In the beginning was the Word, and Microsoft did not create it.
Our lives are being continually downloaded with words and data that are exponentially increasing in both volume and speed: Facebook, that narcissistic playground for adult children who no longer feel comfortable in public screaming “Mommy, Mommy, look what I can do!” and have three hundred pictures of themselves doing everything imaginable and inform you when they are baking a cake, having their coffee or a BM or thinking about having a BM, MySpace, the textspot for sexpots, Twitter, or how to be a narcissistic from any location on the planet, Farmville (whatever that is, and all I can imagine is Old McDonald), forwarded emails and superstitious chain letters that forewarn my demise if I don’t pass them on, SPAM, celebrity gossip and “which celebrity do you look like?” (and who really gives a BM?) reality TV, iPods, texting, blogs, websites, advertisements, hard-copy junk mail, and GPS systems that help us get to where we forgot we were going. Implosion is imminent.
So let’s throw the hype about 2012 into the mix. There is more information to process, such as astrology, Biblical prophecy, spirit channeling, inactivated DNA strands, solar maximum, earthquakes, black holes, asteroids, and that complicated Mayan calendar that no one can figure out, and if we can’t figure it out, how could an ancient culture have created and understood it? As I peeked at Facebook the other day, I couldn’t believe that even the channels were arguing. These humans who claimed to be spiritual were using their words to control, condemn, and convince, instead of simply being the good example they claimed to be.
And in the interest of 2012, what happens when we get so twisted in the cybernetting of technology and artificial networking and are blasted with a solar flare and the grid goes down? How will we function at all? Is our attachment to Facebook and Twitter creating detachment from ourselves? Is networking not working? Are we distracting our brains and disconnecting our hearts? Are we losing and fragmenting our souls?
They (whoever they are) say that we will need to return to the indigenous ways, change our values, learn to communicate telepathically (because how else will you call your homies or hear the silent screams), use our intuition instead of information, exchange and barter for the things that we need (and aren’t convinced by the media that we should want or have in order to be happy, successful, or cool), learn how to plant gardens again, and actually worship the ground we walk on?
And I have another question. If we have to put on special 3D glasses to watch movies now, what dimension are we living in when we take them off?
Maybe we are the avatars, filled with our own data, encryptions, and memories, created by our souls for life on planet Earth. When we leave our bodies as we pass out of this dimension, will we be looking back on a job well done? Maybe that part of ourselves has not only designed the program, but can change it at any moment in time. Maybe healing isn’t a miracle. Maybe it’s our birthright.
Now I suddenly have the urge to go sit under a tree and meditate, simplify my life, be out in nature, smell and taste things in reality versus virtuality, reboot my heart (or my microprocessor), activate my unused DNA, make friends with a Native American, and start worshipping the ground I walk on, not in the Facebook way, but in the indigenous way.
Maybe my publisher will say that this article isn’t so funny and he might be right. Maybe, in the beginning, the word was love. It’s the reason that I write this column, funny or not.
Maybe it’s time to leave the theater. Don’t forget to remove your 3D glasses.
* * *
Robyn Justo is a freelance writer who is experienced, but by no means an expert, on the frustrations, triumphs, and general hysteria of single life. “The Expiration Date” addresses the lighter side of living, dating, and just getting through the day. The names have been changed to protect the innocent (and the guilty). Please feel free to contact her directly at: robynjusto@aol.com.

Maybe there’s something wrong with me. I’m sure that there are a lot of folks who might attest to this.
But I am sitting here in my Los Gatos studio listening to my thirty-year-old (or older) refrigerator compressor rattling on and off every five minutes (blowing its ancient dust all over my floor), yet my apartment manager doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with it. He is one of those people who think it’s me, but I have told him that he needs to think about sleeping ten feet away from this thing every night.
He says I’m “noise-sensitive” and, without my knowledge, he put sticky rubber strips under all of the items on top of my refrigerator because he said that was what was making it rattle, but it still does. He and his wife announced that they just bought a new refrigerator. I’ll take their old one. I bet it’s quieter than my Hotpoint from Hell.
My neighbor is idling his motorcycle right under my unit (which makes me want to idle his unit) and as I write this, another neighbor, not even in my complex, is playing his surround-sound so loud that his place is shaking and there is a metallic plate rocking against his outside wall which is making my place vibrate like a 450-square-foot pocket rocket (not that I own one, but maybe I should). My life is surround-sound and I am beginning to sound like an old person. Hell, I am an old person and I think I’ve earned some peace and quiet.
I wonder why I haven’t strangled my neighbors, put sticky rubber over my apartment manager’s mouth, and stuck him in the refrigerator? It’s also a wonder why I haven’t already gone mad, or perhaps I have. Maybe it’s time to move to the country. I would rather listen to the wind and hear cows moo and roosters crow.
Maybe this is one of those not-so-subtle problems with modern society. We are assaulted by a constant audio attack on our nervous systems with alarm clocks (instead of roosters), garbage trucks, sirens, car alarms, motorcycles, barking dogs (they had better not live on the ranch I’m moving to), and loud music in coffee shops, restaurants, and malls (does this make us digest or spend more?) not to mention cell phones ringing everywhere and the people talking loudly on them in the restaurants and malls over the deafening din and ear-splitting acoustics.
I quit the gym because of the blasting racket of rock music and racket balls blasting against the walls (say that one real fast), and the testosterone grunts and heavy breathing accompanying the heavy metal. A guy I dated would wear headphones when he was on the treadmill at the gym. He played what he called “angry white music” so that he could get a better workout. Huh? He was from New York. That might explain it.
So is it my age? Hearing is supposed to get worse as we get older, isn’t it? Eh? My ears ring now, but I like it. It’s a gentle hum inside my own head as opposed to the onslaught of artificial cacophony (except for the barking dog up the street, which, as you know, I still think is an android, and the humans with their cellular appendages and staccato chatter, not breathing between their endless words).
When I had my place in Monterey, I dated a guy who told me that it was too quiet there and that he couldn’t sleep. Come to think of it, he was from New York too. So after a while, I agreed that he couldn’t sleep…there, with me, and I don’t date New Yorkers anymore.
Well, I’m crotchety and I’m ready for bed. I have my Ambien and my earplugs and where is that elevator music when I need it?
Third floor, lingerie. Is this where they sell the pocket rockets?

