Iris Ruth Pastor's Blog

I’m Doing Things My Mom Would Never Do

My mother would have never, ever thought of going clothes shopping or home decor shopping at Goodwill or the Salvation Army stores not far from our house.
 
And my father would have been horrified if she did – feeling it reflected poorly on his ability to provide for his family. 
 
Fast forward: 

My parents are long gone. Inflation is rising.Tariffs are engendering fear of rising prices.People are beginning to question their consumer buying habits. Environmental concerns are starting to be dominant  – overshadowing our desire for more and more consumer goods – goods that used to be plentiful and cheap.And people are beginning to shop more sustainably.

Thrifting is in.
Thrifting is the act of shopping for used, pre-owned goods at discounted prices at thrift stores, vintage shops, flea markets, and garage sales. Not only can we save money, but we often can find unique items – thus “the thrill of the find”.
My deep, dark secret is out: I am a thrifter.
Here are a few key finds for my house in the thrift shops around where I live. 


 
My philosophy is that even if you have a fortune stashed away, why pay more when you don’t have to? 
Take a look at my awesome finds – all under $5 bucks each!

The thrill of thrifting has ruined me forever for shopping exclusively at Eileen Fisher, Anthropologie and Free People.

And here’s more:
Lacey white top – worn to my grandson’s graduation
Blowsy, flowy top – worn to my 60th high school reunion
And a bunch of one-of-a-kind tops worn whenever I need something different




What would my mother think? I’m not sure.
 
Thrifting involves some detective work – a little more energy and attention to details that isn’t as necessary when shopping for brand new apparel. It’s more than just looking for well-made items and recognizable labels.

I carefully inspect for damage, stains, missing buttons, holes, excessive wear and frayed inside seams which could be a sign of infestation. I try on all items because sizing can be variable and inconsistent.I inspect the zippers to make sure they are intact and working. I check for any missing snaps or hooks and bad smells. 

And then the real fun begins: I envision how I can change, modify or re-create the existing article of clothing. (Change-out the buttons, for instance, or just merge with my other wardrobe pieces.) 
 
My mother – a very creative person – would be amazed and energized to discover an alternative way to refurbish your wardrobe, to mix and match and restyle what you already have hanging in your closet. She’d like that thrifting is friendly to your wallet and friendly to the environment – once she got over the shock that is. 
 
The tide is turning. Just a few years ago, the cars parked in front of my favorite local thrift store would not have been described as upscale luxury models.
Now, when I do my weekly visit (on Senior Citizen Discount Day), the parking lot is also dotted with BMW’s, Lexus SUV’s, Range Rovers and Cadillacs. 
 
On a recent Saturday, I ventured into a newly opened resale shop. I was amazed at the size of the store. And I was even more amazed at the sheer number of shoppers – young women predominantly in their 20’s – avidly trying and buying. 
 
Thrift shopping promises a unique adventure – you are never sure just what you will find. 
Thrift shopping is kinder to the environment because it keeps items out of landfills.
Thrift shopping in many cases benefits worthy charities that support community programs through their sales.
 
Try it. You may like it.
In the meantime, Keep Preserving Your Bloom,

Why We All Should Take Better Care of Ourselves

I’ve started working on my 2026 New Year’s Resolutions – resolutions that each January barely make it out of the starting gate –all but forgotten 31 days later as we slide into cold, wet and windy February.
 
While devising my list, I unexpectedly came across this tidbit: there actually is an International Self-Care Day – celebrated annually and nationwide on July 24th. Established by the International Self-Care Foundation (ISAF), the day serves as a reminder to prioritize self-care and make it a daily routine. The date, 7/24, symbolizes that self-care’s benefits are available 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.
 
Absolutely brilliant.

If we want to live to a ripe old age relatively mobile, cognizant and engaged, it’s time to educate ourselves on what benefits are derived from our positive actions. Knowing we should exercise more is one thing, but getting in touch with how it actually benefits us is much more effective and motivating.
 
Don’t we all want to live a long time only if we are in good enough shape to enjoy it? 
It doesn’t happen by magical thinking.
It happens by doing.
 
We all hear how following simple steps can prevent physical and cognitive decline as we age. Rarely, though, is the benefit of actually following through with each action ever emphasized.



Walking consistently at a brisk pace reduces the risk of dementia, cancer, heart disease and diabetes. (That should get us off the couch and into our walking shoes.)



