Humor | Crone Story

By A Hair-#1 of 40 Grows

Posted on September 17, 2019 by K.S. Schultz

Last Spring while scrolling through my Facebook feed I noticed a pictorial essay of women with arms raised, their unshaven armpits displayed. Just as images of women’s bodies portrayed in all their authentic glory evoke a tribalistic pride, I felt the sense of freedom apparent in their eyes. Immediately I typed “How powerful!” and hit “enter” without a thought. I’m free, too!

I began warming to the idea of not shaving my pit hair when a week before an acquaintance on the barstool next to me leaned in and whispered, “Ya know… she doesn’t shave her armpits”, as if imparting a dark dangerous secret about a young woman we know and like. Unfiltered and Budweiser loose, I laughed and said, “Who gives a shit?” Nudges already sprouted, the online troll of a misogynist fertilized my curiosity with , “KSS why don’t you just grow a beard” in response to my support of the hairy women.

What was so magical about armpit hair? And how long did it have to grow for my powers to activate?

Besides a dark stubble, I haven’t met my armpit hair since it was blonde, prepubescent and fine. Shaving was a requisite of becoming a grown woman, at least in my mind. I can still see myself at 15, enjoying the ritual. Cultural definitions of beauty widened a fraction during my youth and allowed for new dramatic, artistic expressions of self (think David Bowie, Prince, and Motley Crue).

In 2019, I find myself in a time of flexible inclusiveness, with rigid labels fading into history. Thanks to millions of wise women and brave men before me, I feel more free to try new things and new ways of living than ever before. Shaving was not an important issue to me, but Dang!, it sure is important to some people. Seeking to understand why, at least somewhat, (MOSTLY for a chance at Samson-style magic), I used this summer as my lab.

#1 Grow-not shaving my pits

What I learned:

Surprisingly, hair in my pits made me less funky this summer, even with switching to a natural rose-oil deodorant.
Perhaps armpit hair created new synapses in my brain, or maybe when I tried something different, I grew through experience. Whatever the case, this choice added to my body acceptance by making shaving purely optional.
I AM MAGICAL! I feel more powerful in my body now that I allowed myself to be uncomfortable, then settle into a reality where shaving is purely my choice, rather than doing what I’ve always done because I was trained to do so.

This is my first experience/choice/”Grow” out of 40 I intend to curate by the end of 2019. New experiences expand my understanding and the potential for fun, laughter, and friendship is endless. I invite you to join me for #40grows to experience growth through new habits, new food, new thoughts, meeting new people, new adventures, new anything that takes you out of your bubble of comfort. The point? To enrich our lives and fertilize our brains.

Food and Drink, Health, Humor, Life, Travel

Walking & Gawking in Ireland – Part 2

Gallery | Posted on September 7, 2015 by K.S. Schultz

Leaving Glendalough we wound our way through the Wicklow mountains to the Hollywood Inn, where we were introduced to the Hurling Finals and learned a few Irish turns of phrase not mentioned in guide books.

Great food, beer & patrons at the Hollywood Inn

Ravenous from hiking about, I dug into fish and home-cut chips, fascinated by the muscular men on the field balancing a tiny ball on short clubs while running, hitting the ball and being hit by it, all with no protective gear, but plenty of blood and bandages. The excitement rivaled a Superbowl party and Hollywood Inn was more than I hoped for with an uneven stone floor, heavy dark wood , a stone courtyard, tasty fresh food and superb service. Our first day in the Irish countryside was a success, now we had a real drive.

Bolstered by a hamburger he described as “very lean”, Jim drove us on narrow back roads to Kinsale, a quaint harbor town in County Cork, where we stayed at the Actons Hotel overlooking the harbor.

Actons Hotel in Kinsale, County Cork

Our TomTom was set to avoid toll roads, which made each trip a bit longer and more scenic than motorways. We had no trouble finding “toilets”, a convenient petrol station in many towns we passed through.