***

Robyn Justo is a freelance writer who is experienced, but by no means an expert, on the frustrations, triumphs, and general hysteria of single life. “The Expiration Date” addresses the lighter side of living, dating, and just getting through the day. The names have been changed to protect the innocent (and the guilty). Please feel free to contact her directly at: robynjusto@aol.com.

I remember reading a line in “The Autobiography of a Yogi” years ago. The less you have, the less you have to worry about. It’s true. A feng shui-practicing buddy of mine tells me that if I don’t absolutely love it, look at it, use, or wear it, I should get rid of it. This might be a good rule of thumb for our relationships too.

Life does get more complicated with more stuff. I know there will come a day when I will want only a futon, a nice-smelling candle, and my clothes. Maybe, or perhaps I will move to Lupin Lodge and become a nudist.

I look around my compact living space and life does seem simpler. But I also have a ten-by-ten storage space that is filled to near capacity with boxes that haven’t been opened in a few years. I try not to count that and my eventual goal is to pare down until I am keeping only the things I do love.

A few years back, I had two smaller and relatively inaccessible storage units that were supposed to be temporary, but ended up being packed for three years and costing me thousands of dollars in storage fees. So one day, I decided to have them moved, which cost me a fortune, into a ten-by-ten storage unit that really cost me, where I was living about ninety miles away, so that I could finally go through everything. It was like Christmas, since I had forgotten most of what was in there.

I diligently went through all of the boxes, donating the things that I didn’t want or need or wear anymore, until I could fit everything (that I could still fit into) into a five-by-ten unit comfortably. The following year I moved back to my original location and had to haul it all back with me, the extras going back into the ten-by-ten unit that I now rent because I downsized my living space and therefore had more things to store. ARGGH!

Does this sound familiar at all? Has anyone else become fond of big plastic storage boxes that fit under the bed, that stick out enough so that you stub your toes on them every night when going to bed? When I was growing up, I don’t remember big stores that were devoted to selling things that stored stuff. What has happened to us?

I think it’s the choice of what to keep (because someday we might need or use it) and what to get rid of or donate. Choices, as you know, are a very serious thing.

I’m like that with my clothes. I keep thinking that I might wear that sweatshirt while I’m replanting my philodendron. I might wear shorts again in the Bahamas when my thighs get thinner (right). I might wear that bikini in Cozumel (not). There’s always the workout shirt and my weekend-without-a-date clothes (and that collection is growing). And what about if my mood changes? And this happens a lot. What if I feel like being a grunge? What if I have to go back into the workforce and look professional again? (Hell, no!)

So I have a rule that I am going to implement, someday, when I get the courage and get rid of my plants and tickets to warm, exotic places. I will ask myself a question.

Would I wear this on a hot first date? I should always be prepared, right? What if HE happens to be driving down the street and I’m walking to the gym in an ugly tee-shirt? I bought multiple pairs of Victoria Secret black yoga pants because they are so comfortable, especially when I’m bloated, but I can still feel sexy because of the tag, and the fact that I can breathe is good, too.

And, speaking of bloating, one of my old boyfriends said, “You couldn’t get a fart in that closet,” referring to my overabundance of clothes. I’ve also read that you should always have room for another person if you really want a relationship. He had better be very thin and a nudist and we can move to Lupin Lodge together!

One of my suitors was kind enough to point out that none of the doors in my place closed all the way because of things hanging on the backs of them. I sometimes resort to hanging clothes in the door jambs. Now that I live in a studio and only have one usable door jamb which leads to my teeny bathroom, it is only used for drying my clothes and in order to use the toilet, I (or anyone who is brave enough to date me) have to duck, dodge, and do the limbo in order to pee. Maybe it is a good thing that I live alone.

I have been guilty of buying things because of the fantasy behind them. Who will be with me when I am wearing this new top or pair of shoes? Will I be having lunch, coffee, getting on a plane, or one of those other cool things that all of the magazines show girls doing in the stuff I just bought? Shopping has tended to be more than therapeutic for me. It is fantasy. It is relaxing. It’s Zen.

So if it’s really Zen, maybe I’ll buy another Buddha. Like I need another one of those, according to my past boyfriends.

My old Barbies are in storage and would be worth way more now if I took them out and sold them. I’m sure that critters have crawled into the boxes, waiting to spring out for my long-delayed spring (or more like decades of springs) cleaning.

And what about paper stuff? Cards, letters, bills, photos (when they weren’t digital), tax records, copies of emails, receipts (from all of the stuff I buy and don’t need)? I am convinced that papers are octo-fertile.

I probably move a lot because I do get the urge to purge every so often and if I have to move it or store it, I now think twice about it. I’m still at the stage of like, not love. If I like it, I keep it.

Storage is big business because it is our history. It is family, memories, and old relationships. It’s what happens when we don’t want to make the choice of what to do with all of that stuff. It’s who we are and the attachment to what we don’t want to let go of, but it does clutter our lives and spirits and gives us another thing to worry about.

But without an empty space, how can we fill it with something (or someone) new?

* * *

Robyn Justo is a freelance writer who is experienced, but by no means an expert, on the frustrations, triumphs, and general hysteria of single life. “The Expiration Date” addresses the lighter side of living, dating, and just getting through the day. The names have been changed to protect the innocent (and the guilty). Please feel free to contact her directly at: robynjusto@aol.com.

I’ve been a successful businesswoman over the years and so far have lived most parts of my life rather conservatively and used my head most of the time. I don’t take big chances on Wall Street or need the adrenaline rush of bungee jumping or high-risk living. Regarding my love life though, some would beg to differ.

Some (ok, most) of my choices in partners haven’t turned out to be in my own best interest. But looking back, I survived with a few scars and most of my skin intact (with a few more worry lines), and I learned a whole lot about myself in the process. If I hadn’t had the courage to dust myself off again and again, I wouldn’t have the material to write a column now, would I?

I have been told that I can see the core of a person where most of us are inherently good little beings. In my own defense and with my typical self-deprecating self-disclosure, I would have to agree. That warm, gooey center is what I seem to fall in love with most of the time. With the fervor and tenacity of an archeologist obsessed a dog looking for his bone, I’ll dig until I find it and I want to find it fast. (I could never make it to the middle of a Tootsie-Roll Pop without biting through the candy coating.)

