The Girls Trip – Travel Journal from Mexico City and San Miguel de Allende

        When we first see each other, we embrace and talk for hours over drinks -- barely stopping to breathe. We have months of details to catch up on and world problems to solve. We compare notes about raising children in the digital age, the craziness of high school sports, our husbands’ less than desirable qualities and how we love them anyway, the absolute and ongoing shock of the Trump presidency, and the cute guy that was on the flight. Sometimes we have martinis, other times Prosecco, but when in Mexico, we choose TEQUILA. 

Our cultural exploration begins early the next morning in the historical city center. Traffic is terriblé so we nurse our café con leche in the back of the car as we navigate the streets of Mexico City. Much like Park city, we are in the high desert climate, but our proximity to the equator makes the temperature more pleasant. The city square is still decorated for Dia de los Muertos, but the crowds have mostly gone. There are skulls the size of small cars painted by local artists dotting the Avenue Reforma, the Mexican equivalent of the Champs Elysees, which are fun to browse while we sip our coffee and continue waking up during the ride. When we emerge in the Alameda Park, we join a free walking tour to get oriented. There are random folks on the tour with even more random questions so we stick it out for a while and then discreetly peel off to do our own thing. Our agenda is too big for our narrow window of time, so we have to sacrifice expanding our knowledge of Mexican History. (Ok, we are also slightly hungover, and our attention span is reduced to that of a five-year-old). But we do learn a thing or two about draining a lake to build a city that is home to 23 million people. In general, not a great model for sustainable architecture; there are definitely some Pisa Towers in the making. Perhaps one of the most stunning buildings on our tour is the post office. It is decorated with gleaming brass, black marble and onyx. Large mosaic pictures crafted from antique postage stamps are particularly alluring and there are cascading stairways where we envision an elegant bride descending. But there are no brides, and no people in this giant edifice, save for two lonely postal workers. We exchange critical glances wondering why this remarkable building is solely dedicated to a service that is known for taking weeks to deliver mail. Strange. 

 We peak into the Cathedral on the Zócalo (historic center Plaza); it is centuries old but still serves as a place of worship among modern day Catholics and tourists. The Mexican churches, while lovely, are littered with levitated wax bible figures and fake flowers which kind of ruins the old world feel I associate with an oversized cathedral. Also, Jesus seemed to be engaging in some new activities I had never witnessed before. But then again, my biblical knowledge is not exactly up to par, so it could have been some other forlorn religious man and not Jesus at all. 

We eat lunch at a touristy spot on the square, walk through some preserved ruins, and ooh and ah at a few more significant architectural feats before heading back to Chapultepec Park. The thought of sitting in a car for another forty-five minutes to travel five miles is intolerable. Luckily my friend is well versed in the use of the Jump electric bikes (featured on your Uber app). This is definitely one of the highlights of our day. I LOVE experiencing a city by bicycle, it is one of my favorite things to do. We load our sweaters and purses into the convenient basket and we’re off – blazing down the streets in the bike lane, passing the restless drivers trapped in their autos. I feel slightly reckless at first because it’s Mexico, so helmets are not required, or even provided. I would advise my kids not to do this, and my kids would definitely advise me not to do it as well, but we are all adults here so away we go. The breeze blowing through my hair as I take in the sights and smells of the city while barely expending any physical effort gives my heart a thrill that outweighs my fear of smashing my noggin on the pavement. I feel indestructible as I literally throw caution to the wind, we both have silly huge grins on our faces as we outsmart the transportation system. I’m sure we are imbibing massive amounts of carbon dioxide, but at least we are moving, and the traffic is not. 

We park the bikes and head into the Chapultepec park (basically Mexican Central Park) where mariachi bands are playing regional tunes beneath large marigolds crafted of papier-maché. Purple and orange lights add glitter to the lake in the center of the park. Vendors sell traditional Mexican baubles that look suspiciously like they are made in China. Street food looks enticing, but the aftermath of that whim, not so much. The park is home to a variety of museums and other tourist attractions including the anthropology museum which contains thousands of Mexican relics excavated from all over the country. It is an authentic structure that exploits the indoor/outdoor lifestyle to its maximum benefit. Seventy-five pesos (around $4 US) allows entry into most of the cultural options on display in the city, a far cry from the $25 demanded by the Met in NYC. The true gem of the park, in my opinion, is the Chapultepec Castle sitting high above the city. The views are stunning, the building is a study in European architecture, the furniture and grounds are stately and well preserved. My friend strikes a Madonna-like pose to mimic the statues for a funny Instagram moment. The whole time I feel a little guilty fawning over the opulence that the ruling class enjoyed, while the working class suffered. Some things don’t change. Our day in Mexico City concludes with Aperol spritzes at the hotel, followed by a five- course dinner at Pujol, rated one of the best restaurants in Mexico and it did not disappoint. One of my friends who is much more in the know than I am about these things made the arrangements, and it is a memorable meal of modern Mexican cuisine prepared in creative and unexpected ways. 

