I Hide My Chocolate

October 27, 2013

At Least My Feet Don’t Stink Anymore

The Changes

The humidity left the air this week. It’s gone, for the next five months, leaving my skin thin and papery, so dry it hurts. I hate the tedium of slathering myself with lotion. I don’t do it. Mainly because I haven’t found a lotion that doesn’t smell and doesn’t leave my skin feeling sticky or slimy. (Approaching acceptable is Vanicream.) I need to find something that I like, because every Winter is worse. I used to scorn OLD people for fleeing New York for Florida and complaining about the cold and their knees. I can’t believe I’m one of those people now. I hate the cold, find the concept of leaving New York approaching acceptable, and my knees just don’t bend comfortably anymore, except when in the meditative flow of a yoga class.

I had my annual gynecological appointment recently, with a new doctor because my old one didn’t take my new insurance. Besides, after my old ob/gyn teased me for being his only patient who used a diaphragm (because I didn’t like the way I felt on the pill), I decided it was time to find a more holistic woman gynecologist. Even after two children and 30+ years of pelvic exams, I tend to approach the stirrups with an attitude of let’s get this over with as quickly as possible. Instead of taking the opportunity to ask questions and get what I need, I just wanted to get through the appointment. This new doctor is a 50-something woman who is business-like but compassionate. She took one look at me, down there, and said “Aren’t you uncomfortable?” Ummm, not that I’m aware of. Should I be? “Try Replens. Or Neem Oil.” Ummm, okay. I’m not sure what that is but isn’t it for old ladies? Oh, right, I had my last period a year and a half ago. I am officially post-menopausal. Old. Or at least dry.

Then came the kicker. “Do you mean to tell me that you’ve survived menopause with just therapy and yoga?” Ummm, yep, that’s it. Therapy and yoga. Oh and don’t forget my austere approach to food that has kept my weight down. (A lot vegetables and whole grains, very little meat, sugar, fat, alcohol.) Easy!

Not.

I spent the several years of perimenopause depressed, anxious, sleepless and sad. Weeping in Savasana. Breathing and chanting at 3 am (the chanting was silent in my mind because I am not that kooky but someday I hope to be) because I had woken, in a sweat, to go to the bathroom, again, and couldn’t fall back asleep. I spent about a year taking Benadryl every night because I was so frightened of the prospect of a sleepless night. Worrying about my job, my kids, my husband, my aging parents, my marriage, myself, my future, my kids’ future. Even worry about the future of our planet would grab hold of me at 3 am and not let go. Was I going to be unhappy all my life? And angry? Had I worked this hard just to be a disposable upper-mid-level marketing executive, unsure I even cared about what I was marketing? Was I going to become addicted to sleep medication? What was the meaning of life anyway? You suffer, get old and die.

I threw off the Benadryl and threw myself into yoga and therapy, trying to confront my demons. It has not been easy. Now that I am on the other side of menopause, I sleep better and am no longer depressed or overly anxious. The demons are still there, and a few of them remain unconfronted, but my attitude towards them has changed. Now I am free to enjoy the relief of no more periods. No more worrying about getting pregnant. The hot flashes seem to be diminished. (By the way, I know what causes hot flashes for me – a seriously anxious thought. The anxiety must trigger a spike in hormones which then causes the flash. Yoga breathing helps.) And my feet don’t stink any more. (One summer I took a ballet intensive and my teacher would follow me around with a towel wiping the floor because my feet sweat so much.) I no longer have to shave my legs or under my arms. But I do miss my beautiful full eyebrows from when I was younger and am sorry I over-plucked them when I was 16. I threaten my daughter with the prospect of too thin eyebrows for the rest of her life if she dares to touch her beautiful full eyebrows. And, of course, I miss my juicy plump youthful skin.

I found myself in the drugstore wandering down the “Feminine” aisle. A hint of embarrassment came over me, a hold-over from when I was 13 and mortified that people would find out that I had my period. Now what? I’m mortified people will find out I don’t have my period? Sure enough, there was half a shelf devoted to “Menopause.” Only half a shelf? There are at least two aisles devoted to nailcare. Don’t we women of a certain age deserve more than half a shelf? I was intrigued by the product that promised to cool you down during hot flashes. It looked like a mini portable fan. Can you imagine? Excuse me while I blow this fan on myself. I spy the Replens and tuck it into my basket. Normally, I would read the label, compare the products, consider my options. But I was in the embarrassing FEMALE aisle. Grab and go. I’ll study it at home. There was another older woman in the aisle. Was I intruding on her self-conscious embarrassment or am I the only one?

Why so much embarrassment? No one really talks about menopause. I have friends who still refer to it as “the changes.” Every other television commercial is for Cialis or Viagra. Replens should demand equal air time. Of course there is the stereotype in popular media of the kooky older woman having hot flashes or worse, the hysterical, moody, impulsive angry woman. But you don’t see much about ordinary powerful and beautiful older women launching their children into adulthood, reframing their marriage to be about the marriage and not the kids, and building soul-satisfying encore careers. Now that’s what menopause is about! Grappling with and making peace with the demons from the past while making purposeful and conscious decisions about how to handle the present and move forward into the future. Our 40-something celebrity women (Sandra Bullock? Michelle Obama?) could do a real service by going through “their changes” in a public, honest and growthful way.

My periods tapered just as my daughter started hers. This seemed profoundly poetic and symbolic to me. The adolescent passage from girlhood to young womanhood is one bookend connected with the midlife passage from fertility to post-fertility. Both phases of life are extraordinarily challenging. If one can navigate to the next phase with confidence, inner peace, and compassion for self and others, imagine what a creative and interesting time of life it can be!

Photo Credit: Insomniaplex, by Roz Chast – published in The New Yorker, July 9, 2001.

7 Comments

October 14, 2013

I Didn’t Love It

The Glass Menagerie

Dare I tell you, Dear Reader, that I did not love Cherry Jones’ performance as Amanda Wingfield in Tennesse Williams’ The Glass Menagerie on Broadway Saturday night?

I am not a Williams aficionado and if I ever read or saw Glass Menagerie, I only have a vague notion of it. But Ben Brantley’s review of the production during its initial run in Cambridge caught my eye. He used words like “magnificent,” “benchmark performance,” and “momentous.” I had to see it. After all, I was an English major and I fancy myself a sophisticated theater-goer. In my post-midlife enlightenment, so much now seems resonant with meaning that I didn’t appreciate when I was younger or don’t even remember. Maybe it was time to discover Tennessee Williams.

I became mildly obsessed with seeing this production. First, I flirted with trying to see it in Boston. We were visiting schools – could I squeeze it in? I didn’t make it a priority. It didn’t happen. Then I heard it was coming to Broadway, with opening night on my birthday. I fantasized about going on opening night. I didn’t make it a priority. It didn’t happen.

