I have come to the conclusion that reading women's magazines is not good for my emotional health. I just finished the latest issue of "Oprah" which encouraged me to celebrate my figure flaws, to buy this season's designer bag for a mere $150 and to embrace the freedom of life after fifty. To address each issue in order, never will, never will, and huh?

I guess Oprah doesn't quite have a grasp of that freedom thing considering she has a billion or so dollars and no children. I'm in my late fifties and smack dab in the middle of "The Sandwich Generation." I'm not playing victim here as I have no one to blame but myself for having children in my late thirties, pretty much guaranteeing that I would be raising teenagers and dealing with elderly parents at the same time. So, according to whoever coined the sandwich metaphor, I am now a piece of salami nestled in-between two pieces of soft bread.

It could almost sound tasty if you visualize some lettuce, a tomato slice and nice crispy lettuce, but let me tell you, it is far from being a culinary delight. As a matter of fact, it is nothing like a sandwich. It's more like two elevator doors that keep closing on me, the meat, then bouncing back and closing again. The meat gets more pulverized with each crunch. So, a more accurate phrase would be "The Elevator Sandwich Generation." Well, that needs a little work, but you get the picture.

Let me fill you in on how it feels to be the one getting smashed from both sides. My father passed away several years ago, but at one time I had two teen-age sons and a ninety-one year old father behind the wheel. I wouldn't ride with any of them. Someone in the family had to be alive to handle the legal affairs. And I can only imagine how many times they all ignored an approaching ambulance or fire truck. Dad hadn't been able to hear since World War II, and my sons drove pulsating boom boxes on wheels.

Communication with my "doors" has also been a pulverizing experience. I don't have to go into much detail about the teenagers. I think it's pretty safe to say that they haven't heard a word I've said for about five years. Of course Dad couldn't hear a word I said, but at least he smiled pleasantly at me and nodded a lot. Mother, on the other hand, has perfect hearing, but no memory. Call it dementia. Call it being a little dizzy. It doesn't really matter. She has never had a firm grasp on reality, but now she doesn't remember a thing I tell her. So that

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