Crooked Toes

This summer I've been meeting with a group of women, discussing a book, The Wonder Years, 40 Women Over 40, by Leslie Leyland Fields. Forty essays by forty different women, all forty years old or older. Our group of five's ages span from upper fifties to early seventies. We're single, still working, retired, widowed, remarried, empty nesters and some have nests who have refilled unexpectedly.

The premise of the book is that a woman's life is made up of seasons, First, Lasts, and Always. We're just finishing up Lasts, and will spend this fall discussing the third section, Always.

Firsts brought up some sweet memories that had quite a bit of dust on them. Some were fun to recall, and a few I was glad to leave behind.

Lasts has been really thought provoking, as a group when we gather and also as I'm driving down the street, washing dishes, or walking Lily. I found myself, this morning, finishing up the last essay in the section, tears I couldn't explain even to myself, sliding down my cheeks.

I'm at the age where the list of things I've done for the last time seems to be suddenly growing exponentially; the truth is that list has always been a constant. From the time we leave the womb - the one and only and last time we'll ever do that - to when we enter the grave, we are adding to the "never again."

I'll never go through labor and give birth again.

I'll never nurse a baby, natural yes, but complicated and awkward to learn.

I'll never potty train anyone, hopefully.

I'll never arrange a daughter's veil, and stand and turn from the front row to watch her come up the aisle on the arm of her father. I'll never wash my son's baseball pants, scrubbing the knees with a toothbrush to get rid of the stubborn grass stains.

I'll never pour cement patios with my husband, or haul mulch to the flowerbeds, or mow the grass or slip a dollar under a pillow for an offered-up pulled tooth.

Most of the 'never agains', the lasts I'm fine with. Some I already wish I had slowed down and savored them more at the time, but isn't hindsight perfect?

Most of my 'lasts' are in the category of seasons that have passed, and most have to do with mothering. A brand new mother, a young mom, a mom of teenagers, a mom of semi-grown ups finally leaving the nest for good, even if their keepsake boxes are still in the attic. Those are 'lasts' that tend to make me all mushy inside, and a bit teary eyed on the outside if I dwell on them too long. Sweet by-gones.

This growing list is different. I'm at an age where the list of 'lasts' is made up of things I'm not physically able to do anymore. Or shouldn't.

I'll never roller skate again.

I'll never do a cartwheel again. (Last one was on my fiftieth birthday.)

I'll never white-water raft again or rock climb or water or snow ski.

About ten or fifteen years ago, when I was in my late forties to early fifties, I noticed one of my girlfriends, close to my age, sporting a toe ring. A little silver band with some etchings on it. I've never thought that feet were particularly beautiful, in spite of the Bible verse, and I'm also not one to wear much jewelry anyway. So to slip a ring on a toe wasn't my thing. And being honest, I thought she was a bit beyond the age to do so. Toe rings and ankle bracelets were for young teens and very young moms, but once you'd passed half a century the window had closed for drawing much extra attention to anything below the knees. Maybe the waist.

So now I find myself at an age and stage where, somehow, unbeknownst to me, two of my toes have gone wonky. Matching ones on each foot - they used to point perfect true north, but now they have an angle in them and sort of crowd out their neighbors, so that when I do go for a pedicure, they require extra nudging to keep them in their own place. When did that happen?! And how did I not notice it til it was too late, not that I could have done a darn thing about it?

Now that it is what it is, I clearly see that I no longer have toes that would look okay wearing a teensy ring, even if the person who saw my feet never did look up five feet plus some to see the wrinkles and gray hair. Maybe I should have worn one for awhile? Or at least gotten fancier pedicures, with little jewels and multi-colors? Maybe I could have ventured out of my stand-by red and sported blue or green or some of the now popular colors?

Or better yet, maybe it's not about the toes, and not about what's on the list of 'never agains', but on the stills. What else am I taking for granted today, that won't be there a year or three or five or ten from now. What doesn't hurt but will? What works but won't? Who is in my life but won't be? What should I do today just because I still can? What do I need to slow down and savor? Whose voice or smile do I need to store deeper, so I can recall it later, perhaps even store it on my phone for later days?

Maybe, just maybe, grab someone I hold dear, go to Claire's and buy a couple of toe rings, say what the he....., we'll shove them on, and head to the nearest nail salon and pay for out-of-my-range-of-normal pedicures and wear them proudly. Do crooked toes really, really matter? Matter enough to stop me from wearing a little ring or choosing a wild color?

And what else am I not doing today, that I'll wish I could still do, so I better do it now, before it falls on the list of 'never agains'. Maybe I should do it just because I still can?