Over the winter, I started using the sauna at the gym after my workout. A moment of calm respite in dry heat. No one ever seems to use it but me. It is serene, quiet, with the muffled sounds of showers, women’s voices, footsteps, and the whir of an occasional blow dryer.
I try to clear my mind of its incessant chatter. A mini-meditation. As I sit there, eyes closed, palms up with middle fingers to thumbs, I hear the door open and two women enter. I open my eyes and find two women fully clothed coming into the sauna! I look at them and smile. One smiles back and says they like to warm up before their workout, coming in from the below freezing temperatures outside. (Note to self: not a bad idea on really cold days!)
Their chatter, at first a bit disruptive to my attempt at meditation, soon brings me drifting to far-off continents, with warm sands, djembe drums and a rhythm of time I haven’t experienced since the arrival of children. They were speaking French with an accent that spoke of spices and dancing, laughter and music. I was far away, the heat of the sauna impersonating the heat of distant lands.
One of the women left and after a moment of respectful silence the other and I began to talk. She said she was tired, having just finished her shift. It was early yet and I rightly guessed that she had just pulled a night shift. And now she was at the gym! Brave girl. Then she was going to a computer class. Then home to take care of her family. I shared my recent thoughts of how the seasons no longer carry the meaning they used to. We no longer use the seasons as nature had intended: winter, a time for going within, for meditation, for repairing and mending, for preparing for spring. Winter used to be a time of quiet. But winter now seems as frenetic as spring, and there is no respite. With technology allowing us to work and live 24/7, we no longer have an “excuse” to just stop, or at least slow down. She agreed that life is incredibly fast-paced. She said you’d have to leave Canada for a quieter country if you wanted a calmer life.
This was the irony. I had left France for a healthier lifestyle, a slower pace. And it is this very reason I came to Canada! Where people actually finished work at 5pm, and it was widely accepted that you had a life outside of the office. People here enjoyed outdoor activities, a physical lifestyle, and fresh air. There were four seasons, and it was here that I fell in love with winter. The quiet the snow brings. A hush outside with the muffled footsteps, warm lights burning in windows, the monochromatic landscapes through the city and country. A time to go inside, be with friends and family. Darn my socks (if I knew how to), cook hearty soups (that I can do), dream big dreams in preparation for spring.
That is my image, but my reality is far different. Old socks with holes get made into rags, I’m lucky if I get one hearty soup a month made (to be frozen in single servings for later), and every day is a mad dash that doesn’t seem to change from any other season except for the layers of clothing and amount of salt on the shoes.
There seems to be a constant rush of a million little things running through my head: lists of things to do, to buy, to fix, to schedule, to research, to choose from, questions to answer from my 4 year old, diapers to change from my one year old. And it never lets up. I can walk down my little stretch of hallway (about four steps), with a task in mind, get stopped twice mid-stride by each child, once by my husband, go on several detours, to find myself asking the age old question, “what was I doing again?”
And that thought seems to be lost in that intangible space-time continuum, floating there waiting for me to shuffle through my brain to catch it again, but more often than not, it is lost. Just like that shoe I was looking for... oh, wait! That was it! Ah... and there I go, looking for a lost shoe, or finding a place to stuff some toy that no one ever seems to know where to store, or to get the laundry, or fold it, or... yeah... you get it. Everyone gets it. Because no matter what your life situation, everyone seems to have gotten caught in the “million little things” that occupy our minds and bodies. Whether you’re four or ninety-four, with kids or single, working or retired, everyone seems just as busy.
The art of doing nothing really is a lost art. We used to have the winter months to practice it. Or the time of the “siesta” during the long hot days of summer. Now those rhythms have gone missing. We no longer stop and listen to them. To the heartbeat of the Earth, its pulse quickening and slowing down, like waves in the ocean. I wonder if it’s all those wireless radio waves that are filling our heads with ceaseless chatter. Can we learn to cut through it all and come back to the healing steady beats of nature? Can we learn to stop and be silent? Isn’t it in the pauses that we really hear the music? The silence in between sentences where we gain understanding.
