Next Time Around

I must credit my daughter-in-law for this post, because she said something the other day that's been rolling around in my mind ever since. Actually, I became aware of her comment second hand, because I read it in my son's blog (oddballupdate.com). Keep in mind, my daughter-in-law is Chinese by heritage, born and raised in Thailand. Her spiritual tradition is Buddhism, which informs her attitude and view of life. She and my son have been married six years, and he wrote that she recently told him that she would marry him again in her next life.

That comment struck me very deeply, both with a sense of great thankfulness and relief that my precious first (and only) born has found someone who loves him so much, and also with a sense of wonder about what I would do and/or re-do in my "next life."

My husband says in his next life he wants to come back as my dog. Actually, a lot of my friends say that, too. I admit that Magic and Molly are treated like royalty, and I guess if I had to come back as an animal I'd like to come back as one of them too! But, if I was given the opportunity to come back to earth as a human what would I do, how would I wish to be different?

I think this question delves deeper than the "how would I live my life differently" question we all consider from time to time, especially as we get older. I've already answered that one in my head quite a few times. For me, my "wish I could do differently list" includes having more children, pursuing my music and writing careers more agressively, and moving to a different location.

But, if I had a chance to live life over again in human form, as some other human entirely, what would that be? Here's what I think...

I would still and always, want to be a woman. After all, we get to wear high heels and flirty skirts! More importantly, we get to have children, and in the great scheme of whatever universe you belong to, there is nothing more gratifying and enjoyable.

After that, I would wish to have the ability to make life better for other living things. I have often wished that I was someone who could join the Peace Corps, comfort the dying, help heal the sick - something to make life easier or more worthwhile. Sometimes I think I could do that, but I have a very deep seated natural reticence or shyness that tends to get in the way. If I could come back to earth again as a more extroverted, adventurous individual, perhaps I could do more things to help more people.

As for my personal life, I would search for a companion who shared my passions and understood my priorities. Someone who could laugh and cry with me, support my desires, understand and bolster my insecurities. Is that the companion I have lived with and loved for the past 30 years in this life? Would I choose that companion again?

As I wrote those words, I felt my heart literally breathe a sigh of relief as I realized that YES! emphatically YES! How blessed I have been, by whatever God (s) there are. One thing I have done right in this incarnation...I have chosen the companion that matches my heart, soul, and mind. May we find each other again, throughout eternity...

BTW... Happy 30th Anniversary to my (every) life's companion!

Sunday Scribblings-Shoes

Let me say up front that shoes are not my favorite things. Given a choice, I'd prefer to walk around barefoot, or, if temperature and weather conditions mandate, in sock feet. I certainly admire gorgeous shoes, but more as objets d'art, not something I could actually put on my body and function in. However, I have had a few really meaningful pairs of shoes in my life. My white go-go boots back in 1967 come to mind immediately. Now if you remember the days of "Laugh In" on television, and Twiggy, the skinny blonde model from London's Carnaby Street, you'll know that the fashion rage in those days were mini skirts in "psychidelic" colors and knee high white boots. If you aren't old enough to actually have seen this look in person, count your blessings and use your imagination.

In 1967 I was as far removed from looking like Twiggy as it was possible to be. A dark haired, brown eyed, slightly dumpy fourth grader, who had to shop for clothes in the chubby department and whose grandmother sometimes deftly inserted elastic expanders into the waistband of her pants. My feet matched the rest of me -wide and stubby. In those days, I got my sensible Stride Rites from a neighborhood shoe store. The children's department was in the basement, and a kindly gray haired man would have me walk back and forth across a raised carpeted runway, closely examining my gait, measuring and squeezing my foot in whichever leather oxford my mother had chosen as most likely to be comfortable and serviceable.

I became obsessed with the idea of those white boots. I was sure that wearing white boots and a cranberry colored mini skirt would suddenly correct all the other flaws that were preventing me from looking cool. My naturally wavy hair would suddenly become stick straight, and my too short bangs would drag down to my (miraculously!) blue eyes. My short legs would lengthen, and my slightly protuberant tummy would flatten. So the search was on...like a reverse version of Cindarella, I must have tried on fifty pairs of white boots. If I managed to squeeze my foot into them, they wouldn't zip up my calf. Some of them actually had elastic around the top of the calf, but then the foot portion was long and narrow.

