some restaurants. A small notepad or address book may be acceptable substitutes.

Probably the most important thing to remember is that most people don't view others who dine alone as lonely, pathetic, creatures who have no friends or family. Remember that people dine alone all the time, hold your head high, and (even if this isn't your situation) see yourself as a person who works in the area and has come out for a break and a meal.

When Should Grown Kids Move Out?

A Matter of Circumstances

There is no set age at which grown children should move out of their parent's/parents' home. Although, of course, moving out is something that is healthy and normal for most young adults, the age at which a person does this often depends on the emotional and financial readiness of the young adult, as well as on the parents and the child's relationship with those parents.

In a minority of situations, there are troubled families in which teens and parents not only don't get along, but create a truly unhealthy situation for all involved. These are circumstances under which agencies working with minor children may get involved and even recommend other living arrangements for the teen.

A common time for people from healthier families to move out is upon graduating high-school and moving away to live at college. For many college students this move is the final move from the family home. For others a temporary, post-college-stay back at the family home is necessary while the graduate looks for work and saves some money. We live in a time when housing and other expenses are higher than they've ever been, and, in general, average pay for college graduates (and others) in a number of fields has not kept up with the rise in the cost of living expenses.

Some college graduates pursue advanced degrees. Some are able to do this while living in their own place. The circumstances for other graduates may make staying in the family home something that will facilitate obtaining that graduate degree.

Whether or not high-school graduates have attended college or other job training, other factors play a role in the age at which a young person moves out of the family home. Some young people require extra time to become financially stable enough to move out. Entry-level pay often requires time for saving, as well as the matter of finding a roommate. When young people and their parents have a healthy and happy relationship they may be in less of a hurry to find a messy or over-partying roommate. On the other hand, the young person who wishes to have a very different lifestyle from his parents may want and need to move away much sooner.

Living in one's parents' home is not necessarily of not being generally independent. Just because young people live with parents that does not mean that they need to live as if they're children. Parents who encourage independence, and children who exercise it, can live under the same roof as independent adults. It requires reasonable people, common sense, and compromise; but it can be done.

Some young people want/need to move out as soon as possible. They may not mind finding the least expensive apartment in an undesirable location and then share it with whomever is willing to be a roommate. Other young people may prefer to wait until they can afford a decent location and fewer or no roommates. Kids raised in relatively safe rural, suburban, or higher-end urban locations may prefer wait until they can afford to live where high crime and cockroaches are not part of daily life. Parents of these young people are often just as happy to let their children wait a little longer for this reason.

Some young people feel some responsibility to stay and help parents for a while. Individuals with recently widowed parents, recently divorced parents, or parents with financial problems sometimes prefer to stay at home a little longer and help.

Parents, too, are different. Some parents are happy to have their grown children stay as long as they want too, while also being aware that moving out is a normal and healthy thing for children to do as well. Some of these parents see living under the roof as one thing and being otherwise independent (when it comes to laundry, food, finances, etc.) as another. Others lean toward continuing to do laundry and fill out taxes for their still-home children. Some parents believe grown children should move out as soon as they are no longer in high-school. Of these, some believe their children should be given no help whatsoever. Others of this group may be more than willing to have kids come home to do laundry, to involve themselves in their child's financial matters, and to provide the paint and painting labor to their child.

Generally, when grown children have their own children it is, of course, best that the new family has it's own residence. Even then, though, there are times when grown children need assistance in caring for their own children and when the third-generation children will benefit by living with their parent in the grandparent's/grandparents' home.

Even after grown children have long ago moved out of their childhood home there are times when they return, often to care of elderly or ill parents. When married grown children divorce they sometimes return to their parent's/parents' home until they get on their feet. There are even those times when a single, professional, adult remains in the home of a parent simply because the two have worked out an arrangement that suits them both. In Italy, middle-aged men are known to remain in the home with their mothers until they marry, even when they are financially very stable or even extremely stable. According to Italian culture, the American practice of expecting 18-year-olds to move out is difficult to comprehend.

There are, of course, the young people who move out for a while but discover that the living situation they are able to afford is not acceptable and possibly even unhealthy. Many discover that roommates leave suddenly, which means they are left with footing more of the rent bill than they can afford. Some discover that a full-time job covers rent and phone but not food. Others discover that it only covers rent or that roommates bring in questionable guests or substances.

Still others learn that inexpensive apartments often include cock roaches and/or rats, that roommates may let dishes pile up in a sink for weeks, or that they cannot feel safe coming home at night. The reality is that someone who pays to live in even an inexpensive apartment has less of a chance to save to live in a better apartment, sometimes the wisest choice is to live with parents until one can afford to find the most affordable living situation that is, at least, minimally acceptable.

Sometimes, too, families have gone through particularly difficult circumstances, and grown children may prefer to wait before moving out. Children who have lived with one parent because of divorce may enjoy some time living with the other parent before they move into their own apartment or house. When illness, tragedy or death has occurred in a family grown children may feel the need to remain closer longer, if only to have time to get past grief. The rules often change when a family has gone through particularly difficult times. The "rules of emotional upheaval" often take precedence over the "rules of moving out".

There is no set age at which grown children must move out of their parent's/parents' home. It depends on the people involved and the situation. Most young people want their own place, and most normal parents encourage independence. We live in a time, however, when living expenses are often higher than many newly-starting-out people can afford and when it is common for even college graduates to move home for a while after graduation. More important than establishing a set age for young people to move out is that all involved have the confidence to do what is right for their particular family, without feeling pressured to do something else and without feeling the need to apologize to anyone.

Are You Ever Too Old To Wear A Mini-Skirt?

Age is not the only factor in determining whether one should wear a mini-skirt, so considering the other factors first may, in fact, eliminate the question of age altogether.

Not all mini-skirts are created equal. Some are so short they create the impression that their wearer forgot to put on the rest of her outfit, and - opinions about attractiveness aside - they create an appearance of lack of proper proportions.

A mini (but not micro-mini) skirt is attractive on a girl or young woman with attractive legs, but not all legs are created equal either. Legs that are too heavy, too skinny, too short, too long, or too anything else are not enhanced in a mini-skirt. Neither are legs that aren't "too-anything-in-particule" but that just don't have good proportions. An very short skirt can even make legs that are generally fine, or ev