I had gotten so lost in my “million little things” that it has taken me until the arrival of spring for me to write my musings of winter. I guess I have a whole year to practice my new-to-me yet old-as-time-itself art of doing nothing. The art of Being. Ah yes. That is it.
The art of Being.
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
Friday, January 6, 2012
(American) Mentality or the Need for Compassion
Just before New Years I went out and bought myself a new pair of booty-style slippers at Winners. When I went to put them on later that night, I found shards of glass in the right shoe – little pieces, clear and colored, like from some ornament or decorative piece. I was shocked! I had cut my thumb earlier that day taking a shard of glass out of my sock. Now I knew the source. Images of glass falling out and onto the floor, where my son or daughter could cut themselves gave me shivers, so I wrapped them both back tightly in the bag and planned to return them to the store the next day.
I was angry and scared. How did glass end up in my slipper? Trying on slippers is something we consider relatively safe and don’t expect to end up bleeding from the encounter. Were more slippers “contaminated”, or was it just the pair I had bought?
On the way to the store I thought over about what I was going to do once I got there. Make a big stink? Call over the manager? Be angry? And, shouldn’t they owe me something other than just a new pair of slippers?
When I got to the counter, I told the teenaged clerk what had happened. Her colleague at the next counter leaned over and said, “Someone must have put it there on purpose” (oh, that’s reassuring!), then asked, “are you sure you don’t want to just vacuum them?” “Ah...no.”
Luckily, my clerk was slightly more understanding and took back the slippers. She asked what I wanted. I went and got another pair, checked to make sure there was nothing lurking in the bottom, then simply exchanged them. And then I left.
But what did I want? I was thinking a free chocolate bar, or a 5$ gift card would have been nice. Something for my pains and troubles. I mean, wasn’t I owed something for what I went through? Ah. Why is it that I think that? Is that my “American-ness” shining through? My American mentality? You OWE me! You have to PAY! I realize that this is what I had learned growing up. When something goes wrong, then people owe you...something. Suing people left and right for the slightest slight to our persons. Okay, I wasn’t about to sue Winners, and in the end I didn’t even call over a manager or insinuate a little gift of chocolate would ease my pains. But what would have been enough? What was it I was asking for? Hmmm. How about a sincere apology. Compassion as compensation. A heart to heart connection. I believe it would have been enough. Compassion. An understanding. A connection...
Just yesterday I was in the supermarket. I had to go to use the bathroom, and when I’m about to leave, with Phoenix in the cart in the front, and Kian in the bottom tier of the grocery part, I start to back out. Kian, I realize much too late, isn’t quite in yet, and he flips over and hits his head hard on the floor. A huge egg-sized lump appears instantly. Both kids crying. I’m not quite sure what to do, so I go down to the pharmacy and ask if they have an ice pack. The gentleman gives me a hard frozen plastic rectangle. Nothing to wrap it in, and it’s too hard to cradle my son’s head. I tell him it’s not working, and offer to pay for something if he has anything that could work better. He goes and gets me something, drops it on the counter, and doesn’t even offer to help me with it. He tells me it’s a pharmacy and not a first-aid station. I leave the item on the counter, go back upstairs and over to the gym where I'm a member and where luckily they have a daycare. I go in. Now I am in tears, and immediately I have three or four women helping me give first aid to my son. One of them is even a first responder who tells me step-by-step what to do and what signs to watch for in case of concussion. My tears flow, as I cry out all of my tension, my fear for my son, and my frustration from the rudeness I was received with below.
After a few minutes the swelling recedes, my tears have dried up (Kian stopped crying about thirty seconds after the incident). Kian seems to be out of danger, so we go back downstairs to finish our shopping. I run into the pharmacist. He asks if my son is okay. I say he is, but then I yell at him, “couldn’t you have helped me, just as a human being?” He replies that he didn’t have the supplies necessary, that he only works in the pharmacy and does not know where I would go to get help. I lay into him and tell him that he still could have answered me with kindness instead of brushing me off. He could have been a little more human. Now he is on the defensive and leaves before I can unleash any more of my residue anger and frustration.
