Life is funny. When I was doing organizational development consulting, or practicing at being moderately unemployed as it were, there always seemed to be enough time to write on a blog. However, when I got a full time job, the extra moments just seemed to slip away and I forget to do all of the things that make my life fun. It is for this reason that I am revisiting my blog and will tell you, dear readers a new story.
This year I will be old enough, and then some, to qualify for the senior discount at all retail establishments including restaurants and, on Tuesday, at every Ross store in the US. To mess with folks, I tell a small white lie and declare that I am five to ten years older than I am. People who don't know me will turn and with a shocked expression exclaim, " I can't believe you are 70 years old!" It is sick but I always feel better after being told I look so good for my age. Trust me compliments are more and more difficult to come by after you reach the tender age of 50 so store them up in your heart, like a little squirrel storing nuts for the winter. It will pay off untold benefits as you sit in your rocker and bring to mind your glory days.
As a means of staving off the ravages of age, I am using a very expensive, for me, brand of makeup that has a product called, The LIFT. It is fabulous. It pulls up every part of the sagging under eye area that shows up on older than 25 year old women and makes you look like you have just rubbed on a quart of Preparation H onto your face with exceptional tightening results. It is great stuff and I do not share this miracle product with anyone except for my darling husband.
And here is the rub... He is using my "LIFT" and being accosted in the Bi-Mart Store by old and skanky women who think he is just so cute and young looking! I will tell you that I am not amused. It appears that he was in line checking out with a bag of something and an old woman, probably my age but he swears she was really, really, old, started to talk to him and ask him what he was going to do for the weekend.
Now darling husband is not so unaware that he does not know when a woman is trying to make time with him but he was polite and answered her by saying, " I don't know. My wife and I haven't decided as yet. " Where upon, the skanky witch offered him her card and said, " Well if you decide you need some company...give ME a call'!
Well, after he told me the story of his escape from the clutches of the old woman in Bi-Mart, I decided to take action. No I did not stake out the store and lie in wait for to accost and bruise her. If he had taken her card, I might have thought about calling her and divorcing him but I decided to take defensive action non, the less. I took another bottle of the "LIFT" and watered down the contents. It has been fun to see him pour the stuff on his face and to know that it is not working as well as it used to for him. I defy the old heifer roaming the aisles of Bi-Mart to try it on him again.
Just imagine the way my mind works; she recognizes him from the back as she stands in line at the Bi-Mart and touches him gently on the shoulder to get his attention. Whereupon he turns slowly and with a face that only Dorian Gray's mother could love greets her smile with a wrinkly faced grin. Gotcha you old woman.
I love my man and I don't want to share. Next week he can use the undiluted LIFT again as I do appreciate a man with looks. Plus he promised me that he will no longer frequent the Bi-Mart store on River Road ever again. We shall see...
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Saturday, August 2, 2008
One Of The Perks OF Being An Elder
It is time for another story…last week I went to Value Village. VV is one of those national chains that sell donated goods to value seeking garage sale addicts who can’t find a garage sale fix between Monday and Thursday. The prices are not so good at VV except on Monday because Monday is 40% off for people over 55!
Sadly, as I now qualify for the discount…I confess to my own regular ritualistic visit to VV on the first workday of every week. I have learned to go early and to not be shocked at the hordes of folks who have even more white hair than me. Their unnatural ambulatory prowess at pushing a cart while simultaneously snatching things off the shelves is absolutely amazing. Withered hands snake through the air like the tongue of a frog snatching up a tasty fly morsel.
This past Monday, I arrived at VV with great anticipation. Shoes are a thing for me and Imelda probably had more shoes than me but I am sure that she didn’t enjoy buying Born shoes for $2.99. Such a discount and if they smell clean and are almost new, I figure they are just like shoes that are tried on by someone at a shoe store who didn’t wear one of those annoying little Peds. For the uninitiated, a Ped is a sort of badly made half sock that if your feet are larger than a size 5 will not fit over any part of your foot except the front half-thus leaving the last part of your foot exposed to any shoe you may put on your tootsies! So much for health and hygiene.
