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{Excerpt from my upcoming book "Aging Naked"]
One of the driving emotions that keeps authenticity and transparency at bay is shame. Almost every woman I’ve worked with in my counseling practice has admitted to experiencing intense feelings of shame. They’re ashamed of some aspect of their personality, ashamed of feelings they have, ashamed of their bodies, ashamed of something that has happened to them, or something they did to someone else. Men feel shame as well, but because so many aspects of the female experience are stigmatized, women tend to feel shame more profoundly and holistically. There are also fewer supportive outlets where women can admit to their feelings of shame and receive support, because often in society, when a woman does admit to something she feels ashamed about—past promiscuity, low self-confidence, concerns about her body shape or size, she is likely to be shamed even more, by both men and women. Aging can exacerbate our feelings of shame in many ways and for many reasons. Several of the signs of aging tend to be highly stigmatized, particularly for women, such as graying hair, wrinkled necks, sagging breasts, weight gain, and loss of overall skin tone. Add to that the fact that 40% of women over 50 snore, which isn’t considered very feminine, and over 50% have leaking bladders, also traditionally “unfeminine.” It’s not very surprising then that many women feel ashamed and want to hide themselves, while trying desperately not to sneeze.
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 have anxiety. I have rarely spoken about my anxiety problems though because most of my anxious thoughts are so irrational. And to be honest, I found them a bit of a nuisance and pretty embarrassing because admitting to feeling unchecked anxiety conflicted with my persona of being a glass-half-full, carefree soul in pursuit of an optimistic life filled with Oprah-inspired gratitude.
My belief that I needed to be always-optimistic (lest I anger the gratitude gods) meant that I needed to hide my anxious parts, and instead present the image I thought was expected of me. An optimistic, wisdom-filled, gratitude-espousing, never fearful, never anxious, mask-wearing beacon of hope for others. I also thought my feelings were normal. Yes, I believed that everyone experienced heart-racing, fear-gripping, body-freezing angst randomly throughout the day and night for no apparent reason.  I have been told how nice I am my entire life. This is usually a great compliment to me. I love it when people tell me I'm nice, because I am nice. In fact, throughout my life I've tried my best to be kind, caring, empathetic and helpful to just about everyone I meet. These qualities are the bedrock on which much of my identity is based.
I have learned over the years though that "nice" is good, but "too nice" is not. "Too nice" is the person who doesn't like to ruffle feathers. "Too nice" is the person who is afraid to set boundaries. "Too nice" is the person who is afraid to say no. "Too nice" is the person who I used to be (and still am, sometimes).  Aging can be difficult, even for the most hardy. Our hair follicles die, our bodies ache, and our skin sags. A few weeks ago I went to a concert and had to stand for five hours and my feet still hurt (and so does my left hip).
And recently I've noticed I have to be very careful with my chin placement, especially in photos (it's either that or demand Photoshop rights from all of my friends and family), because if I don't, my once proud chin collapses into a series of smaller, less proud "chins," sliding right into my neck.  This past winter was the coldest on record for most of the United States, particularly in Chicago, where it was gut-wrenchingly, beyond imagination, bone-chilling cold for month after unrelenting month. So cold in fact that the mere act of taking my dog out for a quick walk was enough to make me want to die. As spring rolls around and the temperatures warm, it’s given me pause to contemplate my many experiences during my first winter living in downtown Chicago. First, living in the city is vastly different than living in the suburbs, especially during a brutal winter –not only did I have to take my dog on real live walks (versus quickly opening the back door of my house in the suburbs long enough to shove the little one out into the elements to do her "business" alone), but I also had to walk to work (nine blocks), the grocery store (six blocks), the bank (two blocks) and the pharmacy (three blocks). When it’s minus 40 degrees outside, with sideways blowing snow, a two-block walk is unbearable; a nine-block walk is a veritable death march. This winter was also the “season of boots.” |
Hello!This is a blog for middle-aged women, like me, who want to live a life of increased authenticity, and greater well-being, with fewer façades, less role-playing and a lot more fun. I chose a photo with myself and my son because he is my heart. You can also find my blog posts featured on
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