Are you headed for the last age bracket?

20 Monday Apr 2026

Tags

age bracket, freshman of senior citizens, menopause, midlife, senior

When was the last time you had to check an age bracket box?

You know, the brackets on forms that give age ranges like 25-29. I have to say I cringed a little when I had to select my age bracket box recently.

In fact, I almost cried. Why, you ask? Because I moved to a NEW age bracket. And not just ANY age bracket.

For this particular online form, my new age bracket was the LAST available bracket box.

Oh yes. You read that correctly.

There were no selections beyond 55+.

Shut the front door. This cannot be happening.

55+.

And what does the PLUS sign mean exactly in this sampling?

It’s as if the form said, “No explanation required. You are OLD, Jackie.”

OK, form. You can kiss my…

For your information, I am NOT old.

I’m in my 50s.

And I’m nowhere near the PLUS category!

Am I supposed to just give up and start playing Bingo at the senior center? Don’t get me wrong, I love Bingo. And I adore senior citizens. But I’m not ready to BE ONE! I am still 19…in my mind. (My body is a different story.)

This is well beyond the bracket where you qualify for the AARP membership packet by the way. Which I refuse to open quite yet (despite the enticing free gift). And it’s seven years before you qualify for social security.

This is the age where you are a speed LIMIT.

A speed limit! Sammy Hagar’s unobtainable speed limit.

It’s old, without being too old.

Think of this age bracket as being a high school freshman.

You’re the new kid.

You learn the rules at freshman orientation.

You have to take required classes like bird watching, intro to medicare and fiber intake in order to graduate.

You’re the youngest of the “seniors”.

You’re not invited to the cool group just yet.

You are almost out of your awkward middle-aged years but haven’t started truly “maturing” yet.

You can’t go to prom without a date who is over 80.

You can’t sit with the popular kids until you are prescribed blood pressure meds.

You are told you’re a “YOUNG senior” at the pep rallies but all they really want is your vote for class president.

You might qualify for independent lockers but they refuse to give you the combination.

You are old enough to play Bingo but you’re only invited to play at your best friend’s house.

You are not quite ready to make varsity because you are too young and agile.

A senior befriends you but you find out they are using you for your freshman discount.

You have to take defensive driving to renew your license.

Only the 8th graders (people in their 40s) think you are cool.

Seniors (octogenarians plus) tease you and call you a spring chicken in the hallways.

When you try out for a team sport, you are too old for varsity and over qualified for junior varsity. So you say eff it and play pickle ball during P.E.

Maybe you can start a freshman Mahjong team? Or a theater program where we can all act like we belong in the blue zone?

Here’s to being the youngest of the oldest and growing old as gracefully as possible.

P.S. I think the only way to make varsity is to dye my hair gray and start dressing like Mrs. Roper. XO

Don’t give up on retail therapy

14 Tuesday Apr 2026

Posted by Jackie in Uncategorized

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Have you ever made fun of the fake sizes at the women’s clothing stores where your grandmother loved to shop?

The one where their size 2 fits Mrs. Santa Clause?

I have reached the age where I’m starting to understand why these stores exist. And I’m cringing at the fact their catalog might be coming for me.

On a recent back-to-spring almost-birthday shopping spree with my cousin, I was faced with some harsh realities. Given that my go-to jeans (the pair I reach for every other day) could stand on their own, I figured it’s time to brighten up my wardrobe.

I mean, it’s spring. I can’t hide under my black long-sleeve tee shirt much longer.

We should all be wearing color-me-beautiful ensembles that make us look and feel fabulous. But my body has changed. And it is making shopping feel more like a trip to the dentist.

So I tried on dresses that made me look like I was left on the prairie with Alfonso.

I tried on white pants that highlight ripples I didn’t even know I had.

I tried on colored denim that could not be zippered up without a pair of pliers.

I also attempted to try on a cute skirt, but I couldn’t pull it up past my thighs.

Oh I almost gave up.

I mean most women would have left.

But you don’t understand.

I love to shop.

I have loved to shop since I was a little girl and had money saved up in my leather coin purse from babysitting.

It’s in my blood.

My grandmother was a shopper.

My mom is a shopper.

My aunts are all shoppers.

