A Mid-Winter's Day Nightmare

Guess what I got to do last week?  After the eggnog, cookies, hors d’oeuvres, turkey, ham, wine and gingerbread, I went shopping for a bathing suit.  I don’t know too many middle-aged women who enjoy bathing suit shopping at any time of year. But when the holiday over-indulgence chickens have come home to roost – on my hips and thighs --bathing suit shopping is the last thing on my list.  OK – maybe not the last – but it’s a close third.  Right behind pap smears and mammograms.

I shouldn’t complain.  (But I will.) As you may have guessed, I need this bathing suit because I’m going somewhere warm and sunny.  My husband and I are heading down to Panama for three weeks.  The last time we were there, I left my favorite bathing suit behind.  I wasn’t too sad because while it was comfortable, it wasn’t very flattering and I had had it for a long time. No love lost there.  My other bathing suit was bought hurriedly before our last trip.  It was one of those “look instantly ten pounds thinner” suits – the kind that is all crinkled up in front as an attempt at optical illusion.  But it feels like what I imagine a corset must have felt like.  It’s hard to breathe deeply and I periodically get lightheaded if I don’t concentrate on getting enough oxygen.  If I fall asleep with it on, I have nightmares involving boa constrictors and being buried alive. Although my waist does look smaller, my head and legs look huge because the excess flesh is forced out either side of the suit – like one of those balls you squeeze to reduce stress.  The ten pounds are merely redistributed.  I am tempted to reach for a pair of scissors when it’s time to take that sucker off.  When, exhausted, I have finally peeled myself out of it, I feel such relief – probably the way poppin’ fresh dough feels right after it’s rapped against the counter.  In other words, I don’t like that suit at all.

They say that styles return.  I have longed for my grandmother’s era bathing costumes to come back into fashion – but I didn’t think it would happen before we had to leave so, alas and alack, the deed had to be done. Having recently lost 15 pounds I was even a little curious to see how this spree would go.  Maybe it wouldn’t be as painful as the last time.

I headed up to Northgate. First stop, Nordstrom.  I thought I’d see what the other half wears on the beach and then see if they had the same thing or something similar at Ross or Target.  Who knows, I thought, maybe I’d find a suit that I liked there and even if it was a tad on the pricey side, if it made me look and feel good, well, I could find a way to justify the expense.

After longingly eyeing the moo moos and maternity clothes, I headed for “Active Wear” and perused the sparse racks, avoiding anything that was crinkled in front. (Fooled me once – not going there again.)  I found a few that looked possible and tried them on.  Not great, but not bad.  I was mildly encouraged.  Then I found it.  A beautiful greenish gold, simply cut, modest yet sexy, feminine, classic suit.  And it fit.  And it looked good. Unbelievable!  Could this be it?  Could I have found a suit on the first try?  I reached for the price tag, fingers crossed, but the price was missing. The sales assistant came back to check on me (I love that. It doesn’t happen in the stores I normally shop in.) I asked her if she could find the price for me.  “Of course,” she said pleasantly.  Behind the closed door, I choked back tears of gratitude.  I tried on a few other suits while waiting but they didn’t compare. Two light raps on my dressing room door and then the words:  “One hundred and seventy eight dollars.”  Wha wha wha….  The bubble burst.  This is NORDSTROM, Irene, and this is what it costs to look good in a bathing suit in your mid-50’s.  But there is no way I can rationalize spending that kind of money on the tiniest item of clothing in my wardrobe.

After considering the possibility that you have to be rich – or 20 - to look good in a bathing suit, I let it go.  Not meant to be. I went back out for one last look around before heading to the discount stores.

Standing next to me I noticed a woman roughly my age, admiring a suit on the adjacent rack.  “Oooh this is so cute,” she said.  We smiled at each other in recognition -- like two people traveling in a foreign country discovering they speak the same language.  “It wouldn’t look the same on as it does off, though,” she said. “I know what you mean,” I agreed, “I keep forgetting that I don’t have that body anymore.” We both laughed and continued looking at the suits. Suddenly, she stopped, looked right at me and said,  “But you know, I have come to realize that I am a really interesting, strong, beautiful woman and I would trade that body any day for what I am now.”

We talked about the way we were in our 20’s.  We both thought we were fat and were hypercritical of ourselves back then.  We had no idea what was coming and so we couldn’t – or didn’t - enjoy what we had.   How could we know that in our 50’s we would look at pictures of ourselves in our 20’s and discover, too late, that we were babes!  Beauties!  Just think when we are in our 80’s what we will say about our 50-year-old selves.  We will see youth and beauty.  We will, once again, wonder why we were so down on ourselves when we looked so good.