No shoes this week. So I leaned on my cart for support and gingerly ambled my way over to the racks that held the larger girl clothes and proceeded to flip through the blouses that were too pink, too puce (green), too blue, and too old except to use as a dust rag. And low and behold, my search yielded two dresses for church and a few blouses that I can use for work. A good day for the hunter and gatherer.
Pushing my cart through the sea of other shopping dowagers I arrive at the try-on cubicles. They are great little inventions and I seem to remember when I shopped new stores that they had locking doors. At VV, the doors do not lock and as a professional courtesy, I must warn you to be aware that the narrow claustrophobic inducing try-on cubbys might have been used for alternative purposes.
ADVICE TO THE VV NEWBIE: Never, Never, Never put your purse on the floor while trying on clothing! Try to remember which day of the week you are shopping and if it is Monday, the cubicle might have been mistaken for a bathroom by a small child or an incontinent valued customer. It has happened to me and I can tell you that my purse was tossed into the trash can, outside the building, along with a few muttered curses aimed at the varmint who pissed in the corner of the try-on room. (After reading what I just wrote, I realized that it might sound like I peed in the corner of the cubby but it is too early in the morning for me to figure out how to rewrite this paragraph. Rest assured that even though I am “Of Age”, I can still distinguish between the little male/female icons on the bathroom door and the “Try On” room sign.)
Back to the story, blouses clutched in hand, I head into the doorway of the cubby with more than the three articles of clothing that the sign warns me not to try and take into the try-on room. Finally inside and holding my purse between my legs to keep it dry, I reach for the upper most button of the top I am wearing while leaning forward to hang the other 19 pieces of clothing on the smallish hook that is attached to the side wall. I bang into the mirror and nearly loose my balance but the walls are so close that I really can’t fall too far and I regain my balance quickly. The door is slightly ajar and I briefly worry that someone might see my ta-tas as I change and then figure that if they get a view of my weary and sagging naked girls they are getting only what they deserve for being such a perv.
Two of the blouses are great and I look forward to trying on the silk blouse with the long sleeves. I envision myself as a power professional enveloped in soft yellow making the sale of the century. As I squeeze my man-sized hands into the cuff of the blouse, I think, hmm-a somewhat tight fit. Oh well, next time I put it on I will unbutton the cuffs…
I am stuck, I have just pulled the shirt off of my shoulders and my arms are blouse bound behind me with my hands snuggly snared in the shirt cuff. I can’t get out!!! I now know what Peter Rabbit felt like in the cabbage patch wearing Mr. McGregors too tight clothes. I am already suffering a world class case of claustrophobia due to the size of the cubby, and with both my arms caught backward in the sleeves of the blouse, I can only jump around and try to pull my way to freedom. Sweating profusely, I try valiantly to maintain a dangerous and precarious act of balance in order to keep my purse dry. I realize that if this goes on any longer my weary bladder may let fly and I may wet myself, as well as, the floor of the cubby. Now I understand where the puddle of urine that destroyed my good purse came from.
Finally I am free. My assailant is on the floor. And I am considering peeing on the yellow silk number just for vindication. Yes, I have combined my power with that of the blouse and the blouse has more power than it started with but I am so angry that it got the better of me that the thought of a little urine between good enemies does not go unconsidered.
On a calmer note, Value Village is a great place to shop, however, their prices are a little to high except if you are over 55 and it is Monday. But let the buyer be ware!
Sadly, as I now qualify for the discount…I confess to my own regular ritualistic visit to VV on the first workday of every week. I have learned to go early and to not be shocked at the hordes of folks who have even more white hair than me. Their unnatural ambulatory prowess at pushing a cart while simultaneously snatching things off the shelves is absolutely amazing. Withered hands snake through the air like the tongue of a frog snatching up a tasty fly morsel.
