B O U N D L E S S

If I close my eyes, I can still see her leaning over the kitchen counter. Her mom jeans are rolled at the ankle because she couldn't find a petite size at JC Penneys. Painted chickadees dance across her Christmas sweatshirt.  Her blue pen hovers over the notepad. In teacher-perfect swooping cursive she writes: Pork loin Potatoes Pie crust Frozen squash Rhodes rolls Pistachio pudding (sugar free) Maraschino cherries Walnuts Mini marshmallows 1 can of crushed pineapple Then, she reaches for her purse that weighs as much as most people's carry-on luggage. She makes sure she has her checkbook and pops half a stick of Doublemint gum into her mouth. "Are you ready?" she asks.  Mom.  My mom taught me to make lists. She made shopping lists, Christmas lists, to-do lists, classroom supply lists, and reminder lists.    When you feel overwhelmed, make a list.                                                                               -Mom  So

I heard her before I saw her. Everyone in the airport heard her, but once they saw her, I'm sure the image was burned in their brains for all eternity.  "Tracyyyyyyyyyy!" she sang out in her ear-splitting soprano. "I seeeeeeee youuuuuuu!" She was wearing a blue chiffon vintage bridesmaid dress that had seen better days. She often shopped the goodwill racks just so that she could wow me when she met my flight in the Phoenix airport. It was her idea of a practical joke. Every head turned to watch her as she floated through the baggage area like a blue cotton candy cloud.  "Traccccyyyyyyyy! I missed youuuuuu!" Meet my friend Anne.  In my last post, I talked about an aging equation, and I imagined my crazy math teacher self asking my students to solve it with a model. Well, Anne is one of my mathematical models.  If you asked me to describe Anne, there are many, many words that come to mind: Loud, boisterous, eccentric, neon, stubborn, nak

"You have such beautiful skin," she said as she reached out to stroke my cheek. It took every ounce of my 14-year-old restraint not to jerk away. "Like peaches and cream," she purred, "so smooth."  Gulp. "Thank you." I muttered. What does one say to the fawning 60-something friend of your favorite aunt? I remember looking at her chin as she spoke. I couldn't help myself. She had whiskers. And while she admired my youthful hide and contemplated sewing herself a Silence of the Lambs coat out of it, I wondered why she didn't pluck those whiskers...or shave...or splurge on electrolysis.  The memory of that encounter has stayed with me through the years.  I can chuckle about it now, but recently, it has taken on more significance. There are things that no one tells you about aging. Or maybe they tried to tell me, but I didn't believe them until now. Now. Now they seem significant because they make me feel limited.  Those whi

I can still remember the burn. Sixth grade field day, and my gym teacher had tapped me to run the 440 meter race. Everyone else was sprinting, shot-putting, or long jumping. Before you think that I had any running talent, let me help you understand his reasoning. This man, who tormented me weekly in gym class with tumbling, floor hockey and dodge ball, and who posted everyone's weight on his office door for all to see, he entered me in the 440 because I sucked at everything else. I wasn't a sprinter or jumper. I was a mediocre athlete who spent her time reading and writing poetry and playing Beethoven at weekly piano lessons.  His intent was that I would train for the race. He never told me how. I was just supposed to run, like a teenaged Forrest Gump. Instead, I procrastinated.  Field day finally arrived on a hot and muggy June day. I wore a red pair of shorts, vintage 1980, tube socks, and a red, white and blue t-shirt. My Farrah Fawcett waves rebelled in the humidit