A missive from the tortured poets department? Not exactly. Learn how KitKat’s GenZ daughter channels anxiety into creative expression…
Your mom and I started this blog when you were little, so I thought our readers would get a kick out of hearing about your latest adventures in self-publishing and learning more about the young woman you’ve become.
In your book, Falling Behind, you talk about your struggles with “selective mutism.” Back when your mom and I were in school, someone with this condition probably would have been referred to as “really shy.” And often when people think of shyness, they think it’s related to a lack of self-confidence. Yet, you’ve done some amazing things at a fairly young age—building followers on TikTok, getting sponsors for your posts, writing and publishing a book of poetry…pretty impressive, all in all. I would argue that these things also require a certain level of confidence to achieve. How do you view yourself in terms of confidence? Do you think of yourself as a confident person? What kinds of things do you find easy? And what do you find difficult?
I wouldn’t say I’m a very confident person. I actually read a book where the characters basically hid out in a place called “Poet’s Corner” and wrote poetry and there’s one that specifically stuck with me. It goes like this: “Shy, insecure, afraid to speak up? ‘Act as if,’ they say. Act as if you’re not. Stand tall when you walk. Project your voice when you talk. Raise your hand in class. Act as if. Speak your mind. Cut your hair. Be the part. Look the part. You can do this. Just act as if. If you really knew me, if you could see inside, you’d find shy and insecure and afraid. Acting as if. Ironic, isn’t it? The only time I’m not acting ‘as if ’? When I’m on stage.” – Every Last Word by Tamara Ireland Stone.
I believe that if you act like you’re something you aren’t, you start believing it yourself. I can see how it looks like I have a lot of confidence but like I said, I wouldn’t say I’m a very confident person. I approach everything I do with skepticism and curiosity. I very rarely will actually take the leap if I don’t know what’s on the other side first. But at the same time, I don’t always need to know the exact outcome. If there’s a possibility between a few things that could potentially happen, I’m more likely to dive right into it than if I had absolutely no idea what was going to happen. For me, the easier things would be things like doing stupid things for TikTok videos in public and the harder things could be things as simple as asking to go to the bathroom in the middle of class or talking to my favorite teachers.
I can relate to that. I once gave a sermon at church and people commented on how brave it was to do that, but in my head it was less stressful than making small talk with prospects at a business function!
I’ve always dreamed of publishing a book myself, so I was blown away that you managed to navigate the world of self-publishing at 16. What advice would you give to someone else who is interested in publishing a book? What was the most difficult part? What was easier than you expected?
My advice would be that the most important thing is finishing your manuscript. You don’t have to write it chronologically if there’s one part/poem/scene that you know you want to include. Do whatever it takes to get to the end. For me, the most difficult part wasn’t writing the actual poems or thinking of ideas, the hardest part for me was going through with it and the execution. No matter how many times I tried to write, I always thought my work was corny and cheesy and I still think it is. But I’ll never trash a manuscript, because the ideas are compelling, I just need to figure out a way to execute it better. It was easier to actually publish than I expected. I just clicked a few buttons and it was on Amazon within a few days.
Yes! You’re so right! I’m a big believer in progress over perfection, even though I have a hard time remembering that that’s the goal. I have a perfectionistic streak that sometimes keeps me from doing things because I’m afraid I’ll fail. Even though, I know that the best way to make incremental progress is to keep moving forward despite those fears. How do you go about challenging yourself to overcome your fears?
For every hardship I encounter, I create a reward system. Like a dog basically. I rate it on a scale of 1-10 on how hard it is, and my mom and I come up with a reward fitting for how hard it is. I’ve been doing this for a few years now and it has helped me do things that I never would have done otherwise.
Your mom and I talk often about the challenges that young people face in the world today—how difficult the pandemic was on your generation, threats like climate change, and the difficulty of being a teenager in the era of social media where every stupid comment or bad decision can live on in perpetuity via the internet. What role does social media play in your daily life? Are there any “rules” you impose on yourself to ensure you have a healthy relationship with social media and it doesn’t have a toxic influence on your mental health?
Social media is a tool as well as a thing to use for fun. Using social media can let people from all around the world know what you’re up to, and using it can also let you see what’s going on all around the world. Showcasing new fashion trends and small businesses, social media can be really helpful. I wouldn’t say I have any “rules” I impose on myself for social media because my main account, I just use for fun and only my friends/mutuals follow me on. On my most followed account (77k), I post edits of Disney characters and everything Disney. Yes some people comment on the conspiracy theories, saying they aren’t real (which I know they’re not real but it’s still fun to make) and by commenting, they’re just boosting my video. That’s how they got popular in the first place so I don’t really care what they have to say.
You’re at an age where you’re probably starting to think about “Chloe, the adult version.” What goals are you setting for yourself and what do you hope to accomplish?
I do eventually want to write more books. Although I do like writing, I only see it as a hobby and definitely not a career. So my goal for the rest of high school will be to write as much as I can and publish more books!
Lightning Round! Let’s learn a little bit more about Chloe…
Favorite article of clothing?
Dresses!
Favorite vacation spot?
The beach!
Favorite meal/dish to cook?
Any type of pasta.
Favorite song?
Ooh, probably any song from “Hamilton”, “Six”, or “The Greatest Showmen”. Besides musicals, I love Billy Joel’s “Vienna”.
Favorite poet (other than yourself!)?
I don’t have one.
What is your favorite school subject?
Definitely English. (Though math is second).
Do you have a lucky totem?
Nope.
What’s your “spirit animal”?
Lowkey the honey badger. They are the world’s most fearless/worlds bravest animal!
Any weird pet peeves?
I can’t stand when I can hear other people breathing, eating, or drinking water. It drives me insane.
What is one quotation that you live by?
“The days are long but the years are short.”
Do you do any “Stupid Human Tricks”?
Sneezing quietly.
What is a little-known factoid about you?
I used to hate English. (Four years ago I ended with a D in English class…)
I was amused a few years back when GenZ declared the Millennials to be uncool because they couldn’t move on from their side parts or skinny jeans. Oh, the wailing and gnashing of teeth!
Fortunately, my generation (early GenX) had already experienced the abject humiliation of being labeled “uncool” by those same Millennials years ago. As someone who is closer to 60 than 40 these days, it’s been a long time since I’ve looked to teenagers for fashion validation.
What I found particularly funny about the declaration banning skinny jeans is that, regardless of which type of denim the fashion police have declared in or out of style in a given year, those of us who have cycled through all the trends understand that the answer to “which jeans look best” is both subjective and constantly changing.
An Integral and Authentic Part of My Wardrobe
During most of my corporate career, I worked in an office and dressed a step up from business casual. Skirts and dresses were the norm, so jeans were reserved for Fridays and weekends. Like a lot of remote workers, I took a hard turn into extreme casual wear during the pandemic, but am now trying to find a balance. In fact, after too many months spent lounging around in yoga pants and the like, I made it one of my New Year’s resolutions to put on real pants each day!