This past Monday, I arrived at VV with great anticipation. Shoes are a thing for me and Imelda probably had more shoes than me but I am sure that she didn’t enjoy buying Born shoes for $2.99. Such a discount and if they smell clean and are almost new, I figure they are just like shoes that are tried on by someone at a shoe store who didn’t wear one of those annoying little Peds. For the uninitiated, a Ped is a sort of badly made half sock that if your feet are larger than a size 5 will not fit over any part of your foot except the front half-thus leaving the last part of your foot exposed to any shoe you may put on your tootsies! So much for health and hygiene.
No shoes this week. So I leaned on my cart for support and gingerly ambled my way over to the racks that held the larger girl clothes and proceeded to flip through the blouses that were too pink, too puce (green), too blue, and too old except to use as a dust rag. And low and behold, my search yielded two dresses for church and a few blouses that I can use for work. A good day for the hunter and gatherer.
Pushing my cart through the sea of other shopping dowagers I arrive at the try-on cubicles. They are great little inventions and I seem to remember when I shopped new stores that they had locking doors. At VV, the doors do not lock and as a professional courtesy, I must warn you to be aware that the narrow claustrophobic inducing try-on cubbys might have been used for alternative purposes.
ADVICE TO THE VV NEWBIE: Never, Never, Never put your purse on the floor while trying on clothing! Try to remember which day of the week you are shopping and if it is Monday, the cubicle might have been mistaken for a bathroom by a small child or an incontinent valued customer. It has happened to me and I can tell you that my purse was tossed into the trash can, outside the building, along with a few muttered curses aimed at the varmint who pissed in the corner of the try-on room. (After reading what I just wrote, I realized that it might sound like I peed in the corner of the cubby but it is too early in the morning for me to figure out how to rewrite this paragraph. Rest assured that even though I am “Of Age”, I can still distinguish between the little male/female icons on the bathroom door and the “Try On” room sign.)
Back to the story, blouses clutched in hand, I head into the doorway of the cubby with more than the three articles of clothing that the sign warns me not to try and take into the try-on room. Finally inside and holding my purse between my legs to keep it dry, I reach for the upper most button of the top I am wearing while leaning forward to hang the other 19 pieces of clothing on the smallish hook that is attached to the side wall. I bang into the mirror and nearly loose my balance but the walls are so close that I really can’t fall too far and I regain my balance quickly. The door is slightly ajar and I briefly worry that someone might see my ta-tas as I change and then figure that if they get a view of my weary and sagging naked girls they are getting only what they deserve for being such a perv.
Two of the blouses are great and I look forward to trying on the silk blouse with the long sleeves. I envision myself as a power professional enveloped in soft yellow making the sale of the century. As I squeeze my man-sized hands into the cuff of the blouse, I think, hmm-a somewhat tight fit. Oh well, next time I put it on I will unbutton the cuffs…
I am stuck, I have just pulled the shirt off of my shoulders and my arms are blouse bound behind me with my hands snuggly snared in the shirt cuff. I can’t get out!!! I now know what Peter Rabbit felt like in the cabbage patch wearing Mr. McGregors too tight clothes. I am already suffering a world class case of claustrophobia due to the size of the cubby, and with both my arms caught backward in the sleeves of the blouse, I can only jump around and try to pull my way to freedom. Sweating profusely, I try valiantly to maintain a dangerous and precarious act of balance in order to keep my purse dry. I realize that if this goes on any longer my weary bladder may let fly and I may wet myself, as well as, the floor of the cubby. Now I understand where the puddle of urine that destroyed my good purse came from.
Finally I am free. My assailant is on the floor. And I am considering peeing on the yellow silk number just for vindication. Yes, I have combined my power with that of the blouse and the blouse has more power than it started with but I am so angry that it got the better of me that the thought of a little urine between good enemies does not go unconsidered.
On a calmer note, Value Village is a great place to shop, however, their prices are a little to high except if you are over 55 and it is Monday. But let the buyer be ware!
