I just bought new pants. There’s a pretty blue tag on them that says:

Undisturbed calmness of mind is
attained by cultivating friendliness toward
the happy, compassion for the unhappy,
delight in the virtuous,
and indifference toward the wicked.

I’m afraid I can’t live up to the expectations of my pants.

I understand this is illogical, and that if too many other people felt this way, it would be bad for the movie industry. Fortunately, most people are willing to engage their rational minds at the theatre, but for me, considerations of whether I go to a theatre for the film or for the popcorn are moot, because I know I’m not going to have one without the other.

At home, I don’t make popcorn every time I watch a movie. I subscribe to Netflix and pay for just about every premium cable channel, so there are plenty of movie-watching choices here. But at the theatre, I must have it. Of course there’s no fair comparison, because nothing we make at home is exactly like the golden/fragrant/caloric pile of pure bliss that’s scooped into those bags and handed over the counter.

Shall I go now, or wait ‘til the movie’s released on dvd and save my hips the punishment? Those aren’t the only options, you say? Well, of course not, but mature choices don’t play a role in this decision.

Armed with this knowledge about the nutritional damage I’m inflicting on myself at the theatre (I’m including a link, below, to one of the many stories about this) I now have reached the same point as the over-stimulated, overwrought, pouting child, when the adult in charge, frustrated from trying to broker an agreement, asks, “Well, then if that’s the way you feel, would you rather have none?”

I guess it’ll be none for me, until I really, really want to see a movie so badly (before the dvd release) that I will go ahead and wade into another grease-smeared bag of guilt.

Popcorn story from web.md:

http://www.webmd.com/food-recipes/news/20091119/movie-theater-popcorn-a-calorie-bomb

Of the four Starbucks locations close to me, one is so popular that my only complaint is it’s tough to find a seat. I love the idea of being comfortable hanging around with your latte for as long as you want, until the concept means I can’t find a table. One location in my small town has become a satellite office, with every surface covered with laptops, simultaneous cell phone conversations, and meetings large enough to occupy several tables pushed together.

So now I avoid peak times. Early mornings and mid-afternoons are best. That’s when my favorite Starbucks resembles exactly the kind of coffee-shop-as-small-town-microcosm their critics claim they eroded. At one of the long wooden tables there’s a moms’ group with strollers tucked into a nearby corner. Another couple of tables hosts knitters. Knitters who chat. Very early in the morning, a phalanx of uniformed peace officers waits to order. Arriving mid-afternoon, with walkers and canes, here come the rabble-rousing residents of the senior community across the road.

There’s moaning about Starbucks being such a chain operation. I’m personally comforted by the consistency of their look and feel, the clean restrooms, and even the music they play. Critics scoff at the “pretension” of their coffee language – completely made up to impart the aura of a never-did-exist European coffee experience. Clever marketing, I say.

But I’m not objective, because I have a small entrepreneurial crush on Howard Schultz, who put a group together to buy out the originators of the Starbucks brand in Seattle and personally became involved (some say too involved) in every aspect of every cup of coffee sold. Everything about the building of the company interests me, its ups and downs and adjustments, and Schultz’ buck-stops-here recent comeback after closing many stores.

If you have a welcoming, independent local coffee shop that serves all your needs, you’re lucky, and I will never demean the efficiency of a roadside McDonald’s for coffee and a baked apple pie, but for everyday caffeine ingestion in pleasant circumstances, Starbucks is just fine.

Age Gain Now Empathy Suit

Hooray for Baby Boomers, whose aging numbers are now so great that their wants and needs can’t be ignored. ’Bout damn time.

As we recognize each new twinge and wonder why we keep forgetting things, scientists are busy studying ways to simulate these conditions, illustrating for a younger crowd exactly how bodies feel as we adjust to increasing years.

Enter AGNES, the pretend-you’re-old suit developed at MIT.

http://agelab.mit.edu/agnes-age-gain-now-empathy-system
AGNES is an experimental piece of wardrobe that duplicates symptoms of aging so that no matter who’s wearing it (her) the facts of life are right there.

This is not for completely altruistic reasons, of course. Marketers want to appeal to the buying side of this burgeoning population. Research can help them make labels easier to read and help designers insure easier navigation of steps and walkways. All kinds of entrances and exits and hardware are being examined right this minute.

For instance – would you like to get into and out of the next new car you buy much more easily than before (without the appearance of actually being older?) The answers are coming right up.

We who are just ahead of Baby Boomers would have gladly told the researchers these things for free. In fact we tried; we’ve been vocal about aging for a while now, but until the marketing opportunities aimed at millions of older Boomers appeared, not many wanted to listen. So thanks, Boomers, for moving into the land of “Have you seen my keys?”

I drive a very nice car that takes me places and plays my music and feeds me news, holds my coffee cup, warms or cools me, and does everything a car can do to help a person get around, but there isn’t a car special enough to make me fall in love with driving again.

