A woman’s guide to a girlfriend break up or something a man will never experience
At the age of 60 I let things go while holding tight.
I let go:
old love letters from boyfriends decades ago
thousands of redundant photos of our kids and other people’s kids
friends who serve no purpose
dreams of accomplishments that no longer have meaning
I held on like never before to:
our kids who live far away , well beyond adjusting to life on their own and living thriving, happy, fulfilled lives
my husband who makes life worthwhile
family and close friends
mental and physical health
I hate deadlines, but I’m quite good at keeping them.
If it’s an event, party or just a holiday family dinner, I’m all over it months in advance: planning, organizing, my e-calendar in full tilt describing each day’s chores until that day comes . “Go time” appears to others as effortless right down to the finest detail. I sweat from the minute I know the final date until the day of reckoning when I drink too much wine and let it all flow.
Moving is easy, building a community is hard.I say this, though I’ve really never truly moved as an adult, it seems easier to just rent homes all over the country without pretending to fit in somewhere new. In this way you won’t feel the sting of feeling like the outsider.My home base is my community. I’m an insider here. We raised all three kids in this tony Boston suburb. I know everyone I need to know, including the mailman, the police chief and the local barber who gave each of my boys their first crew cuts.On my morning walk to the local coffee shop, I wave to my hair dresser, my husband’s trainer, our car mechanic, the neighbors who saw my kids grow up, and everyone in between. I know their cars before they wave, unless they’ve traded up to a Tesla. I feel like George Bailey in It’s a Wonderful Life, running through Bedford Falls announcing “Merry Christmas you wonderful old Building and Loan” as I recognize every inch of my walk over 25 plus years, blanketing each phase of my life and the lives of our kids.“Move to Boulder”, people often say, live near your 2 kids who moved away. “Stop your bellyaching about how you miss them and move there”. For one thing we have one son here in Boston. Why leave him when he is the one who stayed? He’s the loyal son, and as the eldest, most likely to take care of us. But more prescient is the fact that this is my community. Friends don’t need to be replaced, they go where you go, as I’ve learned. If they are worth keeping they are worth keeping from any distance. But a community does not grow quickly, it takes years and years and sadly we have only one life. If I had two or three lives, I’d surely build a few communities, moving every 25 years. Time would work in my favor here.I imagine as you grow very old, your community gets smaller which makes it easier to move closer to your kids who live far away. They, and your grandchildren, become your only focus after your spouse passes on and your friends die off. Besides you don’t travel like you used to.Sometimes after a few glasses of wine, or worse yet, a martini, I imagine the courage to do something outrageously out of character. What might that be? For me, it’s buy a house somewhere out West: Colorado or maybe even Santa Barbara or San Diego. I’ve certainly had it with winter, in my one and only life. But then I sober up and take my dog for a walk in my hood.
You think it’s easy staying home all day trying to cobble together a meaningful life?
Even on a dark, rainy day the view from our 1920s porch overlooking Lake George cannot be beat.
Whether you are gazing at a blazing sunset or a misty due hanging over the mountains there is never a bad view from this window.
I can roam the halls of Bergdorf’s in NYC as easily as a Walmart in Queensbury, which is in upstate NY.
I can talk to corporate moguls vacationing in Aspen with their private planes as easily as a welder who grew up in Ft Anne, NY, and likes to “blow shit up” as a hobby.
I am city, suburbia and a little bit country.
I am designer resort wear and full out don’t care about my clothes, as long as I look thin and the fabric is breathable.
I never stop looking for my next home, though I’m at home where I’ve always been.
I belong with my Bill and long to be near our children.
New Englanders are by nature cold, like their winters.
As an extreme extrovert, I’ve poked my nose into the lives of strangers, acquaintances, and friends from Lisbon to Costa Rica, two locales of which have the world’s friendliest people.
People are not cold in Chicago, Kansas City, San Diego, or Nashville. Nor Boulder, Denver, L.A., or Napa Valley. It’s New England. Explanations for this phenomenon are hard to muster since all of America is made up of cultural roots spanning the Earth, yet New England still has the greatest concentration of cold, unemotional, non expressive folks no matter what country of origin.