When my husband asked me what I wanted for my birthday, I told him: “I want to go see Glass Menagerie with you.” It is rare that I am so specific with my requests. I took this as a positive sign of my increasing comfort with my knowledge of who I am and what I want. This led to an on-going discussion between us about gift-giving. He wanted to give me something more permanent, like jewelry, to mark the occasion. I was happy with a memorable, if ephemeral, experience. Plus, what I really wanted was recognition of my theater self and participation from him in my world of passions. I have joined him in his world of passions. Now I wanted him to join me. I almost didn’t make it a priority. It almost didn’t happen. Opening night came and Ben Brantley gave it another stunning review, warning us “to be prepared to have the breath knocked out of you.” It was going to be a sell-out. I made it a priority. We got one of the last few remaining tickets.

Good and compulsive English Major that I am, I decided I better read the play before seeing it so I would fully appreciate the production and the language. I didn’t love it. It was dated. It was depressing. (This from the woman who practically thrives on depressing and tragic.) No matter, I reassured myself! The production is magnificent and momentous with benchmark performances! I even got a second opinion from Hilton Als in The New Yorker who praised the production. I was finally going to see one of the greatest stage actresses of our time perform one of the greatest of roles. Truth be told, I really wanted to see the handsome Zachary Quinto. My husband was not psyched about seeing a depressing tragedy but he was psyched about seeing Spock. Denying a hint of misgiving, off we went.

“Are you excited?” He asked, eager for me to enjoy my ephemeral birthday outing.

“I am!” I reassured him. I was truly excited for a date in the city to dinner and the theater with my husband.

We had a not-great dinner at what was usually a reliable pre-theater restaurant. Pre-theater is so taxing on restaurants. It’s like a factory. Get them in, feed them fast, get them out on time. Oh well. I mentally crossed that restaurant off my list. Never again. Too bad. It had been a favorite of mine years ago.

We walked over to the theater, amazed at the Times Square crowds. I am there every day, but Saturday night is a different experience entirely. Filled with tourists being snookered by costumed mascots and street performers, we looked askance at each other. “I guess the economy is improving,” my husband declared.

We got to the theater and took our seats. Remember, they were some of the last seats available. Still, when Quinto gives his opening monologue, we are seated so far to the right that we can’t even see him. It takes a bit to acclimate to his southern accent, but no matter! The words are poetry. The set is spare, the lighting is beautiful. When Cherry Jones enters, the audience applauds. A diva has arrived. I am anticipating the pleasure of experiencing a master of her craft at work. Indeed, she is a master of her craft and that is the main thing I was aware of the whole evening. Her presence was so enormous, her accent so thick, her tone so loud. “Look at me act!” was my general impression of her. The reviewers credited her with interpreting Amanda Wingfield with more balance and nuance. Really? Balance and nuance? It was not in abundance Saturday night. Amanda is a narcissist who has monstrously damaged to her children. Amanda is terrified of being old and poor. Amanda is a struggling single mother who wants a better life for her children and is frustrated by their lack of a future that she deems worthy. I would have liked to have seen some quieter moments where she turns her volume down and you see some love and some wisdom. I found it in the play. But it didn’t come across in her performance. The main emotion from her was self-absorbed denial of reality. Fortunately, Quinto was excellent, even though I didn’t like his southern accent. For me, the stand-out performance of the night was given by Brian J. Smith as The Gentleman Caller. The scene between him and Laura is one of the most touching almost-love scenes ever.

It was disconcerting to walk out of the theater and acknowledge: I did not love it. I wanted to love it. I had primed myself to love it. But I did not love the show. I did not love the play. I did not love the performances. I was not beyond tears as Ben Brantley was. What was the matter with me? I am so eager to identify myself as esoteric, to revere the classics and to trust the critics (they are experts after all). But I don’t really love the classics. Tedious and boring. Written by men mostly. I prefer contemporary works, by women. I recognize the characters and can identify with their situations. I don’t have to work to remember. It sinks more naturally into my psyche.

Maybe Ben Brantley performed Tom when he was in high school. Maybe he has a nostalgic soft spot for the play. Maybe he has seen it so many times that the anticipation of the poetry and the emotion moves him to tears. Not me. At least not Saturday.

Nothing is the matter with me. Cherry Jones gave an overwrought performance and the play is dated. Moving, but dated. Time to move on and acknowledge that I don’t really love the classics. What I do love is that I am excited about this growing confidence building in my gut.

I did not love the dinner nor the show, but I did love the evening, a memorable and not-so-ephemeral birthday gift.

Photo Credit: Michael J. Lutch

2 Comments

October 6, 2013

51

Abiding Between Youth and Old Age

I am feeling all of my 51 years, no longer young but not yet old. There is still so much I want to do. To say. To be.

I thought I would be GREAT by now. Free of all my neuroses and at the height of a successful career. I was never sure what that career was going to be, but I was going to be At The Top. Brilliant writer. Transcendent dancer. Insightful teacher. Inspiring leader.

It took my 40’s and several years of mid-life reflection to get to 50. I find that each decade ends in the next one. And now, at 51, I am fully ensconced in this one. 51 is simply 51.

51 is not the new 31. I am angry at the marketers who insist we look and behave younger than we are. I don’t want to be 31. It was a good year, don’t get me wrong, filled with all the joyful beginnings of a new decade, with a new marriage and a new home and the promise of new life. But at 51, I have gone through so much more living. I’ve loved. I’ve lost people I love. I’ve had children (one of the experiences worthy of the word “awesome” in my mind). I’ve lost a few jobs. And survived. And learned a lot about myself and other people along the way.

Why dismiss that experience? Why do we elevate the giddy impulsiveness and anxiety of youth in favor of the patience and intelligence that comes with living life?

I still nervously pick my cuticles, compulsively measure my food, and procrastinate by getting lost in anxious thoughts. But it is lessening. I am aware that my tendency toward a sense of depression is a go-to habit – a vestigial way to elicit attention and make an excuse for my perceived failure to be great. When I notice my tendency to complain, to feel sad or unworthy, or not ready, I now try to do or say something different, something honest. It allows me to approach my day and the people in it with a more positive and open energy. Call it happy? Could it be?

Cyndi Lee discusses the concept of abiding in her book May I Be Happy. Abiding is the stage between Arising and Dissolving. Between Inhaling and Exhaling. Between Birth and Death. Between Youth and Age. We work so hard at living. What will I be when I grow up? Who will I be with? Who will my children be? What will I achieve? What will be my legacy? Suddenly you realize that you are grown up and you are what you are. Maybe it’s time to pause at the transition and just be. Let go of the grasping ambition, the punishing hard work. And just be. Me. Abiding.

