Jeanne Faulkner

My Hippie Summer

The Regence Group            
published September 21, 2007
Adventures of a Fortysomething: My Hippie Summer

Our friendly neighborhood fortysomething decided to experience a mini version of the Summer of Love, sans body painting and patchouli, of course.
by Jeanne Faulkner

I spent my summer searching out my inner hippie. You wouldn't know it to look at me, but back in high school I had hippie inclinations. Where's that girl now? I decided to find out.

First stop: the new-age bookstore for some exploratory toe-dipping in the pond of spiritual writing. It was a quick dip. The new-age music and incense drove me out before I could purchase anything subversive. I blasted alternative rock afterwards to dilute the Enya/Yanni soundtrack. New-age music makes me violent. Before bolting, though, I grabbed Body and Soul magazine. Ahh, magazines--the candy of the book world. If you're not up to a heavy meal (Carlos Castaneda, Jack Cantor), candy is dandy.

My husband asked what I wanted to do for my birthday in July.  Without hesitation I blurted, "Go to Breitenbush Hot Springs!"

"Where the naked hippies are?" he asked. 

"Yeah, that place. Let's stay in the cabins, soak in the tubs and get massages. Without kids." I'd heard about Breitenbush through articulate, high-functioning friends with minimal hippie residue. They go annually and rave about the gorgeous setting, heavenly pools, gourmet vegetarian cooking, soothing yoga and massages. What's not to love? Hot springs are like baths in a meadow, right? "Except for all the naked people," my husband said.

We checked in on a bright Saturday and looked around. The strong smells of patchouli and Dr. Bronner's soap made me nostalgic. Sleepy guests clutched mugs on the deck. They'd warned us to bring our own caffeine "if you're into that." I am. We brought coffee. "No Alcohol, Drugs or Smoking" warnings were posted. Caffeine is the most elicit substance allowed. We'd packed the good stuff.

The lodge bulletin board listed the expected yoga and meditation classes. The "Dancing for Clarity" workshop seemed confusing until a bearded fiftysomething wearing a hand-woven loincloth twirled into the auditorium. Gyrating to the pulsing disco track laid down over Sarah McLachlan, he was soon joined by several other barely clad dancers who grasped hands and, apparently, danced for clarity. Mystery solved.

Further down the list were the words that bristled my neck hair. Birthing from Within's workshop. Ohmigod. I was surrounded by natural-childbirthers--not that there's anything wrong with that. Birthing from Within is an educational philosophy of breathing and relaxation techniques for un-medicated childbirth. I, however, am a labor and delivery nurse--part of the hospital establishment. That's right--I bat for the wrong team. Hospitals offer 24-hour accessibility to epidurals, the downfall of many a naturalist. My husband sensed my fear and horns sprouted on his head. "You wouldn't," I warned.

"Oh yes. I would. I'm gonna tell them you're a labor nurse. You're gonna get it," he said all sing-songy.

"If you tell, you're getting your own cabin."

He teased me about it all weekend.

Our massages were 90 minutes in heaven. My therapist was vigorous but intuited all the tight spots. She finished, though, with something weird. She brushed me off. Like I had crumbs. Brush, brush, sweep, sweep--all done. Not wanting to appear naïve, I didn't ask. Maybe she'd massaged all the bad vibes out and wanted to tidy up. Whatever, I loved the massage.

We headed to the pools and the Big Decision--naked or not? The resort is clothing-optional, but nobody chose clothes. My husband announced, "It's time. Drop your drawers." So we did, but with a discreet towel shimmy allowing a casual slip into the pool. We didn't look nervous or anything.

Our pool-mates soaked in all stages of modesty: some discreetly covered by water; others not. One trio was so tattooed they looked dressed. Another guy, about 45 and not in great shape, draped himself across a rock--legs in the pool but man parts on display. Geez. Where do you look? There it was, not three feet from me, and all I could think was, "Don't stare." I couldn't help peeking, though. They really do come in different sizes.

I'm self-conscious about my stomach and scar collection. I've had kids and surgeries, and I'm not a supermodel anymore. I'm fairly fit, but still…I like clothes. The pools, however, displayed the full spectrum of glory: poochie tummies, saggy breasts, hairy butts, scars, tattoos and lots of armpit hair. Before long, I relaxed; now I was self-conscious mostly because I'm a shaver and didn't feel "natural" enough. Still, despite all my "issues," I look OK.

The weekend passed quickly, and despite our cynicism about the "clarity dancers," we each had some insight later. As I did yoga and my husband ran, we realized we were also exercising for clarity. Just not in loincloths.

We wrapped my hippie summer at the Oregon Country Fair, figuring it would be fun to expose the kids to something different. Really expose! They had more nudists than Breitenbush. I was impressed by the breast painting--yeah, like face painting. Flowers, fairies, seashells. One woman was painted like a hot fudge sundae and her nipples were the cherries. So creative.

The heat and crowds made me claustrophobic. This time, the patchouli mixed with pervasive pot smoke. My college girls were amused and my adolescent son horrified. A guy wore one strategically placed sock like the Red Hot Chili Peppers used to. My youngest asked, "Where's his other sock, Mama?"