What if all the suing, the demand for compensation, the need for retribution, was really just a need for compassion? What if at the root of all of this is the need to be seen and heard?
And, if in the US we have replaced true compassion with the American dollar, what does that say about us as a society? We wonder about this new generation growing up, feeling they are owed something. Gee, I wonder where they got that? I am shocked by their attitudes, yet when I look within, there lies the seed. So maybe what I owe myself and my children, is to engage. In life, with others. To have the courage to see them and feel them. Because it is a scary thing. We don’t know what to do with all that emotion. We don’t know how deep runs the well, once it’s been tapped.
I finish my shopping, then go back a third time to the pharmacy. The man I spoke to is not there, but I explain to the other pharmacist, the owner this time, the situation. I realize that when the other pharmacist had approached the second time, he was trying to show compassion, and I cut him off with my rage.
Now it was my turn to apologize.
I was angry and scared. How did glass end up in my slipper? Trying on slippers is something we consider relatively safe and don’t expect to end up bleeding from the encounter. Were more slippers “contaminated”, or was it just the pair I had bought?
On the way to the store I thought over about what I was going to do once I got there. Make a big stink? Call over the manager? Be angry? And, shouldn’t they owe me something other than just a new pair of slippers?
When I got to the counter, I told the teenaged clerk what had happened. Her colleague at the next counter leaned over and said, “Someone must have put it there on purpose” (oh, that’s reassuring!), then asked, “are you sure you don’t want to just vacuum them?” “Ah...no.”
Luckily, my clerk was slightly more understanding and took back the slippers. She asked what I wanted. I went and got another pair, checked to make sure there was nothing lurking in the bottom, then simply exchanged them. And then I left.
But what did I want? I was thinking a free chocolate bar, or a 5$ gift card would have been nice. Something for my pains and troubles. I mean, wasn’t I owed something for what I went through? Ah. Why is it that I think that? Is that my “American-ness” shining through? My American mentality? You OWE me! You have to PAY! I realize that this is what I had learned growing up. When something goes wrong, then people owe you...something. Suing people left and right for the slightest slight to our persons. Okay, I wasn’t about to sue Winners, and in the end I didn’t even call over a manager or insinuate a little gift of chocolate would ease my pains. But what would have been enough? What was it I was asking for? Hmmm. How about a sincere apology. Compassion as compensation. A heart to heart connection. I believe it would have been enough. Compassion. An understanding. A connection...
Just yesterday I was in the supermarket. I had to go to use the bathroom, and when I’m about to leave, with Phoenix in the cart in the front, and Kian in the bottom tier of the grocery part, I start to back out. Kian, I realize much too late, isn’t quite in yet, and he flips over and hits his head hard on the floor. A huge egg-sized lump appears instantly. Both kids crying. I’m not quite sure what to do, so I go down to the pharmacy and ask if they have an ice pack. The gentleman gives me a hard frozen plastic rectangle. Nothing to wrap it in, and it’s too hard to cradle my son’s head. I tell him it’s not working, and offer to pay for something if he has anything that could work better. He goes and gets me something, drops it on the counter, and doesn’t even offer to help me with it. He tells me it’s a pharmacy and not a first-aid station. I leave the item on the counter, go back upstairs and over to the gym where I'm a member and where luckily they have a daycare. I go in. Now I am in tears, and immediately I have three or four women helping me give first aid to my son. One of them is even a first responder who tells me step-by-step what to do and what signs to watch for in case of concussion. My tears flow, as I cry out all of my tension, my fear for my son, and my frustration from the rudeness I was received with below.
After a few minutes the swelling recedes, my tears have dried up (Kian stopped crying about thirty seconds after the incident). Kian seems to be out of danger, so we go back downstairs to finish our shopping. I run into the pharmacist. He asks if my son is okay. I say he is, but then I yell at him, “couldn’t you have helped me, just as a human being?” He replies that he didn’t have the supplies necessary, that he only works in the pharmacy and does not know where I would go to get help. I lay into him and tell him that he still could have answered me with kindness instead of brushing me off. He could have been a little more human. Now he is on the defensive and leaves before I can unleash any more of my residue anger and frustration.