Billy, our bartender in the lounge at Actons, patiently explained how children in Ireland begin their first day of school with a lunch box, a backpack, and a hurling stick. An older gentleman at the bar put us through a course of Irish dialect in a descriptive telling of a helicopter ride over County Tipperary that his daughter gifted him with on a recent birthday. They both asked what we liked most about Ireland thus far. I said I loved the water everywhere, especially the streams flowing down mountains and bubbling over rocks. The old man said, “Ahhh, that’s the piss!”, then laughed open-mouthed as did we. I told him I also like the potatoes, they were better than at home. He said, “Ahhh, yes the new potatoes are in, but don’t eat the chickens!”. Billy told us of growing up in Kinsale and said he would like to visit the Wicklow Mountains someday. Huge sprays of Asiatic lilies and eucalyptus graced tables throughout the hotel while small bouquets of hydrangea and roses adorned each stall in the lobby bathroom. Our room was modern and bright with clean lines and a warm breeze blew through a tall unscreened, tilted window. Sailboats rocked in the moonlit harbor. We slept deeply.

Kinsale Harbor

After our first day of venturing we had a true appreciation for a full Irish breakfast, which consisted of an array of juices, fruit, pastry, cereal, breads, cheeses and smoked salmon. We ordered eggs and sausage and the plate unnecessarily came with white and black pudding and a grilled tomato. Each day seemed as though it may be the one to try the pudding, but I never did chance it, afraid my stomach might upset our plans. We walked around Kinsale’s colorful streets while our breakfast settled before taking off for Blarney Castle.

Colorful Kinsale

Blarney Castle was THE castle of our trip and we took our time exploring all the nooks and scary crannies. Stone stairs spiraled up to the stone with a rope on one side to hold on to. As we ascended the walls grew closer and the old man in front of us stopped in fear, the opposite of my typical run through it reaction. Voices filtered up from the stairs and signaled a group coming up behind us. I felt trapped already, barely able to breathe. I jumped back down two stairs and yelled to my husband that I’d see him when he came down. My discovery of the family room, murder-hole above the castle’s main entry and arrow shaft views throughout the castle rooms thrilled me more than if I kissed a stone that through my camera zoom looked wet. Ugh. But, do not let claustrophobic me deter you.

Manicured grounds, gardens and a long carriage house were lush with vintage blooms and beside the castle stood a poison garden planted with castor beans, foxglove and other nefarious, yet pretty, flowers and plants. We rested and took in the groups of people who dotted the expansive lawn before we perused the gift shop and purchased a watercolour that I would carry on the plane to insure its safe arrival home. Our breakfast worn off, we headed back to Kinsale and away from tour bus crowds in search of a late lunch and a pint.

One of many Blarney Castle Gardens

Before the Blarney Stone stairs turn scary

Under Blarney Castle but not the dungeon

Blarney Castle Family Room

Food and Drink, Health, Humor, Life, Travel

Walking and Gawking in Ireland – Part 1

Gallery | Posted on March 30, 2015 by K.S. Schultz

Walking a mile to a mile and a half 4 times a week for 6 weeks prior to our Irish holiday deflated my middle and I lost five pounds, which to me means I can eat potatoes and bread (as long as I keep walking). You hear wild rumors as you get closer to 40, but I had to experience gaining weight while subsisting on salads and water to accept that my squirrel-like metabolism is dead along with my desire to buy a swimsuit. It all works out, though, because the rumor about fading endurance is also true. Just a few weeks of a walking routine increased my stamina and made Ireland more enjoyable than I imagined. I was even able to imitate running to catch our connection at O’Hare.

We spent our first evening in Blessington, a tiny town with a lone little terrier scouting main street just south of Dublin. On the winding gravel road back to our lodgings we got out of the car to peek at Blessington Lake.

Blessington Lake

The next morning we started off for Wicklow National Park and found ourselves stopping often to explore.

A park in Wicklow County

A park with a fast flowing stream over mossy rocks and a stone bridge called to us, as did a cemetery with Celtic crosses raised high. The faeries moved a bit too quickly for my eyes, but I swear I heard their giggles just beyond the bubbling gurgle of water.

Between my walking routine and Ireland’s vistas, I shed not only fat, but a bit of cynicism. Dreams coming true take chinks out of a calloused soul.

Walking does not build much muscle and muscle burns fat, so when I stop moving, my metabolism does, too. Motivation is plentiful on vacation, but hard to find on a snowy frigid days, which is when I discovered that truth. Almost a decade ago Ireland renewed a walking culture to combat the country’s growing obesity rate along with national dietary standards. It is not difficult to persuade an Irishman or woman to go for a stroll and GMO-free counties offer up food that reminded us what food used to taste like. My theory is that we do not eat as much when it is flavourful because we are more easily sated.

