Getting Free

[Originally published April 2005]

I have never been concerned with my age, or aging in particular. Like my approach to race and sex, my approach to a person’s age—including my own—has always been: “You are what you are and you can’t (easily) change that”. Even so, as the silvery strands populate my crown more thickly, I can’t deny that I have been thinking more about the effects of the years—and miles—upon myself.

The impetus for this introspection has been the recurring topic of growing older in an email conversation with a very good friend. Being of like minds, it’s been mostly a positive exchange. I think we’ve helped each other with what might otherwise have been some rough spots, since it’s hard to completely ignore a culture that seems perpetually enamored with youth and firm, lithe bodies. When she mentioned that an acquaintance of hers recently celebrated her 50th birthday by throwing a “crone party”, the idea resonated with me very strongly. Why not celebrate an important, and potentially rich time of life—and the achievement of getting there?

I remember my grandmother calling the lines at the corners of her eyes “crow’s feet” when I was a youngster. The term horrified me, then and now. To me, the lines weren’t ugly; they were the sign of a face that had smiled and laughed much, enjoying the sun and wind and weather. I see the beginnings of them at the corners of my eyes, and instead of feeling a sinking dread, I welcome them. They’re reminders that I, too, have enjoyed much in my life thus far.

Similarly, my once-flat lower abdomen now curves a bit, a testament to my body's production of two children. As I enjoyed being pregnant very much, and enjoy my children, that new curve is a mostly pleasant reminder of two very special times in my life. To use a Heinleinian phrase, my baby-chewed breasts are softer now, but I wouldn’t trade their previous firmness for the many hours with a baby in my arms, gazing into his or her eyes as my body nourished theirs.

These days I’m moderately fit, instead of the very fit person I used to be—also something I refuse to feel guilty about (most of the time—again, those messages are hard to totally ignore). My life is so full that devoting the time it would take to maintain the body I once had is not a choice I want to make. I want to play with my children, who can’t hike, rock climb, or ski (yet); I want to savor the time spent reading a good book; I want to exercise because it feels good to feel my body stretching and moving, not because I have to maintain buns of steel.

I also refuse to count calories, or fat grams, or any such silliness, even though my body seems more likely to want to store excess than it has before. I’d much rather enjoy a decadent chocolate cake, a glass of red wine, and good conversation with beloved friends, and be a little wider in the behind for it, than be obsessed about thunder thighs and the Atkins diet, and be skinny and alone night after night.

I hope that I’ll be around to savor the intense spark of life in a grandchild. My mother railed against this sign of aging more than any other, and I’ve never understood that. What could be a more precious affirmation of life than creating new life—passing a bit of your spark into the future?

When I see a woman with stunning silver hair, I find myself hoping that when I’m completely grey, my hair is as gorgeous as hers. If not, I may just color it—something I’ve never even contemplated before—as a celebration of cronedom and the unique beauties it offers. I certainly will not cut it almost completely off, then curl, comb, tease, puff, or permanent the remnants, until I startle at my own appearance in the mirror every morning. My mane will remain long and flowing for as long as I’m able to care for it, or have someone willing to do so—and when someone isn’t, then it’s time for me to go.

My underwear—and nightwear, when I choose to wear it—will continue to come from Victoria’s Secret or similar place, even though I never have and never will look like their models. Must one be under 35 to appreciate the glissando of silk on one’s skin? Or even better, the caress of satin under an appreciative lover’s hand? Both feel better now for having slept in some of the interesting situations I’ve found myself in over the years.

In short, as I progress into another phase of life, I fully intend to drink fully of its offerings, learn as much as I can from both its pleasures and its pains, and do things the way I want, rather than the way “little old ladies” are expected to. That’s the way I have always been. Why should I stop when I become a crone?

It’s been said before that I’m a mutant. Maybe I am. But I see no value in denying what one is—who one is—for the sake of fitting in with a culture that is in many ways profoundly unhealthy. To me, becoming a crone is an important milestone, one well worth celebrating.

I think I’ll begin planning my crone party.

To me!

Never really intended to have one, much less create it myself. But after a conversation with Lobo this morning, one fell in to my mind—and it seems practically perfect in every way.

I’ve been keeping an eye out for news from Belarus in the wake of the bombing. As is typical of our media, now that the bleeding is over, their eyes have mostly turned elsewhere. Having Belarusian friends provides more of an insider’s view—as does the experience of Lobo and the snolfs, freshly returned from a visit to that part of the world. The contrasts between the situations—and people—of that country and this are rich in irony.

... Gang aft agley.

I should have seen this coming—I’ve been pissing and moaning about how technology is destroying food quality, and while that can happen, technology can also improve some things.

I’ve been having a conversation with a dear friend about rights, and property rights in particular. It took me back to this discussion. Then, in the midst of pondering all that, I came across an observation regarding self ownership that got my li’l reptilian going again. Fastening seat belts and/or taking blood pressure meds before stepping in to the debate room is advised.

I’m not sure if whatever cheer you seven gain from my recent slump being so short–lived will offset my returning to a theme that some may find tiresome. Be that as it may; it’s a topic that is only going to be increasingly important unless (or until) the collapse comes.

Most of the regulars here already know that the Senate’s version of the food fascism bill, alternatively known as S.B. 510, was passed yesterday. According to the sources I follow on this issue, a few issues stand in the way of it becoming law—more than the usual reconciliation with the House version, which was passed some time ago. Some see hope in that; but I don’t ... since the general idea has gotten congressional approval, I expect some sort of food tyranny will become the law within the next year or two. I don’t like it one bit, but am inured to it. Anyway, that isn’t what I want to focus on at the moment.

It turns out that federal taxes often inflict a double cut upon us, according to an op–ed in the Wall Street Journal. Although politicians promise to apply the additional sum to reducing the U.S. deficit, that never seems to happen.

Catching up on some blog reading lately, I came across something that was so suffused with irony I can’t help but remark on it ... even though I have misgivings about doing so.

It is wonderful to see that our dear Uncle Warren is back to making music.

Alternatively titled as Making the World a Better Place, Part the Second. (And if anyone needs/wants a refresher on what “S.E.S.” stands for, here you go.)

This particular S.E.S. is pretty brutal. We’re required to be physically and mentally sharp; and if one of us isn’t, a frequent result is pushups for us all. There’s a lot of protocol one must adhere to as well; and bowing—a lot of bowing. Just in case my comments haven’t given it away to everyone, the S.E.S. of which I speak is karate; and what I’m doing in it can best be summarized as, “Loving it!”.

A good deal of my absence here—and the lightness of subject when I do post—can be attributed solely to fear.

A friend and I formed a sort of "steering committee" about a month ago to bring a Bountiful Baskets co-op drop site to Newcastle in order to obtain really fresh fruits and vegetables. Some here may remember that lack of same was one of the real problems with living in rural NE Wyoming. Little is produced here, and shipping makes the cost at the grocery stores very high.