We depart early Saturday morning in a Volkswagon driven by Oscar headed for San Miguel de Allende, a quaint artist colony located about three hours northwest of Mexico City. Getting back to the VW though, there are a suspiciously large number of them clogging the streets of Mexico which makes me wonder if the Germans dumped off the falsely energy efficient vehicles on the unassuming Mexicans. Hmmm. Anyway, we download a bunch of Ted Talks so we can discuss them during the drive. Once again, we explore relationships, solve more world problems, reminisce about college, and engage in a little more Trump bashing, because – the material is simply too entertaining and in abundant supply 24/7. 

           Finally, we begin our descent into San Miguel, which is surreal. One minute we are careening along a highway which looks like it could be in Arizona and the next we are barely able to get a small, environmentally unfriendly Jetta through the narrow cobble stone streets of this UNESCO village. We are thoroughly charmed already as we pass a local vaquero dressed in authentic Mexican clothing and sombrero next to his donkey looking at…… his cell phone. Wow. So much for being transported back to the 17^th century. After a twisty ride through the edges of town, we arrive at our hotel, which is absolutely stunning and one of the nicest I have ever stayed in (also from a tip I received from aforementioned well-traveled friend). There is no check-in desk, we are greeted by a staff member who speaks perfect English and shows us around the property while we sip a wheatgrass iced tea. I could be completely content to never leave the grounds, roaming the manicured gardens filled with fluffy grasses that rise 12 feet into the air, every sort of palm tree, bubbling fountains, local statues, Dia de Los Muertos themed artwork, not to mention the cozy trappings of the tequila bar. One of the many great things about the girls’ trip, is the ability to indulge in a nicer hotel because you are splitting the room cost, whereas with your husband, it all comes out of the same budget (see honey? I’m always saving you money!!) But I am eager to explore the little village that I have heard so much about, so we unpack quickly and head out. The first thing we notice, even though we had been duly warned, are the cobble stone streets. These are not your run of the mill cobble stones, they are treacherous, and not for the weak of ankle. Properly clad in sports shoes, we venture up and down street after street like one of those dogs with the treat hidden in the maze of their toy. There are no windows to peak in, every residential or commercial space is guarded by a large stucco façade, when the door is open you might see a sunny courtyard store filled with local arts and crafts, or a restaurant peddling mezcal and tacos, or churros con chocolate. Starved after the long ride, we opt for a healthy lunch of shrimp salad with grapefruit and a couple of cervezas at Mamma Mia. 

It is easy to get lost or forget which street you have already surveyed because they all look the same until you solve the mystery of what is behind the magical door. The architecture lends a feeling of constant surprises, which is attractive for the gatherer in me, but somewhat frustrating for the part of me that has no innate sense of direction. I walk down the same street 5 times before I realize I have been here already. Because the door is the proverbial window to the home, they are all uniquely adorned, a cultivated glimpse into the soul of its residents. I snap photos of dozens of them in the hopes of painting or drawing them later. 

