Female Dress - a poem

I studied the invitation.
Black tie optional.

What does that mean, I asked my sister,
the bride’s grandmother.

Tuxedos or dress suits, she said.

No, I mean for us.

Oh, formal. She wants us all
to wear long dresses.
I groaned.

When I was young, my husband said
I looked good
in female clothes.
Feminine, I countered.
No, he insisted. Female.

He brought some home
for me to try,
slinky dresses
that revealed too much
or emphasized places
where I had too little.

I took them back.

Now, I return the sage green dress bought days ago,
the one with gores at knee-length hem
that gave a kicky show of leg.
The rest of the dress?
Matronly. Dowdy. OLD.

Challenged now,
I flew in and out of shops,
slipped in and out of gowns
seeking the perfect size
and style
and color
. . . and me.

Then, on a whim,
I ventured to a big box store.
And there it was,
though nothing
like I had in mind.

Plain and simple,
this navy blue spaghetti strap –
this filmy slice of midnight sky –
exposes fragile, mottled skin,
undeniable evidence
of vanished youth.

And yet,
with shoulders draped
in creamy cloud of shawl,
this very female dress
is me.

The Wisdom of a Certain Age

I was eight in 1951 when Grammy broke her hip. A bus door clamped her coattail, tossed her down and broke her hip on Boston’s frozen ground.

Back then they put you in a home to wait for broken bones to join, not concerned with shape or form.

Mom and Dad and Beth and I had moved to Los Angeles when I was four, but my grandfather refused to leave Boston. So, when it happened, we took the train across the country.

I don’t remember seeing Grammy then. Our trip was long and full of exciting adventures for an eight-year-old. If I did see her, the moment has dropped from memory.

Afterward, it took five years for Mom and her sister to convince them to come West.

Everyone deserves a Grammy like mine, sweet and cheerful, always ready to see your better side. I wondered at her fingers, bent with arthritis, and her soft, wrinkly earlobes. So old, I thought. She was short and stout and slow to move and even dressed old: Long hair parted in the middle then coiled on top. When she went out, she wore hats, gloves and sturdy shoes. Old lady shoes, I called them, though not to her. She walked uneven, descended stairs at an angle. And she never complained.

But the main thing I remember most about Grammy is that time she scolded me. I would give anything to undo the reason.

I was a very immature twenty-three year old. Well, immature, but not innocent. I was about to marry the first person who had actually asked.

At the time, I lived 900 miles from my parents and Grammy. My new boyfriend pushed for a quick wedding. I was amazed and didn’t want to miss my chance. We planned a courthouse ceremony a bare two months after our first date.

Grammy wrote, urging me to slow down, saying that my mother wanted to participate in plans and preparations. My family is not famous for direct communications, so I had no experience handling this kind of thing.

I don’t know whether I responded. But I resented her intrusion into what I believed was strictly my business. And what did she know - she’s old! Besides, Mom had said nothing to me.

I marched on, only delaying the event by a week so both sets of parents could attend.

I know now, these many years later, that Grammy was wise and I was wrong. My mother had been excluded from my sister’s wedding. Actually, we were all excluded from that one. Though I made sure she could be present at mine, I had robbed Mom of the opportunity to participate. And Grammy couldn’t be there at all!

Today I’m only two short years younger than Grammy was when the bus snagged her coat. Even though I began jogging before I was thirty and have maintained an active lifestyle, I’m beginning to understand how it happened to her. She’d reached a certain age.

All the fun runs, half-marathons, racquetball, and skiing didn’t stop my age clock. I still walk up to 20 miles a week, jog occasionally and have a daily strength-and-stretch routine.

And yet I often tip, sway or stumble for no apparent reason. I no longer like to drive – or even walk – at night. I’m cautious with stairs and need more light to read the small print.

I've reached a certain age.

My Grammy died in 1969, a couple years after breaking her hip again. Mom died of melanoma in 1984. So I can’t undo my youthful selfishness, nor make amends in person to either of them.

But Mom gave me Grammy’s engagement ring, a half-carat diamond solitaire. After my divorce the same year Mom died, I reset it in my own design. The diamond sparkles from a teardrop shape. It’s always on my hand. My sun-speckled, arthritic hand, just like Mom and Grammy had when they reached a certain age.

No Longer a Nerd

Years ago, my female co-workers and I joked about being nerds without looking nerdy. We were attractive, well-dressed women, confident and competent in our profession: computer programming.

But those were the dinosaur days of Big Blue, days of Fortran, Cobol, Assembler, and PL/1.

And until recently, I’ve felt only a bit less confident with new technology.

Last week that changed. I am no longer a nerd.

Here’s what happened. I decided to trade my iPhone in for a new model. I’d been told that Best Buy was the place to go.

When asked what phone I wanted, I showed the salesman my old one.

