Self Improvement

If you eat paleo or primally, at least. For those of you not on one of those bandwagons, you may find some amusing items nonetheless ...

[Originally published April 2005]

I have never been concerned with my age, or aging in particular. Like my approach to race and sex, my approach to a person’s age—including my own—has always been: “You are what you are and you can’t (easily) change that”. Even so, as the silvery strands populate my crown more thickly, I can’t deny that I have been thinking more about the effects of the years—and miles—upon myself.

The impetus for this introspection has been the recurring topic of growing older in an email conversation with a very good friend. Being of like minds, it’s been mostly a positive exchange. I think we’ve helped each other with what might otherwise have been some rough spots, since it’s hard to completely ignore a culture that seems perpetually enamored with youth and firm, lithe bodies. When she mentioned that an acquaintance of hers recently celebrated her 50th birthday by throwing a “crone party”, the idea resonated with me very strongly. Why not celebrate an important, and potentially rich time of life—and the achievement of getting there?

I remember my grandmother calling the lines at the corners of her eyes “crow’s feet” when I was a youngster. The term horrified me, then and now. To me, the lines weren’t ugly; they were the sign of a face that had smiled and laughed much, enjoying the sun and wind and weather. I see the beginnings of them at the corners of my eyes, and instead of feeling a sinking dread, I welcome them. They’re reminders that I, too, have enjoyed much in my life thus far.

Similarly, my once-flat lower abdomen now curves a bit, a testament to my body's production of two children. As I enjoyed being pregnant very much, and enjoy my children, that new curve is a mostly pleasant reminder of two very special times in my life. To use a Heinleinian phrase, my baby-chewed breasts are softer now, but I wouldn’t trade their previous firmness for the many hours with a baby in my arms, gazing into his or her eyes as my body nourished theirs.

These days I’m moderately fit, instead of the very fit person I used to be—also something I refuse to feel guilty about (most of the time—again, those messages are hard to totally ignore). My life is so full that devoting the time it would take to maintain the body I once had is not a choice I want to make. I want to play with my children, who can’t hike, rock climb, or ski (yet); I want to savor the time spent reading a good book; I want to exercise because it feels good to feel my body stretching and moving, not because I have to maintain buns of steel.

I also refuse to count calories, or fat grams, or any such silliness, even though my body seems more likely to want to store excess than it has before. I’d much rather enjoy a decadent chocolate cake, a glass of red wine, and good conversation with beloved friends, and be a little wider in the behind for it, than be obsessed about thunder thighs and the Atkins diet, and be skinny and alone night after night.

I hope that I’ll be around to savor the intense spark of life in a grandchild. My mother railed against this sign of aging more than any other, and I’ve never understood that. What could be a more precious affirmation of life than creating new life—passing a bit of your spark into the future?

When I see a woman with stunning silver hair, I find myself hoping that when I’m completely grey, my hair is as gorgeous as hers. If not, I may just color it—something I’ve never even contemplated before—as a celebration of cronedom and the unique beauties it offers. I certainly will not cut it almost completely off, then curl, comb, tease, puff, or permanent the remnants, until I startle at my own appearance in the mirror every morning. My mane will remain long and flowing for as long as I’m able to care for it, or have someone willing to do so—and when someone isn’t, then it’s time for me to go.

My underwear—and nightwear, when I choose to wear it—will continue to come from Victoria’s Secret or similar place, even though I never have and never will look like their models. Must one be under 35 to appreciate the glissando of silk on one’s skin? Or even better, the caress of satin under an appreciative lover’s hand? Both feel better now for having slept in some of the interesting situations I’ve found myself in over the years.

In short, as I progress into another phase of life, I fully intend to drink fully of its offerings, learn as much as I can from both its pleasures and its pains, and do things the way I want, rather than the way “little old ladies” are expected to. That’s the way I have always been. Why should I stop when I become a crone?

It’s been said before that I’m a mutant. Maybe I am. But I see no value in denying what one is—who one is—for the sake of fitting in with a culture that is in many ways profoundly unhealthy. To me, becoming a crone is an important milestone, one well worth celebrating.

I think I’ll begin planning my crone party.

Along comes an amazing inspiration.

And even though it isn’t one of my favorite colors, I’m pretty happy about it.

Two people very dear to me frequently describe themselves as a “bleeding heart liberal”. Noticing that yesterday set me off down another cognitive rabbit hole ...

Doing some research for my self defense book, I came across this blog (bookmarked now) and especially this entry about how the brain works and our potential for sensory perception. It really speaks volumes to the practice of situational awareness. The trick is to balance our need for awareness with a continued appreciation for beauty and other good things going on around us at the same time. When we concentrate too much on potential threats, we do become "paranoid" and lose sight of far too much of everything else.

Never really intended to have one, much less create it myself. But after a conversation with Lobo this morning, one fell in to my mind—and it seems practically perfect in every way.

I was introduced to a bit of the world of Gabor Maté yesterday, and am so impressed that I think all of you not already familiar with him would benefit from making his acquaintance as well.

... Gang aft agley.

For those of you wondering what I mean, it’s this resolution, begun later than intended. Tomorrow is the six–week marker, so I indulged my curiosity this morning and checked some stats.

And I have a good reas– rationalization for it being a New Year’s resolution, rather than starting now. Really!

Alternatively titled as Making the World a Better Place, Part the Second. (And if anyone needs/wants a refresher on what “S.E.S.” stands for, here you go.)

This particular S.E.S. is pretty brutal. We’re required to be physically and mentally sharp; and if one of us isn’t, a frequent result is pushups for us all. There’s a lot of protocol one must adhere to as well; and bowing—a lot of bowing. Just in case my comments haven’t given it away to everyone, the S.E.S. of which I speak is karate; and what I’m doing in it can best be summarized as, “Loving it!”.

A good deal of my absence here—and the lightness of subject when I do post—can be attributed solely to fear.

I didn’t mean for it to turn out that way—actually, I didn’t intend to undertake the experiment at all—but I’m certainly glad it worked out the way it did.

Is just that: a story.