The Beauty of a Woman BlogFest III

This post is part of August McLaughlin’s Beauty of a Woman blogfest. She suggested writing an encouraging letter to your least favorite body part. Her blog and other entries can be found at http://augustmclaughlin.wordpress.com.  

not me

Dearest Loathsome Midsection of Mine,

You crept up on me so stealthily that I hardly recognize you. I can’t say that I like you very much, if the truth be told, but I’m sure you really don’t care. You’ve changed, and I don’t like the transformation. Years ago, you were practically unnoticeable when I unveiled you in only a bikini top, cut-offs and flip flops during summertime and wasn’t embarrassed. Perhaps that was simply adolescent naivete of someone fooling herself.

So many things in my life are different now. Age and slower metabolism is taking its toll. Bad habits have ingrained themselves, no matter how innocuous they seemed at first. Yes - I know I need to give up sugar, pasta and Diet Coke. Bagels are not kind to me. Chocolate is not my friend, regardless of how good it tastes at that moment.

Don’t even talk to me about the gym, damn you!

You honestly deserve some credit. You held my baby while his body and mind developed, while my “advanced maternal age,” as they called it, did me no favors. My son was nestled safely within my body while he waited to face the world, and his is the greatest gift of my life.  

While I owe you thanks for accomplishing that herculean task, I’m still fighting against you. A metamorphosis took place after the doctor performed a c-section and later a hysterectomy. It’s not his fault, though, because hormone changes (or the absence thereof) necessitate lifestyle changes. Knowing that now doesn’t make me fit in clothes any more comfortably until I do more about it. I need to be healthy enough to see as much of my son’s life as possible.

That’s why I go to yoga class even when I don’t feel like it. I glare at you in the mirrored wall while I try to stifle all the negative self-talk going on in my head. Giving you the stink eye does no good. It’s funny how I feel so much better afterward, although my brain played tricks on me and said I could skip a day because I was too tired or had something else to do. Becoming even more active could bring about the weight loss I want.

Ultimately, the way you look is not the sum total of who I am. You are a part of my physical self but not who I am as a person, a woman, a mother. My family and friends see the real me, not just the size 6 I used to be or the size 10-going-on-12 I am now. My stomach, waist and hips do not determine my beauty or my worth.

How I live and how I love are what make me beautiful. So I’ll continue to try to convince myself of that fact and not suffer over days long gone. Funny, I don’t remember if I was happier back when I looked different. I can only worry about being happy now, and you can’t keep me from it.

Sincerely,

Me

P.S. I just ate a fun-size Butterfinger and loved every second of it. 

  

(image via collectivewizdom.com)

August encourages us all to share our thoughts on beauty, and comments are welcome below. How do you define beauty? What makes you feel beautiful? Any thoughts to share on this year’s fest overall?

out to lunch

No one has probably even noticed that I haven't posted here in months, as my following is small. I fully realize my relative web insignificance. It's humbling but true.

I do wish I was more diligent about my "Thanks, my friend" effort I had somewhat persistently pursued for about a year. So many amazing women deserve recognition, and I regret I haven't continued to give them kudos here. My life is rich with amazing women I have the privilege to know, and I hope to get back to blogging about them. 

In the meantime, I have been fervently pursuing fiction over at katy brandes writes. The main impetus is an online writing community called Studio 30 Plus, where weekly prompts give me the motivational push I need. 

I am trying to "find my voice." It was a great pleasure to have a line from one of my posts , "a semi-permanent state of self-medication," used as Studio30+'s prompt this week.

Many posts are out-takes from my '70s childhood with fictional spins on them. Sometimes I get a tad serious and sprinkle in some social commentary. Being from the Midwest, I can't help but also throw in what I hope is a little colloquial humor.

Any which way I spin it, I am having a ball trying to mix it up and improve my fictional skills (take that how you will). Meeting other bloggers, especially other avid readers and book reviewers, is one of my favorite things about shredding the blogsophere.  

So, until further notice, please find me over on that other platform. Thanks!

The Caretaker

via Magic Ketchup on Flickr

A faint whiff of Vicks VapoRub drifted across the stale room as her Mistress exhaled heavily and dispersed the scent. Even a cat could sense the thick medicinal smell. Moogie, a long-haired Calico, lay on the rocker’s seat next to the bed and lifted her head to sniff, sniff, sniff the air as felines are apt to do.