What if all the suing, the demand for compensation, the need for retribution, was really just a need for compassion? What if at the root of all of this is the need to be seen and heard?
And, if in the US we have replaced true compassion with the American dollar, what does that say about us as a society? We wonder about this new generation growing up, feeling they are owed something. Gee, I wonder where they got that? I am shocked by their attitudes, yet when I look within, there lies the seed. So maybe what I owe myself and my children, is to engage. In life, with others. To have the courage to see them and feel them. Because it is a scary thing. We don’t know what to do with all that emotion. We don’t know how deep runs the well, once it’s been tapped.
I finish my shopping, then go back a third time to the pharmacy. The man I spoke to is not there, but I explain to the other pharmacist, the owner this time, the situation. I realize that when the other pharmacist had approached the second time, he was trying to show compassion, and I cut him off with my rage.
Now it was my turn to apologize.
Sunday, December 25, 2011
the Meaning (of Christmas)
As life goes on, the meaning of something has become very important to me. Especially when that something constitutes large outputs of time and energy on my part. Why spend a lot of time doing something if you don’t even know why you’re doing it? Or maybe I’ve always been that way, with a certain curiosity about the “why” behind things. Like the game my four-year-old and I play. “Why? Why? Why?” Going deeper and deeper into the source of things until the question becomes moot.
After Kian was born, my Catholic-raised husband broached the subject of baptism. I was raised by a Protestant mother and a Christian Scientist father (not Scientologist, please – that’s L. Ron Hubbard. Christian Scientist is Mary Baker Eddy and about healing with faith and prayer). We weren’t baptised, so this was a foreign concept to me. So I asked him “What does it mean?” He didn’t know.
“Well, why should we do it?”
“Because I was baptised and that’s what you do when you’re Catholic.”
“Ah”.
So began my quest into the meaning of baptism. I googled. I asked friends. I even went to see a minister at the United Church of Canada. We had a wonderful lengthy discussion, about baptism and even what it means to be Christian. For those, like myself, who are not clear about what a baptism is, my understanding of it is very simple: it is welcoming a child into a community, and asking that community that shares your beliefs and values, to help in the moral education of your child.
Once we understood the meaning behind the rite of baptism, we didn’t feel it was right for our family to baptise our son Catholic or in any other church, if we were not prepared to take an active part in that community ourselves. Even though neither our son nor our daughter were ever baptised, at least now we know what it means and why we made the choice we did.
For the last few Christmases, I’ve been able to get away with very vague explanations on the “why” of Christmas. But my son is now 4 ½ and I can’t get away with nearly so much. The “it’s Jesus’ birthday” part is easy, but then we get into “who is Jesus?” And here the road gets extremely bumpy for someone who does not call themselves a Christian (don’t freak out here – remember the lengthy conversation with the minister? After that discussion I felt I had a workable definition for what it meant to be a Christian: a follower of the Bible and Jesus Christ as a way to God. And since I do not read the Bible, nor go to church, and my way to God is through many paths, I feel I cannot call myself a Christian in that sense).
I was going to once again consult the all-knowing of the 21st Century: google. A search query something like “pagan Christmas explanation for four-year-old”, but I thought of it in the car, didn’t have paper, wrote it on my hand (along with “put paper in car”), then washed it off my hand before I got a chance to do either. Then forgot to do both. (That is the story of my day, every day, in a nutshell).
So here I was, Christmas Eve morning, racing out for a haircut, and my son in the bathroom trying to get me to do anything but get myself ready. “I hate Papa.” Translation: “I’m really mad at you for not telling me earlier you were leaving today. I hate surprises. I will miss you.”
“Don’t do this, honey.” It’s Christmas Eve. Christmas is about love, not hate. Christmas is...”
Oh, great. I almost made it. He hadn’t even asked, and yet here I was in the 11th hour, having to scramble for meaning. If not THE meaning, at least a meaning that would make sense to me and my little boy.
“Honey!” I yell to my husband. “Christmas is when Jesus is born, right?” “Yeah” from the kitchen, as my mind goes over its inventory of Christmas images like “The Little Drummer Boy”, multiple manger scenes, etc. Ah yes, the day he was born. Duh.
