definitely need to workout in nature outside, often,” my dear and
beloved fitness trainer, Kathy M., said to me after we finished an ass
kicking workout yesterday.
were speaking of menopause. Again. This is the hot, (pun totally
intended), topic these days. It seems like every woman I know is talking
about menopause. Maybe this is such a hot button issue because we are
seeing the benefits of women entering the medical profession over the
last twenty years. Finally, we are seeing the results of their
are talking about menopause like it is, in fact, something. No kidding.
Something indeed. We are actually saying the words, vaginal dryness, out-fucking-loud in daily conversations with other women. Hallelujah!
is my solace for my post menopausal brain. No matter what is happening
in my spinning washing machine cycle head, as soon as I go outside and
smell the air, I am better. Going through menopause is one thing, but
like a mastectomy and reconstruction, it is what happens after the dust
settles where the real psycho body and mind shit starts kicking in. This
is when we need to be talking and walking. Now.
I don’t mean to keep repeating the obvious, but since my grandmother never said the word, vagina
aloud ever, I do so for any woman who lived before me in hot and dry
silence. Vaginal dryness, belly bloat, weird crepey, saggy skin that is
starting to creep in, cellulite and flab, no matter how many protein
shakes and push ups. Seriously, when I smile now, my upper lip seems to
stay back before it bounces back. My hair is on speed dial causing a
full time date with the morning light and the magnifying mirror I
previously vowed complete celibacy to, never mind looking in the rear
view car mirror. Wouldn’t matter anyway since I can’t see anymore. I
envy when women say, “hair barely grows on my legs anymore.” In my
I now need a magnifying mirror, this comes with its own set of
warnings, like the magnification of every brown spot and line that
seemed to appear out of nowhere. I just noticed the other day in that
unfortunate light that my eye lid is starting to head south, like over
my eyeball. Thankfully I have stopped wearing makeup so at least the
mascara won’t land on my cheek. My mother taught me good skin care early
on, and I actually listened, since moisturizing regularly has certainly
paid off. I have pretty good skin, but since this has been my
profession, I suppose it better be good.
there is the sitting in my beach chair and looking down at my stomach
that belongs to some other woman. Where did the rolls come from? And I
am not talking rolls because I am overweight. I am just speaking of my
skin that now just rolls. How and when did they arrive? I swear, five
minutes ago I was strutting around in a bikini, a real bikini, not a
tankini, not a skirt, and now I am here at the beach thinking maybe my
two piece life is actually really over for good.
wake up in the middle of the night sometimes with a foot or a leg cramp
that jolts me out of bed reminding me that I need to be more regular
with the magnesium. Then there are the conversations about all of this
happening like we chicks are the first ones to ever experience any of
this, (of course writing about all of this doesn’t warrant talk about
flowers and shopping, I get that). Well, we are surely not the first,
but we may just be the first to actually say it loud and proud, like it
is some badge of honor instead of some hysterical Freudian
look at the young mamas with their babies and fifteen hundred dollar
strollers prancing around with their latte in the cup holders that now
come with said strollers. They walk with their phone in one hand adorned
with their athletic wear like having a baby these days is some type of
fashion show. I am so happy I am past that point of no return. Way too
much technology these days distracting these parents from the present
moment. My friends and I can’t help but live in the present moment of
hot flashes and night sweats that came without warning taking over our
bodies. And our minds.
I don’t even know how my brain works each day. I am thankful for
nature, meditation, working out, and connection. Connection is what
keeps me sane these days. Connection with myself, my body’s new reality,
and my friends and family. (And wine, but more on this later.) This is
all we have. And we, in our circle of fifty something chicks, seem to be
realizing this wholeheartedly.
is the good part of menopause, it reminds me with each and every flash
to wake up, pay attention, that time is moving along and I might want to
start that bucket list or project I have on my endless to do list. (To
do lists becoming more necessary because of the memory lapsing that I
will add here as another end result of menopause.) Better yet, as
Arianna Huffington said in a great interview, “You can also just simply
take the to do off of the to do list and call it a day.” Amen. Just
saying that feels liberating.
of calling it menopause, maybe we should call it, Man, do I pause.
Because if menopause has taught me anything, it is to pause. It is to
take notice and realize that these hot flashes, that have finally slowed
down, are to remind me that I am ready for the next phase. No more
babies, no more adolescents, college graduation looms large this
upcoming year for my only child and I am realizing that have my whole
life ahead of me.
do I pause, because the only person left standing is me. I get to
choose the next part. I have my man, sure, but I am solo by choice in
the sense of decision making, life ahead and wonder and creativity
abounds. This is a great time to pause. I am done here, but not there.
The there is next. Let’s just hope for a little moisture in the there,
is that too much to ask?
get old,” the lovely woman with the kindest eyes and smile announced to
me as we both found ourselves in the bra section of Target this past
week. I was not really in the bra section, but the pajama bottoms I was
looking for happened to be neighbors with the bras and underwear. A
double mastectomy and reconstruction removes the need for the bra
section. The woman was one of those older women who was sprite and
active, but as I watched her stand in front of the rows and rows of bras
looking overwhelmed, she gave me pause.
“I’m ninety-five.” She said this as so many aging people do, stating their age to get the desired reply of, Wow, you look amazing.
This woman did look incredible; in fact any woman out shopping alone at
the age of ninety-five, as spry and together as she was, deserved the
compliment. “Too bad you don’t live in Florida,” I said jokingly, “I
could fix you up with my 102 year old grandfather.” She didn’t hear me
and had already moved on to the sales girl who was trying to help her
with the utmost patience and kindness. Go target sales girl, go.
was reminded of the old time place my grandmother used to go to called
Jean Belson in Boston back in the day when women actually got fitted for
bras as a normal part of their lives. Before pushups and wireless took
hold of our breasts and rib cages. This lovely lady looked like the type
of woman who would have used stores like that, but now realized that
this was a thing of the past for the most part and found herself in
Target. Why she would even be buying a bra from my hippie chick
perspective as I watched her astonished me. Ninety-five should be a free
pass to go bra-less always, but this woman wasn’t that type of woman
who would even consider this, I imagined. I was guessing she had
outlived her husband as so many women her age have and was just trying
to keep herself active and busy. Buying bras on a random day was another
thing to do to occupy her time and have a purpose for her day. She
looked like she was there solo, so I am also guessing that she is still
aging process comes out of nowhere. One minute you can’t imagine ever
talking about aches and pains and the next minute you find yourself
talking about your next doctor’s visit for some test they want you to
have because of indigestion. These kind of discussions used to drive
both of my grandmothers crazy. I can still hear my grandmother Isabelle
telling her brother Eddie, “When someone asks you, Eddie, ‘How are you,’
you just say, ‘Fine;’ people don’t want to hear your belly aching.”
