This summer I’ve felt out of place numerous times. The worst happened just a few weeks ago when I was kicked out of the senior center despite having permission to come from last year and feeling like I belonged there.
My embroidery teacher only teaches at senior centers. One of the two centers I called last summer shut me down. When I explained my situation the lady on the phone said, “If we let one forty-year-old in, we’d have to let them all in!” The second senior center was open to my coming in the role of a senior helper, so I convinced my friend Marina to get a membership and let me come with her. It worked out great. She ended up taking multiple classes there and got a lot out of her membership, and we both had fun learning Brazilian embroidery.
This summer the teacher was out of town in June and my first return to class was mid-July. The dragon guarding the desk hardly noticed me as Marina scanned her senior card, and I snuck in behind her.
The ladies in the class were thrilled to see me again. The teacher remembered my name and more than one of the ladies said, “Welcome back!”
Marina had finished her big project. After asking the teacher’s advice on washing and framing, she left me to the group to make some phone calls. The conversation went to aches and pains and the dos and don’ts for keeping your shoulder from getting damaged. Don’t reach behind you in the car for something, especially if it’s heavy.
I jumped into the conversation with my own complaint, “I hurt my knee. I had to take steroids and saw an acupuncturist to get it feeling alright again.”
“How did you hurt it?” one of the ladies inquired.
It was actually a combination of ski jumps and roundhouse kicks at my boxing class. I think that I am doing the roundhouse kicks wrong and twisting my opposite knee. I didn’t want to admit to boxing in front of the little old ladies, so I said, “I was at the gym and hurt it jumping.”
I swear every lady in the group put down their embroidery hoops and stared at me. In chorus they said,” Don’t jump! Don’t ever jump!”
Aches and pains: check
I’ve also been having hot flashes of sorts. It’s happened twice in the past two weeks. I have memories of Mom covered in sweat, looking miserable when she was going through menopause while I was a teenager. These haven’t been that, but I’m contemplating a change in wardrobe that will show my elbows. My weight has been creeping up too. Hence the boxing class and my latest attempt to try intermittent fasting.
The first time I felt overly warm was during a tea party. My friend Lena asked me to host a tea party this summer and that has inspired three gatherings. I hosted one for the mothers at St. Peter’s who had dropped their kids off at the Vacation Bible School held at the church. It was fun because I knew only half of the ladies and met my newest best friend, Kristin. I am so looking forward to teaching with her in the fall. The second was a tea party for Lena and eight of our pan-orthodox friends. The third was a quiet affair for my orthodox homeschooling friends. It was great to be back to scones and cucumber sandwiches. Sophia stepped up to be our pastry chef and came up with delightful desserts for both regular and gluten-free guests.
I put the tea on one week and realized that I was sweating. I assumed the kitchen was hot from baking scones, banitsa, and goat cheese-bacon-date appetizers.
“Hey Sophia,” I asked as she reached above me for the cow-shaped creamers, “Is it hot in here?”
She looked at me like I was crazy, “No, Mom.”
Everyone else looked comfortable too. Mike runs warm and I run cold. In the summers I usually have to wear a light sweater in the house. My sweater was off, my long sleeves rolled up, and still, I was overheating. I thought to myself, “I wonder if this is a hot flash.”
It wasn’t so bad. I still drank the hot licorice tea though I was tempted to have a glass of ice water with the pastries. I felt back to normal in another hour.
The next time it happened was on my Alamo trip with Justin. I woke up on Sunday morning at a quarter after two in the morning. Justin came with me to drop Jonah and Basil off at the airport on their way to Pennsylvania for a two-week church camp at the Antiochian Village. Justin and I walked them inside to check their bags and hung out on a bench outside of security until the boys had made it through to the other side. I had to pull over at a few rest stops to close my eyes for thirty-minute naps, but we arrived at St. Anthony’s Orthodox Church in San Antonio in time for yet another nap before the liturgy. It was while I was standing during the service thinking about the beautiful embroidery on the priest’s robes, that I felt that wave of heat on me. Justin and I were near an air conditioning vent. The women around us looked comfortable and several men wore their suit jackets. I was the only one in the sanctuary breaking a sweat. I felt better once I sat down after communion.
The heat during the tour of the Alamo wasn’t overwhelming. Actually, this is the first summer since we moved to Texas that I have been able to brave the outdoors without getting a bad headache or feeling overwhelmed with fatigue. I enjoyed the tour and took a bunch of great pictures of Justin getting tutored in the use of rifles and cannons by the costumed docent. Justin and I even took an evening stroll along the riverwalk before getting to sleep early.
Maybe menopause symptoms don’t make me an old lady yet, but I feel like they help me fit in with the old ladies. I’d like to hang out with women who can sympathize with me.
I mean really. How big a problem is it? Are there many young ladies trying to sneak into the senior center to get undeserved benefits? It’s just one class!
So Marina and I showed up to class two weeks ago, and the gatekeeper stopped us.
“Are you here for the embroidery class?”
“Yes. We are,” said Marina.
“It’s canceled because the air conditioner went out. Why didn’t you get the email? Aren’t you signed up?”
She grilled my friend and demanded her name, rank, and serial number. She made her show senior center card, her driver’s license, social security card, and birth certificate and give a secret handshake to verify that she belonged.
The lady signed Marina up for all the classes and emails before turning her piercing glare to me.
“And who are you?” she demanded.
Marina turned to me and let me fumble through our cover story.
I drive Marina to class and am here to take care of her. I’m a senior helper.” I said.
Marina is strong and able-bodied, but she does have gray hair and a few wrinkles. Even if she doesn’t look like she needs anyone’s help, looks can be deceiving. I hoped the lady would give us the benefit of the doubt. No such luck. The dragon didn’t buy my story. She didn’t even question us before lighting into a lecture.
“You can be here!”
“What are you thinking?”
“I see that embroidery bag in your hands.”
“You aren’t allowed in here.”
“You have to wait outside.”
She went on and on. I tuned her out, heard only blah blah blah, and felt the undercurrent of shame on you, shame, shame, shame.
We turned tail and ran out to the car. When we got there, Marina asked me if it would help if she borrowed her neighbor’s cane to be a more convincing needy old lady.
“I think that boat has sailed,” I said.
I may not be over fifty, but it feels like I belong there. The senior center okayed my coming last summer, and the ladies loved me. Maybe I should have called the director again this year, but it was only for a few weeks. Some of my friends applaud my rebellion for the sake of fine arts and others shake their fingers at me and say I got what I deserved. I just wish I had been able to go for one or two weeks longer.
Alas, school starts soon. I hope that I’ve learned enough to inspire me to continue by myself. There are YouTube videos I can use, but it was fun being part of the group while it lasted. I liked hanging with the old ladies and will miss their company.
I wonder if I can get permission to sneak in again next year.
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