Last week, I took my daughter shopping for a dress for her upcoming bridal shower. While I waited for her to come out of the dressing room and model top contenders, I flashed back to my own shower, over 40 years ago. I wore a denim jumpsuit, chunky-heeled shoes, and an attitude.

To me, a shower was sexist—it made me feel like the “little woman” eager to share recipes and stain removal tips. I resented the expectation that household duties were mine. I craved respect for my business acumen, not my brisket. I envied the men, probably at a bar slamming shots and betting on football—no vacuum cleaners nor dish towels for them.

Nevertheless, I did not want to hurt anyone’s feelings. The shower organizers spent time, energy, and money to plan this for me. So, I pasted a smile on my face, swept aside resentment, and entered a living room brimming with chattering women and aromas of yellow roses and white tulips.

After a proper period of schmoozing and indulging—mini tuna fish and egg salad sandwiches, blintz souffles, and champagne punch—I was ushered into a blue velvet arm chair. A ruffled, white umbrella dangled above my head. The guests arranged folding wooden chairs into a half circle around me.

An aunt handed me a present from the mountain of gifts adorned in silver and white wrapping papers and ribbons. “Here, open this one and hand me the bow.” She affixed the bow to a white paper plate, as I finessed a round object out of its square box.

“Oh, a crock pot! How great!” I said.

The aunt lit up, “You can put your brisket and potatoes in here before you go to work. When you get home, voila, dinner is ready.”

I thought, “lucky me.”

A cousin on my fiancée’s side, pen in hand, was writing something on a legal pad. I asked, “What are you doing?” Snickers from the crowd. Then, a “you’ll see.”

I opened a set of knives, a paper towel holder, and a can opener. When I got to a matzah ball soup pot, I said, “Oh, this is great—it’s so big.” The guests erupted into laughter. More giggles and scribbles when I opened a set of sheets, “I love these, they’re so soft, I’m tired of stiff ones.”

It took me almost two hours to unwrap and fuss over each present. I could have finished in 20 minutes, but I was admonished, “Please try and open the gifts gently, so you don’t tear the beautiful paper.” I guess someone wanted to reuse it.

By now, the paper plate was covered with bows and ribbons, two ribbons dangling, ties for the homemade hat. A gaggle of guests shouted, “Put it on. Put it on.” I should have been a good sport and gone along with their request—but I wasn’t.

The ladies refilled their punch glasses, it was time for the big reveal. The recording secretary, legal pad in hand, announced, “Now let’s hear what Laura will say on her wedding night.” Then, starting with, “It’s so big,” she read aloud my comments about the gifts. I laughed along with the group, keeping my thoughts to myself. “When will this be over? Don’t they know that my fiancée and I already live together?”

Now, four decades later, I want to slap my younger self. I had assumed that success in business required that I distance myself from stereotypical female activities. I was so driven to climb that corporate ladder, that I stepped over traditions that would later bring love, safety, comfort, and belonging.

I didn’t yet know that sitting around the family dinner table and asking “how was your day?” would serve to ground me. And throwing a brisket and potatoes into that crock pot would facilitate those dinners. Briskets and business are not mutually exclusive. I didn’t understand how a clean and organized home would give me a sense of control in a world where I had so little. I also didn’t realize that household chores are not the innate purview of either partner. Like everything else in marriage, they are negotiable.

But my biggest miscalculation was the role that women would play in my life. I tried so hard to fit in what was then considered a “man’s world” that I overlooked the power of women. It turned out that the women in my life nurtured, supported, and loved me. They let me process, not just problem solve. They were not afraid to get dirty with emotions, share vulnerabilities, nor shed pretenses of perfection.

Some of the women who loved and supported me the most are hosting my daughter’s bridal shower. The room will not be overflowing with guests, just a small group of Jackie’s closet friends and relatives. I’m hoping that they skip the ribbon hat and refrain from predicting her wedding night articulations. I know they will embrace and help Jackie prepare for this next stage of life.

My daughter’s generation knows not to diminish the camaraderie of women nor overvalue the approval of men. They also recognize that as women, whatever path we chose, we are more alike than different. And regardless of our differences, we stand strong for one another.