            The town square revolves around the Parroquia, a 17^th century cathedral, which is stunning in the day, but even more so when it is lit up at night, and in our case with a full moon. Orange trees line the garden square which is surrounded by shops, restaurants and local vendors. We happen upon a Quinceañera as we enter one of several churches in San Miguel and end up intermingling with the guests and the band. Later we find ourselves in the middle of a wedding celebration in full parade blocking one of the narrow streets. Everyone is singing and celebrating the happy couple; the group is led by two figures who are wearing large papier maché heads that resemble the bride and groom (I assume- we couldn’t actually view the newylweds through the crowd). We wind our way up to the Fabrica de Aurora, an old textile factory converted into thirty artist stalls. I could spend an entire afternoon here, but at this point we are a little overwhelmed by everything and are on the verge of exploding blisters on our feet, so we decide that a little pool time is in order. After a margarita, chips, guacamole, and an afternoon nap, we mosey up to the rooftop of our hotel, aptly named Luna, to experience the sunset. We choose some sort of blue vodka drink (I tend to get over-tequila’d by the 2^nd or 3^rd day in Mexico) complemented by a blood orange garnish and take way too many photos of the exquisite city below us with the late afternoon sun reflecting off of the ancient buildings -- our travel fantasies are completely fulfilled. The hotel provides us with cozy blankets to protect us from the evening chill as the sun plunges behind one of the thirteen churches in this small city. We shower, don an appropriately Mexican off the shoulder number and head to dinner at the rooftop restaurant, Quince, where we have an unencumbered view of the cathedral at night. We nibble on ceviche, sushi, edamame, and this time I have another vodka concoction, but this one is imbued with cardamom, one of my favorite spices. A live tight rope walker entertains the group as he hovers over the garden below. Mexican bars are more civilized than those in America, the bars themselves are gorgeous and adorned with colorful bottles as well as flowers and plants. No one stands around them and spills drinks on each other, guests are required to have a table or a seat. The crowd is comprised of an ideal blend of locals and tourists and the DJ plays music accordingly, mixing American and Mexican tunes seamlessly, a perfect ending to our day.  

            The next day is Sunday, and our hotel is known for its All You Can Eat Brunch. We prepare for the event by working out at the well-equipped gym on the second floor of the hotel first thing in the morning. This buffet is no Chuckorama, people, this is a full-on Mexican extravaganza of local specialties like homemade tortillas, bone broth soup, and spicy grilled vegetables and shaved pork, but there is also a full display of desserts, cheeses, fruits, salads, and our personal favorite, the crepe bar, which speaks the universal language of Nutella, complemented by bananas, caramel sauce and pecans. Heaven. Our bellies sufficiently stuffed, I head out on my own while my friend decides to relax by the pool. The sign of a good girls’ trip is being able to separate for a few hours and forge your own travel experience. I can’t ever call a city “mine” until I have roamed solo and gotten lost in the streets and that is exactly what I do. I gravitate toward the Benito Juarez Park behind the hotel and am excited to discover several local artists displaying their art on park benches and stone walls. There are watercolors and oils, dappled with acrylic and sculpture. Some depict touristy sites in town, while other artists feature portraits and still life. As I stroll beneath the green trees, my shoulders lower a few inches and my breaths are long and deep. Nothing speaks to my soul more than art in a park. I keep going and pass by an old school, a restaurant with a picturesque interior garden, lovers kissing on a park bench. The sound of church bells lures me further up the hill and I encounter an aged stone church. It does not seem as formal as most of the catholic churches I have seen in my travels, it has a casual small town feel about it. The locals greet each other and talk happily with their religious leader before they begin worship. I hike up as far as I can go and catch my breath as I take in the village below through the lens of the cross sitting atop the church. 

As I head back down to the more populated town square, I am pushed to the side by a long line of Mexican vaqueros on horses, I briefly wonder if they need different horseshoes to navigate the cobble stones. While there are still quite a few tourists, the feeling in town is not as hurried as the day before as residents leisurely go about their Sunday rituals. I stumble on openings in the adobe walls where men are selling architectural remnants from old buildings, like the flea markets of Paris, which is completely enticing if I had a way to ship them home. There is everything from souvenir trinkets in the artisan markets ranging up to high-end design items for the home, and of course hand-crafted treasures from local artists like cowboy boots, hats, silver and gold jewelry, encaustic art, and ceramics. I can shop til you drop with the best of them, but for me the gift is the trip itself. Placing myself in an unfamiliar place and opening up every one of my senses to the world around me refreshes my spirit. My college Spanish begins to re-engage and I feel like I’m back in Sevilla on a term abroad. Our last evening ends with another rooftop dinner featuring a fine bowl of paella and a local mariachi band playing in the main square. Families are dancing together, their smiling faces illuminated by the moon as it lingers over the cathedral spire, inviting our gaze up to the sky and expressing gratitude for our time together in this village, whose heart beats with an artistic soul. 

             

Goodbye to my Grammie

I was looking forward to celebrating my grandmother’s 100^th birthday with her in Florida tomorrow with a festive pumpkin pie decorated with candles, but alas, she was never much for milestones and took her last breath earlier this week, just 3 days shy of the big day.  No Smuckers recognition on the Today show for Lois Estelle Knapp Maloney born on October 24^th, 1919, but she did not like the spotlight anyway and was probably happy to pass peacefully, unknown to most of the world.  Only .017% of the population lives to be 100; my Grammie was certainly unique but not because of her impressive statistics.  