As I walk my “hood” in late July I count how many front doors are slammed shut, even with a glass storm door behind the big oak door. Mine is the only door that is opened to show the inside, as if to say, Come on In, the Water is Fine.”
No one hangs out on their front stoop waiting to greet a neighbor. In these parts when you go to work you enter your car head down and when you return at night, same posture. “Head down, don’t shoot”, or more like “don’t talk to me” in this tony town.Exhibit A:I go to my local supermarket after a month in our country home and run into a woman whom I’ve travelled social circles with for 25 years, whose kids played with my kids, and still do. If you were a fly on the wall observing our encounter at the fruit section you’d think she doesn’t like me, but you’d be wrong. She actually does like me. Our conversation is filled with me asking the usual family questions, sharing how I feel about this and that, only to be met by a lack of facial and/or body expression.I’m thinking if this is how folks around here respond to positive encounters how is it they act if they don’t like you? Maybe it’s the same. Confusing.On the other hand, the bagger, who walks me to my car, and hails from Brooklyn, NY, like my own parents, returns my bombastic social proclivity with a heated conversation about the Brooklyn Dodgers leaving for LA in 1957, the year I was born. Bam. Warmth from the stranger.Exhibit B:I walk my “hood” where I have walked nearly every day for 26 years but on this day after a month away I run into a neighbor who knows me well, whose parties I’ve attended. The reception is as flat as the street below my feet, more like what you’d expect from someone with Asperger’s or Autism— no offense to either of these conditions.They say around these parts that New Yorkers are the worst, and in many ways, that’s true. But they are warm. They hug you while modulating their voice to match a show of emotion. And in California they fake warmth all day long, which is entirely all right with me.
Written: 2004 and published in Wellesley Weston Magazine
by Beth Nast
At the age of 45 I learned to love winter. I began to see the sun as the closest star, shining brighter than all of summer. The ice glistening more radiantly than all the world’s sandy beaches. The cold, something not to avoid, but embrace– to dress for and then warm up in. As I watched my son create snow angels in the backyard I woke up to how closely the snow is to the look of our summer beaches. My sunglasses become a necessity. My lips are in need of moisture. My neighbor, also a doctor, explained it to me this way, “When we reach our menopausal age, we long for cold, not warmth. Our bodies produce enough warmth on their own.”
My love for winter began when we got our dog, for the children supposedly. But really it was for me. I figured how could I ever experience depression if there was always someone to care for, someone waiting to be loved. Surprisingly, the first 6 months of owning a dog are full of stress and self doubt – more work than a newborn but without that instinctive love.. The dog taught me how to appreciate the need to be walked every day. How to see the sticks on the ground as playful objects, not broken limbs. A daily walk in the outdoors, it turns out, is a necessity for humans as well as dogs.
There are always two voices within us. The voice, which I mostly listened to in my 20s and 30s, telling me whatever I did… it was not enough. It was less than I could do, less than my parents would hope I should do, less than someone famous I’d read about would do.
Then there is this other voice, more sweet and gentle than the other. It’s the voice I’m hearing now more clearly than ever before. It basically says, “Cut yourself some slack. Don’t demand more of yourself than that which feels good and comfortable, and forgive yourself all your “non successes”. In Yoga my instructor says, “We approach yoga as we approach life.” And nothing could be closer to the truth. The days I’m angry and quitting in yoga are the days I am angry at myself and quitting at everything I begin. But the days I work to master a position, I know that will be a successful day.
The new inner voice says, “Stop thinking of what you could do, and learn to enjoy what you do, even if it seems uninspired. This is a big part of who you are. And the other part will struggle alongside like a shadow waiting to peek its creative head out every once in a while. The same Yoga teacher councils, “Don’t nibble through life. Decide what is important and take big bites. With that advice I finally saw with clarity that my children and husband, they are my big bite, and that will be my legacy.