THIS IS THE LIMIT!

I'm taking jazz piano lessons.

Twenty-five years ago, my two best friends and I quit smoking. We didn’t smoke to look cool or to follow the crowd or smoke with our spouses (our spouses were non-smokers.) We didn’t care that smoking was bad for us. We ignored Surgeon General’s Reports and public shaming. 

We had a few rules: I never smoked in the bedroom I shared with my husband. Another of us never smoked in the car. But one of us couldn’t get out of bed in the morning before having her first hit.

We smoked because we were addicts. We loved the smell. We loved the release — that pulling into our lungs the smoke and  — ahhhh, the release, blowing away all our tension, all our pent up rage. We liked the rituals. Talk on the phone, light up a cigarette. Begin painting — light up. THINK about something to paint (or write) — light up a Kent. Smoking unlocked the idea gates and lowered the self-enacted prohibitions. It was our best friend.

But we quit. It was hard. We got hypnotized. We went to “Cessation Clinics.” We got chewing gum and arm patches. We sucked on straws and hard candy. We invented reward and challenge games. We tapered off; we quit Cold Turkey. We finally made it across the finish line. We became reformed smokers.

A year later, we made a pledge. “When we get really REALLY old…so old that we have one foot in the grave anyway…we will take a carton of cigarettes into the woods and smoke until we pass out. We’ll do this when we get REALLY REALLY OLD…75!!!” 

Now what? I’m 75 and I don’t feel REALLY REALLY OLD. I don’t believe I have one foot in the grave. And I don’t want to smoke — at all!  

It’s hard escaping all the “when we get really old” stuff. In January, I convinced my husband that we really needed a brand new car — one with current safety features. We are not as agile as we once were. Our reaction time isn’t as sharp. We are the consumers for flashing lights and warning sounds that alert drivers about crossing lanes, and on-coming anything. 

And while we were talking “cars,” maybe it was time to become a single-car couple. Our schedules are self-made and therefore, adjustable. We don’t have jobs. We could live easily with one car. 

So we took the logical steps. We now have one vehicle with all the safety gadgets in the world. I hate the new car; the safety gadgets drive me insane. As I calmly drive down the street, the car begins tooting and flashing and I wonder “what the hell is going on and how can I save myself?” It’s taken me months to figure out that those warning screams are merely because I’ve crossed some insignificant line in the road.

And the one car life? I know I am spoiled. I get that most of the world is starving while I kvetch about having one car. Set that aside for a minute and examine the process that led to the decision. It was made on the basis of age. We’re “supposed” to lead quiet lives — we’re old. We’re “supposed” to have limited social engagements, limited volunteer obligations, limited …everything!  

Enough already! I accept some limits but not all. Give me a break. I’m only 75!

The new color - "Salvage" - dining room wall...just because