Staying hydrated slows wrinkle formation ladies! (Love this conclusion). Drinking water (not Cokes – like I have been doing lately at an alarming rate) helps us maintain our energy levels and reduces fatigue. (Is that why I doze off mid-afternoon after guzzling down a can of Coke Classic?) 

Drinking water regularly and incorporating fruits and veggies high in water content (like cucumbers, oranges and watermelons) into our diets promotes endless amounts of good things:

Aids in digestion. (I’d love to ax my twice daily habit of swallowing a Nexium.)Prevents constipation. (Don’t even get me started.)Improves concentration, alertness and cognitive performance. (More cokes = more memory loss. Duh.)  Keeps joints lubricated, reduces pain and stiffness.Promotes a feeling of fullness, which may help with weight management. (OMG – how did I not know this?????)Regulates our blood pressure, supports effective circulation and heart function.

Knowing all the benefits tied into staying hydrated will surely help me pass on that bright red can of Coke Classic. 



Limiting salt intake and consuming alcohol moderately can prevent obesity, hypertension and increased strain on our hearts and blood vessels. (I salt BEFORE even tasting. Oh my!)



Healthy sleep habits lead to restorative rest.
Older adults (like me) need slightly less sleep than younger human beings – perhaps 7-8 hours per night. (Another failure on my part – I’m lucky if I get five.) 
And continuous uninterrupted sleep is best. (I haven’t had a night like that in years – leg cramps, restless legs, night sweats and bladder issues keep me busy throughout the wee hours.)
A good night’s sleep is important:

It lowers risk of heart disease, depression and dementia. It enhances brain function, brainstorming and idea germination. It boosts energy levels.It prevents cognitive decline and impaired decision making.It regulates our moods. (When I’m tired, all looks bleak and feels overwhelming. When I’m rested? I can conquer the world.)It strengthens our immune systems, repairs tissues and builds muscles so we can more effectively ward off illness and infections. (Who wants to be sick all the time?)

 We can all talk-the-talk, but when it comes to healthy aging, we need to literally and figuratively walk-the-walk. 

Why? Because personal responsibility and accountability matters.



Keep Preserving Your Bloom,

I Really Believe I Have Been Reincarnated…

I’ve always been fascinated by reincarnation. I sincerely believe that a person’s spirit or soul can be reborn into a new body after death. Continuously having this strong pull towards learning and reading about the Holocaust, I couldn’t help feeling that I had been through that horrific era in some capacity as a victim.  

Since reading The Diary of Anne Frank in 1955, I have always wondered if I would have survived the camps – been cunning enough, brave enough and/or lucky enough to save my family and myself.

For years, I read every Holocaust memoir I could get my hands on – attended lectures and viewed my life through the lens of how much better I had it than a European Jew had it in the 1930’s and 1940’s.

It was hard to be depressed by a weight gain, a baked apple pie that didn’t live up to its recipe, a child’s messiness, or a minor rear end collision when comparing everyday life in the United States to the travails of the six million Jews who perished and the countless others who escaped by the skin of their teeth.

I also wondered – as I went through life and made countless friendships of those who did not share my Jewish faith – if they would have been among the righteous gentiles who would hide me from the Nazis if we lived in Central Europe during World War II. 
 
So it didn’t really surprise me that on the last morning of the Danube cruise in Germany, I woke up abruptly about 8 am and said to my husband, “Two words just popped into my brain and I have no idea where they came from: REPLACEMENT BUTTONS. I have to utilize AI to research if there is a connection between the two words ‘replacement buttons’ and the Holocaust,” I nervously told him.

To my utter astonishment, there was a definite connection – thus reinforcing my murky feeling of having had a very personal connection to the Holocaust. 

Here is what I asked:

Was there such a term as “replacement buttons” given to Jews who survived the Holocaust?
Here is what I learned:
The term “replacement buttons” refers to a form of identification used by some Jewish survivors to signify their survival status and, in some cases, to help them access benefits or aid. It symbolized both survival and the immense loss they endured.

After the Holocaust, many Jewish survivors struggled with the trauma of their experiences and often faced challenges in rebuilding their lives. Some had lost their whole families and their communities. The practice of giving survivors “replacement buttons” highlighted the need for recognition and support, acknowledging their survival in a world that had often forgotten or ignored their suffering.

