Some time ago, I walked into a public restroom to find two old women talking as if they were young women.
"I can't wear red at all. It just completely washes all the color out of me."
Surprised, I ducked into a stall, listening to them talk and compare what they look "best" and "awful" in.
Not to be rude, but these women were very old. The color was already completely washed out of them. I honestly doubted anyone would have noticed whether they looked different in red or blue.
But they cared.
It forced me to reexamine my assumptions. Reexamining assumptions is excellent exercise. I recommend it for everyone. It can clear the brain better than a robust jog in the misty dawn.
First, it made me realize what, in the first place, my assumption was. I realized that I must have assumed, sometime back, that old women didn't care what they looked like anymore. That concern about this curl or that blemish or some pair of jeans making one look fat ended somewhere along the way. That, as long as they were clean and appropriately dressed, old women were probably content to look however they looked.
I know this assumption fueled my reckless behavior when I was a very young woman, sunbathing. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew that this was a dangerous choice that could give me trouble in decades to come. But I'll be old then, I rationalized. I won't care how I look.
But I'm half old, and I still care. At least, halfway.
I no longer spend inordinate amounts of time gazing into the mirror or stress too much over this or that. For one thing, I've gotten more efficient at taking care of myself. On the other hand, I've had to accept that some things just are and move on.
But I have to admit that just being clean and appropriately dressed does not cover it for me. I still smile to see a glimmer of beauty emerge. I still take care that my pantyhose are perfect and cannot conceive of succumbing to a muumuu. I still like compliments. I now have to assume that we all do.
As far as self-care is concerned, I guess I'd characterize myself as a blessed conservative moderate. Moderate, because I do think grooming is important, that appearances do influence, and that people ought to do the best they can with what they have, reasonably. And, by reasonably, I mean with some effort but not an inordinate amount of effort, and with some expense involved, but not a lot of money spent. Conservative, because I really do not spend much time or money, by most people's standards, on my appearance. And blessed, because I've never really felt I had to spent a lot of time or money to be presentable.
I guess I think that, unless one is unusually blessed, one should spend some effort on appearance. And even the most naturally fortunate need to at least be clean and appropriately attired. I also think that it's a waste of money and time, and, really, kind of sad, to chase an illusion of beauty by pouring an unbalanced amount of resources into the project.
We all know women--and men, for that matter--who go to one extreme or another on this issue. We know people who rely a bit too heavily on natural appearance and never do anything with their hair or other aspects of their appearance. We know people who change their hairstyle and color so much that we cannot easily recognize them from day to day.
And then there are those who spend a great deal of effort in remaining the same. (I'll never run for president, because I wouldn't want to have to get a haircut every single day.) I once worked with a woman, for example, who still sported a beehive from the sixties. This was not a resurgence of an old style--she had done this to herself daily since then--confirmed when she told me, "I use the same hairdresser I had in high school." I'd just nodded, trying to keep my face blank while I made a mental note.
I know another woman who has not only kept the same hairstyle since she was perhaps twelve, but has worn the exact same barrette in it.
I want to fall somewhere between the two extremes. Of course, there's a very big middle there.
A couple of months ago, people started noticing that I was close to my ideal weight. Instead of commenting on that, though, they started saying to me, "I love your new hairstyle!" This was happening so often that I had to take note of and analyze it for its origin. But when I heard myself saying to friends, "I haven't changed my hair in twelve years," I realized I was falling out of the middle to one end of the extreme.
So, the last time I got my hair cut, I requested something new. And I brought up this subject with the woman cutting my hair. She clearly deals with this issue with women of all ages.
Yes, she confirmed, women of all ages want to look their best. (Now, I'm wondering if that is natural, or a product of our overly superficial society.)
And all women seem to make up rules they follow about how to best achieve that. As in many other things, balance is where I think it's at.
Monday, January 21, 2013
Saturday, January 12, 2013
Teaching a Life Skill
My baby seemed fine about doing his Saturday chores, then he hit his wall.
One minute, he was cheerfully wiping down the kitchen wastebasket with a Lysol wipe, chirping, "It looks better already!" The next, I heard his bedroom door slam over the words, "I hate work."
