Things I Hope I Never Have To Do Again

COOK:  I’ve always hated cooking.  When I was a wife and mother, in situ, I suffered from depression every time 4:30 rolled around; and I realized I had to get a meal on the table for my husband and the three children.  I’m sure they were depressed too when they saw what was put in front of them.

I can’t even remember what I made them now.  Spaghetti and meatballs, tuna/noodle, kebabs, rice because I hate the taste of potatoes, sloppy joes, chili.  What a pain in the butt!

I stopped making regular meals when each of my children decided they were going vegetarian.  Screw that.  I’ve always hated vegetables, except for a good salad.  So let them make their own.  That phase never lasted long for any of them.  Then when I had only one child left in the house, well, frozen food is healthy, isn’t it?  (My husband made it a point to eat his main meal at work.  I never said he wasn’t intelligent.)

I wasn’t a complete waste as a mother.  I always prepared raw vegetables and fruits for them to snack on when they came home from school.  And I took to making batches of chocolate chip cookies—from scratch!

Somehow I never got compliments on my meals, but they survived to cook their own way through life.

CLEAN THE HOUSE:  When I was 82, I got a cleaning lady.  My friend was moving, and I asked if I could steal her cleaning lady.  She was only to glad to give me her number, as my friend felt the cleaning lady didn’t like her.  I get along with her fine.  Well, the first time she entered my house, she sniffed and said, “Dust.”

I’m always amazed, when I come to say goodbye, to see her dusting the walls.  My stove burners work now, as she spent weeks cleaning the crap I could never get off.  She is a true marvel.

Sadly, she’s getting older and her knees hurt.  Gee, I hope I go before she does.

WEARING A DRESS, PANTYHOSE, THE WHOLE REGALIA:  I can remember when I was in sixth grade and got my first pair of nylons.  Along with a garter belt.  How excited I was.  No, my seams were never straight, but, hey, that’s me.  I just loved the way they made my legs feel so smooth and sexy.  Then there was the girdle.  Why in the name of womanhood did we wear them?  It’s not as if anyone in our teens and twenties was overweight.  But it was de rigueur.

Growing up, through high school and college, girls/women never wore slacks or jeans.  It was always skirts and then for fancy occasions, dresses.  Were we being punished for being female?  At least we could wear saddle shoes or white bucks with socks and didn’t have to worry about straight seams until the weekends.

Then pantyhose came in.  Hip hooray—if you could ever find the right size.  I don’t know who made those size charts, obviously a man.

Now, how wonderful.  Jeans, pants suits, flowing trousers.  Our legs are our own, to shave or not to shave.  Freedom!

BE SOCIABLE:  My daughter tells me I have resting-bitch-face.  It must be true, as people seem to avoid me—as I avoid them.  Now, there’s nothing I like better than having a good friend; and, surprise, I have a few.  But being social is no longer part of my persona.

My husband climbed the ranks of academia until he reached chairman.  Those of you in any profession know that knives are always out for the bossman/woman.  It’s especially the case with academia.  He would come home and tell me about pressures from inside the department and above.  Yet, I would have to go to way too many events and put on that happy face.  Graciousness doesn’t come naturally to me.  The facade dropped as soon as he stopped being chairman.

On the other hand, my husband also became prominent in several international organizations.  I have to say I met so many wonderful people from so many countries who became true conference friends.  That, combined with luxurious travel, made my life complete.  Socially.

WORRY ABOUT MY WEIGHT:  I have plateaued just below obese, according to the torturous scales the doctors promote.  I ballooned at menopause, and my body said, “I like you this way.”  Even if the medical profession didn’t.

Why do doctors insist on weighing you every time you visit?  I didn’t come there to be weighed.  I came because I had a medical issue.  Not everything is connected to weight, no matter all articles to the contrary.

As a child, I used to waddle down the street to my elementary school, trying to avoid the kids who called me, “Fatty.”  I never did lose the peasant hips, but I was down to a size 7 for quite a long time.

My downfall came after having children. I’m not blaming them.  But for comfort I stopped wearing jeans and started wearing sweatpants.  Sweatpants gladly expand to fit one’s contour.  And thus the pounds crept up.

Loss/gain/loss/gain until I finally seem stuck exactly where I am.  And I am satisfied. I have clothes that I like to wear.  Okay, my daughter constantly complains about how I look, but I’m comfortable.  Besides, who cares anymore.  Except of course for the doctor and her scale.  I shall survive even that castigation.

BEING INTELLECTUALLY AU COURANT:  Well, I never was, really.  When I was in high school, I had friends who were a bit older who called me pseudo-intellectual.  I had to ask my mother what that meant.  After her definition I had to conclude that these were pseudo friends.

I think my problem is that I collect rare bits of facts that perhaps make me seem smarter than I am.  On the other hand, the capacity for dumbness of so many people I meet amazes me.  (See above for lack of sociability.)

However, I will admit to being no longer with it as far as being engaged with the intelligentsia and what they’re promoting as deep thoughts.  This is especially true with books.  When I see something recommended by someone “famous” or something up for a literary prize, I know to avoid.  It astonishes me sometimes to realize that I’ve actually read one of those books before it was branded and labeled and enjoyed it.

I will admit to never reading op-eds because what can they say that we all having heard before?  Nothing.  Especially now we’re supposed to address some of them as they/them.  It’s like when someone asked me what my Hebrew name was and I said, “Carolyn.”  Deal with it.

In my old age, I don’t want death and destruction.  That’ll come soon enough for me.  I want happy thoughts.  I want comfort.  I do not want a paragraph lasting two pages.

I’m sure I can add to this list and maybe will.  But you get the point.  There comes a time when —-  yeah.