I ripped open the mustard-colored, legal-size envelope. I could tell by the handwriting, it was from my father. The only other time he had sent me a letter was when I was a child at sleep-away camp. A note, paper-clipped to a handful of legal documents, read, “put these in a safe place.” There were: Health Care Directives, Living Wills, Durable Powers of Attorney, and Trust Agreements—reminders of my parents’ mortality. One by one, I skimmed the legalese. When I saw my name, I paused. My parents had appointed me their Power of Attorney, to make their life and death decisions. It made sense, I am the eldest child and an attorney. Even so, I felt anointed. Now, a decade later, the power is paralyzing.

My father passed away from a heart attack three years ago. He and my mother had been married for 63 years. My mother crumbled. She spent most of the following year in bed and her muscles atrophied. She developed Parkinson’s disease and dementia. Now, at age 85, she wears a diaper underneath her black pull-up slacks and she’s confined to a wheelchair. She cannot wipe her runny nose, plop a piece of chocolate into her mouth, nor wrap a shawl around her cold shoulders. She lives in a senior living community in South Florida, near my brother and sister. A team of caretakers provides her with round-the-clock care.

Late in the summer, my sister came to visit me in Baltimore. We were at dinner and had just ordered wine, when my cell phone rang.

“Mrs. Black?”

“Yes”

“This is your mother’s aide. Please don’t worry. But your mother’s been lethargic and has stopped eating—I erred on caution and called her doctor. He said to call an ambulance. We’re at the hospital now. I will keep you posted.”

Soon after, my mother’s doctor called me. He had conferred with the emergency room physician. They suspected that my mother had a bowel blockage and admitted her for testing and observation. If their suspicions were confirmed, she’d have surgery in the morning. Between tears and fears, my sister and I spent the rest of dinner searching for flights to Miami. There weren’t any flights that night, so we booked the first plane out the next morning.

When we arrived at the hospital, my mother was out of surgery and stable. But our relief was short-lived. Mom developed multiple infections and complications—her kidneys began to shut down. Each morning, I would drive from my hotel to the hospital, hoping that my mother’s kidneys had reversed their decline. Creatinine, a word I’d never heard of before her hospitalization, became a part of my daily vocabulary. It is an indicator of kidney function. My mother’s normal level was 0.5; it was now 3.6

A parade of “ologists” consulted on her case: urologists, cardiologists, nephrologists, neurologists, and others. None of them were optimistic. Eventually, her doctor took me aside and said, “We need to talk.” He ushered me down the hall and into a legal-pad colored room, just big enough to hold a two-seat sofa, an arm chair, and a wooden table. It smelled like antiseptics. I sat on the sofa, he sat across from me in the arm chair.

In a matter-of-fact voice he said, “Are you her power of attorney?”

“Yes.”

“Well, we can’t find a DNR, (do not resuscitate). You need to sign one. I’m sorry, but there is not much more we can do for your mother. Her kidneys are failing—it doesn’t look good.”

“There’s nothing you can do?”

“She’s 85 years old. She is not a candidate for dialysis. If she shuts down, it would be cruel to insert a feeding tube or keep her alive with artificial means.”

He handed me a yellow paper to sign, in large caps it read, “DO NOT RESUSCITATE.” I held it away from me, as if it were my dog’s newly filled poop bag.

“Okay, let me talk with my family. I’ll get back to you in the morning.”

“I understand. And, if it’s alright, I’ll have someone from hospice get in touch with you.”

I am not good at making irreversible decisions—I struggled with neutering my dog. I didn’t want to sign the DNR, nor agree to hospice. I did not want to play a role in my mother’s death.

I went back to her hospital room. I kissed her and said, “I love you. I’ll be back tomorrow.” Then, I drove to my hotel room to reread those documents from that mustard colored envelope that my father had sent years ago. They were now downloaded onto my iPhone. This time, I read them as if my mother’s life was at stake. The boilerplate language said:

“If at any time I am incapacitated, and I have an end-stage condition . . . and no reasonable medical probability of recovery . . . I direct that life prolonging procedures be withheld . . . ”

Initially, I thought I was off the hook—her directives were clear. It was my job to execute, not to decide. But then, in less time than it takes for my nail polish to dry, I thought back to all the papers my businessman father had asked my mother to sign over the years. She never read them. He said, “Sign.” She said, “Where?”

I also thought about my mother’s fear of dying: If she sneezed in the morning, she called her doctor by afternoon. She made an appointment for her flu shot, before the vaccine was released. She wouldn’t allow us to visit her if we had a cold. A headache was indicative of a brain tumor. Her favorite hand lotion was Purell.