Christiana Northrup, in her book, Women’s Bodies, Women’s Wisdom, writes that women between 49 and 55 experience hormonal balance once again, freeing them to pursue creative interests and social action.  “These are the years when all of a woman’s life experience comes together and can be used for a purpose that suits her and at the same time serves others.”  In spite of the media and pharmaceutical companies’ efforts to depict menopause as a dry wasteland – the end of the road -- Northrup points out that during menopause, women discover a “deeper and freer experience of self.”  In Celtic cultures, menopausal women were believed to “retain their wise blood,” ceasing the constant ebb and flow of cycles and thereby becoming more powerful than younger women.  It was only after menopause that a woman could become a shaman.  In Native cultures, menopausal women were “the voice of responsibility towards all children, both human and nonhuman…unafraid to say a strong no to anything that did not serve life.”  These women were looked to by their younger counterparts for education and initiation into this knowledge and responsibility. 

Bathing suits aside, my new friend and I agreed that we are right where we want to be.

Yeah – we’re really good.  Right now.  And it’s only gonna get better.  We high-fived each other and moved on.  Her to who knows where, me to Ross where, by the way, I found two fabulous suits that looked great and cost under $50 – total.

(originally published winter of 2012)

Perfectly Imperfect

Whenever I drive past Coe School, a part of me is in that playground, watching my children play foursquare or dangle on the rings as I chat with my mom friends. The eleven years that my family spent as a part of that elementary school community were sweet on so many levels, many of which I did not realize until years later.

On the last day of my younger daughter’s fifth grade year, she and I held hands and ceremoniously stepped across the threshold on our way out of the building and out of that chapter of our lives. I was unable to speak for the lump in my throat. I knew that this was a significant moment, but I didn’t know, fully, how significant. And she, certainly, had no idea. She just went along with me, trusting, accepting my explanation that once we step over that line, we will never, in the same way, come back.

My children, now 22 and 27, are hardly “children” any more. They are old enough to be the moms in the picture I painted above. Old enough to pronounce what they will do differently when they raise their own children.

It is a shock when, somewhere between leaving the sanctuary that is elementary school and sending your child off to college and beyond, you see yourself reflected in your child’s face – and what you see is not the loving, perfect, wise parent of your imaginings, the one who had righted all the wrongs your mother allegedly did to you, but a tired, cranky, conservative bore who just doesn’t get it. Ouch.

I am here to say, if this has happened to you then you have done your job and done it well. I am not a psychologist, or a parenting expert (that is debatable after 27 years in the field) but I am very clear on this point: for our kids to move on to be successful, independent adults, they have to see us for the novices we are – at least for a while. 

We are programmed from the start to protect, nurture, hold, and guide our babies. But from the moment they are born, our real job is to push them away. To sever the connection as we move them towards independence. It is counter-intuitive but absolutely essential that we do so. We wean them, teach them to walk, to tie their own shoes, to use the bathroom, to dress themselves.

And, if we have done our job right, as they gain independence, our children will slowly begin to realize how imperfect we are. It hurts because we don’t want our children to leave us, to think ill of us. But mostly it hurts because it’s true. We are oh so flawed and oh so busted. When they become clever enough to argue our points, disagree, disobey, it throws our world into chaos. How do I do this? Where is the guidebook?

Perhaps a better question to ask at this point is why do I want to appear perfect in the eyes of my children (or siblings, or co-workers, or peers)? Why am I afraid to let my flaws in all their real and raw beauty shine? To shout, “CHECK ME OUT! I AM FLAWED! I AM OFTEN WRONG! I HAVE REGRETS AND I AM NOT PROUD OF SO MANY THINGS! But here I am. Here I still am…” 

Why do we try to hide our imperfections when they connect us so much more deeply, richly to one another? We can learn more from them than we ever will from perfection. And we relate more easily to one another when we are telling the truth.

It’s difficult today with Facebook and Social Media, for people to know what the truth is. The vast majority of people post only the most glowing, glamorous versions of themselves. And so we seek a false perfection – one that simply doesn’t exist.

When our children begin to see us as – well – as we once saw our parents – dorky, annoying, even stupid – take heart! We have, albeit inadvertently, done our job well. Because at this point, nature takes over and we no longer have to worry about letting go. We are exasperated and as ready as they are to part ways.