Here's what I learned from my hippie summer: I'm not one anymore. Patchouli reeks and incense gives me asthma. I like natural fabrics, but don't go for macramé or tie-dye. I stay dressed in public. I groom and wear makeup. And, OK, I'll just say it: I wax. I may have hippie roots, but apparently they've all grown out and been covered with styling products.

Another column from My Regence - Like a Rock

Adventures of a Fortysomething: Like a Rock

      

Our fortysomething's hubby is like a rock when it comes to his health, so why is some of that chipping away now?

   

by Jeanne Faulkner, Contributor

     

Jeanne Faulkner is a freelance writer and registered nurse in Portland, Ore. Her work appears regularly in Pregnancy and Fit Pregnancy, and she has contributed articles to the Oregonian, Better Homes & Gardens, Shape and other magazines.

   

My husband's been pretty lucky in terms of his health. Sure, there were a few back issues in his 30s, and the unfortunate incidence with the vasectomy (yeah, he was that guy--luckily a weeks-worth of antibiotics, pain pills and ice packs and he was all better). Otherwise, the guy's healthy. I'm the one who has all the issues--the history of breast cancer, the effects of delivering four big babies, the allergies, etc, etc, waah, waah, waah. I feel like I've done our family's time in health prison and therefore the rest of the clan should retain perfect health. That's fair, right? That's why it bugs me that my husband has a few recent health issues to deal with too.

He's been pretty good in terms of lifestyle. He was in his 20s in the '80s but really, other than a few too many martinis on a couple of occasions and a 10-year pack-a-day habit, he behaved pretty well. He quit the smokes before our first daughter was born and never picked them up again. He eats a healthy diet--vegetarian since dating me at the ripe old age of 22. He's been admirable about exercise too, ever since he turned 30. He's been a runner, a gym-rat and tried a little yoga (OK, that was funny). He even ran the marathon a few years back. His weight, like most adults our age, fluctuates a little, but he's good about pulling it back in line when it runs high. He doesn't drink much, and as long as we keep the cookies out of the house, he doesn't overindulge on sweets.

So why, then, the high blood pressure? Is it just something in the "as we age" category? He's just past 50. Stress? You bet. A couple of years ago he quit a job so stressful it about kicked his butt, but now he has a sweet job he likes a lot and does really well. Family issues? He has a really hot wife (oh yeah, that's me) and a pack of kids who adore him, including a second-grader who keeps him young. How many 50-somethings are still active tooth fairies? Our adolescent boy makes him play guitar and throw footballs, and a couple of college-age daughters keep him up to date in the world of music. Of course, he's had to live with me when I was sick. That was no fun. He's spent countless nights up with kids when I worked graveyard shift as a nurse, or when taking his turn when they cried till dawn with earaches. He recently taught one of our daughters to drive and, well, that was mighty stressful. Then there are the worries that come with dealing with aging parents (especially those that live and die with you). Supporting a family our size (even though we both do that) is no easy feat. Still, we've done just fine. Just garden variety realities of life.

Just like every man in the universe, he's reluctant to go see a doctor unless he already knows what the doc's gonna do. It goes like this:

I say, "Honey, you need to see the doctor about that cough you've had for two weeks."

He says, "Why? I don't know what he's going to do."

Me: "Right, you don't know, but he does. Just go. Then you'll get better before you cough up a lung."

Him: "Well, I don't think he can do anything really. I've had this cough for two weeks, what's he gonna do about it?"

Me again: "JUST GO SEE THE DOCTOR ALREADY! He's a smart man, he can cure a cough."

Him again: "OK, OK, you don't have to yell at me."

Finally, he goes to the doctor, gets some cough medicine and antibiotics for bronchitis and voila--all better. Big Surprise every time.

He's not the kind of guy who makes a big production out of being sick. Women love to rag on guys like they're babies. "You'd think he was dying when all he had was the sniffles." Nope, not my guy. He has to be pretty darn miserable to stay home from work, and even then he doesn't bring down the house with it. No drama, no whining, just a ratty, old T-shirt, a box of Kleenex and a day in bed. He sleeps it off, wakes up the next day and goes to work. No biggy.

I guess that's why I find his somewhat elevated blood pressure so disconcerting. He's practically perfect in every way, lives a healthy lifestyle and is a generally happy guy with a good life (and a terribly hot wife…did I mention that?). He's a rock. Why, then, shouldn't he have perfect health? If he can get high blood pressure, then anything's possible. How would we go on if something awful happened? I already took the bullet for the health of this family. And I'm all better now, so…we should be done with all that, right? In his truly non-dramatic manner, consistent with his title of Mr. Cool, he'd say, "Life happens. Just deal with it."

Oh yeah! That's right, isn't it? Sometimes, life just happens and your body does its best.  Sometimes it works like a well-oiled machine and sometimes it gets a little high blood pressure. Suck it up. Exercise a little more, drop a few pounds and take your medicine. Switch jobs to one that's not going to blow out an aneurysm. Toss in a little acupuncture and some vitamins and go on about your business. God I love this guy. So practical, so matter of fact. He's such a rock. I want his attitude--and his health history.

 

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