Fashionista to Passionista

You know, back in the day when I was working three jobs just to buy Kraft dinner, I didn’t really have time for joy. I didn’t really have the capacity or the head space to follow my bliss. (Whenever I use the expression “follow my bliss”, I feel I should have long, flowing hair, wear a long, flowing caftan, and spend my days making crafty shit out of pocket lint. I should be Aunt Meg from Twister – wasn’t she fabulous?) When you’re in survival mode, everything but what is absolutely necessary to survive takes a back seat.

That’s not to say I didn’t enjoy every moment with my children, Search and Destroy. They have always been a source of great love and joy, even during the really rough spots, and I don’t expect that will ever change. (Unless Destroy makes homemade chicken pot pie again without cleaning up after himself. Seriously, did you have to use every single pot in the house? And Search, if I have to go hunting for my black eyeliner one more time, you may find your bags on the porch.) The incredible joy a parent feels when your child tells you how much he or she loves you while trying to scam another $10 out of you, well, it just can’t be measured. But that’s not the kind of joy I’m talking about.

Last week, while off on vacation, I spent a couple of hours relaxing in the backyard with a novel and a glass of wine. I can honestly say the last time I did that was probably over 10 years ago. Ten years ago. How is it that something so simple could have been completely eliminated from my life? Interestingly, as I “find myself” again, I am remembering things I actually used to enjoy doing. Just managing a job, a home, and two kids on my own has kept me pretty darn busy, and my default program became one of putting others first, initially out of necessity but then, admittedly, out of habit. It takes head space to make effective changes, and when the rough times began to pass, I was happy to use that head space just to feel and experience relief. And then my brother died on my couch on August 6, 2008. His heart stopped in his sleep; no oxygen to the brain, and that was that.

Fast forward two years. I’d always heard that people say it takes two years to get over a significant loss. That always seemed long to me. Well, I can honestly say, that it’s been two years since Dale died, and I am finally – finally – starting to feel like myself. The survivor’s guilt is mostly gone (I don’t imagine it will ever disappear completely). The grief has mostly morphed into memories. I think deep down (subconsciously, because I don’t remember this as a cognitive thought), I have given myself permission to experience joy again. Or maybe it’s not a permission thing. Maybe my head and heart have healed enough that they can now work in tandem again.

Dale’s death was the catalyst to the personal journey I’ve been on the last two years. It’s the “something good” I take away from a dreadful experience. As I approach my 50th birthday, I feel as though I’ve turned a corner. I am happy. I am grateful to be alive (literally, because some people aren’t). I sincerely believe we are here on this planet to discover what brings us joy, that we should then bring that into the world to share with others, and that is our purpose and contribution. Sometimes joy is finding absolute pleasure and peace in the simple things (like reading  a novel outside on a beautiful summer day). Joy is not frivolous or unnecessary. Deep-down, feel-it-in-your-gut joy is what makes us human. I think it’s the best part of us.

It’s interesting how we see all experiences from our own perspective. Mine is predictably female. And so, without giving it much thought, I figured my experience – shared by many women of a certain age – was a distinctly female one. Not so, as it turns out. While discussing living passioniately with friends, both male and female, it seems that the search for meaning and joy is not restricted to the fairer sex. Just because they don’t talk about it as much, doesn’t mean that men of a certain age are not also searching for that which makes them feel passionate.

A biker friend of mine is involved with a charitable organization which helps children with cancer. He himself cut off many inches of hair and donated it for the benefit of others. He’s making a difference. A neighbour, past his 50th birthday, recently took up mountain biking, a sport usually reserved for men half his age. Fresh from an outing to the escarpment, sporting angry bruises to prove it, he couldn’t be happier. He’s raised his kids, and he is now focusing on what brings him joy. Another male neighbour is exploring his love of photography and running (separately – I don’t think he takes pictures while he runs; that would be dangerous.) It was actually a male colleague who brought Roz Savage to my attention. Roz is an eco-warrior who changed her life radically by leaving her former spouse and home behind, and began rowing around the world to bring attention to environmental issues. Not too far past his 40th birthday, decided he was not satisfied with the status quo and so, in a life-altering decision, is going back to school for his Ph.D. Yes, it affects his family. Yes, it means significant changes. But, as he points out, it’s his life, and it’s half over. One of my readers even commented that my blog – obviously geared towards gatherers – had attracted a hunter.