My daughter also inherited the new jeans gene.

We all come from a long lineage of women DEDICATED to retail therapy.

But shopping for my new body-by-cortisol? It’s not easy.

For a few moments there, I was beginning to feel like I had lost my will ….to shop.

Thankfully, I was revived by my cousin and a sweet sales associate who looked like she was 12. I was disoriented at first. But before long, they talked me out of the fitting room and into something more suitable (for my new potato shape).

There was a lot of self acceptance and self discovery going on in that boutique.

I sipped my water and pinched my cheeks and told myself I CAN DO THIS.

I expanded my options (and my dress size) and paired what they recommended with higher heels. Taking boxed breaths, I stepped out of the room as well as my comfort zone. I stood in front of the mirror and reminded myself, “Everything is going to be ok”.

When dealing with all the hormonal imbalances that come with mid-life, moments like these require tremendous patience.

By shifting my attitude, I opened myself up to new styles. New looks. New colors. And I’m hoping what I left with works.

I chose a leisurely linen ensemble that at first made me look like one of the Golden Girls had started a house painting business. But I know on my next shopping conquest I WILL find the best coordinating accessories.

I have to remind you: Retail therapy is real. And it can still work no matter what your shape or size.

After all, I may have spent hundreds of dollars on new clothes, but I saved myself dozens of hours of therapy.

So…there are no push presents for this stage of life?

07 Tuesday Apr 2026

Posted by Jackie in Uncategorized

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

gen x, men in menopause, push presents

I think it’s time we take a moment to vent about something that’s happening to our bodies. I actually have no idea what happened to my OLD body, the one that could buy a bikini off the clearance rack. And that is precisely my point.

Disclaimer: I am a Gen exer, forgive my bluntness. If you happen to be a man, I advise you to stop reading for fear that you may no longer be attracted to your life partner after hearing what else I have to say.

For crying out loud. I’m talking about menopause.

It’s a totally different animal compared to becoming a mom. No one tells you what it’s like to have a baby. I mean really tells you. After the baby shower, you think it’s going to be all rainbows and unicorns. The next thing you know, you’re wearing a pad the size of Alaska and smelling your baby’s head every 20 minutes because you’re so in love. Yet you still feel like your lady parts have been hit by a truck.

Thankfully, being a new mom means despite all the painful stuff, you get to bring home a precious bundle of joy.

But when it comes to menopause? Oh no.

There are no prizes.

There are no rainbows or unicorns.

The only baby you get out of it? A FOOD baby.

It’s basically a splash of so many side effects (minus the fine print) that shock your system around the time you become an empty nester.

I think of it as being roasted by your old self on a daily basis. Only the celebrity emcee is the OLD YOU and turns the mic on about the same time you are thrust into this crazy stage.

I envision my roasting going something like this:

Jackie:

Remember when you had a jawline?

Remember your old butt?

Remember when you had a metabolism?

Remember when you could eat a bag of tortilla chips and wake up without a pooch?

Remember when you remembered things?

Remember when you didn’t have arms that dangled?

Remember when you were always cold?

Remember when you could remember why you walked into the kitchen?

Remember when you had a neck without rolls?

Remember when Aunt Flo trashed your favorite pair of white pants? Well she’s dead to you now. So you’ve got that going for you.

I can picture a collage of old photos of me being splashed across a big screen TV. Like a before and after, only I AM the after.

Why!

Why?

Why do we have to deal with this?

There is no honeymoon phase.

No one’s throwing a shower for Aunt Flo’s year-long retirement.

There are no lullabies for hot flashes.

No symphonies for sweat shadows.

No burrito blankets to soothe us after stepping on the scale.

No prizes at the bottom of the last box of pads.

And there are definitely no push presents for reaching this stage of life!

I have come to realize a few things since Aunt Flo stopped visiting:

Tank tops should no longer be a part of my wardrobe.

My long legs have turned into tree trunks.

My back fat has back fat.

I retain water just by looking at a glass of water.

My body was once a rectangle and it is gradually turning into a giant square.

I eat protein.

I eat vegetables.

I exercise.

I also eat lots of chocolate but at least doing some of the above has prevented me from turning into the girl that gets sucked up the tube at the chocolate factory.