Would she want to fight now?

In the past, I had tried to talk to my mother about her wishes. She never said, “Let me die, naturally.” I pushed her, trying to avoid this very situation, “Mom, if the only way to live is with a feeding tube down your nose or in your stomach, do you want that?”

“Okay, fine. Do whatever you want. I’m not talking about it anymore.”

Knowing that I had to get back to the doctor by morning, I stayed up most of that night talking with my family. Everyone agreed that Mom no longer had quality of life. Artificial interventions were more for us than for her. It was selfish to cause her more pain. If she died, who were we to play God and revive her? Fear of dying is not the same as choosing life.

The next morning, I went to the hospital with the signed, yellow DNR. But the decision was no longer in my hands. Mom’s creatinine levels had dropped—her kidneys were improving. The potent antibiotics prescribed for her infections may have harmed her kidneys. The nephrologist changed medicines and she responded. Mom continued to progress and by the end of the week, after a month of hospitalization, they sent her home.

My siblings and I met with the hospice people before her discharge. They educated us and made us question whether, given my mother’s age and condition, it was fair to put her through any more hospitalizations. They could help enhance her quality of life. If we changed our minds, we could withdraw their services.

That was five months ago. Mom’s kidneys have stabilized, though her Parkinson’s has progressed. While oftentimes she’s miserable, there are still sparkles of joy. She enjoys TV shows like America’s Got Talent and Dancing with the Stars. She smiles when I visit—especially when I bring sesame-covered bagels. She insists that her jewelry matches her outfits. And she loves to sing.

I’ve played and replayed a video that my sister texted me last week. It’s of a hospice volunteer, strumming her guitar while singing to my mother, “Oh what a beautiful morning, oh what a beautiful day.” Mom cocks her head to listen. Her eyes twinkle with recognition. She joins in, “I got a beautiful feeling, everything’s going my way.”

If I look at the video too closely, I can’t help but spot the emergency notebook lying on her kitchen counter. It holds that yellow DNR. My signature is at the bottom.

I remember when I was 8, sitting in the back seat of my father’s Ford station wagon as he drove my grandma, my mother’s mother, to the airport for her flight back from our home in Miami to her tenement in New York. Not five minutes into the trip, he belted out, “Hate to see you go. Hate to see you go. Hope the heck you never come back. Hate to see you go.”

My grandmother turned to me, shrugged her shoulders, and we both chuckled. The same chuckle we shared time and again during a week of my father’s interminable mother-in-law jokes.

“Why do fathers-in-law die before mothers-in-law?”

“Why?”

“Because they want to.”

I knew that my father loved my grandma—yet, he couldn’t resist teasing her. I also knew, that when I grew up, I didn’t want to be a mother-in-law.

Now a half-century later, women hold over 20 percent of the seats in Congress. We are Supreme Court justices, neurosurgeons, astronauts, and CEOs. We climb elusive ladders, struggle with high-stress careers, and manage high-stress children. We advocate for social justice, insist on equality, and demand respect. We refuse to take a back seat to anyone—unless, of course, it’s our daughter-in-law.

Because, we’re afraid of her.

When our son slides that ring (the one we helped select and perhaps paid for) on his beloved’s finger, power seeps through the metal. Later, if the couple has children, that power has potential to punish.

A friend of mine confided, “My daughter-in-law asked me to watch the kids next Friday. I told her I couldn’t because I had a doctor appointment.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“It was a lie. I didn’t want to admit I was going to yoga.”

I understood. With self-righteous retribution, her daughter-in-law could veto a family dinner, renege on Sunday brunch, or worse—withhold the grandchildren.

It’s time for mother-in-law empowerment.

But, before we can wiggle our way into a mutually respectable relationship, we must look at our own behavior. Have we unwittingly fed the stereotype? Do we attempt to usurp our daughter-in-law’s judgment for our own? A simple, “Are you wearing that to dinner, dear?” is enough to poke the bias. A well-intended, “Don’t you think you allow the kids too much screen time?” can unravel the relationship.

Even if we give no cause for distance, our daughters-in-law may have their own reasons for keeping us at arm’s length. Some may think it’s disloyal to their own mothers if they cozy up to us. It’s not. Others think we’re in competition for first place with their husbands. We’re not—they’ve already won. We just want involved spectator status. A few are too insecure to share their families with us. It’s our job to help them to feel safe.

