Jung Mind

“You have to take this personality test,” my daughter insisted as she went on to catalog all the friends who had taken it. “Terra's an Idealistic Teacher and Chris is a Provider. I want to know what you are.”

“I'm your mother,” I mused.

“No, really, it'll be interesting,” she prompted.

Hell bent on getting me into a categorized box I figured she needed to prove to herself, once and for all, that there was a certifiable reason to have what she envisioned in her youth as a spacey hippie parent who ignored schedules and dragged her off to rehearsals with mom's crazy rock band. The same mom who flew in the face of conventionalism, teaching her daughter to question everything and rebel against what didn't fit her principals. But even more importantly, she needed to affirm to herself that she was entirely different from her mother during any time in her life. For sheer entertainment, and to appease my own curiosity, I Google search the supposedly respected Jungian Briggs-Meyer personality test.

I settle into a comfy couch position with a glass of libation to loosen deep thought and cogitate through hours of questions and essays I figured it would take to determine one's personality type. However, there were only about 75 questions, all of which overlapped and repeated – reworded in different ways to ensure answers were consistent, so in actuality, it seemed there were only really 10 questions that kept looping.

Unexpectedly, none of them had to do with maternal relationships, paternal envy, or even the desire to beat up your siblings – although it did ask if I would rather spend quality time with my family or go or to a party. I wondered if my answer would lower my rating and classify me as exceptionally boring or just weird because I enjoy my family, all of whom love to party.

The survey was a true or false and yes or no simplification and didn't even require a single thoughtful sentence. But how can the entire western world's personality be defined and organized into only four groupings and several subcategories determined by questions that potentially have multiple answers depending on variables of situations, moods, moon cycles or bad days?

“You are almost never late for your appointments: Yes or No?” What if you don't have appointments? Does the daily pilgrimage to Camp 4 Coffee count as an appointment and are you late if you're the last in your neighborhood to roll out of bed so you get there last?

“You feel involved when watching TV soaps: Yes or No?” Is Battlestar Galactica a soap and if so does Cylon sympathy count as involvement?

“Strict observance of the established rules is likely to prevent a good outcome: Yes or No?” Rules? What rules? Although, Crested Butte has its own set of rules – you must wear a costume for the Al Johnson Uphill Downhill, weasel out of work for powder days and furiously play outdoors in the summer – and if you don't follow those rules you won't have a good outcome or a good time.

“You often contemplate about the complexity of life:Yes or No?” Does negotiating the crawl home down totally darkened streets after a slurred conversation and drooling into PBRs at Kochevar's qualify? If so, then my town is full of deep thinkers with complex lives, which means Buttians are all average by default… but only while still in town because anywhere else, they’re off the charts.

I completed the test and emailed the ratings to my daughter.
"I am totally weirded out. This is a revelation,” she sent back.

“What's so weird?” I panicked, thinking someone finally had a verifiable reason to lock me up at last.

“These tests are pretty accurate and used all the time by professionals for analysis and companies for job placement,” she sounded astonished and confused.

“So what's the problem?”

“We're exactly the same type personality… and it's a rare one, quite uncommon, less than 2 percent of the population are in this category and we're the same… you and me....” Her worst fears had manifested... she was more like her mother than she had wanted to believe and was probably questioning: what if my mother was right about everything?

The next day I call my own mom, “Hey mom... you got a few minutes to take a quick test?...”

Wanna play? Take the Jung Typology Test online at humanmetrics.com. and see which box you fit into – and how far the apple fell from the tree.

Southland

The olfactory sense can trigger memories and images buried deep away from mundane daily synapse firing. The smell of a wet sidewalk after a summer rain, a box of new crayons and of course, Play-Doh can instantaneously reawaken childhood past as easily as the smell of stale beer resurfaces the days of brutal college bash hangovers. Back from a 2-week Florida stint visiting family, I caught a sudden whiff on the air that awakened a familiar but seldom visited brain quadrant of teenage years – Allman Brothers and The Outlaws suddenly shook loose in full surround sound from somewhere within the surviving cells of that late 60's era of wild experimentation, peace and love stirred with a smattering of youthful hormonal rage. But what was that aroma plunging me into recall?

Most people envision beaches and Disney when they think of Florida and never consider that it was, and still is, part of the deep southern culture with all its pros and cons. Fortunately, it was the positive aspects that the mind was revisiting through the sense of smell – the laid back climate and lush flora – the antebellum architecture blended with the building boom glory days of the 1930s, live oaks draped in gently swaying Spanish moss, the overpowering sweetness of night blooming jasmine, and acres of orange groves in bloom – a scent that could drift for miles to find your nose – and conversely in a winter cold spell, the burning stench of smudge pots warming the freezing air throughout the rows of unripened fruit.

Involuntarily succumbing to the heat induced afternoon nap in the shade of a porch where, drooling sweetly in your coma, you hope the palmetto bugs – Godzilla roaches the size of a chihuahua – won't carry your trance-like body off to feed their bizillion offspring. When you awaken there's ice cold lemonade and...what was that savory smell wafting through the air?

