Womanhood Ch-ch-ch-changes

Posted on by K.S. Schultz

The inconveniences of womanhood are enhanced in the 5th decade.  A few are familiar from a long time ago.  The hard painful cramping that accompanies my period reminds me of when I was 15 years old, yet now there is an end in sight.  Perhaps this is designed so that I will not miss it when menopause arrives, like the post-menopausal women who smile when they say, “I don’t have to deal with that anymore”.  Another similarity is that it always arrives at an inopportune moment, usually when I am wearing light-colored pants, busy, and away from home.  The difference is that it can arrive anytime, even if it was just here a few days ago.  Thanks to the excessive flow, I know how my Mom felt when she had to wash my sheets several times within a week.  I am stoic at this age however, and no longer believe that I may die from the pain as I did when I was a woman-child.  A few years ago I listened to an emergency room nurse chuckling as she talked about a young woman who rated her menstrual cramps as 10 on the 1-10 pain scale.  I felt sympahty for that girl because I remember feeling the same.

The drama queen of my younger years re-emerges the week before, but now I am embarrassed and guilty when I have acted like an out-of-control hormonal teenager.  If you read through a month of my blog postings, I bet you can pick out which week it
is.  I have tried taking birth control pills to regulate my crazy perimenopausal hormones, but they just made me more emotional, so I figure I will save the hormones for when I go truly mad.  In the meantime I try to be aware in order to control my emotional state and apologize often because being aware does not mean I am in control.

I was famous in my teens for my ability to pee quickly or more accurately for my penchant to pee in places that you should not, so I had to go quickly.  In a public bathroom with my daughter recently I could not help but notice that I was still peeing  while she had finished, washed her hands, and left.  It dawned on me that this is something else that has slowed down over the past few years.  Fortunately Cosmopolitan magazine schooled my teenage friends and me on the mechanics of Kegel exercises, although the reasons we learned them had nothing to do with avoiding incontinence later in life. Whatever my initial motivation was, I am a pro after 25 years of working those pelvic muscles.  Yet it still takes me a few minutes, so peeing on the side of the road is out of the question now.

I will save some of the other changes I am experiencing in my 40’s for other postings because some are so special they deserve their very own post.  It feels as though the past 30 years of being a woman have been sort of like boot camp for this – the most challenging decade yet.

Positioning Myself

Posted on by K.S. Schultz

Good body mechanics have been added to my bank of new talents since I turned 40.  Bending at the knees
when lifting a heavy object is second nature, but in this decade I can hurt myself by picking up a gum wrapper.  Before I go any further I must tell you that I did NOT attend medical school, therefore I use layman’s terms and anecdotes to share what I have learned about
the importance of how we position ourselves while performing the simple acts of
daily living.  I learned these strategies just as most people do, after years of wear and tear caused me pain.  “I have no idea what I did”, is a common statement amongst my peers when they have neck and back pain, so I know that I am not alone.

Beyond “sit up straight” there are simple rules I adopted that have nothing to do with how I reflect on my mother, but everything to do with pain avoidance.  A pinched nerve lasts well-beyond the seconds it takes for a Mom’s pinch to fade, and often requires
medical treatment.  The most important lesson I have learned from a lifetime of bruises on my knees, hips, and elbows is to slow down.  I only hit tables and door jambs with my body when I am moving at break-neck speed, the accepted speed limit for women.  Moving into the slow lane is not only safer, but I get better results from whatever I am working on.  Multi-tasking is an art that I have trashed for the same reason that I do not answer my cell phone while driving; only emergent situations require either.

Here are a few simple movements and strategies that I have incorporated into my safer daily living routine:

  • When rising from bed I begin from lying on my side with my knees slightly bent and aligned with my trunk.  I use my arms to raise my body without twisting and then move to get out of bed.  This way I am not using my back and neck muscles to raise my body weight.
  • I try hard not to cross my legs because it misaligns the spine.  This is one of
    those unconscious habits drilled into me during toddlerhood by my Grandmother
    under the “young ladies should always” heading.  I have not overcome it entirely, but uncross my legs or ankles often.
  • Looking down puts a lot of pressure on our neck muscles.  Computer monitors placed at eye level as well as reading material placed higher and closer lessens the muscle load on my neck.  My dad has an adjustable book reading table which enables him to read the large hard-cover tomes he prefers without having to hold up ten pounds.
  • I eyed the gum wrapper on the floor in the rear of my vehicle and twisted then stretched to reach it.  Bad move; it caused a tweak in my back with pain that lasted for weeks.  It is better to pick up ANYTHING from a straight on and close position.  If it is low, I bend at the knees, even for something as light as a piece of paper.
  • I never hold the phone between my neck and shoulder anymore.  This bad habit paired with long mother-daughter conversations pinched a nerve in my neck which
    necessitated physical therapy.  A phone headset is optimal because the mother-daughter conversations are not optional.
  • I push rather than pull whenever possible and always face the load if I need to pull. When vacuuming, sweeping, or raking I walk with the tool I am using rather
    than pushing it far away and using my arms to pull it toward me.
  • Rather than assuming my Wonder Woman persona, I ask for help to move objects over 20 lbs. That is what husbands are for.  Boyfriends, teenagers, and friendly neighbors can help you with this, too.
  • I get close to the cabinet when putting away dishes and step up on something stable to avoid reaching far overhead.
  • I sort and fold laundry from a table or bed so that I am not bending to the floor or dryer repeatedly. If I do bend it is at the knees, rather than the waist.
  • I am usually aware of the floor surface where I am walking.  Is it slippery or wet?  Are there throw rugs or small steps?
  • I carry tension in my neck and shoulder muscles, so try to consciously lower my shoulders and open my chest when sitting or standing still.  This will also help me
    avoid the stooped shoulders I see often in older folks.
  • We blink less often when looking at a computer or reading material.  Blinking often
    helps to keep the eyes moist.  Focusing on something 20 feet away every 15 minutes helps to relieve eye strain.
  • Rising from my desk and walking around for a few minutes every hour helps me avoid that stiff feeling in my knees.

Proper body mechanics have taught me that back and neck pain is not entirely unavoidable after 40.  Once again, it has been worth learning something new in order to live the way I want, as capably and comfortably as I can.  If you are interested in learning more about proper body mechanics, I recommend talking with your doctor about occupational therapy.

My Garden, My Self

Posted on by K.S. Schultz

My flower gardens often resemble the state of affairs in Schultz land.  Orientation of new plants
includes only one instruction, “You must be tough to make it in this garden”.  I take great care in planting, providing good soil that the clay eventually incorporates and a month of food and water.  After that, Darwinism takes over and the majority of plants stretch their roots deep while the weaker species succumb, never to be bought again.

I lavish my plants with praise, not only for their beauty, but also for their inspiring endurance.  Occasionally I need to apologize, usually when I have not shown
diligence in defending them from enemies such as dandelions, nightshade, and
thistle.  Cutting flowers in bloom makes me feel as though I have robbed my perennials of a year-long effort, so I prefer to buy cut flowers from someone else’s garden.  Besides, my lovelies cannot dance in the breeze indoors.  The perennials who are
hardy enough to endure all-day sun exposure, clay soil that refuses to be amended,
and very little water that the sky does not provide return year after year like loyal friends.   The few annuals who visit for the season are splashy in their vibrant displays of color, but require a level of nurturing I do not possess and typically leave the party early.  Due to the undependable and high-maintenance nature of annuals, I do not invest much in them, viewing them only as accessories for my trusted friends the perennials.

Record-high temperatures and very little rain made for an extremely harsh growing season this summer which required extra care and kindness, something I could relate to after losing my job in mid-July.  Unlike the company I worked for, I am not heartless and took into consideration the plants’ longevity and past performance.  We pay an exorbitant price for water, even though we live in the Great Lakes where one would think there is an abundance of water (Michigan’s water is bottled and sold for corporate profit).  Not immune to wilting plants that were obviously struggling, I deemed the extra cost worth the survival of my loyal friends.  I wish my former employer possessed an ounce of the same compassion and loyalty, but also see the value in replanting.  When I divide and move my plants I sense that it hurts them to be uprooted, especially when the roots run deep and are impossible not to damage.  But, they flourish the next year when they have a friendlier spot to grow, a perfect example of positive healthy change.

The gardens went quickly this year, expending all of their energy in a short period and blooming weeks ahead of schedule.  It is logical that my garden now looks like it usually does in mid-Fall with red and yellow leaves already falling from our sugar maple.  It is cleanup-time and this year I am planning a drastic redesign for both my garden and myself.  Although I enjoy the flowering season most, I value the dormant season when we essentially recharge, efforts hidden until it is time to flower once again.  Creating
a new landscape is exciting, but a lot of work.  I have survived enough growing seasons to know that my efforts will eventually pay off beautifully.

Disease roulette

Posted on by K.S. Schultz

It seems that health becomes more of a gamble and the stakes become higher as we age.  I know women who have been dealt breast cancer, cervical cancer, lung cancer, diverticulitis, high blood pressure, high cholesterol, fibromyalgia, bursitis, and a myriad of other diseases that are not easily discarded.  The ball on my disease roulette wheel landed on Rheumatoid Arthritis when I was 40.  That is not to say that the wheel was not given another spin, but unlike actual roulette, I pray that it never stops again.

The strategies to play through health conditions vary from all out battle to acceptance depending on the ante.  Never a patient person, my go-to strategy was battle.  I learned everything I could about rheumatoid arthritis with a primary focus on treatments because I was determined to beat my disease.  When I suffered flare ups and could not function as my alter ego Wonder Woman, I felt betrayed by my body.  Many of us enjoy control.  I was addicted to it.  My performance and discipline had reaped me generous winnings, making it extremely difficult to change my strategy.   Losses continued to chip away at my bank of self-esteem until I accepted that rheumatoid arthritis is not my enemy, nor does it define me.  RA is part of who I am and I am valuable, although I need another alter ego/mascot.

Winners know that the table changes when a new player arrives.  Many women must learn to play a new hand of nutrition, exercise, meditation, chemotherapy and radiation, risky pharmaceutical remedies, or riskier alternative methods with the arrival of a
life-altering disease and/or chronic condition.  I was fortunate that my rheumatologist prescribed a pain management program at Mary Free Bed Pain Center where I learned to optimize my play with the help of an occupational therapist, a physical therapist, a physician, and a psychologist.  I went there feeling broken, damaged and not in control.  During my therapy I learned coping mechanisms and body mechanics that I use to feel as good as I possibly can, thereby giving me back some of the control I crave.   I went all in by requesting help both at work and at home and by redefining life’s boundaries within what is conducive to managing my RA well.  The kindness I showed myself has put winnings back in my self-esteem bank, although the play is at an intermediate level now and my losses seem greater if I fall into my old habits.  If or when the disease roulette wheel stops again, I will adjust my play in order to live my most valuable life.  My wish for anyone reading this is that you find a winning strategy for whichever health condition the wheel stops on for you.

What to wear with 40-something legs

Posted on by K.S. Schultz

A sky-high sexist quotient must be a job requirement for morning DJ’s on Rock n Roll radio stations.  Channel flipping is my mode operandi in the car, but in the morning I am
a bit slow so every once in a while I am subjected to their stupidity.  One slow morning the insidious worm-like opinion that women over 40 should not wear shorts burrowed into the insecure center of my brain.  There are no longer any Rock presets on my dashboard because outrage does not set a good tone for the day.  Besides, I have Whitesnake and AC/DC in my CD player.

At the beginning of the summer I noted that my inventory of shorts has been slowly replaced by Capri’s and the few pairs of shorts I still own belong in the gym.  I wondered if the fashion industry agreed with that DJ when I hunted for shorts that I could wear, meaning they covered my ass but did not have elephant-wide legs.  I settled on one pair of jean shorts from the juniors department and 3 new pairs of Capri’s.  The stores had racks of maxi dresses and strappy cotton sundresses that pretty young things wear without bras.  Bag-like garments do not flatter my small frame and I am only comfortable going bra-less when there are cups in the top.  My lower half has always been my stronger suit.  Can’t a woman in her 40’s still take a small amount of pride in at least one part of her body without reconstruction?  I rebelled this summer by wearing a red bikini… once.  Although I was truly offended by the new trends and their collaborative relationship with a morning DJ, I found that Capri’s and cap-sleeved knit summer dresses did not ride up like shorts do when I sit down.  Strappy heeled sandals paired with either still turned heads and the cool currents circulating under my dresses were much appreciated.  I have relegated shorts to workout wear, but will reconsider if designers create them with 4 inch inseams and narrower legs.

Fall is upon us, so I begin to pack away my summer wardrobe and inventory my collection of tights.  Who would have guessed that the colder seasons would be a preferable time of year to display my 40-something legs?

Leg lingerie

Feel free to call me Ma’am

Posted on by K.S. Schultz

As a Mom I am accustomed to younger folks calling me “ma’am”, but when people my age and older began referring to me as such I could not resist looking around to see who they were talking to.  Surely there was a much older woman standing right behind me.  “Miss” and “young lady” seem to be salutations of my youth that I may never hear again.  I purposely choose the oldest cashier available in hopes of hearing those sweet words, but it is starting to feel like putting on a mini-skirt and going to the club – embarrassingly desperate.  I think of myself as a grown woman who has reached a level of sophistication and philanthropy unthought-of by my reckless younger self, yet I digest this form of mature address as an insult.  I do not feel refined or respected.  What I hear is, “Have a nice day, Old Lady”.  Although I am almost certain that the offender has no idea that I feel like he just called me a hag, a small part of me thinks I detected a smirk when he said it.  I figure that old women are not known for their friendly demeanor and do not reply unless someone is asking to help me put my groceries in the car.  Then I reply incredulously, “No thank you, I can do it”.  I frequently accepted offers of help when I was younger because I viewed them as validation of my attractiveness.  Now I would be validating that I cannot lift ten
pounds without hurting myself.

I am convinced that there is a higher power that finds me entertaining and provides me with absurd circumstances to hone my comedic outlook.  Proof of this can be found in a
recent interaction with the manager at the local oil change place.  The manager, who was either in his late 30’s or prematurely balding and paunchy, asked me what kind of oil I would like.  This is a stupid question because he has a record of the oil that they put in last time, but I quickly realize he is trying to up-sell me on synthetic oil that is $15 more.  I fall back on, “I’ll have to talk to my husband about that”, my standard reply when I do not want to buy something.  He then says, “Not to offend you, but many older people do not like synthetic oil simply because it was not around when they first started driving”.  He must have thought I was odd, or perhaps demented, when I laughed at
him for a full minute.  Whatever he thought, he took it as a reply and walked away from my window.  Such an idiotic comment was not only good for a few chuckles, but also reminded me that I do not have to look for or imagine discourtesy.  After being truly
insulted, it is absolutely acceptable to address me as “Ma’am”.

What can I say about cheese?

Posted on by K.S. Schultz

I am only one cheese lover with similar reasons for my love as millions of other people who relish cheese: the creamy smooth flavor, the sharp bite that pairs perfectly with red wine, the quick protein-filled snack, the naughty high-fat indulgence, and the perfect addition to most dishes.  In my case, I have equated cheese with privilege since I was a child.  Half-moon chunks of Colby and boxes of Velveeta indicated a flush pay period.  If we had cheese, we likely had pickles and pop, and we would not be eating beans and rice more than once that week.  Mom limited snacks to foods she deemed healthy and that we had on hand.  Cheese always trumped apples.  I served cheese trays with Ritz crackers to appreciative guests at sleepovers.  The only cheese they had at home came in the big boxes doled out by the welfare office.  I am not certain that Velveeta was much different from welfare cheese, but it was definitely a brighter yellow and came from the store, so it was better to us.  An audience of cousins was attentive during readings of my latest stories and poems, giggling and “ooohing” at the right moments as long as there was cheese and Kool-Aid to wash it down.