Friday, July 18, 2008
Reverence For The Columbia River And Its People By A Desert Dweller
Life is good. Met with some wonderful folks yesterday. Ate Salmon and Fry Bread. Holy food. Heard stories about the time before technology invaded our world and was given the chance to see the Columbia River from the perspective of one of the Columbia River Elders who was raised on its banks and had fished its waters all of his life. He was a wonderful man. He wore his cell phone strapped to his belt like a weapon, a soft cotton cowboy shirt with pearlized snaps on the pockets, and a good pair of baggy bottom Levi's held up by a tight leather belt. His hands, so much like my grandmother's, were soft yet impossibly worn by work and age.
I miss family most of all and sometimes, like yesterday, I am blessed with a glimpse of what used to be. I will forever more reverence Creator and the river.
Monday, July 7, 2008
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
American Indian Market at Chinook Winds
Wow! What a great weekend. We spent two days in Lincoln City, Oregon at the Chinook Winds Casino. The casino hosted the first annual Native American Market and was it wonderful! We were one of the vendors and we thoroughly enjoyed the experience. Great people, great artwork, and great atmosphere.
Mirabele, the incredible musician, artist, and political commentator gave a free ninety minute concert and it was a rockin time in Indian Country! Ed Edmo was there and told stories so funny that we laughed until we cried. There were drums and singers and lots of wonderful artwork made by Native American artisans. It was good to be indigenous!
I donated one of my paintings to the casino for a drawing. The picture of the man who won the painting is to the right of this posting. He seemed to like the piece and I was even asked to sign an autograph. So I guess I sort of know what a rock star feels like? NOT! But I am glad he liked the picture, as I would hate to think he regifted it or donated it to the GoodWill. Yes, I am insecure.
Am very grateful to Chinook Winds Casino and in particular to Ravelle Lewis. She is a wonderful person and has a strong desire to make more options available to Indian folks through creating a venue where we can sell authentic Native American arts and crafts. Good woman.
Mirabele, the incredible musician, artist, and political commentator gave a free ninety minute concert and it was a rockin time in Indian Country! Ed Edmo was there and told stories so funny that we laughed until we cried. There were drums and singers and lots of wonderful artwork made by Native American artisans. It was good to be indigenous!
I donated one of my paintings to the casino for a drawing. The picture of the man who won the painting is to the right of this posting. He seemed to like the piece and I was even asked to sign an autograph. So I guess I sort of know what a rock star feels like? NOT! But I am glad he liked the picture, as I would hate to think he regifted it or donated it to the GoodWill. Yes, I am insecure.
Am very grateful to Chinook Winds Casino and in particular to Ravelle Lewis. She is a wonderful person and has a strong desire to make more options available to Indian folks through creating a venue where we can sell authentic Native American arts and crafts. Good woman.
Friday, May 16, 2008
What Happens When Daughters Become Their Mother's Mothers
A Fairy Tale Of Momentous Import
Once upon a time there was a country bumpkin who went to the city. When she arrived she gawked at the tall buildings that seemed to touch the sky and the high bridges that spanned the wide rivers. She was amazed at the Bart and marveled at the tram. She was so excited that she couldn’t contain herself. She burbled and squeaked her way through the day and generally annoyed the daughter who agreed to take her shopping. But most wondrous of all was the moment she hit the first floor of IKEA! Cue the harp music and turn up the lights, we are about to ascend to Nirvana.
Yes, dear ones I have learned that there is a place where all good housewives go when they seek their final reward and it is linens, dishware, and all things bright and shiny. It is back in the corner and around the large wall where only the most informed shoppers know to look for the best of all that the code of shopping has to offer the hunters and gatherers of today’s society. The second floor of the palace of all things do-it-yourself, is a wealth of ideas tapped by the home and garden shows but the first floor, ahhhhh, now that is heaven.
