My Cup Over Runneth!

ibiza 2019 491When my son was born. I promised him everything good.

I feel like I’ve made good on that promise.

On social media, I call him Chef Boy ‘R Mine.  He’s the love of my life.

A few years ago, he met the love of his life on match.com.  They married yesterday.

I am over the moon.

We’re all in Ibiza, Spain.  The wedding was the best I’ve ever been to.  The reception was a heap of fun.  Today, I have gloried in the fact that he is happy and has found, as he says, his Queen.

I haven’t had a lot of time with my daughter-in-law, but the little I’ve had, I adore her.  She is intelligent.  She is gracious.  She is beautiful.  My grandchildren will be awesome.

img_3563The view from my cup is overflowing with happiness.  I am just suffused with joy.  It’s so much fun to watch the wheel of life turn and to see one’s offspring do well.  I couldn’t be happier.

Jeremy, my son, was uncompromising when it came to a help-meet.  He had high standards and he met them all.  Vanessa is a treasure.

We can walk this world alone or we can choose a partner.  My son has chosen well.  I am beyond happy.  My cup over flows.

Buenas noche!

Pool Day

Today was unscheduled on purpose. I figured I’d need a day to recover from the flight. I did but not as badly as I thought. I feel well rested and deep into the Ibiza Vacation Mode already.

I had a huge room service breakfast. I love room service and Destino Pacha does it right. Breakfast has also served as lunch and after-siesta nap.

The pool was lovely but I only stayed a couple of hours as I haven’t been out at all this year and I didn’t want to burn.

I’m loving living in the lap of luxury with folks at my beck and call. I could really get used to this. I could. Easy.

I’ve had my first Spanish siesta. The pool this morning was half empty and mellow. Well. It’s jamming now.

Tonight is more hanging on my glorious balcony. The vacation activities start tomorrow.

Surreal Moment in Madrid-Barajas Aeropuerta.

I’m in the Madrid international airport. There is a cacophony of languages. Very little of it is in English.

I’ve been chilling in the VIP lounge which is very quiet. (For 34 euros you too can be a VIP!). I kept checking the monitor for my gate assignment. Nothing. I called the airline. It hasn’t been assigned yet.

This airport is huge. Lots of people. Lots of languages. I have no idea what terminal to be in much less which hallway. The woman a customs indicated she thought Terminal 4 gates in area J or K. I’m getting a wee bit anxious. I leave the tranquil lounge for teeming crowds, nonstop PA announcements and crying children. I fight my way through. Pardone me, por favor. I check monitor after monitor. Finally I found it. I’m in the right terminal, wrong hallway. I head for Gate K 80. Finally I get there. Here. I am here. I collapse into an empty bank of seats. I’m the first one here.

Then. Out of nowhere. Off in the distance somewhere someone is loudly whistling Camp Town Ladies. Stephen Foster in the Madrid Airport. I have an instant ear worm. (and now you do too!). Doodah indeed.

Bon Voyage

The journey begins with a bang. They changed the aircraft of the Madrid flight so I can’t fly premium economy.They’re giving me a $600 voucher, refunded the extra that I paid and giving me a good seat on the aisle.

I had started this post originally with the idea that I was off to an inauspicious start having been literally up all night. As Yellowdog Granny would say, “I’m so tired I’m left handed.” I can’t figure out due to lack of sleep if it’s an auspicious start or not.

We’re at Runaway Train Stage – just hang on and try to enjoy the ride.

60

Dress shopping for my son’s upcoming wedding has reminded me I’m not young.

All of the dresses that make me say, “Ooooooo!” are ones more appropriate for a  17-year-old at her prom.  The stuff under mother–of-the- groom dresses is matronly — the kind of thing you wear with sensible shoes.  I haven’t worn sensible shoes, aside from the broken foot incident, since my mother had me in corrective saddle oxfords in second grade.  I still blame her for my shoe addiction.

I’m turning 60 year this.  Years ago, I was quite certain that turning 60 would bother me.  None of my other birthdays, save the 25th one, did but my 25th surprised me with its sucker punch.  But, I said all along, “I think 60 will bother me.”  So far it hasn’t.  I have until August to have a meltdown, but mostly I’m just astonished that I’ll be six decades on this planet.  I throw that in there because my 25th birthday brought a meltdown that, long story short, resulted in the birth of my son against all odds – the same son who is now getting married and presumably will produce grandchildren during my lifetime.  Old or not, I’m wild about the idea of grandchildren.

As a young person, I was never able to imagine myself as old.  I couldn’t quite get past the idea of 40.  When I turned 50, I had a surprise birthday party and was flummoxed that so many friends came so many miles to help me celebrate.  Fifty didn’t bother me in the least.  But like 60, I just didn’t know how it could be true.

60.

Dresses on Amazon, my go-to place for clothes that will actually fit me, for the 60-crowd are gray.  Or navy blue.  What is it about older women that they think we want blend-into-the-wall colors?  If it weren’t a wedding, I would wear black.  My go-to formal color.

After much trial and error, I’ve settled on two ensembles.  Neither of which are in my possession.  I had to custom order each of them from China.

My mother and I spent an afternoon taking my measurements.  One’s measurements in centimeters are depressing.  One’s weight in kilograms is not.

One outfit is the quintessential mother-of-the-groom ensemble if one is a little edgy.  I’m a lot edgy, but the ensemble won an informal Facebook poll as the most me.  It’s gray.  Lace.  Chiffon pantsuit with a skirt overlay.  It’s stunning.  But it is only suitable as a mother-of-the-groom outfit.  I’m not likely to wear it again.

The second is a dress that I found just today.  It’s an ocean blue sheath with a cowled back and a rhinestone criss-cross-y bra strap kind of thing.  It makes my heart go pitter patter.  I ordered it too.  It’s suitable for my age, but is plenty edgy.

I am so tired of looking for something to wear.  I have the shoes, the purse,  the jewelry.  I just need the dress.  I  now want to enjoy the anticipation of my son marrying his love in Spain.

Between the two ensembles, some seamstress in China with my exact measurements in centimeters will surely manage to fit my unusually tall body.  Surely.  Please.

I think both are age appropriate, but maybe not.  I’m not usually appropriate.  I still feel 25 and I still gravitate towards dresses more appropriate for the prom crowd.  When, pray tell, does one begin feeling their age?  I’m about to turn 60 and am astonished that’s true and yet I still feel 25.