My teen years were spent whiling away the afternoons and weekends in the smoke filled room of my best friend, James Peter Britton known to all as J.B., but called in a thick drawn out accent by his momma as ”Jimmeee...” J.B.'s family lived in a ramshackle wooden house built right after the Civil War, leaning defiantly as though Robert E. Lee himself was still holding up the place.

The Brittons were financially poor but J.B.'s mom always had enough food to go around for his half dozen or so friends that showed up after school every day... as well as the 25 felines lounging around the empty cat food cans littering the back porch. It's that southern hospitality of feeding and sharing and politeness. On the couch greeting all the long-haired hippies who came and went was grandma, who in her 90-some years could recount the stories of the Civil War still fresh in the minds of those who lived to tell them to her as a child.

The inner sanctum of J.B.'s room was engulfed in black light psychedelic posters of bands and politics of the Vietnam war; self-mastered artwork, and paraphernalia which produced the smoke that billowed out every time someone opened the door. Buffalo Springfield, The Byrds, Jefferson Airplane performed just for us from a scratchy turntable when guitars weren't being played, poetry wasn't being read or discourse about the evils of “the Man and the Establishment” wasn't going down. It didn't take long at J.B.'s tea party to produce a ravenous appetite ... and what was that culinary bouquet coming from the kitchen where J.B.'s mom seemed to be in perpetual bathrobe, spatula in hand, over a frying pan on the stove?

Like Alice falling into the rabbit hole, we all tumbled out of the den of creativity to find his mom calling to us in her southern lilt slow and sweet like warm honey in the sun, “Ya'll hungry? I got some grits and eggs and gravy... ” Oh...that delectable smell of southern cookin' when you had the baddest case of the munchies in the history of mankind – served up with generous homemade goodness and so much love.

That smell... of truly fried deep south, down home cuisine meant to pamper the soul and the belly like a love song. There it was sending me back to the universe of J.B.'s mother's kitchen of 40 years ago – only I'm standing in front of the Forest Queen in Crested Butte – with the aroma from the new Josephine's kitchen transporting me to a simpler time. Was I hallucinating the menu? Collard greens, grits, biscuits and gravy. Meatloaf and fried chicken and catfish. Fried green tomatoes and... can it be? Fried okra? Yes!

With tears welling in memory of all those long gone southland friends and good times, I order one of every side dish on the menu and turn the ipod headphones up to a deafening roar as The Outlaws' 4-guitar army of southern rock wails Green Grass & High Tide Forever – the lyrics written by J.B. The nose knows, and remembers... never underestimate the power of good food, friends, music and love...

“Time and time again I've thanked them for a peace of mind
that helped me find myself amongst the music and the rhyme that enchants you there...
Green grass and high tides forever; Castles of stone souls and glory
Lost faces say we adore you as kings and queens bow and play for you"
Lyrics: James Peter Britton… music: The Outlaws.

Wigged Out

Never missing the opportunity to rummage around thrift stores and unique costume shops in the Land of The Retired, I venture out into the thickening air of the Florida afternoon. Fortune has its way of seeking out the willing and I stumble unexpectedly into the mega store of wigs. Like a moth to the flame I went into zombie shopping mode. An enormous warehouse-size shop layered in rows and rows of shelves lined with coiffed manikin heads; infinite cases from floor to ceiling held every color hair, braids, curls, half wigs, tresses, costume pieces, extensions and jeweled accoutrements. Dazzled by selection overload, I narrow the first flight of quick-change artistry to about 15 realistic-looking wigs while eying at least 20 of the breathtaking fantasy ones.

The Korean owner brought over 3 that she determined I'd want to see, all of which made me look like a smiling Stepford wife serving orange juice to Anita Bryant – too clean cut for my theatrical, over-the-top style. When she realized I didn't want any of her chosen wigs she spread 5 fingers in front of my face and snapped, "Only try on 5 wigs!"

"What do you mean only try on 5 wigs?" I said numbly into the mirror as I removed the long, dripping black waves of Mariah Carey that fell across my confused expression.

"No more... only 5!" came the snarling, hairbrush-waving proprietor as she shook her finger at the tragically hip, red and blonde party that was now exploding out in all directions from my skull. I contemplated this latest image transformation, ignoring the fiery eyes of the Wigmaster, and decided it looked too much like a yard sale on my head.

"But why didn't you tell me that beforehand?” I firmly questioned as I put wig number 5 aside. I had only just begun. “I didn't like the first 3 that YOU brought over. I need to look around and see what I want to try on." I calmly tried reasoning with her as she grabbed the other 10 wigs in a huff and left to assist another customer seeking instant transformation.