Isabelle could not tolerate going out with her peers if they only spoke
of their next doctor’s visit. She used to say that there were so many
world events to discuss, why would people want to complain about their
health issues all the time?
sneaks up on you. One health scare, one surgery, and you are catapulted
into the world of mortality. Life becomes shorter, more urgent, and you
find yourself thinking Life is short with a vengeance. It starts with
your eyesight. You need reading glasses all of a sudden. Next thing you
are at the doctor’s office for a routine exam and your blood pressure is
a little higher than normal or your blood tests came back with your
cholesterol or sugar a little peaked. “We’ll keep an eye on this,” you
hear your doctor say in the follow up phone call. This, of course, is
code word for if you don’t get your shit together, it’s pharmaceutical
time. There seems to be a pill for everything these days and many of the
people I know are taking them with barely a question about the long
each their own, though. Diet and exercise are barely talked about as a
remedy for anything these days and even if one finds themselves in a
doctor’s office where the doctor is recommending this, the patient would
have to listen and take action where a pill seems so much more
convenient. I get the temptation and another great part of aging is I
have removed myself from the high horse I used to ride in lecturing
people about the alternatives. Who the hell am I anyway? I was diagnosed
with breast cancer twice in four years, so I surely have no credibility
when it comes to preaching health and wellness equaling health and
aging that is happening to me, as this fifty-four year old chick, is
more subtle. I can hear my sixty-nine year old friends saying, “54? You
are just a babe in the woods, just wait.” But the subtleties are making
their way, inviting themselves to my body without being asked and the
process is an interesting one. Frankly, this all started with my
surgeries. Surgical menopause at fifty to remove my ovaries and
fallopian tubes as preventative measures created symptoms of rapid fire
hot flashes. I got through those, but now four years later they have
turned into accelerated hair growth, not on my head, and bloating that
is no joke. Everyone said it would happen, but I never thought it would.
Besides the physical (and, I realize, completely cosmetic and
superficial), there is the psychological whirlwind that has made me
reconsider my life going forward.
do I want? What do I need? What do I care about? What is important? And
toggling between blowing all cares to the wind thinking that maybe my
life is shorter than most and the what if I do live as long as my
grandfather? When I meditate which has become almost a daily occurrence
these days, the still small voice is getting louder with all kinds of
messages about my future plans. Louder and louder giving me ideas about
minimizing all my accumulations, like do I really need two shelves
filled with Wonder Woman paraphernalia? Marie Kondo would have a field
day with me as recently she seems to be the go to gal for all things
declutter. I know what I need to do and it is extreme. This is how I
roll though, all or nothing. I fantasize about not only removing half of
my crap, but more so lately all social and technology. I was going to
make a list of all of the technological distractions both mentally and
financially, but part of me simply doesn’t want to know how much money
and time I am wasting my life away on.
precious life. My iPhone recently has gotten in the habit of letting me
know at weeks end how much time I spent on all things phone and it is
pretty frightening especially if I add it up over a life time. Time
wasting used to be television time, but these days the world has their
heads down and there doesn’t seem to be any going back to the ‘good old
is part uphill, part downhill and for the most part it is thrilling.
The days, recently, that it hasn’t been is when I look down and see a
bloating stomach and can’t attribute it to anything, or the rush to the
bathroom because holding it isn’t what it used to be. Damn I wish I had
listened to the Kegel advice from the old Cosmopolitan magazines when I
was in my twenties before babies. The hairs sprouting, the wrinkles
appearing, the interesting things happening to my neck all make for the
best part. Looking at the young girls and knowing that that lovely ass
and smooth wrinkle free skin is a fleeting moment in time for everyone.
No one gets out alive, no one doesn’t age unless they don’t get out
alive. I enjoy watching youth as much as I enjoy watching aging. Both
give great gifts of reminders of the past and the time travel to the
the most part, I am great. These new boobs have been mostly smooth
sailing as I haven’t had the challenges so many women who decided to
reconstruct have had. The horror stories are abundant, but in my case I
had a perfect experience. The downside is that they are here with me and
I know they are not part of my organic makeup. This makes them constant
reminders of the past keeping that inner voice talking to me about
plans of action for what and who I want to be when I grow up. This time
though, growing up isn’t as far away as it used to be.
scandal continues at every corner I have turned this past week since the
story broke. With good reason, it is a dire and despicable example of
what goes terribly wrong with too much money not used for the right
reason. Despite the plane crashes, the school shootings and the massacre
in New Zealand, these college scandals are still in front of us. This
is serious business, this college outrage. It is indicative of the
layers of entitlement and greed that is nothing new in our young country
or world for that matter.
have an old friend who is almost 97 at this point, walks every single
day, lives on his own with his wife and still drives. He speaks the way
an old Italian man who survived WWII gets away with. A few years back as
we were walking, he said to me in regards to some scandal involving a
politician whose name escapes me, “Anytime there is a scandal it is
because of money or a woman.” I cracked up. Such an old-fashioned way to
put it because I see it with a slight twist. The money and the women
are more often the result of the behavior caused by the person causing
it- usually a man and of course I said this aloud. It fell on deaf ears.
He really didn’t see it this way at all. Now before you think this
essay is headed towards some bra burning male bashing, let me assure you
it is not. I love men, the good ones. And there are plenty of women who
are as guilty of scandal and bad behavior. This is not male centric by
any means. But his notion that scandals were because of the women not
symptomatic is part of the reason I write today.
remember reading The Scarlet Letter in high school and feeling so
outraged that Hester had to walk around with the big A, not her lover
who she protected with a vengeance. Sure the reverend’s identity wasn’t
so obvious, but the female shaming was and continues to be so typical.
The #Metoo movement finally brought some men out into the open for the
parade that women have been walking for centuries and I think this may
be progress? I put the question mark because I am not sure. We have had
many feminist movements in the past century, yet we still struggle for
equal pay, representation in our government and our boards. We still
worry about our reproductive rights and our daughters’ safety if they
choose to go out late at night alone. This is a universal problem- the
double standard of our gender.
I have found interesting in this recent college scandal is the female
shaming. And we barely notice. Why is it that every news story features
photos and names of the two actresses? Any story I have seen or heard
says, “A list of people including two actresses.” Then their names, their photos, the photos of their children and the endless parade of their shame walk to and from court.
Where are the rest of the over thirty peopleand more involved?
