Foundation Garments

When I was a very little girl, I was simply fascinated with my mother's girdles.  If you're younger than 40, you might not even know what a girdle is.  Women in the 1940's and 1950's referred to them as "foundation garments."  They were like a huge pair of rubberized underpants that squeezed your stomach and hips into a nice, smooth shape.  (For you younger women, think of industrial strength Spanx.) You really had to work to get into a girdle, wiggling, pulling, and straining, shifting your weight from one leg to the other until you got all your various rolls of fat smooshed into place. Sounds pleasant, doesn't it?

I got the biggest kick out of watching my mother put hers on every day - and yes, she wore the thing every day, under the housedress that cinched in at her waist and flowed out in a puffy skirt which fell just above her ankles.  My mother had a nice figure, and the girdle supported her in all the right places, so her waist looked tiny, her stomach nice and flat, and the folds of her voluminous skirt lay gracefully around her hips.  I have to admit, they did great things for the shape.

Girdles came to mind because of the book I'm reading - No Ordinary Time, by Doris Kearns Goodwin, a history of the "Home Front" during World War II.   Goodwin, writing about the various shortages and rationing during that time, notes that most American women were happy to conserve on foodstuffs, and nylons, and gasoline, and whatever else it took to support the Boys overseas.

But they drew the line when it came to their girdles.  You see, girdles were made largely of rubber, and rubber was in very short supply because the Japanese had conquered the rubber producing countries (Malaysia, Thailand, and the Philippines.)  According to Goodwin, when this rubber shortage threatened the continuing manufacture of girdles, a "public outcry arose."   The government gently suggested that women "grow their own muscular girdles through exercising."  Women countered that "neither exercise nor any other known remedy" could restore aging muscles to the "their original youthful tautness."  Journalist Marion Dixon argued that "without proper support from well fitted  foundation garments" there was no way that a woman over the age of thirty could "stand erect or do any physical work" without tiring.  "Certainly Uncle Sam would not want women to wear garments that would menace their health or hamper their efficiency, especially during wartime when every ounce of energy and effort is needed," Miss Dixon concluded.

Believe it or not, the government caved.  The War Production Board deemed girdles to be "an essential part of a woman's wardrobe," and, as such, could be manufactured despite the rubber shortage.

Score one for foundation garments.

Although I was fairly intrigued by girdles when I was five years old, by the time I was a teenager,  I was plenty happy to forgo the whole foundation garment experience in favor of panty hose ~ although my mother was scandalized by the whole idea (which was, of course, part of their appeal.)

But I did wear a girdle - once.  The dress I picked out for my bridal shower  had a straight skirt and was very clingy.  My mother suggested it would look "so much nicer" if I wore a girdle underneath it.  I agreed - admittedly, I had put on a bit of weight at that time and could benefit from some smoothing out in the figure department.

I suspect she was hoping I'd be converted and take to wearing foundation garments under my bell bottom blue jeans.  But let me tell you dear reader, the four hours I was squeezed into that girdle were the most miserable four hours of my short life to date.  I came home from the bridal shower, peeled off that rubberized torture garment, and stuffed it into the trash can.   Since that day I can happily say the most constricting foundation garment I've worn is control top panty hose, and I only wear those on rare occasions.

The rubber industry is safe as far as I'm concerned.

Cutting the Cord

During this trip to Florida we've been spending time doing some "housekeeping" things, preparing to leave the house for what will likely be a more extended period of time as the uncomfortable Florida heat and humidity begin to take hold.   We came down this particular week largely to help facilitate the transport of my son's car from here to his new home in Texas.  Unfortunately, due to some very poor customer service on the part of the transport company, that may not be happening.  You can imagine what he has to say about that, having been without his prize Pontiac GTO for the past four months ~ and if you can't imagine, you can read about it on his blog.  But we also had a small roof leak which led to some water damage in our third bedroom, so we've been getting that fixed up too. The other day, after a trip to Home Depot, we stopped at Publix to gather provisions for the week.  It's hot here already, and we discovered straight away that the air conditioning in our car wasn't working.  Windblown and sweaty, I hurried inside the nicely chilled grocery store, and reached into my purse for the grocery list.  As I rummaged around inside it, I realized my cell phone wasn't in its usual pocket.  I groped around at the bottom of the bag - no phone.  I upzipped all the zipper pockets on the outside of the purse and looked inside.

Then I searched all those places again, more frantically this time.

Nothing.

My mind raced back to the time I last used it - outside the Home Depot, where I was sitting on a bench and talking to my mother.  I clearly recalled putting it back inside my purse when I ended the call.  (In spite of my last post, I still remember some things!)  But what if it slipped out and fell on the sidewalk outside the store?  We'd have to drive all the way back there in the hot, windy car and look for it.  And what it wasn't there?  My monkey mind raced ahead - I knew I wasn't eligible for a new phone until April 10, because I was thinking about getting an iPhone and had recently logged into my Verizon account  to check my status.  A mere 10 days away- but I couldn't live without my phone for 10 days, especially here  in Florida where I don't have any other means of communication!