I have hosted and attended few social gatherings during any season where cheese was not served.  It is not only simple and universal, but daring and unique.  Cheddar, Swiss, mozzarella and parmesan add another level of taste to everyday dishes, are savory eaten alone, and are an easy go-to snack for Moms harried by children whining that they are hungry.  Feta, goat cheese, Havarti, Brie, and blue cheeses are loves that I buy for specific dishes, salads, and special occasions, and the children I know do not like any of them.

As you may have guessed, cheese has been a staple in my home for most of my life.  In my 40’s cheese has taken on a different kind of daring persona, no longer limiting itself to my palate, but lending an air of unpredictable adventure to my digestive tract.  Most of the changes this decade has foisted upon me have come as surprises, but few have been as uncomfortable as the one I suffered after eating a helping of six fried mozzarella sticks.  Apparently the ranch dip did not contain nearly the amount of fiber required to fully digest the cheese and it sat in my gut like a leaden ball for 3 days.  I panicked and railed against another change that would mean me giving up something that I enjoyed.  Would I be able to eat cheese anymore?  After I calmed down and the leaden ball was gone, I did what I always do when threatened by the removal of one of life’s rewarding constants.  I experimented and found that mozzarella was less kind than feta, cheddar, and goat cheese, especially if they were on a salad.  I learned about the importance of fiber after an uncomfortable lecture from my doctor and discovered that by adding a daily ration I could enjoy 3 fried mozzarella sticks without any problems.  Cheese no longer trumps apples every time, but I can have both.  I adjusted to cheese not being an everyday staple, but only because I had to.  Even so, I tempt my digestive limits often, because I have a hunch that the cheese situation may change again in my 50’s.

Empty nesting

Posted on by K.S. Schultz

Who are you?  A complete answer to this question requires a level of honest and unattainable self-assessment, because being a mother has been the singular constant of who I am since the moment I laid eyes on my little girl.  My entire being changed in that instant.  She became the strongest influence in my life, every decision made with
consideration of my primary responsibility as Emily’s Mom.  I simply did not have time or the inclination to ponder ideas without involving my role as a mother.  I pursued my ambitions within the context of what I believed would one day promote my child to a happy, healthy, and hard-working adult with strong values that I can respect.

And now that day has arrived.  I now fully understand that old adage “it is not the destination, but the journey” because although I will always be a mother, the bulk of my job is done, leaving me with memories of what is bound to be my greatest trip.  I am grateful that college provided me with time to adjust to less responsibility as well as time to heal from the teenage years.  Perhaps God makes teenagers so full of angst and defiance in order to lessen a mother’s sense of loss when they move out.   My giddiness regarding my freedom and much-cleaner, serene home was short-lived however, as I soon discovered an excess of energy with no outlet.  Still, I fought my longing to call her every day and my desire for her to come home every weekend because my need for my child was outweighed by her burgeoning independence.  It would have been like trying to reshape an almost complete sculpture that was the most breathtaking piece of art I have ever seen.  I tried to fill the emptiness with work and found myself defined by something that was temporary and not nearly as meaningful.  I celebrated by acting like a teenager who has the house all to herself, one with an exceptionally hot boyfriend.  After two years of scrambling about trying to find something to take the place of motherhood I stopped, realizing that it was futile.  There would be no letting go, ever.  I will always be an influence on my child, just as my mother is on me.  Being a role model is as important as it ever was, just as sharing my mistakes honestly with her has always been.  I often told my daughter as she was growing up that if I am not always the best role model, at least I can provide an example of what not to do.  So far that has worked well and she has avoided my mistakes.  Why would I not continue to share the lessons I learn in hopes of her navigating life’s challenges easier than I have?  This requires a different form of communication, no longer a lecture, but a discussion between friends.  I am still working on that, motivated by a love that is as indescribable as I am.

It has been six years since my daughter left for college and two years since she moved away and became self-supporting.  This year she married an extraordinary young man and I am confident that their palpable love for each other will endure.  Her old bedroom still sports fuchsia and lavender on the walls, even though I told my husband he could use it as a man-cave two years ago.  He likely knows that repainting that room is something that I need to do when I am ready.  Almost there…