I think I have regressed. The closer I get to age 43 – the more like a young, college girl I feel.
I don’t know what I want to be when I grow up. I sit and wait for an interview for a position as a full time counselor, but deep down I’d rather write for an interior design blog, sell houses or take pictures professionally. As much as I know intellectually that these other careers are possible, I know that staying home for the summer is the best option for my kids. Oh, and having a secure salary is good, too. I dream of starting over with a world of possibility and opportunity at my fingertips, but shrivel up from the insecurity that is wrapped up in all of these other options. I can remember when I left college with dreams of a career in advertising. The nervousness I’d feel during interviews due to my lack of experience was immense. It swelled over me almost to the point that my body wouldn’t function properly. I think that’s what keeps me from starting a new career again. Interviews are a walk in the park for me now. In the last 15 years, there really hasn’t been any situation or task out there, in school counseling, that I haven’t tackled. I may not be satisfied with my work, but I do know how to work with kids and families.
Another area in my life that has made me feel “young” again is with my ability to be a friend. My happiness used to revolve around my social life. I was on the phone, or with other people, ALL the time. I never considered choosing to spend time by myself. If it happened, it was because other people were busy. As I progressed through life, men became my social life. I have had several long term relationships and soon learned that it was hard to keep strong female friendships when I kept moving away. After my divorce, I found a group of thirty-somethings at work. We did a lot together, but it was effortless. We had so much in common and our accessibility to each other was easy. Because we were all a bit older, the friendships were strong, but not nearly as intimate as when I was in college or high school. A few years in, I met Chris. Once again, I moved. Five hours away. I moved to a town that I didn’t like and it permeated through my being. Let’s just say that no one would label me as “perky” or “effervescent” during the Green Bay years. Throw in a colicky first baby, an old house in disrepair and a marriage that was given too many stressors in its infancy – and you have an unhappy person. Not exactly the type that attracted or fostered lasting friendships.
As I have adjusted to living in Salt Lake, the walls have slowly come down. I have become more open and willing to develop long lasting relationships. I quickly became friends with several of the neighborhood moms and thoroughly enjoyed my colleagues at work. Unfortunately – and I can’t decide when it began – I now feel like it’s a struggle again.
Maybe it’s because I work part time, that I have such a hard time talking to other moms about our respective children’s accomplishments, skills and/or activities. I quickly assess what they are doing and assume it’s better and more wonderful than anything I’m doing. Then I try to figure out how to duplicate what they are doing and realize that that would be dumb. Sometimes this process occurs quickly, most often it doesn’t.
I am also doing this “comparison” thing more and more with my athletic endeavors. I have trained for a marathon and a half marathon in my lifetime. I made huge strides, and kept a tremendous effort up, but ran neither event. I work out 4-5 days a week, but still don’t feel I’m doing enough. I can’t consider swimming laps at my club’s pool because “everyone” that does that is enrolled in the Master swimming program. And I don’t really want to do that. In my spinning class, I’ve been having a hard time keeping up lately. My heart rate will soar, and then during our “backing off” periods, it won’t come right back down. I’ll be in pain – true pain – and won’t allow myself to slow down because maybe the guy next to me will notice. It’s crazy, I know. I finally talked to one of the instructors (a competitive bike racer and triathlete) about my symptoms and she told me that I’m over training and I need to keep my heart rate lower for the next two weeks. So this morning, I rode the elliptical machine at a slower pace and actually wondered if the chick at the front desk was laughing under her breath at the old broad “trying” to work out. Writing it all down like this makes me see how crazy it is, but it’s my rational world at those moments!
This athletic stuff leads right into my age-old body image issues. However, lately they seem magnified. Because I’ve lost lots of weight in front of some of my neighbors and friends, I start to wonder what they must think of me now that I’ve gained it back.
Again – college crap. Only then it was all about the guys. Who will want to go out with me since I’m so fat? Now it’s – “Who will want to hang out with the chubby mom?” It’s not that I think of my weight as something that puts people off – it’s different here in the land of mountains, hiking and REI. It’s more about activity level. If I don’t look fit, then I must be a couch potato. That’s about as bad as it gets around here.
Most of these issues are repeats of things I’ve felt my whole life – only in a different form. The difference I’m feeling these days is that intellectually I know better. I know that a woman with a Masters degree, two beautiful children, and an accomplished career that revolves around helping people should be proud of these things. I am, but I don’t think about those things when I’m worrying about Harry. When I’m worrying that his misbehavior castes a negative light on my parenting skills. I’m not thinking about those things when the new shorts I’m wearing look hideous when I catch a glance of myself in the mirror at the store today. I’m not thinking of those things when I walk across the room at spinning class and wonder if people are looking at my large you-know-what in those stupid tight lycra bike shorts.
I just want to grow up. I want to have security. My mom used to harp on me about this stuff. She’d yell at me, “Just like yourself!” I think she was an amazing friend and parent to me, but in those moments I wouldn’t say she was at her best.
As I look at Ella, I daily worry that she will lose her self esteem some day. I desperately demand that she be assertive all the time. She doesn’t like to make her own decisions. I tell her she has to. When anyone comments on her beautiful eyes – I tell her how smart she is. I do not want her to be writing things like this four days before she turns 43.
