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)

An Addiction That Needs No Cure

What’s more fun than a barrel full of monkeys?  A hot tub full of your best friends! 

Last weekend, my daughters surprised me with an early birthday celebration.  They whisked me away to breakfast at a Capitol Hill creperie and then to a nearby women’s spa where, unbeknownst to me, they had sneakily assembled six of my closest women friends.   The manager of the spa took me a “tour” of the facility.  Entering the tub room I had a split second to notice a number of women already in the water before they jumped up, their unison shout of “SURPRISE!” echoing off the tiled walls. After my heart returned to its normal rate, I spent two dreamy hours luxuriating in the warmth of the tub, sauna and steam room and in the sweet, loving company of my beautiful friends.

I love my husband (who was part of the planning and scheming of this surprise).  He is my best friend and has stood by me when even I couldn’t stand being around myself. My entire life has been blessed with fabulous male friendships.  But I honestly do not know how I would get through this life without my girlfriends.  They are the glue that holds me together when I am falling apart. They fill in the gaps when things start to crack.  They know me better than I know myself and they love me for who I am – and, at times, I am sure, in spite of how I am.

I am certain that same sex friendships are important and necessary.  But I can’t speak to what it is like to be a man or to be friends with a man - as a man.  So for now, this one’s for the ladies.  But keep reading, all you men who love the women in your lives and understand that when we get together with the girls, it’s a good thing.   A very good thing.

Mid-Life? Bring it On!

            Has it happened yet? Have you been called “M’am” at the supermarket?  Have you woken up and looked in the mirror to find your mother staring back at you?  Do you perform an occasional strip-tease during a business meeting as a hot flash comes on? Or have you noticed men staring as you walk past them on the street – not at you as they once did – but at your daughter?

            Or how about this…

You’re out with your husband, enjoying cocktails with some work associates after a holiday party.  You feel pretty good in the outfit you bought for the occasion – it’s swishy, slimming, and youthful.  You’re chatting and laughing with the other wives and you notice that they pay close attention when you speak.  Ahhh!  I’m fascinating as well as gorgeous tonight, you think.  The other women are a bit younger than you; their children home with a babysitter while your teenagers are out with friends.  It seems like just yesterday that you were forced to keep glancing at your watch, as these women do, to be sure you wouldn’t be late for the babysitter.  The talk turns to the wear and tear motherhood puts on women’s looks.  “Wait until they’re teenagers,” you throw out casually but with an air of authority.  One of the women counters with “But you look great!”  Before you have time to take in the compliment she adds, “I hope I look as good as you when I’m your age.” 

           (SOUND OF TIRES SCREECHING ON PAVEMENT.) 


          When I’m your age?  When I’m YOUR age?  Suddenly the noise in the bar begins to fade, taken over by a weird humming sound as all the blood in your body rushes into your ears and your brain tries to sort out what this statement means.  How old do they think I am?  What do I look like from their perspective?  Were they paying such close attention to my comments because they see me as their elder, wiser counterpart – the Village Crone?  You do your best to appear engaged in the conversation but the internal dialogue is too loud and you find yourself wishing you had the excuse of a babysitter to hurry you out of the bar.  Your makeup feels like it’s melting and the bulge around your waistline feels suffocating.  The clock has struck midnight and Cinderella suddenly ain’t lookin’ so good anymore.

Scenarios like these are happening to me with increasing frequency.  I am often (too often to ignore it) mistaken for my younger sister’s mother.  I’m blown away when it’s time to get my driver’s license photo re-taken and I see the difference between the old picture and the new one.  And what about invisibility?  I always thought it would be cool to have a super-power, but I was thinking more about, say, flying... or x-ray vision... or time travel...    than becoming invisible to entire sidewalks full of people younger than I.

Let’s face it.  We live in a youth-worshipping culture where women (and men -- guys are not entirely exempt from this phenomenon) are pressured to dye their hair, lift their lids, nip and tuck chins, necks, breasts and butts.  In short, to do anything but allow the natural process of aging to occur.  There is a sense of something coming to an end, of being about to topple into the abyss of old age where society will view and treat you differently. 

So what do we do?  Do we just disappear?  Do we give up and resign ourselves to the end of life as a vibrant, worthy, physically beautiful person?  Or do we embrace the change, accept the results, and rejoice in the freedom that can come from letting go of the superficial?   We certainly would not be alone if we chose that approach – far from it. 

The Ghost of Christmas Past... and Christmas yet to come...

Christmas is over.  Well, not completely over.  The day is over but the feeling lingers...   For me,  Christmas happens more fully once the day itself has passed.  Once the pressure has lifted and the work is done.  Then comes the real holiday -- a time to reflect and relax and enjoy the fruits of all the planning and hard work.  If only we could do more of that ahead of the holiday so that the anticipation could be more joyful and holy and sweet.  I have been working on that for a while now, and try to remember each year to savor the pre-Christmas as much as the post.

When the kids were little, I struggled so with this holiday which consists largely of mercantile madness.  I felt so underneath all the lists and the self-imposed intensity and the need to buy for everyone the perfect gift.

The bitter irony is that we women have taken a beautiful time of year and turned it into a frenzy.  We women created this insanity. I mean, really, do you see men freaking out about lists and home-made jam and what to buy nieces and nephews they never see and whose names they don't even remember?  I confess that in years past, I secretly strove for a picture perfect Edwardian Christmas with the smell of delicious foods and mulled cider wafting through the house, my children dressed in lovely clothes, stringing garlands of popcorn and cranberries for the tree (we actually did that one year), delivering hand-made gifts to neighbors and friends (yes - we've made homemade marmalade and cookies), our gingerbread house made from scratch sitting proudly on the dining table (done it -- more than once).  But, unlike the Edwardian days, we don't have servants to help, we work part- or full-time jobs and we are blinking exhausted from just the normal wear and tear of our lives.  However, most women I know push Christmas and push it hard and we drive our men and everyone else crazy with it all.


What if we didn't do it?  What if we just let it happen and unfold on its own?

Goodbye and Hello/A New Job Description

This time that is described as "change of life" is so much more than hot flashes and changing bodies.  Our lives are truly changing. My mother-in-law is declining as a result of congestive heart failure.  My father is suffering from Parkinsons.  A friend just died of cancer.  My children are flapping their wings harder and harder and getting ready to leave the nest for good.  It's as though my job description is being rewritten, but no one has shown it to me yet and I'm not sure what to do.  How do I function in a world where I am no longer a daughter?  Where I no longer buy my mother-in-law a Christmas present? Where I am no longer a mother in the way I have been for 22 years?  How will it be in the office without our friend and co-worker?

I met a woman on the beach last week -- both of us walking our dogs on a fresh, sunny fall morning --  and, remarkably for the fact that we were strangers to one another, we had this very conversation.  She lost her husband when she was in her mid-40's, raised their two children and for 30 years carved out a life of her own.  She has lived in France, California and lots of places in between. She teaches yoga to seniors.  She is a landlady of a property she bought recently.  When we met, she was recovering from a broken back, suffered on a bike trip in Italy.   When I told her what was going on in my life, she said, "Wonderful, Irene!" Without minimizing or dismissing what I was experiencing, she said, "Irene, life is changing for you and you are heading in a new direction - -and it is wonderful.  I promise you, it will be okay."

It's hard to see it that way at this moment, but I think she is right.  I am going to make sure that she is.