The “replacement buttons” served as a powerful symbol for Holocaust survivors in several significant ways:

Helping with a survivor’s connection to their prior community.Serving as a Symbol of Solidarity, creating a collective identity among those who had similar experiences.Symbolizing Hope, Resilience, Survival and New Beginnings – representing the strength of those who survived against great odds.Reminding future generations of the importance of remembrance and the dangers of hatred.

Immensely curious, I then asked AI to show me some visual representations of “replacement buttons”. Nada. 

I asked many of our tour guides if they had ever heard of the “replacement buttons”. No one had. 

Further research yielded no images, but a brief description: 

made of either metal or plasticusually blue and whitesometimes with a Jewish symbol

Days have passed. 

I still can’t figure out why and how the term “replacement buttons” popped into my consciousness that morning cruising the Danube through Germany. Maybe it was because I experienced such powerful moments so often in touring historic Jewish sites in Central Europe and something was aroused in my subconsciousness. 

One such powerful moment was when our tour guide in Regensburg showed our tour group a picture of a large Jewish family gathered together in Germany prior to WW2. 
 


Aunts. Uncles. Cousins. Husbands. Wives. Siblings. An entire family wiped out – perishing in the ovens of Auschwitz – save but for one young family member who survived. 

“Here I am waiting to be liberated…and everything is gone.”
– Sara Kay (1926–2019). United States Holocaust Memorial Museum Collection, Gift of the National Council of Jewish Women Cleveland Section, RG-50.091.0082
 
Immediately visions of my family’s annual Thanksgiving photo of my husband and I flashed through my mind – with our sons and daughters-in-law, our precious grandchildren and loving extended family. That could have been us.
And I felt like throwing up. 
Let us not forget.
 
Keep Preserving Your Bloom, 

On the Cruise

It’s 4:07pm on Wednesday afternoon, October 29, 2025. My husband and I are on board the SS Beatrice in Central Europe. We are cruising down the Danube River – on our way to Spitz an der Donau – a village of about 1500 residents known for its stunning landscapes and rich cultural heritage, located in the Wachau Valley of Austria. I am gazing at the passing scenery. 

I am sitting in a lounge on the top floor of our floating wonder. I am surrounded by marble floors, elegant mirrors and a Murano chandelier. I am sipping a glass of Zweigelt Red Wine – listening to an Italian opera playing softly in the background.   

If I were home in Tampa, I would have spent part of my day paying my bills, emptying the dishwasher, watering my plants, dealing with dinner details and throwing in a load of wash. After that, I’d be sitting at my kitchen table, facing my cluttered counters, half listening to late-breaking news on CNN. I most probably would be making a list of Halloween candy I needed to buy. Then, coupons in hand, I’d drive to CVS to purchase my Halloween stash. 

Instead, I am writing this column sandwiched in between a morning tour of the Stetteldorf Castle built in 1588 and a festive party on board tonight.

(If I thought replacing our worn and stained master bedroom carpet with hardwood was expensive, I have radically changed my mind. After listening to the owners of this castle deal with the overwhelming task of restoring it to its former glory after having been looted by the Russian Army in World War 2, the carpet estimate seems pretty, pretty reasonable.)

A vacation is defined as a period of time during which a person takes a break from their regular work or daily routine to rest, travel, or engage in leisure activities.
I couldn’t define it better. 
 
Except for our honeymoon, my husband and I have NEVER taken a vacation by ourselves in the almost 50 years of our marriage. This entire experience was new to us. 
 
My husband and I ate food we had never tried.
We didn’t pass on dessert. 
We drank (well, actually, I drank). 
We made new friends.
We traveled to places we’ve never been.
We listened to music we had never heard.
We learned things we never knew. (For instance, we did hear, but couldn’t substantiate, that if women in the royal court wanted to up their chances of giving birth to a male heir, they drank beaver sperm.)
My husband and I were kinder and more patient with each other. 
We held hands.
We slept cuddled close-up next to each other.
We laughed at each other’s jokes. 
We relaxed. 
We re-charged.
We thoroughly enjoyed every new experience.
 
But most of all, while we traveled from Budapest to Prague, we counted our blessings.
We filled our heats with gratitude for being able to have this golden opportunity to expand our horizons. 

 
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,

The Terrible Thing that Happened to my Father-In-Law

If you are opening this newsletter the minute it pops into your inbox, I can tell you exactly where I am on this Friday, October 24 at 3pm Eastern Standard Time. 

