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On Aging

Well, it happened. My first “I can’t believe you’re still doing that at your age,” comment. I’m only 35, but when someone pointed out that it is impressive that I currently play in three kickball leagues “at my age,” it made me feel 70.

After taking a step back from the conversation (and dyeing my hair again to cover up the few extra grays that popped up), I tried to let the interaction roll off my shoulders. Since I am now writing a blog about the situation, I bet you can guess that it was much easier said than done.

In my daily life, I do not feel old. I am very physically active, I have a big social circle, and I have plans on most nights of the week. But then I step into a loud, crowded bar and start complaining about the noise, and instantly feel like I’ve turned into a grandmother. Or I’ll be engaged in a conversation with someone who I think is a peer until they let it drop that they were born the same year my first car was made, and I swear I can feel the calcium draining out of my bones.

I’m starting to feel dirty when I find uber-young celebrities attractive (here’s look at you, Shawn Mendes). A few weeks ago, a friend said he thinks it’s okay to date a much younger person as long as you couldn’t biologically be their parent, but I’m not sure I’m on board with that logic. I don’t want to be walking with a cane next to an Adonis with whispers of “cougar,” following in our path.

I say most of this in jest, but mid-thirties is a weird time. You’re in this in-between where you aren’t really young anymore, but you aren’t old either. And when do you officially cross that threshold into “old?” Is there a big neon sign you see as you move into that next phase of life? Or do you just wake up one day with another pain in some new part of your body and realize your youth is as far away as your ability to stay up all night and still function the next day?

I’m sure these answers are pretty subjective, but all I can say is I’m glad that I still look young enough for people to (sometimes) guess I’m in my twenties.

Little Things

Yesterday my dog and I went for a walk along the river. I was enjoying myself, but my thoughts were wandering, and I wasn’t completely focused on my surroundings. The leash dragged a bit behind me so I stopped and looked back at Madigan to see what caught her attention.

She had her sweet white face pressed into a plant right at the edge of a bridge and she voraciously inhaled. I gave her a few moments to enjoy it, and as we stepped away, she smiled so completely that I instantly felt my mood elevate.

The look of pure, unadulterated joy on her face from the scent lit me up from the inside. The simple act of smelling a plant, one that she has probably sniffed many times before, made her happier than some of my favorite life moments have made me.

As we continued walking, I paid more attention to the blissful day around me. The fact that at the end of May, the temperature is still flirting around 85 instead of the normal 100 degrees we have at this time of year. The light breeze ruffling through my shirt and hair. The sight of Madigan’s little tail waddling in front of me.

It was a pretty perfect moment.

When I first started to write this post, I was post walk and feeling good and positive. I woke up today, however, feeling grumpy. I tried to shake it off at the gym to no avail. Cleaning my house did not give me the instant gratification I thought it would. Even chatting with friends hasn’t improved my mood as quickly as it normally does.

But reading back through this post and thinking about that look on Maddie’s face is doing the trick. It’s inspiring me to take more time to notice and appreciate the little things. So even though I sat down at this table with a coffee, a to-do list, and a small scowl on my face, now I’m taking the time to enjoy the amazing view of the mountains to my right and the palm trees blowing in the wind in front of me. I’m appreciative of the fact that I’m having a good hair day, and I’m ready to finish the rest of my day more like Madigan.

I’ll even try to smile!

Moments

It’s funny the things that stick with you in your mind. I was just walking past a guy who shuffled his flip-flops loudly along the ground as he moved and I thought, “Pick up your feet!”

As soon as the thought crossed my mind, I was transported back to the hallway of my elementary school where, while walking in a line with my class, an older teacher yelled the same thing at me. I have no idea how old I was, or who the teacher was, but it’s a moment that has caused déjà vu a few times in my life.

And I’ve definitely picked up my feet as I walk since then.

There are other things, other moments, that I want desperately to remember in such detail. What did it smell like when I walked into my flat in Glasgow each day? What did it feel like to walk in the sunshine along Newbury Street in Boston before class? What did I think about when I walked to and from class in both of these places? When was the first moment I realized there was a spark between my ex and I?

It’s not that I can’t remember what these things feel like, but it’s not the same sensory memory that I have associated with this weird “pick up your feet” moment. Why did my sub-conscious hold onto that one so tightly?

Memory has always fascinated me and lately I’ve been thinking about it in relation to how the past affects my current life.

One day my friend Amy and I were at the mall and we ran into someone we used to consider a dear friend. Both Amy and I had fallings out with this person, neither of which were amicable. All three of us pretended to be cordial during the surprise meeting, but it was obvious how uncomfortable this girl was. I have never experienced someone who wanted to see me so little—to the point that it was almost comical. In a weird way, this awkward reunion almost erased the rest of the history I had with this girl and we became strangers who didn’t like each other.