I have two daughters-in-law. (And a son-in-law to be.) I admit, when I first met them, I tried to swallow my words and blend into the background. That didn’t last long—I leaked through the façade. And, I’m glad.

I offered a relationship based on authenticity and equality. And they accepted. Neither of them marginalizes my self-worth, nor I theirs. But, like desserts at lunch time, I try to exercise restraint and refrain from meddling or judging. Together, we spurned that archaic stereotype. And, hopefully, modeled appropriate behaviors for the next generation.

My childhood fear of mother-in-law bias never materialized.

At my daughters-in-law’s weddings, I did not “wear beige nor keep my mouth shut.” Rather, with their approval, I wore navy to one and black to the other. Not because I was contrarian, but because dark colors are slenderizing.

It was a routine physical. My 57-year old sister’s South Florida internist looked over the results of her blood work and said, “You have slightly abnormal thyroid levels. To be on the safe side, I’m going to refer you to an endocrinologist.”

Three weeks later, the soonest appointment available, she saw the doctor. “I’m glad you came in. You have nodules, that’s common. But, because two of them are large, we need to do a biopsy. Schedule an appointment with my assistant.”

Later, when I grilled her for details, she confessed, “After the word biopsy, everything else sounded like ‘wah wah wah.’”

She had to wait another three weeks for the procedure, six weeks since her appointment with the internist. I had visions of lascivious malignant cells fornicating without protection. I wanted to fly her to me in Baltimore.

During the waiting period, we talked many times a day. We spoke in code.

“How’s it going?” Code for: Are you freaking out?

“I’m okay.” I’m freaking out.

“Whatever happens—you’ll be fine.” I’m praying.

“There’s nothing worse than waiting.” I feel out of control.

“I know.” There is a lot worse.

I wasn’t supposed to have to worry about her. My sister is petite, beautiful, and fit. She drinks vegetable smoothies for breakfast and carries weights when she speed-walks. She can wear the jeans that fit her in college. Although I’m only eight years older, people have mistaken me for her mother. Nevertheless, I adore her.

Stepping into big sister mode, I became an internet expert at thyroid cancers. I learned, if we had to pick a cancer, this was a top contender—it had an excellent prognosis. But I also read stories of radiation isolation, invasions into lymph nodes, and other nasty outcomes.

I offered to fly down and hold her hand during the procedure. But she said, “It’s no big deal.” A dozen needles into her neck later, it was a little deal. Despite her attempt to fish for information, the doctor refused to bite. He said that she had to wait another week to see if the nodules were cancerous. And he added, “I don’t give results over the phone. You need to make an appointment and meet with me in my office.”

Did that mean he thought there was a problem?

During the last week of our vigil, I tried to distract her by steering our conversations to Thanksgiving. We were planning to celebrate at her house in Miami. As a practicing perfectionist, she obsessed over the menu. Should she serve a filet along with the turkey? Yes. Do we need both mashed potatoes and sweet potatoes? Yes. We were weighing Brussels sprouts versus string-bean casserole when she blurted out, “I’m telling you now, if the biopsy is positive, we’re having store-bought stuffing.”

It was her first taste of the reality of mortality.

A week later, the day of her 4 p.m. appointment with the endocrinologist, I knew she was leaving work by 2. I thought, “I shouldn’t call her. I need to give her some space.” Five minutes after two, she called me. “I’m thinking of taking a half of Xanax.”

“Why wouldn’t you? I want a whole one.”

The leaves had transitioned from greens to reds, oranges, and yellows since the day of her physical. To me, they had a dull sheen this year. During those seven weeks, I hedged before committing to plans: I wanted to be available if my sister needed me. And for seven weeks I repeated, several times a day, “She will be fine. She will be fine.”

I also felt selfish. I had indulged myself in possibilities—when so many others were dealing with actualities: dire diagnoses and loss. Nevertheless, this was my sister and it was 4 o’clock. I imagined her, squeezing her husband’s hand, trying to appear brave, as she sat in a brown vinyl arm chair across the desk from her doctor.

To escape from my illusions and burn off some energy—I took my dog for a walk. Ten minutes later, the ding of a text. I inhaled a deep breath of hope. Then read, “I’m fine. It’s negative. And he’s not concerned about the thyroid levels.”