A very wise woman I know once told me that we can’t have a relationship in parts (those parts we really like in a partner). This is the same person who pointed out that I fell in love with cores. If he is adorable and has a great sense of humor, but is being indicted for income tax evasion or sleeps with other women, we have to take it all. He isn’t a Mr. Potato Head with removable eyes, nose, and good qualities, but wouldn’t it be great if he was?

Core excavation is tough work. Sometimes we get worn out trying to find that nugget. We get our hands dirty and our bodies muddy. Underneath the superficiality of laughs and handsome faces, we might uncover the absolute worst part of someone and then have to ask ourselves if we can live with that until we get to the essence we are looking for because we keep telling ourselves that it just has to be there.

One of my archaeology projects was a great cook and incredible lover, a dedicated and successful businessman, could fix or build anything, loved to dance and travel, and had a hysterical sense of humor. Post ex-cavation, he was a womanizer and an alcoholic. He had a warm, sensitive, cuddly center and when he died (and no, I didn’t kill him), he packed the house with all of the other women who were looking for the good stuff too.

Another was stable, attractive, soft-spoken, and dressed well, but after the dig, he was a big meanie and an angry little misogynistic monkey, and I was covered with blood (my own). His hurt-little-boy core was one that a woman might want to nurture and protect, but he should have been spanked more by his Mama.

And one was handsome and passionate, intelligent, and had a fabulous body. Post ex-cavation, he was still obsessed with his ex and had five kids (which could have been ok if he didn’t live two houses down from them all). But he got himself into therapy, self-realized, and now has a new girlfriend. Go figure. Maybe I should have stuck around for that one.

At this age, maybe we might want to say “Namaste” (the Hindu greeting that salutes the divinity and yummy center in another human being) and keep on walking. With some people, it might be safer to love them from afar and from a safe distance. But the question is, what is that safe distance? Is it a block, a mile, a city, a state, or another planet?

My new rule is this. If it hurts, it’s too close. If you need a hard hat to be around the guy, walk away.

(That little voice: Men are not Mr. Potato Heads, nor are they Tootsie-Roll Pops. If you are burning too much daylight trying to find the good stuff, move, levitate while chanting Namaste, put your hands up, and step away from the sucker. Be core-ageous and get along without him, little doggie. And remember, no matter how sweet it might be in the beginning, you can crack your teeth on hard candy.)

* * *

Robyn Justo is a freelance writer who is experienced, but by no means an expert, on the frustrations, triumphs, and general hysteria of single life. “The Expiration Date” addresses the lighter side of living, dating, and just getting through the day. The names have been changed to protect the innocent (and the guilty). Please feel free to contact her directly at: robynjusto@aol.com.

One of my readers wrote to me the other day and told me to stick to my dating stories and not rant about NASA.

But every once in a while, I think something is more important than dating when someone decides to bomb the moon or someone dies and I have to attend the funeral. And although losing a dear family friend is tragic and heartbreaking, it forces me to take a break from the adventure and insanity of coupulation (my word).

So I was off to Arizona for the funeral that turned out to be more of a celebration and drunkfest which my friend Carl would have wanted.

I could hear the words Carl would be saying in his southern drawl that I always loved hearing. “I’m gonna go run interference for ya’ll.”

While I was in Arizona, I decided to take a short but overdue vacation to Sedona, a New Age mecca for seekers and girls who have dated too much.

I have always been a spiritual person, albeit a bit sacrilegious. I was raised Catholic and was taken to church in my mother’s arms. She couldn’t fault me for saying “Answer da phone, Mommy” when the altar boys kept ringing the bell, but when I was old enough to know better, I was chastised for laughing hysterically with my Dad in the pew. He stuffed his handkerchief in his mouth to stop himself and I got the you-are-going-to-hell look from Mom. I guess that is why I had to write all of my sins down for my first confession, which included three pages of gum-chewing, bad thoughts, disobeying my parents, and more stupid things that kids do.

The priest behind the sliding window heard the papers rustling and my voice shaking and finally asked, “Are you reading this?”

“Yes, because I can’t remember all the bad things I did,” I said.

He laughed too and told me to go and say ten Hail Marys and three Our Fathers. And I felt a little better, and although I left that indoctrination behind, the threat of going to hell (or worse, purgatory) always loomed in the corners of my mind.

So when I got to my gate before my flight and saw the nun sitting in the corner smiling that I-know-who-you-are smile at me, my first thought was, “Oh crap. I’m going to die.”

My second thought was that my cholesterol wasn’t going to kill me after all, but that instead I wouldn’t die clutching a bag of stale pretzels.

I took a deep breath and boarded the plane anyway and I arrived safely. False alarm, I guess.

Sedona was great. I was hoping to see a spaceship, but no cigars (or flying discs). As I got to the gate for my return flight, I looked over and saw a priest. Now, what are the odds? I was hoping that he wouldn’t see me with a very large crystal hanging around my neck. And although I rarely showed cleavage anymore, I was wearing a keyhole shirt that happened to bring a whole lot of focus to it. Great. Hell awaits me for sure.

But I had to come home. So I took another deep breath and boarded again with my Barbie-bag carry-on and found my seat. I watched as the other fliers stuffed their oversized bags into the overhead compartments. What the hell do people put in there? I was sure that there were a few bodies up there.

So, there I was on this big plane with lots of seats and here comes the priest.

Oh, please, don’t sit by me, I prayed. (Yes, I still pray.)

But he did. Right smack next to me. And then another priest came and sat right next to him. So it’s me and two priests and I’m sure I’m going to die.

Father-whoever looks over at me and smiles. He has beautiful, liquidy blue eyes that distract me for a minute until I start my avoiding-purgatory-mantra, “He’s a priest, Robyn, he’s a priest.”

I’m not-so-nonchalantly trying to yank up my shirt so that the keyhole is up to my throat and my cleavage disappears, but it isn’t working. And even if it did, my multi-colored crystal is screaming blasphemy.

But he has an iPod and a computer and he has OCD. Seriously. His co-priest is sitting quietly as the plane takes off, but my blue-eyed high-tech buddy is making the sign of the cross after everything he does as I start to shake.

The seatbelt sign goes on and the captain’s voice comes over the loudspeaker.

“Well, folks. We have some turbulence.” Big surprise, I think. Yep, we’re all gonna die. I’ll be up there with Carl soon, running interference.