“Jesus is... a guy who was really wise and... he understood...everything. And he tried to teach us what he knew. And one of those things is about loving everyone. That’s why we give gifts, to show how much we love someone. You see, Christmas isn’t about getting gifts, it’s about giving them. It’s about love. And even those who have nothing (here I’m thinking of the Little Drummer Boy again), still give something.”
Dang, for the 11th hour, I thought I had done pretty good. I even squeezed in a good upper cut at commercialism. A little icing on the cake. But that was all I had time for.
“Scoot, scoot!” Pat on the head. A big smooch goodbye to all, and out the door in the -15⁰ sudden freeze we found ourselves in.
As I was driving to town, I thought about our little exchange. I think Christmas really is about love. Or it should be. Or could be.
Do we need to be a Christian to celebrate Christmas? It’s gotten so commercial; it’s pretty much jumped the boundaries of religion already. And for many, Christian or not, I think it has lost its meaning. So why not concentrate on a universal meaning that can be shared by all?
That evening at my in-laws, I tried to do just that. Think about the love behind Christmas. I tried to remember it as we made our way through the four-course meal that my 85-year-old father-in-law makes with much well-deserved pride, but that unfortunately is served so late that both my kids are in total meltdown by the time it’s finished and we’re unwrapping gifts at 1am. I kept thinking of it as I was downing espressos at 1:30am so I could stay awake enough to prepare our Christmas when we got home (which, why on Earth I had waited until then is indeed a mystery). And I thought of it this morning, bleary-eyed and cranky from a poor few hours of sleep, as we ripped and tore our way through the beautiful gifts of love from our beautiful and bountiful family.
One of the last gifts I opened was an ornament from my step-mom. On it is inscribed, “Christmas is love.”
Huh. I guess I was right all along.
And with that, I say Merry Christmas to all.
With love.
After Kian was born, my Catholic-raised husband broached the subject of baptism. I was raised by a Protestant mother and a Christian Scientist father (not Scientologist, please – that’s L. Ron Hubbard. Christian Scientist is Mary Baker Eddy and about healing with faith and prayer). We weren’t baptised, so this was a foreign concept to me. So I asked him “What does it mean?” He didn’t know.
“Well, why should we do it?”
“Because I was baptised and that’s what you do when you’re Catholic.”
“Ah”.
So began my quest into the meaning of baptism. I googled. I asked friends. I even went to see a minister at the United Church of Canada. We had a wonderful lengthy discussion, about baptism and even what it means to be Christian. For those, like myself, who are not clear about what a baptism is, my understanding of it is very simple: it is welcoming a child into a community, and asking that community that shares your beliefs and values, to help in the moral education of your child.
Once we understood the meaning behind the rite of baptism, we didn’t feel it was right for our family to baptise our son Catholic or in any other church, if we were not prepared to take an active part in that community ourselves. Even though neither our son nor our daughter were ever baptised, at least now we know what it means and why we made the choice we did.
For the last few Christmases, I’ve been able to get away with very vague explanations on the “why” of Christmas. But my son is now 4 ½ and I can’t get away with nearly so much. The “it’s Jesus’ birthday” part is easy, but then we get into “who is Jesus?” And here the road gets extremely bumpy for someone who does not call themselves a Christian (don’t freak out here – remember the lengthy conversation with the minister? After that discussion I felt I had a workable definition for what it meant to be a Christian: a follower of the Bible and Jesus Christ as a way to God. And since I do not read the Bible, nor go to church, and my way to God is through many paths, I feel I cannot call myself a Christian in that sense).
I was going to once again consult the all-knowing of the 21st Century: google. A search query something like “pagan Christmas explanation for four-year-old”, but I thought of it in the car, didn’t have paper, wrote it on my hand (along with “put paper in car”), then washed it off my hand before I got a chance to do either. Then forgot to do both. (That is the story of my day, every day, in a nutshell).
