Helen Murrin was in her early 60’s when a stranger snapped this photo without her permission. Murrin was relaxing on the beach with her husband when he asked to take a picture of her. Posing for her husband, she says she was trying to “look good” for him. Unbeknownst to them, a photographer was lurking from a distance with a long-range camera lens. This photo quickly went viral. Inspiring women of a certain age everywhere to post bikini photos. Murrin however stated she never felt comfortable in her body until she got older.

More recently actress Justin Bateman has faced online ridicule for the way she is aging. The comments have been brutal. She had admitted to making the mistake of googling herself

Bad move. Bad move.

However, Bateman has come to the conclusion. She no longer gives a damn what people think f her aging face. And has written a book about it.

If you don’t know by now, we all will change if we are lucky to live long enough.

Unrealistic images of physical beauty affect even us girls of a certain age. I know it affects me more now than it did when I was younger. How many times did I check my image before I went into my first virtual class? I aint even lying. 

 I look at Jennifer Lopez or Janet Jackson and others and think, “damn why don’t I….

No, I don’t.

 Instead, I think, “Damn I wish I had the money to afford a personal chef and personal trainer like they do.”  

They ARE beauties but even they don’t look like Jennifer Lopez and Janet Jackson when they wake up. And that’s ok. Now that’s not to say they don’t wake up beautiful. We all do.  But unfortunately for us older gals the pressure to look a certain way can be overwhelming especially when you are expected to remain forever young. I listen as I hear female friends fall into the trap.

“ Im 62 but people tell me I look 45 all the time.” My thoughts, “girl stop.” But I don’t say that. But I was thinkin  it.

“Can u guess who’s the mother and who’s the daughter.” 

Me with my RBF, “Why?” But I don’t say that. But I was thinkin it.

Or 

50 is the new 30. 

BULLSHIT!

50 is just…50! And it’s fabulous no matter how many wrinkles you have. How many stretch marks you have or dont have and regardless of your weight. The Fabulousness of 50 is how you live your life…full.

My personal favorite. (side-eye)

When 20 somethings make comments about another woman’s age or looks. We girls of a certain age are jealous of their youth.

No BITCH!Been there. Done it. Good luck with your next 300 periods, 3 roommates, and high-ass car insurance.

YES, It would do us well as a society if we stopped commenting on changing physical appearances.

Stop placing unrealistic expectations on what we should all look like.

Accept that beauty is all shapes, sizes, genders, and ageless. 

WE ALL change. And change isn’t necessarily bad.

Hey, my ass is wayyy bigger than it use to be. My thighs ughhh and my quarantine 15 quickly became a quarantine 25, but who’s counting right. 

But after 5 babies I can say with a smile on my face, I still have some nice boobs!

“Only by learning to live in harmony with your contradictions can you keep it all afloat” Audre Lorde

Most people have seen this toy. It has evolved over the years but it’s still the same toy.  As a child, you would spend time trying to fit all the shapes into the proper cutout. Then you watch how excited the toddler gets when they have successfully placed all the shapes..correctly.  After a while, the shape puzzle is no longer satisfying. Then you begin to try and fit shapes into holes they were not designed for. Yep. you twist, pound, punch whatever it takes to manipulate that square shape into the rectangular cutout, or the star into the circle, the circle into the octagon. You get the picture. Looks like it should fit. Right?

It’s harder than it looks.

get frustrated, throw a tantrum, throw the toy

Eventually… success!

But when you look at it, it’s misshapen!

It’s distorted!

It doesn’t… fit right.

And after all that you don’t feel the satisfaction, you THOUGHT it would bring.

Well, trying to fit me into a mold has always been my life. And in the past, I have become quite frustrated when I tried to squeeze myself into a mold that didn’t fit.

Misshapen.

Distorted.

Unsatisfied.

I have made…” well you don’t look…”

This resting bitch face has come in handy when I get tired of being asked

the same…damn…questions. As if by repeatedly asking me you’ll trick me into saying something so they can have that Ah-ha moment. Ah-ha my ass. Keep waiting.

I never had childhood crushes.

Never fantasied about a celebrity.

