Life Lessons for 2023

It’s been several years since I did an annual Life Lessons post. They all seemed to be so bitter, so negative. When I was done typing, I’d invariably end up deleting them. So, as I approach 10 years as a single woman, did actual Christmas gift shopping and mailed out Christmas cards, here goes:

Colleen’s Life Lesson 2023

#1: Modern Medicine is nothing more than highly educated guesses. My Mom has had several heart scares this year, and I’ve struggled with my medications that allow me to live with Musical Ear Syndrome. The best medicine is a doctor’s education and experiences with patients who have similar conditions. When the patient doesn’t respond like everyone else or the condition is so rare even the specialists have never treated a case, treatment is mere guesswork. That’s not to underestimate doctors, surgeons, PAs or any other medical professional. But it is merely all highly educated guesses. I’ve been fortunate to work in partnership with my therapist, my psychiatrist, my surgeon and my PCP – all of whom have helped me come up with therapies and combinations of medications to survive MES and the stress it creates. But it has been all guesswork, trial attempts to find what works. Same for my Mom.

#2: I’m not interested in dating or having a partner in my life. After 10 years of living single, I’ve become very protective of my home, my time and my energy. For the first time, I actually had a few dates this past year. Met some nice guys and a random few not-so-nice guys. Part of my reluctance is that I always put my husband’s and my son’s needs before my own when I was married. Everything was focused around their jobs, careers, hobbies and education. Whatever I wanted was acceptable only so long as it didn’t interfere with their plans. I refuse to live like that ever again – and sometimes that’s what it takes for a relationship to work. So, sorry guys, I really believe I will be #single4life and I’m actually kind of enjoying it for a change.

#3: If you’re not likeable, you’re career is going nowhere. This has always been the hardest concept for me to accept. I’ve always believed that hard work, dedication and evolving skills were always more important in a person’s career advancement. I prided myself on always meeting deadlines, doing my best work and being eager to take on new challenges that forced me to learn new skills. But the sad reality is that none of that matters one tiny bit if you act like a jerk at work. The boss has to like you to get ahead. It’s really that simple. Maya Angelou was on to something when she said people will forget what you said or what you did, but they always remember the way you made them feel.

So there you have it – three life lessons that this past year has taught me. What has 2023 taught you? Please comment below!

Older and Wiser, But Never Invisible

I don’t remember exactly when this picture was taken. My best guess is the spring of 1987, when I was 21. It was the ’80s when we all had frizzy permed hair, toned arms and slender legs.

Heavens, those legs. I was a wild child.

Now, more than 35 years later, my hair is straight and fully silver; my body much, much rounder. I have surgical scars, stretch marks and batwing arms. My body has writhed in equal measures of pleasure and pain. It conceived two babies — my now grown son and the one I never talk about.

According to French Author Yann Moix, I’m now “invisible” because my body isn’t “extraordinary” like it was in my 20s. Of course, I don’t look the same. I don’t wear sleeveless shirts anymore. I don’t hike up my skirt to show off my legs. In fact, I’m painfully shy about being naked.

Yet, I am so much more woman – more wise, more deliberate and more powerful. According to The New York Times, the U.S. Census documents more women over 50 in the United States than ever before. Susan Douglas, a University of Michigan professor of communication studies, is writing a book about this changing demographic. 

“Older women are now saying ‘No, I’m still vibrant, I still have a lot to offer, and I’m not going to be consigned to invisibility,’ ” she said. “These women are reinventing what it means to be an older woman.”

I won’t ever be the wild child I was in the spring of 1987. I’ll never be the devoted wife, the stay-at-home mom or the trailing spouse. Those women are gone.

My future remains a blank page, the pen firmly in my grip, waiting to be written.

Red Letter Dates

We all have red letter dates littered throughout our lives.

November 8, 1965

The day we were born. The days when loved ones died.

August 15, 1988

Days that brought pure joy, or conversely, deep loss and sadness.

October 28, 1989

We mark them each year, sometimes with a quiet nod. A little smile. Others by pulling the covers over our heads and staying in bed.

January 16, 1991

Even if we forget sometimes, our bodies keep score. Reminding us with a rumbling tummy, a slight headache or a general feeling of dread.

March 14, 2014

Sometimes we smile and delight in a cherished memory. Sometimes those memories are dust causing tears to trickle down our cheeks.

July 7, 2014

They are the dates that clearly mark who we were before, shattering every aspect of the life we’d known and lived. The Before.

August 15, 2014

We take those shards of our soul to create something different. With each step forward on this new “after” path, we find more pieces, different parts of ourselves.