Why are their names not in the news? I am not protecting the two women
and their children. Their example is an embarrassment to parenting, BUT so are the rest of them.
If the news is not going to show the lists, the faces of the remaining,
why should it just be the two women and their daughters? Women have
been doing the walk of shame forever, what we wear, what we eat, how we
choose our partners, our sex lives, how we have sex, the way we give
birth, feed our children, choose to work or not work, constantly we are
under the microscope in such different ways than our male counterparts.
In the alanon meetings I have gone to for years, just like AA, the first
step is awareness. Until we are even remotely aware of the imbalances
that the media portrays us in, nothing will ever change. We women barely
notice that there is an imbalance because we are just so friggin use to
it, it is our norm.
refuse to call out the actresses in this essay today until the media
starts naming everyone, showing pictures of everyone involved, not just
two women. I am not protecting them. All you need to do is google college scandal and see what shows up in the search. Two names, two faces over and over again. Once again, the media doesn’t get it right.
As a woman who takes care of women for a living, who employs almost twenty young women in a female centered business, I write today to remind us to start noticing. Just that first step in paying attention and having conversation about how much this happens. Ads that show women in the kitchen, at the washing machine, taking stains happily out of their children’s clothes with great big smiles, men cutting the grass with their John Deere mowers, fixing their cars, the media loves gender pigeon holing. I just turned 54 and in my lifetime I can recall the first time I saw an ad that showed a female doctor. The first time. What came first? Why aren’t we noticing? Our children are watching. This scandal is shocking and sad, but like all bad choices, there are strong lessons to be learned. Let’s start with simply learning that just showing the two female actresses over and over and not talking about the rest is part of the conversation we could be having with our children too. Teachable moments come in all forms. We are having more conversations about why the obvious is wrong, but there is an undercurrent of bias again that is also part of the conversation. Just google it and you will get my point.
The gift of the vigorous writing I have been doing has been the books that have landed on my desk about writing. I have learned when I am on the right path, the exact things show up in my life at the perfect time. This has been a consistent force in my life history and between Anne Tyler, Elizabeth Berg, Stephen King and a few more I can’t think of as I sit at my grandfather’s home in beautiful sunny Florida, these advice on writing books have been helpful.
Some books say, “Write every day
without fail.” Others say, “Take a break, walk away, get inspired.” But all of
them without fail say, “Read. A lot.” So reading I have been doing.
“How do you have the time?” My
friend, Marcia asked me one night at dinner. I thought about this for a moment.
When something speaks to your core with a such a force that I feel almost
nauseous by not writing, I make the time. I make the time because writing has become
such an integral part of my priority list that everything I am doing right now
must support this.
Once I made a commitment to write and write and write, reading became the necessary counter balance. What a gift that reading more books helps writing more stories because now that I am reading a book every three of four days, I am learning much more about the craft of writing. I appreciated great writing before, but now it has taken a hold of me with a fervor.
My favorite genre has always been
historical fiction especially when a book takes the place during World War II.
Perhaps it is because I am Jewish and because my grandfather was drafted, or
because my parents were born a year before the war ended. Maybe it is because I
am getting older and the world seems more fragile then ever. All of the
historical foreshadowing for the world we seem to be living in pulses around me
because I have watched too many episodes of The Handmaid’s Tale, but when I
read of a book that takes place during the early 1940s, I am drawn.
As I gathered my beach books for my
trip, I came across a book called Lilac
Girls that had found its way to my house around Hanukkah. I was between
library books waiting to hear that the ones I had placed on hold were available
for pickup so I began reading this debut novel by Martha Hall Kelly with a
vengeance. As I made my way through yet another story about a female Holocaust
experience, I couldn’t put this book down.
The Holocaust trauma is usually about Jewish people, six million children, women, men just because of their beliefs, but Lilac Girls reminded me of the many others who were put in concentration camps. People we seldom hear about and in this case a group of Polish women put in a concentration camp for women only called Ravensbrück in Germany, many because of their resistance work.
I had the pleasure of taking a course at Rhode Island College called Women’s Resistance in the Holocaust. It was here that I really began understanding the importance of resistance and how many layers there are to this response to a political movement gone terribly wrong. Lilac Girls reminded me of the varying ways one can resist and fight and the way that women do this or not is shown beautifully in this book. These women were held as prisoners not even knowing what the charge was. I never knew that there was only one concentration camp just for women. This fact alone makes the book a lesson in history. Even though it is a fictional account, the author does a brilliant job in giving us the factual details that a great historical fiction novel can do.
We so often hear of the Jewish resistance movement during the war, occasionally we hear of non-Jews who helped hide and save Jews, but besides the famed Schindler, so many heroes and heroines go unnoticed the further away from the time we move. This book introduces us to a real-life character who was doing her own resistance work in New York, a socialite with many connections named Caroline Ferriday and how she came to know about the prisoners at Ravensbrück.
Along with Caroline, we learn of the Polish women prisoners who suffered brutal surgical experiments on their legs, causing the women who actually survived this torture to hop around the camp because of the disfigurement and pain the surgeries caused. This gave them the nickname Rabbits and Martha Hall Kelly brought them back to life in her first novel. The women’s stories are only a part of this mind opening first novel. I highly suggest this book if you are looking for a poignant read that also gives you a time travel back to a time in history we must force ourselves to keep in our consciousness.
The glory of writing is that more reading
helps more writing. A break from writing also helps writing and both are part
of this week of solo vacation for me. I only hope that as I march forth with my
own research for my first historical fiction novel, I do the same justice that
Martha Hall Kelly did for hers. She is writing her next novel called a prequel
to this one and I can hardly wait.
“You know this is elective surgery,” Dr. Hottie said to me over two years ago. I love Dr. M almost as much as I love Dr. W. Almost. But let’s face it, Dr. M. is a male doctor and no matter how progressive, how much of a male feminist he may (or may not) be, he is not sitting in the chair across from me with having to make the painful choice of no breasts or reconstructed ones. He is a man. He is also a plastic surgeon and that alone should create a bias in the arena of female body parts.
Though I appreciated his candor at the time, I had four doors to choose from, two of which did not seem like options at all.
DOOR # 1 Do Nothing and Die at some point.
DOOR #2. Have a single breast mastectomy and wear a prosthetic like my grandmother.
DOOR #3. Have double mastectomy with no reconstruction.
DOOR #4. Have a double mastectomy and have reconstruction, (the “elective” surgery Dr. M. referred to back at paragraph one.)