And then, just as incredibly, once the final piece of Velcro has ripped apart, we fall in love with them again. And, with a little bit of luck, they with us.

A Roll of the Dice

I want to write about the lazy, hazy days of late summer. About fingers stained purple from blackberry picking and marshmallows roasted over bonfires at Golden Gardens. I want to write about Queen Anne and Magnolia neighbors enjoying the bounty of their gardens. About kids beginning to think back-to-school thoughts with a mixture of dread and anticipation.

But I can’t stop thinking about a town in Missouri that is in deep despair. And about the increasingly thin veneer between ease and unrest that is cracking, allowing the pervasive racism that exists in our country to seep through, infiltrating our thoughts, our conversations and our actions. Instead of preparing to start college in the fall, a young man in Ferguson, Missouri has been shot dead and his family and neighbors are suffering in ways we cannot fully comprehend.   

Because the media exposes us to events that might otherwise remain local, we can’t help but be cognizant of the growing pattern of race-based crimes. We know about the July killing of Eric Garner, an innocent Staten Island man, when police used an illegal chokehold, depriving his children of their father. And about Renisha McBride, a Detroit girl shot in the face last November by a man from whom she sought help following a car crash. Trayvon Martin in Florida in 2012. John Williams in Seattle in 2010. And now, Michael Brown in Missouri and Ezell Ford in Los Angeles. And so many more… The victims: People of color. The killers: White.

It is much easier to relate to and mourn the deaths of Robin Williams and Lauren Bacall. But think for a minute. What if Eric Garner was your father or your husband? What if Renisha or Trayvon or Michael or Ezell were your children?  Hard to imagine, right? Because these kinds of things don’t happen in our neighborhood.

Or, on some level, do they?

My husband and I are completing a summer of boat work, the final piece of which is painting and repairing the hull at a boatyard behind Fred Meyer in Ballard. Six jack stands incredibly steady the massive vessel on its keel while we sand, prime, repair, epoxy and paint, doing the work ourselves to save on cost. It’s been a daily  marathon of grueling work, which leaves us covered in dust, paint, and boat-yard filth.

Last week, I broke from painting and strolled over to Fred Meyer. Walking through the store, stopping first to get my glasses repaired at the optical shop and then moving on to order grilled Panini sandwiches in the deli, grab some ice for the cooler, and, finally make a quick trip to the ladies’ room, I noticed that people were giving me odd looks. A woman I nearly collided with as she exited the ladies’ room, formed a startled, silent “Oh!” with her mouth, her eyes wide open.

Looking in the mirror I saw what she had seen. Staring back at me was my boatyard self: a bandana topped by a backwards baseball cap, an oversized, ripped, paint-splattered t-shirt, baggy capris and expensive hiking shoes wrapped in duct tape to protect them from paint and solvents. No make up on my sweaty face.

I laughed as I finally understood the looks. But my laughter turned to sudden sorrow as it dawned on me that a growing number of people in our society deal with such reactions every day. People for whom the increasing economic divide is proving disastrous. People who are being marginalized through no fault of their own.

And then I thought about Michael Brown. Skin color is a no fault condition. How we are born is an inarguable roll of the dice. I cannot know how it feels to be black, or brown, or poor, just because some woman looked at me cross-eyed in Fred Meyer. But it gave me pause…

People are being killed because of the color of their skin. Period. There is no justification for it. 22-year-old John Warner, a black man, was killed earlier this month in an Ohio Wal-Mart for holding a bb gun in his hand. Shot dead right there in the toy aisle. His last words were, “It’s not real!” Would the same thing have happened if he were white? I would bet money against it. Lots of money. At least enough money to hire someone to finish working on our boat.

Skin color may be a roll of the dice but how we treat people based on their appearance is our choice. No matter what we learn about Michael Brown in the days to come, ask yourself, was death the penalty? Was being shot in the street in cold blood what he deserved? The authorities spin stories to make victims out to be drug users, shoplifters, and whatever else they can dig up and corroborate. Even if the stories are true, is the punishment for these alleged crimes death? Michael Brown’s death, as the other racially motivated deaths, was a modern-day lynching. An execution without a trial.

How do we move forward from this? Hopefully reminders such as the one I had at Fred Meyer last week can teach us compassion for people we see pushing shopping carts down the sidewalk, or a person of color in the toy aisle of a store.

Because if the dice had been rolled differently, it could just as easily be you. Or me. Or your children. Or mine.