For example, have you ever wanted to find those short little curtain rods that turn on a hinge and look so cool with a narrow panel of curtain falling to the floor in puddles. Well IKEA has them! Yes, and they are not expensive. I was hyperventilating as my eyes took in all of the ways in which I could drape my newly painted living room in fabric supported by polished nickel hardware. Such dreams…such hopes…such good prices!
I was so excited I flitted like a butterfly down aisle after aisle with my giggling daughter trying to keep me contained. Our mother and daughter roles had suddenly reversed and my daughter/mother was trying to keep me from smearing glass ware with my sticky fingers and slobbering all over the flooring material that was only 69 cents a square foot. At one point she insisted I sit down because I was embarrassing her. I was embarrassing her?! But she was right, I needed to pace myself. I needed to regroup and make plans.
As I sat waiting for my mother/daughter to look in another direction, I pretended to act as if I had calmed down and was ready to be rewarded by being released from my time out. Just when she thought it was safe to remove her hand from my head and her eyes shifted away from mine, I was up and running for the thermal blankets, pillow, and shams. She couldn’t catch me. I was full of the joy of middle aged acquisition. My children are all out of the house and on their own and I no longer need to shop for countless pairs of socks and underwear for one of my little darlings. “I am free to shop for meeeeeeee”, was my heart felt song of glee. I wax poetic.
Finally, when I became too weak and dehydrated to run any longer, my daughter caught up with me and led me to the check out stand. I groused about how mean she was to take me away from the toy store of the big girls and under her breath she cursed me for those hours I spent on the mini-trampoline building up my physical stamina with which to face middle age. She slammed her credit card into the machine, paid for her purchases and as she made her way to the store exit, I trudged down heartedly behind her as she pushed the cart.
It was then I made my final IKEA discovery: YELLOW BAGS are not to be taken out of the store. Although IKEA gives you plastic tape measures and tiny pencils with little scraps of paper to take you through your shopping experience and back to your car, the best thing about the entire shopping experience was the YELLLOW BAG. It was made from Tyvec, the stuff builders use to wrap around buildings before siding is nailed up. Tyvec is tougher than anything and has the tensile strength of a space suit. The bags are bound with blue handles and I wanted the one I used for my first IKEA shopping experience. It was precious and I wanted to hang it on my wall right next to the puddling draperies.
I swear, the snippy chick who guards the exit to make sure that no one takes a bag out of the building must have read my mind! She swooped in on me, pointed at our cart with her long boney finger, and like some demon from Hades shouted, “These are only for use in the store”. I was crushed, mortified, broken, and annoyed.
But I will return. And I will shop without my daughter. I will take my grandchildren with me and I will feed them sugar and give them lots of the cinnamon roles that are sold at IKEA. They will create a distraction and I will get a YELLOW BAG. OOOOOHHHHAAAA! Turn down the lights Clyde the party is over... for now.
Once upon a time there was a country bumpkin who went to the city. When she arrived she gawked at the tall buildings that seemed to touch the sky and the high bridges that spanned the wide rivers. She was amazed at the Bart and marveled at the tram. She was so excited that she couldn’t contain herself. She burbled and squeaked her way through the day and generally annoyed the daughter who agreed to take her shopping. But most wondrous of all was the moment she hit the first floor of IKEA! Cue the harp music and turn up the lights, we are about to ascend to Nirvana.
Yes, dear ones I have learned that there is a place where all good housewives go when they seek their final reward and it is linens, dishware, and all things bright and shiny. It is back in the corner and around the large wall where only the most informed shoppers know to look for the best of all that the code of shopping has to offer the hunters and gatherers of today’s society. The second floor of the palace of all things do-it-yourself, is a wealth of ideas tapped by the home and garden shows but the first floor, ahhhhh, now that is heaven.
For example, have you ever wanted to find those short little curtain rods that turn on a hinge and look so cool with a narrow panel of curtain falling to the floor in puddles. Well IKEA has them! Yes, and they are not expensive. I was hyperventilating as my eyes took in all of the ways in which I could drape my newly painted living room in fabric supported by polished nickel hardware. Such dreams…such hopes…such good prices!