“I need a new one,” I told him, failing to add, “of these.”

I happened to be standing in front of the Samsung display. He guided me to a desk.

The clerk there did a great job, changing my plan to one that costs less. As an ex-nerd, I should have asked more questions before accepting the new Galaxy 5S. I didn’t realize I was moving to a new platform, a totally different system.

That was a Tuesday. I called my sister that day, told her I had bought a new phone; I texted a friend the same information.

My phone was silent for the next two days. When my sister called on Thursday, I learned that my voice mailbox had not been set up. With some effort, I thought I had accomplished that task.

By Friday, I was beginning to wonder. My friend usually texted back quickly. I called her. She had sent a text and wondered at my lack of response.

I began to doubt my decision. I struggled finding my way around the mass of symbols, searching for clues to set up the missing pieces. And I signed up for a class, to be held on Monday.

Finally, Sunday morning, I surrendered. At my age, I’m not willing to spend hours fiddling with something – phone, Facebook, LinkedIn, Twitter – just to make sense of it.

I use my phone as a communication device. I have no land line and the Galaxy had cut off my only source of connection with anyone not in the room with me. Yeah, I could have learned how. But why?

I returned to Best Buy and traded for a new iPhone. Before leaving the store, I verified that contacts, voice mail and text were functioning.

Whew! No longer a nerd - and I’m good with that.

Rejection

I couldn’t miss the small flat envelope, my only mail on Saturday.

I had just come from a writing critique group where one of my poems had received much praise. A member there had invited me to join a new group, just forming. I left feeling validated as a writer.

But there it was, self-addressed and stamped, a tiny envelope that could have been lost had it arrived on junk mail day. Poor little thing!

I knew before I opened it.

“Where is this from?” I muttered, not thinking to look at the postmark for clues. Instead,I marveled at how neatly I had printed my name and address in both to and from spaces.

Slicing it open, I found a half-sheet rejection letter tucked inside, one more to add to my collection.

Disappointing, especially this one, from a journal produced in Corvallis, Oregon. I had been sure they would like at least one of my poems, carefully selected to reflect my years in the Northwest.

But no, my submission “does not meet the editorial needs of the journal at this time.” I wonder to myself how one can divine those needs in order to meet them. I’ve read the journal and checked online for direction.

I sigh, and slide it into my expanding rejection folder. Maybe next time.

Last Dance

The last dance of 2014. Men with Grinch ties, women in flashy red or flowing white, ready to waltz, tango, cha-cha, swing, and night club. A buzz of excitement grew as the room filled.

My East Coast Swing class and two others would perform. We chatted nervously about the routine we had learned. Some practiced on the main floor, though the music often stopped short of the final flourish.

We met in the small room to assign partners and rehearse one last time. Enough of us showed up that some got to dance twice so all could participate. I would be in the second group.

I watched the first group, tracking the sequence of steps, spins and twirls.

Then my mind went blank as the music began for my group. The lead assigned to me, a delightful young dancer, doesn’t let me get far off the routine. I try to mirror her smile, but find myself biting my lip in concentration. We finish with me teetering to the final bow.

Not perfect. I still haven’t mastered the cross-step-hitch-and-go. I’m not even sure that’s what it’s called. Still, I’m good at stumbling through. If anyone noticed, I didn’t care; it was great fun.

With the break until January, I haven’t decided what to try next. But I’m going to keep dancing – right on up to my own Last Dance.

This Dance

I stumble through this new dance step,
feet tangled, teetering off balance.

An instructor pulls me from the circle,
shows me how.
I’m humiliated by his good intentions,
shamed by my awkwardness
and painfully certain
everyone has noticed.

The dancers rotate; he moves on.
I try again, alone, my turn without a partner.
But my internal critic gets loud and distracting:
Me? A dancer? At my age? Why?
I abandon my efforts, stand and watch.

At the next rotation,
the woman nearest me approaches.
I’ve admired her skill in previous sessions
and steel myself for expected sympathy.

“Are you aware there’s a beginner class next door?”
Stunned, I nod.
“Been there,” I mumble.
She turns away.

My head says run.
My feet don’t move.
I sigh and step into the circle.

“I’m struggling,” I warn my next partner
and each one after.
As if they hadn’t seen.
As if they wouldn’t know.

After class, I plot my revenge:
I.
Will.
Learn.
This.
Dance.

Just a Word (a poem)

My raised eyebrow and intake of breath amuse her.
‘It’s just a word,’ she says with certainty,
this girl who looks too young to know.

True, we hear it everywhere,
even in movies portraying ancient times,
since saucy words from then no longer startle.

Repetition removes shock as well as meaning.
Yet – without attention to context – that word
gave The King’s Speech an R – for language.

I replay the encounter in my mind.
With so many words to choose from,
why get stuck on "f**k."