I’m proud to say that I’ve been successful with that one (I adhere to the SMART goal framework, so achievability is key)! … In my world, that means that I’m generally reaching for a pair of jeans.
And now I’m going to make a very controversial statement: There’s a time and a place (and a potentially stylish outfit) to be made from nearly every kind of denim. Not the limited options those GenZ arbiters of “cool” would have you believe.
Bear with me here… In an effort to sell the Average American Woman way more denim than she actually needs, fashion designers have left no trend—no cut, wash, rise or embellishment—untried over the past several decades. So which pair will look best on you is NOT going to be determined by some Instagram influencer. Rather, the most attractive pair will take into consideration your age, your body, your attitude, the occasion you’re dressing for, and perhaps most important, the rest of your outfit (top, shoes, etc.).
End of hypothesis.
For example, cool or un-, I will never get rid of all of my skinny jeans. That’s because I have a considerable number of boots, and skinny jeans are the only jeans that will balance out an oversized top and tuck into tall boots. And in January, in Minnesota, a cozy bulky sweater, jeans and boots will never not be in style.
BUT, that being said, I also have plenty of other denim styles in my rotation: flared jeans, baggy jeans, straight-leg, cropped, wide leg, distressed, embellished, hemmed and unhemmed, and the previously lauded flannel-lined jeans.
Which pair I’m going to wear is dependent on all of those other factors mentioned above, but ALL are in the rotation and are an authentic part of my wardrobe.
Curse of the Crop Top!
I think I speak for most women who have given birth or are over 35 when I say that we’re pretty much over the cropped-everything trend. Really, enough already! Yes, a cropped top can look nice—when paired with the right bottoms, but most people my age aren’t comfortable flashing their bellybutton outside of the gym or a beach.
Crop tops are definitely one of those styles that are tricky to manage if you’re older than 30 or have given birth—and the last couple of years it’s been nearly impossible to find tops that are both cute and work appropriate. So, if I’m wearing a shirt that is slightly cropped, I will pair it with mid- or high-rise jeans to compensate, keeping my bellybutton covered. Likewise, if I’m wearing a longer, tunic-style top, I want to pair that with minimal bulk around my waist. Yet I couldn’t always tell, by glancing at a pair, which jeans would work. Finding the right bottoms to wear with a specific top frustrated me, because—invariably—I would end up trying on several pairs each time, in search of the right fit.
But this is where my jeanius idea comes in…
Necessity is the Mother of Invention
That led me to my *new* labeling system for denim. I bought a pack of plastic size disks ($9.99 for 30 on Amazon) and labeled them by rise, length and style. Voila! I now can grab a pair and know exactly how they will fit, saving me time and irritation. (In retrospect, I could have done this with cardboard tags as well, which would have been a bit more environmentally friendly.)
While doing this may seem over-the-top, it’s already saved me more time than I spent making the labels. And I’m a BIG fan of anything that saves me time and frustration. So, I wanted to share this hack—in case any of you find it helpful (and can thereby validate that I’m actually “authentically clever” vs. just weirdly compulsive.) 🤣
(I ended this blog post with the laughing emoji, because that was declared uncool by GenZ around the same time as the skinny jeans and side parts… That Stormy is such a rebel.) 🤣🤣🤣
Earlier I posted about how my goal this year was to be Authentic. Well, one aspect of my life that is coming under my personal authenticity scrutiny is my wardrobe. Like many of you, the last few years have been hard on it.
Pre-pandemic: Something for every occasion
I worked (mostly) in an office, took several business trips a year, took Pilates classes, had an average social life with one or two “fancy” events per year. My closet contents reflected this pretty well, with lots of wool skirts, cashmere sweaters and tights. (Did I mention it gets cold here?)
Pandemic: What day is it?
Each morning, I woke up asking myself, what day is this? Our three-year Groundhog Day meant 90% of my wardrobe (and jewelry) remained untouched while the following were in heavy rotation (depending on the season):
Athleisure
Jeans (but only the comfy ones)
Shorts
T-shirts
Tank tops
Sundresses/t-shirt dresses
In the winter, I expanded my “outdoor” wardrobe, buying flannel-lined jeans, flannel-lined joggers and multiple hats (after living my whole life as someone who resisted winter hats due to my bangs). Just an aside here: If you live in a cold climate, flannel-lined pants are a game changer. If you like to go walking outside, buy them, you won’t regret it.
And, as someone whose shoe collection consisted mostly of high heels and boots, I also bought more flats (sneakers and sandals).
Post-Pandemic: Accepting that my old life is forever gone
As life has slowly returned to its “new normal,” I recognize that my go-forward lifestyle will probably never align with my pre-pandemic wardrobe. Over the last few years, I’ve offloaded quite a bit to Dress for Success, Goodwill and the local consignment shop, but there are still items in my closet that haven’t seen daylight since before the pandemic. Since I never quite know what lies ahead, I’m reluctant to give away too much. After all, you never know when KitKat might need to borrow something blingy for a Taylor Swift Drag Brunch! (Despite my low-key everyday appearance, I own a surprising number of sequins.)
But what should my wardrobe look like? That is, what is my personal authentic style? I could heed the advice of the endless “How to dress over 50” articles that flood my FB feed, but as a content creator myself, I know that the people writing these articles are just aiming for clicks and so I give them no special credence. Most of them highlight do’s and don’ts that one must adhere to in order to “age gracefully.” Screw that.
What does an Authentic Wardrobe look like, anyway?
If there is any benefit to growing older (and there is) it’s primarily this—not caring so much about others’ opinions. I don’t want to age gracefully; I want to age defiantly—which is another way of saying I want to be authentic, I guess.
When you hold onto these weird pants for years, thinking “Will I ever wear these again?”
And voilà, an art show opening appears on your calendar.
Authenticity means that I have my own opinions about what I think looks good on me, and if it doesn’t meet the style standards of the fashion influencers, I don’t really care (that’s where the defiant part comes in). Case in point: Look at the red carpet photos for any Met Gala and you will always find plenty of celebrities wearing ridiculous outfits that were carefully curated and assembled by a team of stylists. But those who convey true style are invariably those who look most comfortable in their skin. So that’s what I’m trying to achieve…
When my kids were growing up and immersed in the middle school culture of cliques—cool kids and wannabes, I explained that as you get older you realize that the coolest people are the ones who are too busy doing cool things to worry about whether they look or act cool. I have a weirdly shaped body—no really, I do!—that I have come to accept, but also must accommodate. For example, I have broad shoulders and a large ribcage, but small breasts (which rules out most button-down shirts or any top or blazer that is very fitted). I also have unusually wide feet, which means I will never buy ballet flats or penny loafers, even if I think they look cute on other people.
