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Cynth'ya Lewis Reed, click here
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Cemetary chats work wonders.
On Monday, September 13, 2004, I will officially be qualfied for many things. Matters not that the Red Hat Society welcomes me with open arms to brandish spectrums of crazy crimson and vivacious violet, thumbing my nose at conservative fashion; or that I will be able to clench a fist full of coupons in AARP travel benefits.
No amount of alpha hydroxy serum can take away the piercing realization that turning 50 means that--if I''m as wise as my years attest--that I will have more screenings, probably more perscriptions than perfumes, and more post-its stuck around my house to remind me from where I put my eyeglasses, to how many appointments I have to do for those who have no time to do for themselves.
And hair weave or not, this stage of life makes me realize that hair, and my body, will sprout embarrasing strands of renegade silver chinhairs across my once, less sensitive outer epidermis. The crown of my head will perhaps one day be the receptive zone for tiny plugs of hair transplants taken from the more fertile zones near the back of my neckline of genetically inspired Afro-Cherokee tresses passed on from both Mama''s and Daddy''s side of the family.
I recall times that, when in high school, I was more concerned about what people would think about what I did and said, even dream about their acceptance or rejection of all I did to impress them. But now, if I feel like wearing clothing that would launch an APB by the fashion police, I say "bring on the paddy wagon." It''s time for me to be a comfortable older woman who is more concerned about breast cancer than waist size and cleavage projection.
Now that''s not to say that older women shouldn''t look nice. Mark my words, I''ve now got the sexual experience of a thousand harlots just from being married to the same man for almost 30 years. Inhibited? (UmUm ya''ll, I don''t think). And if the desert gets a little dry and the sage brush a tad bit crackly, that''s nothing that a handy little bush trimmer and some exxxstacy gel in a little white tube cannot do to help my husband rise to the occasion.
Sure there are problems that we will all have throughout life. The word itself is a teacher on how to handle it since all it means is: Leap Into Faith Everyday.
Life is like Superman because it can be very fulfilling and can also knock you around. It is more powerful than Arnold Swartzenegger''s bottom jawbone (whew! gotta watch how I spell those last two syllables in his name!)
Plus, Life has this uncanny knack for being able to fool you once for certain, and maybe even twice, but will send you a certified letter that will officially induct you into the Hall of Fools (for which there is currently a waiting list) if the first two lessons don''t take.
Don''t believe it? Look at all the divorce and remarriage statistics in Hollywood, and in your church.
So what is a traveler on the road of life to do when things get a bit too squirelly to handle? Just ask anyone who has survived the gauntlet of having raised children to adulthood. Sure they still have a key to the house, come in and eat your groceries on their way to and/or from work, and catch you and your husband doing the Humpty Dance in the dining room where they used to sit as kids.
Once they get over the shock, anyone, man or woman, who has turned 50 has every right to brag about it. Patty Labelle''s song "New Day" is my theme for life, because there''s only one way to live it. . . and that''s daily!
Matters not whether you knew who your daddy was (or wasn''t); matters not that you didn''t get that job promotion that would have aged you beyond your years anyway; and it certainly doesn''t matter if you never got those braces you wanted to get that perfect smile in your youth.
Thank the Lord God above that you still have teeth in your head, brains with working memory cells--no matter how slow they work--inside your cranium, and people who don''t run away from you whenever you approach them. That just means they don''t owe you money, and welcome a decent conversation.
And if all one can do is complain (we all know at least one person like that), then try this litmus test:
1. Get yourself a tape recorder, and a 90 minute tape.
2. Line up all the issues that are before you. Shout at them as to how they are ruining your life. Blame them for causing unspeakable anguish that is holding you back from your goals.
3. Take that tape to the cemetary.
4. Push "play."
5. See if anyone cares and says you are distrubing their peace.
I just am glad (even though it took nearly five decades to figure most of it out--and yes, I said MOST) that we are always going to have problems. The good times we have are just rest periods or else we all go straightup nuts. And to quote from a book by Criswell Freeman that I plan give to my grandson, (once he''s old enough to read at that grade level, regardless of the No Child Left Behind Suggestion, since it certainly is not an "Act"), I''ll tell him this:
"The next time you''re faced with tough times, ask yourself if this is a problem that will concern you on your death-bed. If not, don''t disturb yourself too much."
Now, go ahead, answer that telephone, and tell those bill collectors to go find a field of daisies to pick, because that field is where your attitude is relocating.
© 2004 by cynth''ya lewis reed
all rights reserved.
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Web Site:
Spiritual Questions
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Peter
(((HUGS))) and much love, your friend in tx., karen lynn. :D