A try-on limit in a store with thousands of tempting tresses, ballistic clip-ons and pony tails – I opt instead for sushi and sake next door to consider a strategy in gaining the woman's confidence enough to let me sample all the wigs I wanted. At the restaurant the sushi and beverage choices were just as overwhelming as the wigs but the waiter didn't limit my choices to just 5 – so I order schools of fish and a paddy of rice sake.

The next day I return to hair heaven with my camera, notebook and mother in tow... “Can I take photos of the wigs and store?”

“NO! No take pictures of wigs because then you go and get style!” her finger wagged fitfully, shaking at everything.

“Get style... you mean steal the design? And then do what... make my own wigs?” I mused.

“No, you go to hair dresser and get style on your hair. You only use wig and not buy,” she scowled. So... that was it. The reasoning behind the 5-wig limit. People come in to try on the different styles before visiting their favorite salon, wasting time, trashing the merchandise and annoying the Wigmaster. Her limit and demands suddenly appear rational and fair.

“No... I want to write a story. I don't want photos of me in wigs, I want photos of YOU and all the pretty things in your store for a magazine story,” I excitedly explain. “And I want to buy some wigs.”

She suspiciously scopes out my awkwardly smiling mom and my camera, to which I have intentionally attached every device possible, making it look larger than life professional.

“Ohhhh!” She laughingly concedes as the smile spreads across her fine-featured face, “Ok, but no picture of me!” She was far more amenable now. If I happened to glance sideways at any wig she'd bring it over in 5 different colors – especially after I set several on the checkout counter.

Mom tactfully questions, “You want a green fairy wig, a platinum fall, a clip of... what is that? Charo's locks? And you absolutely need a half black, half white Cruella de Ville AND that Mariah Carey one too? What could you possibly use all of them for in that small mountain town?” Trying to explain why I had to have an extra closet specially built just to accommodate my costumes was hard enough but describing all the distinctively Crested Butte celebrations that needed high theatrics – from The Red Lady Ball to Vinotok to the Black and White Ball – must have sounded lunatic. Later, I give my mother a dvd of the movie King of Hearts and tell her to consider it a reenacted historical documentary of Crested Butte from the late 60s to present.

“What was I thinking?” I demand of myself in the mirror. Sequestered in the Florida room to explore my new look, I toss the dark locks of Mariah Carey from my face realizing that in the harsh light of reality I look more like Joey Ramone. Which wig could I possibly wear on the plane for the return trip that wouldn't trigger Homeland Security and raise the airport's Federal Alert above Code Orange?

“It'll never fly...” I reason. I pack all the fluffed hairpieces into my checked luggage so the inspectors won't mistakenly think that I'm concealing some illicit identity, or part of some weird cult, or worse... trying to smuggle Tribbles.

Vision Quest

To have clarity of vision and purpose in this life and beyond will send seekers questing into the desert with shamans, through drug induced revelations in South American jungles, or sitting with gurus in the ashrams of India and Bali. My vision quest was simple and within reach – planted firmly in the here and now all I wanted was to see just 5 feet beyond my nose with the eyes of an eagle. To fall asleep gazing at the stars from my bedroom window and wake without spectacles pressed into my face making weird crevasses and morning line patterns. To hike without groveling on the ground searching frantically for the wind blown lost contact lens. I needed cataract surgery lens replacement. Spiritual evolution would follow.

Chicago's O'Hara International Airport, a festering petri dish of swarming peoples from all walks of life and every corner of the world – angry travelers loathing delays, frustrated ticket takers and indigestible, tasteless food. It's why the concourses are dotted with crowded bars. Sitting in the sweltering heat of gate B9 I reflect that I could have been in Prague soaking up the culture and really bad absinthe to help further blur the endless winter of Crested Butte – literally blurred as the cataract pushed the boundary into my vision. Blinding blizzards, icy roads and 440 inches of snow this past season made driving bus loads of tourists and skiers a multi-dimensional challenge. Trading Prague for cataract surgery wasn't an option, it was a safety necessity that might comfort lowland passengers sobbing in fear as road definition disappeared into utter snowy whiteness.

Where best to go but the land of the elder-eyes for cataract surgery? Florida... the place where throngs of retirees live out the rest of their lives and doctors of every discipline set up shop for the thriving business. The medical cream of the crop are in the Sunshine State... like swallows diving and snatching in a feeding frenzy through insect drenched skies, preying off the buzzing new hatch of progressively aging baby boomers desperate to reverse the physical effects of decades.

I book an appointment with a reputable, top notch ophthalmologist who had given my brother back the vision of an 10-year old, which I figured would fit nicely with my own 11-year old demeanor. In the snazzy waiting area stars like Henry Winkler and old sport pros give personal testimonials stretched across enormous flat screen TVs larger than my living room. With his brilliant smile, perfect eyes and very own cheesy theme song touting his superior expertise, the doctor assures us that life will look different when we see what we've been missing.