Exploring Wicklow

Low in the Wicklow Mountains

In the hills of Wicklow National Park I stumbled on loose rock and stepped in a deep uninhabited hole, highlighting the need for a walking stick. Mountain rescue teams are stationed in every area for good reason.

We were off to find St. Kevin’s monastic ruins in Glendalough and mistakenly walked up a steep road to find St. Kevin’s Parish where we lit candles for loved ones in heaven. There were lovely engraved garden sculptures on the grounds and I suspect my husband knew I would stop at the craft fair on our way back down as I was excited for any opportunity to visit with locals.

St. Kevin’s Parish

Gardens at St. Kevin’s Welcome Center

On the way up, I stopped to rest and take in the gardens at St. Kevin’s welcome center. It was all meant to be, I am sure. Just down the road we found the ruins of St. Kevin’s 6th century monastery. Raided for centuries by the Vikings, most of the standing ruins date to the 11th and 12th centuries. A man in a kilt and hose played Uillean pipes, whcih lent a melancholia to the scene, but a little girl yelling at the top of her lungs, “Rapunzel, let down your golden hair!” brushed it away. A spiritual place, the sun broke through the thick cloud cover just as I offered up my gratitude.

St. Kevin’s monastic ruins in Glendalough

Glendalough Beauty

St. Kevin’s ancient church often called “St. Kevin’s Kitchen” due to the chimney.

My husband was usually ahead of me because I am quite the gawker. Also quite the talker and writer, I have many a story to tell you about Ireland, so I will break our adventure into a few posts. Sláinte! (Good Health!)

Walking and Gawking in Michigan

Posted on July 30, 2014 by K.S. Schultz

For the next six weeks I will be walking and practicing with my new camera in preparation for a trip to Ireland. Walking is a bit boring really, compared to lithe runners with their snug running shorts and pretty shoes. My jazzy shoes rival any runner’s, but that is about all the competition I can provide. Have you seen the articles that say you can simply walk off excess weight around your middle? Yes, I saw the headlines at the supermarket, too! So, I will perform my own experiment, and it will not involve eating kale. My diet is mostly natural foods, however I still inch up a couple of pounds every few weeks. The reasons are valid and can be confirmed by witnesses, but how I got here is not nearly as interesting as where I am going. Honestly after sporting a boy body all my life I feel powerfully curvaceous with a B-cup. It is not the weight that I mind, but the pudgy bulges when I sit down, and standing for hours on the beach is tiring. Sitting down I look like I am wearing a flotation device around my middle, and some of my pants no longer fit over the floaty part. For the record I would like to keep the butt. And the B-cup. I will not cut calories, but will walk at least a mile 5 days per week for the first 3 weeks. Writing about my progress may cause a bit of a Hawthorne effect, so I must be diligent about eating sugar to protect the integrity of this experiment.

Something tells me that my current two walks a week is not sufficient conditioning for 7 days of trekking around the Emerald Isle. Arduous hikes are not part of itinerary, however the cumulative effect of a few hours walking per day could hobble me, and what a shame that would be. A six-week timeline also coincides with the number of summer days remaining here in Michigan. Winter is always coming.

This well-intentioned idea came to me while on vacation, where so many great plans are born, yet never make it back home. On the first day I walked down the gravel road and later along the shore of the island where we vacation. Each walk an easy mile, I walked with spring, buoyed by my new plan. Another benefit of walking outdoors in Northern Michigan is that the black flies and mosquitos spur me on and keep my heart rate up, like tiny coaches. A mile is easy because I worked my way up to that 8 months ago after my last RA flare. After limping to the bathroom for a couple of months, it seemed like a prize to walk that far at a good clip. It is time to move on now.

5th Dimension Job Hunt Update

Posted on February 7, 2012 by K.S. Schultz

The 37th revision of my résumé combined with a smooth and confident demeanor gleaned from a multitude of prescreening phone calls finally hooked an interview invitation. I’m exaggerating my coolness, but if I think about how suave I’m not, I may never have the nerve to squeak out interview answers.

When I lost my job six months ago I knew the job market was competitively fierce. I can read. But, knowing and understanding to the depth I do now are different and worlds apart. My belief that perseverance can overcome any obstacle was wavering and The Maker and I were having some serious discussions after six months with no interview offers. And then, in typical fashion, He threw me a bone. Someone was finally intrigued enough to want to examine me for defects in person.