The stews have to be seated and they aren’t happy about it. No cocktails for me. So I start scribbling notes for my next article to take my mind off crashing.

“Are you a writer?” the blue-eyed priest asks.

“Uh, yes. How could you tell?” I responded. “And I’m a sinner.” No I really didn’t say that, but I thought it.

“You look like one,” he said, grinning. Yeah, right. “What do you write?”

So we started to chat. Priest number two never said a word the entire flight, but my new buddy talked a lot and I found out where he was from and what he did besides pray for our evil souls. And I disclosed that I write a silly column about dating and aging which, if this plane went down, I would never be doing again.

“There are no accidents, you know,” he said, and if my hands weren’t so busy yanking at the keyhole of my shirt, I would have made a few OCD signs of the cross myself. I still remembered how to do it.

It was a white-knuckle flight for sure, but we finally landed safely on the ground. Carl might have been disappointed that I wouldn’t be joining him so soon.

A few months later, I was headed to England to investigate crop circles. A very pleasant passenger sitting next to me started talking about New Age folks who thought that spaceships would come and rescue us in the last days on earth. I was silently hoping that was true. And that if we didn’t go with Jesus, we would all go to hell. But what if Jesus is manning the spaceship?

I need to take out my list of sins from long ago and add to it. I guess I’ll never learn.

* * *

Robyn Justo is a freelance writer who is experienced, but by no means an expert, on the frustrations, triumphs, and general hysteria of single life. “The Expiration Date” addresses the lighter side of living, dating, and just getting through the day. The names have been changed to protect the innocent (and the guilty). Please feel free to contact her directly at: robynjusto@aol.com.

I love the moon. When I was a little girl, I remember throwing a fit because it wouldn’t come in the house and play with me after I had watched it longingly from the back seat of my Dad’s car all the way home one night.

“Come in, moon!” I pleaded.

“Honey, it can’t,” Dad said.

“But you promised, Daddy!” I cried.

And he had. One day, in his best Dean Martin rat-pack voice, with a Lucky Strike in one hand, he looked at me and had promised me the moon. I remember. Little kids remember promises, especially the broken ones.

This was the beginning of an unrequited love affair with that glowing, magical, white orb. And it was also the start of my obsession with the unattainable.

I guess that’s why I reacted so strongly the other day when I read an article about NASA’s plans to bomb my elusive lover. Seriously, they are. The mission is called LCROSS, which will send a rocket crashing into the moon on October 9.

NASA is the new acronym for National Association for Stupid Asses. What the hell are they thinking? Oh, that’s right. They’re looking for water. Moon river will be wider than a mile after they blast the hell out of it.

The moon is about a quarter of the size of Earth and it is hollow, much the same as the brains of the guys who authorized this multi-billion dollar mission. It wouldn’t take much for the rocket to rock it out of orbit.

Not to mention that the move is openly hostile and violates international space law, and if former Apollo astronaut Edgar Mitchell is right and wasn’t hallucinating, we are not alone and we could really piss off some aliens.

Do we get a vote here? I’m feeling alien-ated already. Or are we going to be distracted and preoccupied by angry town hall meetings on health care and what killed Michael Jackson, who is probably moon-walking now anyway. Does anyone care? This is serious business, people.

The moon affects our gravitation, our climate, the Earth’s rotation and orbit, magnetics, the tides, and our emotional state, and right now I am a lunatic! It has spiritual significance and is affiliated with the divine feminine aspects of humanity and coincides with the fertility cycle. It illuminates our night skies, not to mention our consciousness.

There is increasing curiosity about the ancient and dire predictions of 2012 (just wait until the movie comes out in November!). Wouldn’t it be ironic if man himself caused his own apocalyptic end by knocking this satellite off its orbit?

I assume that my Dad is up there somewhere in spirit and maybe he still can’t give me the moon, but perhaps he can help save it. I’m still moonstruck and soon my moon will be too. By a Centaur rocket.

I’m going to get off my soapbox now and crawl under it.

* * *

Robyn Justo is a freelance writer who is experienced, but by no means an expert, on the frustrations, triumphs, and general hysteria of single life. “The Expiration Date” addresses the lighter side of living, dating, and just getting through the day. The names have been changed to protect the innocent (and the guilty). Please feel free to contact her directly at: robynjusto@aol.com.

If we weren’t meant to be separate, God wouldn’t have created skin. It keeps our mushy stuff inside and other people outside (unless they are invited in, figuratively and literally). Where my skin starts, everyone else stops, or they should. Sometimes they don’t.

Sometimes I have strange thoughts. When I’m safely alone (and this could be a damn good reason why I AM alone), I let them take me wherever they want on a Bohemian magical mystery tour inside my head. And sometimes those thoughts actually begin to make sense after a while, like the ones about skin.

Romantically speaking, symbiosis can feel good. Boundaries disappear. You blend into me, I blend into you. Two become one, and so on. It can feel safe, warm, and secure, but unless it’s wanted by both parties, it can feel like a violation.

Underneath it all, in spirit, I am sure that we are all interconnected, but there has to be a reason for our identifiable characteristics and individuation, otherwise we would be one pulsing, Java-the-Hutt entity in a self-contained orgy. We are each unique in our own encapsulation, in spite of the humanity we share.

We are also recognizable by how our skin fits on our face and body. I once heard the opinion of a spiritual teacher who dissuaded sexuality and attraction by reminding his students that under everyone’s skin was simply a mass of blood and guts. Great image, I know, but it’s one of those things that stick in your head and it did actually make me nauseous for a while, so I guess it might work if I started to visualize every man I was attracted to skinless. Then again, I have trouble enough with my attraction apparatus, so I need to put the skin back on my guys (who seem to like seeing more of mine).

It’s interesting how we classify people as good-looking or not because of skin and the outer appearance. We’ll deny this, of course. “Oh, but I love his eyes,” we’ll say. Picture him and his beautiful eyes without his skin for a minute.

It is only one elastic organ (yes, the largest), but we put so much emphasis on it. We have firmly ingrained opinions based on the color and the condition of skin.

Some people tattoo and pierce their skin (hopefully theirs is the thick kind) while others spend tens of thousands of dollars to have it stretched, lasered, and poked in a desperate search for a youthful appearance and instead come out looking like an alien-wannabe-human. Some of us would sell our souls to have it look and act like it did when we were young, although we are always shedding our old skin cells all of the time and regenerating new ones, so I still don’t understand why we grow older and wrinkle. Maybe our insides shrink?