In a darkened room, brimmed hat pulled down low over sunglasses concealing chemically forced dilated pupils that swallow up all light like black holes, I am dizzily flying into flashbacks of trippy vertigo. The floors are breathing. The walls are waves of oscillation. Three hours and 2 doctors into the scanning, measuring and imaging every aspect, cell, curve and thickness of my eyes I was informed that I was not a lasek candidate because my cornea was too thin nor could I get the topical PRK lasik because of the cataract. However, lens replacement would be an excellent choice and eliminate the cataract while correcting both near and far sightedness so I'd never have to wear glasses anymore for anything. Finally... crystal clear vision... no more wondering where the road ended during the midnight driving shift. No more asking for shot glasses to house contact lenses for the impromptu sleep-over.

“I don't want to get your hopes up because most insurance companies won't cover cataract surgery if you can still see somewhat with glasses. They consider it cosmetic surgery,” Doctor Opto Magnifico warned me. The slice and dice procedure costs $9,000.

“Somewhat?! Yeah, right... tell that to my screaming bus loads of terrified tourists when those glasses fog up in a subzero squall and you need every millimeter of vision acuity to decipher where the road drops off the 700 foot cliff to the bottom of the river,” I snorted. Sure enough, the insurance company denied coverage deeming it “not a medical necessity at this time.”

Permanent perfect vision was within my field of view but cost prohibitive. And worse, I had allowed for over 2 weeks for post operative recovery at my family's tropical mercy who would feed and entertain me excessively during an over-extended stay. I get fitted with new contact lens as damage control for lost time and vision... and weight gain from a food-oriented Italian family.

Monk parrots scream at each other hidden in the tops of dancing palm trees and a toad croaks like a jagged, rusted door scraping in the wind. I ceremoniously drip ice water over the sugar cube hovering above my measured shot of verte absinthe... and wait for the green fairy to lend her perception and sympathy in the quest for perfect vision in the imperfect world of reason.

Lava Lamp Zombie

In retrospect, I'm sure what prompted me to buy it was end of the season burn out. I was standing indecisively before several blooming lava lamp cones of colors – green, blue, orange – enthralled and mesmerized by the endless possibilities of the backlit bubbles, lethargic blobs rising to the surface only to be defeated by gravity and the cooling process, and sink as slowly back into the mother dome at the bottom of the lamp before being reborn again. Even the novice decorator in me flashed red warnings and sirens, “Don't go there. Home fashion faux pas.” I certainly didn't need to bring home another chotzsky to live in my already cluttered mini-condo. However, something from a time long ago... the 60s... reminded my burgeoning anxiety that the simplicity of a lava lamp was meditative. Medicinal to the troubled, overworked soul whose psyche could happily get lost in the infinite life cycles of swimming globules. It was a cheap massage for the mind.

I had recently gotten an email from a friend writing a book who queried what in my life caused anxiety. Admittedly, at first I laughed and replied, "Anxiety in paradise?" But after a few days of rumination I realized there are a surprising number of gnashing of teeth, wringing of hands scenarios.... like waking up in a panic not knowing what day it is or which of my three jobs lurk on the horizon. Nightmares of being chased by Baptists with eternal questions and in white sneakers while I'm in my ski boots running in slow motion... of buses circling endlessly with no stops... and having those damn automatic toilets at Mountaineer Square Transit Center flush incessantly while trying to sit on them.

I finally choose the blue lava lamp for the way the bubbles seem to change colors from bluebird to grape with dark raspberry highlights. It takes about half an hour of light bulb heat for the lava to reach the metamorphic stage in its transformation from stagnant, solid bottom blob to ever changing floating spheres. The futility of the rise of the lava sphere snapped off from the umbilical cord of the pulsing mother blob and launched into a viscous world, only to sedately surrender, sinking back into the fold of serene oneness – back into the womb. Yes, I need this, I reason, if for nothing else than to keep me from going wacko for the last of the work season and still be able to pass the stringent bus driver drug tests.

Newspaper deadlines... my cell phone is running out of minutes and battery... I forgot to send my tax paperwork to the accountant 3 weeks ago... I'm scheduled to work every night and day... did I turn off the stove and unplug the coffee?

I plug in the lamp next to my favorite cushy chair. In extraordinarily slow motion the bubbles glide against each other in their prolonged gelatinous dance, caressing as they rise and fall. Yin and yang. Repeating. Continuing in the journey. Breathing. The lamp works its magic. The cat glances over at the lava globes, rolls over on his back and stretches.

I'm on stage but can't remember the words to sing... the story deadline is tomorrow but I have no idea what the article was supposed to be about... I can't remember what year it is... my mother yells my name with hurricane force trying to wake me in time to catch the school bus... and I bolt upright out of dead sleep... disoriented... slowly my room comes into focus, the cat snoring somewhere under the sheets, wrapped into his own divine universe. Third planet from the sun. 2008. Crested Butte. Only one more issue of the paper to put out and only 5 more nights of loopy bus driving before the fat lady sings for this epic, snowy winter work season.