And we create a mosaic from the broken shards, rediscover parts we thought we’d lost and explore a path so different from anything we’d ever imagined.

The goal is to accept what comes After, to craft something whole and beautiful from the pieces left. To be better, not bitter.

A Well-Traveled Box

“Your couch has more miles than my Buick.”

That was my former father-in-law’s statement in 2013 when he found out his son and my former husband’s career was taking us back to Florida. After spending more than two years in Idaho, we were doing yet another cross country move.

This week, I’m moving again to another condo – this time in Muskegon’s Midtown, just six blocks from where I work.

In the early years of my marriage, we moved nearly every year, but always in Michigan. After our son graduated from high school and headed to college, our moves spanned the nation.

I had hoped to stop that pattern since my divorce, but sadly, life had other plans. Two condos, two apartments, two shared living spaces in seven years – it’s never been my goal to continue my well-rehearsed patterns of packing and saving moving boxes.

One box in particular stands out since I’ve had it ever since 2009. Our movers first packed canning jars and my canning equipment from the basement of our house in DeWitt. I didn’t unpack it in Florida the first time. I didn’t unpack it in Idaho either. It remained packed until 2013, our return trip to Florida.

Finally, in early 2014, when I was leaving Florida, my former husband played Tetris with my shoe collection and managed to fit all of them into this one box. I believe he knew even then, he wanted me gone.

Since then, I’ve used it for every move to pack my many pairs of shoes. You can see the layers and layers of tape across the top, and it’s become my personal guide for when my love of shoes is getting out of hand. If they can’t all fit in the box, I have too many!

Today I packed up all my shoe boxes once again, leaving it open for my house slippers and the extra set of trainers I keep near the door. I’ll tape the box up the night before movers arrive and carry it across town one more time.

But this time, the box is going to the recycle bin when it’s unpacked.

I’m done moving – no matter what the future brings.

Thirty Years Ago….

Today is my son’s 30th birthday.

I didn’t send a card. I won’t see him or talk to him. Sadly, we are estranged. Out of respect for his wishes, I no longer attempt those types of contact. Nor will I use his given name in this post. But turning 30 is a milestone.

When you are estranged from a loved one, birthdays – along with Mother’s Day, Christmas and Thanksgiving – are tough days. I felt the darkness building this past week, dragging me down. So I turned to a book, I’ve come to rely on during dark times. Done With The Crying by Sheri McGregor and her website offer parents like me the comfort of knowing I’m not alone and a positive way to process the grief and loss.

McGregor writes: “As loving mothers, we surely made mistakes. All parents do. But as kind and supportive parents, we did our best. We must recognize that no matter the choices our adult children make, their behavior doesn’t diminish the good we did or continue to do. Someone’s inability to see our value does not detract from our worth (160).”

Instead, McGregor urges parents like me to focus on happier times.

Thirty years ago, on the day of my son’s birth, my smiles in these pictures show my happiness. It had been a very difficult pregnancy but a textbook smooth delivery.

After a long day of labor, my husband and I greeted our son. He was my parents’ first grandchild, and my paternal grandparents first great-grandchild. He was and is the only child to continue the Steinman family name, something incredibly important to my former father-in-law.

So today, 30 years later, I celebrate the joy his birth brought to our lives. I remember the happy times throughout his childhood. And I pray for his health and happiness for many more decades. I hope he is celebrating this milestone birthday with people who love him.

As the years pass, I accept that we will never recapture this lost time. Yet, my heart is always open; my love will never end. A dear friend once told me the end of our story is not yet written. I hold these happy memories close to my heart. I know that one day we will meet again, even if it’s in the ever after.

Happy birthday, my son. I love you. I miss you. Always.

 

Alone Again, Naturally

Thanks to a global pandemic, a whole lot of people are going to find out what it’s like to spend a holiday alone.

I’m a seasoned pro! This will be my sixth Christmas alone – a 55-year-old divorcee estranged from my grown son. Oh sure, in previous years I’d get together with my parents, my siblings and their families. We exchange Christmas gifts, eat way too much food and spend a lot of time laughing, but it was rarely actually on December 25.

There won’t be a gathering this year – thanks to Covid-19. Sadly, too many others are mourning the loss of loved ones, like Kaylie Hanson Long, a 33-year-old widow.

No matter the reason, being alone for a major holiday isn’t easy. In the early years after my divorce, holidays were hard. Grief never plays nicely, but we humans are remarkably resilient. We adapt and learn ways to cope.