I have written about my grandmother several times over the years as she was a major influence in my life, and I always thought we shared a special Cancer/Scorpio astrological bond.  She lived a wonderfully full, yet simple life and I am grateful that she was part of my life for so long.   I have so many stories and memories of her that I could fill a book, and maybe someday I will.  She visited me in most of the places I lived, except for NYC and LA – she was not much of a city person.  She crossed the ocean to see us when we lived in Belgium by herself when she was 81 years old, and we took a hot air balloon ride over the hills of UT when she was 87; she drove to Boston to help out when both of her great grand children were born.  She was always there when I needed her, without judgement or questions.   

She was a farm girl at heart and had a lifelong passion for animals and her vibrant garden.   She always had a home-cooked, hearty meal on the stove, and I can still see her in the pantry with flour covering her checkered apron while she whipped up Russian tea cookies, cardamom buns, or apple pies for dessert (or breakfast, or teatime).  She hung her laundry on the clothesline between the shed and the garage for that crisp country air smell. The frugality of the WWII era made her a friend of the earth before it became trendy; she was a consummate recycler, composter, and follower of the “if its yellow let it mellow” mantra.  Her kitchen was cluttered with tools, and dust could often be found on her bookshelves, but that didn’t matter to us.  She had a quiet contemplative demeanor, never one to scold or make a fuss.  The letters that she wrote to me over the years always began with "Kristie Dear..." This was the Grammie that I loved with all of my heart and she could not have been more perfect in my mind.

She could also surprise me as happens from time to time when you glimpse an adult alter ego of someone you’ve only known in a certain familial role.  I was unhealthily addicted to the Outlander series (as many of you know) and was in the midst of reading all 8 books several years ago.  I went to visit my Grammie in her assisted living facility in western MA, where she had recently moved, and low and behold, the 7^th installment in the series was sitting prominently on her coffee table amidst Reader’s Digest condensed books and Yankee magazines.  Even though these were historical fiction books, they were quite racy and my grandmother proudly admitted that she had read all of them.   We talked on the phone just before her 90^th birthday and she was excited to report that she was able to renew her driver’s license through the mail, thus extending her freedom for a few more years.  I was happy for her, but slightly worried about the rest of the driving population in New England.

I don’t think I ever viewed her as being progressive, but in retrospect, she really was.  She wore a strapless bikini on her honeymoon in 1942.  She was an OR nurse and worked at the hospital until she was well into her 70’s.  She drove her little yellow Fiat pretty fast as I recall, a fact which I belted out in front of all the adults in the room one day, much to her chagrin.  She introduced me to coffee (with cream and sugar of course) at a young age.  She let me go out on a “car date” when I was only 14 years old (this was against the rules in my own home).  She worked when my mom and her brothers were young and throughout my entire childhood. She was a bring home the bacon (from the pig farm down the street) and fry it up in a pan type of dame.  I was remarkably unaware of her professional life, for she did not bring her work home with her.  She never seemed stressed, tired, or unhappy about having a career in addition to shouldering the brunt of the domestic chores.  In fact, I don’t think I ever heard my grandmother complain, about anything, ever.   

Even though she has physically left this earth, her presence pops up all over my house.  The antiques that she left me, the bone china tea cups she collected over the years, the collages that I made with her photographs, letters, and my grandfather’s artwork, the silver candy dishes with initials belonging to distant relatives, the sweaters that she knit for me and my children made from washable acrylic yarn (practical for washing!), and the silk table runners she wove on her loom.  But she was not a material girl, and though I love having mementos of her in my midst, she left me with much more than family heirlooms. I visited my Grammie a few months ago, and though she was mostly not herself and I’m not certain she knew exactly who I was, I hugged her and took in the smell of her soft skin and rested my head gently on her shoulder like I was a child again.  I whispered that I knew she was ready to go, and that I loved her.  I relayed to her how she had taught me to be a better mother, a good friend, a tolerant wife, and a thoughtful person.   I am so happy that I was able to share these thoughts before she died. Too often we can’t find the words or get too caught up in our own lives to tell the people we love how we feel and the impact they have on us.