I was so excited I flitted like a butterfly down aisle after aisle with my giggling daughter trying to keep me contained. Our mother and daughter roles had suddenly reversed and my daughter/mother was trying to keep me from smearing glass ware with my sticky fingers and slobbering all over the flooring material that was only 69 cents a square foot. At one point she insisted I sit down because I was embarrassing her. I was embarrassing her?! But she was right, I needed to pace myself. I needed to regroup and make plans.
As I sat waiting for my mother/daughter to look in another direction, I pretended to act as if I had calmed down and was ready to be rewarded by being released from my time out. Just when she thought it was safe to remove her hand from my head and her eyes shifted away from mine, I was up and running for the thermal blankets, pillow, and shams. She couldn’t catch me. I was full of the joy of middle aged acquisition. My children are all out of the house and on their own and I no longer need to shop for countless pairs of socks and underwear for one of my little darlings. “I am free to shop for meeeeeeee”, was my heart felt song of glee. I wax poetic.
Finally, when I became too weak and dehydrated to run any longer, my daughter caught up with me and led me to the check out stand. I groused about how mean she was to take me away from the toy store of the big girls and under her breath she cursed me for those hours I spent on the mini-trampoline building up my physical stamina with which to face middle age. She slammed her credit card into the machine, paid for her purchases and as she made her way to the store exit, I trudged down heartedly behind her as she pushed the cart.
It was then I made my final IKEA discovery: YELLOW BAGS are not to be taken out of the store. Although IKEA gives you plastic tape measures and tiny pencils with little scraps of paper to take you through your shopping experience and back to your car, the best thing about the entire shopping experience was the YELLLOW BAG. It was made from Tyvec, the stuff builders use to wrap around buildings before siding is nailed up. Tyvec is tougher than anything and has the tensile strength of a space suit. The bags are bound with blue handles and I wanted the one I used for my first IKEA shopping experience. It was precious and I wanted to hang it on my wall right next to the puddling draperies.
I swear, the snippy chick who guards the exit to make sure that no one takes a bag out of the building must have read my mind! She swooped in on me, pointed at our cart with her long boney finger, and like some demon from Hades shouted, “These are only for use in the store”. I was crushed, mortified, broken, and annoyed.
But I will return. And I will shop without my daughter. I will take my grandchildren with me and I will feed them sugar and give them lots of the cinnamon roles that are sold at IKEA. They will create a distraction and I will get a YELLOW BAG. OOOOOHHHHAAAA! Turn down the lights Clyde the party is over... for now.
Friday, May 2, 2008
My "Authentic Self"
Lately I have been trying to improve my life through applying concepts from a book written by a television talk-show hypnotherapist. I should tell you that I bought the book on the 25 cent table at the Good Will, and although I wasn’t expecting a whole lot from the experience I did think a change in my world view might be a pleasant departure from the norm.
The book starts out asking you to lie down, get comfortable and visualize your “authentic self”. It explains that the authenticity I would need to conjure up would be most important to me as I read along from chapter to chapter. I tried so hard to visualize me authentically. I squeezed the lids of my eyes really tight, for a really long time, and all I could see were little black and red dots. For a while I feared my "auth-self" had the measles and in the darkness behind my shuttered lids I began worrying about my eyes bursting from squeezing my face up so tightly and for such an extended period of time. So much for lesson one.
Undaunted, I again attempted to visualize “auth-me”. After several more sweat producing and agonizing moments of concentration, I finally saw a blurry image of me sort of floating out there on the horizon. Wonder of wonders, I appeared tall and thin and blonde-my first husband’s dream girl! I was feeling pretty good about the me on the back of my eyelids when… Drat, I realized one of my eyes was cracked open a tiny fraction of an inch and I was focused on the TV image of a model with wings on her back and a pink sparkly bra across her chest. For just a moment, due to muscle tensing induced face freeze, I had “seen” myself as an angel in heaven modeling for Victoria and sharing her secrets. Sadly, the real reason for the vision was that my left eyelid had numbed from so much pursing that it had opened up without any neurological engagement on the part of my brain stem. And I still have a cramp in my forehead!