The hordes of Baptists and their inquiries have been taken, presumably by the rapture, buses and all have left. The phoenix is rising. Rebirth. Freedom. The lava lamp will remain a constant source of churning vision well after the ski lifts close, the streets are empty and we can all dream and get some real sleep around here again.

Bunnies and Babies... Spring is nigh

Despite all this fabulous snow, spring is in the air – birds' song has changed and quickened into little spirited arias. The wind feels different. We've gained an hour of daylight. People are checking airfares to tropical destinations. And lately, there's been an epidemic of round bellies parading around town that have nothing to do with calories from excessive beer consumption. Suspiciously timed with the last gas outage, an epically cold year and nothing better to do, a new batch of Buttians is emerging onto the scene. In Crested Butte, pregnant women's bellies are as cute as puppies and considered just as approachable. They are public domain and it is appropriate for the rounded one to be admired, patted for good luck and to familiarize the incoming bundle of joy with the locals who speak directly to the belly when greeting.

Baby showers have evolved into elegant and cultural parties from catered gourmet disco events to sushi soirees with belly dancing lessons for the attendees. It's a good thing that friends can chip in and help because Buttian babies need more equipment than babies elsewhere. They have to be prepared for the outdoor lifestyles of their parents. Today's parents have to practically mortgage the home to buy chariots, slings, bike attachments, ski attachments, sleds with dog harnesses, wagons... the list is extensive for the well outfitted infant.

At a recent shower, I was introduced to an ancient apparatus... a swaddling cloth with the added technology of velcro wrap-around wings... but it more resembled a miniature straight jacket. Horrified at the thought of something so restrictive (that wasn't a bustier,) one set of young parents assured me that both their babies slept well when bound up tightly rather than letting them flail through the night. My school of thought had been that the thrashing of limbs was a baby's strengthening work out as well as an expressive substitute for lack of language. I'm quite sure my mother's generation never bound any of us and as a result perhaps, the hippie generation was born into freedom of expression. I shutter to think it could be a conservative conspiracy promoting the stifling swaddling of babies...

Pregnancy tests have also advanced leaps and bounds in the past few decades from the barbaric bunny death where the hormone injected rabbit would die, not because the pregnancy was positive but because the lab had to surgically examine the animal’s enlarged ovaries – and the results took at least a week. Prospective parents can now get an instant answer from a pregnancy test bought at a supermarket and administered soon after the deed to ascertain if they've conceived and if not, go back to studying to get the right answer. Bunnies all over the world silently rejoiced and commenced to their own practicing.

“I don't remember a thing,” my mother admitted of 3 of the 5 child births she went through when I asked her what to expect of the birthing process. Back in the 50s, it was common practice to simply knock the mother out of the entire experience with heavy drugs so that most moms had no memory of the event. By the time I had my daughter in '73, natural birth had taken hold.
“Can't you just knock me out? “ I whined.
“Just breathe and focus on relaxing,” the nurse smiled.
“What happened to all that really great mind altering stuff they gave my mother's generation?” I wondered as I hyperventilated through Lamaze breathing techniques.

Currently there is much discourse about the ethical implications of planned gender through advanced technology, but women have been perfecting that for thousands of years already. Back in the 70s, when several in my group of young twenty-something friends were trying to start families, I had called a girlfriend to see if she wanted to go have lunch.
“I can't,” she hurriedly explained, “My temperature says the time is ripe for a boy right at this moment! Mike's coming home for lunch...” That trumped my plans for brunch at the W Cafe and certainly sounded like more fun.

In old world Italian families, the desired firstborn is a boy so he can carry on the lineage name – generations of Salvatore, Michelangelo or Guiseppi. Since I was the firstborn and a girl in a large southern Italian family, it was of course my mother's fault when she didn't immediately produce the family's namesake. By the time I was old enough to explain to my father that it was actually the male's contribution that determined the sex of the child it no longer mattered as my mother had overcompensated for her initial shortcoming by producing 4 boys after me. In retrospect, perhaps it was a good thing gender choice wasn't an option...

“Not that we're going to...” my recently married, academic career-oriented daughter confided,” but for some reason this week we've both entertained thoughts of having a kid.” After I collected myself from the fall off my chair with the frightening thought of “GRANDMA” resounding in my head, I thought, ah... after all, it's spring... the herald of new beginnings, the spark of new life, the promise of eventual green. It's like finding hidden Easter eggs – even though it's anticipated – basket, chocolate bunny, jelly beans and squishy yellow marshmallow chicks – every year, spring still brings the excitement of renewal and a new Paas egg coloring kit. Happy Vernal Equinox (March 20).