I had been so focused on the interview invitation benchmark that I now felt like a prepubescent boy shown a big set of boobs for the first time. I was quite excited, but ignorant of what was expected in a 5th dimension job interview. Was, “Where do you see yourself in five years?” still a standard query? I have always hated that one because I want to answer, “Oh, writing my second novel (the one I got a huge advance for) in a secluded Irish cottage by the shore”, but instead I feel I must offer up the standard, “Working in a position like the one I’m interviewing for at a company as great as this one.” My research assistant, Google, helped me compile a list of interview questions that make the “where do you see yourself” query seem elementary, and I mean public-school elementary. My daughter is much more hip to the interview scene so I tapped into her wisdom, much of which consisted of warnings about talking too much and having specific work product examples at the ready. My husband’s advice was to replace my usual meandering anecdotes with examples of professional wins. If I did not practice this foreign language, I knew I’d leave a prospective employer entertained, but unsure of my qualifications. If enough people say you have hay in your teeth…maybe I do talk too much.

In a concerted effort to create succinct and relevant answers to questions such as, “Tell me about a conflict you had at work and how you handled it”, I spent two full days composing more acceptable answers than, “I just accepted that she was a bitch and ignored her”. Then I practiced what I hoped were appropriate answers out loud until the “ums” were gone.

On the day of the interview I followed my kid’s advice to think of the interview as good practice. Remembering that this professional, well-adjusted woman who now advises me on professional matters used to eat ants lends to the whole 5th dimension surreal experience. Considering that my interviewer was not much older than my kid made her somewhat less intimidating, despite her high-anxiety persona. Or perhaps that was just the pregnancy hormones. I understand that after being out of work for six months I am beholden to feel grateful for ANY prospective job, but guess what? I don’t. I have over 20 years left to work and I’m tired already. So when she told me, “it’s crazy here every minute of every day; everything is always changing”, I probably visibly cringed. It’s why I have never been chosen to sit on a jury, and may be why I did not hit the next benchmark – a second group interview.

It was good practice, but she did not ask most of the questions I prepared for. During another phone interview last week I was asked specifically how my past experience could be transferred to this retailer, not exactly what one thinks of as a prescreen question. But thanks to the previous week’s interview, I was prepared. Now I wait. If I make it past the first interview, then there’s a group interview with the Vice-President. Welcome to The 5th Dimension. It seems I’ll be here for a while.

Don’t Kill an Interview with These Blunders (money.usnews.com)

Duct tape discipline?

Posted on January 30, 2012 by K.S. Schultz

I assumed newly patterned duct tape was intended for art projects, but it seems some parents, teachers, and caregivers are using it as a time-out option. To be perfectly clear, I do not find the act of duct taping a toddler to a wall or taping close a teenager’s constantly running mouth facetious. It is yet another example of how any immature imbecile can have kids and prove themselves worthy of my immature name calling by posting Facebook pics of duct taped-kid handiwork. The absurdity is what makes me laugh, just like when I watch the dumb criminals show on TV. Teachers and daycare workers who are trained and paid to curb child behavior must have lost some of their minds to believe kids deserve to be duct taped. I imagine all those perspectives change dramatically when the police show up to let them know in crystal-clear fashion that they do not see the humor, nor find it justifiable. In 2011 parents received 30 to 36 months in jail for duct taping their kids and last week a daycare worker in Kentucky was charged with first degree child abuse and is facing up to ten years for taping a toddler to the floor during nap time. Toddlers are chocked full of energy and curiosity and they lack impulse control, traits that they will also exhibit as teenagers when it’s even harder to assert one’s authority over the independent hellions. I do not often judge other parents. I had my turn and made hundreds of mistakes. I defended the Mom who admitted to drinking wine the night that her baby was stolen from her home because Moms get blamed for everything. It isn’t as if she was breast-feeding. Wine and parenting are frequent partners, Read More

New Traditions for a New Year

Posted on January 3, 2012 by K.S. Schultz

This year I felt enhancements to our New Year traditions were in order. Our ritualistic purging is commonplace; out with the old dust bunnies and unworn clothing, make room for the new year’s new dirt, new ideas, and new fashion. 2011 was anything but commonplace in the Schultz household, and I have a strong feeling that 2012 will be chocked full of more surprising, yet positive, change. While I did not want to give up our tried and true merrymaking recipe, I did want to add more symbolism to the mix following a more dramatic purging than in past years.

