When I was fifteen, someone told me that if you hang your face over a mirror you can tell what you are going to look like in 10 years. Sit in a chair, hold the mirror in your lap, and bend over until you can see your face in it. About every 10 years, I give this another go. Actually, it has turned out to be a pretty accurate method. (Note: It doesn’t work with your breasts, only your face).
But today, I’m looking back, not forward. As I pause in the middle of this road, I cast a wistful glance over my shoulder at my forties, which are all but behind me. I love you, my 40s! You have given me so much and I’m sad to leave you!
Some decades haven't been that way for me. I kicked my 20s to the curb without so much as a by your leave. My 30s are cloudy and muddled, and chock full of turmoil. But in my 40s I came into my own. My words and my opinion seemed to suddenly carry more weight once I passed 40, I think. And it is still sexy. 40 is the new 30!
My forties were also a catch-up decade for me in terms of things I feel I should have known or realized much earlier. For one thing, I finally got breasts in my 40s. Who knew? Who could have predicted this interesting “development?” And in my forties, some things I learned better late than never. I had to reach my 40s to find out things like:
All the major north-south highways are odd-numbered and all the east-west ones are even-numbered.
Most women dye their hair to get that color – even the young ones
How to eat to “peel and eat” shrimp
You really do have to try clothes on before you buy them, because you can never, ever know how they will fit.
With 100% certainty how to spell “wiener” and “weird” without spell-checking
That you should buy yourself really nice quality socks (I just learned this one)
How I wish that I had written them all down so I could list them now. Of course my 40s also brought to my attention the importance of finding your truth, whatever it is, and standing up in it. I became aware of the lovely concepts of the authentic self, and synchronicity. It is in my 40s that the Bubble of Love was born in my brain.
I learned that I always need a creative outlet, just like I need oxygen.
I learned I am not materialistic but I love clothes and SHOES, and I don’t feel guilty about it.
I discovered the importance of down time. …………........
So I don’t want to leave my 40s, but the road takes me forward, away away away from them.
Today I honor my forties, for all that they have given me. Fifties – you have a lot to live up to.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Monday, January 18, 2010
Secret Dreams and Heart Ponderings
I started to do a blog about all of my deepest, craziest dreams and desires – all the things I would like to do but just don’t have the nerve to talk about. Things I’d secretly like to do but don’t have the time, money, resources, fame, élan, hutzpah, drive, ambition, vision, knowledge, or opportunity to do. I thought -- Hell, I’ll just put them on out there.
But I couldn’t do it - for a lot of reasons. For one thing… what if I never do them? Does exposing them to air cause them to suddenly disintegrate? Maybe we get that feeling partly from the old custom to never tell a wish or it won’t come true. Maybe it’s biblical: “But Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart.” Luke 2:19. So we learn on some level to keep them under wraps, these dreams. As long as they remain unspoken, they are every bit as real and possible as the things we have done.
Is there a safe room where you can go and announce your heart’s desires and get a good reading on the outrageous meter? For me, I think it would be scarier than going to confession, which, let’s face it, is one of the darker childhood memories, I would think. I’ll bet there is NOBODY out there who has fond memories of going to confession. I hated it with a passion.
Sometimes, I think it’s important to say things out loud, or they never get a chance to happen. I have been a firm believer that speaking your goals aloud helps you accomplish them. However I recently read an article that made the case for not telling everyone all your plans, goals. I think it was saying that sometimes you get ahead of yourself and then just peter out, that way. Telling other people my dreams and aspirations is hard for me. And while I’m being honest here, I may as well admit that a lot of times I don’t want anyone else’s input or encouragement. I know, I know, that’s crazy. Non-productive. Self-defeating. Blah blah blah. But true.
These are the steps I am going to take to address this:
Sometime between now and January 30, I am going to post here – on this very site – ONE of my secret dreams. As for the rest, I am going to make a list and maybe tie it up with ribbons and treat it kindly. Perhaps I will burn some sage and dance in a circle around it, chanting and drumming -- who knows? But if only by making that list, I am going to honor all the secret dreams.
But I couldn’t do it - for a lot of reasons. For one thing… what if I never do them? Does exposing them to air cause them to suddenly disintegrate? Maybe we get that feeling partly from the old custom to never tell a wish or it won’t come true. Maybe it’s biblical: “But Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart.” Luke 2:19. So we learn on some level to keep them under wraps, these dreams. As long as they remain unspoken, they are every bit as real and possible as the things we have done.
Is there a safe room where you can go and announce your heart’s desires and get a good reading on the outrageous meter? For me, I think it would be scarier than going to confession, which, let’s face it, is one of the darker childhood memories, I would think. I’ll bet there is NOBODY out there who has fond memories of going to confession. I hated it with a passion.
