From Groovy to Middle-Aged (and Back Again!)

 

From Groovy to Middle-Aged (and back again!)

 

 

 

 

At the age of nine, all it took was a pair of orange stirrup pants to make me feel groovy. Purple and pink paper flowers decorated my room. Peace signs adorned my notebooks. Some might say I was too young to be a true flower child, but I felt hip.

In junior high, all it took to feel special was a pair of white go-go boots, castoffs of my much cooler aunt. So, what if I had to rub white polish on them daily so the worn places wouldn't show. My boots were made for walking! My room smelled of incense, and posters of Shaun Cassidy and Donny Osmond hung on the wall. Okay, not quite a rock rebel, but I felt cool.

In high school, the piece of clothing that made me “with it” was a lime green peasant blouse, another hand-me-down from my aunt.  My friend and I giggled when we heard her mother moan to a friend, "You can't tell the difference between these and maternity tops."  What a shame to grow old and be so ‘out of it.’   

Then, one day years later, I stood in the auto department of Wal-Mart, waiting patiently while my husband studied each and every type of windshield wiper the store carried. Bored, I gazed around until my eyes spotted a grouping of mirrors. That’s when I had it … my middle-aged moment.

I could see myself in the mirrors. In fact, I could see myself several times over. It wasn’t my dress or even my shoes that made me stare. It was my purse; a no-nonsense affair attached to my arm by two sturdy straps. It was a middle-aged woman’s purse.

I was middle aged.

I know how it happened. Those birthdays I'd joyfully celebrated had turned on me. But still, going from the bloom of youth to the top of the downhill slide, well, that was hard. It required a whole change in attitude … namely depression.

While I didn't pull a black scarf over my head and take up residence in my rocking chair, I did, in a sense give up. After all, I wasn't young anymore, certainly wasn't with it, and I hadn't been “cool” for a long time. This depression could have gone on forever if I hadn't realized I was looking in the wrong direction along my timeline.

One day, while thumbing through a magazine, I came across an article about an artist. She was proudly in her 60's, making no apologies for her age. Her clothes weren’t the latest style. She’d even allowed her hair to go gray. And she looked wonderfully graceful, tailored and confident.

I wanted to be her.  But how?  I have the grace of a gazelle without night vision. If I wear anything remotely tailored, I’m guaranteed to spill soup on it or pop at least two buttons. Confidence? If I had that, I wouldn't be eying the black scarf and rocking chair! After rifling through my wardrobe and contemplating a bonfire, I almost slipped back into my depression. I couldn't be her.

Then I recalled the wise words of Psalms 139:14. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful; I know that full well.

I couldn’t be her, but I could be me. Ah yes, that was the lesson. Her grace and confidence came not from imitating others, but from living happy as herself.

Could I be happy as myself? Yes, but first I had to change my thinking. I needed to start acting like I believed the verse.

I am not pale, but fair (or on a good day, gossamer).

I am not chubby, but curvy.

I am not average, but fabulous and unique, the best (and only) me that exists.

God created me and he didn’t do it as a joke. He made me wonderful! And He loves me. We all need to remind ourselves of that very true fact.

Seriously, try singing Jesus Loves Me at the top of your voice (preferably in the privacy of your own home). Treat it not like a children’s song, but as an affirmation that Yes, Jesus loves YOU. Not because you’re graceful. Not because you always say the right thing, and certainly not because you wear the latest styles. He loves you because you are worth loving. Of course, you are – He made you.  

Have I suddenly developed grace?  No. I’m still bumping my way through life just like that night vision impaired gazelle.

I'll never be twenty again. Anything dewy about my skin comes from a bottle. Perky has never described my personality and now it doesn't come near to describing my body.

But now my timeline faces forward. So, what if I’m middle-aged? That simply means I’m in the middle of life's adventure, still looking forward to where it's going to take me. God has got plans.

As for that middle-aged purse? It's gone, baby, it's gone!

-Susan York Meyers

Bunnies and such!

 

Happy Easter

 

One Moment

 

My 1st day of retirement. Bittersweet and exciting at the same time. As I navigate this new stage in my life, I plan to seize the moments, the small moments.

Peace

 

I'm Too Lazy to Be Wonder Woman

 

I’m Too Lazy to be Wonder Woman

I held it in my hands. My name on the cover. My story. Getting the acceptance call had been dance-on-the-table exciting. But this … wow! I was a published author.

My book launch came at the Austin Book Festival that year. My publisher put me up in a hotel room and was paying for everything. I felt big time! All I had to do was get there. So, I loaded my suitcase and my sister into the car and off we went to the Lone Star State.

The festival was surreal. Books, publishers, authors everywhere, and I was a small part of it. The real buzz of the festival was the main speaker, Lemony Snicket.  I’m at the same event as Lemony Snicket! Granted I was tucked into the booth of a small publisher, and no one except said publisher had a clue who I was, but I was a writer with a published book. I belonged!

People strolled by. Some glanced over, some stopped, but not many. They were in search of writers and books they’d actually heard of - bigger fish.

All children attending had been given autograph books. And, of course, the coveted autograph was Lemony Snicket’s. Toward the end of the day, one mother and daughter strolled down the aisle. The child was in agony. They’d missed Lemony.  As they came toward me, I could hear Mom transitioning from sympathy to “it’s time to get over it.” They paused in front of our booth.

Mom said, “Lemony Snicket is gone. You can’t get his autograph. Get this lady’s instead.”

The child and I locked eyes. Slowly she held out her precious autograph book to me. I took it, opened it to a blank page and signed my name. I handed it back, not a word exchanged between us.

Then Mom added salt to the festering wound with, “Say thank you.”

“Thank you,” the child mumbled before Mom hustled her away.

I’ve often wondered what happened to that autograph, one of my first. Did the autograph book get kicked under the car seat until Dad threw it away in a fit of spring cleaning? Or, maybe the little girl waited until Mom wasn’t looking and ripped out the offending page? I like to think the little book got tucked away somewhere to be found years later. The little girl, now a young woman, fondly paging through it until she stumbles upon my signature and again wonders, Who the heck was that lady?

Who was that lady? Just me. Just myself. And in a world where advertisements, daytime talk shows, and too-many-to-mention articles exhort us to change our fashion, beliefs, and looks, it’s kind of hard to hold onto our own identity. Because in our minds, just being ourselves never seems quite good enough.

How unhappy we become trying to live up to the world’s definition of success. We are told, as women, we can have it all and do it all. We exhaust ourselves trying to be the perfect mother, wife, employee, friend, caretaker, housekeeper, Christian, etc., etc., etc.  And somewhere in all that chaos, we are even supposed to squeeze in a little “me” time.

And you know what? I’m too tired to try anymore. In other words, I’m too lazy to be Wonder Woman.

That’s right. I admit it! I am not perfect. My house isn’t spotless. I will never be a gourmet cook. My clothes are more in the realm of “comfortable” than “stylish.” And, I’m okay with that. Those things aren’t important to me.

No, I’m not perfect. Even so, I continually strive to become a better wife, Christian, and friend. Things that are important to me.

Wonder Woman might be able to save the day. Sometimes I’m happy to just get through the day.

I’m not Lemony Snicket. But I’m a pretty darn good version of me. As this blog grows, hopefully you’ll find a good laugh. Hopefully, you’ll find something you can relate to. If nothing else, you’ll realize none of us are perfect.

Being perfect is overrated. What’s important is –

I am

A woman formed by God’s hands,

Shaped by His love,

And saved by His sacrifice

And so are you.

- Susan York Meyers