As planned, we will have Thanksgiving at her house in Miami. We will give thanks that she is healthy; thanks for all that is good. And we will pray for the many families with tragedies covering their own holiday tables.

Once my sister sampled the precariousness of life, she could not spit out the taste. So yes, she will make the turkey, filet, and Brussels sprouts. But she’ll give herself a break and order the stuffing.

About six weeks ago, during that late summer time sandwiched between camp and school, my husband, my sons in-law, and I, took five grandchildren to the beach. (Three shared grandchildren and the in-laws’ other two.) They ranged in age from 4 to 10.

At 7 a.m. on day two of the trip, as we adults sipped our first cups of coffee and the kids pleaded for more Pop-Tarts, my 10-year-old granddaughter hand-delivered an invitation to each of us that read,

“Come to Sticky’s and Gummy’s funeral. It’s in my room at 7:30. Wear black.”

Sticky and Gummy were the 5-cent slimy, crystalline creatures that she “won” at an amusement arcade the previous evening. (Given the amount of money we spent, I could have flown to Vietnam and bought them directly from the manufacturer.) The figurines met their demise when one of my grandsons stretched them to the point of dismemberment. My granddaughter screamed, “Why did you do that?” Her brother apologized, “I was just playing. I didn’t think they’d break.” She accepted his apology but insisted on a proper funeral.

Just as the caffeine began to kick in, she shooed us into her makeshift bedroom, a walk-in closet with a mattress, where all nine of us scrunched together to pay our last respects. My husband delivered the eulogy.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to celebrate the short lives of Sticky and Gummy . . .”

I tried to keep a solemn countenance but couldn’t. The in-laws caught my eye and began to giggle. Soon, even the kids registered the absurdity of the situation and we all broke into full-belly laughter. It was the first time, since our arrival, that I had let myself relax.

Taking my grandchildren to the beach in my 60s was a far cry from taking my children there in my 20s. The walk from the condo to the water was longer. The softer, potholed sand was harder to navigate. The beach chairs and umbrellas were heavier. The sun was hotter, and the noise was louder. I no longer enjoyed small hands wielding big shovels burying any of my body parts in the sand. And I didn’t want to fill and refill buckets with water for castles that couldn’t help but collapse. I just wanted to read my book.

I could deal with the commotion, heat, and exhaustion. It was the responsibility for their safety that put me over the edge. We spread our blanket in front of the life guard’s feet. We forced the kids to wear Coast Guard-approved life jackets. We sprayed them every hour, from head to toe, with SPF-100 sunscreen. There were four adults watching five children. And I was still a nervous wreck.

I dragged my beach chair to the shallow waters. Sitting upright, I shaded my eyes with my hand, and tried to keep track of all five children. Again, and again, I counted out loud, “One, two, three, four, five. One, two three four five . . .” I watched for the undertow that would sweep a child out to sea; the jellyfish with the poisonous sting; the fin of a great white; or, the kidnapper disguised as a fellow beach goer.

Grandparent angst is not limited to vacations. For me, it began with the birth of my granddaughter. I quickly learned that, in addition to my own angst, I had to deal with a higher authority—her parents. I had to follow their rules (at least in their presence) and use pre-approved contraptions, like the “one touch collapsible” stroller—it took months before I learned how to finagle it into my trunk.

And the regulation car seat with all its straps and belts—I never did figure out how to install that. In desperation, I paid a local firefighter to install it for me. I called him again when my daughter-in-law told me to change it from back-facing to front-facing. For years afterward, we took my husband’s car if we were driving another couple to dinner. I wasn’t messing with that car seat.

Now, my grandchildren were past the infant and toddler stages. This vacation was an opportunity to connect with them as people. Yet, I had allowed hypothetical dangers to distract me from actual joys. Our laughter at the funeral for those cheap figurines slapped me into the moment. If I wanted more of those moments—I needed to ease up.

For the remaining couple of days, I allowed myself to be present. While we dealt with strep throat, pink eye, and sea lice, we also converted the kitchen island into a Ping-Pong table and held tournaments. We built sand tunnels and collected seashells. We had a salami and egg cook-off and dessert at every meal.

After breakfast, on the last day of the trip, my grandson turned to me and said, “Bubbie, can we stay here forever?” I hugged him and answered, “Forever, no. But, hopefully next summer.” I’m already looking forward to it.