For me, one of the pleasures of being 51 is enjoying pop culture (well, some of it) with my children and remembering parallel experiences from when I was the same age. My daughter loves Taylor Swift. I have happily chaperoned a few concerts and admire Swift’s song-writing talent and ability to capture the essence of her age. Instead of writing an essay on mid-life filled with regret and dissatisfaction, I decided to turn Swift’s tribute to 22 into an anthem for 51. I figure it will take me a year to perfect the lyrics and record it for YouTube. At that point, I can call it 52, which rhymes much better with Ooh-Ooh.

51 (Sung – affectionately and enthusiastically – to the tune of 22, by Taylor Swift)

It feels like a perfect night to dress up like yogis

And stay home with the family, uh uh, uh uh.

It feels like a perfect night for reading The New Yorker

And wait up for my daughter, uh uh, uh uh.

Yeah,

We’re happy, sad, tired, stressed, and wise at the same time

It’s maddening and menopausal.

Oh, yeah

Tonight’s the night when I throw off the covers

In a sweat

Uh oh!

I don’t know about you

But I’m feeling 51

No longer want to be 22

But still have much to do

I finally know about me

And what I want to be

Not sure it will be all right

But let’s keep dancing like we’re

51, ooh-ooh

51, ooh-ooh

It seems like one of those days

Noticed jowls in the mirror

Can’t wear high heels, uh uh, uh uh.

It seems like one of those days

Woke up at 4 in the morning

To do list is growing, uh uh, uh uh.

Yeah,

We’re happy, sad, tired, stressed, and wise at the same time

It’s maddening and menopausal.

Oh, yeah

Tonight’s the night when I throw off the covers

In a sweat

Uh oh!

I don’t know about you

But I’m feeling 51

No longer want to be 22

But still have much to do

I finally know about me

And what I want to be

Not sure it will be all right

But let’s keep dancing like we’re

51, ooh-ooh

51, ooh-ooh

It feels like one of those years

Still living for each paycheck

Thought I’d be rich, uh uh, uh uh

It feels like one of those years

Still seeking the perfect life

Thought I’d be there, uh uh, uh uh

Yeah,

We’re happy, sad, tired, stressed, and wise at the same time

It’s maddening and menopausal.

Oh, yeah

Tonight’s the night when I throw off the covers

In a sweat

Uh oh!

I don’t know about you

But I’m feeling 51

No longer want to be 22

But still have much to do

I finally know about me

And what I want to be

Not sure it will be all right

But let’s keep dancing like we’re

51, ooh-ooh

51, ooh-ooh

As for birthday celebrations, I whole-heartedly believe in them, for me and for you. This is your day. Like your name, it is uniquely all about you. Celebrate you and share in the celebration with your friends and family. Ask for what you want. Be sure to have a cake with candles and a wish. I am not a fan of cake. And virtually refuse to eat it. It is dry and tasteless and not worth the calories. Unless, of course, it is my birthday and the cake is chocolate – dense and moist – and ideally homemade. With icing smeared off from the plate. And then I allow myself a sliver and I savor every bite.

Glazed Chocolate Cake with Sprinkles (from Gourmet)

1 cup all-purpose flour

1/3 cup unsweetened Dutch-process cocoa powder

1 teaspoon baking soda

1/2 teaspoon baking powder

1/4 teaspoon salt

1 stick unsalted butter, softened

1 cup packed light brown sugar

2 large eggs, room temperature

1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

1 cup whole milk

1/4 cup heavy cream

4 oz bittersweet chocolate, finely chopped

2 teaspoons light corn syrup

Sprinkles!

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Butter bottom and side of 9×2 inch round pan, then line bottom with parchment.

Sift together dry ingredients. Beat together butter and sugar in large bowl with electric mixer at medium-high speed until light and fluffy, 3-5 minutes. Add eggs 1 at a time, then beat in vanilla. Reduce speed to medium-low and add dry ingredients, alternating with milk.

Transfer batter to cake pan. Bake until cake begins to pull away from side of pan and a wooden toothpick inserted into center comes out clean, 35-40 minutes. Invert onto a rack and cool completely, 1 hour.

For glaze, bring cream to a simmer in small heavy saucepan over medium heat, then pour over chocolate in a bowl and let stand 1 minutes. Gently whisk until smooth, then stir in corn syrup. Coll completely, stirring occasionally, about 30 minutes. It will thicken.

Peel off parchment from cake. Pour glaze onto center of cake and spread to edges with a spatula. Decorate with sprinkles!

10 Comments

September 17, 2013

When Backpacks Made The Outfit

Now We Are Seventeen (and a Half)

Now We Are Six

When I was One,
I had just begun.
When I was Two,
I was nearly new.
When I was Three
I was hardly me.
When I was Four,
I was not much more.
When I was Five,
I was just alive.
But now I am Six,
I’m as clever as clever,
So I think I’ll be six now for ever and ever.

– A. A. Milne, 1927

Ah! The first day of school! So full of promise. Remember? This year, I will be organized and brilliant. This year I will be friendly and popular, a role model. This year I will be new and different, the amazing me I aspire to be.

When you are a 17-year-old girl entering your senior year of high school, the stakes are high. Where else to play out your dreams of being a better, bolder you than with your outfit? The first day of school outfit. Remember?

It was simpler when a cute backpack gave her all the confidence she needed.

I should have asked her what she was going to wear. But I didn’t want to attach too much importance to The Outfit. I’ve spent my life thinking that if I looked right, then I would be successful and people would like me. I imbued my outfits with so much importance. I don’t want that for my daughter. I want her to know she is beautiful, completely and thoroughly, inside and out, regardless of what she wears. I want her to know she is loved, completely and thoroughly, regardless of what she wears.

Besides, she is more creative with fashion than I ever have been. She watches fashion in music and entertainment and is keenly aware of who is wearing what and what looks stylish and flattering. She is my style consultant these days, not vice versa. (Though she cares what I think. Still. Thank God.)

Besides, I believe that at 17 you should be trying on different looks, different personas. You don’t know who you are at 17. Now is the time to practice being independent and grown up, especially during your senior year of high school when you have the safety net of a home base. I purposefully did not ask her what she was going to wear.

When she came downstairs that morning, I paused. Long enough to think. But I didn’t think. I went to blurt-out mode instead. In my sternest MOM voice, I proclaimed: “You can NOT wear that to school. Those are hooker stockings.” Really. I said that. “Hooker” is hardly even in my vocabulary but it poured out of my mouth. (Ironically, they are my stockings.) Who was that woman I turned into in that moment? What happened to all the wisdom I’ve accrued over the years? What happened to putting myself in her shoes and gently suggesting that her outfit was not appropriate for daytime nor for school?