Again, judgment follows skin like a five-o’clock shadow. Do you remember the big deal that was made over the untouched Newsweek cover of Sarah Palin that showed pores and facial hair?

Skin accommodates us and stretches and expands without popping, no matter how big we get. It starts out covering our baby body and keeps on growing (sometimes too much). It gets scratched, cut, and burned, and it keeps on healing.

We underestimate this 1.5 mm-thick organ. It can give us incredible pleasure or the most excruciating pain (kind of like love). It can be an indicator of sexual and romantic chemistry (I remember buzzing every time a particular man touched me) and pheromonally speaking, the scent of a person’s bare skin can be intoxicating or enhanced by cologne or perfume. Skin also regulates our body temperature so that we don’t get too hot from all of this.

So what is the real thick and thin of skin? Thin-skinned refers to a person who is emotionally sensitive (I’ve been accused of this). Thick-skinned means that he or she is able to let more go by without reacting to it, like criticism, sticks, stones, shoes, whatever.

But what lies beneath a person’s skin, other than the guru-inspired forensic images mentioned above, is what counts. Values, ethics, feelings, compassion, and personality all live under our skin. Our hearts, souls, and spirits live inside of it.

It should always be a conscious decision as to whom we will invite into our bodies (as women), our hearts, and our minds. Skin serves as a boundary that we have been gifted with and ultimately it is up to us to decide whom we will let get under ours. I believe that we should be very selective in this process and consider what is really under his.

Copyright 2009 Robyn Justo

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Robyn Justo is a freelance writer who is living, breathing, and learning the new rules of dating over 40. Experienced, but by no means an expert, she shares the frustrations, triumphs, and general hysteria of single life on the Monterey Peninsula. “The Expiration Date” addresses the lighter side of dating later in life. The names have been changed to protect the innocent (and the guilty). Robyn also occasionally hosts local social events for those brave-hearted single folks who actually have the courage to come out of the house.

By Robyn Justo

Ok, I’ll admit it. The first few weeks after a break-up (even if I initiated it and was the first to find the closest ex-it), I shouldn’t be around anyone. I’m not fit for human consumption. All I can think about is him. The good, the bad, the ugly, what he did, what he didn’t do, what I should have done, and what I wish I hadn’t…namely him.

This too shall pass, I tell myself. And it typically does. The good news about getting older is that we can logically convince ourselves that another one will come along, that we will eventually heal and forgive, and we will probably even forget. But, in the meantime, I must perform the ritual. I must obsess, cry, hide, rant, and annoy the hell out of my friends (and maybe even lose a few) while I try to ex-orcise this demon of love from my life.

When I was younger, I used to think that I would never meet anyone like him (whoever he was at the time), that I had lost my last and only chance at love (even though many had preceded this one.) And I would lose ten pounds.

I would put myself on the break-a-habit-in-21-days detox program and forbid myself contact with him. I wrote every bad thing that I could think of about him on a 3 x 5 card and carried it around with me so that I could hate him from wherever I was. I had his number on my personal “Do Not Call” registry and if he called, I pulled out my index card for backup. I put sticky notes on my bathroom mirrors and on all of my phones. Like a recovering alcoholic, I had someone designated to call, even if I had to wake them up in the middle of the night if I had the urge to pick up the phone and call him. I would tell myself that I just needed to make it through three lousy weeks.

I would light a bonfire in my Weber barbeque and burn photos, letters, and anything else that would light. I tried to sleep (perchance to dream), but instead I would end up having nightmares about him. Every song, every box of cereal, and every conversation would remind me of something about the relationship. I would fantasize about him not being able to live without me (again, even if I initiated the break-up. Don’t ask me why.)

“If he could only hurt half as much as I do,” I would say. Nice to know I still had some compassion in my aching heart.

And one day, magic happened. I would wake up and something would be missing from my life. Him (and the pain). No more pain, no more hate. Hmmm. Day twenty-two, too. Go figure. (Does this really work?) I would imagine his face and nothing. I would imagine him with another woman and nothing. No effect at all. The agony had passed and was replaced by ex-stacy. I could think of him and even still care, but the pain was gone. What I had heard was true. The opposite of love wasn’t hate. It was apathy.

Be careful what you wish for too. Once, when I wished he would hurt half as much as I did (and after I was well into the getting-over-him stage and had met someone new), he came back. He was hurting, and probably more than half as much as I had. I thought it would feel good to have the tables turn, but it didn’t. Watching someone else hurt really isn’t revenge, or at least it wasn’t for me.

The nice thing about pain is that we seem to forget how much it hurt after it passes (kind of like childbirth, which is why there are so many people around) and until we do something stupid again like not pay attention to that 24-hour rule (remember how people tell you who they are early on?) and have to re-implement the 21-day-detox program.

If I am really feeling desperate and the above-mentioned process isn’t working as fast as I need it to, I practice projection. No, not seeing all of my own flaws in my partner kind of projection and not the astral kind, but a type of energy projection where I close my eyes and pretend I’m waking up the day before or after I met him. And I remind myself that I didn’t even know that this person existed on the planet. It kind of takes the edge off and the charge out of it. The last part of the exercise is imagining myself way past the heartbreak, like six months down the line when I know that I’ll be having a Mojito and feeling good again. Seriously, it works.

So now I know this stuff and I know it well. I know what I have to do when a relationship ends. It’s my thing and my due diligence, I guess, and I don’t think I’m the only woman who has a ritual. Men, on the other hand, seem to have a secret way of dealing with break-ups like drinking (more than one Mojito), stuffing it, other women (or stuffing other women with it), and work-that is, until one of us makes a voodoo wish and they come running back with hat and heart in hand.

But no matter how tempting it might be, never, ever ex-hume the ex (which means take the ex out of sex, or out of you). Trust me. You’ll just have to start all over, buy more sticky notes and index cards, waste more valuable time, and lose more friends and maybe ten pounds in the process, which might not be a bad thing.