Every time I clean out the closets I spy my wedding dress languishing in plastic and think what a waste it is to have such an exquisite gown that I just cannot bring myself to use as a zombie bride costume. Our daughter married in 2011, giving us a new appreciation for the cost of a wedding. So, this year my dress is in the donation pile hoping to be worn again by a happy bride on a budget.

Not purposely, I purged my job, and more importantly my paycheck in 2011. I naïvely asserted my rights under the American with Disabilities Act, urged onward by the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission who assured me that it really was the right thing to do. Not the practical thing, but the right thing. I think some of the dressy items I wore to work will be appreciated by a woman who does not have associated bad memories attached to these blouses and jackets. My next job is still unknown, but surely it will require a new-to-me wardrobe. In the meantime, I received comfy clothing for Christmas that better fits my current writing persona and requires the space taken by old items reserved for annual events I will no longer attend. Out with old, out with the old, this year’s purging may take a couple of weeks.

After cleaning and organizing much of our nest, I turned to my right-hand-man (Google) for symbolic new year traditions practiced around the world. There is a Scottish custom called “first-footing” whereby after the stroke of midnight a young, handsome, dark-haired man brings coal, money, bread, salt, and whiskey to your door for good luck, wealth, and good cheer. We could not adopt this tradition because good-looking dark-headed gentlemen are hard to find, while blondes and red-heads are plentiful around here, but are considered bad luck in this Scottish tradition. As the only handsome dark-haired guy in the neighborhood, I couldn’t have my husband visiting our neighbors all evening giving away our whiskey. The Ecuadorian tradition of burning things that you do not want in the new year sounded more promising as long as we subtracted jumping over the fire and courting an emergency room visit. I put out the call to my Mom to print pictures of unwanted 2011 ideals and absurdities. Throwing joblessness, disease, food lines, and fat cats in the fire pit was as cathartic and celebratory as I hoped. If we do not wrestle with those problems in 2012 it will be even better. A new year is a time for new hopes. In that spirit, I alerted my family and friends to the South American tradition of wearing brightly colored underwear for good luck; red for love, and yellow for money. Everyone agreed that if they could not find red and yellow underwear they would settle for yellow, perhaps because we are already blessed with love and those that are single figure they can easily find romance once they have loads of dough. I anticipate how lovely it will be when all of us receive a windfall in 2012 and will let you know when the cash starts rolling in so you too, can wear yellow underwear next year.

Our older traditions of drinking, feasting, and kissing excessively were still loyally held to, a sign that not all old things need to be purged, perhaps just embellished a bit. I hope that your 2012 is filled with new possibilities and stripped of the 2011 things you no longer want or need. Happy New Year!

The traditional “what the hell?” gift and other Christmas surprises

Posted on December 28, 2011 by K.S. Schultz

Inevitably, I receive at least one Christmas gift that makes me wonder, “What the hell made her buy me that?” and it is usually from my Mom. I am her only child and can only surmise that it is because she buys me so many gifts and gets caught up in a Christmas buying frenzy. This year it was Hello Kitty sleep pants. I try not to say, “What the hell?” out loud anymore, but could not stifle my laughter. Accustomed to my insensitivity, my Mom immediately offered, “They are SO cute!” But, I am not a cutesy kind of gal, despite the winking kitty and the kitty with reading glasses that make me giggle every time I look at them. However I create characters who are, so I will wear them when I need to channel a girly girl. When she reads this she will say out loud, “I gave you gift receipts”, but I would never dream of returning them. They and everything else quickly faded into the background when I opened the Godiva chocolate bar she gave me. “Rapture” and “ecstasy” are how I would describe my experience with Godiva.

My Daughter gave me a jar of brandied blackberry jam. I have not had booze with breakfast before, but this stuff has made me a believer. Well, at least in brandied jam. My Dad gifts me with monkeys because the monkey is my Chinese astrological sign. This year I received a monkey steel bank where the monkey climbs a palm tree to deposit a coin in the top of the tree. My home office is called “the monkey room” because it houses the majority of them. They scare the shit out of my husband who knows that monkeys are not always fun. Hearing how meaningful these monkey gifts are to me, my friend David made me monkey cookies for Christmas. The cookies were extra special because he had to form them with mix and match cutters, not having a monkey cookie-cutter, and he put spices in them so they were not the usual sugar cookies. David is not the usual friend; he is a bit spicier. In case you have not figured it out, my family goes to great lengths to buy thoughtful gifts (I think my Mom does it on purpose). In the season of consumption it may be our way of separating ourselves from the herd and appreciating each person’s uniqueness. I really am quite blessed with an unusual group of family and friends who make this absurd world not only more bearable, but lovely and laughable.