I am infinitely sad that she is not here anymore, even though I know she is happier wherever she is.  I will miss writing letters to her and sharing my banal daily news and attempts at whatever creative activity I was pursuing that month. I treasure the unconditional love she gave me and her calm but reassuring presence on this planet.  I am not religious, but I do believe in a spiritual Buddhist-inspired afterlife. I picture her free of the confines of the wheelchair, surrounded by her dogs, cats, horses and yellow finches, walking around the big meadow holding hands with my grandfather. I hope that I have made her proud and she knows that she will live on in my heart, and her essence will always be reflected in the way I conduct my life, love my children, and treat those around me with respect and kindness.   And most of all in my appetite for dessert at any time of day.  

And now I write to you with 40 days of a barren dwelling under my belt.  Many are curious about my silence, and eager to know if I’ve had some sort of mental breakdown, crying in the aisles of the grocery store as I plop a handful of items into my cart, enough to feed two people with rapidly expanding love handles.  

My life has transformed for sure, but it is not the grim, torpid existence I once imagined.  I am free from the confines of the groundhog-day-school/sports practice timetable.  Instead of racing around like an idiot making 3 different meals at 5:30 pm, I can often be seen enjoying the last visage of sunshine sprinkling its way across the grass shoots while wallowing in the warm quiet of a beautiful fall day.  The less favorable result of having no constraints, is that I also often have a cocktail in my hand at this time of day.  “Why not?” seems to outweigh any arguments the angel on my shoulder might be able to conjure.  

I take increased pleasure in watching my dogs bark, play and sprint from one end of the house to the other like a competing track team.  Less than a year ago, I would yell at them to stop ruining my walnut floors with their claws during the daily canine combat session.  This was the same person who felt the need to have everything clean and be on time to every event.  Who was she and why was she so fixated on tidiness and punctuality?   Who cares if there are dust bunnies in the corners, dishes in the sink, and we are a few minutes late?   I can proffer this latently discovered wisdom to my younger peers who are in the throes of parenting until I am blue in the face, but I suspect one can only make this leap in hindsight.  When you are juggling so many balls and have little control over where they land, sometimes having a clean sink can provide at least a fleeting sense of command in an otherwise chaotic landscape.  

Some days I wake up feeling like I’m 28 again, ready to conquer the world and seek out a new career path.  The world is filled with infinite oysters, just waiting for me to crack them open and reveal a pearly white entrepreneurial opportunity.  Other days, I am convinced that I am merely a sagging, washed up, unrecognizable version of myself, who has little to show for the last 22 years other than my maternal efforts and domestic contributions.  Now that the trees are gone, I’m having a hard time finding a befitting forest to forage in, even though I frequently walk the dogs in search of it.

Embarrassingly, in my futile stupor, I’ve even found myself talking about grandchildren!  Not that we will have any soon, or perhaps at all, but it seems to be the next inevitable phase of life hurdling down the runway toward me.  This prospect has encouraged me to consider the next ten years as a selfish gift, filled with global travel, neglected passions such as writing and art, and adventures with friends.  These are the proverbial golden years where we have the gift of middle age circumspection coupled with unencumbered time to pursue life’s frivolous joys (only dampened by hefty tuition responsibilities).  

My husband has a strange compulsion to fill my day with new tasks.  He views me like a vagrant worker standing outside of Home Depot holding a sign “looking for work today”.  It is here that I need to set some boundaries, or I will end up being his slave/personal assistant for the remainder of my childless existence, instead of the free agent I hope to be.  I signed up for a couple of classes, so I am not standing in the kitchen looking conveniently jobless.  I’m hoping to jump start the creative parts of my brain again so I can populate my home with art, and these pages with entertaining banter.   

Staring out the small oval window of the cramped Delta bullet I am traveling in, I am confronted with existential, cliched feelings.  I have one life to live and I am in the second half of it.  Who am I other than wife and mother?  What do I hope to accomplish?  What will “they” say at my funeral?  Will my children question why I chose to stay home and raise them?  Or should I have worked full time and hired a nanny?  Would they respect me more?  Not to pepper you with rhetorical questions that I probably don’t even want answers to, but these are the thoughts that play in my head like a wall street ticker tape at night.  Some of the times in our family life that I stressed about the most, my kids don’t even remember; conversely and perhaps more worrisome, some of the times I cherish the most, they also don’t remember.   However, I am sure that their memories won’t fail them forever.  One day in the future when they are reprimanding their own children, their subconscious will burst through and tumble from their lips in the form of some awful utterance.  They will gasp in horror and think “My God, I sound just like my mother” and the circle of parenting will be complete.  