Copyright 2009 Robyn Justo

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Robyn Justo is a freelance writer who is living, breathing, and learning the new rules of dating over 40. Experienced, but by no means an expert, she shares the frustrations, triumphs, and general hysteria of single life on the Monterey Peninsula. “The Expiration Date” addresses the lighter side of dating later in life. The names have been changed to protect the innocent (and the guilty). Robyn also occasionally hosts local social events for those brave-hearted single folks who actually have the courage to come out of the house.

I might sound like Andy Rooney, Maxine, or just an aging cantankerousaurus, but why do things stick when they aren’t supposed to and don’t when they should? It’s kind of like relationships.

Maybe it’s because I’m getting older, but when things are in my hands, they tend to fall out. And sometimes I stand there, witnessing the mess to come, as I look down at these rebellious little paws of mine, unable to make my fingers respond in time.

Sometimes it’s the milk carton, or my keys, something breakable, or just about anything. Maybe there’s a Poltergeist that follows me around (that’s what I get for performing séances in my teenage years).

I’m sure that I am not alone, but I struggle with the plastic bags in the produce section at Safeway. I think we all do and I don’t know if anyone else does this, but I always look around to see if anyone is watching as I turn the bag upside down to make sure that I have the right end, praying to the polyethylene Gods, rubbing fruit-lessly to get the edge to unstick so that I can put my produce inside the bag. Every time this happens I’m sure that I can hear the hysterical laughter of the ghost of Alan Funt hovering above me. SMILE!

Call me OCD, but I will pull and peel until my fingers cramp. I refuse to play a new CD until every bit of that sticky covering is completely gone. (I’m older, ok? And I still buy CDs, iPod people.)

I love cosmetics and admittedly have way too many of them. I guess I’m looking for the elusive perfect color, you know, like the elusive perfect guy or butterfly of love?

So maybe it’s my penance, but when I buy a new tube of lipstick or an eyeliner that has those perforated lines in the plastic packaging, I cringe because they never tear the way that they’re supposed to. They are certainly not good for my mood and really bad for the environment. Biodegradable does not mean “after a seagull swallows it, chokes on it, and throws it up.”

And is it me or are they now making toothbrushes that don’t stand up on the counter and roll over into your sink, sticking to everything? Make it easy on us and make the damn bottom flat. We don’t all have designer toothbrush holders.

The clasps on my jewelry stick. Either that or my paws don’t work anymore. I’ll look in the mirror (which makes it worse because everything is backwards) and squeeze the clasp hard until it finally opens, frantically grabbing the O-ring on the opposite side before the clasp snaps shut (I never get this the first or second time, but I’ve increased my word power by inventing my own quasi-Italian profanity).

Now I understand why they’re now making jewelry with elastic. Older people like elastic (especially in pants so we can breathe when our stomachs stick out).

Oh, and the best one of all? Packing peanuts that stick to the sides of garbage cans, rugs, hair, and (almost) everything else. What is it with this annoyingly co-dependent Styrofoam that just won’t let go? When I try to grab the last one, it jumps away like some sort of psychic electrostatic bean on a mission that sticks to everything but my little clutching hand.

I was shopping the other day at my favorite department store (for another tube of lipstick). It’s a ritual for me. The higher-end stores put their tubes in boxes, so you don’t have to mess with the plastic. And they have the cleanest bathroom in the mall. It’s also the most psychic.

I took a deep breath as I entered the stall (because you all know how much I hate that experience). I just walked in and I wasn’t anywhere near the seat or the handle or the little senso button on the toilet, but it knew I was there and flushed all by itself, making me jump backwards, drop my purse, and bang into the door.

Ok, Alan, I know you’re in here!

Copyright 2009 Robyn Justo

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Robyn Justo is a freelance writer who is living, breathing, and learning the new rules of dating over 40. Experienced, but by no means an expert, she shares the frustrations, triumphs, and general hysteria of single life on the Monterey Peninsula. “The Expiration Date” addresses the lighter side of dating later in life. The names have been changed to protect the innocent (and the guilty). Robyn also occasionally hosts local social events for those brave-hearted single folks who actually have the courage to come out of the house.