I am guessing if he were about to face having his penis cut off and having no penis or one put on so that when he looked down at himself in the shower he wouldn’t look so different, maybe he would choose to omit the word “elective.” The word elective should not be a choice word anyway, though I appreciate the intent reminding me that if I really consider this as elective perhaps I may choose to be totally flat chested and remove all traces of the very female part of who I am. Call me vain, I don’t care, as I have said on more than one occassion, I like my breasts, I like the shape, the form, the wonder woman activation that a proud set of pointed boobs give me.
I fully understand what he meant now that I am facing the two year mark and though I am not facing the horror show of what I may find if I typed in bad breast reconstruction in the Google search bar, my experience is much more subtle. Subtle in the way I would imagine that my comments would invoke maybe an eye roll or maybe the thought that wouldn’t be said aloud, It’s all in your head.
In the recommendations of drinking celery juice on a daily basis (SEE IS CELERY JUICE THE NEW KALE? for clarity if you are scratching your head here) I found the medical intuitive, Anthony William. Now before you start to want to punch me for even taking the word of someone who calls himself a Medical Intuitive, hear me out. He was recommended by a really credible and incredible Doctor I know and his advice, though not conventional in the least, has some legs because of his vast success. Believe what you want, but last I checked, the medical community as it relates to credible scientific research doesn’t always get it right. Think DDT, smoking, low fat, eggs, dairy, food pyramid, opiates just to name a few pesky mistakes. I like to think I am open to all possibilities when it comes to health, but more often than not, it is the knowledge of my body as my own personal science experiment that informs me.
And I have not been feeling right. Tightness in my upper body, bloating that has changed my lovely flat stomach into something I no longer recognize, weight gain, intense headaches out of the blue, gas, indigestion, joint ache and a racing heart, a little dizziness, a little nausea, sharp pain like cramps that come out of nowhere on the left side of my fake boob and lastly if this is all not enough, washing machine head on the spin cycle, not symptoms I regularly identify with, well maybe the last one. If I had to draw a figure of myself on paper, I would draw a scarlet red rectangle from my upper chest to my belly button. When I am meditating, the image that continues to appear is the middle of my chest opening up and red cardinals flying out of it. Is this all in my head? And more importantly what are my options, medically? I suppose I could beg for MRIs and body scans and go digging for problems. Who wants to live like that? Not me for sure.
I decided to look up to see if Anthony William had any podcasts and no surprise here, of course he did. Lots of them. And as “luck” would have it, I landed on one called “Breast Implant Illness.” I did hesitate albeit briefly before I hit play, yet being a glutton for punishment, I proceeded. Probably not the best idea because Anthony, who by the way readily admits that the information he is sharing is not even discovered by science yet, and claims he is being informed by Spirit, a guide who speaks to him regularly. Roll your eyes here, I know, but you can also see my predicament of having to bring my new information to any doctor. He said something that struck me though so be patient with me and hopefully keep reading.
When there is a foreign object made out of synthetic material such as silicone, your liver sends out an army of enzymes to see what the hell is going on. The enzymes make their way to the implants and latch on looking to protect and get to the bottom of the enemy invader. Because the silicone is encased in some type of material, (I find it amusing that I don’t know the answer to this off the top of my head), the enzymes stay on the shell and this energy coupled with my body heat over time creates a slow porosity in the impants slowly seeping gasses from the silicone into my unsuspecting body. Now for you scientists out there- I have not a clue if there is any medical evidence out there that supports or denies this, but what I do know is that ever since these new additions have been placed in my upper half, I have had under the radar symptoms hard to put my finger on. Coincidence?
When it comes to history as it relates to science and the female body, I am not overly confident in our past. Though birth control has revolutionized a woman’s control of family planning, why is it that it is one of the top three questions I was asked after we discovered the breast cancer the first time? Women have been short changed in the health research department compared to our male counterparts for sure, yet we are so accepting of the words, They are totally safe, when it comes to the due diligence we think we are giving ourselves by timidly asking the question. When Anthony William said this on his podcast, it struck a chord with me and frankly it kind of makes sense.
Boobs are one of those body parts that seem to get a lot of press. When I did a quick google search the CDC only had leading causes of death since 2014, but the number 1 was heart disease and the number 2 was cancer, not breast cancer, but cancer. That is a lot of cancer. Heart disease isn’t sexy, it doesn’t sell lingerie, it is not as innocent and traditionally female as the color pink. Breast cancer gives permission to let the talk about tits and breasts and tatas and boobs out of the bag. When my son was at La Salle, a Catholic school in Providence RI, the kids were all wearing pink rubber bracelets that said I LOVE BOOBIES. This is the same school that took down the picture of our current Governor Gina Raimondo for allowing Planned Parenthood to support her. Mixed messages? I’d say.
Call me crazy, call me hysterical, call me an alarmist, but there can’t be a coincidence that I am having these subtle symptoms. And that when I bring them up, I feel guilty because frankly I am one of the lucky ones, I chose to have implants and I am alive. I didn’t have chemo, didn’t lose my hair, didn’t really worry about dying unless I had chosen Door #1 at the beginning of this party.
I am not a scientist, I have never done research in my life, the last biology class I took was in high school. I fully realize the frustration that real scientists must have when they read these assumptions by lay people like me, unfounded in their own profession. I also know that by looking up regulatory history of breast implants in the U.S. on go to Google, some worrisome history came up relating to long term studies of silicone implants. More interesting is that the silicone implant doesn’t seem to have been studied for any length of time. When I say length of time, I am speaking what I would consider reasonable, more than ten years surely. This timeline in particular and the panels and votes raise my eyebrows. 2005 wasn’t that long ago. Though the implants were introduced well over 20 years ago, is that really enough time to develop a what if this happens, what could happen in the future? What is in silicone anyway? Who are on these panels anyway? Men, women, doctors, pharmaceutical executives? What informs them? All worriesome.
What shocks me here is I never thought to ask. Perhaps knowing all of this would have made me make a different decision, I will never know. But even when I did ask, these subtle symptoms wouldn’t have been given much credence anyway because first of all, I don’t think many women are as in touch with the way their bodies tick and even if they were, there are so many factors that could explain this away. Menopause, empty nesting, emotional changes due to life events, death, divorce, previous thyroid issues, family history, not enough exercise, too much exercise etc. I could also add here the radiation dose I had from my first surgery, goodness knows what that did to my upper insides. After signing away my life in some hospital document that said that radiation could cause heart lung problems later on in life due to its close proximity, I am sure we can add this to the list as well.