I don’t want to face the fact that my little girl is beautiful and sexy and ready for a boyfriend, or at least a date. I don’t want to remember some of the outfits I wore to high school that make me cringe now. I remember, at the height of my thinness, wearing skinny jeans and stiletto mules. I wanted to look sexy. My mother said I looked cute. I didn’t want to be the mom who was clueless about her own daughter, the way my mom was. I want to give my daughter support and freedom to explore. And yet…I lashed out. Frightened, embarrassed, protective. Don’t make the same mistakes I made! Don’t be too sexy!

Don’t be too sexy. Ah, that is the crux of it. The judgment about looking too sexy. Smart girls use their heads, not their bodies. The judgment about being too sexy. Good girls have more worthy activities to pursue than dating boys. The fear. The fear inherited from my mother’s stabbing. The fear I’ve buried from my own murky memories. Did that really happen? I am not sure. But judgment and fear – of sex, of food, of all things pleasurable and delicious – is not what I want to pass on to my daughter.

My nasty, thoughtless judgment merely solidified her own uncertainty about her outfit, her anxiety about the day and the upcoming year. She didn’t defy me. Another 17-year-old daughter might have said, “You can’t tell me what to wear!” My 17-year-old rushed upstairs in tears and changed her clothes (to an amazing, adorable, and appropriate outfit, by the way). I apologized. She apologized. We gave each other space. But there’s no taking those words back. No getting that day back.

How many days, how many years would I like to get back and do over? We don’t get them back and we can’t do them over, but we can learn from them so that the next day, the next year, is better than the last one.

When we circled back to speak about the day, it was her half-birthday. I gave her Rosemary Wells’ Voyage to the Bunny Planet (thank you my friend for the suggestion), where the day that “should have been” gets reimagined. She said that she was sad that she would never have that day back, the happy and confident first day she had dreamed of and hoped to memorialize with a photo. She shared her dreams for a fun and social senior year, in spite of the rigors of an AP-heavy workload and the anxiety of applying to colleges. And then she confided that she wishes she could hang on to being 17 forever. I too want this time to last forever. To hold my girl close. To magically turn the bad days into good ones. But it is her time. Her time to grow up, to become a woman, to figure out what makes her happy, what interests her, who she is. Fly, beautiful girl! Find your passion. Live your life. Don’t let me hold you back.

3 Comments

September 7, 2013

I Know Where The Girls Are

Proud To Be A Nerd? Shhh, Don’t Tell Anyone.

I am a nerd. I am the daughter of nerds. I am married to a nerd. A nerd is one who probes an esoteric subject deeply and values quiet alone time to pursue intellectual endeavors over social, athletic, or more popular mainstream pursuits. The derogatory interpretation of a nerd is someone who is on the fringe, socially, and who is athletically inept. With the rise of Steve Jobs, Bill Gates, and The Big Bang Theory, nerds everywhere have come out of the woodwork proclaiming their virtues with pride.

Along with the upward trending of nerdiness, there has been a significant increase in girls excelling at math and science. Natalie Angier reports that girls now make up an equal percentage of applicants to a math/science magnet school and nearly an equal percentage of girls get accepted into the program. This is fantastic progress! BUT, a much lower percentage of the accepted girls actually attend than of the accepted boys – thus perpetuating the disparity between girls and boys who pursue an academic program and later a professional career in math and science.

Angier and many others wonder why, despite their clear aptitude for and interest in math, more girls don’t continue along the math and science path. Really, this is a mystery? I know where the girls are. They are socializing. (As they should be!) When the social pressures kick in to high gear in the teen years, the girls are busy sorting through how to be young women. They want to fit in. While they remain smart and ambitious, their interests expand. Girls tend to be equally good at “verbal” subjects as they are at math and science and frequently gravitate toward paths that overtly help people, like healthcare and education.

To fit in, there is much more encouragement for girls and pressure on girls to be attractive and social. It takes a lot of time and money to learn how to do this well. You have to be connected into popular culture, watching television, videos, the internet. You have to shop and experiment with your look. You have to hang with your friends, either in person or virtually. Being social significantly cuts into the 10,000 hours it takes to become great at a subject or activity.

There is much more prestige accrued to a girl for being attractive and likeable than for being a math nerd. Indeed, a female math nerd still is likely to be looked on as an anomaly. She may be liked and respected more than in my generation, but she is still a bit weird. Just look at Amy on The Big Bang Theory. Who would you rather be: nerdy awkward Amy or sexy funny Penny? Exactly. Even Amy wants Penny.

My father was a physicist and I did everything I could to feign disinterest and lack of aptitude. The math and science teachers in my day were beyond boring and dry and there was absolutely nothing cool about continuing with math and science. So I didn’t. Even though I was good at math and science, it was easy to follow a different path. I was a reader and a writer and became an English major. It wasn’t until I took Calculus for non-math majors in college with an electrifying professor who made math fun and relevant that I wondered if maybe I hadn’t been snookered down the wrong rabbit hole. I would have been a wonderful scientist. Quiet, patient, creative, and insightful. (Ah, the path not taken.) Even my mother, a scientist, discouraged me from a scientific career, arguing that it was hard to balance family while running experiments. Well, it’s hard to balance family with any demanding career. Sadly.

My daughter is a nerd. She excels at math and science. Her father is an engineer. We have championed her interest in math and science. She had a terrific female math teacher in 8th grade who was a wonderful role model and her Physics teachers are young and hip. She likes Physics! Can you believe it? Physics! Her math teacher wants her to take a computer programming course. Yes! Go for it girl!

She has dutifully started the groundwork for the college application process, declaring her interest in a math major. Recently, however, she whispered to me, “But Mom, what I really want to be when I grow up is Guiliana Rancic. How does being a math major prepare me for that career?” How indeed? I swallowed my gut reaction, “Stop watching stupid fucking television!” and tried to put myself in her shoes. Guiliana is adorable, if too thin (geesh there I go with the weight judgement again), and she has a great job. Hey, I want to be Guiliana. Why wouldn’t my 17-year-old want her job?

How do I convey to her that there is only one Guiliana and that there are many intriguing and challenging opportunities in math and science? How do I tell her that as a journalism and communications major, she’ll be one of a bazillion girls who wants a job in fashion, entertainment, and media? How do I convince her that she’ll make more money and have more professional prestige in math and science? How do I reassure her that she will be more likely to meet an intelligent and respectful partner who values her intellectual capabilities and her personality, as well as her beauty? How do I encourage her to see the potential to help many people in a meaningful scientific career? How do I help her identify her dreams and realize them in a rewarding way?