Never talked openly about my sexual conquest.

Or should I say lack thereof?

Never been…in love.

But “everybody likes one or the other or both.

Right? So, I thought.

Not heterosexual. Maybe you just haven’t met the right man.

Not Lesbian. Maybe you just haven’t met the right woman.

These newfangled definitions might say pansexual. I don’t.  Some might even say asexual.  I don’t.

 But I am ok with whatever someone wants to call me. Because as RuPaul says’ “what other people think of me, is not my problem.”.  YEP!! Took me years to be able to say that out loud.

I lack asexual orientation and I am unbothered by that.

Never ever met someone who does not have a sexual identity. I am a Unicorn. Well, maybe I’m not but in my own mind…

My bestie in my head says, “if i didn’t define myself for myself, than I would be crunched into other’ peoples fantasies for me and eaten alive.”

So if I must define myself I say I am unapologetically black, woman, feminist, mother, sister, a damn good friend, lover of learning.

My body has always been unruly.  As a child, I was so skinny kids would call me Olive Oyl. Now some of you may be wondering, who the hell is “Olive Oyl.” Well, she is the wife of Popeye. Not the chicken place. The sailor man. He lives in a garbage can. He likes to go swimming with bowlegged women. Nevermind.

I have a love-hate relationship with food. But not for the reasons most would think. You see, everything I put in my mouth is a Math equation. I hate Math—especially when 2+2 should equal four, and it doesn’t. Math isn’t so simple when you are an insulin-dependent diabetic. So when my young ass, endocrinologist, asks, “are you Bolusing for the correct amounts?” and I just give them my resting bitch face and respond. “I’ve been doing this math shit since I was 10 years old.” Dont ask me that stupid question because you dont have an answer to my question. I’m obligated to come to this office twice a year for insurance. Just fill my scripts and i will see you in 6 more months. I didn’t say that BUT I’m sure my side eye did because I’m wearing a mask and can’t give my normal RBF. Signed. Filled. See you in 6 months. Guaranteed it will be someone else and my frustration will start all over again.

I have been a diabetic for 45 years. That’s a long-ass time to be thinking about food every day.

Every meal 

Every snack.

 It is what some of us do. If you want to avoid complications. But that’s another story.

It gets very frustrating.

 When I was diagnosed, It was called Juvenile diabetes. Now it’s called Type 1. 

This ain’t your Grandma’s diabetes.

 It didn’t come from eating too much sugar.

 No, I wasn’t a fat kid.

 And Yes, I can eat that.

 But to eat it first, I have to do the math.  Then once you know the math, it’s easy to dose the correct amount of insulin for each carb you eat. Each and every one. Yep, that’s what I said.

Each

One 

That is… easy if… you are not sick, there are no hidden carbs, you are not stressed, not a hormonal teen, hormonal adult, or take meds that have hidden sugars, and all is right in your world.

When I was a kid, I would hide it as much as possible—sneaking off to the nurse’s office in school to take insulin before lunch—hating it. Thinking the other kids would find out. . Your acceptable foods list, you knew the carbs if it was listed on the package, great. Easy math. But if you didn’t know how many carbs, it was a guessing game, and the math was not easy.

 Nope not in front of people

 If I couldn’t be discreet, I would eat without insulin, and my blood sugars would be sky high when I got home, and my mother would be pissed. The worse part,  passing up on something I wanted because I didn’t want anyone to see that weird kid …yeah her. She sticks needles in her stomach because her mom gave her too much sugar. When you are a kid, nobody wants to stand out. You just want to fit in and be…like everybody else. My unruly body made sure I didn’t fit in. That is until I went to summer camp.

Diabetic kids camp.

 I laugh out loud now. That’s is sooooo f**ked up to call it. But that’s what it was. 

 At camp, I was just like everyone else. We were all poking our fingers and sticking needles in our stomachs. We were all doing the math, hopefully not of the top of our heads. Thank god for the invention of insulin pumps. But that’s another story.

At camp, I found my community. We would spend our days hiding from the nurses, sneaking off into the woods not to meet with a crush but to have carbs outs. A carb out… eating contraband the candy the counselors didn’t find when they searched our luggage.