Power on a chain

Posted on December 27, 2011 by K.S. Schultz

I instantly wanted my own pistol necklace when I spied Whitney Cummings’ version on TV. My husband, amused by my Christmas wish, warned me that I would not always want a pistol necklace, meaning that I would not always feel a deep need for justice like I do today. But, the necklace is not a symbol of justice or vengeance, but one of power. If you have ever felt the frustrating impotence of victimization I highly recommend target shooting. It is cathartic to load, aim, and shoot a gun, more so when I hit the intended target. Just so we are clear here: I am not referring to a psychotic break during which I shoot people who have done me wrong. The calculated process involved in successfully hitting my target requires concentration and discipline, attributes that madmen typically lack. My mind cannot be sullied with bastards and bitches while focusing on my stance, breathing, grip, sighting alignment, and follow-through. The experience is all about me and I do not think of anything else while shooting.

To my delight I received a pistol pendant necklace, a sure sign that I was on the nice list despite opposing opinions and that my husband supports me even when he thinks I am a bit crazy. The pistol pendant symbolizes my approach to 2012. I began taking a beta-blocker to calm those pesky tremors I had since I was twelve, finally accepting that impressions form other’s reactions to me and my tremor was similar to blood in the water for sharks. My aim has improved, along with my blood pressure. Back to the bastards and bitches now; in order to hit my target I must focus on aligning the sights rather than the looking at the target. What is my goal/bull’s-eye? If I focus on the bastards and bitches rather than bull’s-eye justice, my accuracy will suffer, not to mention my mood. Good shooting is firmly methodical rather than knee-jerk emotional and not to be rushed. My pistol pendant symbolizes a disciplined approach and personal power, but the look of confusion on people’s faces when they notice it will be wildly entertaining, too. I may not wear it to job interviews, though.

40-Something Silver Linings

Posted on December 20, 2011 by K.S. Schultz

Recent silver lining searches have been tough, which for me means that it is more important than ever to ferret out positive bits in order to not be overwhelmed by uncontrollable change. During my latest attempt to shift my attitude toward gratitude it occurred to me that the existence of more clouds equal more silver linings for discovery and focus as this crazy world increases its attempt to spin me off. Digging through unrealistic cultural expectations and layers of personal emotions I finally unearthed these tidbits:

The older I get the better I am at trivia, especially ancient history (1960-1990 trivia). My daughter has never even heard of the Double-Mint twins.
Since I now frequent pubs rather than dance clubs, I no longer have to buy sexy club clothing and can drink a pint in the comfort of jeans and a warm sweater.
Sex is better than ever because my husband and I have been together for a long time so we know every erogenous nook and cranny. For me the most effective aphrodisiac is the intimacy and trust we share.
I do not have any credit card debt after learning the lessons of spending tomorrow’s money in my 20’s and 30’s. I accept that I lack discipline in this area and choose to not tempt fate by adopting a cash-only policy.
I am a better cook due to years of culinary missteps.
My spiritual life is richer and more satisfying than ever because I do not allow myself to be confused by other’s beliefs, opinions, or hypocritical behaviors. My relationship with God is as personal and exclusive as my marriage.
My pharmacist knows me by name.
I travel the well-worn path of foot-to-mouth less frequently and hurt people less often with sarcasm and dry wit.
As a remedy for dry hair my stylist advised that I wash my hair less frequently, so I spend less on shampoo washing my hair every other day, which is good because I spend more on lotions.
I am not objectified by men often and on those rare occasions that I am, I do not feel an ounce of indignation.
My slower pace means I do not sport the bruises so prevalent in my younger years.
A cold toilet seat feels heavenly during a hot flash.
I get what I need more often because I ask for it.
I have no qualms about wearing sweatpants during long car rides, which means my underwear do not become uncomfortably wedged.

They may seem like silly little things to be happy about, but I am willing to take even tiny bits of cheer to offset the inevitable reality of getting older. Try making your own list and see what a difference it makes in your mood. It should at least be good for a laugh.

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