Even before a global pandemic, I’ve come to enjoy this time alone, naturally.

I’m not tempted to overeat. My Thanksgiving dinner this year was a delicious homemade seafood enchilada, heated up in the microwave and served with a tumbler of sweet peach iced tea. I’m going to splurge this year for my Christmas feast on potato chips and French onion chip dip – two things I rarely eat.

I don’t decorate for the holidays. No Christmas tree, no tempermental strings of lights and no mess.

I usually pick a special project that takes intense concentration and time. Or I find a new trail to explore – if the weather isn’t excessively cold and the snow isn’t too deep. This year, I have so many new trails to pick from in my new community.

Holidays are yours to do with whatever you chose – to wallow in your pajamas all day, to binge watch a new series, to make your favorite treat, to splurge on takeout , to volunteer with your favorite organization, or to create something that will be donated.

My plan includes a Zoom Christmas! I spent a very short, masked in-person visit with my parents installing Zoom on my Mom’s phone and laptop so we can still visit and stay stafe. Fingers crossed that everyone’s technology and wi-fi works on December 25!

We have all faced so many challenges this year, suffered so many losses, but being alone on a major holiday doesn’t have to be traumatic. Like so much of life, it’s going to be what we make of it.

My apologies to Gilbert O’Sullivan for using his song lyrics for this post’s title, but it fit.

The Things I’ve Lost

I spent the first Christmas after my divorce unpacking boxes my ex-husband delivered as part of the settlement. Among them was a brass horn Christmas wreath from early in our marriage, always carefully wrapped and boxed each January.

I opened it up that cold December day in 2014 to see tired greenery and bright plaid ribbons — and threw the whole thing like a big Frisbee into the apartment complex dumpster.

The incredible freedom to let it fly!

Since then, I’ve jettisoned almost everything I asked for in the divorce settlement. Things I once treasured. Things I’ve learned I didn’t need or truly want.

• The fine china and oak hutch were sold to a former classmate who registered for the same china pattern when she was married back in the late 1980s.
• A king-sized bed, an oak dinette set, a couch, a chair and ottoman, and an end table – all donated to people who needed and wanted them more.
• All but a handful of decorative tins and other knick knacks were dropped at Goodwill.
• Leftover wedding napkins, invitations and stacks of journals burned to ash.
• My wedding dress was donated to make gowns for angel babies.
• Photo albums, romantic cards and letters, all returned to the person who wrote them, who likely never meant any of the sentiments expressed.

The things I’ve lost cluttered my life and tethered me to a painful past. Without them I’ve gained the freedom to rediscover my own preferences and tastes.

• SUSHI!
• Dark roast coffee with real cream and cane sugar
• Fluffy pink bath towels and rose-scented soap
• Long walks in desolate forests listening to the wind in the trees
• Live music at small-town concert venues
• Chair dancing to ’80s bubblegum pop while writing the wee hours of the night away

The things I’ve lost made room for a wealth of experiences missing from my old life. For all I’ve lost, I’ve gained something far richer.

A Different Thanksgiving

In the fall of 1998, I was half way to finishing my master’s degree. I’d been invited to serve as lead teacher of basic writing, mentoring a group of undergraduate seniors who would teach the remedial English courses for 98-99 school year. I had begun to build my capstone portfolio, a requirement for graduation.

And my husband decided to take a promotion to Northeast Michigan, some 300 miles away.

I vowed to continue my studies and divided my week vertically being a student and teaching assistant at Western Michigan University Monday through Thursdays and being a wife and mommy Friday through Sundays.

It was a challenging year. Several of those Fridays were spent in marriage counseling sessions. As a wise mentor told me, “In all marriages, there are good years and bad years. You push through the bad years to find the good years.”

We pushed through that year, as tough as it was. I graduated in April with my master’s degree. We broke ground on a brand new home on 20 acres and celebrated Thanksgiving 1999 by moving in. Seriously, I had a huge turkey dinner ready on moving day!

In many ways, 2020 has been like 1999. It’s been so very hard for so many people.

Business are shuttered; people have lost jobs; some are facing hunger and homelessness as we move into the new year.

We can’t hug each other; can’t visit and share family times. We can’t have funerals to say goodbye to our loved ones. Weddings are postponed, shrunk to smaller outdoor venues. There’s so much we’ve lost as a result of this global pandemic and this potentially fatal virus.

Many of us are going to be alone this Thanksgiving, trying to do our part to keep loved ones safe. For our family, we’ve already cancelled Christmas.