When we buried Sticky and Gummy, I buried my angst. Well—most of it at least.

A few months ago, my husband, Charles, called me from work and said, “Listen to this text.”

I heard the excitement in his voice as he read: “Can you meet me for coffee or lunch one day next week? I want to ask you a question.”

Puzzled by his excitement, I asked, “Who’s it from?”

“Lorin.”

Lorin is my daughter’s boyfriend. They had been dating for three and a half years and we adored him. This text could only mean one thing, right? He was planning to propose.

“So, when are you seeing him?” I said, now not able to contain my own excitement.

“We’re having lunch on Tuesday. Don’t say a word to anyone, we have to keep this a secret.”

I knew he was right and with more will power than it took not to steal a French fry from my grandson’s plate—I kept quiet and waited.

On Tuesday, as agreed, Charles and Lorin had lunch. Later, Charles filled me in on the details and said that Lorin was going to propose the following Wednesday at a restaurant near their home in D.C. His eyes welled up as he muttered, “I bet he can’t read Berenstain Bears to her in as good a voice as me.”

The night of the planned proposal, Charles and I were too anxious to do anything but wait for Jackie’s call. Their dinner reservation was for 7:30. By 8, I was pacing, cell phone in hand. At 8:30, Charles mumbled, “Obviously, he’s not doing it before dessert.” At 9:15 he said, “I don’t get it; what’s taking him so long?” Finally, at 9:30 I got a text from Jackie. It was a picture of her hand donning a diamond rind. The message read, “I’ll call you after dinner.”

Incredulous, I called her and cried, “After dinner! Are you kidding me!” She laughed; but, took control. “Mom, he just this second proposed, let me call you when we’re done.” Helplessly I muttered, “Did you say “yes?”

“Of course.”

My only daughter, my youngest child was getting married—I needed to share the news with my mother. I yearned to hear her say, “Oh, honey, I can’t believe it! Jackie! Jackie’s getting married! I love you! I’m so happy!” But when I called her, I got nothing. While it seemed that she understood her granddaughter was getting married, she could not hold onto the thought. It hit me hard: My mother has Parkinson’s disease and its cohort, dementia. She lives with round-the-clock caregivers in South Florida. She would never share my dreams of long lacy veils and white rose bouquets. She wouldn’t even ask about the ring. (Two years ago, she would have insisted on pictures and a copy of the appraisal.)

In her prime, my mother set the ultimate standard for celebrations. Elegance, lavishness, and perfection were her trademarks. My father loved telling the story of him and my mother shopping for my wedding cake. They drove a couple of hours for an appointment with the wedding cake king of South Florida. My mother interviewed him, “Show me a picture of the best cake you ever made.” The king’s eyes sparkled. He climbed upon a step-stool and reached for the photo album lying on the top row of his bookshelves. Filled with pride, he sat down beside my mother, turned to a bookmarked page and said, “Look, my finest.” My mother leaned over the page and examined the cake, like she would have examined Jackie’s diamond for flaws, and said, “Is there anything better?”

Without my mother to steer me, I turned to bridal magazines and surfed wedding websites. I didn’t want to nudge Jackie, it was too soon—she deserved to savor her moment. However, a few days later, the words thrust out from my mouth like a sneeze, “Have you given any thought to where and when you want to get married?” I was gently chastised. “Mom, please. I will get there but give me some time.”

From then on, I rationed my inquiries. And in that space, tucked inside my mattress of joy was a painful tick—loneliness. I was determined to fill it by diving deep into wedding fantasies. Alone with my magazine layouts, I envisioned Jackie descending a circular mahogany staircase. Her guests, outfitted in tuxedos and gowns, watch as she gracefully steps into a gold-leaf paneled hall, adorned with massive Baccarat crystal chandeliers. Eager to realize my visions, I called several Willard-type hotels and checked for available dates.

A couple of weeks later, Jackie was ready to look at venues. Proud of my early surveillance efforts, I emailed her the links to my favorite ballrooms. She gave me the courtesy of perusing them before letting me know, “Mom, we don’t want anything formal, no hotels. We’re thinking more barn or warehouse.”

I swallowed my disappointment and let it digest for a few days. Then, to my surprise, relief moved into its place. I remembered how I had felt like an imposter at my own wedding. I was embarrassed at the Versailles-worthy wedding cake and the gaggles of waitstaff garbed in black-tie and white gloves. The orchestra was better suited for Carnegie Hall and the flowers for Butchart Gardens. As the lead player in mom’s grandiosity, I felt self-conscious and out of place.