Sometimes, I think it’s important to say things out loud, or they never get a chance to happen. I have been a firm believer that speaking your goals aloud helps you accomplish them. However I recently read an article that made the case for not telling everyone all your plans, goals. I think it was saying that sometimes you get ahead of yourself and then just peter out, that way. Telling other people my dreams and aspirations is hard for me. And while I’m being honest here, I may as well admit that a lot of times I don’t want anyone else’s input or encouragement. I know, I know, that’s crazy. Non-productive. Self-defeating. Blah blah blah. But true.
These are the steps I am going to take to address this:
Sometime between now and January 30, I am going to post here – on this very site – ONE of my secret dreams. As for the rest, I am going to make a list and maybe tie it up with ribbons and treat it kindly. Perhaps I will burn some sage and dance in a circle around it, chanting and drumming -- who knows? But if only by making that list, I am going to honor all the secret dreams.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Hello, Laura, This Is Your Mortality Calling
I'm sorry but we must talk about it...
So I’m trying to get my head in the right place, and actually, it is getting a little better. I know that I only have a few more days left to come to terms with this. “Come to terms with this” – as if it’s a terminal illness or something. Well……in a way we are all walking around with big fat T stamped on our foreheads. As difficult as it is to hold in my brain for more than a few seconds at a time, yes, this is partly about giving the nod to inevitable mortality.
When I was a kid, I tried to picture what I would look like at 18, 25, 30, maybe 40, and then maybe said things like “when I am 80” which had about the same sincerity behind it as “when I make my first million dollars.”
I don’t ever remember trying to picture how it would be when I was 50 because it was NOT interested and I felt I had more pressing things to worry about. In my mind, reaching 50 meant the beginning of BLANDNESS and – yes, Mich – invisibility. Skin gets pale, hair gets pale, eye color fades, you get shorter, weaker, and much more middle of the road. Even people who are revolutionaries have to change their diet at some point and cut out the rich foods because they just can’t take it anymore.
Now I am almost 50. At best, 50 is seen as a midpoint. 50 is a half century. Half a dollar. 50% -- half of a whole. Is it half of a whole life? Most people probably feel it’s more than half, because they cannot fathom living to be 101 years old. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that when you reach 50, you are most likely half or more than half way down the road. So I look back over my shoulder at everything – and it’s a lot – and I wonder what can possibly be next?
50 is the wakeup call. 50 cannot be ignored. 50 IS HUGE, in my book. There are no more excuses at 50, because you really are old enough to know better. If you don't know better, you can easily fake it. And hadn’t you better know –at this point – what the hell you are going to do with the rest of your life?
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Ignorance Is Bliss
Yesterday something awful happened. It stopped me in my tracks so effectively, I wasn’t able to sit down and write anything. A set of real life, middle-aged jowls appeared – a matching set – one for the left side of my face and one for the right. I know I’ve cried wolf before in the past but I think maybe this is the real deal. How can I be at peace with this?
Like every other big change in my life, it seems, these jowls didn’t come gradually. From some other dimension they crossed through and just instantly manifested on my face. Did I manifest these jowls? Did the Universe somehow mistake my constant bitching about jowls to mean “I want jowls! I want jowls! Give me jowls!” instead of “In the name of all that is holy, please do not send me any jowls!” It’s a scary thought -- that somehow I might have caused these to appear.
Be careful what you wish for. As a matter of fact, be careful what you wish against – avoid any mention of the subject AT ALL unless you want to invite something unplanned, unbidden. Go ignorantly amid the noise and haste, my friends. Yes I realize this contradicts advice I have given in the past. Go blithely and blissfully and do not look to the left or the right. If you pretend that you don’t mind getting older, or better yet – that you are UNAWARE of it – then it will not happen.
Oh, now I see the error of my ways.
Like every other big change in my life, it seems, these jowls didn’t come gradually. From some other dimension they crossed through and just instantly manifested on my face. Did I manifest these jowls? Did the Universe somehow mistake my constant bitching about jowls to mean “I want jowls! I want jowls! Give me jowls!” instead of “In the name of all that is holy, please do not send me any jowls!” It’s a scary thought -- that somehow I might have caused these to appear.
Be careful what you wish for. As a matter of fact, be careful what you wish against – avoid any mention of the subject AT ALL unless you want to invite something unplanned, unbidden. Go ignorantly amid the noise and haste, my friends. Yes I realize this contradicts advice I have given in the past. Go blithely and blissfully and do not look to the left or the right. If you pretend that you don’t mind getting older, or better yet – that you are UNAWARE of it – then it will not happen.