How the hell is a pack of Now and Later’s contraband. As good as that shit it.

Anyway

We would have a competition as to who could eat the most carbs without injecting insulin or letting their blood sugars drop the lowest without passing out. 

Fun times. 

The adult in me says. That was so stupid. That was our way of rebelling. 

It took a lot of growing. Now I am unashamed about my unruly diabetes. I no longer hide checking my unruly blood sugars or dosing insulin. I don’t care if my pump alarm is loud enough for other people to hear.  Nothing is as exciting as seeing someone with a CGM on their arm and the fist bumps we give one another. Or how quickly we lift the sleeve of a shirt to show off the CGM. Especially the “sugarbabies” who decorate their devices with colorful stickers and bling. It’s more… normal. They don’t have to hide.

• 

• 

“Blog entry.” 

“Blog?”

Really? Do you mean for other people to read… blog?

Do people even read blogs? I sometimes do, but I will admit to being that person who looks at the length of a blog entry and decides.  Awwww, too long..pass. So how do I get someone to read my blog? Ummm. If I were making a video, I’d post a catchy title that has nothing to do with the actual video and post an irrelevant thumbnail for clickbait, or I would make sure to write, “watch to the end.” But this ain’t YouTube, and I don’t want to be that person, or do I?  Read to the end.

You see, For me, the writing process is a routine. Ok. Ok. I know you may be saying, “wha? wayyment.” Yep. This body knows the drill. It remembers. 

Writing. 

Do you mean like for other people to read, writing? For real for real? That’s a space I don’t feel like I belong. My writing is juvenile, simple. This is what I tell myself.  Every.  Single.  Time. I should be familiar with this feeling by now and mastered how to handle it.

Nope. 

So, when I hear “your first entries are due yada yada yada.” My routine begins. My thoughts start to swirl with great ideas. That is great in my own mind. It’s just the beginning of my tensions. Even though I tell myself,” positive affirmations only. You know you will get it done. I’m not going to go through this again. I’ve been doing this for a while. I got this.”

 Ahhhhhh no. I don’t.

The tensions begin in my body. Anxious. Accelerated heart. My jaw starts feeling the strain. So by the time I sit down to start writing, and I know what I want to write about, that damn opening sentence just won’t manifest itself. My neck is beginning to feel the tension. If I can just get that opening sentence, my world will be ok. Right? Ahhh, if you say so. I walk around, go out, eat, yell at my kids. Anything to try and relax to get those creative juice flowing. Finally. But I’m in the car, and I don’t have anything to write with. I scramble through the car, looking. I find a pen. Make a mental note to put a pen and pad in my car…for the next time.

 No paper!

 I write on a body part.

Now I’m writing. Thoughts flow like a Tupac rap. Well, maybe not Tupac, but you get the picture. This body remembers just how good it feels to sigh in relief when you have written something, read it, re-read it, tweak it, and you can finally …exhale because it’s done. I need to count the words. Oh shit. Let me go back and add another ‘yada.” Just to be safe. My body is still tense. ‘I’m done! I can’t write another word.” I’m thinking, “I’m just gonna send this. To hell with the errors. I’m ok with the less-than-perfect piece I write instead of the perfect one in my head that I just can’t get out.

Whew. Done. I stand up,  walk around. Procrastinating. Watch a PassionFlix movie.

Can I make this better? 

No, wait. You. Are. Done.

But can I make it better?

No, it’s never going to be perfect.

But..but..NO! Just send it.

My hand hovers over the mouse, tensions build. Why? The body remembers. I am that balloon being stretched. I hear it. Finally, one last F**k it!…hit submit. 

Done. 

And just like that, tensions…gone. Well, almost. You know what I mean. I can breathe. The body remembers. Instant gratification. All because you clicked on submit.

So remember when I told you to hold on to the end. Now you are at the end, and you are probably saying to yourself, I just wasted 10 mins of my life I cant get back. If this were on social media, I would have just skipped to the comments. But Did you really waste 10 mins? Or can you use the comments section to not only curse me for wasting your time with clickbait but it can also count towards your 10 replies.

Be well

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