So the Bird Tweets Three Times?
A tale of weight and age and birds
I’m aging in a way that feels rapid. There is honestly no other way to describe it. Mostly, it’s because I’m grossly out of shape. That was the real shift, letting my body fall apart. Forgetting about the gym and Jillian Michaels (sorry, girl, I really did love you) was the biggest disservice to this svelte “bod.” It wasn’t even that long ago that I resided there in Svelteville. It was a really pretty place. Now, I’ve moved elsewhere — fucking Antarctica. Frankly, I do not recommend it. I’ve traveled far in a mere matter of years — way too far. I say to myself, “Tomorrow morning is the day, Jillian.” A cold and unforgiving body gives me a startling wake-up call every morning, and it sounds like, “Help me! You can do it!” And then, I hit snooze.
I’m not a fat-shamer — until I think about myself. I wholly accept that since the judgment is turned toward me, not you. I’ve no doubt a therapist would have opposing thoughts. My general practitioner, just last week, told me that I should see a shrink about my “body dysmorphia.” I thought, “What bullshit! I’m entitled to grieve Svelteville! It was the best place I’ve ever lived and everything was real pretty and everything felt great and everyone fucked great and the sun mostly shined all day every day!” Gasping for breath, it blurted it out — silently. I didn’t want any more judgment than I’d already received from my dear old GP. “Thanks for nothin’, you skinny bitch,” I mumbled. I can’t take Lexapro, Prozac; you name it. I start eating like my last day on earth will arrive when the sun sets and my stomach becomes a bottomless pit. It seems I’ve fallen in.
“FUCK WEIGHT!” I want to say. But I can’t. I love being beautiful, and to me, that’s the only way to be. I’m not judging you, so shut up about it already, Karen! I am merely disapproving of me, myself, and I.
First came the weight. Otherwise known as the gateway drug for age. Followed by trips to the doctor’s office with other ailments — though I’m pretty sure they’re a direct result of weight gain and stress. You decide. Next came appreciating my couch instead of the barstool. Age or depression? You choose. Of course, there are things like requesting the brand new Vitamix and Dyson for Christmas and birthdays, but shit, that started in my early twenties — the second I got my own place and realized I was responsible for cleaning it and feeding myself. Of course, there was the over-priced silk eye mask and the realization that everyone on the planet should be sleeping in flannel nightgowns, but that’s just basic logic, right? Clarins. The expensive shit. Day cream, night cream, and serum. Dermalogica exfoliants, fancy, over-priced face wash, weekly face masks, trips to the aesthetician — Botox. I mean, the list steadily climbs but to where? If your answer is Heaven because we climb until we die, and that is where we arrive, I say, “shit.” I take a different stance, but Heaven just works for the purpose of this story. And hey, you do you, and I’ll do me. Remember, judge not — just yourself, of course, since that is the moral of this seemingly ageist tale.
Here’s where I made the unconscious decision to fully embrace aging.
BIRDS.
I love them. I love them in a way that only old people can love them. My backyard is like living in a bird sanctuary. I study my bird books to discover what beautiful species I am gawking at through my window. I share it with Greyson, my 7-year-old son, and he feigns excitement that is over the top because he knows what’s good for him. I love him for that. The woodpeckers and warblers don’t know I’m old and out of shape. That I’m rapidly falling in love with them because I’m quickly embracing my golden years. They just eat, sing, sleep and are unaware that I am a bystander in their bird world. They’ll never get the early-bird special because Mother Nature gave them the earth. Like, the good ole, raw, open skies, earth. When we don’t kill them by way of electric lines and pollution, they pretty much live how nature intended. Skinny and all. Happy as a lark.
“Just gimme a goddamn loincloth, a stream, and the forest. How ‘bout that? A girl can dream,” I think.
A pair of doves recently laid eggs and hatched two babies in a flower pot on my porch. This whole process was about one month long. Greyson named the parents Thomas and Laura. He excitedly shrieked, “Can you believe it?” “Believe what?” I replied. His entire body responded, “We’re gonna be GRANDPARENTS!” Then he jumped around for a few seconds. I realized I couldn’t go out on my porch for the next four weeks in fear that I’d scare the doves into abandoning their nest and, therefore, become the murderous elderly grandparents that now have to take care of their grandbabies. “I’m too old for that,” I thought. And Greyson would be traumatized. The four weeks we had them were exciting and wonderful, but I was also thrilled to get back to my outdoor living space. Three days later, another pair arrived in the nest. More eggs. But, since I’m old, I threw up my cane and said, “Can you believe it? Grandparents — again! Would ya look at that?”
My porch is frequented by dark-eyed juncos. They’re cute little birds with black-colored heads. I decided that if I were young and cool, “Dark-Eyed Juncos” would totally be the name of my band. We’d all paint the underneath of our eyes black and embrace being uber alternative.
This little white bird kept landing outside of my door. First, I thought, it must be a baby. Then, it never grew. Its feathers are tousled and unkempt, as if someone threw it in the washing machine and let it air dry. It’s not an albino; it doesn’t have red eyes. I “bird-nerded” the situation to learn that it is a dark-eyed junco with leucism. A somewhat rare condition caused by a genetic mutation. “So. Cool.” I thought. Like “birding” in my backyard couldn’t get any more freakin’ fabulous!
I decided to share these phenomena with someone who’d actually give a shit. Who’d tingle as I do at the thought of these remarkable findings? So, I went to the Audubon Society, not far down the road.
The elderly man (of course, am I right?) behind the counter had the patience to listen to me ramble about the doves and, more importantly, Alberta. My almost albino bird. He seemed as genuinely excited about them as anyone in their golden years who works at an Audubon Society would be. I took this as an opening to further discuss the sights and sounds soaring within my canopy of trees.
“So, every morning, I am tickled by the sound of these birds outside my kitchen window,” I tell him.
“What species of birds are you talking about?” He replied.
“Well, the bird is small. Quite high pitched in sound,” I say.
He nods. Elderly and eagerly waiting to see where this is going.
“The first two notes, I mean pitches, well, ya know, sounds, are the same. And, um, then the third pitch descends into a major second. Soooo… a series of three tweets. Do you know this bird?” The words stumble like a lost drunkard trying to find their way out of my mouth.
“Fuck.” I think. How dare I try to be both bird and music-savvy in my elder state. The audacity! But what can I say? It just rolled off my tongue that way.
“So the bird tweets three times?” He stammers politely.
“Yup,” I responded, emphasizing and popping the “p” sound from my lips — like I had personified Elaine Benes, but at this late stage, too old for Seinfeld reenactments. I sigh. Defeated.
Greyson says, “He’s not pickin’ up what you’re puttin'” down, Mom.” I quietly laugh. I’m aware that he’s stolen my youthful phrase. I smile, take his hand, and turn to the old man. “Thanks,” I say. “Sorry.” And we go home.
On the drive back, I think of another name for my band. “Skinny Bird Bitches.” One day, when I’m in a nursing home, I’ll wake everyone up in a fit of “forgetfulness” and sheer insanity by absolutely hammering on the piano. Maybe Chopin, maybe Joplin, or maybe Ozzy Osbourne. I’ll emphatically shout, “Can I see some hands in the air like you just don’t care for the Skiiinnnnyyyyy Bird Bitches?” Then, the orderlies will drug me, against my will, and lay my bony body back to bed, and I’ll know, “This is life.” Skinny, old, bird bitch, and all.