My mother was skeptical about this whole thing, but she gamely participated, hauling me around to the various shopping centers, even taking me in the "cheap shoe stores" she normally wouldn't deign to enter. It was actually in a discount department store called Korvette's that we found them. This was a self serve shoe department, where all the shoes were out on the shelves, their respective boxes lined up neatly underneath. I saw the white boots, standing in stark relief among the other, more functional snow boots and rubbers. Lo and behold, some of the boxes actually had a large capital letter W after the size - WIDE! My heart started beating a little faster, anxiously scanning the rows of boxes for the number 1 followed by the life saving letter W. There they were- my boots! I made a grab for the box, kicked off my leather oxfords, and deftly rolled up my corduroy pants. Literally holding my breath, I started to insert my foot into the soft vinyl boot. My toes were in, then the high arch of my foot, then my heel - so far so good. I wrapped the top of the boot round by bare leg, stuffing in as much flesh as I could. Pinching the zipper firmly I began to pull it up. Over the ankle, up the calf, all the way to the knee without a catch! They were a perfect fit.

Normally a very shy child, I let out an uncharacteristic whoop and literally jumped for joy. My mother was smiling (probably more in relief that the search was over than in approval of my fashion choices), and getting the other boot out of the box for me to try on. My left foot slid right in, and it too zipped up effortlessly. These boots were made for me.

There was a popular song in those days called These Boots Are Made For Walkin'. In a kind of pre-feminist diatribe, the singer vows in her low gravely voice that "these boots are made for walkin,' and that's just what they'll do...one of these days these boots are gonna walk all over you." In my white boots, I could see myself as one of those tough women who could walk all over any man, or any thing that tried to get in her way. I could strut with the best of my tall, leggy, straight haired sisters, and strut I did. I wore those white boots to school, to my first girl-boy party, all around my neighborhood, and up and down the stairs of my house. Amazingly enough, my foot didn't grow for about three years. The rest of me did though, and during those three years, my body stretched out and the baby fat disappeared. I would never be long legged and skinny, but, by age 12 was petite and nicely curvy. The white boots still fit, but they had been replaced by brown platforms, which went very well with my fringed suede jacket and bell bottom jeans.

A few years ago I was helping my mom do some cleaning in her basement when I ran across the now tattered box from Korvette's labled "1W." I lifted the lid, and there were the white boots, scuffed, creased, and run over at the heel. They looked incredibly small, but they had been given me a mighty powerful boost of confidence.

"I'm surprised you kept these," I said to my mom, who wasn't known for sentimentally hanging onto things.

"Oh, I just had to," she said with a grin. "Those things meant so much to you, I couldn't bear to throw them out."

I brought them home with me and put them in the back of my closet with a pair of stappy black spike heeled sandals I occasionally (and painfully!) wear when I want to feel really decadent. Sometime shoes (or boots), even if they're not actually "made for walkin'" help us walk taller, and carry us through life with a little more panache.

Stepping Up

For just a little while today, the world started to unravel. Yes, my carefully constructed time schedule with every task compartmentalized neatly in it's own alloted time period began fraying dangerously. Fear not, however, for in a superhuman feat of willpower I managed to triumph and keep all the balls spinning in their orbit, catching them at exactly the right moment and stuffing them smartly into my pants pocket. And in the end I did what every good woman does to reward herself for a job well done - I went shoe shopping. Shoes. And for me, purses, maybe even more than shoes. Shoes in themselves can be dangerous for me, because I have very wide feet and am easily depressed by these little sandals with straps the width of vermicelli and heels the size of a number two pencil (unsharpened). I have once or twice found such a pair I could manhandle my foot into, and was pleasantly surprised by how really elegant they made my lower extremities look. Of course, high heels are certain to bring raves from the man in your life. My husband's eyes seem electrically drawn to my feet when I'm wearing them. "Nice shoes!" he'll say approvingly. "They have a heel!" he adds excitedly, as if he envisions me holding him down on the floor by placing my foot squarely on his chest in order to ravish him. Dream on, honey. I can barely totter to the car in these things.

Purses, however, are easy. I really love little purses, and right now I have so many, in so many different colors, that when I try to get one of them off the closet shelf I'm usually bombarded by a cascade of little bags and straps all entanlged in one another. I've taken to leaving my wallet, cell phone, datebook, keys, mints, and reading glasses in a pile on the kitchen table every night, waiting to be inserted into whichever purse will match my outfit for the day. I know that's a huge waste of time, but I have alloted three minutes for purse preparation every morning. Of course there's nothing really sexy about purses, and men mostly don't like them, unless they're looking for a place to stash their own car keys or wallet so they don't have to sit on them during the movie. But for me, they're a fashion necessity I can have some fun with and don't have to wonder if they make me look fat.

