Category Archives: Women

Beauty

I’ve never considered myself beautiful. Not once. I don’t feel sad about it. It’s just not an adjective I would ever use to describe myself. Really,  it’s okay. I kill cute. It’s my lane, and I like driving in it.

Having said that, I love when I catch beauty peeking out from behind the curtains of our lives. She isn’t altogether shy; she just bides her time . . . waiting for those moments we are most unaware of all the things we have done to try to be beautiful. It’s really kind of silly. All the dressing up and the painting up. All the add-ons and enhancements. Don’t get me wrong. There’s nothing inherently evil in a perfectly styled hairdo, a flawless complexion or that one in a million fashion find. No, not at all. However, beauty doesn’t live there.  Gratefully, she isn’t applied. She’s on her best behavior when discovered.

I see her in the brilliance of the orbed sun at dusk; lighting the heavens on fire, she hangs heavy in the evening sky. She screams in the explosion of uncontrollable laughter; the kind that tilts our heads, breaking our necks into unconscious angles. Suspended in time, we succumb to the forces of amusement, and merriment becomes our master. And when laugh lines expose those deep rivers of pure joy, we greet her. Yes, beauty lives right there. She bows her knee to two heads joined in unrelenting waves of grief. She is aware that sharing the pain dulls sharp edges. The ashes cool faster that way. She knows this so well because beauty is forged in that fire. Eternally. She also erupts from outrageous compassion. When one hand touches another in need, beauty gratefully and perpetually hits her mark.

No, beauty isn’t made. She isn’t even born. And most certainly, artists don’t create beauty. They are simply here to record it. No, she exists beyond time and space, altogether separate from the human experience. And even though she communes with us, her form and substance were inspired by the Creator. How else can we explain culture’s pursuit of her, as if she could ever be captured. Beauty is a force burning us from the inside out, cauterizing our weaknesses. Reminding us of what was once lost and is now found, forevermore.

Women Need A Reproductive Mentor

Here’s an idea. Every young woman should be assigned an older, reproductive specialist as a mentor. A post menopausal female (or really, anyone who broke up with their ovaries before their ovaries broke up with them) willing to have an honest conversation when the “journey” towards projected procreation begins. A quick side note here. This person cannot be your mother. I repeat. Cannot be your mother. For those of you who think she can fill this role, just remember the talk you had about the birds and the bees. Awkward? Unpleasant? Short on necessary details? Contributed, in part, to that pesky counseling bill you pay each month? Need I say more? I didn’t think so. No, let’s leave the mothers out of this and let them continue to do the two things they do best: ask us how our day went in six different languages and also . . . worry.

No, what we all need is someone who can explain why, in an unforgettable moment in time, we are transformed from carefree little girls with shining faces into pubescent, raging Medusas. She can look us directly in the eyes and tell us that each month for a very long time, our bodies are going to be upset, mainly about all that work for nothing, and they are going to use every tool at their disposal to make us painfully aware of that fact. Shovels, pick-axes, backhoes. You know, whatever is handy. She can tell you that for an extended period (pun intended), your life will revolve around a steady regimen of anti-inflammatory drugs, heating pads, hot baths and a more than healthy investment in the Kleenex empire. It’s going to be a blast.

Then, one fine day (or not), your body will reap the reward of all that consistent struggle (or not) and you will feel that stir of life within your womb (or not) and for just a moment, the skies will clear and you will hear the blessed announcement that you are going to swell in places you didn’t know you had. In fact, that backhoe is going to be necessary in a completely different way during this season. And if your womb indeed activates (or not); either way, you are still going to be on the board of directors for the Kleenex empire. You could also potentially be a paid consultant for the anti-depressant industry. The possibilities are endless.

Then, our mentors could call an intermission before the final act. They really should, as little information exists outside of girlfriend chatter and the infrequent pep talks from our gynecologists. This time, she would need to look directly into our souls and tell us that for a relatively brief period, anywhere from 5 to 15 years (cause who really knows), we are going to be mentally deranged. Yep, that’s right. Lunatics. We are going to feel mostly unhinged . . . on our good days. We are going to wake up in a pool of perspiration at all hours of the night. We are going to be standing in a snowstorm with a thin line of sweat on our upper lip. We are going to keep the healthcare industry in business with all the fake diseases we discover during this time. That’s right, ladies. Everyday you are going to wake up with lupus. We are going to yell at our husbands and our children. And then we are going to cry and beg them to tell us we are not crazy. And inside, our reproductive system is taunting us, taking us for one final ride, the denouement, Thelma and Louise style.

Chin up, ladies. One fine day, we do eventually wake up with clear minds and bright eyes. Granted, we no longer fit into our pants due to expanded waist lines and hips that just won’t quit, but we valiantly grasp our estrogen IV poles and somehow learn to live again. And the reason why some of these strong survivors need to be designated as reproductive specialists for the younger generation? Because by that point, the majority of women look back at all those blissfully ignorant little girls, laugh and say, “Good luck with all that.” Then we book a cruise, call our girlfriends who understand and race out of town . . . indefinitely. And that, my friends, is what it means to be a woman.  Now, I’ve got a plane to catch.  You’re welcome.