When I turned 40, I was more concerned with dressing appropriately for my age, but at this stage of my life, I pretty much know what works and what doesn’t (that’s the graceful part—I’m not going to fight Mother Nature). However, I will probably continue to wear overalls, camo prints, bikinis and cargo pants regardless of what’s in vogue or recommended for “women of a certain age.” So, I guess “gracefully defiant” is Stormy’s authentic style.
I’ve mentioned before that I’m a bit of a New Year’s junkie. Looking back through the archives, you’ll find a post dedicated to the topic of renewal nearly every January (and a few others sprinkled in here and there at other times of the year). While I tend to take an “agile” approach to personal development, with new Stormy upgrades being released every couple of weeks, I really love the idea of a completely clean slate and dream about what I’d like to achieve in the coming year.
Merriam-Webster’s choice seems to be in recognition of people’s increasing desire for authentic human connections in a year when AI became omnipresent. I think they are on track with that one. When you start reading AI-generated content, it doesn’t take long to realize that there isn’t a real person behind it. An “AI Assistant” has even been added as a feature to WordPress (the software I use for creating this blog), but let me assure you, since writing is therapy for me, I’ll never outsource this blog to AI… Meanwhile, indulge me by going waaaaay back for a moment, as I explain…
Why I chose authentic
Young Stormy started working at Blue Cross & Blue Shield at the tender age of 18. It felt like I was on an alien planet. To meet the dress code, I wore a skirt, blouse and heels with nylons(!) every day. I routinely interacted with people who had mortgages, kids and high cholesterol. My job duties included a variety of mind-numbing clerical tasks—making photocopies of huge stacks of insurance applications, for example; ultimately culminating in my last position: finding out why people needed health insurance so we could deny them coverage for that very thing. Ha! … Well, admittedly, that may be a cynical explanation of my role as an assistant health history underwriter, but not by much. Needless to say, I hated my job.
While working there, I signed up for various professional development seminars that were offered on our corporate campus (they were free and considered a legitimate way to get out of doing the job that I hated, so…) One of these was for women to learn how to talk so they would be taken seriously in business. I remember the instructor specifically addressing that annoying thing some women do? Where their voices go up at the end of every statement? Making everything they say sound like a question? As though they are apologizing for having a thought and expressing it?
Thankfully, I don’t think nearly as many women speak like that these days—I guess there has been progress made against the patriarchy since the 80s after all. But if you’re my age or older, you’ve experienced that speech pattern before. Anyway, the point I’m trying to make by reminiscing about my early working days is this: A young working woman in the mid-80s was not expected, nor encouraged, to be “authentic.” Far from it. We were encouraged, nay expected, to “fit in.”
“Fake it ’til you make it”
“Dress for the job you want, not the job you have”
“Play the game”
“Keep up appearances”
“Never let them see you sweat”
With standards like these, it’s no wonder “imposter syndrome” became a thing.
A shift in the corporate perspective
Nowadays, there’s more of a focus on authenticity in the workplace. Diversity, equity and inclusion (DEI) initiatives have led to greater awareness of the many adaptations (code-switching, passing and assimilation) that my generation took as non-negotiable. Obviously, Stormy trying to fit into a corporate setting as an 18-year-old, American-born, cis-gender, white, middle-class woman didn’t require as many mental gymnastics as some of my colleagues. Over the years, I’ve had coworkers who were gay and closeted, experiencing gender dysphoria, or hiding physical or mental health conditions from their employer, and I wouldn’t wish that kind of daily mental strain on my worst enemy. And I think most people would agree that greater acceptance of diversity is a good thing—but we still have a ways to go.
However, while I still have a non-conformist streak in me that 30 years of corporate indoctrination has been unable to squelch completely, I also don’t think every personal expression or preference requires “accommodations.” I draw a distinction between forcing someone with naturally tightly coiled hair to chemically straighten it and expecting someone to not curse excessively in the workplace. (And before my past colleagues chime in to bust me, yes, I’ve been known to curse in the workplace… However, while this may be an authentic trait, it’s not one I’m particularly proud of, so if an employer called me out on it, I would have to agree that it was reasonable for them to expect better language.) Likewise, I hate making small talk with strangers, but it’s an unspoken expectation when talking to clients, so I learned to suck it up and chit chat as required. I guess what I’m saying here is the good side of “fake it ’til you make it” is leaning into things that don’t necessarily come naturally and developing new skills and resiliency as a result… at its best, learning to embrace discomfort promotes personal growth.
So back to my story…
At some point in my 40s, I finally had enough confidence in my own professional competence to relax and let my authentic self show through a bit more. At that point, I knew stuff. I was good at my job. I had made up for my initial educational deficiency with a bachelor’s degree, an MBA and an assortment of certifications. I had managed work teams and million-dollar budgets. I could finally “own” my authenticity, right?
Well, for a decade, I did just that. However, the last several years, I found myself facing a new problem—one that was the opposite of the issue I faced in my youth. As a job-seeker in my 50s, I was now in the uncomfortable position of trying to downplay my experience (so as to indirectly downplay my age). This was causing a bit of cognitive dissonance: On the one hand, I was ready to fully “own” my history, and on the other, I was painfully aware that age discrimination is real. And hiring within my chosen field (Marketing) is even more youth oriented.
Keeping my resume to two pages was difficult. While some experience was obviously obsolete (press check, anyone?), whole jobs—even one where I was the department head by the time I left the company—were omitted due to them being too long ago. In casual networking conversations, I dreaded the question “How old are your kids?” Peers with teenagers would look baffled when I confessed that two of my three kids were in their 30s. Starting my family early means that I now have more time and energy to devote to work and, when it comes to technology, my skills are light years ahead of my “digital native” children. Nonetheless, I couldn’t find roles comparable in pay or responsibility to those I previously held. Despite feeling 33 inside, during interviews with younger executives, I felt like a relic. And an expensive one at that. Like Adam & Eve’s pizza cutters… queue the Antiques Roadshow!
That’s why I was happy to find a new job situation last year with a professional services firm. Suddenly, my years of experience were regarded as an asset again, not a liability. I no longer felt as though I would be penalized for being authentic. I could breathe again.
Who is Stormy?
So, as I look to the year ahead, I can finally figure out who I authentically am—and who I authentically want to be—without worrying about anyone else’s impressions, expectations or judgement. And, given my fondness for New Year’s resolutions, a bunch of ambitious goals have emerged from those two questions, “Who are you? And who do you want to be?” (For example, someone who is healthy, active, spiritually grounded, creative, etc., etc., etc.) So, while I’m not trying to boil the ocean and don’t plan to achieve my personal version of nirvana all at once, 2024 will be about moving closer to my ideal self. And my blog posts will probably reflect this larger theme, as well. But I promise you that I’ll share my adventures, observations, and defeats in addition to my successes 🤞🏻, in the spirit of keeping it all “authentic.”