The common denominator here is that middle-age seems to bring about a time of reflection for some of us, hunters and gatherers alike. We feel compelled to find meaning in what we are doing, and doing what is meaningful. We have very little patience for that which doesn’t conribute to our own growth or to the benefit of the community. I think that’s a good thing. Agricultural revolution – industrial revolution – technological revolution – evolution revolution. We boomers make up a good portion of the population. We can make a difference.

As for the picture of Hugh Jackman, well, I have no idea if Hugh is a self-aware man. But he sure is pretty.

One of the things that fascinates me the most about humankind is how different we all are. I love that while we are all fashioned out of the same elements, we are each put together just differently enough to create billions of individual humans with different perspectives, different passions, different interests, different personalities. What a fabulous kaleidoscope of diversity is humanity. How tedious and boring it would be if we were all the same. The Stepford Wives horrified me, not just because they wore ridiculously brimmed hats (a la Here Come The Brides) while grocery shopping, but because of the stifling sameness. (And speaking of 70’s movies, that sci-fi flick starring Farrah Fawcett also horrified me because a) citizens were “eliminated” at 30 years of age, and b) they all wore the 70’s idea of kicky, futuristic outfits, and they were quite hideous.)

What I think is wonderful about humanity is that you don’t give a rat’s ass about what matters to me, and right back atcha. Isn’t that wonderful!? I think it’s fabulous! It means that we have myriad charity groups so that those of us passionate about saving the whales can participate and contribute, as can those of us who want to improve living conditions for women in Rwanda. Some of us want to study geography, and others of us are obsessed with how things work. Some of us are the life of the party, and some of us like to quietly observe the life of the party.

I admire those people who respect the differences in others. I personally find the differences fascinating and positive. Therefore, when I learn that someone in my community is branching out, taking a chance, making a leap of faith, venturing into the unknown, all in the name of finding their passion or following their bliss or any other cute little phrase you want to label it with, well, I say booyah!! How many of us though, are surrounded by a majority of folks who, upon learning that we want to move a tad outside our carefully constructed comfort zone (complete with caution tape and everything), are very quick to label us crazy, restless, immature, or silly. How many of us are surrounded by people who want to know why we’re just not satisfied with the status quo?

I say to hell with the status quo. Sure, the status quo is safe. It’s predictable. It’s very Stepford Wives. But it’s not living. It’s not experiencing and failing and falling and trying again and starting over and succeeding and loving and laughing and grinning because you’re so damn delighted with yourself. You’re delighted with yourself because you ventured outside the box, and regardless of whether or not you failed or succeeded, you created and lived through an experience. And that, in and of itself, means success in my book. Because it enriches us and expands who we are. It makes us bigger on the inside.

I have read self-help  books which tell you to absolutely not tell anyone when you venture outside the box. They’ll just make you uncomfortable, not offer any support, create obstacles, label you crazy. You’re writing a book? Why? No one will publish it. No one will want to read it. Or, You want to go back to school? What for? You already have a job. You’re lucky to have a job. Why spend the money when you already have a career? What can you do with a Fine Arts degree anyway? I have also read as many books recommending you tell everyone on the planet so you can increase your sphere of influence and that people will rally to your cause when they see how important your new journey is. Regardless of whether and/or whom you decide to tell, the point is that it – whatever IT is – matters to you. And you matter. So what you care about matters, no matter what else.  What you care about has intrinsic value, and needn’t be defended or justified to anyone.

I’m here to tell you that if you followed a gut instinct, heeded an internal spark, investigated an urge, and took it beyond that to actually acting on it, well my friend, you are not crazy. You are amazing. But you are in the minority. Sadly, so many of us have become so firmly entrenched in our day to day lives and responsibilities and to-do lists that any thought of moving beyond that reality doesn’t even occur to us. And when we hear of someone who actually did it, we may offer congratulations, but many of us are secretly thinking “How dare you? You’ve proven that there is life beyond this, and, damn it, that shines a giant spotlight on the lack of deliberate intent in my life. Thanks, dude. On the other hand, maybe you’ll fail, and then I can feel good about myself again.”

Now, that sounds a little negative, and it is never my intention for this blog to be negative. I’m simply trying to point out that while some of us can be truly happy for our brothers and sisters who venture outside their safe little box, at least an equal number of us don’t like to hear about it, because it reminds us that we’re not venturing, we’re not experiencing, we’re not living. We’re simply existing. And misery loves company.

About a year ago, I starting paying attention to the sparks, to the glimmers of inspiration which began to push their way through to my consciousness. In all honesty, I didn’t consciously ask for the awareness. It developed as a result of the clearing of my mind after a loss where I simply wasn’t capable of filling my head with much else. I gained a new respect and love of life. I gained a very clear awareness of my own mortality and of the short span of each of our lives. In short, I realized that, at almost 50, I was running out of time to get my shit together.