So here I was, Christmas Eve morning, racing out for a haircut, and my son in the bathroom trying to get me to do anything but get myself ready. “I hate Papa.” Translation: “I’m really mad at you for not telling me earlier you were leaving today. I hate surprises. I will miss you.”
“Don’t do this, honey.” It’s Christmas Eve. Christmas is about love, not hate. Christmas is...”
Oh, great. I almost made it. He hadn’t even asked, and yet here I was in the 11th hour, having to scramble for meaning. If not THE meaning, at least a meaning that would make sense to me and my little boy.
“Honey!” I yell to my husband. “Christmas is when Jesus is born, right?” “Yeah” from the kitchen, as my mind goes over its inventory of Christmas images like “The Little Drummer Boy”, multiple manger scenes, etc. Ah yes, the day he was born. Duh.
“Jesus is... a guy who was really wise and... he understood...everything. And he tried to teach us what he knew. And one of those things is about loving everyone. That’s why we give gifts, to show how much we love someone. You see, Christmas isn’t about getting gifts, it’s about giving them. It’s about love. And even those who have nothing (here I’m thinking of the Little Drummer Boy again), still give something.”
Dang, for the 11th hour, I thought I had done pretty good. I even squeezed in a good upper cut at commercialism. A little icing on the cake. But that was all I had time for.
“Scoot, scoot!” Pat on the head. A big smooch goodbye to all, and out the door in the -15⁰ sudden freeze we found ourselves in.
As I was driving to town, I thought about our little exchange. I think Christmas really is about love. Or it should be. Or could be.
Do we need to be a Christian to celebrate Christmas? It’s gotten so commercial; it’s pretty much jumped the boundaries of religion already. And for many, Christian or not, I think it has lost its meaning. So why not concentrate on a universal meaning that can be shared by all?
That evening at my in-laws, I tried to do just that. Think about the love behind Christmas. I tried to remember it as we made our way through the four-course meal that my 85-year-old father-in-law makes with much well-deserved pride, but that unfortunately is served so late that both my kids are in total meltdown by the time it’s finished and we’re unwrapping gifts at 1am. I kept thinking of it as I was downing espressos at 1:30am so I could stay awake enough to prepare our Christmas when we got home (which, why on Earth I had waited until then is indeed a mystery). And I thought of it this morning, bleary-eyed and cranky from a poor few hours of sleep, as we ripped and tore our way through the beautiful gifts of love from our beautiful and bountiful family.
One of the last gifts I opened was an ornament from my step-mom. On it is inscribed, “Christmas is love.”
Huh. I guess I was right all along.
And with that, I say Merry Christmas to all.
With love.
Thursday, December 22, 2011
Middle-Aged
It hit me just the other day. I realized that I’m not young anymore. I had seemed to be young for so long. I probably stretched it out more than most, living in France, being single, sleeping when I was tired, eating when I was hungry, quitting jobs because I was unhappy, dating men ten years younger... I was young. I felt young.
I met my husband late in life, had kids even later. I’m a mother of two under five, and like all mothers of young children, I’m exhausted. Staying up late to watch a film usually ends up with snores on the couch. My meals are usually the leftovers of my children. No more fancy multiple-course meals, lounging around the table with stimulating conversation, several bottles of wine and time to kill. Followed by dancing until dawn, going to bed with the sunrise. Those days are gone.
I don’t even feel young anymore. And yet, I’m not old, per se. I’m not that wrinkled (yet), I still go to the gym, even put on some techno music and go a little crazy. I run and play with my children. I will be going back to work soon, and am still young enough to re-enter the work force, and have a bit of career before I retire. Technically, if I live to my eighties or nineties, I’m about halfway through my life... I’m... Oh my God. And that’s where it hit me. I’m middle-aged!
This thought struck me as I was driving, and I just held the wheel, stunned. I’m middle-aged! I’m finally here! Huh. So this is middle-aged. I’ve probably been here for awhile, but it was the realization that was new. I tried it on for a moment... middle-aged....I’m middle-aged. I was feeling too old to be young, but as middle-aged... I feel quite good! I’m not a bad middle-aged! I can still rock as middle-aged. I can be a cool middle-aged (careful here, to not fall back into the person who thinks they’re still young and tries to dress like it), think Coco Chanel, with class, and elegance, a bit of sassiness. I’ll have to do something with my wardrobe of sweatpants, though. Wow. I’m middle-aged.