The city: Budapest
The country: Hungary 

It’s 5337 miles away from where I live in Tampa. I am at a pretty nice hotel, probably brushing my teeth and getting ready for bed for Budapest is six hours ahead of Eastern Standard Time. 

What am I doing there?

I’m with my husband – soon to embark on a Danube River cruise. And we are here because we are celebrating EARLY our 50th wedding anniversary, which will take place in August, 2026. 

You may also ask why we are celebrating our 50th wedding anniversary early?

And I am going to tell you.

It’s because of the terrible thing that happened to my father-in-law just six months before his 50th wedding anniversary.

My father-in-law was the best guy in the world – kind, compassionate, non-judgmental. He was devoted to my mother-in-law and adored his children and grandchildren as much as they adored him. 

My in-laws were married in Cincinnati, Ohio shortly after World War 2.

No one really knew what the root cause was that propelled him to leave us so abruptly – only that he did.

One day he was happily retired, delivering light bulbs part-time for a business owned by one of his buddies and the next we knew he was going through debilitating chemotherapy for advanced pancreatic cancer. How he got it and why he got it remains unanswered even today.

I was with him at his last chemo session where he was too weak to endure the treatment. The doc turned to him and said ever so softly, “Go home, Herb, there’s nothing more we can do.”

He was dead days later at age 70.

My mother-in-law “celebrated” her 50th wedding anniversary alone – without her partner.

My husband and I decided we weren’t going to tempt fate. 
My husband and I decided we were taking a Central European river cruise beginning in Budapest, disembarking in Nuremberg and motoring to Prague and we were doing it TEN months before our 50th anniversary.

So…..

My make-up is off.
My suitcase is unpacked.
I’m sliding between Egyptian cotton sheets.
I’m vowing to myself that I will not do one productive thing while we are here.
No counting calories. 
No answering jean jacket related e mails and texts.
No keeping up with world chaos. 
No worrying about my plants dying, my mail accumulating, my bank account dwindling. 

It’s party time – it’s time for my husband and I to rediscover “our bloom” because you just never know……. 

Hugs, 

The Hostages, a Dead Actress and a Bouquet of Red Roses

I’m back to citing more observations by author Ingrid Fetell Lee in her book Joyful: The Surprising Power of Ordinary Things to Create Extraordinary Happiness.

Lee says that we need more play in our lives. Why? Because it is the only known activity that humans engage in solely because it produces joy.

And she describes JOY simply as: an intense, momentary experience of positive emotion – a high energy form of happiness. And it can be recognized by signs like smiling, laughing and a feeling of wanting to jump up and down. 
 

 
Stuart Brown is a man in his 80’s who founded the National Institute for Play. He says that when we play, our awareness of time diminishes and our self-consciousness fades. “Play allows us to let go of everyday worries and be absorbed in the joy of the moment.”

I wonder: How else can we increase joy?

We can do this by implementing actions that induce a blissful state of mind – even if we feel they may be frivolous. 

This past week many of us cried intense tears of unbridled joy as we witnessed Israeli hostages reuniting with their families. I wanted to extend that warm positivity into my own personal space. I started by critically eyeing my kitchen shelves looking for inspiration and landed on the black and white checkered vase I had bought for $3.94 at a local thrift shop the week before. 

Minutes later, I dashed out the door, into the garage, backed out my car and drove with intense focus to my local garden shop. I was on a mission: to buy a bouquet of red roses to fill the vase – reminding myself of the delightful feeling I got every time I saw one more returned hostage being eagerly embraced by his loved ones.

Flowers, says Lee, have dynamic energy that signifies a kind of uncontainable verve, a life force that can’t help but find its way out. Flowers bring an element of dynamism into the static nature of our homes. It connects us to vibrancy in a way our leather couches and upholstered dining room chairs simply cannot. 

 
 
And I didn’t stop there. 

The “sudden” death of Diane Keaton, age 79, brought more tears, but not happy ones. However, I recognized that I also wanted in some small way to honor her accomplishments and the delight she brought to so many of us in the roles she played.

So I carried my vase filled with roses to the small side table next to my couch and every night this past week I watched a movie with Diane Keaton in the cast.
      Annie Hall
      Something’s Gotta Give
      The First Wives Club 
      Father of the Bride Part l and ll
 
I marveled at how the movie Annie Hall was so far ahead of its time.

I laughed with wild abandon as I sat munching pistachios, sipping my Pinot Noir and watching a romance flower and other romances die. 