Postscript: It’s not lost on me that I’m writing about authenticity on a blog that was created under a pseudonym! But in Stormy’s case, authenticity comes with some inconsistency—that’s what makes life interesting, after all! (All things in moderation…even moderation.) 😉
A lot has happened since the last time you’ve heard from me, but if I’m honest, most of the transformation has taken place inside my own head. Don’t get me wrong, there have been real changes as well. Most notably, the loss of my 96-year-old mother this fall. As you may recall, we had a somewhat stormy relationship the past 15 years or so (maybe that’s why I subconsciously chose that nom de plume?) so there were a lot of emotions tied to her death.
Two years ago, I wrote a New Year’s blog about her and how our relationship was continuing to evolve with her dementia. Since then, I’ve been able to see things from my mom’s perspective and understand just how difficult the last decade was for her. My mom essentially gave us “two week’s notice” before her death, so we had time to gather around her and say goodbye. I’m happy to report that her last words to me were, “You’re wonderful,” and I’m grateful that the enduring memories I now have of my mom are ones of love and gratitude.
So, what is the transformation that has taken place? Well, it’s closely related to my mom’s death. You see, I’ve carried the stress of my mom’s dementia for several years (and my dad’s dementia for several years before that). And I’m not the caregiver type (just ask Oskar or my kids). During the busy parenting years, I often thought about the future with anticipation. I fantasized about what it would be like when the kids left home, and I was retired. Just imagine! All that time to do whatever I want! In reality, when my little chickies finally flew the nest, I struggled with it—but work and worrying about my parents quickly filled the void. In fact, caregiving for my parents has taken up a good portion of my mindshare for more than a decade. Until this October, that is.
AKA: The Month from Hell. October was a blur of professional and family obligations (with some work commitments serving as a welcome distraction from my mom’s decline), as well as some family conflict, but once the dust settled after my mother’s funeral, I found myself bereft (that’s one of those words that doesn’t show up very frequently in daily conversation, but is nonetheless appropriate):
bereft \bih-REFT\ adjective. 1: deprived or robbed of the possession or use of something — usually used with of. 2: lacking something needed, wanted, or expected — used with of. 3: suffering the death of a loved one: bereaved.
Merriam-Webster
When November arrived, I wasn’t on a client engagement and my mom was gone. There was nowhere I had to be and nothing I had to do. I felt utterly purposeless.
Ever since I left corporate life in 2019, I feel like I’ve been in transition. I’ve been consulting and signed on with a company of like-minded marketers in May. I consider myself lucky to have found a professional “home,” but the very nature of Fractional CMO consulting means there will continue to be gaps in my employment. I discovered with my mom’s death that too much time (to contemplate my past and my future) is not a good thing for Stormy.
When you’re a deadline-driven, admittedly high-strung, self-diagnosed ADHD individual and have spent decades putting your dreams on the back burner, there comes a time when… you… just… forget… what they are. After all, I’d been a caregiver—first to my children and then to my parents—for more than 30 years. I earned two degrees while working and raising kids… Multi-tasking was my middle name! But it turns out that when so many of the external responsibilities that defined me fell away—Daughter, Student, Mom, Boss, Employee—all I was left with is a very uncomfortable vacuum. And Stormy, like nature, abhors a vacuum, so Stormy, unlike Nature, fills it with anxiety and existential dread.
This led me to do some Serious Thinking, a process to which I devoted several weeks. The first realization I had was that my mom’s death significantly changed things. Suddenly, I had both the additional time and mental bandwidth for tackling something new. Second, I realized that I needed to find a way to fill my days with purposeful activity (in addition to PT consulting) if I wanted to be happy. While taking care of my mom had been extremely stressful, it was also rewarding, because I knew I was doing something necessary and worthwhile. Now, I was presented with an opportunity to do something purposeful that was also enjoyable—I just had to discover what that is. Third, I realized that life is short. I know people say that all the time, but there are specific moments where one really internalizes that understanding and this was one of those times. After consulting with our financial advisor, I concluded that my life circumstances would never be more conducive to me “doing my own thing” than they are right now.
This article is actually just a stripped-down description of the many changes I’ve undergone this year. It’s been a big mental shift for me and feels like a new phase of my life, so I can’t tell you exactly what my future will look like. But if nothing else, it means you’ll probably see more blogging from me in 2024 (for me, writing = therapy). I have high hopes for the new year, and you know I can’t resist sharing my resolutions (accountability is everything), so plan to see more updates soon.
When I first heard about The Barbie Movie, I wasn’t that interested—a movie about Barbie dolls? Unlike KitKat, who grew up with sisters and played with Barbies a lot, I never even had an actual Barbie doll…My sisters were 9-17 years older; so if they had any Barbies, they would have resembled “weird Barbie” by the time I came along. I envied my friends who had a whole cache of Barbies and a case for her clothes. To have the Corvette or Dream House would have been a luxury I couldn’t even envision. As the eighth child surrounded by boys, rusty Tonka Trucks were in good supply, but not many dolls—let alone fashion dolls.
At that point in my tender youth, when everyone was still courting skin cancer in search of The Savage Tan, Malibu Barbie was It. I desperately wanted one, but the closest I ever got was Malibu P.J. (Google it: PJ was one of Barbie’s transitory friends, although she was never mentioned in the movie.) This sums up my youth in a nutshell. If something was cool or popular, I probably didn’t have that thing. But I usually, eventually, acquired a less popular, less expensive version of The Popular Thing instead. Sigh. What a tragic childhood. I’m sure this has left deep scars…but I think it also reinforced my tendency to occasionally buck the trends, and I believe a little nonconformity is good for a person, so it all balances out…
Anyway, back to our story.
As a marketer, I was impressed with the promotion of the movie—I had never seen such a thorough marketing campaign for a movie. The number of clever cross-promotions was staggering, a true Master Class. But I still had no interest in seeing a movie about Barbie dolls.
That is, until the reviews started rolling in. And angry MAGA types started bashing the movie. Now I was intrigued. The week it opened, I met KitKat on the pickleball court. She mentioned she had seen The Barbie Movie the night before. “I loved it!” she exclaimed. “You’ve gotta see it.” We talked a little about how it showed men’s and women’s roles (with no spoilers), and I agreed that it sounded like something I’d enjoy.
As we were playing pickleball that day, we noticed an older guy (late 60s/early 70s perhaps?) “teaching” his friend/girlfriend/wife how to play. He stood showing her how to hold the racquet, serving ball after ball for her to hit in a rote manner, constantly “correcting her” and never letting her actually “play.” Pickleball is not a difficult sport to learn and even our professional instructor let KitKat and me play during our first paid lesson. We felt bad for this woman.
