Fenced In

Growing up watching my share of “I Love Lucy” repeats, I became a quick study of how “not” to attempt to do things beyond my realm of competence. I never hang my own wall paper, sneak into chorus lines, or take jobs on assembly lines (ie candy factories).

So yesterday when I attempted to repair my fence, I felt completely confident it was a task I could accomplish with little drama.......or so I thought.

It was a simple job of reinforcing a few slats in our grape stake fence. It is an old fence. One with all the wear and character that enhances the look of my wild, unplanned and sometimes beautiful backyard. The weather was perfect. The sun not too bright and the bees hadn’t begun their own workday yet. All was good.

I decided to start on the far side of the fence and work towards the middle. After a few boards were securely hammered, I noticed a slat had become dislodged at the bottom and needed to be pulled back. I stuck my arm between two boards.....and then it happened. I couldn’t pull it back out. Somehow I managed to push my arm through a space that curiously (and almost mockingly) became smaller! This seemed impossible to me. Logic would have it that if my arm could make it through, I should be able to pull it back out with no problem! Yet, the more I struggled, the harder it squeezed! I was trapped. It was a total “Lucy Moment”.......minus Ethel.

I started to panic. No neighbors home to hear me yell, no phone within reach, and no one scheduled to come by. Crying was not an option, no kleenex. And even though I knew I wouldn’t have to chew my arm off (after all my husband would be home in 7 hours), I was one unhappy gal.

Then I got to thinking. So what was the worst case scenario? I get a little too much sun, I get dehydrated, my arm becomes permanently crooked (no real chance of that happening), I miss a couple of meals......just the thought of that made me ravenous!

Then there were my dogs. My two little worthless chihuahuas, staring at me with their big brown eyes. Seeing my predicament, and totally indifferent! To make matters worse, I am pretty sure I knew what was going on in their minds........”how we getting back in the house, you’re the only one who can reach the door knob”?

Where was Lassie when you needed her?

Here was my flow of thought during the next 10 minutes. Yes, it was only about 10 minutes (okay maybe 9, but it seemed infinite at the time) before I wrenched myself free. What is worse? Kicking a hole in the fence, acquiring 1000 splinters while yanking my arm back, and how long will it take me to live this down considering I was going to be busted one way or another! But mostly I wished I had something to read. I know, I’m weird.

When I finally did manage to set myself free, I immediately thanked God. Then I put the hammer and nails away, applied first aid to the injured arm, and resigned myself to wearing long sleeved shirts for awhile. Oh, and swore my dogs to secrecy.

But being who I am, I knew I was going to have to share this story with someone. So I called my daughter. And in a voice crackling half with laughter and half tears, I proceeded to confess my Lucy Moment. Needless to say, she half laughed and half cried with me.

Then she suggested Life Alert.

The Right To Bare Arms!

Remember that movie where some guy opens a window and yells out, “I am sick of this crap, and I’m not going to take it anymore”! Well, it went something like that. I don’t remember exactly what he said. But I am beginning to know exactly how he felt. Because my anxiety regarding the limitations of “aging” is increasing by the minute.

And I’m not talking physicality here... (is that a word)?

It began innocently. In my 50’s I think. I started to find myself drifting toward age appropriate clothing. It was a subtle move. Not something I woke up and decided I was going to do. But as time went on, little by little, I noticed I was eliminating certain styles, cuts and colors from my wardrobe.

This may seem like the appropriate thing to do for women my age. Lengthening our skirts, raising our necklines, covering our arms. But where does it end? I am getting to the point where I feel like it is just easier to stay home, than to go through all the trouble it takes not to “offend” anyone with my aging body parts!

Whoever said “Growing Old Isn’t For Sissies” hit the nail on the head. There is a book out there dealing with every phase of life, from gestation to geriatrics. But nothing that deals with this “transitional period”. You know, the “Im old, but not that old stage”.

Somehow I don’t think men suffer from the same dilemma. I really don’t know very many men who care whether they are showing too much of anything! Some might even consider their lack of “decorum” part of their charm.........think again Old Man!

So I’m back to me and the “age appropriate” wardrobe thing. And I still haven’t decided which way to go. And like I said, it is not the biggest issue on my mind. I do lead a full life. I read, I exercise, I garden. And I spend the most time with my grandchildren that I possibly can.

Come to think of it though, going over to my daughter’s house recently sort of brought this all to the forefront.

While I was in her driveway getting out of my car, I hear my little grandson yelling “my grama’s here, my grama’s here”. Then I see him running out the iron gates stark naked! Free as a bird! Ahh......to be 2 again. Not that I remember being 2. But just the simplicity of it all is what grabbed me.

Just how is this aging thing supposed to work anyhow? Is it considered more admirable to grow old gracefully? Or do I want to go down fighting? I can’t seem to make up my mind.

But until I do, and depending on how I feel on a given day, I might leave the house in a boat necked “three quarter length sleeve” top. And the next day, a plunging V necked “sleeveless” Tee.

Because this is America, and last I heard, we still have the right to Bare Arms,

(dimpled or not).