And when it came to Father of the Bride, the tears flowed once again as I witnessed the intensity of the relationship between father and daughter as his young woman embarks on adulthood. 

And why am I so fascinated with Diane Keaton? Because even though she is a remarkable actress, she is both grounded and transparent. 

She spoke openly about her being bulimic for four years while in her 20’s – posting how much she could actually eat in one sitting. Even in my own book documenting my dance with this relentless disorder, I couldn’t be that open.

The other thing that impressed me so much about Keaton was that as iconic and talented as she was, stardom never went to her head. As she said, “I’m a regular person – I get up in the morning and my first thought is I need to feed the dog.”

Regular person? Never married, but had serious relationships with the male powerhouses of her time: 

Jack Nicholson,
Woody Allen,
Al Pacino and
Warren Beatty.

Pretty impressive.
 
Keep Preserving Your Bloom and I’ll keep buying those roses,
 

Never Knowing, But Never Forgetting

My father’s memoir started with two simple declarative sentences: “This is my first attempt to bring together the many incidents of my life, which may be dull and boring to everyone. However, my children or my grandchildren may see or appreciate a bit of humor or relate a piece of my experience to their own lives.”

The pages my father gave me told of his childhood – the constant moving around all over upstate New York, the sometimes less than savory places he lived in and less than exemplary (though very colorful and unforgetable) characters he encountered during his tumultuous growing-up years.

He talked about the hotels his family occupied – in New Hartford and Herkimer – two-story rambling wood structures with wide verandahs and extra rooms above, which my grandmother rented out by the week. Or sometimes by the hour – if you get my drift.

I read the pages with hunger  – hoping to catch a glimpse of the long lost little boy who grew up to be the man I called Daddy – hoping also to catch a glimpse of the illusive, fleeting, fuzzy, half-formed image I had of the woman he used to call Mother – my paternal grandmother.

Her given name was Ida Telsey and I learned that she loved cats and and filled her home with many of those furry wonders. She also suffered from terrible asthma, which ultimately led to her premature death at age 46. No one in those days ever made the connection.

I learned that she spent long hours talking and gossiping on the phone with her sister Esther – to the constant chagrin of her children.

I learned that she was soft spoken, well bred, and acknowledged to be the smartest of all her siblings. But all four of her brothers, not she and not her sister, were sent off to college and became prosperous professionals. Their children took tennis lessons and later – following in their fathers’ footsteps –  went on to attend either Harvard or Cornell. Her children played stick ball, wore hand-me-downs from their rich cousins and sold homebaked pies door-to-door to earn pocket money.

I learned that my grandmother was as calm and gentle as my grandfather was coarse and bawdy. And that my father, in many ways, took after his more cerebral mother. He wrote the poem that the principal choose to commemorate the closing of his school – Union Street Elementary School:

         The portals of Union School will close
         And lie alone in sweet repose
         Throughout the years it gave its best
         And now Old Union deserves a rest.

I hope Grandma Ida was proud of her clever little boy.

My grandmother bore four children – one daughter and three sons. She never lived to see any grandchildren. She never lived to attain economic security nor did she enjoy marital harmony or good health. My father’s biggest regret is that his success came too late to help his mother.

I reluctantly put the pages down and drove to school to pick up one of my grandsons from soccer practice. I figured, if asked, I’d explain away my red eyes and wet cheeks with a casual remark about peeling onions.

My grandson didn’t notice my eyes or cheeks – he was too preoccupied with wolfing down the brownies I had brought him.  It’s probably for the best. After all, how do you explain to a 9 year-old that you are crying for a grandmother that you never knew – a woman who died without ever knowing the void she would create in the life of the little girl who carried her name?

Keep Preserving Your Bloom,

I’m Making it a “BE KIND TO MYSELF “Year

Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement in Judaism, ended at sunset last night. Always in the past, I was focused on seeking forgiveness from others. This year I decided to seek forgiveness from myself. 
This involves a variety of steps: 

Reflecting on my actionsBeing accountable for any harm done to myself by myself – instead of just uttering, “Oh, well!” and leaving it at thatWorking actively on self-improvement

By emphasizing the above intentions, I hope to make great strides towards spiritual renewal in the new Jewish year of 5786.
Time will tell.
 