Clearly, there were a number of responses I could have made.
I nudged the door open with my toe. "You seemed fine a minute ago," I said, making sure I had a kind, understanding tone. "Did you run into a job that seemed like too much?"
"Yes," he said. It was working. "Fifty things in my room."
"Well, let's break it down then," I suggested. "Can you do five things?"
"Yes." He told me what each one of the things was as he picked it up. He wanted to be witnessed for all of his hard work.
I've been known to trick younger children with methods like this--get them to do what I want them to do without them realizing they are doing it, but this kid is beyond that, and, besides, my goal this time was beyond having his bedroom tidy. It was to teach him a life skill: what can I do to cope/keep functioning when I get overwhelmed?
"That means you have forty-five left," I observed. "Do you think you can do forty-five, or does that still sound like too much?"
"Too much." He was totally cooperating. No fits, no whining.
"Just do five more, then," I suggested.
"Okay."
"That will bring it down to forty."
He again reported on each one as he picked it up.
We negotiated for five more, and he observed on his own, "That will make it fifteen that I've done."
"Yes, and you'll have thirty-five left. Isn't that neat that the number you've done keeps going up, and the number you have left keeps going down?"
Then I asked him if thirty-five sounded like a number he could manage.
"The most I can do," he said, quite seriously, "is twenty-seven."
But he took it from there. I heard from him again when he had twenty-four left, then fourteen, then his brother's age, then his own age.
"That is so exciting!" I enthused with him.
Soon, he was back. "I'm all done!" He gave me six high-fives.
The tidy bedroom is a temporary thing. But the feeling of being overwhelmed will hit him again and again and again. Even long after I'm no longer here for him to turn to.
I hope that's the work done today that will stick.
One minute, he was cheerfully wiping down the kitchen wastebasket with a Lysol wipe, chirping, "It looks better already!" The next, I heard his bedroom door slam over the words, "I hate work."
Clearly, there were a number of responses I could have made.
I nudged the door open with my toe. "You seemed fine a minute ago," I said, making sure I had a kind, understanding tone. "Did you run into a job that seemed like too much?"
"Yes," he said. It was working. "Fifty things in my room."
"Well, let's break it down then," I suggested. "Can you do five things?"
"Yes." He told me what each one of the things was as he picked it up. He wanted to be witnessed for all of his hard work.
I've been known to trick younger children with methods like this--get them to do what I want them to do without them realizing they are doing it, but this kid is beyond that, and, besides, my goal this time was beyond having his bedroom tidy. It was to teach him a life skill: what can I do to cope/keep functioning when I get overwhelmed?
"That means you have forty-five left," I observed. "Do you think you can do forty-five, or does that still sound like too much?"
"Too much." He was totally cooperating. No fits, no whining.
"Just do five more, then," I suggested.
"Okay."
"That will bring it down to forty."
He again reported on each one as he picked it up.
We negotiated for five more, and he observed on his own, "That will make it fifteen that I've done."
"Yes, and you'll have thirty-five left. Isn't that neat that the number you've done keeps going up, and the number you have left keeps going down?"
Then I asked him if thirty-five sounded like a number he could manage.
"The most I can do," he said, quite seriously, "is twenty-seven."
But he took it from there. I heard from him again when he had twenty-four left, then fourteen, then his brother's age, then his own age.
"That is so exciting!" I enthused with him.
Soon, he was back. "I'm all done!" He gave me six high-fives.
The tidy bedroom is a temporary thing. But the feeling of being overwhelmed will hit him again and again and again. Even long after I'm no longer here for him to turn to.
I hope that's the work done today that will stick.
Wednesday, January 9, 2013
The Big Reveal
My new assignment at work gives me a lot of downtime. Which has allowed me a chance to investigate new horrors encroaching on the human race that I never would have dreamed of.
Like, ultrasound reveal parties!
(Because baby showers aren't enough.)
Get this. You invite all your friends over so you can bare your pregnant belly in the sloppy horizontal position (very unhostesslike, I always think) in the middle of them so that a technician can show them all--since they can already see your skin--what else lies beneath your skin. The baby, and whatever else.