Later that same night I went out with another friend from my past. She and I don’t get to see each other very often, but any time we do it is like we always hang out. I had more fun that evening than I’d had in a long time. Even with all the gaps in our hangout history, we still had inside jokes and made a lot of new ones that night. I fit in with her friends, many of whom I just met. It just felt natural and right.

The juxtaposition of those two reunions interests me so much and I keep thinking about how the past constantly presents itself in different ways. The present does not always make room for it, though, just like it hadn’t that afternoon in the mall. Is this because that while we’re always changing and growing, there are parts of ourselves that stay the same? And we can still recognize others who have stayed the same in similar ways?

Do we have any control over these moments that we remember in such vivid detail? If I live more in the present, can I recall the tiniest details of this moment? The sound of music in my headphones, the feel of my feet swinging from the bar stool on which I’m perched, the looks on the faces of the other people in this coffee shop? Or am I dependent on my sub-conscious to fill in the details of moments it wants to remember?

I don’t have answers to these questions, but I do know (and have said before) that I want to try to live more in the present. Moments from the past will always pop up, but I do believe there is a way to marry them with the present—I just haven’t figured out exactly how to do that.

Yet.

For Grandpa, with Love

Since I lost my grandpa in 2014, Father’s Day has been a rough holiday for me. This one is especially hard because tomorrow would have been his 99^th birthday.

When I was growing up, I did not have my dependable male role models. Unfortunately, I do not have much of a relationship with my father. Fortunately for me, though, I had the best grandfather anyone could ever ask for.

I don’t usually use this space to write about topics like this, but I’ve been subconsciously composing this blog in my head for the last few hours, so I figured it was something that deserved actual effort.

So, here’s to you, Howard J. Gilbert on the eve of your 99^th birthday:

It’s hard for me to express just how special my grandpa was. One of the only ways I can think of to do it is to say that he was a likable IRS agent. He would audit people and they still considered him a good guy. If that doesn’t show someone’s character, I don’t know what does.

There are many things I inherited from my grandfather. I definitely have his sense of direction; we both have the innate ability to find our way around whether we are in a new city or a strange part of town. I think I have his sense of humor. We both try to put a comedic spin on most things. He always used to say, “When I was young, I was so bright that my mother used to call me Sunny.” Recently I have started to realize that I think I have his lips.

There are many more things that I hope I inherited from my grandfather. I hope I have his integrity. He was one of the most honest, decent people I’ve ever met. I hope I have his logic. Even into his nineties, he could out-think almost anyone in the vicinity. I hope I have his kindness. If you were an important person to Howie Gilbert, he would do anything for you. He always picked up the check at dinner. He was reliable and affectionate and incredibly caring. Even the host at IHOP smiled when he saw my grandparents walking through the door.

And he worshipped my grandmother. After she died, you could see that he lost most of his will to live. I guess seventy-three years together will do that to you.

He lived through the Great Depression and the only visible scar it left with him was a strange affinity for eating ketchup on spaghetti. He had a massive heart attack in his forties and lived to 95 with only 10 percent usage of his heart. He went through the unimaginable pain of losing his oldest child when he was 85 and lived without her (and even less of his heart) for another decade.

There is no greater accomplishment in my life than the thought of making him proud. After my grandmother died, my mom brought him to Arizona to live with her. One of the prized possessions he made sure to bring was a stack of different things I’d written over the years. I didn’t even know he printed most of those pieces, and I still can’t even think about this without crying.

I know a lot of girls hope to find a life partner who reminds them of their father, but for me, my ultimate relationship goal is to find a man like my grandfather. Someone who is calm and steadfast. Someone who finds the humor in even the worst situations. Someone who puts his family above all else. Someone who doesn’t cause trouble for no reason, but also stands up for what’s right.

Happy Father’s Day and Happy Birthday, Grandpa. You always were and always will be my favorite guy in the world.

Flaxseed Meal Pancakes

Guys! Did you know that flaxseed is actually really good for you? As in it has a lot of fiber, very little carbs, no gluten, lots of antioxidants, and it helps keep your digestive system functioning properly?

This morning I was in the mood for pancakes so I decided to whip up some using flaxseed meal to make them slightly healthier than the regular version. I only used flaxseed meal, eggs, a little bit of Panko to give it some consistency, and a drop of almond milk for a little bit of flavor. Keep reading to find out how to make this easy, healthy, and tasty recipe in your own kitchen.

Note: I only made them for myself so you can increase the recipe if you want to share them!

Ingredients

1/2 cup of flaxseed meal flour (you can find it at your local health food store)

2 eggs

1 tablespoon of Panko

1 tablespoon of almond milk (you can substitute regular milk, soy milk, coconut milk, or just skip this step entirely)

Directions

Put a tablespoon of coconut oil in a pan–make sure to leave it on a low flame.