In spite of the tremendous strides women have made and society has made in embracing and celebrating women, their interests and their achievements, I believe that women still need money and a room of their own to be freer from chores and to have the space and quiet, the support and security, to pursue their intellectual ambitions. To be proud nerds. As long as popular culture glamorizes fashionistas and housewives instead of mathletes and scientistas, we will all be shortchanged.

Photo is from a fansite for The Big Bang Theory.

8 Comments

September 2, 2013

Every 3 Hours, A Drunk-Driving Crash Claims the Life of Someone Who Was Not Driving Drunk

Elizabeth, My Surrogate Sister

It is the anniversary of my cousin Elizabeth’s death. She was killed by a drunk and stoned driver in 2002 on Labor Day weekend. A tragedy that stunned me profoundly. I think of her regularly, and always on Labor Day, and wonder what might have been had she lived. What more might we have shared?

She was eight years older than me and did not live geographically near me. It was not until we were both adults that we became close. I was an only child, so she was the closest I got to having a sister. How I wanted a sister! How I still want a sister! A sibling is not only a built-in playmate and confidante, they share your family history. How amazing it would be to have someone to share the burden of aging parents and mid-life questioning. Did that really happen or am I crazy? Cousins are also uniquely special. They share your broader family history, while offering you a chance to experience your family through an expanded lens of memories and perspectives. A different connection can emerge.

One of my first memories of her as her own person was when she visited us one summer. She must have been 16 or 17 and I would have been 8 or 9. She slept late. That is my main memory. I wanted a sister and companion! I didn’t understand the teen clock. My parents wouldn’t let me wake her up early. Elizabeth was always a night owl, while I was always a morning person. My parents threw a party (a rare occurrence) during her visit to introduce her to some people her age. I remember being jealous that my favorite baby-sitter and she hit it off. I desperately wanted to be older and didn’t understand why they didn’t want me tagging along.

My parents and I visited Elizabeth in 1980 when I was 17 and she was 25 and living at Twin Oaks, an intentional community. I always admired her idealism and her desire to live according to her values. This visit made a big impression on me. I had very little exposure to other ways of living other than how my small family lived with its controlled and orderly routines. A community of people and families who lived with limited privacy, ate communally and shared resources was eye-opening and mind-boggling to me.

As adults, we cemented our bond during our times together at family weddings and funerals, sharing confidences that we shared with perhaps no one else. Her sister-in-law’s too-young death from breast cancer. Her wedding. My wedding. Her niece’s wedding. My family was so small that I felt compelled to value my relationship with Elizabeth at any cost. She was extroverted and social, idealistic and spontaneous – quite a counterpoint to my shy and careful reserve. I adored her. As any little sister would.

One of our most obvious differences was in our weight and our approach to food. She was sometimes quite heavy, especially when younger, struggling with overeating and what she considered to be an addiction to sugar. I was sometimes quite thin, struggling with over-exercising and an overly controlled rules-driven approach to eating. Our dialog about weight and eating was one of the first truly intimate and honest exchanges about the psychology of eating that I had with anyone. I came to see our struggles as the flip sides of the same coin. Heavy or thin, we are all connected in our challenge to balance a healthy enjoyment of eating and a confident sense of self and body image.

She found the perfect career for her personality as a nurse-midwife on the Texas-Mexico border. Her intelligence and her nurturing empathy endeared her to all. At her funeral, the church was overflowing with people. Hundreds of people, from near and far, shocked by her senseless loss, wept and mourned this wonderful woman with so much zest for life. I learned how to be a friendlier and braver person from her.

Elizabeth left a 10-year-old daughter who will be 21 this month. She is beautiful, with her own (but similar) personality. Curious about people and the world, gentle and determined, intelligent and adventurous. When Elizabeth was killed, I vowed to stay part of her daughter’s life. Aside from sporadic but heart-felt support of MADD, it was the best way I knew to deal with my shock and my grief. While our connection ebbs and flows, through emails and occasional visits, our attachment is genuine. I still cannot fathom why Elizabeth was killed. I can only hope and trust that my relationship with her daughter will stay strong and serve a purpose. I can see the essence of Elizabeth shining in her daughter as she grows into her own distinct self builds her life. Elizabeth would be so proud.

Don’t drink and drive.

Source: NHTSA

4 Comments

August 22, 2013

To Do: Be Here Now

My List

Yearbooks
Old Navy
Haircut
Key
College prep
Black bean chili
Aspirin

Scrounging for a scrap of paper to write down a few things we need at our vacation house this week, I found this list crumpled in the corner of the purse I brought. Normally, in my frantic rush to get things done, I would have glossed over this list and just started my new one. I reuse paper for list-writing with the absurd notion that my attempt to be frugal with bits of paper will help the planet. But, right now, I am on vacation and I am trying to live in the present moment and to pay attention. To hear the end of summer crickets, to feel the temperature in the air and the wind on my face, to smell the road-kill on my morning walk, to see – really see – what my eyes are looking at, as Rodney Yee instructed us in the serendipitous yoga class he taught on Tuesday. It’s just about impossible for me to stay in the present moment. This week, as my friends with children one year older than mine are dropping them off at college, I am already jumping to a year from now when we will be taking my daughter to college. I look at the list. It brings me to a moment in time in my recent past. When did I write this list? What was going on?

1. Yearbooks. That was a note to myself to order yearbooks for the kids before the deadline. The year before, when my daughter was in 10^th grade, I missed the deadline. I push everything to the deadline and even then assume I can eek past the deadline and still get by. Not this time. There were no yearbooks left. My daughter’s face crashed with disappointment. I apologized with shame at my carelessness. “It’s okay Mom,” she gently but sadly reassured me. What kind of mom neglects to order yearbooks for their kid? As usual, I was self-absorbed. As usual, she pretended not to mind. I was not going to make that mistake again.

2. Old Navy. I needed to order jeans for my son. Old Navy has the only pair that fits him. Regular Style Husky. He is growing but is not tall yet. He is at that awkward stage where he is stoking up for his big growth spurt. Most brands are too long and too tight in the waist. He will be big. He’s grown a lot this summer, stretching out a bit. Like a puppy, his feet are now enormous, but his body hasn’t caught up yet. He’s already outgrown the jeans I ordered for him from that to-do reminder.

3. Haircut. The only item on the list that’s about me. It must have been time for my every 7 weeks trim – my personal hygiene errand. I can’t even remember to make a haircut appointment any more. I have to write everything down. Otherwise I get closed out of the Saturday timeslots at the salon.

4. Key. Key? What was this? Had we used the spare key and not put it back in its hiding place? Was it when we replaced the front door and needed to get new keys made? Were we taking care of my sister-in-law’s dog? Why did I need a key? Key to my heart? Key to my soul? What mystery was locked away? Why can’t I remember anything anymore?