I get very discouraged when I am too busy. It’s not stemming from a fear of falling behind, but it is a feeling that I need to utilize every second of my waking time to accomplish what needs to be done. That is exhausting. 
AND, I don’t take into account regard for actual deadlines. This is an energy zapper. I’m shifting focus. 
My new mantra: 

I AM GRATEFUL THAT I HAVE 
SUCH A FULL AND INVIGORATING LIFE. 
I WILL PRIOITIZE MY TO-DO LIST.

 
I’m going to review my ever-burgeoning to-do list.
I am going to pick four top-priority items that beg immediate attention. 
I am going to do them and save the rest for another day.
 
When another techy challenge pops-up – like my paying Uber twice for the same ride – I will pivot from previous self-destructive behavior. I will not throw a tirade. I will not yell out loud, “Why does this always happens to me??!!”  
 
Instead, I will investigate how to fix it. 
I will write down the solution so the next time it happens (and it WILL), I will know how to constructively deal with it.
 
I will recognize that learning new things is hard, but staying stagnant and stuck in old ways is not an option.
I will recognize that ingesting mouse bites of knowledge leads to sustained progress over time. 

I will master using a Cricut machine.I will open an Etsy Shop.I will learn Canva.I will look into what a sublimation printer is.

Just not all at once.
Just not all in the same day.
 
I am letting go of the destructive mindset that I didn’t get enough knowledge and know-how packed into the day. 
I will concentrate on progress made.
How? 
By writing a journal entry at the close of each day documenting exactly what I have learned in the prior 24 hours.  
 

 
Yom Kippur was both a profound and solemn day, culminating in a lovely meal to break the food fast of the last 24 hours. I was in the company of two of my five sons, two of my three daughters-in-law, five of my eight grandchildren and one of my daughters-in-law’s moms.
And what was the most salient fact I learned? 
That some days it’s more beneficial to just bask in the goodness of life and save mastering new endeavors for the following day. 
It was a good start to a productive AND kind-to-myself New Year.
 
May we all be inscribed in the Book of Life for another year. 
May we all continue to Preserve Our Blooms,

LIFE SNAGS

I’m very excited – I have coined a new term: LIFE SNAGS.

It was birthed this past week from my sheer craziness of flying-off the handle each time I was confronted with a minor situation not to my liking. I would prefer to think of myself as a person who copes, but you would have never known that if you witnessed my emotional, high-pitched reaction to every “life snag” that came my way.



The definition of a snag is a problem or obstacle that hinders progress.

I have had plenty of those in the last few days:

My Airline Woes:     I cancel a airline reservation and it doesn’t go through. (Okay, things like that happen occasionally.)
     Due to a snafu, I am assigned a middle seat, not a window seat that I strongly prefer, on a recent flight. (Poor, poor me.)
     I cycle through four different airline agents over a three-hour period in an attempt to transfer airline miles to my husband’s account – a procedure that usually is seamless and takes but a few minutes. (Poor, poor, poor me.) 

My Pest Control Woes:      My friendly, reliable pest control technician comes by for his monthly service and lets out a huge yelp when spraying behind our gazebo. In hearing distance on the porch, I call out if all is okay.
     “Kinda,” he replies. “I just saw a large rat scurry away!”
     My stomach flip-flops as bitter bile rises upward in my throat.
     “What?” I screech. “Are you kidding me?”
     “Nope,” he replies with the utmost seriousness.
     That little chat cost me a pretty penny as I hastily agreed to have four rodent boxes installed in my yard, guaranteed to keep those threatening rodents away from our yard.
     Afterward, a wave of Buyer’s Remorse hits me.
     Was he lying?
     Was he exaggerating?
     Was he just play acting so I’d spend a hefty sum and he would get a commission?

That’s how we think nowadays. My hasty reaction and my unkind, suspicious thoughts were quite unsettling and upsetting.

My Life Snags, nowadays, are routinely followed by my throwing a temper tantrum, coupled with a slew of tears streaming down both cheeks, messing with my very carefully applied mascara.
 
This is MY THEORY: The world is in turmoil. The craziness, the uncertainly, the randomness of tragedy engulfs us. I would have taken all of these life snags in stride years ago – maybe even months ago. But no more.

Each minor annoyance, each added irritation, only adds to my fully fueled, excessively sensitive state of anxiety. I over-react, exhaust myself, try to calm myself before the next onslaught of life snags descends on me.

My reaction level is in a perpetually very high gear. And I realize chaos and uncertainly is our new reality and each of us needs to find healthy ways to deal with it. We need to adapt to the new world order of constant flux, constant chaos and mayhem.