Later that week, Oskar and I went to a matinee of Barbie. We both enjoyed the movie and thought it was thought-provoking. I told him about our pickleball observation which directly relates to one scene in the movie. Afterward, I read a few more reviews [Bill Maher: INSERT EYEROLL HERE] and my overall takeaway was that while the patriarchy is exaggerated somewhat for effect in the movie—many men think it’s GREATLY exaggerated, while other men and most women realize it’s only SLIGHTLY exaggerated.
After I had seen the movie, KitKat and I were back on the pickleball court playing a fierce game of singles when the same aforementioned gentleman, who was on the adjacent court giving his partner another “lesson” approached us, offering a neon yellow pickleball. “You’re playing with an indoor ball,” he told us. “This is an outdoor ball. Try it, it will work better.”
Now, Dear Readers, KitKat and I were playing with an outdoor ball. Sure, it was a different brand and a different color, but I had previously confirmed that it was an outdoor ball, and we had been playing happily and successfully with it for weeks.
So, I told Mansplaining Pickleball Guy that the ball we were using was, in fact, an outdoor ball. He took it from me, regarded it skeptically, bounced it, then bounced his ball, and handed me both balls. “Just try this one,” he said dismissively, “I think you’ll find it’s better.” Then he walked away to continue his lesson with his friend/girlfriend/wife. KitKat and I looked at each other: “WTF was that?” We shrugged and then played one game with the new ball. Afterward, we went back to our original ball just to make a point.
Back to life off the court… I knew my daughter Lucky would enjoy The Barbie Movie, so I invited her for a lunch date. There were so many layers to the film that I was happy to see it a second time. As predicted, she loved the movie as entertainment—Lucky was a film major in college, so she really appreciated the various techniques, set design, costuming, etc., that went into the production. (It IS a visually stunning movie, even for those of us without a film degree.)
Nobody puts Stormy in a box!
Afterward, Lucky and I were eating vegan burgers and dissecting the plot. Both my daughters are strong feminists, and Lucky’s feeling was that it was a little too soft on our patriarchal society (because the Ken’s in the film were made to be kind of lovable and goofy). Her criticism is that a lot of misogyny is really evil at its root—a calculated effort to control women. But as someone who has seen improvements over the past 50-something years, I think it’s more complex than that. I believe our society is still deeply patriarchal, but that much of it stems from tradition and ignorance vs. maliciousness. Don’t get me wrong, misogynistic maliciousness absolutely exists and is running rampant within our politics at present; still, I like to think that people always have the capacity for change and growth.
At our next PB game, I shared Lucky’s “review” with KitKat, who brought up that the Ken characters were being true to Ken’s nature as an accessory in Barbie’s life, which I thought was also an astute observation. Anyway, if you haven’t seen the movie, I’ve given away nothing of the plot, so please go see it and let me know what you think.
Meanwhile, I want to circle back to my earlier assessment of how many men think the patriarchy is GREATLY exaggerated in the movie, while other men and most women realize it’s only SLIGHTLY exaggerated and wrap up this discussion with my analysis of Mansplaining Pickleball Guy:
Do I believe this man had ill intent in approaching us with his wrongful perception that we were using an indoor ball to play outside? No. Do I think he was trying to be “helpful”? Yes. Did KitKat and I feel compelled to at least “try” his ball? Yes. Did I go home and re-verify that our original ball was an outdoor ball (even though I knew it was), because his surety made me doubt my own knowledge? Yes. (I am embarrassed to confess that I literally counted the 40 holes.)
But here’s the most important question: Would Mansplaining Pickleball Guy EVER have approached two 50-something-year-old MEN playing a competitive game of singles to correct them on their ball choice? And furthermore, assume they were using an incorrect ball from a distance of 50 feet away? The answer is NEVER, EVER, EVER. And if you think otherwise, you’re lying to yourself.
I’m grateful to Greta Gerwig, Margot Robbie, Ryan Gosling and the rest of the cast and production crew for The Barbie Movie for bringing this story to life in such an entertaining way, while giving all of us something to think about—and more importantly, something to work toward.
“Oskar isn’t going to let you play with me anymore if you keep getting injured!” KitKat cried in dismay. I was holding my lower back—which I had seriously strained while going after one of her killer shots—and wincing in pain. I wobbled over to the benches courtside and slowly lowered my spasming back into a resting position. How did we get here?!
For the last few years, I’ve watched the meteoric rise of pickleball as a hobby. I saw tennis courts being converted to pickleball courts and listened to various friends and acquaintances talk about the joys of the sport… My interest was piqued, but I kept thinking, that’s for “old people,” right?
Still, I was intrigued. I had always wanted to become good at tennis because it’s a sport you can supposedly play into old age. In fact, KitKat and I took tennis lessons together in 2012 with the hope that we could play regularly. However, we both kinda sucked at it and were never able to reinforce what we had learned. That was the trouble with tennis, from my perspective: Finding someone to play with at the right level of play. If two people suck at tennis, the ball never makes it into play. If one is good and the other is bad, it’s a humiliating defeat. And it was clear to me that Oskar, with his PD would never be able to play me. Which brought me back to pickleball. I knew all sorts of people that played or wanted to learn—and everything I read about the “sport” reinforced that it was “easy to learn.” Heck, KitKat’s daughter even played pickleball in phy ed class, so maybe it wasn’t just for old people.
At Christmas, Oskar surprised me by gifting me a pickleball set of two paddles, plus balls. Now, I really had no excuse. When I mentioned this to KitKat (full of New Year’s ambition) she pounced on it. “Let’s take lessons! I know a place!” A few clicks and texts later, we were signed up for semi-private lessons with a pro at a local indoor pickleball club on the north end of town. (If uncoordinated me was going to learn a new sport, I wanted the unfortunate soul burdened with that task to be paid for their trouble vs. trying to learn from a friend.)
Surprise. We had a great time! Sure, we sucked, but we were able to understand the rules and play in just one lesson. A big improvement over our multiple tennis lessons that left us more frustrated than inspired. As our instructor explained, pickleball is easy to learn, but hard to master…as a result, it’s quite addictive. And we also found it to be a surprisingly good workout.
While I am now a staunch believer in exercise to maintain one’s health, I will confess that my typical routines don’t involve a whole lot of cardio, and pickleball involves enough movement to check that box. Also, as became apparent in the days following our lesson, pickleball also utilizes a broad set of muscles that weren’t seeing much action during my daily walks, weightlifting, Pilates or Peloton rides (refer back to the earlier “injury” that opened this story). Truth be told, I don’t exercise as often as I should during the winter (when the desire to “hibernate” takes over), so the fact that pickleball is both FUN and social was a big part of its allure.
Ironically (prophetically?), there was a whiskey distillery next door to the pickleball club. It all seemed like divine intervention. This was meant to be. We each had a very expensive Manhattan and brainstormed how we could keep the good vibes going closer to home.