Now, everyone present may not be trained to read a sonogram, but it still seems to me like a bad idea.
Not only is it a loss of privacy for you, but just imagine what it must be like for your fetus! There s/he is, minding her own business, when, suddenly, dozens of eyes are trained right on her. In the privacy of her own room. And she won't be wearing anything at all!
This could go on the list of Things Kids Can Sue Their Parents for Later.
Besides that, lots of things could go wrong. I mean, think about it. This should be what's otherwise known as a private medical moment. Everything is not always hunkey-dorey-dorey.
In other words, your party could fall flat.
You could embarrass not only yourself, but your spouse/partner, and every single guest, including the ultrasound tech.
I know I'm getting old, but this tendency to try to focus everyone in our world on me, me, me! has gotten a little out of hand.
Weddings are now affairs so elaborate that they take a year or two to plan and finance. There can't just be a wedding, a reception, a rehearsal dinner, a bridal shower, a bachelor party, and a honeymoon. Now there are also what seem to be less and less "optional" events to include a staged engagement, a bachelorette party in another state, and on and on and on and on.
I recently heard of a party at which you tell your guests that they are NOT going to be invited to the wedding although you really do love them dearly, and so they are to sign up to help you pick out your dress or some other wedding-related activity for an event they are not allowed to come to.
Fun.
Another growing trend is to skip formalities for weddings, showers, graduations, and even deaths in the family, and just tell people where they can send their checks.
People in our lives are happy to participate in our major life events, to a point, people, but let's not overdo it.
Let's take care what, exactly, we choose to reveal about ourselves. It might not be what we think.
Like, ultrasound reveal parties!
(Because baby showers aren't enough.)
Get this. You invite all your friends over so you can bare your pregnant belly in the sloppy horizontal position (very unhostesslike, I always think) in the middle of them so that a technician can show them all--since they can already see your skin--what else lies beneath your skin. The baby, and whatever else.
Now, everyone present may not be trained to read a sonogram, but it still seems to me like a bad idea.
Not only is it a loss of privacy for you, but just imagine what it must be like for your fetus! There s/he is, minding her own business, when, suddenly, dozens of eyes are trained right on her. In the privacy of her own room. And she won't be wearing anything at all!
This could go on the list of Things Kids Can Sue Their Parents for Later.
Besides that, lots of things could go wrong. I mean, think about it. This should be what's otherwise known as a private medical moment. Everything is not always hunkey-dorey-dorey.
In other words, your party could fall flat.
You could embarrass not only yourself, but your spouse/partner, and every single guest, including the ultrasound tech.
I know I'm getting old, but this tendency to try to focus everyone in our world on me, me, me! has gotten a little out of hand.
Weddings are now affairs so elaborate that they take a year or two to plan and finance. There can't just be a wedding, a reception, a rehearsal dinner, a bridal shower, a bachelor party, and a honeymoon. Now there are also what seem to be less and less "optional" events to include a staged engagement, a bachelorette party in another state, and on and on and on and on.
I recently heard of a party at which you tell your guests that they are NOT going to be invited to the wedding although you really do love them dearly, and so they are to sign up to help you pick out your dress or some other wedding-related activity for an event they are not allowed to come to.
Fun.
Another growing trend is to skip formalities for weddings, showers, graduations, and even deaths in the family, and just tell people where they can send their checks.
People in our lives are happy to participate in our major life events, to a point, people, but let's not overdo it.
Let's take care what, exactly, we choose to reveal about ourselves. It might not be what we think.
Monday, January 7, 2013
Temporary Victory to the Other Me
I was fine when I last went to the gym. Completely fine.
Except for my ankle, of course.
Five days earlier, my ankle had started being stiff. It hadn't been twisted. There was no event that hurt it. I got into a hot tub and let it soak, then massaged it while still in the water. I took Ibuprofen. I wrapped it. I did those things more than once. I babied it. Well, some.
It's hard to completely baby your ankle at this time of year when you have so much sugar-repenting to do.
Finally, by Saturday, though, I was humbled. My ankle had become much worse. I could barely walk on Friday. I'd asked all the pregnant women I'd had to lead up the stairs, "Would you prefer the elevator?"