Geezer Girl

“Ah, but I was so much older then, I'm younger than that now....” Bob Dylan

The days of getting carded at bars and liquor stores are long over, however businesses now ask if I have an AARP membership card. Many of my over-the-hill friends are card carrying, certified geezers with the American Association of Retired People. No matter how many times I move, 3 weeks before each birthday every year since I turned 50, AARP finds me and tries to lure me into official geezerhood with enticing offers of discounts on everything from car insurance to canned tuna. They try to indulge me with shiny plastic membership cards assuring me that we're the largest generation to come of age. They feature youthful looking celebs on the cover of their monthly magazine... entertainers who can afford cosmetic surgery, personal yoga and fitness trainers.

So far, I've held steadfast in my refusal to join into the idea of organized elderchild. Although it gives voice to getting older and despite the discounts, frankly, I'm happily in denial of aging. It's no coincidence that I live in Crested Butte, a town unlike any other, full of youth of every generation and closer to that “second star to the right, straight out till morning” of Never Never Land.

When I complain to friends and family about the Senior Service Solicitors stalking me, they scrunch up their faces in disbelief, “But... I'm an AARP member. You should join. There are so many benefits and 20 % off of everything. Everyone's a member now. In fact, you should write for them.” I feel like I'm the only one the aliens from space missed when they hid the big green pods under the beds of those who woke the next morning and found themselves “one of them.”

Baby boomers – the largest generation ever in solidarity subscribing to the philosophy of, “I don't wanna grow up...” So why join a grown up organization? Aging is somewhat inevitable, but no one has to really grow into the prescribed roles our parents were obligated to fulfill... at the still juvenile age of 25, when most Buttians are juggling to finance next year's ski pass, most of the Boomer generation's parents had careers, kids, a Sears' kit home and shiny gas guzzler in garage. The Cleavers. They looked older. They had become their parents. All that changed in the 60s rebellion when the newly found freedom of finally being on our own evolved into different lifestyle choices and breaking out from the material-oriented war generation. Turn on, tune in, drop out. Move to Crested Butte.

In Florida, where everyone once went to retire into tropical shuffleboard and canasta parties, the senior discounts at IHOP start at 55, which is what the retirement age used to be. People were older then. We're younger than that now.

“Hey, Aunt Dawne, you should go for the senior special, it's cheaper,” chirps my 11-year old nephew. Some things are not worth the admission. I order the regular priced massive plate of pancakes, bacon and hash browns with eggs, ignoring calories and cost. I don't feel old or senior... or like skimping on breakfast because most senior days in my town require hardy starts for hiking, biking and skiing endurance or just existing at 9,000 plus feet altitude.

“Yeah, but you're a geezer anyway,” my daughter taunts and cackles. So what defines a geezer? The eccentric old lady with the over-the-top decorated kicksled who rides around in a tutu, fairie wings and a hair color not found in nature?

Crested Butte should start planning now for the predictable future of its mid-timers – the aging hippie boomers who will need the extraordinary. Extra Mountain Express busses for deep winter trips to the second assisted-living commune in Mexico. The RTA cruise ship, funded by 1% for Open Space, as an alternative to a nursing home. The defunct Town Circulator bus, reinstated as the Senior Shuffle, to get us to all the local poker games. Free senior skiing every day on the mountain. The 4th of July parade will have an entire block of peddling PBR-happy seniors in costumes on tricked out tricycles.

I'm sure that I'll never actually reach retirement age because the government keeps pushing it up. Since my generation believes in reinvention rather than retirement anyway, we'll have to improvise financially – but we already have a lot of practical experience in this by living in Crested Butte all these years.

Birthdays tend to collect on our surface like oil on water, reflecting all the resolutions and delusional determination to not age, despite our years. Another birthday is galloping toward me like an unstoppable race horse, kicking up all the dust of doubt and defiance. No matter how hard or deep I dig my heels in, they keep coming. But as my father used to say, before he succumbed to the inevitable, “Kiddo, it beats the alternative...” in his thick Bronx accent and wisdom.

This week, in honor of my “Beats the Alternative Day,” I bought a new all-purple lacy outfit as part of a KBUT radio pledge... complete with satin gloves, fishnet stockings, dazzling jewels and of course, a short flouncy crinoline tutu... most appropriate for that downward slide on the other side closer to reinvention.

In despair Captain Hook cried out, ”'Tis some fiend fighting me! Who are you, Pan?”
“I'm youth!” cried Peter, “I'm a little bird that has broken out of the egg. I'm youth! I'm joy!” He was Peter Pan. He would stay Peter Pan, the boy who would never grow up... from the book Peter Pan by J.M. Barrie.

Snow Child

Photo: Sophia, Terror of the Slopes (photo by Lisa D'Arrigo)

The absurdity of having a gold pass in an epic snow year and not once using it was bordering on therapy-worthy psychosis. The excuses were valid and numerous – no time with 3 jobs, I was still wearing balance-warping glasses that fogged up at every turn and didn't want to sacrifice any more hard earned wages on prescription goggles or sunglasses when lasek surgery was only a few weeks away, and somehow every rare day I had off seemed to blow in 25 below weather with raging cyclone winds.