And now, a year later, I organize a social group for some amazing women. The experience, and the members, feed my soul, and provide a sisterhood I never had growing up (I had brothers). What a wonderful gift. I have a blog which I contribute to regularly. It allows me to experience the joy of writing – something I lose myself in. You see, even if no one ever reads it, I am enjoying writing it – that’s the point. It’s my passion. If others enjoy it, well that’s a wonderful additional benefit. I have, in the last year,  participated in a Flash Mob, and conducted a speaking engagement (where I received a standing ovation by almost 2000 people). I also took a jewellery-making class and started guitar lessons, both of which didn’t inspire me enough to continue (although I can now repair my own jewellery which is cool). And I bought my dream car, a very aggressively styled Mustang which makes me grin every single time I turn the key. (My ex popped by to check it out and we happened to turn onto my street at the same time. He said he saw my grin before he saw the car.) The point is not the result. The point is the journey. The point is making the effort in the first place, even if people think you’re crazy.  The point is to find those things which keep you up at night and make you grin like an idiot.

You are entitled to live the life you choose. In fact, I believe it is our obligation to bring our particular gifts into the world. I believe that’s why we’re here. And, except for those blessed few who seem to be born knowing what their gifts are, the exquisite agony of trying to figure it all out is what life is really about. Once we learn to embrace that, the world is limitless. And I can tell you, raising children is rewarding, being part of loving relationships is wonderful, but being delighted with yourself, well, that’s a whole new level of joy.

Vogue Editor c. 1940

No, this isn’t a post about menopause. Besides – ewwwww – those aren’t good sweats. This is a post about what Oprah calls shlumpadinkas . Oprah made this word up – and it’s a pretty good one  – to describe women who had given up on their appearance and wore nothing but sweats. Are men shlumpadinks, I wonder? I have a closet full of beautiful clothes, magnificent shoes (seriously, someone in a grocery store recently called my Naughty Monkey pony hair Mary Janes magnificent - and they are!), and yet, sadly, I fall into the shlumpadinka category. Because once I’m home the stylish fitted sheath comes off, the heels are carefully shelved, and my trusty grey sweats sporting bleach stains are what I settle myself into. Then I wake up on Saturday and Sunday, and the sartorial splendour I’ve displayed during the work week devolves into choices that should earn me the title Queen Shlumpadinka. But, I’m still a fashionista even when dressing down. I only wear my good sweats out in public. What is the difference between my regular sweats and my good sweats? The “good” sweat pants don’t have bleach stains, and the “good” sweatshirt was purchased in a women’s store and is slightly more fitted than the mens XXL I schlep around the house in.

There is a reason mothers with young children fall into this trap. I myself had two sweat suits I interchanged while raising my babies in the 90s. You’re tired, overwhelmed, and it’s all you can do to keep your child from swallowing those bath oil beads (poison control, I’m sure, had a file on me). When you haven’t slept through the night in three years, using what little decision-making ability you manage to find on choosing an outfit which doesn’t cause pantylines seems ludicrous. And once you cross that pantyline line, well my friend, it’s a slippery slope straight into shlumpadinkaville.

But what about now? What about the fact that I have thousands of dollars worth of beautiful clothing at my disposal, and yet I manage to look like a homeless person (mind you, a homeless person who somehow managed to come across a cute Michael Kors crossbody bag) when I pop out to the do the groceries on Saturday morning? (Disclaimer: This is not a judgement about homeless people. Whenever I head into the city I take money specifically to give to any homeless person I encounter. Regardless of how they got there, we are all part of a global community and I believe in giving back. That being said, I’ve not run into one homeless person whose personal style or grooming habits I would like to emulate. End of Disclaimer.) I certainly don’t have the excuse that I’m run ragged by rugrats. I don’t live with a partner so don’t need to accomodate anyone else’s schedule, and my grown kids, Search and Destroy who live with me, manage their own lives. Nope, things are going pretty well in my life at this point and I have plenty of time to make an effort on my appearance. So what’s my excuse? Laziness? Apathy? Comfort? Convenience?