Oh, now I see the error of my ways.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
What Does 50 Look Like?
What look shall I choose for my 50s? What person will I be? It is up to me and people like me to define what “50” will look like in the 21st Century. I’ve been looking around at my options. I’ve been trying to figure out my image for the next 50 years. With the exception of my lovely sisters, here are some of my observations/options:
Suddenly Old Woman: this woman turned old overnight. She has made a conscious decision to let go and she has embraced middle age with gusto. She wears “mom” jeans and track suits and large, chunky necklaces with matching earrings and bracelets paired with ensembles from Christopher & Banks, sporting leaf appliqués. She wears sensible shoes – she’s given up heels forever. She wears a HAT in the winter time.
Metaphysical Woman: If you look in her closet, you will find at least one caftan, and many pairs of vague, shapeless pants with natural bamboo fiber composition, long, sweeping vests and sweaters and funky Birkenstock sandals. Her wardrobe could be described as “flowing” and she is very much “enlightened.” You can see the peach fuzz on her face because she doesn’t do much to hide it and she is often sans makeup. She eats a lot of hummus and veggie burgers and she always wears a calm, peaceful smile on her face. She is writing a book of poetry and in her spare time she throws clay pots.
la femme de Bohème: Ahhh…do you smell that? Did Ahmed park his camel nearby? No, no, it is just the little old bohemian woman over there. She’s earthy, musky, and she doesn’t shave her armpits. She wears a long tie-dyed skirt and a leather ankle bracelet. You can find her in the organic section of your grocery, or more likely, shopping at an all-organic market. Her hair is long and pulled back into a low pony tail. She likes to attend folk festivals where bathing is optional.
la femme de Bohème is sometimes mistaken for Biker Mom, for they are similar in appearance and their social circles can intersect, but Biker Mom usually wears jeans, sneakers, and a t-shirt with a skull on it.
Gypsy/Obea Woman: Here’s one I’ve been considering. You get to have wild, long hair, wear lots of chunky jewelry, your clothes don't necessarily have to match, and people fear you to some extent – with good reason! You spend your free time dancing around campfires with dark, swarthy men or giving people the evil eye.
Suddenly Old Woman: this woman turned old overnight. She has made a conscious decision to let go and she has embraced middle age with gusto. She wears “mom” jeans and track suits and large, chunky necklaces with matching earrings and bracelets paired with ensembles from Christopher & Banks, sporting leaf appliqués. She wears sensible shoes – she’s given up heels forever. She wears a HAT in the winter time.
Metaphysical Woman: If you look in her closet, you will find at least one caftan, and many pairs of vague, shapeless pants with natural bamboo fiber composition, long, sweeping vests and sweaters and funky Birkenstock sandals. Her wardrobe could be described as “flowing” and she is very much “enlightened.” You can see the peach fuzz on her face because she doesn’t do much to hide it and she is often sans makeup. She eats a lot of hummus and veggie burgers and she always wears a calm, peaceful smile on her face. She is writing a book of poetry and in her spare time she throws clay pots.
la femme de Bohème: Ahhh…do you smell that? Did Ahmed park his camel nearby? No, no, it is just the little old bohemian woman over there. She’s earthy, musky, and she doesn’t shave her armpits. She wears a long tie-dyed skirt and a leather ankle bracelet. You can find her in the organic section of your grocery, or more likely, shopping at an all-organic market. Her hair is long and pulled back into a low pony tail. She likes to attend folk festivals where bathing is optional.
la femme de Bohème is sometimes mistaken for Biker Mom, for they are similar in appearance and their social circles can intersect, but Biker Mom usually wears jeans, sneakers, and a t-shirt with a skull on it.
Gypsy/Obea Woman: Here’s one I’ve been considering. You get to have wild, long hair, wear lots of chunky jewelry, your clothes don't necessarily have to match, and people fear you to some extent – with good reason! You spend your free time dancing around campfires with dark, swarthy men or giving people the evil eye. 
Power Woman: Her $500 suit is exquisitely tailored and there is not one mark on the toes of her patent leather heels. She’s had her boobs done, and they are strategically displayed so as never to offend, but only to make her unforgettable. Her nails are perfectly manicured and her hair doesn’t blow in the wind. She is formidable.
Scary-Clinging-To-Her-Youth-Woman: If you see her from a distance, you think she’s 25 or so. Have you ever been in line behind one of these women? Her hair, her clothes, her shoes – everything suggests that she’s just a young thing. But then she turns around and it’s like, WHOA NELLY. I am gonna have nightmares about that! Why doesn’t somebody clue her in? Does she really think that looks good? There are so many variations of this look. I would say it’s the #1 fashion crime and I’m sure that I have been guilty of it myself, LEST I GO down that other, distasteful road. But this woman has taken it to the extreme. She is obviously living in a fantasy world.