Like stage fright, I was having anxiety attacks about both skiing and not skiing. Besides, I'm not an accomplished alpine skier. Admittedly, I really just like to don the ipod with kicking tunes blasting as loud as the equivalent of a stack of old Marshall amps – avoiding bumps, difficult terrain and bad weather, in contrast to almost all of my friends, and dance down the intermediate blue groomers. I stop at least a dozen or more times to gaze in awe at the clouds and sharply edged vertical whiteness against brilliant blue sky, gasping at views that require me to squeal, “Damn, I live in Paradise.”

So it was that my editor, realizing my neurosis, finally command nudged me, “Sophia and I are going skiing Friday. You should come. She goes slow but can ski blues so you'll be fine.” Sophia... another 5-year old Crested Buttian who's been on tiny boards since she could crawl and can “pizza” through the expert only Teocalli Bowl and back while you were still scoping out your line. I made the mistake the first year I returned to skiing, after a 20-year hiatus from the Butte, in asking a 6-year old local friend if she wanted to ski with me.
“So Taylor, where did you ski today?” I smiled as she got on the town bus.
“The glades,” her tiny voice responded. Watching the color drain from my face at the thought of skiing a double black diamond run through thick trees she laughed and added, “Don't worry, it's easy... all you do is plant, turn, scream.” At that moment, I knew I was way out of my league and dropped the ski buddy request for both our sakes.

Local kids are fearless. They have no concept of what gravity and speed can do to an adult body because as little cannon balls, compact and close to the ground, falling doesn't have as much of an impact. They learn about skiing in their young lives before they can utter a word – at 1 month they're in baby packs on their parents' backs, bumping down the steeps of Jokerville run and laughing like it's bouncing on mom's knee. By the time they're out of diapers they're wedging down the 5-foot moguls of Resurrection like little stuffed dolls on 2 sticks. It's as natural as breathing. So it's no wonder that by the time they’re in their pre-teens they can deftly huck themselves off cliffs at warp speed and compete in the World Extremes Competitions.

Friday morning skies were bluebird and the air was warm – at least above 20 degrees – tropical in comparison to previous weeks of sub arctic spells. It would be like a day at the beach on the slopes.
“Can we ski the glades?” the miniscule Sophia asked excitedly after patiently tolerating a couple of muscle reminder warm-up runs down Paradise for me.
“How about Painter Boy and we go for hot chocolate with lots of whipped cream?” I coyly offered, hoping to intentionally sidetrack the whippersnapper.

The next day dawned as bright and clear as the day before. I lay in bed, muscles in a fever, not surprisingly having been thoroughly out-skiied by a 5-year old snow princess. I determined hair of the dog would be the appropriate fix – as soon as I could drag my pounded inner skeletal out of bed.

Not a child in sight to have to compete with or justify my whimpiness to, I glided down my favorite runs, soaking up the scenery and the long absent glorious sun, savoring each moment of solo girlie geezer skiing.

Bring Me a Higher Love

“Love me, love my dog”... from an old proverb that if you love someone, you must accept everything about them, even their faults and weaknesses.

There, delivered into my online cupid.com dating prospectives with great exclamation, fanfare, and a whopping 5 stars out of the maximum 5 for compatibility was my ex-boyfriend. I wondered what the probability was that the robotic matchmaker hooked me up with my recently former Mr. Wonderful when millions of men all over the world who registered on the match website might fit into the required parameters stated in my profile. The odds were staggering. Either there was a serious glitch in the matchmaking determination program or the web-bound love fairies were up to their mischievous tricks again. Either way, the intrigue was too much and my curiosity clicked into his profile.

Grinning in a brightly flamboyant suit jacket – hand painted 20 years ago by his first wife – my old bolo tie hung from his neck and the caption “Jumping in” next to his hopeful mug shot. And in jumping in… to the tar pit of limitless web love possibilities, he had keenly answered each of the formulaic and predictable profile questions... “What will I find in your bedroom?” “What are five things you can't live without?” “If you could be anywhere, where would you be right now?” “___ is sexy, ___ is sexier...” There he was... baiting the waters like an eager fisherman.

As online introductions go, this is the normal procedure for weeding through the hordes of the less compatible – cheeky, inane predetermined questions you meticulously, with heartfelt sincerity, answer while trying to sound intelligent and attract the most well suited mate.

Of course, the double irony of the pensively answered questionnaire is that everyone's first consideration in the primary picking of romantic potentials is the photo anyway... sorry, but you can be as verbally charming or intellectually vibrant as you can muster, however, no one will click on an unattractive photo. This is America the beautiful, remember? The second inconsistency is that everyone applying to the online soul mate search concept wants to be unique beyond definition – “I'm special, different, not the norm, like no one you've ever met.” In reality, the natural animalistic selection process hasn't evolved far from the Neanderthal scratch-and-sniff stage. Scratch the surface with a few clever comments and sniff around... broadband hunting. The new 21st century fern bar is an online pick up scene equivalent to cruising in the 70s and 80s.