5. College Prep. Phew, this is a loaded item. Like I could just check this off as another item on my to-do list. Get her ready for college. Check. No problem! Her friend’s mother found an SAT/ACT prep class and I jumped on it. I was grateful that another mom had done the research and found the perfect thing: 5 Sunday afternoons that would focus her productively with test preparation skills, with a friend. Done! If only it were that easy.

6. Black Bean Chili. This pinpoints the time for me. The weekend prior to Monday January 14^th. I had signed up on the neighborhood meal train to make dinner for my friend Agnes who lost her husband, suddenly, so sadly, on November 6^th. She was eating more vegetarian choices and so was I. This was the perfect meal. Easy, keeps well, and I could make enough for both her family and my family. I was struggling with how to be a good friend to her. This was the least I could do.

7. Aspirin. My husband does not like to talk about his health. Whenever I come up with my latest and greatest thought about being healthy, he is quite interested if it is abstract, mildly interested if it is an initiative I am undertaking for my health (Yoga! Meatless!), and aggressively disinterested if it is an initiative I demand he should undertake for his health. I haven’t completely cracked this code. If I can present the concept lightly as something he can opt in to, as opposed to a didactic “You need to do X” he is more amenable. And so it has been with aspirin. He has read the evidence that aspirin is an anti-inflammatory that may prevent heart attacks, stroke, and even cancer. So, we started taking baby aspirin this year.

Funny how this arrangement of seven words sums up so much. Update this list to now – the present moment – and my list becomes:

1a. Take care of business before the deadline is upon me. Procrastination cultivates stress and is selfish when other people are affected.

1b. Pay attention to my daughter. Just because she says it’s okay doesn’t mean it is. Value what is important to her and try to make it happen when possible. Don’t be careless.

2. Buy clothes for my son that fit him properly. Just because he doesn’t care what he wears doesn’t mean that I shouldn’t help him find clothes that make him feel good about his body and how he looks, especially as he enters high school with some anxiety and curiosity about girls.

3. Take care of me. No need to be a martyr. It’s okay to develop a personal style that doesn’t require a fortune and a lot of professional help. Enjoy my longer, softer, less edgy hair.

4. Trust my children with their own key. Be proud of their increasing independence as they take bigger steps away from me. Welcome them home with a good night kiss when they come back safe and sound.

5. Be there for my daughter as she dives into this exciting time, trying on who she might want to be when she grows up. May she have fun with her friends, enjoy her senior year as a leader in the school, and explore her many options for college next year.

6. Sustain my friendships. When I am busy busy busy, I am not good at doing the everyday things that keep a friendship going. Make time to care.

7. Tell my husband that the reason I care about his health is because I love him. I want him around to enjoy our life together as we launch our wonderful children further and further into their own lives.

As for the rest of the list, created at different times on this mini time capsule, the middle set of ingredients (with the exception of shrimp, which was for another dinner) is for my husband’s Veal Bolognese Sauce (adapted from a recipe of Mario Batali’s). It is delicious. My husband makes it regularly. (On the weekends, I go grocery shopping and he cooks at least one sauce that provides leftovers.) It just so happens that we have leftover Bolognese Sauce waiting for us for when we return from vacation. But I am getting ahead of myself, as usual. Right now, I need to buy some coffee for the vacation house and some udder cream (a wonderful moisturizer for sensitive skin) for my husband’s skin which is taking a beating away from home. After I pause and appreciate the moment.

2 Comments

August 18, 2013

What Does It Take to be a Champion?

Good Luck Marion!

When I heard that Marion Bartoli had announced her retirement, tearfully, after losing last week in the second round in Cincinnati, citing constant pain in her body, I sighed. I get it. Totally. I am so glad she won Wimbledon in July! The pinnacle of a demanding career, she did it! Nothing left to prove, she’s done. Just like that, she’s walking away. Is it an impulsive decision? Will she come back after taking a well-deserved break? Who knows? At 28, highly intelligent, she can do anything she wants. What an amazing opportunity to forge a new life for herself.

Marion was never the classic tennis superstar everyone wanted to watch because she could be counted on to win. No, her appeal was in her driven and fierce bulldog approach to tennis. She was in perpetual motion on the court, bouncing nervously on her toes. She charged the ball with her two-handed groundstrokes, placing the ball where her opponent was not. Her service motion was weird, unconventionally reaching her racquet in an awkward motion to the side and back before striking the ball. Her nerdy, intellectual father-coach hovered in the background, a constant presence. She was an emotional, smart, and determined player with peaks and valleys of wins and losses.

I was glad to see her play a year ago at the U.S. Open. She wasn’t one of the superstars who got to play inside Arthur Ashe stadium that day. She was on Court 11 and that was fine with me. I prefer the outer courts anyway. You can sit up close on the bleachers and see every tic and every grimace and hear the curses and the self-talk. It’s like sitting in the front row at the ballet and watching the sweat drops fly during the pirouettes and the effortful lifts that look effortless from afar. Sometimes I even spy the entourage and scootch to a seat near them to hear the behind-the-scenes chatter that goes on, off-screen. It makes the sport so much more real. This intimacy is impossible in the touch-the-blimp seats inside Arthur Ashe where we usually sit. How do you get good seats anyway? I guess you have to be wealthy and connected and be willing to use your connections. Oh well, I’ll stick with the outer courts.

At Wimbledon, Marion showed a new side to her personality. She overthrew her father as coach. The announcement in early 2013 said it was a mutual decision. Maybe. I suspect it was a painful decision that was all hers. My god, Marion, that took guts! What were those conversations like? How much therapy did you require to tell your father to leave you alone? To tell him “Hey Dad, it’s my life and I’m going to do it my way now.” Kudos. She was on a high of exuberant confidence at Wimbledon. She had a new and supportive entourage. She was participating in the community of tennis instead of keeping to herself under her father’s watch. She looked like she was having fun! Albeit with even more of her usual intensity, focus, and drive. And she won! Without her father, she won!

Was that the problem? She couldn’t sustain her new-found bold independence from her father, her new-found sense of belonging to a larger community of friends and supporters? It’s hard for us introverts to transition to a more social role, isn’t it? It’s hard for us good girls to defy our fathers and go our own way, isn’t it? Especially if there is parental judgment hovering in the background. Did you feel compelled to be not successful without him?

Oh Marion, I don’t know you. I can only imagine the years of one-on-one constant, grinding, tennis practice with your father and his intense insistence on your success at tennis. I can only imagine how you absorbed his dream such that you could no longer distinguish between what was your father’s dream and what was your dream. Of course you wanted to please him and be a good daughter. Of course you wanted to win Wimbledon. You did it! You won Wimbledon! It’s completely amazing! Congratulations! Are you afraid that you are not a good daughter? Believe me, you are a good person. That is all a parent really wants. For their child to be happy, independent, and a good person. You can choose to live your own life and still be a loving daughter.