No offense to my perfectly fine vehicle, but I dream of a walking life – some modified version of the olden days when there was a central business district and houses began right there at the edge of town. A person could walk to accomplish most daily errands. For longer trips, there was a family car, but it wasn’t in use all day, every day.

The love affair with my car evolved the way most do in the good old U.S.A. It seemed so natural at first, the car seducing the teenager, promising new adventures as soon as the driver’s license came in the mail. For a brief moment, as grown-ups, we defined ourselves by what we drove. (Okay some still do) but over the past decade or so, something’s changed for me and driving doesn’t resemble freedom in the slightest. What feels free is NOT driving.

Some people believe a time is coming when people will look back at single-person car occupancy as a quaint and uninformed period in our history. Will our descendants laugh at us for turning our lives into such car-centered productions? Will they wonder how we ever thought it could work? Before we can get out of our cars, we’ll need additional forms of mass transportation that can function without creating a new blight on our imperiled landscape. Maybe they’re being designed right this minute and we just don’t know about them yet.

If so, the future will perhaps include mandatory controls about who can drive alone in a car and when, because most drivers won’t let go voluntarily. Giving up the right to drive is such a fraught topic, it’s likely to include a bitter battle. I wonder if my granddaughter’s generation will define “freedom” without including owning a car.

Me: Uh…

Doc: A or B?

Me: A. No, B. I’m not sure.

Doc: Number 1 or 2?

Me: I think 2. No, could I see 1 again?

What is so tough about this? Am I worried that choosing the wrong letter or number will disappoint the teacher, I mean doctor? Glimpses of the past, of not living up to someone else’s expectations? Oh Lordy, here comes that machine thing again and now there’s also a number 3.

Next there’s the wall chart, accompanied by a feeling that I’m somehow a disappointment because I can’t read that last line.

I always wonder, after leaving the eye doctor’s office, was it my lame guesswork that determined my new prescription, or does the eye doctor’s knowledge somehow compensate for my insecurity about this whole process?

Right now my eyes are dilated so I can’t see squat, but when the effects of these eye drops wear off, will my brand new, very chic and very expensive glasses reflect my possibly incorrect choices, or the doctor’s skills?

More like limping. In terms of original content, I’ve initiated practically nothing. I also haven’t “liked” much of anything and have “poked” absolutely no one. But of course I enjoy it when someone writes on my wall or “likes” a comment I’ve posted.

I love minutiae, and Facebook is one big scrolling treasure trove of minutiae. Wouldn’t you know by the time I finally develop this time-consuming habit of reading everything and saying nothing, I find that millions of other people have it too and have named it. I’m evidently a “lurker,“ which sounds unsavory. (Research indicates that “lurkers make up over 90% of online groups.) And worse yet, people criticize lurkers. They call us lazy.

I marvel at the confidence of friends who post everything they think or do throughout the day, and I check their pages faithfully. Many people I work with in the arts and entertainment use Facebook for self-promotion and their dazzling creative processes spill out online for everyone to enjoy.

And the photos! Facebook is worth it just for the pictures.

So far I’ve posted only a profile picture. All of this could change, however, on any given day, because look at what’s happened so far: First I didn’t think I needed a Facebook page, then I didn’t want one, until I did. One morning I may wake up and decide to tell the whole world something, and on that day, when I post it on Facebook, I will have conquered the biggest doubt I have – which is, why would anybody care?

© Anita Garner 2010

As soon as Halloween is over, I look forward to Thanksgiving. It’s my favorite holiday. No shopping.  No wrapping.  No costumes.  Good mood. Good food. Great leftovers.  We eat early and eat too much, then return to eat again. There’ll be a neighborhood stroll between snacks, but there will be more eating. 

We’ll have delicious late-in-the-day sandwiches.  We bring in special rolls (some of us love sourdough, others prefer wheat.) There’s nothing exotic about our Thanksgiving planned-over sandwiches, but there’s no other sandwich all year that tastes this good. Frank Bruni writes about his family’s similar sandwich tradition in Real Simple Magazine.   

By dessert time, music starts. Christmas begins with Thanksgiving pie. Some years Johnny Mathis kicks off the season.  Sometimes it’s Burl Ives, or Vince Guaraldi’s Charlie Brown soundtrack. 

Meanwhile, I’m already humming a chorus of “Count Your Blessings.” Some years there’s a need to start the humming earlier, a reminder to myself that no matter what else happened during the year, there are still reasons to be grateful.

(photo from Real Simple)

You go girl.  Celebrate all over the place. Stretch it out as far as it’ll go. Make it last, and I’ll join your party in progress. Soon enough the world sends us reminders about real life, some of them the distinctly non-celebratory kind.  So let’s get started on your birthday right away and keep it going all year.