Wait, did I say my nest was going to be empty?

How could I forget about the Pterodactyl who still resides there and shows no sign of leaving anytime soon?  Throughout my time as a parent I’ve generally received compliments about my children when they are not with me; I can’t necessarily say the same for my nesting partner.   Despite the 30 years I’ve been working on this project, I believe my grade is rather poor in this category.  I’m an enabler, a caretaker, a softy, and years of dependency have resulted in the creation of a domestically inept prehistoric monster.

For example, this morning I made him waffles, paid his parking ticket, and did a huge quantity of laundry so he could depart on his trip tomorrow.   If this doesn’t scream “MOM!” I don’t know what does.   Even my son pays his own parking tickets, does his own laundry and cooks for himself when he is home!   Blake’s own grandmother once told me he was the worst trained man she had ever met.  Oy vey, I’m in trouble.

A few years back I blogged about the symptoms of peri-menopause, and as I moved through this life passage, I seem to have escaped the hot flashes (picture me knocking on wood here, there is still time for these trials to occur), and most of the night sweats.   There are a few lingering issues that are vexing but not life altering:  my emotions run on the high side - I can cry at the drop of a hat, I seem to crave only things that are sweet or salty, and my skin still breaks out on occasion.  The one nagging symptom that I can’t seem to shake is the overwhelming feeling of impatience and contempt for my long-term roommate/spouse/colleague/oldest and largest child -- everything he does annoys me. 

Every. Single. Thing. 

The way he flosses his teeth and I can hear the little picking noises.  He paces around the entire house while he is on a conference call, making it impossible for the rest of us to go about our day. The endless adverbs he uses in his writing that I cross out as I edit his letters (I wholeheartedly concur with Stephen King that the road to hell is paved with adverbs).  The fact that he is always home when the UPS man comes and comments on the multitude of packages arriving.  The pile of crumpled “Week” magazines on the his bedside table next to the Q-tip he leaves in case his ear gets itchy in the middle of the night.   The two octaves his voice climbs after he’s had a few drinks.   He drags his feet when he walks in his slippers thus making an unmistakable CALUMP CALUMP noise on the wood floors that reverberates throughout the house (when this is combined with the conference call pacing I am forced to leave the nest).  Three pairs of his pants and a sweatshirt take up an entire load of laundry.  When he does empower himself to make his own breakfast, I inevitably find a shriveled, dried up English muffin in the toaster at 2 pm. The fact that he has read maybe 2 books in the last five years but has seen every episode of Real Housewives.  He returns almost everything that people buy for him, and often times things he buys for himself.  He is like goldilocks on steroids.  I could go on and on here, but it would take up a lot of space and listing my grievances is not productive (although somewhat satisfying).  I know that this is my problem, and up until now I have been able to keep these irritations at a sub-conscious level i.e. I noticed them but they didn’t get under my skin.  Lately, my skin is crawling and I can’t make it stop.  These habits have probably been around for a long time, but are magnified as we age.  No longer distracted by making school lunches and managing the schedules of my children, I am totally dedicated to the shortcomings of my spouse.  This is not a job that makes either of us happy.

When I read the Five Love Languages several years ago, I categorized myself as a #4 Acts of Service.  I recognized Blake as a combination of #2 Quality Time and #5 Physical Touch (I think it is pretty obvious that most men fall into this category).  I’m thinking that we need to add a 6^th Love Language for us empty nesters that involves extreme tolerance, meditation, and some sort of distractive stimulus when it comes to dealing with our partner’s imperfections.   Or maybe just good old fashion self-medication is the answer; tequila, edibles, or Valium would probably do the trick. 

The rate of divorce among adults 50 or older (this is called a gray divorce) is only about 10% (which is actually double what it was in the 90’s but still relatively low compared to other age groups).  This statistic suggests that people are finding a way to live with their spouse despite the ongoing aggravation.  Or they have resigned themselves to the old adage that the devil you know is better than the devil you don’t? Perhaps murder rates are higher among spouses after the kids leave the nest?

Let’s review my options:  drugs, living with the devil, or committing a felony. The future looks bright indeed….