“But why would we want to limit ourselves by defining our relationship?" If you ever hear this and think you're in a mutually serious domestic partnership ... RUN. So, there was my 5-star mega-match – the man who consistently balked at the idea of introducing me as his girlfriend for fear of being defined – online and filling in the little blanks written by some fashion magazine psychologist that identify boundaries of personality intimacies. It was too rich.

It is as laughable as it is awkward when the criteria insists you're perfect for each other... were we actually karmically meant for each other or is the universe just a cosmic comic with a fabulous sense of humor? Like the Pina Colada song popular in the 70s where the duplicitous couple meets after anonymously writing to each other from a singles ad, not realizing they were already in love and living together, I wondered if maybe we were possibly meant for each other after all... maybe the robotic matchmaker was right.

"None of this is real, so don’t take it so seriously," he philosophized about the physical world... the excuse to dismiss the entire universe, perhaps for his own absolution, was received with amused certainty – I knew there had to be a higher love, depth that went beyond fear of interpretation. After all, even dark matter, that blackness of supposed emptiness occupying the space between matter in the cosmos, has definition… even “nothing” in its defiance to be “anything”, is therefore defined.

Recently, during an interview with an animal channeler for an article, the psychic asked if I had once had a black and white dog with a “j” in the name.
“Well, yes... but Benjamin passed away in 1986.”
“Yes, and he wants to know why you don't want another dog,” she queried for my long departed fuzzed-faced friend. “He knows you have to travel and is willing to come back as a small breed so he can go anywhere with you.” After trying to justify my independence to a dead dog whose love and unconditional devotion refused to leave me unprotected in the world, I finally gave in to the thought... here was a proud Border Collie, waiting and ready to come back even as a yappy lap dog just to be with me... is there a higher love than that?

As my old friend Lonesome Bob says, “Try to be the person your dog thinks you are...” Happy Valentine's Day... may you find a higher love that truly transcends definition... and a box a fine chocolates.

Ticket to Ride

“I'm ready for my close up, Mr. DeMille,” I squinted to my red lipsticked pucker reflected in the bathroom mirror. Fully coiffed for my photo shoot I don a coat and hat and head to the town offices to renew my expiring passport during the highly anticipated Passport Fair sponsored by the U.S. Postal Service. The word “Fair” itself swirls intoxicating images of international food carts manned by peoples of diverse cultures, however when I arrive, there are only 2 leftover slices of cold pizza discarded by the staff and curled up next to some complimentary Home Cooking Guide calendars, Greetings From America coloring books and government issue crayons. A very friendly gaggle of postal workers greets all who enter – with forms, directions and answers to several improbable questions posed by the U.S. Department of Leaving and Re-Entering the Homeland.

While most will prepare for months to impress fellow alumni at high school reunions, I'll starve to get the perfect mug shot on the 10-year passport. Unrepentant vanity caused by the reality of this photo – the representation of the future me in retrospect of the current me – can send me to the gym, the hair stylist and a make up artist. It's a type of temporary insanity flamed by the vision of having to live with this image for an entire decade every time I'm required to whip out the little blue book to get through a maize of airport security checkpoints and sneering customs agents. Ten years is an unforeseeably long time – major physical changes will take place, especially in appearance – and from mid-fifties to mid-sixties, aging is serious transformational stuff.

My expiring passport portrait reflected a frumpy, unhappy dark-haired woman ready to escape to anywhere from the throes of 13 years of rural, provincial-thinking upstate New York. My demeanor and physical appearance changed dramatically for the better after moving back to Crested Butte and I wanted this new passport to represent that transformation back to normality... or at least the youthful glow of perpetual childhood reinstated by living amongst my own joyous, free-spirited kind.

The passport application has some stumpers... flawed questions that seem to make no sense or have no possible accurate answer. For example, how do I correctly answer something as complex as “hair color” when they won't accept Clairol as an answer and it isn't multiple choice or “all of the above?” Definitely not written by a woman, although the paperwork didn't require divulging weight info – probably because someone figured out that body mass changes over the decade life of a passport and people are going to unabashedly lie about their poundage anyway.

But the question that really sent me into a tizzy was the entire section about the former spouse. “Were you ever married?” seems logical enough along with the numerous spaces provided to write in all your aliases, however, requiring a divorcee to recall the ex's birth date, birth place and “Date of most recent marriage” is traumatic – especially if the divorce was finalized 3 decades ago and thousands of dollars later in therapy just to forget all that information. Since I couldn't fit the Ex's last 5 marriages into the little box provided, I moved on.

I think about my grandparents, whose passports in the early 1900s were solely for immigration purposes. No stamps to recall adventures in exotic places, no visas for play, but the prospect of a new life and a golden future, hard earned in the young, promising America.

I gladly hand over my check for $120 to the smiling postmaster who asks, “So, where are you going?”
“Everywhere,” I dreamily visualize distant shores as I walk back into the blizzard of white.