Breast cancer is big business. For profit hospitals, for profit pharma, for profit doctor’s offices, what a woman is willing to do to keep the wo in woman is pretty shocking now that I have made that choice. What defines woman anyway. Breasts are certainly only one part of the recipe, but clearly they have been significant enough to warrant all of this writing. I am not sure where this will all take me and frankly I had never considered the possibility of their voluntary removal until I listened to this podcast. For now, I will continue to write and talk and see who writes and talks back. First step is awareness. And for sure these tatas have done nothing except made me aware.
2005 – April
The FDA held an Advisory Panel meeting to review Allergan’s updated PMA and Mentor’s PMA. In a 5 to 4 vote, the panel did not recommend approval of Allergan’s PMA (due to a concern with one style in the application). In a 7 to 2 vote, the panel recommended approvable with conditions for Mentor’s PMA. The panel recommended that FDA require conditions including a minimum age requirement for augmentation and Post-Approval Studies.
2006 – November
The FDA approved Allergan and Mentor’s PMAs for silicone gel-filled breast implants. This was the first time silicone gel-filled breast implants were available for augmentation, in addition to reconstruction and revision, since the moratorium was established in 1992. As conditions of approval, each manufacturer was required to conduct 6 post-approval studies to further characterize the safety and effectiveness of their silicone gel-filled breast implants and to answer scientific questions that the premarket clinical trials were not designed to answer.
2011 – January
The FDA issued a Safety Communication on anaplastic large cell lymphoma (ALCL) in women with breast implants. Based on a review of the scientific literature, the FDA believes that women with breast implants may have a very small but increased risk of developing this disease in the scar capsule adjacent to the implant.
The FDA held an Advisory Panel meeting to discuss and receive recommendations on postmarketing issues related to silicone gel-filled breast implants. Also discussed at this meeting were innovative methodological approaches to postmarket studies regarding silicone gel breast implants, as well as key long-term safety issues associated with silicone gel breast implants in the real-world setting.
Surrender- Giving up what we think should be happening for what is actually happening.
When my insides used to feel discombobulated on occasion, I would run through the usual suspects and review from the day before. How much wine did I have? What sugar did I consume? Is it a full moon? Is mercury retrograde? Am I getting my period? Though the latter no longer applies (at least there is one good gift of breast cancer and preventative surgery, there has to be something good from all of this hell). Once I would run through this dictionary of possibilities, there it would be. I could check off at least one if not two or three of the list that summarized alayne’s brain and feel at peace immediately knowing that the frizzle in my brain would calm down when the items listed passed. Sugar and alcohol would leave my body, the full moon would move on and mercury’s retrograde I would just have to suffer with.
Knowing my body and my mind and what makes it all tick has been a major science experiment for most of my adult life, but even more in the last ten years. I enjoy exploring all of the different forks in the road that cause my mind to wander and dart at a perpetual one hundred yard dash. This is all part of the creativity and entrepreneurial spirit of who I am and after fifty-four years, I finally understand and embrace its strong force of power. More apparent in my on again off again drinking or not drinking daily date with a big glass of red something or other, is the off again. When I am off, all of the shit that delightful glass of Barolo edged out comes raring out as if a damn just broke loose.
“Maybe you’re finally grieving,” my beloved Dr. W. said as I was pouring my heart out to her last week at my check up. I had just told her that I was exercising regularly, meditating every day without fail, writing like Charlotte Perkins Gilman as if I was locked in a room with Yellow Wallpaper. I am living closer to my insides and my truth as I have in my entire life. So why do I feel fragmented and lacking elation as I normally do? And as I was pouring said heart, I was feeling almost a tad embarrassed about what seemed to be my personal pity party. After all, I am alive. There are so many worse cases. I felt almost guilty loading on her. I may have even apologized. Yep.
Ahhh blasted Grief. Grief is that vaporous trouble that permeates your heart without ringing the doorbell. As I considered her comment for a moment, I realized that this question was likely the answer. My personal experience with breast cancer as I told her is that I was lucky in the overall collective of possibility. I compared the emotional part of my experience to a classroom. Let’s say there are twenty kids, two or three who are completely self-sufficient, smart, get their work done on time and the remainder of the kids need lots of extra attention. There is one teacher so she usually, human nature here, lets the ones that are ok do their thing and focuses on the outcomes of the class as a whole. Naturally, she will lean toward helping the underlings.
In my case, I was the self-sufficient one. My experience was physically OK. So I marched forth as I do, as most of us do. Checking tasks off of my list, crossing the t’s dotting the i’s and relying on my resilience to get through the emotional scars that were planted. Despite the fact that the physical part of this experience healed and I didn’t need as much support from the powers that be, the emotional and mental scars stayed behind simmering in wait unbeknownst to me. Until I was ready to let them open up and begin the healing process, trauma and grief don’t know the difference between a lot of pain and a little pain. They still cause the same stressors on our emotional selves. When the locomotive train of moving forth slows down, and it definitely needs to at some point, this is when the opportunities for healing arrives. And as the wisdom of hind site as taught me over and over again that there are opportunities in the awareness, I still forget that I must go through, not step around, not ignore, but return to the rink and wait for my opponent to arrive.
WAKE UP! The conductor bellows out as the train arrives at the station reminding the sleepy traveler it is time to depart from the long trip. And what a long strange trip it has been. There is the DURING part. The part when you are trying to get to appointments, learn as much as you can about this new life challenge you are about to embark on. There are the conversations, the hospital, the after of everything. While the physical is out in the open getting better every day, the emotions are left unchecked because frankly the Doctors who were in your ring during the fight are thinking you won so they are on to the next fighter getting them ready for their battle. Besides, your outward appearance is strength, toughness, marching forth. You are the kid in the classroom who doesn’t want to bother the teacher with double checking your spelling because spelling comes naturally for you or you can just look the word up in the dictionary.
Mental health, as we are learning more and more, can be a silent destroyer if left unchecked and uncared for. Thankfully, I have resources I can reach for, and I unabashedly do. Writing about this helps me and I hope it allows people who land on these pages to realize they are not alone. They are not selfish or being a baby by recognizing that they have pain. Inside. On their hearts. We all do. Just when I think I have “it” figured out, it’s like the universe says, “Oh yeah, Alayne, you think? Let’s see what you have figured out.” And some small drip barely noticeable turns into an emotional puddle suddenly expanding and needs a basin to catch the fall. Sometimes I can hear my grandmother saying, “Enough with the crying already,” like I am purposely opening up a wound rather than giving it the time it needs to heal, once again judging my feelings as good or bad, positive or negative, right or wrong.