The Legend of a Modern-Day Cowboy

People tell you all you need to know about them within the first twenty-four hours. On our first date, an ex-boyfriend told me that he was a pathological liar. It was the only time he ever told me the truth.
With the weekend fast approaching, I accept a “safe” date from an older man whose online photos look acceptable, but not outstanding. During our first phone call, he admits that he is merely looking for an occasional date, nothing serious or sexual. I don’t expect anything more than a quick dinner and superficial conversation on a Saturday night. His name brings up images of an old-time gunslinger and I can’t imagine ever screaming it out loud in the heat of passion, so I feel safe.
His moves are slow and deliberate as he makes his entrance into the restaurant, like a reticent cowboy pushing his way through the wooden doors of a Wild West saloon in a spaghetti western. I’m expecting George Burns, but as oxymoronic as it might sound, at sixty-two this guy is a hottie. He’s attractive, engaging, and has a delightfully dry sense of humor. He tells me that he’s not very deep and that he doesn’t care much about the truth. I giggle like a hormonally charged teenager. I assume he’s teasing. He’s not.
Call it journalistic curiosity or romantic masochism, but I want to know more. As a child I used to stick bobby pins in electrical outlets and swallow jacks if this helps my case. He admits to four marriages, cheating, being in recovery, and walking out on a diabetic date as she was giving herself an insulin shot in the restroom. I’m still there and the thought of backpedaling out the back door hasn’t entered my mind. This guy might not be boyfriend material, but he’s quite an interesting character. And how can I drown in such shallow waters?
He seems fascinated by the fact that I’m a writer and can hold a conversation. He slowly leans across the table, hanging on my every word. All the time I’m wondering if he might be surgically enhanced, maybe nipped and tucked or tucked and rolled at his age. Regardless, this salt-and-peppered, baby-blue-eyed stranger has my attention. He excuses himself for a restroom break and I notice the physique, 44-inch chest (so he says) with the rest fully packed. I’m starting to feel a little weak in the knees.
The evening ends with a long, passionate kiss. He seems smitten and asks to see me again. I tell him to give me a call. This is my sorry attempt at being coy. We meet for coffee the next day. Later that week, he arrives at my door with three yellow roses and an umbrella that he has designed, a Star Wars version with a shaft that lights. He looks like he stepped out of the AARP edition of GQ magazine. I’m enjoying the attention and slowly forgetting the twenty-four-hour rule, along with my name. My toe is in the water now, but I have no idea how strong the riptides are.
By the end of the week, he is hinting about intimacy, although his profile is still online and he admits to his addiction to looking at women. He asks me to meet his son, an adorable seven-year-old who writes music and counsels his dad on the inappropriate use of profanity. I’m starting to think that I might have more in common with the seven-year-old and start backpedaling. He feels me slipping away, reluctantly closes his online profiles, professes his feelings, and asks for an exclusive relationship. The knees go out from under me.
The following week is glorious. Although he is a busy and quite elusive fellow with a very full plate, I’m uncharacteristically content to be the appetizer. He tells me how he prefers sleeping and vacationing alone and for some reason I ignore the inherent warnings and distancing techniques. In order to earn my trust (his words), he admits to covert behavior, undercover work, under the covers work, and dishonest business dealings. By this time, I’m starting to have Mafia nightmares and worry that my friends might be seeing my picture on the back of a milk carton. Like any normal, red-blooded (and wants to keep it) woman would do, I start to ask a few questions after some unexplained disappearances and obvious omissions.
“I don’t answer to anyone,” he says coldly and dismissively. (Exit stage left.)
Someone recently asked me why I would start a relationship that I knew would end. All of them end sometime, I thought. Ok, so I’m guilty. But something tells me that I am not alone. I’ve read all the self-help books and find myself confused. Is it about Getting the Love You Want, Keeping the Love You Find, or Mind, Find (or Hard-to-Find) and Bind? I’m out of my mind.
Sometimes I am like the bull with the matador. I run toward the red flags instead of away from them. I’ve side-stepped psychological landmines, been attracted to bad boys, seen my flaws mirrored in my partner, and noticed the similarities between my dates and my Dad. I could always find the bent needle in the haystack. But with the years passing and the pool of available men quickly evaporating, where does one draw the line?
At this age, it is obvious that I need to make better choices and ones that aren’t motivated by the fear of being alone on a Saturday night. This sixty-two-year-old cowboy should have kept his gun in his holster. I should have stuck to my guns and remembered the twenty-four-hour rule. Or, like that little girl years ago with a fascination for electrical outlets, who walked away with a pouty lip and blackened fingers, I might end up with bruised feelings and a broken heart.
Copyright 2008 Robyn Justo
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Robyn Justo is a freelance writer who is living, breathing, and learning the new rules of dating over 40. Experienced, but by no means an expert, she shares the frustrations, triumphs, and general hysteria of single life on the Monterey Peninsula. “The Expiration Date” addresses the lighter side of dating later in life. The names have been changed to protect the innocent (and the guilty). Robyn also occasionally hosts local social events for those brave-hearted single folks who actually have the courage to come out of the house.

The show supports a guy having multiple women. Brigham Young, bring ‘em on.
Think about it. Twenty-five women and one guy. All televised. Big ratings. Hell, I was riveted every Monday night.
Knowing how I am, I put myself in the position of one of the twenty-five, seemingly lobotomized (but beautiful, if not surgically enhanced) women. Not only is he is dating me, but he is checking out twenty-four other women and I have to agree to live with these gals and watch my potential husband take them out, kiss them, and spend the night with them.
In the real world, if this were happening, no woman in her right mind would put up with this, let alone let the rest of the world watch her be so stupid. Let’s face it. Women are competitive and territorial. We are.
So there has to be another catch (or not). Maybe the contenders are hoping they don’t get chosen so that they might be the next Bachelorette and karmically put twenty-five guys through the ringer. Or perhaps it’s just for the notoriety and exposure.
Speaking of rings (and exposure), how about rocks? In “Rock of Love,” Bret Michaels, an over forty-something rock star bachelor, drags a gaggle of overexposed, inflated, and double-cleavaged females through the mud (and his bedroom), and finally selects one lucky girl. He is on his third, so what happened to the other two? The first makes cameo appearances on his subsequent shows and helps him decide on the new girls. (Yes, I watch this stuff like a bad accident.)
And there are shows about a bisexual models looking for love (not fair at all, it doubles her chances, doubles her pleasure, and doubles her fun). And bisexual twins who might choose someone the other one wants (is blood really thicker than…?).
Only one couple has made it through the “Bachelor”/”Bachelorette” ordeal (Trista and Ryan) and are a couple of kids along in their marriage. She was shunned in “The Bachelor,” became “The Bachelorette,” and after being burned, caught herself a hot fireman (who actually turned out to be a nice guy).
So this latest bachelor, single father Jason Mesnick, seemed like a really good guy too. He was devastated on the last “Bachelorette” and the world wished he had been picked, wanted him back, and desperately wanted to watch him get lucky in love and live happily ever after. Long story short (really short), he chose the girl we all wanted him to pick, proposed, spun her around enough to make me throw up, joyously jumped in the pool with her and his mini-me-three-year-old son to celebrate, and six weeks later broke up with her on national TV because there wasn’t any chemistry anymore. Then he begged for a chance with the girl he didn’t pick. WTF?
Are we buying this? You couldn’t pay me enough to allow a guy to break up with me in front of the whole world. Not at twenty-five and not even at fifty-five. And the originally shunned bachelorette number two with the crazy eyes actually said, “Sure, let’s give it a shot,” which gives credence to my lobotomy theory. Yes, there would be a shot (with a Colt .45), but not another freaking date.
The rejected fiancée is now spinning herself around on “Dancing with the Stars,” so I guess “reality” recovery happens in warp time.
Like Mulder, I want to believe. We all do. It’s romantic when two people, destined to be together, find each other in this world. If we have to live voyeuristically and vicariously, safely wrapped up in our robes at home, then so be it. But something tells me that if I turn off my television set, get dressed, and go out, I might have a better chance of finding love myself.
Copyright 2009 Robyn Justo
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Robyn Justo is a freelance writer who is living, breathing, and learning the new rules of dating over 40. Experienced, but by no means an expert, she shares the frustrations, triumphs, and general hysteria of single life on the Monterey Peninsula. “The Expiration Date” addresses the lighter side of dating later in life. The names have been changed to protect the innocent (and the guilty). Robyn also occasionally hosts local social events for those brave-hearted single folks who actually have the courage to come out of the house.

Maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m turning into one of those crotchety old people. I don’t know. I seem to have lost my patience these days, with dating (or trying to) and other things, even the incidentals of life.
While doing my laundry the other day, I found myself wrestling with my hangers. They were all tangled together, defiantly refusing to comply with my wishes to untangle. I pulled and pulled and finally catapulted them across the room in frustration. And, of course, there was more than one of my socks that had gone missing again. But with my mood, I guess I would have taken cover too. I took a deep breath and tried to compose myself, but couldn’t quite get there. (Where is my Ativan?) Read the rest of this article »

Most of us know that Clint Eastwood has a place in Carmel called Mission Ranch. When he won the Oscar for “Million Dollar Baby,” he even gave the folks there (which included me from time to time) an honorable mention.
I like going there because, instead of feeling like I could babysit most of the kids in the bar, I am one of the youngest people there. Mission Ranch is definitely for the more mature crowd, but it is not for the faint of heart.
My friends and I have to plan this event in advance. We put on our pumps and get ready to line up our chairs for the show. They drink tea, but I typically order my Manhattan (which I’ll definitely need as my possible future flashes before me in this has-to-be-dimly-lit lounge).
One of my friends won’t sit at the piano bar. In fact, she won’t sit at any bar. It has to be a table. Maybe she doesn’t want people to know why she is really there (anxiously eyeing the door while waiting for Clooney). I don’t care. A seat is a seat to me. The closer the better for seeing, but the further away for some of the shrieks that come from the open mike and sometimes the piano player. The place is packed with once-successful singers, has-beens, and wannabes.
One older man has a pretty good voice, but he sings the same song every time I have ever been there (“They Call the Wind Mariah”). It’s the time I excuse myself and ride like the wind for the bathroom or, if I smoked and would consider starting if this guy kept singing, a very long ciggie break). Typically, this starts the show.
Ok, so I am not always the youngest one in the place. Enter the gold-diggers in their baby-doll tops and their mules (shoes to start with). They carefully scope out the sights, strategically eyeing the salty-haired (and most likely traveling and married) golfers leaning against the bar. The giggles and leans begin and we watch the cleavage, the connections, and the switches. Hopefully they will leave with a mule of their own, at least for the night.
With a ringside seat, we watch a cougar slither in. She sidles up to a seventy-something gentleman at the piano bar and soon she is leading him to the dance floor as they laugh and begin fondling one another. Obviously they know each other? Probably not. And the dancing (or whatever you want to call it) begins.
The cougar’s bling-laden paws are sliding up and down the backside of her hopeful and suspecting prey. He looks like he likes it because he is now grabbing her rear end enthusiastically. We are ready to gag, but we can’t stop watching. It’s like driving past a bad accident and you just can’t help but look. It’s an unexpected, X-rated show.
The music stops, but they don’t. But don’t blink. The cougar now moves on to another toupeed-Tommy and starts the process again. It’s “That 70’s Show” for real. It’s a mate-and-switch. It’s swinging seniors. And it scares me.
If I stay single for the next twenty years, is this my inevitable future? Will I be hanging out at Mission Ranch (will Clint still be alive?), will I be wearing all the rings I own, and will I be grinding on a not-so-sexy centenarian? And are those kids in the other bars looking at me the same way that I am looking at these ranch hands? Just shoot me now.
A high-pitched squeal from the mike shocks me out of my future tripping. This is one time that I would rather hear anyone calling the wind Mariah than thinking that I might end up this way.
I snap out of it and pull my gaze away. The gold-digger at the bar has definitely hooked one.
Then in walks a botox-lipped, very busty blonde in a low-cut, overflowing halter top. Every male head (yes, both heads on each guy in the place) turns her way. The testosterone level goes up and even the Viagra-enabled are standing at attention.
She can’t move her mouth very much, but she manages to whisper a few words into the ear of a guy who has quickly established his position in her path. She leans in as he flushes an adolescent shade of pink. She smiles (or tries to) and he moves closer.
And within a matter of minutes, she breaks his heart, shatters his fantasy, and leaves him in her wake as she moves on to the next. In the meantime, I’m wondering if I should dye my hair and try myself out as a blonde (I think I have a halter top like that).
Something tells me that Clint is somewhere in the background directing these vignettes. But I don’t want to stay to see the ending of “They Call the Blonde Mariah.”
Copyright 2009 Robyn Justo
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Robyn Justo is a freelance writer who is living, breathing, and learning the new rules of dating over 40. Experienced, but by no means an expert, she shares the frustrations, triumphs, and general hysteria of single life on the Monterey Peninsula. “The Expiration Date” addresses the lighter side of dating later in life. The names have been changed to protect the innocent (and the guilty). Robyn also occasionally hosts local social events for those brave-hearted single folks who actually have the courage to come out of the house.

My comments and opinions have been rather brutal regarding dating sites, but I have always secretly hoped to hear one of those success stories (something I could personally relate to and not a contrived Eharmony infomercial showing those goofy people who look like brother and sister and probably are).

So let me start at the beginning. Read the rest of this article »

Sometimes we are better off not knowing some things. Take high cholesterol, for instance. I was doing fine until a few years ago when I was told that mine was off the charts and that I would need to take drugs to get it down (translation: immediately age twenty years and inherit the energy level of an avocado), change my diet (translation: become a rabbit), and exercise more (translation: on second thought, become the Energizer rabbit). It was counterproductive.

Here are their rules:
1. Never eat or drink what you want again or you will DIE (there go my Manhattans, my half and half with my coffee, chocolate, desserts, prime rib, Caesar salads, gelato, scones, butter… and the list goes on). Read the rest of this article »

Years ago, I had a reading from a Vedic astrologer who told me that I might have a difficult time settling down (there’s that settling word again) because I needed to have a connection on all levels with a partner.

Ah, the perfect world. Who wouldn’t want someone who could match us intellectually, spiritually, and physically and could make us laugh and also be our confidante with whom we could shop and share our most vulnerable secrets while wearing our flannel pajamas? Read the rest of this article »

So I have a few questions. Who does a shrink go to when they have a problem or an issue? Do they work it out themselves or do they go to another doc? And does everyone have an annoying little psychic, Tinkerbell-wannabe angel that sits on their shoulder or is it just me?I discovered the answer to these questions the hard way. As much as I hate to admit that this is one more of those stories from online dating hell, it is. But I always seem to have resilience and a short memory of all who have come before and I tend to see (or try) to see the good in folks. Read the rest of this article »