The weekly (sort of) basement report and the joy of self-acceptance

Boy, oh boy. The gorgeous, skinny ingénue in the pictures has long since vacated the premises, and in her place is a 51-year-old, overweight, bifocal-wearing crone with multiple chins. It’s pretty sobering to realize (and it didn’t just happen today) that the youthful good looks you could always count on are not yours to use as currency anymore. Happily, I am almost adjusted to that, and while I’d still like to look great, I’m no Jane Fonda or Goldie Hawn, either. I just don’t have sufficient motivation to do what it takes to look that fabulous. My 45-50 minutes of combination Nordic Tracking and recumbent bike riding 3-4 times a week is as stringent as it’s going to get for me. And my diet—well, as I said before, I’ve restricted carbs to good effect, but have this little six year-old kid inside who is hungry a lot and her tastes don’t run to low calorie choices that often.

I came to a peaceful place with all that today—for now, anyway. One of the photographs showed me in my first, very short haircut. I went from shoulder length to a little-bitty sassy bob, like that blonde girl’s on Dallas (whose name I have nearly no recollection of--Kimberly-something maybe?) and it made me feel so sophisticated. I was thirty-nine at the time, and teaching classes at Center for Life Enrichment in the Guilford College location, and was half-way through a course on…hmmm…probably on inner child healing as that was a lot of what I did back then, and when I showed up with my new, more adult “do,” one of the men in the class said, “Thank you! I’m so glad you got your hair cut! You have no idea how disconcerting it was trying to attribute the profound wisdom coming out of you to the young woman with the long, blond hair whose lips were moving!”

So, perhaps, in my role as teacher, the crone persona fits better. Not that young people can’t be amazingly wise—especially the “new” ones coming in these days—the indigo children and the crystal children, etc. But the youth factor, at least for now, might just be somewhat of a handicap in getting some people to take you seriously. Perhaps a wizened, zaftig, mother-type is more suited to people’s ideas of someone who has something to offer them—more suited to my mission. I know that the bright, vivacious young woman in my picture box had much to contribute, but she wasn’t capable of what my middle-aged self is. She was wise in her way, but she was also unsure of herself, frequently angst-ridden, and not nearly experienced enough to be able to do what the crone can. So I send my love to her from where I’m sitting now, and wonder if, being that time is an illusion, it will somehow help that thin, pretty young woman become the ripened, rounded, wiser, joyful me that I am at 51. I hope so—I know she really wants to be, even if she probably wouldn’t choose the fat part!