Perhaps for my own experience are the triggers that this time of year presents as my birthday fast approaches. My birthday twice has given me negative news. I like symbolism of numbers and the way they tell a story. First diagnosis- 2015 (odd year) when I turned 50 (even year). Second diagnosis- 2017 (odd year) when I turned 52 (even year). So here we go. 2019, I will be 54. Just went for my check up- all good. Why worry? I am not really worried, I think I am just more triggered and perhaps this is the year that I really deal with the mending of the physical trauma I continue to heal from.
I am such a crazy checklist person that I likely (foolishly in retrospect) thought I would be done with by now. Diagnosis. Check. Genetic testing. Check. Surgery. Check, Surgical menopause. Check. Recovery. Check. Up and about. Check. Scars healed. Check. New Boobs. Interested in sex again. Check. Feeling like myself again. This is where it gets murky because that ‘self’ is no longer. Perhaps she is who I grieve. Our lives are long strange trips when we have the blessed fortune to have long ones. Maybe the rough current I have been feeling in my insides is the reminder that the shake up I have gone through for the past four years is my new self. I know I can’t fight the waves for sure, when there is a riptide, panic and struggle are not helpful, instead leaning back and allowing the wave to just take you where you are supposed to go is often the saving grace. This is hard for me, the release of working on the project rather than the surrender to it. But as I write this last word, Surrender, I know that this is my work. I surrender. This feels like the best way to take a trip so I lie on my back and let floatation carry me where it is supposed to. Let’s see what that feels like for a while.
Yesterday’s assignment generated from Day 2 of WordPress University that I have embarked on since deciding this past weekend that Yes, I can build my own website. Here is the writing prompt below.
“Today, let’s write a list. Compiling a list is a way to let loose, unlock ideas, and free your mind. Today, write your own list on one of these topics:
Things I Like
Things I’ve Learned
Things I Wish
Things You’re Good At
There are no rules, though you can create some boundaries for yourself by deciding in advance how many items you’d like to include, or by settting a timer — try a list of 15 items, set a timer for 45 minutes.”
The goal seems to be getting thoughts to run freely and wildly, but to contain them somehow in the confines of list making. List making is something I do not struggle with. I am a list maker. I am also a vision board addict. I have them in my office which is out in the open off of my living room forcing me to never forget the major projects I am working on. I just found out about a program called Creately that I almost bought until I realized that I already have organizational charts done that I created myself in excel that work perfectly fine.
My brain never stops. You could say I have the entrepeneurial spirit, like my father, like my grandfather and if I didn’t make lists and storyboards and visionboards, I am certain my head would fly off the top of my shoulders like a spinning top. This intensity of mine, of the creative ideas that move through me as if a spicket was turned on full throttle and being stuck in the on position is part of my writing energy, though. List making, outlines and order to the electricity that is my head helps move it up and out. I am grateful for the ability to know myself well enough to know that all of these ideas must take up a residence outside of this very full brain. Usually the lists are To Do lists, sometimes the lists are dreams and desires, but the theme is always a call to action.
Organize the basement, put the dishes away, clean the closet in the bedroom, call my grandfather, move the doctor’s appointment from this week to next week, sign up for the art class, even when I am hoping to add areas of spirtuality into a list, as I consider this list making, even that is active. Deepen meditation practice, take more yoga classes, go to Synagogue once a month.
So as this call to action from WordPress University asks me to consider a different way to look at list making and I write today with this in mind. I never use a timer for my morning writing, I let my writing class leaders do that. When I wake up and write, it is my morning peace. This is why I wake up at five am and jump out of bed, so I have the time to write. The prompts are a different way to think. This is what writing prompts do, they open possibilities and creativity in a way that five minutes before would have not thought of. So here I go. This is just a quick list otherwise this writing would be over one hundred pages
Things I Like
conversations with interesting people
writing writing writing
going to the library, taking out a book, finishing the book and returning it before the due date
being introduced to new ideas and considering them
nature and gardening
seeing a cardinal when I am deep in thought about something I am planning
watching my son grow up and develop his own identity
wearing my grandmother’s lighthouse jacket
cooking, walking, going to the beach
going to the movies and to museums
leading my team and developing leaders
hanging out with my partner
being with my close tribe of women
a good stretch
remembering my dreams
Things I’ve Learned
To let shit go
To let shit go
to not take things personal at every waking moment
that when someone leaves your life say thank you with grace not malice
living in the present moment is all that is important
I am good enough
boobs aren’t as important as I thought they were
food is thy medicine or poison
drinking alcohol is not good for spiritual clarity (but it tastes so good)
Things I Wish
I had been better with money management earlier in my life
I could see my brother one more time
my mother and I had a really good relationship
I had a condo on Siesta Key for two months a year
I had the time and money to finish my degree and get a masters in writing
To really make time to research my historical fiction book idea
i was better at growing vegetables
Things You’re Good At
being a mother
friendship and being a strong partner in my Living Apart Together relationship
being an exwife
owning a business
kindness and charitability
dreaming new ideas
cooking and baking
I am not sure if I have ever done this before, but I must say it was a nice way to start my day. Thank you WordPress. Again.
I met Kim Walker, formerly Kim Otterbein, through simultaneous traumatic events. My business had suffered a flood from frozen pipes in a crazy ice capade in a winter storm in February 2013. She was going through her own personal storm of divorce and personal issues causing her and her former husband to have to sell their magical dream house . They had poured their money, their love and energies into restoring a house born in 1865 that had been through many hands finding its way into their lives in 2005. Kim was an artist so her brilliant creativity redesigned the house giving it a feel of new, but magically making it feel like everything was original. Kim and I knew each other socially from around town because we both owned businesses and would often run into each other, but we never hung out in the same circle. We liked each other, though and we shared a common free spirit hippie chick vibe that connected us happily when we would run into each other.
We found ourselves intertwined when she needed to sell her home and I needed to find one to move my business into. My dear friend Morgan, randomly said to me one day, You should look at The Bead House when she saw the awful situation I had found myself in while my business was semi closed. The Bead House was the business Kim owned on the first floor while the second and third floor was her family residence. Kim was a magnificent jewelry designer, an artist, and had this lovely little shop on the first floor that taught jewelry making. At that point, I had never considered looking at property to purchase especially the glorious Bead House with a very high price tag that was way out of my comfort zone thinking it could even be a remote possibility. Morgan had other thoughts though. It never occurred to her that this space wasn’t a possibility and I credit her almost 100% to the literal key that got me thinking I CAN rather than i can’t. Purchasing this house changed my life in so many ways and my I CAN attitude has been rewarded and confirmed in layers of joys I am in perpetual awe of.