Panic set in.

I wheeled my basket up to the front of the store where J. sat in the little cafe to wait for me.  "My phone is gone!" I cried, with nearly as much fear as if I were announcing the loss of our firstborn child.

Looking back, I'm appalled at the intensity of my reaction.  But it proves something I've been feeling for quite some time - I am much too dependent on my technology.

Granted, society fosters this dependence, with the proliferation of electronic information, the convenience of being able to communicate instantly and from anywhere, and the expectation that you will take advantage of this ability.  My husband and I text each other on a regular basis, many of my friends text me, and in fact, a few of my younger friends hardly ever call but communicate almost entirely by text.   I've had eleven emails from my office in the past three days, even though I worked extra hours before I left to insure that all the essential things were done and/or covered in my absence this week.  Luckily, no one has called me (in fact, that would have been the one good thing about losing the cell phone- no work calls!)

The other day as I contemplated life without a cell phone and realized the grim level of panic that possibility incurred, it started me thinking more and more seriously about cutting the cord on my technological dependence - not just the cell phone, but the internet too.  Too many hours have been frittered away in aimless internet searching, following one link after the other, restlessly scanning pages and videos.  On days when I've made a concerted effort to stay off the internet until an appointed time when all other activities have been completed, I'm amazed at how much more productive I've been.  It's not just a matter of the time consumed, it's also the attention involved.  Perhaps younger people are better equipped to handle the fast paced, fragmented cyber world ~ my aging brain is clearly suffering under the strain.

I'm not naive enough to think I can completely sever my connection to technology.  But I can take some serious steps to wean myself from what's become a compulsion an addiction. Here's my experiment:  I'm changing my home page from Facebook to the local newspaper.  I'm removing Facebook and Twitter from my bookmarks bar and placing their links in a separate folder which will require three steps to access.  I will not use the internet for personal reasons on work days until I've finished at the office for the day - and this will be a difficult test, because I have to use the internet for work reasons.  And finally, I will completely unplug on Sundays, and will use the computer only to write.

As for my  phone - it had fallen out of my purse onto the floor of the car.  And since I'm admitting my electronic addiction, I'll tell you exactly how far I've fallen dear reader - I kissed my cell phone.

So I think when April 10 rolls around, I'll just hang onto my two year old phone with its tactile keypad, no data plan, and 100 texts per month.   That should suit my new dialed back lifestyle just fine.

I Remember Nothing

We were online the other evening, purchasing airline tickets for our trip here to Florida this week.  When it came time to enter the credit card number, my husband turned to me and said, "Okay, let's have it."  I rattled off the 16 digit number, complete with expiration date and security code. "Amazing," he said, shaking his head as he always does when I come up with arcane bits of information out of my head.  "How do you remember that?"

Time was, I would smile with smug satisfaction, proud of the mind that was like a steel trap, keeping track of everything from passwords to birthdays, drug classifications to recipes.  In recent months, however, my smug smile has faded.  Clearly, the days of my ability to reliably classify and organize information in my head are coming to an end.  In spite of recalling that credit card number upon request, I have been forgetting more and more things.  In fact, sometimes it feels as if I  remember nothing.

I know that women of a certain age have fuzzy memories.  Apparently, the gradual loss of estrogen from a woman's body directly coincides with losses in her memory bank as well.  I try not to panic when I can't remember where I've left my cell phone, my watch, my purse...it's common at your age, I tell myself reassuringly as I dash madly from room to room.

It's harder to remain unconcerned when my fuzzy thinking has more dire consequences.  Last weekend, I was filling my husband's weekly pill container.  He has a new medication, a tiny pink pill, which is fine except for the fact that two of his other medications are (practically identical) tiny pink pills.  He takes two of one of these pills, one of the other, and one-half of the third.  Well, I got them all mixed up and placed two of the one he was only supposed to take one-half of!  Frantic, I tried to reach him on his cell phone before he took the medication, already  imagining the headline -"Menopausal Woman Kills Husband in Medication Misdemeanor."  The text I got in reply was less than comforting - "Too late on those pills.  Already took them."

Don't worry, I'm not a widow.  In fact, he didn't seem any the worse for wear other than some extra neuropathy pain because I shortchanged him on the pain medication.

But these are the kinds of muddle headed snafus to which I've become more and more prone.

In addition to age, I blame some of my frazzled thinking on the internet.  I know I spend too much time on the internet, or texting on my phone.  The constant barrage of information makes my brain feel as if the synapses are overloaded.  Sometimes I can almost feel the sparks flying around up there, as my heart literally palpitates in agitation, flipping from Facebook to blogs to Twitter and back.  So much to read, so much to think about, so much to say!

Oh my.

But mostly this increasing loss of memory makes me feel less capable, and that's a feeling I'm not familiar with.  I've always prided myself on having a good grip on life in general.  Paying bills on time, keeping up with appointments and errands, maintaining a regular schedule.  Orderly and neat, everything taken care of the way its supposed to be  -that's how I like to operate.  Lately,  I've begun to worry about what I may be missing, what I might have forgotten to do, what addle brained mistake is out there waiting to snag my progress through the world.