SWEET OLD GIRL

A very sweet old lady I knew died last Saturday.

The date was pre-arranged.  She had her family around her and she was happy (if a little bit tired) after a spectacular sunny day spent with her favorite people in her favorite place.  The place they would sprinkle her ashes when she was gone.

She had many of the ailments associated with her age group: Cataracts, hearing loss, arthritis, lowered stamina. Their normalcy did not lessen their difficulty or her suffering.  It was fairly certain that she had cancer although it was never officially diagnosed because, at her age, chemo and radiation were out of the question.  Really – why go through that at 84?  That would only add to her suffering. She needed help getting around and incontinence was beginning to rear its ugly head.  The only thing ahead of her – and it was probably looming close – was more pain and emergency intervention. 

And so, on Friday night, her family threw her a going away party.  30 people attended throughout the course of the night and many more sent regrets and condolences and love.  There was food and drink and laughter and tears and hugging and philosophical talk of death and passing and life.  The guest of honor basked in the limelight and visibly perked up from all the attention. 

The next day was spent sitting on the beach, smelling the salty sweet air and water.  Her family spared no kisses, no hugs, no tears.  The sunshine was clouded only by the knowledge that time was running out, by their resignation to the dreaded moment when the medication would be administered that would cause her heart to stop and end her life on this earth.  Knowing that this was the last time they would be together in this way made everything sharper, clearer, brighter.  And so, so bittersweet. 

Confessions of a Nerd

The picnic was in full swing.  A fifth grade graduation celebration where the guests of honor were not little kids any more, but not quite teenagers either.  They were learning, though, by practicing, playing at being older.  Girls were admiring each other’s jewelry, cooing over the latest clothing fads and the aps on their smart phones -- tools of the pre-teen trade. Mid-conversation with a group of parents, one mother realized that she hadn’t seen her daughter for a while. She did a quick scan of the party. Where was she?  Not with the girls huddled together whispering. Not with the group around the food table.  Not with the flirty girls being chased by the boys.  And then – ah -- there she was. Sitting at a distant picnic table, facing away from the crowd, legs stretched out, ankles crossed, gazing down as she ate her hot dog.   Her heart seized at the sight of her daughter, alone, ignored, unnoticed.

My heart went out to this woman, a work mate, because I have been through similar times with my daughters.  And I have personal experience to draw from.  Flashbacks to the times when I felt like a no-count nobody because I was excluded from social events or teased and publicly humiliated. I still get mad – 40 years later -- just thinking about it.  

SUPERHERO IN THE HOUSE

Superman fights Lex Luther.  Batman fights Joker.  Spiderman fights the Green Goblin.  Superheroes are in constant battle with their enemies who, while they never triumph, never completely disappear either. Well, move over, boys, because there’s a new super hero in town.  Meet Clean Irene, or as she is known to her family, OCD Woman.

Like my male counterparts, I have been fighting a monster who has tried for years to invade and overtake my home; banging on the doors, climbing through the windows, creeping in the cracks.  Ever on guard, I fend it off; beat it back -- sometimes with weapons and sometimes with pure, determined, brute strength.  This monster, this thing that threatens my sanity, my peace, is a shape–shifter.  One day it is a sink full of dirty dishes, another it is dust, and another it is a trail of socks and cast off shoes.  In other words, it is the detritus of the people with whom I live. People who, although endearing and skilled in many areas, have not mastered my sense of organization or the skills for keeping that order…  in order.  Were it not for my vigilance, this monster might just huff and puff and blow the house down, forcing my three little pigs to go wee wee wee all the way to oblivion.

Love on Four Legs

How do you know when it’s time to put your dog down?  When she’s had enough? Dog owners walk a fine line between reason and compassion.  The suffering and diminished quality of an old dog’s life is one thing. But rational thinking can be clouded by sweet memories and the moments when our dogs seemed to transcend their animal nature, responding uncannily to our needs, our thoughts, our human-ness.

Our dog, Lovey, has astonished us with her pure, spot-on responses to certain situations.  Call me crazy.  I don’t care.  Lovey and I know the truth.

One night, sick in bed, unable to get warm, I thought how nice it would be to have Lovey up on the bed – normally forbidden territory.  The thought of her warm, soft body close to mine circled around my feverish brain for a while when I heard her thumping up the stairs.  With a determined leap she was on the bed and curled up, her back pressed against me.  Her warmth seeped into my bones and I finally slept. Coincidence?