Sixties Chick

A “crisis of confidence” she called it, my 21-year-old friend who wrote from college. This tall, strong, beautiful gazelle of a young woman was going through a crisis of confidence.

Unlike so many girls her own age who obsessed that their thighs were too big or breasts too small, she’d never seen her body as flawed. An exceptional athlete from early on, she knew her body’s brilliance and had always been grateful for the things it had allowed her to do. Suddenly, she was feeling very big, unattractive, less than.

“Any advice?” she asks.

Oh yeah, sure, I think. I’m a perfect one for advice. Just today, my daughter points out that in the space of a couple of hours, I have walked into her room three times to use the full length mirror, and every time, I have made a disparaging remark about the way I look.   “Oh,” I say, feeling like a shamed kid. “Really, I did that?”

I think back. How long has this been going on? When did it start? If I were to compute the time I have spent fretting about my appearance, how many minutes, hours, days, weeks, yikes – even years would it come to?  How many cumulative moments of my precious life have I wasted on it …..on the too fat, too short, too thick, too thin, too round, too flat, too little, too big?

A lot. Decade after decade, beginning at what – twelve?  That’s a lot of time. And I know better. I know that “I am not my body.” I know that what is real and true, lasting and good has nothing to do with appearances. But it can be tricky in a culture that’s all about what it looks like – in spite of  constant reminders to the contrary, the Marilyn Monroes, the Bernie Madoffs.

“I want to be young,” a 65-year-old friend tells me the other day. “Well, good luck with that,” I say. “A losing battle for sure, but you do get to decide how much time you want to devote to the fight,” I tell her.  The aging process conspires against us. Or just maybe, it brilliantly forces us to finally shift our focus to what counts.  With so little time left, do I want to spend another second lamenting my fallen ass? I think not.

Once, upon seeing a 98-year-old woman sporting jet black hair, I asked the same friend at what age she thought you could stop the dying and the frosting, the coloring, the covering.  “When do you say, enough?” I wondered. Ever the fighter, she turned and emphatically replied, “Never.” I immediately flashed on several stunning friends of mine with beautiful silver hair.

Never. Really? Isn’t there a time when we must finally embrace it all – the crow’s feet and the cellulite, the sagging this, the mottled that – if for no other reason than to get on with the important stuff of life? The alternative seems quite absurd. Are we to leave instructions in the living will, “Do not resuscitate, just cover the gray”?

As for my young friend, I tell her that I have been plagued by these “crises of confidence” for far too long.  These days, I know that the sooner I can quash the voice that says the wrinkles make me less than divine, the faster I can get  on with life, into the moment where all the fun is. How else will I see the beauty all around me, not to mention inside me?

“I don’t do it 100% of the time,” I tell her, “but I’m determined to get there. I’m a late bloomer,” I say, “but as anyone who has ever really looked at a flower knows, better late than never.”

Productivity is overrated. There I’ve said it. At the risk of sounding Un-American, or worse still, like a no good loafer looking for a free lunch, I believe that we in this country value “doing” far more than it deserves. Like Barbara Ehrenreich said about work, “I have nothing against it… I just don’t happen to think it’s an appropriate subject for an “ethic.”

Though I certainly don’t mind doing my share, I must admit to you that I am not an extremely productive person by nature. Not that I don’t applaud people who are; I’m always in awe. How do they manage to get so much done in a day?

Blame my biorhythms, but try as I might I just can’t be a type A bunny – on the go and still going, as American as a BlackBerry pie. I am amazed at the schedule some people keep. I wish I could, but I can’t. Why, even my horoscope told me to take it easy today.

There are others in the world like me, you know, and it’s no surprise that I’ve always been drawn to locations where they’re in the majority. To places with a cultural  appreciation for doing nothing, where lollygagging is considered high art. Places where people sit over dinner and nap after lunch, where they stroll the beach, lie in a hammock, chat in cafes. What could be better? I have always suspected I was born in the wrong place.

Yes, born in the wrong place and much too “unproductive” to get into heaven. But if crossing things off a list were to win us points for the afterlife, wouldn’t it be enough just taking care of our personal maintenance requirements? Aren’t the daily demands of our upkeep enough?

For many of us humans in 2009, that list can be quite long. And quite daunting. Besides regular bathing, there’s brushing, cutting, and washing of hair (blow-dry, color and curl optional), dental care, skin care (just the moisturizing alone!), nail care, foot care, back care, eye care, ear care, shaving, plucking and OMG, for some, there’s the make-up too. There’s housekeeping, clothes cleaning and the ever challenging planning, buying, fixing and eating of food, never mind counting calories and carbs. Careful of the trans fats. It’s exhausting. Add to this other vital tasks such as exercise, mind/spirit enhancement and social interaction – and who has time to be more productive than that?

Not convinced? Still won’t give your sluggish self a pass? Then think back to 12th grade English, remembering the old Bard who could always teach a thing or two. Let us not forget that the words Will penned were “To be, or not to be.” “To do” was out of  the question.

The other day I attended a funeral in the very same place a rabbi gave a eulogy for my mother 43 years ago.

As I sat quietly in the pew before the service began, I thought how impossible it would have been for me then, a sixteen-year-old child, to believe that one day I would be fine. No way could I have imagined that I’d recover from the pain of it, no less come to see that there were blessings to be gained. Nevertheless, it happened.

It got me thinking of a quote that appeared in my e-mail last week. Paul McCartney’s, and it’s had me smiling ever since. “Imagination grows by exercise, and contrary to common belief, is more powerful in the mature than in the young.” What a hopeful thought. What a gloriously upbeat sentiment.

Apart from not being able to imagine where I put the car keys, I’d say my imagination is in pretty good shape. In fact, I would agree with Paul that it is getting better with age. More fertile, definitely more fun. Not from any particular gift, mind you, but simply by virtue of having some years under my belt. If you live long enough, you get to see some pretty extraordinary things. Real humdingers. It’s got to expand what you consider possible.

A walk on the moon, a surf through cyberspace – these wonders aside, what about the ever curious manifestations of human behavior? Stories abound – from the acts of  evil that leave us speechless to the miracles born of love which take our breath away. Mind-bending twists of fate with “impossible” outcomes are heard every day. If your eyes are open, don’t you have to believe that anything’s possible?

Yes sirree, I say. The only thing that could possibly stand in the way would be… me. With an endless supply of doubts and fears, my voice of reason can certainly put a damper on even the slightest flight of fancy. You know, that relentless voice that says, “Forget about it; that can’t happen,” and “Crazy to even consider it,” and, “Who do you think you are anyway?” I am my own worst killjoy.

This year once again, just when I was beginning to doubt that spring would ever come, damn if those magnolias didn’t burst into bloom. And when in the dark of winter I wondered if I’d make it to May, here it comes again, bringing me another birthday along with a reminder to reconsider possibilities. This year, I’ve decided to tap into my imaginative powers more than ever. To pull out a few more stops.

For one, I have placed a clipping by my bed. It is the first thing I see in the morning, the last thing I see before I shut my eyes at night. It is a picture of a book with a title I have photoshopped in. Not surprisingly, it is the same title as the book I am working on. There is a blurb pasted on top as well. It reads big and bold, New York Times Bestseller. Takes imagination.