Moogie was originally called Mookie, regardless of being a female, after her favorite baseball player who’d helped the Mets beat the Red Sox in that “Buckner Play” during the ‘86 World Series. Her Mistress hated Boston. One of her favorite memories was listening to ball games on the radio back before her hearing failed. With her slurred speech following the stroke, nurses thought she called the cat “Moogie” instead of “Mookie,” and it had stuck.

Now the Mistress spent most of her days reading the paper, even though she may not remember what news she’d read minutes after setting it down on the night stand, or slowly rocking in the chair her late husband had built out of oak boughs. Moogie spent many afternoons on her lap in front of the window, resting in a supine position enveloped within an irresistible splay of sunlight. Her Mistress’s gnarled fingers still endlessly stroked the cat and immersed them both in joy. Such happiness had been hard to come by since the Master’s death several years prior and the failing health of her Mistress after that aneurism somewhat incapacitated her. Regardless, they still had each other.

The attentive companion realized a sudden absence of the sharp vapor aroma and crept from her perch on the rocking chair and onto the resting place of her Mistress. Moogie padded softly across the bird’s-nest patterned quilt, ironically named for the only other place the cat would rather be than with her beloved Mistress. The cat stepped gingerly to ascend the woman’s body and onto her regular nesting spot atop her chest. But her ears immediately perked up, as something was amiss upon her arrival there.

Moogie noticed the lack of a rhythmic tempo, the normal rise and fall usually present when she sunk into repose, and how the body of her Mistress seemed flat and absent of breath. The night nurse was in the other room and, unfortunately, had no way to know if anything was wrong. A growl emerged from Moogie’s throat at the possibility of that woman not paying attention.

Magic Ketchup on Flickr

She sprung into action and leapt into the hallway to gain the nurse’s attention. Of course, the lazy woman sat with a pile of knitting in her lap in front of a static-filled screen in the living room and her head lolling onto the back of the sofa. The white noise emitting from the television muffled any sound from the adjacent bedroom where her Mistress might lay dying.

Forming a tight figure eight around the dozing woman’s legs, Moogie intently rubbed on her calves and mewed as strongly as possible to rouse her from slumber. She ambled onto the sofa when those caresses seemed too slight to do the trick and alit on the back of the couch beside the nurse’s head. Moogie positioned herself strategically by the woman’s ear to let out a yowl loud enough to stir poor Mister, long since six-feet-under. The cat mustered all she had, for an aged being such as her, to wail at top volume.

It wasn’t actually the caterwauling that awakened the nurse but an annoying tickle from Moogie's long, white whiskers and a perpetual tinkle of the round bell hanging from her red collar that did it. The nurse bolted upright and rose to her feet, frightfully aware of her dereliction of duty. “Silly, cat,” she said. “What are you doing ... trying to steal my breath?”

As she strode toward the bedroom, the nurse called, “Missus, are you alright?” There was, of course, no answer. No stirring whatsoever came from within the confines of the room. A startlingly loud snort broke the silence just as she reached toward the Mistress to check on her odd state of still reticence, and the nurse let out a heavy sigh of relief. In her twist to find a comfortable position, the Mistress made several other snuffling sounds indicative of her persistent sleep apnea. The nurse retreated to her knitting once she’d pulled the mussed coverlet back up to her charge’s chin.

Already back up on the bed, Moogie wound her body in several circles before settling down once again at her Mistress’s side. She closed her still sharp green eyes and lost herself once again to repose amidst the familiar yet calming current of menthol breezing past her whiskers.


*This post was prompted by tinkle at Studio30Plus.

Thanks, my friend! (Sept. 27)

There is an over-abundance of wonderful women in my life, and I'm so lucky to be able to make that claim. Those of us who have lots of friends are rich indeed! I'd like to recognize my friend, Joan, as I was able to recently catch up with her and realize how very much I miss seeing her on a regular basis.

Joan always has a kind word to offer. She is one of those rare people who always asks about the other person first and listens with great interest even though she very well could be bored to tears (and deservedly so). She makes a friend feel like their story is the most interesting one in the world, even though it likely isn't!

With so many egocentric people in the world and so few good things think about from the news, it's refreshing to be personally acquainted with "good folk," ones who are simply fun to be around. Joan has a comfortingly hearty laugh and playful attitude. She takes her work seriously but not too much so. It was always a joy to be around her at my previous job, and being in her company could make the worst day better.

She has always made me feel like she was happy to see me, and I hope she knows how much I miss her. I had so much fun talking with her last weekend, and it made my heart soar to watch her face light up to see me. Maybe that was just the beer talking ... lol.