When I was pregnant with my daughter, my husband would lay his head on my belly and whisper to her, “Hit the ball down the line, sweetheart.” Certainly, he would have loved to have a child who was a tennis champion. But it is too much. Constant and grueling, day after day. The tennis lessons, the discipline, the travel, the expense, the pressure, the competition, the complete focus on tennis, the stress of the tournament circuit. For everyone in the family. It’s not just the child’s pursuit, but it is the child’s life that is most affected. The child has to want to do it. But how can a child know what they want to do? It’s the rare child who is truly happy and naturally gifted and who has the ambition and discipline and family support to put 10,000 hours in to become a tennis phenom or a prima ballerina or whatever dream s/he chooses to pursue. We did not insist on pursuing a tennis life for our children and our children did not choose such a life. All we want is for them to be happy, independent, good people. (Bonus, they are pretty good tennis players.)

I watch tennis because I have personal familiarity with the sport. I enjoy watching tennis because I am fascinated by the stories behind the players. What drives these players to compete? Who has the mental capability to win? They almost all have the physical capability at this level. It’s the mental focus and ambition, flexibility and intelligence that separate the winners. What did it take for the players to get here? What was the parents’ role? What if my child played at this level? Would they be happy? Would I? And when it’s all over, at such a young age, what next? Tennis pro? Tennis commentator? Or back to school to start a new career? How do you integrate tennis into your post-tennis life? Or do you just walk away?

Marion, I wish you well as you navigate your next steps. I hope that you will own your win at Wimbledon and thoroughly take pride in that achievement. I hope that you will continue to forge your own path and live your life, independent from your father and supported by your deepening circle of friends and supporters who you are tentatively welcoming into your life. You have so much to offer, I hope that you will be just as bold and fierce off the tennis court. Share your passion. It’s your turn to reflect on what your dreams are now and to go after them in your way. Good luck. I am cheering you on.

1 Comment

August 12, 2013

Long, Beautiful Hair

Free Flowing Woman

I cut my hair super short for the first time before entering Intermediate School in 7^th Grade. This was the summer fraught with breasts, bra-buying, and unwanted sexual attention. I said I wanted to cut my hair because I thought it would make me look older and more sophisticated. But really, I wanted to stop the clock on puberty. Since then, my hairstyle has been a barometer of life transitions.

Seventh grade is up there as one of my more miserable years. When I arrived with my super short hair, I was teased for looking too boyish. Couldn’t they see my breasts? I am so definitely a girl. I spent the next 5 years growing my hair long, twirling it into a ballet bun, only to cut it all off again before college. And again when entering the work world. And so on. Each drastic hair cut a harbinger of some kind of important change. For me, short hair on a woman is bold and unconventional, two qualities I feel I lack. Cutting my hair was freeing, allowing me to adopt a braver persona, like when I cut it right before going on a solo cycling adventure.

The last time I went super short was after the birth of my son. I thought the style suited me. Super chic for my work world and super easy as a working mom. I could show off my cheekbones and wear fun earrings. Strong colored lipstick would emphasize my girl-ness. My husband thought it added to my aloof allure. Mainly it was easy.

The man who cut my hair specialized in “precision” haircuts. Remember those? Sharp and angular. I would show up every 6 weeks and sit in the chair and turn over all control to him. Whatever you think looks good was usually my attitude. He was the professional. I trusted him. He would take out his razor and cut and shape, with precision. I left, looking like a sharper version of myself, for the day. And then I would wash my hair and everything was back to the same.

As I got older, sitting in that chair facing the mirror became less and less appealing and more and more of a chore. I started joking, I don’t care how you cut it, just make me look younger. Then I kind of stopped looking in the mirror. It had just become a personal hygiene errand.

Around this time, one of my yoga teachers and mentors gently suggested that my hair was boxy and severe and why not try letting it ease out a bit? Hmm, but what about my cheekbones? At midlife, the short hair made my thin face and prominent cheekbones look drawn and stressed, not elegant and regal. Hmm, but what about looking chic for work? Doesn’t a trendy male stylist know more about what’s up-to-date than a suburban yogini stylist? At midlife, maybe chasing after chic no longer meant sharp and angular. Hmm, but what about easy? I don’t have time to blow dry my hair every morning. She reminded me that once it gets long, it would be super easy to pull it back into a chic chignon. Hmm, but aren’t I too old for longer hair? Long hair is for young girls and sexy women. Not for a middle-aged mom. Hmm, but what about bold and unconventional? Maybe, I could be bold without needing short hair. Maybe, I could embrace what is good about what is conventional in me. Maybe, it was time to be the free-flowing woman I know is inside me, the one who has long, beautiful hair and fabulous scarves and lots of jewelry. Certainly, she is bold and unconventional. What an amazing woman! It was time to let her out.

Since my yoga teacher was a hair stylist by day, I found myself cautiously sitting in her chair about 2 years ago, about the time my mid-life enlightenment was in acute mode. We looked at me in the mirror together. Ready to relinquish control over my style, I allowed her to familiarize herself with my hair. She told me about cowlicks, something I never knew I had! We discussed the impact of cowlicks on how my hair looks. My previous male hairdressers simply had cut my hair so short, the cowlicks were cut away. She laid her hands on my shoulders, drawing attention to how I hold my tension, constantly, and encouraging me to let my shoulders soften. We talked.

We talked about yoga. Which means we talked about life. Everything came up. Love, death, sex, karma, work, friendship, anxiety, depression, eating, monogamy, reincarnation, trauma, diets, vacation, neurogastroenterology, god. She is outspoken. I am reserved. She has beautiful, long, sometimes wild auburn hair. (She’s a free-flowing woman.) I have wavy, still fairly short, dark brown (mixed with an increasing amount of gray) hair. I admired her ability to express strong opinions with assertiveness and confidence. Chronically non-confrontational, I was not always sure I agreed, but I would marinate on things she said, taking it in and adding it to my mosaic of understanding. Gradually, we peeled away more layers to reveal more of what is inside. I was touched that she shared as much of herself as she did.

