As a woman, first born, wife (take your pick), I’ve struggled with the issue of being in control.  I hate to use the term “control freak”, but at times I’ve owned that title.  Out of self-defense, I developed my binary theory some years ago (and still use it to this day).  If you’re interested in knowing more, check out “How the Binary Theory Saved My Life*” under “Recent Musings”.   (*Actually it didn’t save my life, but I love those dramatic titles.)  This is dedicated to all those control freaks out there (and I know you are).

After 4 pairs of shoes and 2 games, mission accomplished!

Today, I took part in an activity that I do particularly badly.  I bowled.  The good news is that this was a fund raiser my husband’s company was participating in for a worthwhile charity – Big Brothers and Big Sisters.  As David was on crutches (yet again) for a broken toe, I “bowled in”.  Despite my poor skills, I had a really great time.   There’s something freeing about setting low expectations and just enjoying yourself.  I enjoyed being part of a team, if only for a couple of hours, and having the freedom to fail (or do well).  Maybe that’s a good attitude to take into any endeavor – just show up and do your best, and don’t worry if you throw the occasional gutter ball.  In fact, that’s the perfect opening for a good laugh.  Believe me, I laughed a lot today.

I went to the doctor’s office the other day.  As a new patient, I was filling out all those forms (in addition to the ones they had already sent me, but I digress), thinking about all the data points that apply to one S. Murdoch.  Aside from first and last name, they asked my weight (bless them for not having me step on that dreaded scale) and my age.  I knew the answers to both, but out of all the information I set down, age felt the most abstract.  I am indisputably 54; I have the birth record to prove it and a long memory dating back to when I was just a year old (teaching myself to use a spoon to include spitting out food so I could scrape it from my little chin).  I remember watching  John Glenn’s launch on TV when I was five, and the day President Kennedy was shot when I was seven (I was sitting in a long hallway at Tripler Army Hospital in Hawaii waiting to be admitted for orthopedic surgery).  But, I have to say, I feel gypped.  At 54, I should be fully grown.  After all, I remember being a young woman in my 20s regarding anyone over 35 as remarkably wise and mature.  Someday that would be me.   I remember turning 18 and 21 and getting the question “How do you feel?  Do you feel older?”  The answer was always no, I just felt like me.  That hasn’t changed; I’m older, but I’m still just me.  Don’t get me wrong, my body betrays my age in many ways (my new doctor mentioned my needing a “complete overhaul” with some relish), but I’ve never woken up feeling like a true grown up, that I had arrived in the land of the wise and ancient ones.

So, how old am I?  I guess over the years I saw aging as shedding and acquiring, something like an iguana that completely sheds his skin every year.  Now I think of it as more like a snowball rolling downhill (all right, so “downhill” may be an unfortunate allusion for the aging, but snowballs don’t roll uphill!).  As you get older, you acquire more and more layers, but you still are the person you were at two, at six, at ten, at twenty,  and on.  I guess I never will completely leave my precocious four year old self behind and I’m not sure I want to.  I’ll probably never be the female equivalent of the distinguished gentleman with the gently graying temples, sporting a silk smoking jacket and a pipe.  I’ll just be me.  Somehow, that’s a comfort.

So, I went to church tonight and saw a friend of mine.  I love her, she’s so genuine, and a real encouragement to me, but lately she’s been discouraged.  I understand the cause well.  Over a year ago, she lost a good deal of weight with a group of “biggest losers” that met every week, and was on top of the world, feeling energized and healthy.  I remember going to a Zumba class and working hard to keep up with her (and laughing the whole time at my extreme lack of coordination).  She was a major inspiration for my losing weight as part of the same group.  But, you know how it is.  During your strong time, you are inspired and can’t imagine ever struggling with the issue again.  Over time, though, inspiration and energy wane, and the struggle returns.  Lately, some of her weight has crept back on, and she is battling.  She’s not alone; I’ve had a similar experience.  What struck me is that her current despair is such a marked contrast to the positive, energetic individual that lost the weight, and the difference can’t be accounted for by a few pounds.  Why is it that we move our whole psyche into that small area that isn’t what we would wish it to be and despair?  I can’t say how many times I’ve found myself upset and depressed when I have so much to be thankful for.  Our hunger is not always tied to the physical; we can have a banquet of blessings but see nothing but an empty table.

This is not the end of the story.  We all have our hungry times, but I’m confident she will find her mojo again.    What is right in our lives far outweighs (forgive the pun) what is not. The real challenge is taking a chair at the place of plenty and eating our fill, rather than relegating ourselves to our empty corners.  Hang in there sister; I’m right there with you.

An ordinary day, but not so ordinary.  I went to Sam’s Club to pick up the usual suspects — milk, bread…and pickles.  I’m the type of person that enjoys being friendly, making the quick connection.   Some might say too friendly, but err on the side of positive I say.  Hearing a toddler’s persistent cry, I sprang into action (when you think about it, how much worse could it get?).  Smiling, I walked up and distracted him with some soothing words and a back rub. (I must seem innocuous enough; no parent has yet tackled me or called the authorities.)  As I talked to him, he put his pacifier in his mouth and dropped his cheek to rest on the blanket his mother had wrapped around the cart handle for just that purpose.  His eyes closed.  Even I was impressed.  “Thank you”,  his grandmother said, “You have the touch”.  “Sometimes”, I responded with a smile, thinking of the times my over friendliness had been met with sheer terror by little ones (note to self, never approach a two year old who is not already crying, lest you precipitate the same).    At the crowded check out, there was an unattended cart that housed only two small vitamin bottles — an unusual sight at Sam’s.   An employee walked up to it, followed closely by an elderly gentleman.  “Here it is,” she said, “I thought it was abandoned.”  “Were you in line?” I asked him.  He nodded in some irritation.  “Go ahead of me.” I told him, which he promptly did.  When it was his turn to check out, it turned out he wasn’t a club member, but had seen “something in the mail” to try it out.   “Do you have it with you?”  the clerk asked him.  He didn’t.   Impulsively, I offered up my membership card.   “Just use this” I told the clerk.  “I don’t usually do this, but…” she said as took it.  We exchanged a smile.  After all it was just a small purchase. When his credit card wasn’t the right type, he fumbled through his wallet looking for cash.  For a moment, I thought I might need to extend my generosity to actually paying, and was prepared.  Finally he found a worn twenty and handed it over.  Turning to me before leaving, he said  “Thank you.”  “You are so welcome.” I replied, hoping that this had made his experience a little less stressful.   Such a small thing, but I felt fortunate that I was there.  He could have been my father.