Pushing through the Sixties, one day at a Time

  BRANT ROCK BEACH  When I think of Brant Rock Beach, I time travel fifty years. It is located south of Boston, on the bay side of Cape Cod. Nesting Brant gulls inspire its name.  During my childhood, my grandparents would often take my siblings, cousins and I there for a marvelous summer afternoon or even a whole day. We’d leave their house in Pembroke, Massachusetts, assigning the role of house security agent to Tinkerbell, their yippy Yorkshire terrier. Tinker expressed her disagreement with this role as we piled into two cars. “Yip, yip, yip!” Ten people filled the “yellow bird”, a big yellow Chrysler, and a nickname less blue Pontiac. Off we’d go. Twenty minutes or so later, the swamps outside the window announced the arrival of salty waters. Beach-related businesses, such as scuba shops and kite stores, dotted the routes and we asked if we could stop for ice cream. “Certainly not now, maybe at the end of the day,” was Nana’s response. In the parking lot, we’d ...

What kind of doublespeak is this? Less is more?!! What on earth could that be about? A hint: ecology. Ecologists tell us that we have too much waste. Reducing it is the first step toward a healthier planet, and therefore, healthier people. Freddy Schmid and Julie Garrigues, co-founders of “Less is More,” are not only trying to sell us beauty products, but to join a movement of conscientious consumers. Have you looked at the list on your shampoos and gels? What is often the first ingredient? Water, of course. Would you be surprised to learn that, on average, 5% of beauty products’ value is the active product, and the rest is water and packaging? Suppose you could buy a product where they cut out that waste and concentrated on value? With less waste, you have more of the active product. More value. Substance over appearance. I interviewed Freddy Schmid, the co-founder of Less is More, on a late April after morning in Paris. An unusually warm week, the timing was right to talk a...

  Eighteen months have passed since my last dip in the pool. The timing is right- legs are shaved. I’m ansy. Issam, my husband, thinks it’s not a good day to swim- but he’s not a reference. Any day with a “y” in it is no good. I gather my things, drape my duffle bag over my shoulder and shuffle down avenue Marechal Juin. The wind picks up and I regret leaving my jacket at home. “I am warm,” I say to myself. Mind over matter. I second guess my decision to bring my heavy beach towel. Trudging towards the pool’s entrance, I notice wet-haired teens exiting the building. Inside, I ask if the hair dryers are broken. They aren’t, so I pay and go in. Five euros for a resident. Expensive. Before Covid it was 3€50. In the changing room, I don a swimsuit. I have no illusions about doing many laps, and the suit reflects that. It has a padded décolleté that creates drag. I have forgotten about one of life’s golden rules: timing is everything. In the largest, deeper lap pool, children ju...

  Aging is for the courageous, my Mom says. And I’ve only just begun. I’m 59. Over the course of the last 15 years, I’ve adapted to a few changes without getting too upset. To begin, there was the arthritis in my upper back. “No more yoga!” ordered my neurologist. “It is triggering migraines.” At least the shoulder stands were. No more. Grey hair came in my early 50’s. Every six weeks, I dye them over. I could be all grey underneath for all I know. The sagging skin. Certain body parts headed south. A little roll of fat on top of the belly. My 5k menopause weight gain. Speaking of “the change,” the retreat of the period was joyful. In the late 70’s, when I learned I’d be bleeding monthly for 30+ years, I cried. When it stopped, I smiled. There was the old sneezing and leaking problem. A little squeezing took care of that. But now, I’ve developed something I don’t like. Really don’t like. A hearing problem. Yes, wax builds up quickly. Yes, I’ve started to put sub-titles...