Sure we can practice mindfulness. We can limit our news consumption, cultivate gratitude for the blessings in our life, establish routines and make and maintain personal rituals. But how can we make a difference – how can we contribute somehow to positive change?

We can start by educating ourselves on the issues that matter to us and make an effort to understand the complexities of those issues. 

And we can advocate for change:

Stop attacking each other and listen,Write our elected officials,Support those candidates whose values align with our own, Participate in rallies,Use social media responsibly to express our opinions. We can practice kindness, show consideration, be helpful to friends, family and neighbors.And we can hope that “this too will pass” and calmer days will prevail.

 
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,

What Made Me Cry For Days?

Every time I thought about my husband’s my upcoming 60th high school reunion, I felt the beginning sting of tears.  

“Iris,” I sternly admonished myself, “for Heaven’s sake, get a grip!”

And now, days after two evening events filled with reminisces of the crazy things we did and the more responsible things we didn’t do, the tears are still flowing.

How do you sum up being with “the kids” you spent six intense years with – not even counting the ones you met in kindergarten and first grade?

Surreal. Déjà vu. Incomparable.

I know I wax ridiculously nutso over my high school cronies. But I did re-meet my husband at our 10th high school reunion so I’m a bit sentimental about reunions in general.

And I know many think it’s a little wacko, but I feel very strongly about my classmates:
     Protective
     Proud 
     Immensely affectionate 
     And so happy to be in their presence 

For example, at some point during the evening, I spilled Coke all over my white jean jacket and a buddy pulled me aside, whipped out a Tide stick and painstakingly dotted every splattered mark of cola on the bottom half of my jacket.

We take care of each other. 

We have lost parents, siblings, children and other classmates, but we don’t let those losses stop us. We come together. We ask questions and we listen. 

I can’t recall what people were wearing.

I can’t recall – except for one person – anyone bragging about their kids’ accomplishments or their own personal net worth.

It was more like:
     Remember when…. ?
     How’s your pickleball game? 
     When are you coming to visit? 

We didn’t talk politics.

We didn’t talk the next big thing coming down the pike. 

We didn’t even focus that much on health issues – which was my biggest fear.

All was going exceedingly well until I felt a resurgence of two emotions I hadn’t felt in such full force since junior high school: 
Insecurity 
and
Jealousy 

I pull one of my “besties” aside and began to explain. “See Steven sitting in that almost empty room over there? Well, he’s not alone! He is chatting animatedly with someone he didn’t even know in high school.” 

I pause dramatically. “And, he did the same thing last night with her!”

Part of me is horrified by my runaway emotions – absolutely shocked at their intensity. I felt the agonizing pain of teenage angst wash all over me again: having pimples, feeling awkward and hiding my hairy legs because my mom wouldn’t let me shave them. 

I wonder out loud to my “bestie” but she doesn’t really give me an answer to my two question: 
     How long is he going to be talking to her?
     And what in the hell are they talking about?

Yet, there is a part of me that is jubilant that I still have those intense feelings for my husband at my age of 78 and having been married to him for 49 years.

And then those past uncomfortable feelings recede as I see  my husband (finally) emerge from the room and catch my eye. He bounds happily up to me. And in that moment, I don’t take his love, his loyalty and his faithfulness for granted.

The second evening of the Class of “65 being together is quickly coming to a close. 

I have watched – entranced – as a classmate with cognitive decline dances flawlessly with his wife. 

I have watched as my classmates with walkers expertly maneuver them throughout the maze of chairs and tables dotting our party space. 

The Class of ’65:
     We grew up 
     We struggled 
     We triumphed 
     We overcame 
     We endured 

And WE SHOWED UP – with our protruding bellies, receding hair lines, not quite so steady balance and not quite as stunning cleavage.

For those two evenings we were surrounded by 80 people who were as familiar to us as our own kids’ and grandkids’ faces – where we just kinda basked in each other’s presence – where looking around was just like being suffused in one giant HUG.

I had one very comforting thought as Steven and I walked to our car after the final goodbyes. I recalled that someone early in the evening had casually mentioned we should get together to celebrate our 80th birthdays in just two years. 

I’m holding that thought close. It’s simply another way of honoring the events that formed us, the people who molded us and the experiences that influenced us to live our lives the way we did. 

To the Class of ‘65 everywhere, I have one final message:
KEEP ON SHOWING UP

And Keep Preserving Your Bloom,