I did not want this for my daughter. I wanted Jackie to realize her own dreams. But, at the same time, I felt traitorous disregarding my mother’s taste. Jackie understood. Like me, she wasn’t willing to extricate her grandma’s touch from her special day. Together, we found the sweet spot. The wedding will take place not at a fancy ballroom nor a rustic warehouse but at a reception hall on the Chesapeake Bay with walls of glass that allow sunlight to flood the room.

My mother cannot attend the wedding, but we will feel her presence. When I talked to the caterer, it was mom who asked, “What is your best cut of meat?” Likewise, it was mom’s voice that whispered, “Make sure you have enough bartenders so that your guests won’t have to wait in line.” And, mom shook her head “no” to the standard tablecloths.

My mother would be so proud of her granddaughter. Jackie knows what she wants and is not afraid to ask for it. She is comfortable setting boundaries and doesn’t allow the generations before her to steamroll over her wishes. I look at this confident woman, my daughter, and, I’m certain—“there isn’t anything better.”

Welcome to “Life Lines,” a new column on aging gracefully by writer Laura Black.

The Eastern Shore bike shop was jam-packed with merchandise. I combed through mazes of racing bikes, mountain bikes, road bikes and even bicycles-built-for two. But, I couldn’t find what I was looking for. Before too long, a pony-tailed salesman with tattoo-covered biceps greeted me and asked, “Can I help you?”

And, in the same voice I used the first time I asked a male drugstore clerk for a box of tampons, I muttered, “Do you have any adult tricycles?”

To his credit, he didn’t laugh, “Give me a minute, I think there’s one in the back.” And, before I had time to change my mind, he came out with a red three-wheeler. It looked like an adult-sized version of the ones I bought my kids when they were toddlers—minus those multi-colored plastic strips hanging off the handlebars.

“Let’s take it out to the parking lot so you can give it a try.”

Hoping no one else was watching, I climbed upon the seat and pedaled. I hated it. It was heavy and unwieldy—not an acceptable replacement for my two-wheeled Schwinn. I love that bike, with its fat tires, cushy seat, and clunky wire basket that holds my water bottle, lock, and purse. But I’ve been afraid to ride it since my fall last summer.

My husband and I were riding our bikes to breakfast. As we approached the restaurant, he took a sharp right turn, over the curb and into the parking lot. I tried to follow. But, the next thing I knew, I was splayed on the ground as awkward as a lineman in a tutu.

Passersby offered help, and I declined with embarrassment. Charles lifted the bike off my chest, and we assessed the damage: bruises and blood, but nothing gushy nor stitch-worthy. (Though later, my left knee swelled, seemingly with humiliation, and I had to have it drained.)

Charles helped me to my feet and after, “You okay?” He said, “Honey, your bike was parallel to the curb, that’s why you fell. You should have turned the wheel and crossed it at a right angle.” I thought, “How was I supposed to know?” And in that moment, my confidence as a cyclist collapsed. I walked the bike home and buried it in the back of our storage closet. I have not touched it for over a year—and, I miss it.

Unless I count walking, biking was my only outdoor activity. (I never mastered tennis, diving, hiking, surfing, skiing, to name a few alternatives.) At the beach, I would ride up and down Coastal Highway, exploring bayside and oceanfront communities. I’d cycle south to the Boardwalk and north to downtown Bethany. On a trip to Wyoming, Charles, my daughter, and I pulled over for a herd of buffalo as we biked the mountain trails. And, in Vancouver, I rode with my sister and our daughters around the Seawall Trail in Stanley Park.

Biking has allowed me to see myself as active. Now, since the fall, I am afraid to ride—and, afraid not to. A tricycle, with its two back wheels for balance, was a last-ditch attempt to resurrect my self-image.

When I’m honest with myself, I must admit that the problem is bigger than bicycling. Like another wrinkle between my brows, anxiety has marred my self-assurance: I hesitate before driving my rental car on I-95 from Miami to Delray Beach. I hang my trifocals from my blouse before stepping on steep escalators. And, I go out of my way to avoid walking in ice and snow.

I concede apprehension—but, fear capitulation. Isn’t giving up, giving in? I do not want to succumb to self-imposed limitations. I have little control over the insidious losses that come with aging—but, I can control how I handle them. I can choose fight over flight.

