So, like a million other young adults, I watched the spectacle on TV. Next time, I told myself … I’d go next time. Well, the next Woodstock was in 1994 and by that time I was already well beyond going to a jam-packed concert. In fact, the closest I’ve ever come to attending an event with “stock” in its name involves one with chicken, vegetable, or beef. And it takes place in my kitchen.

Now, I’m not a good cook and never pretended to be one, although I can throw together a pot of chicken soup. All my creativity has gone into putting words together to form a story, not into mixing ingredients to make a meal. But in recent years (now that I live with an excellent chef) I’ve come to understand and appreciate the creativity in cooking. And I realize that that every meal tells a story.

Back in those pre-Woodstock days the meals were mostly prepared by our moms, confirming the principle that men brought in the bacon and the women cooked it. Looking back today, those home-cooked family dinners (in which all five food groups were represented) told the story of an era when families could live on one income. When moms were home in the afternoon to help with homework and watch kids play out in the street until dusk. When fathers came home from work, put up their feet, read the paper, and relaxed. When families talked to each other over lamb chops and green beans and afterwards watched TV.

By Woodstock though, “the times they were a-changin’.” As more women went to work, the crock-pot became a kitchen fixture. Meals told the story of the two income family, when mom now had less time to spend in the kitchen. But still, families talked to each other over these one-pot meals … and afterwards watched TV.

To today’s kids, that may seem old-fashioned and dull. What? No Internet?? No MySpace??? No cell phones???? No texting????? OMG! Mom, how did you ever exist?!? How did you know what everyone else was doing while you were at home just watching TV?

Well, we did just fine. I’ve made it past the half century mark and not only do I have most of my brain cells, I have most of my same friends. In fact, this afternoon as I chop carrots, parsnips, and onions, I have my CD player on full blast. Joe Cocker is singing live from Woodstock.

“Oh, I get by with a little help from my friends … I get high with a little help from my friends … gonna try with a little help from my friends.”

And this soup I’m making — it tells the story of a woman who is going to call up those friends and invite them over for dinner. Friends don’t have buttons. Or batteries. Be here by six.

~~~

Read more of Janie’s stories … click here.

One day I woke up and discovered that my flat stomach had been replaced with a tiny roll of fat.  Not to worry.  Not much, anyway.  I promised to get back into my old exercising routine.  Forty, fifty, maybe even sixty sit-ups each morning.  This was definitely something I could handle.

A few days later I rolled over and suddenly had grey hair and needed reading glasses.  Okay, still easy enough to fix.  A few phone calls, a few appointments, and I emerged into the world with blonde hair and progressive bifocals.

A few weeks after that I bolted upright in bed and realized I now had hot flashes, memory loss, and anxiety without anything specific to feel anxious about.  Hmmm.  These changes seemed a bit harder, but I told myself I could still handle it.

After all, I am a baby boomer and according to the headlines, “Baby Boomers Are Good At Everything.”

And then the alarm went off.  Loud, piercing, unavoidable.  I jumped up and stared at myself in the mirror.  Who was this woman staring back at me?

This woman with lines at the side of her mouth and eyes?  And God, it’s hard to think about— let alone say – wrinkles on her neck! 

Just yesterday I was a free-spirited college student with no one but myself to worry about and now I have a husband of thirty years, a twenty-something daughter, thirty-something stepchildren, parents in their eighties and grandchildren on both coasts of the country.  I am a bi-coastal grandma!

When had all these changes taken place?  It was like I had walked out of 1966 and into 2006 without even pausing.

Who asked Father Time to put me on this fast train to middle age?  I certainly don’t remember buying a ticket.

And that’s when I threw up my hands.  I’d had enough.  It was time to stop.

But I’ll let you in on a little secret.  Well, maybe not so little.   

You can’t stop it.  Time just keeps on truckin’ and the only thing to do is, flow with it.  The alternative isn’t much of an option.

That’s when I decided to call up my longtime friends.  Time to take some “time” for ourselves.   

When I mentioned my idea to Friend Terry, she said, “Count me in.”  In her twenties, Terry was a stay-at-home mom, closing hundreds of paper bags full of bologna sandwiches and chips.  Now at fifty-eight she’s a super real estate agent closing million dollar escrows. 

Friend Jeri’s response was, “When?” Jeri’s a retired Correctional Officer and an old hippie, who still believes everyone should get a piece of the pie even if they haven’t helped bake it.   

And Friend Joannie, a small business owner with a big heart and lots of laughter, who said she wouldn’t miss this adventure for the world.   

So what if we had cottage cheese thighs, wiry, stubborn hair, and rolls around our bellies?  The last time I checked with the Auto Club, being young and fit was not a prerequisite for a road trip.

We chose Las Vegas as our destination.  Three days on the road and we’d be there.  Just like old times. 

Now for the record, three days on the road in 2006 does not equate to three days on the road in 1966.

Back then, we packed sleeping bags and tents.  Now we pack debit cards and a “Guide To The Best Hotels on the West Coast.”

Then, we took toothbrushes and hair spray.  Now, we carry anti-aging lotions, firming fluids, and anti-wrinkle eye creams. 

Then, we talked about hot guys and college plans.  Now we talk about hot flashes and retirement plans.    

Then, we looked up at the stars, making wishes, drinking Boonesfarm Apple Wine.  Now, we sip our Ketel One martinis, realizing we are the stars.  The stars of our own lives.

As baby boomers we’ve been documented, categorized, analyzed, departmentalized, boomerized.

Baby Boomers play hopscotch and tether ball.
Baby Boomers drive faster than the speed limit.
Baby Boomers add MD’s, DDS, & PhD’s to their names.
Baby Boomers become parents.
Baby Boomers buy stock in estrogen!
Baby Boomers’ children have children.
Will Baby Boomers ever retire?
Baby Boomers learn to blog.
Oldest Living Baby Boomer Tells All.

Well, I may not be around for that story, but I have plenty of my own.  And one of the best involves those friends on that trip to Las Vegas.

We were Menopausal Maniacs on the loose.  From hotel to hotel, seeing the world through fifty-something eyes.

Watching crazy teenage girls in shorts, shorter than the miniskirts of the sixties.  Cheering them on for their gumption and spunk.  Knowing that we were once there and now it’s their turn.

Seeing the hope on the face of a twenty-something guy playing a slot machine.  Knowing that the real jackpot is in living his life, his way.   

Calling home and hearing a granddaughter say, “I love you.”  Checking in on parents who still want to know that you arrive safely at each city.

And laughing, laughing, laughing.  The three important ingredients to growing older.

How we traveled may have been different from our college days, but one thing remains the same.

Then – Great times with good friends
Now -  Great times with good friends.

As far as I’m concerned, the best years are yet to come.

Contact Janie:  janieemaus@aol.com