Fast forward, after extended hours of reading and visualizing, I can now see auth-self. She is thinner and has an air of composure and poise that I have worked to imbue her with as she floats out there in the ether. She is me and I am her and as I go throughout the days following this incredible breakthrough, I am happy. However, I slowly began to notice not only a difference in my world view but a different world altogether. The old me is now trapped somewhere in a corner of my mind and has become a disembodied voyeur watching “auth-self”wreck devastation wherever she goes with her truth spewing ways.
As proof of the change that has taken place consider this, at a recent luncheon, my poor friend who asked if her dress was too low in the front was rewarded with, “Not if you are a hooker”. Where did that come from? Oh no, my authentic self is a snarky wench! I try to improve my life and what happens? Here is a desperate thought, maybe the new me is like a pendulum that swings wide and bold at the very beginning and then winds down to a smoother rhythm as time goes by. Please slow down.
I am not sure if I can fully embrace the new me. She is so sure of herself and often frighteningly direct when responding to questions regarding truths. I guess I will have to be patient and see where Authentic Self takes me. But in the meantime, I remember when I was at the Good Will there was a book that outlined seven steps to achieveing a nicer you. That might work, I have another quarter.
The book starts out asking you to lie down, get comfortable and visualize your “authentic self”. It explains that the authenticity I would need to conjure up would be most important to me as I read along from chapter to chapter. I tried so hard to visualize me authentically. I squeezed the lids of my eyes really tight, for a really long time, and all I could see were little black and red dots. For a while I feared my "auth-self" had the measles and in the darkness behind my shuttered lids I began worrying about my eyes bursting from squeezing my face up so tightly and for such an extended period of time. So much for lesson one.
Undaunted, I again attempted to visualize “auth-me”. After several more sweat producing and agonizing moments of concentration, I finally saw a blurry image of me sort of floating out there on the horizon. Wonder of wonders, I appeared tall and thin and blonde-my first husband’s dream girl! I was feeling pretty good about the me on the back of my eyelids when… Drat, I realized one of my eyes was cracked open a tiny fraction of an inch and I was focused on the TV image of a model with wings on her back and a pink sparkly bra across her chest. For just a moment, due to muscle tensing induced face freeze, I had “seen” myself as an angel in heaven modeling for Victoria and sharing her secrets. Sadly, the real reason for the vision was that my left eyelid had numbed from so much pursing that it had opened up without any neurological engagement on the part of my brain stem. And I still have a cramp in my forehead!
Fast forward, after extended hours of reading and visualizing, I can now see auth-self. She is thinner and has an air of composure and poise that I have worked to imbue her with as she floats out there in the ether. She is me and I am her and as I go throughout the days following this incredible breakthrough, I am happy. However, I slowly began to notice not only a difference in my world view but a different world altogether. The old me is now trapped somewhere in a corner of my mind and has become a disembodied voyeur watching “auth-self”wreck devastation wherever she goes with her truth spewing ways.
As proof of the change that has taken place consider this, at a recent luncheon, my poor friend who asked if her dress was too low in the front was rewarded with, “Not if you are a hooker”. Where did that come from? Oh no, my authentic self is a snarky wench! I try to improve my life and what happens? Here is a desperate thought, maybe the new me is like a pendulum that swings wide and bold at the very beginning and then winds down to a smoother rhythm as time goes by. Please slow down.
I am not sure if I can fully embrace the new me. She is so sure of herself and often frighteningly direct when responding to questions regarding truths. I guess I will have to be patient and see where Authentic Self takes me. But in the meantime, I remember when I was at the Good Will there was a book that outlined seven steps to achieveing a nicer you. That might work, I have another quarter.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