As luck would have it, an indoor park just one block from my home has two pickleball courts available for early morning play. So for the past 5 weeks, we’ve been hitting the court for a weekly game or three. Up until last Thursday, we were fortunate enough that nobody else had reservations—meaning there was nobody to witness how bad we are. But this time an older (and likely more experienced) couple came to play alongside us.
This would require some player modification om my part, as I tend to swear a lot—and loudly—whenever I miss a shot (which is frequently). This lucky couple arrived in time to watch me wipe out while going after a shot during our first game. However, I was pleased to find that I didn’t break or sprain my wrist despite landing on it (unlike when I broke my arm two years ago while skating with KitKat—the genesis of her comment about me getting hurt whenever we go out to do something ambitious). I’m guessing I probably made the older folks feel pretty good about themselves when I hobbled off the court and abandoned the game.
The truth is, I can be oddly competitive about certain things, and KitKat is an infuriating person to play against. I know that she doesn’t have great control of the ball just yet, but she still manages to hit to the far reaches of the court more often than not, which is why I keep diving for shots I can’t make and injuring myself in the process!
Of course, KitKat has a slight competitive advantage—she’s been getting in additional lessons and games between our weekly sessions. A true convert, she’s indoctrinated her sisters, husband and friends, introducing them to The Dark Side and the addictiveness of a well-placed shot. Come to think of it, she’d make a great cult leader.
I’m planning on widening my circle of competitors once the weather improves and there are outside court options that don’t require 7:45 a.m. reservations. Unlike tennis, I think pickleball is something that Oskar could play…maybe not competitively though. I’m also planning to drag my sister along to lessons. My goal is to be able to intentionally do what KitKat achieves with a good dose of luck—and whoop her smarmy ass.
I’m already start to heal from last week’s pulled muscle and a conveniently timed snowstorm is giving me a bye for the week, so chances are good I’ll be back in play next Thursday—although this time I will remember to stretch more thoroughly…proving once again that you CAN teach an old Stormy new tricks.
The other day, I realized this blog is now in the “double digits.” That means that for more than a decade, KitKat and I have used this space to vent, confess and—hopefully, at least occasionally—to inspire.
Of course, there was no acknowledgement of this momentous occasion from me back in early January when the Blogoversary occurred. That’s because over the last five years our contributions have been extremely erratic, if not altogether absent, and frankly, I just didn’t notice.
Let’s face it: We’ve all been through a lot. As a world population, we’ve survived a pandemic. As a nation, we’ve survived an attempted overthrow of our government. And on a personal level…well let’s just say that, KitKat and I have each dealt with some personal challenges as well.
For a long while now, nearly every time I’ve thought about writing a blog post, I’ve had Writer’s Block. Blocked by an inability to articulate what’s on my mind. Blocked by sadness and frustration. Blocked by my desire to adhere to our “brand promise,” which doesn’t include veering off into angry political tirades month after month. (And yes, I know there have been several instances when that anger slipped through anyway!)
To be honest, I’ve been depressed. I still may be depressed, actually, but I think that I’m finally, FINALLY starting to come out of it. What’s changed? Well, my fears related to the pandemic and political environment have eased somewhat, but more importantly I’ve returned to a fundamental belief that is key to managing my own frustration: The root of all suffering is attachment.
When I first learned of this principle while studying Buddhism in college, it was like a lightning strike to my angst-ridden brain. Of course! It was so OBVIOUS! But understanding something and internalizing it are two very different things, and Stormy and KitKat are both so notoriously bad at bringing those two things into alignment that they even named this blog after their perpetual struggle!
During an argument with a friend last year, he reminded me: “People will always disappoint you.” And I realized that truly was my problem—I was attached to my rather high expectations of 1) what others should be doing, and 2) what I should be doing myself.
As a result, I was being disappointed on the daily… And that’s no way to live… So it’s personal growth time for Stormy, once again.
A few years back, I wrote about Stormy 2.0… Well, to be honest, I’m not sure WHICH version of Stormy I am today. We’ve been releasing updates on a 2-week sprint cycle for several years now, with multiple patches being deployed as needed to address bugs. (That Stormy is one buggy product!) Let’s just say that the only constant is change. But here is what I can tell you about me, and this blog, going forward:
Like Yahweh and Popeye, I am what I am. But I accept that what I am is also constantly evolving, and I’m no longer going to be as “attached” to the notion of whether you like it or not.
I’ll likely cut you more slack than I have in the past, because I realize now that you’re perfectly imperfect.
I’ll also cut myself more slack than I have in the past, because I’m really the only one I can count on to be with me every day of my life.
I’ll probably write more blog posts, now that my creativity—and schedule—are less blocked. This serves as a very public journal about both key happenings and memorable minutiae, and I like being able to revisit past events.
I’ll drag KitKat along for the ride, because she’s been on a completely different yet parallel journey, and I believe she also has some new insights to share.
It’s only natural that this blog will continue to evolve along with its authors, and if there’s been one recurring theme on this blog, it’s been this notion of constantly reinventing ourselves. But detaching ourselves from previous expectations—about ourselves and others—doesn’t mean that we can’t still have some fun along the way.
We must embrace everyone who is willing to vote blue in 2022 or we won’t have any independence to celebrate next year
I saw this on Twitter and thought it encapsulated the way a lot of us are feeling on this holiday.
It’s hard to celebrate our country’s independence when the Supreme Court has been taking a sledgehammer to Americans’ right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.
Everyone knows that we’ve gotten off-track as a nation, although people may argue on when we jumped the rails: Was it when Trump was nominated? When Trump won the 2016 election? When Trump falsely claimed voter fraud? When Trump incited an insurrection at the Capitol?
Maybe you think Trump was the culmination of something that began much earlier. Should we go back to “weapons of mass destruction” or Reagan’s “trickle-down economics” to pinpoint the beginning of the end? Should we go all the way back to when European settlers first stole land from Native Americans or to when slave traders brought Africans against their will to this country?
I’m sure a compelling argument could be made for any of these examples, but assigning blame isn’t going to solve the problem at hand. We’re in a full-blown constitutional crisis and what happens in the next few months will literally determine whether we continue to live in a democratic country or one that is ruled by a minority faction of Christian, white-nationalist fascists.
So, where do we go from here?
Here’s another recent tweet that spoke to me:
My goal isn’t to thoroughly depress everyone on a holiday weekend. We can still reclaim our country, but it requires working together to ensure that Democrats win as many seats as possible in 2022, so they can pass the laws needed to help shore up our fundamental rights. And then we need a repeat victory in 2024, to make sure it sticks.
To succeed, we must:
Make sure we impress upon everyone we know how important it is to vote blue. We need to make sure friends, family and acquaintances understand HOW, WHEN and WHERE to do that.
Encourage everyone to double-check their voter registration status. (Even if they’ve lived in the same place and voted previously, many people—yes, even in Minnesota—are finding that their registrations are disappearing as various communities clean up their voter rolls. Don’t take it for granted that you’re good-to-go.)