So purse and shoe shopping revived me today, after a shift of heavy duty paper shuffling at my office job when I would much rather have been outdoors basking in the perfection of a May spring day. I'm tickled with the white sandals I picked up -love the slightly punk silver side buckle, and they even have a little wedged heel! The white hobo purse is slightly bigger than I usually get, but big is in for bags this spring.

The simple pleasures triumph once again - a pair of shoes, a dandy bag, and thou...

Weighing In

For the past 25 years or so, I’ve been a nice comfortable weight in my 5’2” frame. It hasn’t been terribly hard to maintain my 110-115 pounds either – I could eat or drink pretty much whatever I wanted, and my weight hovered right where I liked it. I think most of my friends secretly hated this about me, and I was quite proud of whatever metabolic angels were keeping my bathroom scale tipping in the proper place. Then, the boom was lowered – the midlife, middle-aged, menopausal boom. Suddenly, I have little rolls of fat developing around my waist, my inner thighs, and even my back! My middle thickens daily, and my hips seem to spread like a wad of playdough that some demon keeps mashing into a wider and wider shape.

Worst of all, I can’t seem to do anything about it. I’ve been bike riding, walking, lifting weights, and screaming in frustration – those extra pounds just won’t budge. While becoming increasingly angry at this lack of control over my body, I recognize that it may mask a deeper pain - the anger and helplessness I feel about growing older. The inexorable passage of time is likely to take its toll on more than just my waistline – could my mind be the next thing swept up in its destructive path?

I have friends who tell me that once a woman passes 50, she develops a real “thumb your nose” attitude toward the conventions of society. She won’t care about her looks, or whether people like her, or if she’s good at what she does. But I still feel like I’m 25 and have worlds to conquer, and I can’t conquer them if my pants are too tight! If I give up on my appearance, maybe I’ll no longer care about the other things that are important to me, like relationships, music, and writing.

I remember my mother once talking about a friend of hers who had gained some weight, stopped coloring her hair, and taken up smoking. “She certainly let herself go,” my mom remarked sadly. So apparently it is possible to rein in the effects of the aging process, by making a concerted effort to hang onto those things that make us the best that we can be, whatever our chronological age. Certainly that’s a lot more than appearance – it’s remaining passionate and involved with people, being willing to try new things, maintaining a healthy lifestyle, and staying committed to the activities and interests that we’ve enjoyed so far. But oftentimes, looking good is the first step in feeling energized and excited about yourself and your life.

So, I’m resolving to work out harder, cut out snacks, and drink more water and less wine. Maybe I’ll sign up for class in conversational Japanese, or finally take up photography, and exercise my mental muscles as well as my physical ones. Because, you know what? I’m not done with feeling good about my mind or my body!

Get Away - Gotten!

The not so weary traveler has returned from a (very) short respite trip "up north," as it's known to natives of our fair state. City weary senses were lulled by the shores of the Great Lake, gentle waves lapping the shore in perfect time with the rhythm of our own hearts. The weather gods smiled on us the day of our arrival, the April sun flexing it's muscles just a little bit, and causing us to regret the slightly heavy sweaters we'd worn in expectation of an early spring chill. We found a perfect restaurant for dinner, one brave enough to have opened it's summer patio so we could enjoy our perfectly prepared whitefish straight from the lake, along with the fresh breeze and the setting sun. Alas, today was a different story. The view of sparkling turquoise water I had so enjoyed outside my bedroom window was completely obscured by a think blanket of fog. The warm sunshine on my face was replaced with the sting of misty rain, and heavy plastic drapes were drawn round the edges of our outdoor cafe. How quickly things had changed in this idyllic place! And how much like life it was, to go so easiliy from serene to stormy.

I had high expectations for this little trip, expectations of renewing love and excitement while celebrating a relationship that has certainly withstood the test of time. But time has weathered this pair of lovers, and the stormy excitement of the early years may be gone for good. I could get very sad about this, and if I thought about it long enough I might be tempted to go looking somwehere else for that ecstasy of new love. Wouldn't it be exciting to be with someone who didn't already know my life story, who didn't take for granted that I would make the coffee every morning, or know for certain that I would leave the last lukewarm swallow in the bottom of my cup?

But then I think how really comforting it is, to have someome know all those things about me, and still care enough to always unload the dishwaher for me because he knows how it aggravates my bad back. Our relationship seems more like the lake on that lovely day of our arrival - placid and calm, but still sparkling in the sunshine with the rhythm of eternity, and blessed with a deep undercurrent of knowledge and trust. Perhaps, for the long run, those are the highest expectations one can have of a relationship.