I had too much fun in my extended youth to really have your typical “crisis” – running off to find yourself type of thing. And I think my “crisis” was when I realized that although being young is fun, other aspects of the human experience were passing me by. Having a family, having a partner, to name two. My eldest brother passed away in 2004 and it was then that I realized I had a big hole in my life. After the funeral, everyone had someone to go home to. I was still the daughter aching for the comfort of my parents, but my father was busy with his elderly sister and his wife, and my mother had passed away long ago. My other brother and sister had their spouses and children to go home to. I had... my two cats back in Montreal, across the continent. That was when I realized that it was time to “grow up”. To give up the Peter Pan lifestyle and mindset. It was time to get a life of my own.
And I did.
And there I was, seven years later, driving down the freeway in the middle of Montreal suburbia, realizing I had made it to middle-aged. It felt good. I mean, I could have still been the “too old to be young” girl, trying to stretch out a few more years of my youth long gone. But now I was happily settling into middle-aged. My kids will have to deal with having an “old” Mama, not the sprightly late-twenties version donned in Lululemon, but the mid-forties, “when am I going to hit menopause?” version. But that’s okay too. After all, I still have half a life ahead of me. I’m only middle-aged.
I met my husband late in life, had kids even later. I’m a mother of two under five, and like all mothers of young children, I’m exhausted. Staying up late to watch a film usually ends up with snores on the couch. My meals are usually the leftovers of my children. No more fancy multiple-course meals, lounging around the table with stimulating conversation, several bottles of wine and time to kill. Followed by dancing until dawn, going to bed with the sunrise. Those days are gone.
I don’t even feel young anymore. And yet, I’m not old, per se. I’m not that wrinkled (yet), I still go to the gym, even put on some techno music and go a little crazy. I run and play with my children. I will be going back to work soon, and am still young enough to re-enter the work force, and have a bit of career before I retire. Technically, if I live to my eighties or nineties, I’m about halfway through my life... I’m... Oh my God. And that’s where it hit me. I’m middle-aged!
This thought struck me as I was driving, and I just held the wheel, stunned. I’m middle-aged! I’m finally here! Huh. So this is middle-aged. I’ve probably been here for awhile, but it was the realization that was new. I tried it on for a moment... middle-aged....I’m middle-aged. I was feeling too old to be young, but as middle-aged... I feel quite good! I’m not a bad middle-aged! I can still rock as middle-aged. I can be a cool middle-aged (careful here, to not fall back into the person who thinks they’re still young and tries to dress like it), think Coco Chanel, with class, and elegance, a bit of sassiness. I’ll have to do something with my wardrobe of sweatpants, though. Wow. I’m middle-aged.
I had too much fun in my extended youth to really have your typical “crisis” – running off to find yourself type of thing. And I think my “crisis” was when I realized that although being young is fun, other aspects of the human experience were passing me by. Having a family, having a partner, to name two. My eldest brother passed away in 2004 and it was then that I realized I had a big hole in my life. After the funeral, everyone had someone to go home to. I was still the daughter aching for the comfort of my parents, but my father was busy with his elderly sister and his wife, and my mother had passed away long ago. My other brother and sister had their spouses and children to go home to. I had... my two cats back in Montreal, across the continent. That was when I realized that it was time to “grow up”. To give up the Peter Pan lifestyle and mindset. It was time to get a life of my own.
And I did.
And there I was, seven years later, driving down the freeway in the middle of Montreal suburbia, realizing I had made it to middle-aged. It felt good. I mean, I could have still been the “too old to be young” girl, trying to stretch out a few more years of my youth long gone. But now I was happily settling into middle-aged. My kids will have to deal with having an “old” Mama, not the sprightly late-twenties version donned in Lululemon, but the mid-forties, “when am I going to hit menopause?” version. But that’s okay too. After all, I still have half a life ahead of me. I’m only middle-aged.
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