Accept anyone who is willing to finally turn away from the GOP to join in the fight for democracy. Even if you personally dislike them, think they are hypocrites, want to say “I told you so,” etc., refrain from alienating those who finally want to do the right thing. Welcome them back from The Dark Side and reinforce their decision.
Let go of individual objectives and get behind whichever democratic candidate has the best chance of winning a given race. In some races, this may mean that dyed-in-the-wool liberals need to back a candidate who is more centrist, since we need conservatives and independents to help tip the scales in our favor. We can’t have another presidential election like 2016 where Bernie syphoned votes from Hillary, because we literally won’t be able to recover from it. (And if you think Hillary wasn’t liberal enough to earn your vote in 2016, then you’re REALLY not going to like a Trump or DeSantis “presidency” that continues into perpetuity.) At the same time, we need to make sure that those we elect understand what’s at stake and will vote accordingly (unlike Manchin and Sinema, for example).
This Independence Day, it’s imperative that we (the sane, ethical majority) work to eliminate the current, imminent threat facing us before we go back to our petty bickering about what’s a fair tax rate for the wealthy, whether student loans should be forgiven, and how to get inflation under control. There will be plenty of time for arguing those finer points of policy after we’ve secured our basic human rights, but to do so right now is akin to rearranging the proverbial deck chairs on the Titanic.
Those seeking power in the GOP have demonstrated a complete disregard for democracy, so it’s going to take all of us—working together—to ensure that we still have a free nation to celebrate next year and for many years to come.
On Friday, as I was anxiously counting down the final moments of this dismal year, I got the news from my husband that Betty White had died. “Really?!” I asked, while already fully believing it was true… After all, I was well aware that people were looking forward to her 100th birthday in a couple of weeks, and it’s really not a stretch to wrap your head around a 99-year-old dying rather suddenly.
My next thought was, “Well, that’s just apropos for 2021. Another good and positive force in the universe…dead.”
The previous day, I had been visiting another Betty—my 94-year-old mother—in her memory care unit, where she’s been since the pandemic first started. (Her memory had been waning for a period of time before we were able to forcibly move her from her assisted living apartment to memory care in 2020. I can’t tell you how lucky we were to get her into a care unit immediately prior to everything locking down.)
On the day I visited Betty G. (aka Mom), her dementia had her very confused and weepy. Her younger sister (her only sibling) had died a couple of weeks earlier, and she remembered that loss and was feeling it acutely. Since my dad died in 2017, she’s lost numerous other loved ones of her generation, and the few that remain are mostly incapacitated in memory care units and nursing homes, unable to visit with an old friend who would greatly benefit from it.
As my mom sobbed on my shoulder, I hugged her and told her that she was okay. I told her she was safe and cared for in her apartment and that even if she didn’t remember our visits, we were visiting her regularly. I reminded her that she had spent Christmas Eve with me and my family and Christmas Day with my brother and that we would continue to see her and take care of her. Over and over, she thanked me for being a good daughter and told me how much she loves me.
This may not seem that remarkable, but it really is. If you’ve followed my family saga (and unfortunately anyone who has had to interact with me over the last 10 years has heard versions of it), you’d know that we’ve gone through hell and back with our aging parents. I first wrote about this here in 2013. As my dad’s dementia progressed, we wanted my parents to downsize and move from their house to an assisted living community where my mom would have help caring for my dad. She flat out refused. Over and over again. We tried hiring in-home care. She fired them. To say this put a strain on our relationship is an understatement. It felt like we were at war.
Betty G’s sense of humor is often hidden these days, but occasionally shines through.
After numerous health emergencies, we finally had an intervention with my mother (and got a social worker to moderate the discussion). This is referred to in our family as the “Ill-Fated Meeting” or IFM for short. It ended with my mom basically telling us kids to all go to hell, that she regretting having us and didn’t care if she ever saw us again. I’m not exaggerating. She hit us. She spit at us. I had never seen anything like it. She more or less told us that we were irrelevant, that she valued her possessions more than her relationship with her children, she didn’t care about the impact her behavior had on the rest of us, ad nauseam.
Afterward, in shock, my disowned siblings and I went to the local bar and consoled each other while dredging up the worst memories from our childhood. My mom had always been a very controlling person while raising us, and we all had our personal issues with her. For me, it was lack of support in me wanting to go to college and a very outdated view on women’s roles. Her only aspirations for me were to get married and have kids. She would have supported me becoming a “stewardess” for a short career before marriage (but only because she thought that was a glamorous occupation and was hoping for some travel benefits).
Anyone who knows me will laugh at the image of Stormy as a flight attendant (so much for the “friendly skies”). However, I was lucky compared to my older sibs who experienced an even more domineering parent. My sister can tell you about a Battle Royale that erupted over addressing envelopes, for example. By the time my younger brother and I were teens (numbers 8 & 9), my mother had nearly “given up” on child-rearing, so we had considerably more freedom than the older kids.
After the IFM, my dad’s health continued to deteriorate. With each hospitalization, we’d try to get the hospital to intervene and require that he be released to a care facility. They had a note in his medical record that my mom’s insistence on caring for my dad alone was bordering on “elder abuse,” but we were helpless to change it without going to court and claiming her incompetent. Finally, after a terrible 91st birthday in which my weakened father fell multiple times, we kids hired an ambulance to transport my dad to a nearby senior facility and had him admitted to hospice. We drove my mom over to be with him—with no intention of letting her return to their home.
This was in December of 2017. Dad went straight into hospice and we moved my mother—completely against her will—into an assisted living (AL) unit. We had given her a week’s notice to prepare, but she must not have believed we’d actually defy her because she didn’t pack a single thing. Since she refused to cooperate with us, we decided which of her belongings to move with her. (And believe me, deciding what items from to move from a three-bedroom house stuffed with 70 years of accumulation was no easy task). We didn’t move her car along with her. Having seen her vulnerability to scams and increasing confusion around how to use her computer, we didn’t let her have that either.
My mom was furious. She threatened to call the cops. She threatened to call a lawyer. We told her that there was nothing legally stopping her from moving herself back home, knowing that she didn’t have the mental wherewithal to pick up the phone and coordinate such a move. It was basically every senior’s worst nightmare of their children dictating their future, and we didn’t want it to be that way. We literally had no other options.
My dad was in hospice for two weeks before he died of congestive heart failure. My mother was devastated. They had been married for 70 years and had met as teenagers. My dad was a wonderful man. Her loss (and our loss) was profound.