There are some pluses. (If you want to call them that.)

I’m acting more like a man than ever before. Probably why the word “men” is in menopause.

I am braver.

I am never cold at night. In fact, I’m like an oven!

I am thicker-skinned.

I face things head on.

I don’t care what other people think.

(Including the sassy old me emcee.)

I am not afraid to speak my mind.

I have zero tolerance for rude people.

I have zero patience for bull$hit.

I am more relaxed.

I am more content.

I am more self-aware.

I am more confident.

I suddenly want to participate in March Madness brackets and play video games on my phone. (If you consider Wordscapes and Mahjong video games.)

I sweat constantly.

I am not embarrassed.

I crave me time.

I drone out sometimes without realizing it.

And for some odd reason, maybe because I can’t fit into anything else, I find myself drawn to wearing the same pair of wide leg jeans on repeat. OK, I promise to talk more about this soon.

Cheers to pushing for push presents for this crazy stage of life!

Is your cell phone acting like a mean girl?

02 Thursday Apr 2026

Posted by Jackie in Uncategorized

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

books, cell phone, life, mean girls, pressure to meet unrealistic expectations, siri, writing

Do you remember the mean girls at your school? Maybe one queen bee in particular?

Where I grew up (in a suburb outside Houston, Texas) the mean girls had these Valley girl accents with a slight twang that made them SOUND sincere. But bless their hearts, they were SO NOT. Think Regina George with a bi-level and braces. I grew up in the 1980s. I’m a proud Gen Xer. But those mean girls did a number on my self-esteem.

Fast forward to 2026.

I’m a grown woman. A mom, a wife. My hair, heart, and skin have all thickened up (thank you Lord). I am no longer a scraggly teen sporting jelly shoes. (Well at least not the ones I got at the mall in 1984.) What mean people think of me doesn’t (always) bug me.

But when it comes to my cell phone? The one device I rely on to make my life a little easier? It’s a totally different story.

What I’m trying to say is: I fear my iPhone (who I call Siri Lou) is turning into a mean girl. There I said it.

Every day, it’s: “You haven’t taken as many steps as you did this time last year.”

Seriously? I don’t need this. Especially after the sleepless night I had.

“You aren’t burning as many calories as you did last month.”

Such unrealistic expectations, Siri Lou. I’m dealing with a LOT of hormonal changes right now.

“You are taking fewer steps this week than you did last week.”

I literally just got back from vacation. You were barely with me! Can you NOT?

And my personal favorite, when she doesn’t recognize my face first thing in the morning. (It could have something to do with the fact that I woke up in my own sweat shadow, but still.)

Why does she have to be so mean?

Does she not know that I fractured my toe several weeks ago?

That taking even 10 steps in a pair of boots hurt like heck?

You took 250 steps today.

I left you on the passenger seat!

Every pathetic reminder is like being teased for wearing off-brand jeans.

Siri Lou can kiss my grown rear. I mean, I adore her when she’s being helpful. But lately, she only cares how far, how long and how often I’m stepping.

If she only knew HOW I fractured my toe. (I’ll save that for another time.)

Although I enjoy keeping my step count when I AM keeping up, I think it’s time for Siri Lou to be sent to detention.

Some tips for managing a toxic relationship with your cell phone (and Siri Lou-like apps):

#1? Turn off the “Mean Girl” Features!

Turn Off Notifications: The quickest way to put an end to the shame spiral is to turn off the very notifications that make you feel like crap.

Stop keeping score and ignore the “Scores”: Apps like Fitbit and Apple Health are great when they help, but not when they force arbitrary daily goals. Edit like heck to hide those daily reminders.

It’s time to start making new friends. Switch to some new friendlier apps such as:

“Hot Girl Steps”: An app designed to track steps with “better energy” even if you don’t walk one day.

Gentler Streak: Another happier app that encourages a “gentle” streak rather than punishing you with unrealistic goals.

Bearable: A tracking app that helps you identify patterns between symptoms and lifestyle.

Take a Break: You don’t need to measure your steps to be healthy. Sometimes the best move is to delete the app for a week.

She is Flawed: Fitness trackers can seem pretty and perfect, but they can be inaccurate, and their algorithms are not necessarily designed for your body or background.