When I looked at The Bead House in February of 2013, I fell in love and made my offer which after some back and forth was finally accepted and Kim and I merged paths. I don’t know what it is like to have to sell your home. I do know what it is like to leave a home though and there is so much emotion tied into the experience. Kim and I found a kindred spirit between each other during this time. I think she was heartened to know that her baby, this home that she had literally poured her soul into, would move into the hands and heart of someone she genuinely liked and respected. I know that she felt like her home would be in loving and appreciative care. Though the entire experience was a sad one, she made peace with walking away and I became the proud torch carrier of this magnificent house I refer to as the Magic Palace.
When I first moved in, I had purchased a few of her large pieces of furniture, a couch and a chair and a table too and I had offered her a space to leave her grandmother’s armoire since it was way too big to move. I had told her that it could stay here as long as she wanted and when her daughter, Ali was ready for it, it would be here. Five years later, it still sits waiting and the offer is still open.
I felt for the first few years living here a certain responsibility to maintain the garden, the paint colors without too much of a change, kind of as a bow to Kim and only recently in the past two years have I started to really feel like the space was truly mine. This was nothing that came from Kim, just my own sense of order and right kindness. Kim and I spoke a few times, she visited one time when she was back this way after moving to Arizona, but even though it was a pleasant visit, there was also awkwardness to it. Hard to describe; I think we both understood that we would enjoy each other’s spirits but at a gentle distance going forward. This was unspoken, but it felt right. Again hard to describe.
Her daughter Ali walked by one July 4th and I invited her in for a visit and gave her some time alone to meander, to grieve and say a proper goodbye. When I got breast cancer I spoke with Kim a few times because Kim had breast cancer too. The irony I do not take lightly and I try not to think about it as some weird message. Kim was helpful with her advice and our exchange was always positive and understanding. She was a special soul and a kind one. And one that no longer is part of the now, as her cancer returned and took her life just a few days after her birthday and two days before the Winter Solstice just two days ago, December 19th.
A short life traveled well, rocky and smooth, but also my feeling was that she found herself in the after of this house. I on the other hand have found myself in the now of this house. I like the neatness of that, the visual of Kim passing the torch to me, a kindred female spirit. I can’t believe that another superchick I know has moved on so young again. I sit on her couch, look at her chair and her grandmother’s armoire. Everyday I brush my teeth, I look into the same mirror above the sink in my bathroom knowing that Kim looked at her own reflection as she went through her breast cancer, her decision to divorce her husband and the other daily mind thoughts that stare back at you during the simple rituals of teeth brushing and mascara applying. I listen to my son who is home from college turning on the faucet on the third floor and am happy he is home, but I also think about Kim sitting on this very couch hearing her own children wake up making the same sounds. It is an awkward experience knowing that this house was passed from a woman I greatly admired, who left this house closing the door to a part of her life that allowed me to open it to a wonderful life I get to call my own. Kimball Walker. I thank you for every trail and nugget you left me. I will always feel and honor your presence in my home that was yours and in the garden that you started. Rest in peace, your legacy at 11 Constitution will go on.
“What is that?” I asked Michael, my partner, the love of my life, the man I share my stories, hopes and dreams with. I had looked down on the floor of his living room to see this perfectly flat square thin contraption sitting there. Waiting. Calling me. I had a feeling it was a scale, but I just had to ask, because normally scales find their homes in bathrooms on the floor next to the sinks and toilets and this modern looking shiny black square was by the front door, looking kind of like it was headed to the rubbish bins on trash day. (She said with her hands in prayer position.)
“We’ll need to put your info in the app for it,” he said excitedly, like I was actually going to stand on this contraption and allow it to record not only my weight, but my body fat, bone mass, protein and a list of other physical attributes I didn’t know I was supposed to be recording. He moved like a lynx to his phone to open up the app that connects with the scale. Apparently I am supposed to stand on this and allow it to do whatever it does and it takes all of this information and submits it through Bluetooth to the app that Michael has downloaded on his phone. It is here that he, with a twinkle in his, eye told me he could set up my own account on his app. Then like he had just discovered one of life’s great mysteries, he opened up the app to reveal his entire health profile including of course his weight without even a brief pause. I love this about most men I know. Weight is not a thing. 198 he said. 198 on a man who is a little over six feet that is mostly made up of stunning runners legs I only hope to obtain in my next life if we get to choose.
This man knows me better than anyone. He knows the insides of me, my fears, my angst, my dreams, my strengths and my weaknesses. He knows my schedule, how I think, almost, so when he said this so matter of factly like this was even going to be a remote possibility I laughed aloud. “That is so funny, Michael. No, I am not putting my information on your app. Do you even know me?” Insert laugh, chuckle, snicker here. I detected the tiniest tone of wound in his voice, “I was just showing you how it worked, you could probably put the app on your phone and do it,” he said so sweetly with patient empathy. Insert another small laugh here. That will not be happening. I hate the scale. I hate the number. I hate what the whole thing invokes in me and almost every woman I know. It is a downer. If the number is higher than I thought, I am depressed. If it is lower than I thought, it validates that what I am doing is in fact working and I feel like I will never be able to have a glass of wine or a piece of my friends delicious cheesecake again. Or it says, “That’s all? I have been following food plan number five thousand and I didn’t lose ten pounds in a week?” Completely ludicrous. Insane. Self defeating. Every single opposite of how I live my life in my fun and alayne’s brain world. That scale though, it gets to me. I allow it to get to me and I don’t know how to change the pattern, the belief. It has layers and years of layers dating back to my grandmother’s own issues with weight. I try to self talk my way through the brain fuck that is the topic of weight. Yes I am alive, I am healthy. I am fit. I am strong. All of that. But that pesky scale gets the better of me so I choose NO. I will not get on a scale that records a plethora of information. I will not put myself in the vulnerable position of wirelessly communicating my health to my partner’s phone and then likely transmits the information to Big Tech so they can have their way with my health data in however they choose.