But we have to push through the bad years like 2020 simply to get to the good years. We have to keep putting one foot in front of the other, even when you can’t see where the path leads. Even when the pain of moving makes you want to give up.

My Thanksgiving challenge is to find something to be grateful for this year. One small thing. One big thing. But something that has helped you get through and keeps you pushing forward.

I’m thankful to be employed again after six months of unemployment. I’m thankful to work beside good people for an organization committed to keeping staff safe while carrying out its important work in the community.

I’m thankful for friends who gave me a place to live when unemployment was my only income. I’m thankful to have a spacious, comfortable apartment to call home again.

I’m thankful to have a new community with miles of trails to explore and sunsets to watch.

I don’t know what the future will bring. There’s no guarantee that 2021 will be better, and we face many, many challenges yet as this virus continues to wreak havoc across the globe.

No matter what the future holds, I’m thankful to be alive.

Happy Thanksgiving!

 

When Fairy Tales Come True

Three times. That’s how many times he returned to the fundraising rummage sale to catch a glimpse of the woman who was dishing up ice cream.

Three times.

He bought a few books, looked at some other items he didn’t really need . But he returned later and asked her about the wine fridge. He didn’t drink wine, but he wanted to talk to her. And he bought it. The man who didn’t drink wine, bought a wine fridge.

She celebrated the sale of such a high-ticket item with her daughter and sat talking with some of the other choir moms, tired after a long day. Her makeup was long gone; her hair scraped back in a ponytail and her too-big baggy jeans kept sagging on her hips.

He drove home with his new wine fridge and worked up the nerve to write his name and phone number on a 3×5 notecard before returning to the sale for the third time.

This time he approached her directly, holding out the notecard: “I know you don’t know me, but would love to meet for coffee.”

She debated calling the number, but her teenaged daughter urged her to go for it.

Why not? It’s just coffee.

They both had daughters close in age. They were both divorced. They both had busy, full lives and careers. They discovered they knew several people in common and both came from large Polish families who had helped settle the area.

A few months later, he introduced her to several friends as “the love of my life.”

A year later, after she was diagnosed with stage three breast cancer, he told his boss he couldn’t travel for work for a while. He was there by her side for every doctor appointment, every scan, every test, every surgery and every chemo treatment. He was there when her hair grew back, still the love of his life.

They melded their lives, moved in together, helped their daughters through college and a wedding. They weathered a major flood and a pandemic.

And now they’re getting married, a small, private ceremony later this month with just their daughters and a new son-in-law.

Sometimes, fairy tales do come true.

 

Donate the Dress and Bury the Past

I’m giving my wedding dress away this week.

The bits of lace, pearl buttons and satin are going to become burial garments for stillborn infants and linings for those tiny little caskets. Like the marriage for which I wore the dress – dead and buried.

My wedding dress wasn’t anything like what I thought I wanted. It was the ‘80s and everyone was wearing leg-o-mutton sleeves, big butt bows and rooster bangs.

I wanted something different. I had a picture in my mind of my ideal wedding gown, something off the shoulder, with a deep vee for the waist, almost medieval in design. I’d tried on the ‘20s style dropped waist designs with handkerchief hems. But nothing felt right.

My mom, sister and I went dress shopping one Saturday afternoon. We ended up in a small single story brick building north of my home town. The place now advertises ‘gator and ostrich jerky.

I was skeptical when the bridal attendant brought out a dress with a high lace collar and wide lace cuffs with peal buttons up the sleeves. But when I tried it on, I knew. This was the one.

Of course there was no price tag on it and I remember holding my breath while the attendant went to look it up. My parents had agreed to buy my dress, but I wasn’t going to bankrupt them.

“It’s two-fifty,” she said.

I couldn’t speak for a minute. “You mean two-hundred-fifty?”

“Yes, $250 for the dress, but that doesn’t include any alterations.”

I think I spent just as much for the satin cap and veil, the undergarments, hose and satin shoes with rhinestone clips. I made my own garters and a satin-lined velvet cape in the same deep pine green of the bridesmaid dresses.

After the wedding, I had the dress professionally preserved, spending nearly half as much as it cost. The sealed box traveled all over Michigan and across the country as we moved again and again.

My wedding dress was one of the things listed in my divorce papers – proof that it’s mine to do with as I wish. I have often wondered what to do with it. My son was never baptized so I never needed a christening gown. Styles have changed so dramatically; I can’t imagine anyone would ever want to wear it again.

It’s time to let it go. Time for someone else to find solace from bits of lace and pearl buttons as they grieve and bury their hearts.