All of them said, "No, I'm fine."
All of them.
Dang!
So, even though I'd joked with my boss that I'd baby my ankle around the ten miles I planned to run on it, I became humbler and humbler until I really did baby it.
I took a novel with me.
I hardly ever read or even watch TV when I'm at the gym. I'm working too hard. And I'm concentrating.
But, last time, I took with me a new novel that had shown up in my bedroom (thank you, mother-in-law, I think), and I set the treadmill on my slowest usual walking pace, and I just walked and read. If you saw what I usually do, you would understand that that is babying.
After a few minutes, I turned the speed down. Then, again, and again. I turned it down five times, and, in the end, had not walked very far at all.
I ran out of time, but, also, I told myself to stop worrying--I really did need to baby my ankle, and that was enough exercise for the day. At times like this, there are two mes, and they argue. One me says, "You have to take care of yourself and get some rest." The other me says, "Exercising is taking care of myself." And they fight a lot and I have to be the referee.
"You're a big baby stepping off the treadmill already," one me says to the other me. "And you're a big baby, too, for not wanting to be careful with us!" shouts back the other me.
I wasn't even sweating. I had to keep self-talking all the way out the door, because, aside from my ankle, I was just fine. FINE. And I knew the 128 calories I'd burned while walking and reading would not put a dent in the sugar I'd eaten over the holidays.
Right after I'd gotten home, though, and moved clothes out of and into the dryer and had a glass of water and my shower, I felt a little tickle in my throat. I typically go into denial at that point for as long as I can, but I grabbed an Airborne just in case.
A half hour later, I was lying in bed on my heating pad, trying to warm up my freezing cold feet, hands, arms, and even legs. My husband offered to gas my car if I met him at the store, and I declined. "Actually, I feel like I'm getting sick," I said.
And my other self stuck out her tongue at me in my head and said, "Baby!"
An hour after that, I had a full-blown sinus infection.
"We're in trouble," I told both mes, and they stopped fighting and went to see if I had any antibiotics left from last time.
I've had doctors simply not believe I could develop a sinus infection as fast as I can. But that's only because they are not one of the two mes. "You'd have to have had a cold for at least ten days," one doctor once told me. And, another, when I described all the copious green disgusting symptoms that I won't go into here, said, "Sounds like a virus." I wanted to slap him. Everything I'd described had been the opposite of a virus.
Another doctor tried to tell me that my symptoms were the result of blood. She may have green blood, but I do not.
I'm not dumb. I know what a virus is. A cold is from a virus, and I know that an antibiotic won't touch it. But a cold has certain symptoms that last a certain amount of time and then go away. Unless they develop into a secondary infection.
I guess I'm just special, but I have that secondary infection just waiting there, like a bad dream, ready to come out at any time. I'm the champion sinus-infection developer of all time! If it were an Olympic event, I'd have the gold medal. Usually, though, it takes getting chilled, extreme stress, a cold, or a night without sleep for it to happen to me.
Sinus infections have put my life in danger before (long story), and I'm fierce about staying here to raise my children.
"I'm sorry," I apologized to my husband for being sick. "But I didn't do anything to cause this."
I called my doctor's nurse first thing this morning. Well, not first thing, but as soon as they were open. My doctor is famous for operating on a chimpanzee at the zoo. I try not to think about that. His nurse has told me that I'm to call her as soon as I come down with something and doesn't say any of the stupid things other doctors have said. "I haven't heard from you in a long while," she said. "I thought you didn't love me."
"Oh, believe me, I love you," I assured her.
We talked varieties and symptoms and over-the-counter measures and time-frames and all kinds of things only interesting to people who live in the sinus infection culture.
So, no gym today, either, and I'm making that me just shut up. My white flag is out. Victory to the ankle, the sugar, the sickness, and the lazy me.
("Temporary victory," whispers the other me.)
Except for my ankle, of course.
Five days earlier, my ankle had started being stiff. It hadn't been twisted. There was no event that hurt it. I got into a hot tub and let it soak, then massaged it while still in the water. I took Ibuprofen. I wrapped it. I did those things more than once. I babied it. Well, some.
