My Child

Slow to mature

I didn’t want a baby

Till I was 40

Then thought of myself

As a cliché

Then found myself a man

To have one with

And couldn’t

Then was surprised

Because I’d always got

What I wanted.

So was it want

Was it clock, biology

Or was it pressure

From society

To be normal

To fit in

To center on something

Other than self

Is there even a self

Or just one complex being

An invisible cord

Connecting us one to the other?

One of my students

Hugs me daily

Says Miz McQueen

You too skinny

Says Miz McQueen

Can I come live witchoo in your house
Says Miz McQueen

I want to be your daughter

And I say Sweet child

Darling girl

You already are.

At 46

Throughout my young adulthood – right up until recently – I was obsessed with the concept of beauty. I looked at women, comparing myself constantly, always falling short. If she didn’t have better hair, then she had better skin, or longer, leaner legs, or prettier, smaller feet. If she didn’t have better boobs – which was extremely rare – then she had more feminine hips. I even compared my fingernails if all else failed and … well … my fingernails were fat.

When I was 24, a man with whom I had a brief interlude didn’t think I was pretty. He didn't have to say it - I didn’t feel pretty so I know I didn't look pretty. But the last time I saw him, this man told me something important. “You’re one of those women,” he pronounced, “who’s going to be really beautiful in her forties.” 

And you know what? He was right! I finally feel beautiful, from my legs that are muscly and hold me up - even one at a time - to my mind, which, though not quite as balanced as my legs, at least knows what it doesn't know. (Maybe that's balance, too.) Now when I see a beautiful woman, the urge to compare or compete is gone. I smile and think "Damn, that's a beautiful woman!" 

I've earned every wrinkle, every laugh line, every small sagging thing. I've earned them and love them. I'm not bragging - or maybe I am, but when I run the gauntlet from the bar to the bathroom I can feel men's eyes warm to me. So I strut a little and shake my rapidly graying hair with an air of "You can't touch this!" Maybe they think I'm beautiful, or maybe it's all in my head, but it just doesn't matter anymore. 

Thirty years ago I disdained as promoting arrogance the ad campaign that ended "Because I'm worth it." Now I believe it.

The Sunny Side of Life

As with last year’s foray into the blogosphere, it all started with National Public Radio. On Morning Edition yesterday I heard a story about the funeral of Huell Howser. A stranger to me, he’d been a PBS television personality, famous for celebrating California’s natural and historic beauty - especially the quirkier, less obvious parts.

He was from Tennessee originally, a good old southern boy who went out west and embraced the awesome in the ordinary.  At his funeral, fans impersonated his southern accent (which he never lost), saying some of his favorite expressions: “That’s amazing!” and “Wouldya look at that?” "Amazing!" 

Even Matt Groening, The Simpsons creator – a bona fide mocker if there ever was one - was a Howser fan. Groening wrote him into the show because of that unbridled, authentic enthusiasm. "In this world of cynicism and pseudosophistication,"  Groening said, "a guy who's willing to be genuine is really refreshing." 

This Huell guy? I thought. Even though I'd traveled in the opposite direction – starting life in California, winding up in the southeast – as the new year begins, he's my new role model. 

In a very different, yet somehow parallel way, I’m beginning 2013 embracing life as amazing. My journey will not be to find all of South Carolina's wonders - though they are many - there's some guys named Walter Edgar and Rudy Menke who've already got that covered. My journey (big surprise here) will be into the self.

While acutely aware of my world as a single, childless woman staring down the gun barrel of 50, I want to explore its awesomeness. Most of what you read about aging is negative. Mind you, a lot of it is funny, but the underlying message always seems to be that getting old is a bad thing. Especially if you're single and childless!

In the spirit of Huell Howser and optimists – not the Pollyannas steeped in denial, but the true hopers – everywhere, I kick off this blog with a sunny outlook on the whole durned thing. I’m 46, arthritic, rapidly turning gray and looking like I’ll be flying solo for the expedition. But on this sunny side of 50, I’m aiming at my target and getting there as fast as I possibly can.