Today, by the way, I am She-Who-Defies-Convention-Under-Her-Clothing Woman, as I wearing the loud, striped socks that Mich sent to me for xmas, paired with black pants and a BURGUNDY sweater. That’s right – THEY DO NOT MATCH. It’s a statement I’m making. On the surface, I am mild-mannered office lady. But just under the surface simmers a wild and crazy…….clown lady I guess.
I think I am going to shoot for the Sophia Loren/Ann-Margret/Julia Ormond type:
sexy,
curvy,
ageless.
Ali Baba and the Chain of Fools
I'm inching along the narrow ledge, staring down into the abyss. My back is against the unforgiving rock wall. There are no handholds to grasp, no way to get purchase. One misstep and I will plunge into what looks like oblivion, for I can't see the bottom. So I continue along, thinking there must surely be a way out at the end. Unbeknownst to me, the ledge will drop off sharply as I round the last curve. I'm going down, though I don't know it yet. I'm exerting all my energy to work my way along that ledge.
Fool! - me and every other fool who walked the ledge before me and who will attempt it after me. There is no way out of this except to go down into that hole of hell. All that time and energy expended inching along, when I could have been trying to figure out a way to remain mostly intact on impact, or at least make a graceful descent -- complete with a flying forward one and a half somersault and finishing with a half twist, or, at the VERY least, leave a beautiful corpse.
Is resistance futile? Or is resistance the only thing that separates us from sheep? Are we marching like lemmings for the edge? Are we fools for fighting -- or fools for giving in? This, oh THIS is the question of the hour, my friends. Where is the honor in going gently into that good night? And at what point do we become ridiculous?
It’s a narrow ledge I’m stepping on here. The line is thinner that you might think between polyester and tie-dye, my friends.
Fool! - me and every other fool who walked the ledge before me and who will attempt it after me. There is no way out of this except to go down into that hole of hell. All that time and energy expended inching along, when I could have been trying to figure out a way to remain mostly intact on impact, or at least make a graceful descent -- complete with a flying forward one and a half somersault and finishing with a half twist, or, at the VERY least, leave a beautiful corpse.
Is resistance futile? Or is resistance the only thing that separates us from sheep? Are we marching like lemmings for the edge? Are we fools for fighting -- or fools for giving in? This, oh THIS is the question of the hour, my friends. Where is the honor in going gently into that good night? And at what point do we become ridiculous?
It’s a narrow ledge I’m stepping on here. The line is thinner that you might think between polyester and tie-dye, my friends.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
January 11 - Grounding Day
I am having a bout of hives. I get them from time to time, a true affliction of mystery. I can never really find any common denominator. And you know, it could be every fiber of my being screaming resistance to turning 50. Could be. I AM ALLERGIC TO TURNING 50!
I've been wanting to take a day off, and I figured whatever is causing these damn hives, it is probably making me tired. .. I might need some rest. I might need a break. So I took the opportunity and called in sick, made a doctor appointment, confirmed I have hives, came home and made some chicken salad. Puttered. There was pure silence all day long in the house.
Being alone in my own house is a tonic. (It's way better than showering). I just let the silence settle around me, like a blanket. I listen to all the sounds that happen every day while I am gone: the sounds the house makes as it breathes, the birds and squirrels outside, cars on the street. Somehow, it helps me come back to myself and feel grounded, at peace. It seems to be especially effective when everyone else is at work and I am not, as if I have somehow truly stopped time and stepped out of that workday picture for those few blessed hours.
I want to add a Grounding Day to my calendar about every 3-4 months. They are way too few and far between and so, so helpful. So this year, I declare that it will be my Grounding Year.
I've been wanting to take a day off, and I figured whatever is causing these damn hives, it is probably making me tired. .. I might need some rest. I might need a break. So I took the opportunity and called in sick, made a doctor appointment, confirmed I have hives, came home and made some chicken salad. Puttered. There was pure silence all day long in the house.
Being alone in my own house is a tonic. (It's way better than showering). I just let the silence settle around me, like a blanket. I listen to all the sounds that happen every day while I am gone: the sounds the house makes as it breathes, the birds and squirrels outside, cars on the street. Somehow, it helps me come back to myself and feel grounded, at peace. It seems to be especially effective when everyone else is at work and I am not, as if I have somehow truly stopped time and stepped out of that workday picture for those few blessed hours.
I want to add a Grounding Day to my calendar about every 3-4 months. They are way too few and far between and so, so helpful. So this year, I declare that it will be my Grounding Year.
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