I have relied on a stream of professionals to advise me on life. Therapists, Executive coaches, Personal Shoppers, Makeup and Hair Stylists, Bosses, Trainers, Teachers, Attorneys. Surrogate parents and teachers who I thought knew better than me about what was best for me. When I was younger, many of these advisors were men, men I relinquished control to. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve made a conscious effort to choose women, aware of and uncomfortable with the sexist quality of my deference to male authority and of the way I have felt competitive with other women. The quality of working on a project with a woman is different. More collaborative and explorative. As I grow more sure of myself, asserting my opinion first in writing and next, cautiously, in speaking, I am discovering that disagreeing does not mean I have to avoid the person. I don’t have to be a good girl and do everything they advise me to do. Rather, revealing what I think and who I am leads to a more authentic and deeper connection. The other person has a sense of who I am and does not expect me to be just like them. How boring would that be?

Instead of going through the motions of a haircut making small talk, I am practicing how to develop a friendship. As I build this friendship and nurture my lengthening hair, nurture the bold and conventional, sexy and nurturing, chic and free-flowing, maybe I am learning to trust myself. After all, who knows me better than me?

A free flowing woman laughs and loves easily. She is not constrained by rigid rules in her head. She wears original, unusual, creative jewelry and scarves. She is open, not judgmental. She says yes to adventure and has a spark of spontaneity.

One of my yoga teachers shared this poem with me. (I did not write it.) But it has informed my metaphorical desire to be like a free flowing river:

Flow
Be as water is
Without friction
Flow around the edges
Of those within your path
Surround within your ever-moving depths
Those who come to rest there
Enfold them
While never for a moment holding on
Accept whatever distance
Others are moved within your flow
Be with them gently
As far as they allow your strength to take them
And fill with your own being
The remaining space when they are left behind
When dropping down life’s rapids
Froth and bubble into fragments if you must
Know that the one of you now many
Will just as many times be one again
And when you’ve gone as far as you can go
Quietly await your next beginning

4 Comments

August 5, 2013

Saying No to Botox

Beauty of a Certain Age

Newsflash! According to the New York Times, the holy grail for beauty for executive women is “eternal early middle age.” As if working women everywhere did not have enough to worry about, it is now crucial to achieve the “cosmetic sweet spot: old enough to command respect, yet fresh enough to remain vital.”

Phew, I am on trend. At 50, I am situated right smack in the middle of the ideal 45-55 age range. But I am closing in on 51. Only 4 more years left to remain vital! Only 4 more years to chase whatever elusive career goal I have been chasing. I still don’t have a corner office.

Maybe I never will.

Maybe it doesn’t matter.

When I first started working in the business world, I was very proud and eager to succeed. I worked hard and moved up quickly. I started managing people well before I was 30 and felt I needed to look older in order to command respect. At 25, I was sometimes the only woman in the conference room which usually meant there was an expectation that I would clear the coffee cups. I was determined to look the part of a successful executive woman and not be the one waiting on the older executive men. Hello shoulder pads!

When I moved to a glamorous company in a senior managerial role, at 35, the first thing I did was makeover my image to be more sophisticated. Perhaps if I looked the role, I would prove that I belonged in the role. I bought new clothes with the help of a personal shopper and updated my hairstyle and took care with my makeup. My anxiety about whether or not I would be successful in this job was fixated on “looking right.”

When I was brave enough to ask for and talented enough to get a 4-day workweek after the birth of my son, I made the mistake of not cutting back on my shopping. You see, I was still ambitious for the corner office. Still optimistic that I would get promotions and salary raises, advancing in my career and paying for my shopping crutch. Still anxious that I needed to look a certain way in order to succeed, I filled up my insecurity with expensive clothes that the saleswoman picked out for me, because I did not trust my own taste to find my own style. As I spent more money, I became more secretive with my shopping expeditions, hiding the packages in the back of my closet. Of course this story ended badly. My husband found my credit card bill and was shocked. Rightly so. It was shocking. I had to take out a loan to pay it off and return to a 5-day workweek. I jeopardized my marriage and squandered my precious time, precious time with my children, just to “look right.”

When “early middle age” hit (newsflash, it’s not eternal) and I realized that I was not going to achieve the corner office (and didn’t really want to chase after it any more anyway), and that it mattered what I did not what I wore, and that my kids were quickly growing up, I went to the other extreme. Rather than cover up my gently sagging skin with more makeup and rejuvenating injections, I now wear less makeup than ever, barely managing a swipe of lipstick. I don’t want to spend money or time on extravagant trendy clothing or weekly manicures. What little disposable income I have now goes to the college fund. And my gray hair? So far, I don’t have a lot so I don’t color it. I refuse to color it. I’ve spent my whole life dressing up as someone I thought I should be. Now I just want to be me.

I feel sad and somewhat dismayed by how much time, money, effort and energy we women spend on our appearance. When young, we are so afraid we don’t deserve our job. When middle aged, we are so afraid we will lose our job to a younger, more stylish and up-to-date competitor. We are so preoccupied with other women and their appearance, judging them on how they look and not always on what they accomplish.

I am not naïve. I know attractive people tend to be better liked and more successful. I know that feeling good about how I look can help me feel and behave more confidently. I know that if I had the money and the time and the corner office, I might gladly be swayed to spend it on rejuvenating treatments. And who knows what I will do when I hit “late middle age.” It’s easy to be defiant, even disdainful, when you still feel in your prime.

But surely there is something to be said for a woman of a certain age. She has lived and loved and learned who she is. She has experience to share. She has earned her gray hair, her wider hips, her worry lines and her laugh lines.

I remember when Botox first became accessible for cosmetic use about ten years ago and thinking how strange it will be if no one’s face ages and no one’s face shows emotion. At that time I decided I did not want to succumb to Botox but wondered if I would be able to stick with that decision as I got older. My mother had a facelift after surgery left her with an ugly scar on her neck. I was surprised that my beautiful-to-me mother felt the need to look younger and prettier…more vital. If my mother couldn’t stand “late middle age,” how was I going to cope with it?

For now, the role models I admire are many. Annie Lennox baring her face and her soul, when she was 48, on her solo album Bare. Cyndi Lee embracing her gray hair in May I Be Happy. Jamie Lee Curtis writing empowering children’s books on self-esteem and discussing body image with More. Hillary Clinton, whose hair is still making the news and whose accomplishments are truly impressive. Perhaps the best role models of all are my beautiful middle-aged friends (early, middle, and late) who still dance at the ballet barre or ace their serve on the tennis court or stand on their heads in the yoga studio or rule the executive suite or cherish their families. My beautiful middle-aged friends awe me every day with their love, courage, resilience, intelligence, humor and grace. Beautiful because of their wrinkles earned from living life.

When I look in the mirror, I visualize the same face I’ve always seen in my mind. But when I really look in the mirror, and see, really see my face – I see the dark circles, the loosening skin, the mottled complexion with “age spots.” I see the jowls (yes, jowls!). I see the wrinkles. I also see my clear and hopeful eyes that are no longer too shy to make eye contact with anyone, not even with me.

7 Comments

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this: