NEVER SATISFIED

Our jolly Vegas weatherman informed us this morning that the expected high will be 107 degrees. Isn’t that peachy-keen? If I drive to a store and park in the sun, when I come back, my car will be around 135 degrees. Here’s some Vegas advice–you can’t turn on your air conditioner right away. You have to lower the windows, drive a few minutes first, and then turn on your air one notch every minute, or the windshield will crack. Don’t ask me how I know that. It’s embarrassing.

It doesn’t seem that long ago I was sure I was freezing. Yeah, I was raised in Detroit where when you say “freezing” you mean seriously freezing, but in Vegas, it means anything below 40 degrees.

In January, I yearned for the days of sandals and lightweight slacks and linen tops, and leaving the house windows open to get the breeze. Winter seemed to go on forever. I had to wear a knee-length parka, hat, scarf, and gloves to walk the dog. I longed for warmer weather.

Abigail–the dog, didn’t mind the cold. I let her hair grow out, and she wore her own very fancy fur coat. In the spring, she gets a closer cut, and in June or so, is almost shaven every few weeks. Still, she feels the heat. We take our first walk as soon as the sun lights up the place, and we don’t take our last walk until the sidewalks have been in the shade for at least a half-hour. Otherwise, it might burn her feet. Really.

So now, I rue the heat and long for the cool—not cold–weather. Long sleeves, my boots, and my turtleneck sweaters fill my reveries. Jackets. I have a collection of jackets that don’t often enough get out of the closet.

I would consider moving to more temperate climes, but when I watch the news around the year, it seems there really is no such thing. Hawaii would have been a candidate. They don’t need heat or air-conditioning there, but somehow volcanoes and hurricanes take the edge off the lovely days.

It isn’t only the weather I’d like to adjust. Remember when you were a kid and wanted to be all grown up? Little boys wanted to drive a car. Little girls wanted chests like the big girls. I thought being grown up meant looking like a woman, doing what you wanted when you wanted, and having money without asking someone for it. Grownups were in charge of their lives, or so I thought. They had freedom. They had wisdom. They had all the answers. If I needed to ask them a question, they had an answer for me, and I assumed it wasTo continue reading for more info order viagra online ensure that the benefits of sex therapy become more visible, it is highly suggested that you undergo sex therapy together with your partner. Claims of cheap “penis pumps” to permanently increase cialis wholesale maximum penis size should be viewed with caution, however. The complications are frustration, depression, embarrassment, disappointment cialis for sale uk and despair. The improvements in desire and erectile function and cheapest viagra uk the reduction in the desire. correct. After all, they were adults. They must know everything.

Now, I’m all grown up . . . plus some . . . and would be willing to trade a few of my aged attributes for younger ones. I don’t think I’d give away my wisdom, such as it is. I need it now more than ever. It tells me when to talk and when to listen. (according to my daughter, not always) I’m old enough to pretty much do whatever I want whenever I want, given the confines of my dwindling energy.

I remember when I was young and dreamed of seeing other parts of the world. I couldn’t go then—there wasn’t any money. Now, I have funds to travel, and I don’t want to go anywhere that takes longer than an hour to arrive.

I remember thick, lustrous hair. I remember knees that bent when I wanted them to bend, and didn’t collapse at inconvenient times. I remember a waistline that allowed me to wear dresses with belts. I remember reading without a magnifying glass in one hand.

I wrote a book that became a best-seller. Am I satisfied with that? Not yet. I want it to be a movie and am working to that end. Sometimes, when I tell that to a new acquaintance, they look at me with an odd expression, as if maybe I should be committed. Why not? If one dream can come true, why not another? Dreams won’t if you don’t dream them up in the first place. Okay, I realize most of my former dreams didn’t happen. I know I’ll never be a jockey unless they begin racing Percherons. I didn’t win a Tony for playing Stella in a Broadway revival of A Streetcar Named Desire.

I know, I know, life is a totality of experiences; heat and cold, highs and lows, youth and maturity. It seems that whichever state I’m in at any given moment, I regret not having the other.

I should be satisfied, shouldn’t I?

Given my humanity, not a chance.