We so carelessly hit the “I agree” button because they damn well know that we are not going to read the document they force us to sign for the access to the app in the first place and who knows it the data that is being recorded is even correct. I compare it to the variety of mirrors I have found myself staring back at myself. Some, like the one at Jackie’s Loft is like a magic mirror. No matter what I try on, I look amazing, svelte even. I think it is a thinning mirror. God forbid I should think that this reflection staring back is how I really look. Michael has one of these in his closet too. I can look at myself in a variety of outifts and the reflection staring back is one of a thinner version of how I think I really look, but I’ll take it. The bizarre aspect of the mirrors and the scales are that what if the lower number and the thinner mirror is actually the way I am? What if the scale that says the higher number or the mirror that adds so breadth to my hips (because it never adds to my upper half, a part of my body even before breast reconstruction was satisfying to me) what if it is that one that is wrong? All of this sounds crazy and completely fucked up, but it is part of my gene pool and who I am. Someone that no matter how much I try to meditate the negative thoughts away, it is like they are intrinsic to my femaleness. Arg. I think of the AA phrase Progress Not Perfection. Yes I totally understand that this world of advertising and catalogues coming at us does not help the cause of body delight. Even the thinnest healthiest women I know, you know the ones that can throw on a pair of leggings and tennis shoes, throw their hair up in a messy blonde ponytail seemingly without a glance in the mirror on the outside, have their own weight and body image demons. This I know because I have open conversations with women every day of my life and have for the last almost thirty years in the beauty business. I am not sure if the scale will ever be my friend. My beautiful Dr. Wiggins always says, “Alayne, you look great, the scale is just a number.” I know what she is really saying is “Alayne, Give yourself a fucking break.”
I am trying. Really. Every day. But in my opinion if the scale were truly a “smart” scale as it self proclaims, you would step up onto the two feet outlined for yours to fit into and it would talk back. It would say, “This number is only a number so today I give you a free pass. Go for a walk, smell the earth, look up, smile at a stranger and breathe deeply. Be grateful that today, again, like yesterday, you got to wake up and have the luxury of stepping on to this scale today. There is no number today, so enjoy your day and stop all this unnecessary fretting. You are alive. This is your day. Today. Enjoy it.
Last year I wrote about my favorite places to shop around town and that hasn’t changed. Bristol has some really lovely places as do many places in Rhode Island and as shopping in actual stores becomes more of what seems like a vintage pastime, I wanted to write again about some of my favorite things to do around the holidays. Maybe it will inspire anyone reading this to take some time before the actual holiday to enjoy the time leading up to the big day.
Without being redundant I will write briefly of some top favorite places to peruse, but I will add some different things in the mix as well as places I love to visit this time of year. My Aunt and I have a tradition for my whole life and now my son’s life too, to go to THE WAYSIDE INN in Sudbury, Mass for lunch. The oldest working inn in the country it really is the feeling of over the river and through the woods (once you drive by the massive Whole Foods and Range Rover car dealers that have taken over what was a lovely country road). This inn is a flashback in time and it has a history worthy of a special drive. It is the quintessential place that generations of families go to for their “special” place. When I go there with my aunt and my son, I am transported to a time where people got dressed up to go to lunch and drink toddies by a warm fire. If Sudbury doesn’t speak to you during this busy time, then THE LOBSTER POT in Bristol fits the bill too. Delicious food in a spectacular water view setting make this a place too that families go for the special occasions.
There are some fabulous shops in our state to visit this time of year. Grasmere on Franklin St., Jackie’s Loft on the corner of Franklin and Thames in Bristol, Harbor Bath and Body on Thames St. Kate and Company and Epilogues and Paper Packaging and Panache especially if you are trying to teach your kids to actually write a real thank you note with an actual pen and paper, (fingers crossed) on Hope St also in Bristol to name a few of my personal loves. There is a great new shop that opened on State St. too, The Sand Dollar. Of course if you are a vintage shopper, Second Helpings on Gooding Ave always satisfies. In Bristol even though it is an easy grid, one must really know that the shops are spread out and it takes a little extra walking to hit them all. But if you are patient, starting where Hope Diner is and walking down Hope St as far down as Constitution St, you can weave up and down each street all the way back to Franklin and you will cover the whole of shopping in the downtown area. You can even walk up to Wood St. (Wood St. Bakery for the yummiest of calzones, Azorean Butcher Shop for a little Sao Miguel, Common Pub for delicious Portuguese dinners ) crossing over High St. (C and R Mercantile and Roxies) and you will get a nice walk in as well as coming across some out of the way little shops and food places worthy of your extra time.
If you make your way to Providence, RI then Hope St. is loaded with some quaint shops that are worth a day of poking around even on the coldest of Saturdays. Stock, an elegant kitchen shop, Frog and Toad with such a wonderful variety of goodies you could spend hours looking around. Then there are shops I can’t remember the name of, but love walking in and out of simply because they are all next door to each other and it is so easy to window shop. Unlimited lunch and dinner places as well make for a nice day out with your daughter, best friend, aunt or mom. Another out of the way place that is really special is Simple Pleasures at 6 Richmond St. in Providence. They have beautiful items merchandised in a way that makes me drool.
I like to stay away from the big box stores during this time of year and really capture the essence of small businesses who spend a lot of their time thinking and planning for this very short month hoping that the business will sustain them so they can stay in business. Small businesses are taking a big hit from the discounts offered in the big stores as well as the hard to pass up ease and convenience of ordering in your jammies at three am. Shopping locally and in these small businesses takes a conscious effort, but it is so nice to get out, park your car, bundle up and walk in and out of these stores. Talking to the owners, getting to know your community, showing your kids that shopping is so much more than the simple click of a button ensures for a thriving downtown. Empty storefronts do nothing for our home values and a little concerted effort even if you have finished your shopping goes a long way with these hard working store owners. Store owners are asked daily for donations for our schools, sporting organizations, churches and synagogues and charities. We ask a lot of them in our little towns and this of all the times of the year is the time to give back to them by making a little extra effort to shop in them.
I never thought I would look at actual shopping as a vintage approach to virtual shopping. I never thought I would actually think there would be something called virtual shopping, but it is clearly here to stay. Like writing on a typewriter instead of your laptop, it takes a bit of conscious intent, it takes a bit of planning, of calling your aunt or your mom and saying, Let’s make time for each other before December 25th. Let’s enjoy each other. If not now, when?
This is an excerpt from an essay Steve Jobs wrote before he died.
“Therefore, I hope you realize, when you have mates, buddies and old friends, brothers and sisters, who you chat with, laugh with, talk with, have sing songs with, talk about north-south-east-west or heaven and earth, that is true happiness! Don’t educate your children to be rich. Educate them to be happy. So when they grow up they will know the value of things and not the price. Eat your food as your medicine, otherwise you have to eat medicine as your food. The One who loves you will never leave you for another because, even if there are 100 reasons to give up, he or she will find a reason to hold on. There is a big difference between a human being and being human. Only a few really understand it. You are loved when you are born. You will be loved when you die. In between, you have to manage! The six best doctors in the world are sunlight, rest, exercise, diet, self-confidence and Friends. Maintain them in all stages and enjoy a healthy life.”
family, friends making more time, because we never know when they are going to leave us. March forth and enjoy your tribe.