Even though I haven't told her so, this woman is an indomitable force whom I admire on a personal as well as professional level. Her husband and son have a great woman in their life, of which I'm sure they are aware. She, too, is a woman of integrity, and I'm glad she's my friend.

*If you are privileged enough as I am to have women in your life who make it all the better, let them know. Tell them thanks for being your friend. You'll be glad you did.

Thanks, my friend! (August 8)

There's actually a reason why none of my friends were duly thanked during the month of July. I was a bit preoccupied with a little writing project called Camp NaNoWriMo, which patterns itself after National Novel Writing Month in November each year. Writers usually either love it or hate it. I'm in the latter group but was encouraged to take part by some other online writers with whom I associate online.
A few of them went pretty gung ho with their effort, too, writing 50,000 plus words during those 31 harried days. I was happy with meeting my goal of 30,000 and was able to reach it, in part, with the encouragement and support of someone I know from an online community of writers called Studio 30 Plus.
Marie is a friend of mine who really kicked ass at Camp. She not only met her lofty daily writing goal but managed to still promote the Studio through online marketing AND job hunt while enjoying her regular dreamy lifestyle. It takes place afloat in the Gulf of Mexico on either her boat or paddle board when she's not otherwise travelling the States as a race car mechanic. Not too shabby, eh?
I didn't steal her picture to use here without asking but took the liberty to nab a shot of her artwork (hope she doesn't mind). The piece puts one of many amazing talents into corporeal form, and it IS shark week after all. She is a creative force, and I can't wait to read her novel currently in the editing stage.
Although we haven't met in person, I feel I have a good essence of this woman without ever shaking her hand or giving her a hug. I don't know if Marie IS a hugger, but her spirit reaches through the computer screen and grabs you. She always encourages other writers and gives me positive feedback. Her timing is great, too, especially when it seems only she and my friend, Lanea, (who originally inspired this "thanks, my friend" meme) care to read anything I write.
Constructive criticism comes easier from like-minded people, so I appreciate communing with Marie as we pour out our minds onto paper (or screens, as the case may be). I hope to maybe watch her either derby or replace an engine one day, but for now want to say 'thanks, my friend!"

Thanks, my friend! (June 27)

This message is a little overdue, although it has been spoken in other words a long time ago.  Four years last month, as a matter of fact. Yesterday I got a reminder about needing to voice my thanks to a great person, Rhonda, who helped us when buying our house in 2009.

She posted a funny FB story yesterday that touched my generally cynical but just then "soft side."  It was about her being complimented by an older man, which she totally deserved, but who was obviously making a geriatric move.  She politely declined his offer, being the sweet person that makes her Rhonda.  Rhonda was very gracious to him, and while I wish I'd have done the same, I probably just would've bitched about always getting hit on by the oldest and/or stinkiest dude around.  That's the truth, btw.  He was always either ancient or putrid -- even in Ireland.

A friend of hers suggested -- much like I do with thanks, my friend to "tell people nice things like that" as we never know when life will end and shouldn't "miss the opportunity to brighten someone's day."  I totally get that!  There's no sense in looking back and wishing we would've told someone something when the chance is gone.  

So my thanks go to Rhonda for guiding us to a home that has made life comfortable in a sometimes foreign place and for her personal touch in doing so.  I'm glad we've stayed in touch online, because she's a genuinely delightful person and a strong, independent woman.  That looks lovely on a lady!

Life is short, and we meet relatively few great people while we're living it.  Don't wish you coulda/woulda/shoulda said something nice to someone when you think of it instead of remembering with regret later!

Thanks, my friend! (June 20)

If you're very lucky, you find people in your life who bring positiveness to those around them. It doesn't matter what life throws Kim, she's like that. One of those give-me-lemons-and-I'll-make-lemonade types. She looks at the good and keeps a smile on her face.

Honesty is one of the strong traits of this beautiful woman. Kim is candid and self-effacing. She doesn't let pride get in the way. I find it very admirable that what you see is what you get with her. Her sense of self is strong enough that she fearlessly puts herself "out there." Her boys must have gleaned some of that strength from her, and she is one proud Mama!
Coming from a small town provides some perks, one of which is being able to easily stay in touch with your old friends through mutual friends. Kim and I have known each other since we were in high school and have only been able to get together a few times since then, but it's pleasure when I get to see her. We always laugh and have fun. I wish she and I were closer, but the distance makes me cherish the chances we have to talk all the better.
It only takes a moment to tell a friend how special she is to you and recognize something great about her. Take the opportunity you have to do it right now! You will be glad you did.