It's hard to completely baby your ankle at this time of year when you have so much sugar-repenting to do.
Finally, by Saturday, though, I was humbled. My ankle had become much worse. I could barely walk on Friday. I'd asked all the pregnant women I'd had to lead up the stairs, "Would you prefer the elevator?"
All of them said, "No, I'm fine."
All of them.
Dang!
So, even though I'd joked with my boss that I'd baby my ankle around the ten miles I planned to run on it, I became humbler and humbler until I really did baby it.
I took a novel with me.
I hardly ever read or even watch TV when I'm at the gym. I'm working too hard. And I'm concentrating.
But, last time, I took with me a new novel that had shown up in my bedroom (thank you, mother-in-law, I think), and I set the treadmill on my slowest usual walking pace, and I just walked and read. If you saw what I usually do, you would understand that that is babying.
After a few minutes, I turned the speed down. Then, again, and again. I turned it down five times, and, in the end, had not walked very far at all.
I ran out of time, but, also, I told myself to stop worrying--I really did need to baby my ankle, and that was enough exercise for the day. At times like this, there are two mes, and they argue. One me says, "You have to take care of yourself and get some rest." The other me says, "Exercising is taking care of myself." And they fight a lot and I have to be the referee.
"You're a big baby stepping off the treadmill already," one me says to the other me. "And you're a big baby, too, for not wanting to be careful with us!" shouts back the other me.
I wasn't even sweating. I had to keep self-talking all the way out the door, because, aside from my ankle, I was just fine. FINE. And I knew the 128 calories I'd burned while walking and reading would not put a dent in the sugar I'd eaten over the holidays.
Right after I'd gotten home, though, and moved clothes out of and into the dryer and had a glass of water and my shower, I felt a little tickle in my throat. I typically go into denial at that point for as long as I can, but I grabbed an Airborne just in case.
A half hour later, I was lying in bed on my heating pad, trying to warm up my freezing cold feet, hands, arms, and even legs. My husband offered to gas my car if I met him at the store, and I declined. "Actually, I feel like I'm getting sick," I said.
And my other self stuck out her tongue at me in my head and said, "Baby!"
An hour after that, I had a full-blown sinus infection.
"We're in trouble," I told both mes, and they stopped fighting and went to see if I had any antibiotics left from last time.
I've had doctors simply not believe I could develop a sinus infection as fast as I can. But that's only because they are not one of the two mes. "You'd have to have had a cold for at least ten days," one doctor once told me. And, another, when I described all the copious green disgusting symptoms that I won't go into here, said, "Sounds like a virus." I wanted to slap him. Everything I'd described had been the opposite of a virus.
Another doctor tried to tell me that my symptoms were the result of blood. She may have green blood, but I do not.
I'm not dumb. I know what a virus is. A cold is from a virus, and I know that an antibiotic won't touch it. But a cold has certain symptoms that last a certain amount of time and then go away. Unless they develop into a secondary infection.
I guess I'm just special, but I have that secondary infection just waiting there, like a bad dream, ready to come out at any time. I'm the champion sinus-infection developer of all time! If it were an Olympic event, I'd have the gold medal. Usually, though, it takes getting chilled, extreme stress, a cold, or a night without sleep for it to happen to me.
Sinus infections have put my life in danger before (long story), and I'm fierce about staying here to raise my children.
"I'm sorry," I apologized to my husband for being sick. "But I didn't do anything to cause this."
I called my doctor's nurse first thing this morning. Well, not first thing, but as soon as they were open. My doctor is famous for operating on a chimpanzee at the zoo. I try not to think about that. His nurse has told me that I'm to call her as soon as I come down with something and doesn't say any of the stupid things other doctors have said. "I haven't heard from you in a long while," she said. "I thought you didn't love me."
"Oh, believe me, I love you," I assured her.
We talked varieties and symptoms and over-the-counter measures and time-frames and all kinds of things only interesting to people who live in the sinus infection culture.
So, no gym today, either, and I'm making that me just shut up. My white flag is out. Victory to the ankle, the sugar, the sickness, and the lazy me.
("Temporary victory," whispers the other me.)
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