Leaving the Nest

I’m less than 5 months away from retirement.  You must think I am a real go-getter to be able to retire at 52 years old.  The truth is I only had to manage the life cycle of two products that started just over 21 years ago (22 if you include the gestational period).  I probably could have fabricated more products, but our business plan focused on just the two with the hopes that they would provide lifelong dividends.  If we had too many, we would be outnumbered and overwhelmed.  We didn’t spend a lot on R&D luckily, but we certainly paid more than our fair share to get the products ready for market and introduce them into the world.  We foresee these launch costs extending for another 4 years, but hopefully they will generate their own profits after that, and perhaps spin off into new ventures in the next 5-10.   While I will be retired from my full time job, I anticipate being pulled in as a consultant every now and again when the products come up against competition or enter foreign markets where they lack expertise. 

If I had read the job description before I embarked on this 20+ year commitment, I probably would not have applied.  But as it were, it is difficult to put into words the skills that are required to launch this specific type of product and the gargantuan amount of time, patience, wisdom and emotion that are involved.   I would like to say that in my annual review I received glowing remarks and was consistently promoted and given generous pay raises.  While my responsibility level only increased and the potential pitfalls verged on the truly dangerous (from putting up the stair gate to talking about drugs), my salary stayed the same ($0).  The less tangible “benefits” of my job actually lessened.  Early on, my kids used to smile lovingly at me from the crib and profess their love for me every day; later, during the bleak teenage years, I went through days where I barely heard a grunt while they gobbled down breakfast and headed off to school.   There has been no third party confirmation of my performance, and I’m not sure what rating my offspring would give me.  It doesn’t really matter I suppose, what’s done is done.  Nothing is perfect, but they are both headed to college, so that is one thing.  While the job has been challenging and all consuming at times, it has also brought me the greatest love and joy I have ever known in my life.  I would do it all over again.  And as long as one of them commits to putting me in a decent assisted living facility some day, I will be pleased and consider myself worthy of 5 stars.

I oscillate between being nostalgic for the past and looking forward to having my own time/life in the future.  My kids increasingly want to spend more time with their friends and much less time with me.   Intellectually, I can reckon with this turn of events because I did not want to spend much time with my parents when I was in my late teens/early 20’s either; but really, I’m so much cooler than my parents.   The lesson, I suppose, is that you are never as cool as you think you are.  

As I conduct my own private “exit interview” to assess the last 20 years of my life spent raising my children, images of our life pass before my eyes.  First, I think of all the things I wish we had done:  taken more camping trips, rented a beach house every summer, traveled more, played cards and “bored” games as my husband calls them, performed volunteer work overseas.  But I realize it is too late for that, their childhood has been formed and I can’t go back and change it.  So I reminisce about the unique things we did do as a family and the memories they will have:  summer trips to Lake Powell, driving to Pender Island in Canada, the many places they skied throughout the west every winter, the teams they played on, the hikes and bike rides we took in the mountains, and the incredible friendships we formed with other Park City families.

I moved to Park City 15 years ago this month when Shaye was 3 and Mac was 6.  We lived for a brief stint in a ski house in Deer Valley.  Mac could ski well enough on his own but Shaye had just barely gotten up on skis.  The next year when she turned four, we tried to teach her by ourselves, which as most of you know involves hours of screaming quads while they ski between your legs.  Consequently, we put her in the Deer Valley ski school for 2 days a week for a few weeks.  I remember picking her up on her last day with her sparkly unicorn helmet, and taking the chairlift up so we could ski down to where our house was located.   At the top I would remind her to pick up speed so we could get high enough up on the ski access hill so I wouldn’t have to walk as far with our equipment.  Prior to this day, it was an exercise in mood management and battling willpower to get us both back home.  But on that day, as a new ski school graduate, she gleefully skied behind me on her own past the log homes and totem poles that dotted the “Last Chance” run at Deer Valley, and we were both beaming with pride and accomplishment.  Today, 14 years later, and the last time I will ski with Shaye for a long while, we skied down the same trail.  As I skied down with a smile on my face mixed with tears in my eyes, I paused when we approached the proximity of our old house thinking she would also appreciate this nostalgic moment.  But she didn’t.  She sped past me using all of her years of ski race training; charging by the custom homes with moose sculptures and didn’t even glance at the old stopping place where we gathered our skis and she hopped on my back to finish the trek back to our house together.  She is impatient with homework to do, friends to see, and a future that is bright.  She doesn’t need my help climbing the hills or getting down them anymore. 

I did my job well and it is time to let her fly.   My nest will be empty, but my future is also lit with possibility, and of course the occasional consulting gig.