When I return from the tricycle fiasco, I drag my Schwinn out of the storage closet, pump air into its tires and toss my stuff into the basket. Grabbing the black rubber handlebars, I maneuver it into the elevator and out to the street. Then, I buckle the strap of my helmet under my chin and straddle the seat. Inhaling courage, exhaling fear—I pedal north on Coastal Highway. I am free. Turns out, it’s just like riding a bike.

Welcome to “Life Lines,” a new column on aging gracefully by writer Laura Black.

I wasn’t sure how to dress for a business meeting with a pair of thirty-something women at one of those nouveau coffeehouses. I had my go-to uniforms for board meetings and lunches with contemporaries at the Center Club,—but, these executives were the same age as my kids.

My wardrobe is centered around 40 pairs of black pants—37 of them have elastic waists. (The other three I never wear). Not that I need to justify, but, I need different lengths, fabric weights, and (especially) sizes. They run the gamut from tight-fitting leggings to wide legged, or what we used to call bell bottoms.

I stood in front of my full-length mirror and tried on several black pants and top/jacket combinations. Finally, I settled on a pair of medium weight pants and navy hip-length top. I hoped I looked somewhat stylish. I was tempted to ask Alexa, “Does this make me look old?” And, if she answered, “No,” I would add, “Does it make me look fat?”

In the last few years, like many parts of my body, my confidence in fashion has sagged. My angst is not limited to business meetings with millennials. Simply packing for vacation is cause for confusion. I wonder: Is it okay to wear a fanny pack? How about my extra-wide and super thick Saucony tennis shoes? (Those dainty white sneakers don’t have enough arch support.) And, if it’s hot, can I wear sleeveless tops—even if my underarms jiggle? How about shorts—am I past the age limit? Are capris better? Will they make me look like a Boca Bubbie?

Black-tie events bring a deluge of decisions. Are pantyhose still in? If so, nude or black? Heels are out for me and wedges don’t work either—after a few drinks, they make me wobble. I need flat and fashionable, but wide enough to accommodate custom orthotics. Will I be condemned if I show up in SAS rather than Manolo Blahnik?

Like, technology, I’ve kept-up enough to get by—but always run into problems. The difference is, when my computer freezes, my husband can help. But, where do I turn to find out if eyeliner is in? And, if it is, does it go on both the top and bottom of my lids? How about nail polish? My manicurist suggests blues, greens, and yellows. Does that mean red is a no? Getting more personal—is everything supposed to get waxed?

And, those undergarments—I think they’re called shapers. Admittedly, they’re much better than the old girdles and long-line bras. But, while they suck in my stomach and hips—somehow, like ants in the summer, my fat finds a way to escape. I also tried thongs from Victoria’s Secret. I wore a purple pair for a few hours—I just don’t get it. I know my granny panties are not a turn-on; but, my tush is grateful.

Looking for fashion direction, I observe other women in my age group. Some fight like David against the Goliath of aging. They subject their bodies to lifts, tucks, and fillers. They wear jeans with holes and boots without toes. And, many of them carry it off. I don’t.

On the other extreme, are the women who surrender to age without fighting. They wear floral house dresses or fashion favorites from the ’70s. They don’t have to lug plastic bags of clothes to Goodwill. For them, nothing is out of style.

The group I most admire have a knack for classic dressing. Their silver hair and designer scarves epitomize elegance. They don’t concern themselves with what’s in—they reach for what’s timeless. They walk tall with confidence and embrace their maturity. I can’t tie a scarf.

I know, I could make an appointment with a fashion consultant. Or, I could study Vogue and shop at Saks. But, whenever I learn the rules, the game changes.—and nobody sends me an alert. More importantly, I don’t care enough to stay up-to-date. As my 10-year-old granddaughter said, when we were shopping for a dress for her lower-school graduation, “I want to be myself, but I don’t want to stick out so much that other people talk.”

When I got to the coffee shop I noticed that one of the millennials was wearing a dress with a denim jacket, the other, jeans and a black top. Between sips of java and bites of avocado toast, we closed a deal.

On the way out, the one in the denim jacket said, “You look great for your age.” In other words, it didn’t matter what I wore—in their eyes, I’m old. And, that’s okay. I realized, my real fear was not fashion; it was marginalization.