The world is definitely more complicated than it was in our parent's generation.  It seems my life is continually crowded with things that must be done, all vying for my attention with varying degrees of intensity.  And sometimes I wonder if all the things that have been invented during the past 50 years ostensibly designed to make life easier don't in fact make it more complicated.   My yearning for a simple life is rooted in a need to have less to process, less minutiae to worry about.

Less to remember.

Because I'm definitely remembering less and less.

Subject Matter

Sometimes we sit down to write and can't think of anything to write about. Writing Down the Bones, Natalie Goldberg

It's true, isn't it? Sometimes ideas for writing flow fast and furious.  Have you noticed this often happens when you're in the midst of something entirely unrelated to writing - like mopping the floor, walking the dog, taking a shower?  Times when it's hard to get your hands on a pencil and paper to jot those ideas down.  Finally, having stolen those precious few minutes we talked about last week, you sit down before the blank screen and nothing comes to mind.

Nada.

Keep a list of writing ideas and prompts in the back of your notebook or on a separate document in the writing folder on your computer.  These can be ideas you've come up with on your own during those times when the muse is working overtime, or prompts from favorite writing books or websites.  Don't spend too much time reading the list - just pick an idea and start writing for 10 minutes.  You'll be surprised what happens.

Here's a list to get you started, courtesy of one of my favorite writing books, Writing Down the Bones, by Natalie Goldberg:

1. Begin with "I remember."  Make a list of small memories, or fall into one large memory.  Don't be concerned with whether the memory that first occurs to you happened 10 minutes or 10 years ago.  Delve into it and see what develops;
2. Describe your morning routine in as much detail as possible.  Make the reader feel as if they've been there with you;
3. Visualize a place you really love and write about it so the reader will understand why you love it;
4. Write about learning to do something you thought you'd never master but did;
5. Open a book of poetry, pick a line, write it down, and then continue writing, in prose or poetry;
6. Write about leaving - leaving home, leaving a relationship, leaving the coffee shop yesterday morning.

One and Only

When you're the only pea in the pod, your parents are likely to get you confused with the Hope Diamond.~  Russell Baker, journalist, and author of Growing Up

We were joking around about only children at work the other day.  My boss' husband is an only child, as is her six year old grandson.  "We all know only children have their quirks!" my boss said affectionately.

Indeed.  I certainly know about the quirkiness of only children.  As you probably know, I'm an only, who has the interesting distinction of being the daughter, the wife, and mother of an only.

A bunch of solitary peas in the pod, this little family of mine.

I loved Russell Baker's statement, and I think he hits the nail on the head.  As only children, we are the priceless gem in the setting of our parent's universe.  How can it not be so?  Only children are often born to older parents who have waited a long time to have them, so they naturally become the intense focus of those parent's existence.  Much loved, much anticipated, the expectations of the entire family get laid upon their shoulders.

It can be a burden sometimes.

I've taken Baker's quote a bit out of context.  His family of origin includes two siblings, but also more aunts, uncles, and cousins than he can possible count.   In a family that large, individual children do not garner a great deal of notice.  "When the grown ups in a family as big as our said that children were born to be seen and not heard, they weren't just exercising the grown-up right to engage in picturesque speech and tired old maxims.  For them, holding down the uproar was a question of survival."  So, Baker continues, "you might as well learn to listen, because they're not going to give you much of a chance to talk."

I grew up in the suburbs of Detroit, circa 1960, in a neighborhood freshly built for baby boomer families.  On my half of the block lived five Catholic families, who were raising anywhere from five to seven children in the cookie cutter style three bedroom brick ranch houses that lined the street.  As an only child, I was not only an anomaly, but the envy of all those other kids.  I had an entire room to myself, plus I had the undivided attention of my parents.  (It wasn't until adolescence that we all realized what a mixed blessing that focused attention really was.)

But when I talked, my parents listened, with bated breath.  Every word out of my mouth seemed to be pure gold.  Looking back, I wasn't much different with my own son.  I admit, I found him fascinating.  He was so bright, and creative, and unusual, why wouldn't I be smitten with everything he had  to say?

There is definitely a flip side to all this attention.  When you're in that kind of spotlight, you feel constantly on display, you feel a tremendous responsibility  to maintain not only that level of fascination,  but also your good reputation.  God forbid you should mess up in front of this captive audience who hangs so breathlessly on your every word and deed.

But we all mess up.  Fumble a line, forget an entrance, show up late to the party.  When you're all alone on that stage, it's harder to hide those inevitable faux pas.  Nor do you have anyone to foist blame upon.  ( I recall trying to blame our dog Ginger several times, but it didn't work out.)

Luckily, the parents of only children are only too willing to forgive.

After all, we don't have any "spares" in the offspring department, so we have to do whatever we can to keep that one precious diamond firmly ensconced in the ring.