Yes, yes, yes, and yes. The answer, for me, is that it’s a little bit of all of the above. Let’s look at each in turn. Lazy is not a word anyone would use to describe me. I struggle to stop doing stuff. But, given that I spend a solid hour each work day morning getting ready – clothes, hair, make up – yes, it is nice to be what constitutes lazy for me and just pull on a pair of relatively shapeless, neutrally coloured sweats and tuck my hair into a ballcap . Done! Apathy? A little. While I have always cared about my appearance, I have always and only ever dressed for myself. Never to impress anyone else, male or female. I enjoy fashion as a form of personal expression (ergo the first part of my domain name), and I admire it as an art form. But, some mornings I simply don’t care to make the effort. Some mornings, I’d prefer to spend that hour walking or contemplating or writing (yes, I am currently in my good sweats right now, since I needed to pop out this morning to run an errand). Comfort? Absolutely. I spend five days of the week wearing beautiful clothes that look good in a boardroom: fitted suits, sheath dresses, and sky high heels. Not exactly curl up on the couch kinda clothing. It feels utterly decadent to then swath myself in fleece and not worry about seams or wrinkles or stairs or gravel, or any other environmental considerations one must have when wearing my weekday duds. Finally, convenience. Yup, that’s part of it as well. You see, my sweats just hang on hooks fitted to my closet door. I grab them and go. No hangers, no buttons, no straps, no zippers, no considerations at all. And when I’m done with them, I could put them back on the hooks, or throw them in a corner. They’ll look exactly the same the next day, ready to wear. Awww, sweet freedom from wrinkles. One of my personal philosophies was formed as a result of my extreme aversion to ironing: If you wear your clothes tight enough, you never have to iron. I know, I know, pretty powerful stuff. You’re welcome.

All ironing jokes aside, some of us at this age and stage are just as busy, if not busier, than our young mother counterparts. Many of us are looking after elderly parents, working, raising teens, managing homes, providing care, making a living. Many of us don’t have the time or inclination to give a rat’s ass about our wardrobe. Seven years ago, I was working three jobs and raising my teens alone. I can assure you, at that time I did not have a closet full of beautiful clothes, and I did not indulge an hour a day on my appearance. It was all I could do to put food on the table, and that is not an exaggeration. Some of us have issues with our bodies. Naturally thin my whole life, I have seen the weight do it’s best to creep around my middle when I wasn’t looking and frankly, it’s pissing me off that it’s taking as long as it is to get rid of it. Many of us at middle age have come through the winter and disrobed only to be horrified at what has taken up residence. And some of us are somewhat disillusioned at this stage of life. I have the opportunity and privilege to speak to middle-aged women on a regular basis since I organize a social group for 40+ women. A number of us are now unexpectantly single, some of us have lost our jobs just when we were supposed to be in our “peak earning years”, some of us are suddenly caregivers for sick parents or partners.  Some of us have gone through some significant personal losses, and it’s all we can do to get up in the morning, let alone do it stylishly. Personally, that has been my experience over the last two years, after I lost my brother suddenly at 46. Having lost my father and grandmother just three years prior, the loss of my brother pretty much did me in. I went to work and I did the groceries. And that’s about it. That was the life event which took me from stylish girl to sweats girl, but I didn’t realize it at the time.

For me, the defining moment was about six months ago, just about the time the haze of grief was starting to dissipate. I was heading out to do the groceries, and I realized I should probably go upstairs and change into my good sweats, which is what I wore to do errands whenever my give-a-shit-meter was a little higher than usual. I couldn’t get that thought out of my head, and it gave me pause. I realized that it’s not about the clothes, and it’s not about impressing anyone. It’s about feeling good about yourself. It’s about living with passion and joy despite your circumstances. Sure, there are a lot of justifiable reasons to be a shlumpadinka. For me though, who always got such tremendous joy out of fashion, recognizing I was upgrading from bleach-stained sweats to non-bleach-stained sweats (and thinking that was okay) was an aha moment. I had moved from numbness to awareness, and could now choose joy. You see, my other non-ironing-related philosohy of life is this: If it is to be, it is up to me. So let me just say this. If you’re a shlumpadinka, take a moment to look at why. If it’s because you’re busy as hell looking after everyone else and his uncle, well then you do what you need to do and to hell with what anyone else (including Oprah) thinks. If it’s because you’ve given up, remember that you are worth it. Remember that you deserve as much attention and love as you give to others. And if it is to be, it is up to you. You are all you can really depend on. And if you’re happy and content, and you choose to be a shlumpadinka, then by God, be a great one! Embrace it in all it’s fleecy goodness.  Do it with deliberate intent. Find joy in it. Now when I curl up in my sweats, I am not staring blankly at the wall or going through the motions. I am luxuriating in comfort and freedom.  Rarely is it the end result of what we do that is the issue. It is almost always the why we are doing it that matters.