While the oil heats up, mix the the flaxseed meal with the eggs until it is totally coated. Pour the Panko in a little at a time and keep stirring. You want the batter to be a bit thick so it’ll form pancakes on the pan. Mix in your almond milk (if you want it).

Once the pan is heated, use a spoon to put the batter over the heat. You can make one big pancake or separate it into a few little ones. Let it cook for about 2 minutes and use a spatula to press down on the batter. Flip it over to the other side and let it cook the same way. You might need to flip the pancakes a few times to ensure both sides are cooked equally.

Once they look good (or as good as they are going to look), turn off the heat and put them onto a plate. You can go the traditional route and use syrup and butter or make them a little healthier with some honey or agave syrup. If you prefer saltier foods, you can just sprinkle them with some sea salt and enjoy.

Disclaimer: Flaxseed meal pancakes are NOT pretty. But they’re good for you, they’re tasty, and they’re stupidly-easy to make. Enjoy 🙂

Mo’ Dairy, Mo’ Problems

I turned 30 in August of 2014. In September of that year, I started to get hives almost every day. I’m no stranger to hives—I have had seriously bad allergic reactions to certain antibiotics and hot tubs with too much chlorine, but these were isolated incidents and they were few and far between. I never considered myself a person who really suffered from allergies.

But back to these hives. I was doing squats at the gym one September day when I noticed a bunch of red bumps along my chest. At first I thought they might be some kind of heat rash (September in Arizona is still basically surface-of-the-sun-hot). Or maybe that my sweat was causing me to break out…but then the itching started.

No big deal, my lips just swelled to twice their size after using lipstick with dairy in it!

The hives returned almost daily and seemed to get itchier every time they reappeared. They were all over my forearms, my ankles, my neck, and my chest. Some of the worst ones lined the sides of my upper legs. I remember lying in bed trying not to scratch while the uncomfortable itching kept me up at night. I took allergy pills and they helped a little bit, but the hives always returned.

Each day I paid attention to what I was eating and drinking to try to figure out what was causing the hives. As soon as I developed a theory, I realized why it wouldn’t work.

One day my friend and I went out for dinner. We got spinach and artichoke dip for an appetizer. After dinner, we got some ice cream. Back at my house, we started to watch a movie when my hands started to swell up to twice their size.

“Are you okay?” my friend asked as she noticed me trying to scratch some hives with my swollen hands.

“I’ve been getting hives every day. I don’t know what’s causing it,” I said with a shrug.

“Maybe it’s dairy,” she said and my eyes got wide.

“Oh my God. I think you’re totally right!” I said. I could almost hear an angelic choir in my mind as I realized that dairy was my common denominator.

That night after my daily does of Benadryl, I started researching dairy allergies. An allergy is different than an intolerance. Most people who can’t have dairy suffer from lactose intolerance, which means they can’t properly break down milk products. The dairy allergy is caused by an allergic reaction to casein, which is the protein found in dairy products. cow-pasture-animal-almabtrieb

In the morning I looked at the ingredients of the foods I most commonly ate throughout the week. Almost everything had dairy or casein in it. Even the whole wheat bread I ate with peanut butter after the gym. A quick glance at my Benadryl bottle showed me that the pills I was taking to stop the hives had dairy in the coating, which meant they were making the problem worse!

I was so relieved to finally have a culprit—I wasn’t crazy. But then I realized what that meant. Even with my limited research, I could still see that dairy. Was. In. everything. Like, everything.

My hives were so bad for a while that I had to get all new cosmetics and toiletries because even they had dairy as a moisturizer. Within a matter of weeks, I went from a person who never had a problem with allergies to a person who was allergic to almost everything.

It’s been two years since I realized I’m allergic to dairy and done what I can to avoid it. I’m not perfect, though. There have been a few times where I gave into a bagel with schmear or ate a italian-pizza-restaurant-dinner piece of pizza or two. Since I do not have dairy on a regular basis, my reactions are not as bad as they once were. I do still get hives and swelling, though.

I’m going to feature a lot of dairy-free recipes and tips on this blog to help you guys avoid it. Whether your body also revolts against you for enjoying the occasional latte or piece of cheesecake or you just want to stop eating so much cheese, there will be some unique ways to circumvent this usually hard-to-avoid ingredient.

Hello, World!

I’ve been a serial exerciser since I was 14. That means that I’ve had 18 years (oy vey) of experience with different kinds of workouts, different kinds of diets, and everything in between. I also suffer from Polycystic Ovary Syndrome (PCOS), which has made this whole process very difficult. I hope to use this blog as a forum that helps other people who are facing the same struggles find some way to overcome them and become the strongest versions of themselves.