Anyone remember puberty? It was God awful! We spent our days agonizing over our bodies, hair, clothing and whether Bobby Sherman would ever love us. Okay, maybe it was just me (and 3 million other girls) fixated on Bobby Sherman, but life was far from easy. Waking to find a pimple on my forehead left me tramatized for days. Our whole self worth was based on our physical appearance, which we were never happy with. How many of us today would kill to have our 16 year old figures back? You bet! None of us had any idea of how truly perfect we were. Emotionally we were a train wreck, but physically… we were Goddesses.
When my 20’s came around, I had a child, bills, a husband and laundry to worry about. For those of us who married young (I was 19 years old), responsibilities came quickly. I don’t know how Doris Day did it. At the end of the day she looked perfect. I was covered in sweat, food stains and baby goop. My house was clean and my yard was perfectly manicured…. just not me. There was never enough energy left for me. I have to admit, I loved being a mom (still do) and I was very happy being a stay at home mom. The shoe was a perfect fit.
Next thing I knew the 30’s arrived. Financially things were easier in my 30’s and I felt I had a better grip on my life. I was more comfortable in my skin and I felt hopeful about the future. I was a good wife, a good mother, a good daughter, a good friend, plus work was going well (I now had a full time job out side the home). My husband and I had excellent credit, good friends and we took fantastic vacations. We also were on our second BMW which gave us a false sense of arrival. What is it with the car we drive and our egos? Why couldn’t we have felt good about ourselves and driven a Ford? We certainly would have saved a small fortune in buying a Ford verses a BMW. When I see people scooting about in their BMW’s I laugh. We are what we eat…. and we are what we drive. These days I’m powered by caffiene, sugar and a 25 year old Chevy.
When my 40’s arrived, my life took an unexpectant twist. A divorce, a teenager who rebelled, huge financial responsibilities and the loss of my home and credit. I hung on to hope that all would turn out well, because that’s what we are told. You work hard, do your best and everything will simply work it’s self out. What a crock. You can work your butt off and still get hit by a truck. The guy next to you can waste his entire life sitting on a curb and still win the lottery. There is no justice in this world. God isn’t going to save you. He may walk beside you in good times and bad… but he won’t save you. If you fall in to a deep hole and no one knows you are there… you will die. God loves you and cares about you, but still, you will die.
During my 40’s I dated, which I never did during my teenage years. As a bonder, I always end up in long term relationships. I have never been a serial dater or a one night stand. Sleep with me (if you dare) and you’ll be dating me for 5 years. That’s just how it goes. Even when I knew the guy wasn’t right, I still hung on tight to the relationship because emotionally… I had bonded. Bonding is highly overrated. This from a person who at 55 has had a total of 3 relationships in her life, because she bonds.
Welcome to the 50’s. I didn’t mind turning 50 at all. Funny, I thought it would devastate me, but it didn’t. I like being a baby boomer with graying hair, slightly rounded belly and wrinkles. It suits me. My arms, my butt, my thighs… all covered in dimples. I don’t care. Well, it’s not like I enjoy the dimples, but I’m not upset about the dimples. Babies have dimples and we think they’re cute. This is just mother nature’s right of passage. We’re reverting back to our baby shells and we have to accept it. Soon we’ll be shrinking in height. I know my feet are getting smaller. A size 8 used to fit perfectly; now a size 7 1/2 is more comfortable. I’m sure one morning I will wake and no longer be 5′ 6′, but 5′ 4’… which is okay. Petite people always look younger in age (at least from the back). Maybe one day I’ll be too, short to ride a roller coaster and then I can’t be pester to go on rides. ‘Hey, I’d love to ride the roller coaster with you, but I’m too, short’. The fact I’m claustrophobic, afraid of heights and that I throw up never seems to be a good enough reason. No one can argue with ‘too, short’. It’s an insurance thing you know.
I’m enjoying my 50’s. I like me with all my imperfections. Why? Because I don’t dwell on the fact I’m imperfect. In fact, it’s my right to be imperfect. I’ve lived a long time, I’ve suffered immensely, I’ve paid the price to grow old gracefully. Which is what I plan to do. Grow old and enjoy every day of it. Turning 60, 70 and 80 isn’t the end (unless of course your number is up and then it is the end). Age it’s self isn’t bad. It’s fighting aging that causes us disstress. (Do you really want to end up looking like Joan Rivers?) We need to accept ourselves and our lives for what they are; not for what we are told they should be.