words of wisdom

Recently, I was re-reading my Real Simple magazine. I had missed this article, for some reason. Maybe I overlooked it because the photo next to the article wasn't flashy. Just a simple, black and white photo of an older woman in pearls. She happened to be the article's author. In its utter simplicity and five paragraphs it said so much. It took my breath away. I struggle, like so many women I know, with feeling pretty. I am overweight. I have bad feet that limit the shoes I can wear. I have hot flashes a lot! My dear friend, Martha, and I were talking about these issues the other day. Martha said, "I have started thinking that I am going to be held accountable for the time I have used up worrying about my body." That rings true with me. Why do I or any woman, for that matter, feel less than valid or worthy simply because our stomachs and thighs may have rolls? I know that my preoccupation with the subject takes away from my children. It takes away from my productivity. So, when I came upon this article I was so happy for the information. The reminder. Being beautiful is not what we think it is. Truly. I know these "issues" in my head will still plague me but I wonder if it is, in part, a function of my age. I can tell that worries about such things have changed as I have gotten older. This article is so wise and it makes me wonder what "issues" this writer may have had in her younger life. Is it our lot to gain the wisdom slowly and only realize success when we are older? I am able to apply a bit more wisdom each year and the concerns, over who I am related to my body, evolve and lessen. So, I look forward, with hope, that I will one day overcome my head. If you have a moment, read these 5 paragraphs. There are more articles by other authors. They are all interesting to read. Search under the August, 2009, issue. Find the article entitled "what makes me feel beautiful."

Anne Roiphe: My Late Husband’s Words

It was mid-December of 2005. I don’t know why he said it. I don’t know if a shadow had fallen across him, something appalling he saw out of the corner of his eye. I don’t know if it was just coincidence or intuition that prompted him, but about a week before my seemingly healthy 82-year-old husband suddenly died, he emerged from the kitchen ready to go to his office, his face clean-shaven, his eyes shining, smiling shyly, holding the copy of the Anthony Trollope book he was rereading, and said to me, "You have made me very happy. You know that you have made me a happy man." There I stood in my work outfit, blue jeans and a T-shirt. There I stood with my white hair and my wrinkles and the face I was born with, although now much creased by time, and I felt beautiful.

"What?" I said. I wanted him to repeat the words. "You heard me," he said and put on his coat and drew his earmuffs out of his pocket. "Say it again," I said. He said it again. "You’ve made me happy." We had been married 39 years. We had held hands waiting in hospital corridors while a desperately ill child struggled to breathe and thankfully recovered. We had made financial mistakes together. We had spent hours out in fishing boats. We had raised the children and then second-guessed our choices. We had stood shoulder to shoulder at graduations and weddings and we were well-worn, but still I had made him happy, and I was proud and flushed with the warmth of his words.

I know I looked beautiful that morning. Perhaps not to the young man holding his toddler in his arms who rode the elevator with me; perhaps not to the friend I met for lunch, a true believer in Botox; perhaps not to passersby on the street; but I knew it for a certainty. I was beautiful.

I don’t believe that inner beauty is sufficient in this cruel world. That’s the pap one tells a child. I don’t believe that positive thinking improves your skin tone or that loving or being loved changes the shape of your nose or restores the thickness and color of hair, but I do know that there is a way of being beautiful, even as age takes its toll, that has something to do with the spirit filling with joy, something to do with the union with another human being, with the sense of having done well at something enormously important, like making happy a man who has made you happy often enough.

Ten days after that morning conversation, my husband and I returned from a concert and dinner with friends and walked down our windy block toward our apartment house when suddenly he stumbled and fell and died within minutes. As I waited for the ambulance, I remembered his words, a beauty potion I would take with me into the rest of my life.