"I’m not suggesting that we woman of a certain age take on nothing new—only that we be kind to ourselves and make the change when it feels right."
We kids had clamored, as always, for the seat next to Uncle Al, a gap-toothed, balding old guy of 35, always with a day’s growth of beard, a tender touch, and a pocketful of Indian nuts to share.
When I got home from that humiliating party, my mother wasn’t there, and, possibly for the first time in my life, it was my father who could take me into his arms to comfort and reassure me.
What? He wants me to pick up, leave my life to go live in an apartment with elderly neighbors in pastel clothing who play golf and mah jongg and don’t color their hair? No way was I ever going to “winter” (ugh!) in Florida.
“No one in Europe wears a one-piece," she said. "Not fat old ladies, not pregnant women, not women with mastectomies or abdominal scars. Get yourself a bikini or you’ll feel like an idiot at the pool.” If ever I was going to wear one again, this was the time.
I found myself on a train from DC to New York, anxious and calm at once, hyper-alert but also strangely numb, wishing the train could fly toward the new baby.
My trusted friend Linda sent me this yesterday and, after viewing it, not only did my cheeks hurt from laughing, but they were bright red from embarrassment for being found out. Obviously, I am not alone.
I am going on vacation next week. I have also planned a vacation from my vacation the week after our adult children and their families go with us to Colorado.
I got phone calls from friends all over the world asking "Are you OK?" I was — but my webmail account was not.
An appreciation of this site, from someone who just a year ago began to find her voice as a contributor to WVFC.