For approximately two more years, my mom lived unhappily in her AL apartment. We would visit her, but the visits would often devolve into screaming matches with her insisting that she wanted to move back home. Her memories were completely distorted. She couldn’t recall any of my dad’s falls or hospitalizations, or her own hospitalizations for that matter. She didn’t recall the years of us begging her to choose a senior apartment, so we wouldn’t be forced into doing what we ultimately were forced to do. In that stage of her early dementia, her recollection was that she and my dad were doing just fine living on their own and were blissfully happy until her terrible children intervened with the intention of taking control and running off with all their stuff.
In younger days…a rare moment of relaxation
An aside on that: My parent were solidly middle class people raising nine children. They couldn’t afford to send any of us to college. They had no valuable possessions that we were waiting to get our hands on. Cleaning out the house was a painful process that took us over a year to complete because we were so disheartened and depressed about the situation. We each took a few items that were sentimental or useful (you can never have too much Corningware in my book), but if my mother knew how many truckloads of her valued possessions ended up at Goodwill or in a dumpster, she would have been appalled.
As my mother’s dementia continued to progress, we had to forcibly move her again into memory care (with more threatening to call the cops on us, etc.). Due to these experiences and the resulting strained relationship with her kids, half of my siblings don’t visit with her on a regular basis. Yet, she has no recollection of all this ill will and their negligence is breaking her heart.
Well, you’re probably thinking, this Betty story is depressing as hell. What’s Stormy’s point?
Here it is. We all get to choose which “Betty” we want to be.
Watching various tributes and retrospectives of Betty White’s life, a few themes emerged as to what made her so beloved. Granted, she had a phenomenally long and successful career, but that’s not why so many are celebrating her life. Instead, it’s because:
Betty White lived, right up until the point where she died. This is no small feat. My mom has mostly given up and is literally counting down the hours until her death. Although she has some crazy longevity in her family and triple-digits are not out of the question, I doubt she’ll make it another year simply because her will is gone.
Betty White kept a positive attitude. She had sorrow in her life, but chose to look on the bright side and embrace living while she could. My mother now tries to be pleasant and to take her situation in stride. She regularly tells me that she thinks she’s in a nice apartment and that the caregivers are very nice (which is a big improvement from earlier when she referred to it as “a fancy prison”). Unfortunately, it’s hard
Betty White had a great sense of humor. She wasn’t afraid to look silly or undignified if it could make someone laugh. She knew that humor isn’t a luxury; it’s a necessity for coping with this ludicrous world. My parents both had good senses of humor (that comes with raising nine kids, I guess), and it makes me smile when my mom is able to crack a joke, despite her situation.
Betty White wasn’t afraid of the future, she was realistic about her aging and made necessary accommodations but continued to be curious and optimistic about the world. My mother was in denial about the fact that she and my dad were aging and couldn’t continue to do the things they had always been able to do on their own. She thought her kids were out to get her for suggesting that they prepare for their old age. It’s not uncommon for older people to look with confusion and disdain on new technology and changing attitudes and think “the world is going to hell in a handbasket.” My mom is firmly in that camp and, as a consequence, is anxious to leave this world (the source of so much frustration and pain) behind.
Betty White was an advocate for those without a voice. Whether standing up to racism, embracing the LGBTQ community or tirelessly working for animal rights, she understood that the best way to endure the tragedies of this world is by working to eliminate injustice. My mother volunteered in many ways when her kids were young and has a strong sense of justice. I think her influence led to me wanting to adopt Blossom. Unfortunately, both she and my dad had an old-school view of retirement—it was all about playing golf and having fun. Later, her sense of purpose came from caring for my dad. However, that also caused her to withdraw from the world and left a huge void after his death.
Betty White made friends across all age groups and walks of life. Even after her husband and childhood friends were all gone, there were still plenty of people (and animals) to bring joy to her last few years. My parents gravitated toward a senior trailer park in Florida, where they hung out with their lifelong friends. They were away from the family for half of the year and never became that close with their many (30) grandchildren or great-grandchildren. My mom constantly grieves the losses of her childhood friends, parents, sister and my dad. She has only her children as companions and mourns the ones she doesn’t see regularly. It’s a sad existence, particularly at times like these when her senior community is experiencing a Coronavirus outbreak, and I’m not allowed to visit.
I have a habit of looking both backwards and ahead this time of year, and I want to end this blog on a more upbeat note. There’s a silver lining in this story, and that’s my personal relationship with my mom. For many years—about a decade—I was so stressed over the situation with my parents/mom and so exhausted from the fighting that I was secretly wishing it would end (and could only envision one possible ending). Yet I knew that my overwhelming feeling, upon learning of my mother’s death, would be one of relief. And that realization made me feel terrible.
Fortunately, as my mother’s dementia has progressed, she has reverted into the more nuanced person I knew growing up. She’s still not perfect, but she’s SO MUCH better (and nicer to me) than in the days of the Ill-Fated Meeting. (In fact, I may be the only child in this world who is actually grateful for her parent’s Alzheimer’s.) These days, she no longer accuses me of lying or gaslighting her when I recall something that she’s managed to block out or simply doesn’t remember. She’s incredibly thankful for my visits and tells me over and over how much she appreciates me and loves me. She now gives me hugs and kisses every time I see her. (I’ll confess that, as one of nine kids, I NEVER got as much parental affection or attention as I would have liked from my mother. It just wasn’t her style. My dad was the affectionate parent, which is part of why losing him was such a tremendous loss.)
One of the infamous “window visits” during the 2020 lockdown.
What’s tragic, though, is that she often laments her plight—saying, “I never thought I’d end up this way.” This is ironic because we kids not only saw it coming (as though it were an out-of-control locomotive barreling down the tracks), but we TOLD her (multiple times!) this is what would happen if she didn’t work with us to make arrangements for later in life.
So the silver lining that I mentioned is this: Now, when my mother finally does pass away (and I’d be surprised if she makes it to another new year), I know my feelings will be different than five years ago. I think I’ll still feel some relief, and reassurance that she’s with my dad and no longer sad and frightened, but I know this: I will miss her as well.
Looking back on the last, most difficult, decade with her, I now have a different perspective. I believe my mom was under an enormous strain caring for my dad, but as part of the “Greatest Generation” was committed to taking it all on herself. I also believe she was seeing evidence of her own forgetfulness and was terrified about losing control. And she projected so much anger on us kids that I just couldn’t see past it. We should have done more to help her, despite her refusal and her protests. I actually wish we had forcibly moved them earlier than we did, so that she and my dad could have had additional care and some higher quality time together during their last few years of marriage.
In cleaning out my parents’ house and belongings, it also became apparent to me that my mom had some significant undiagnosed mental health issues her whole life (ADD/OCD/depression and who knows what else). Again, mental health wasn’t something people of her generation talked about. You were just expected to cope the best you could. Given these challenges, I think she really tried to do her best in raising us, even if we feel like she sometimes fell short. Raising nine competent kids is an incredible feat.
So, my hope with this New Year’s blog is to get you to think a little about your own future. Some of you may be nearing retirement, some of you are just starting to raise kids, some of you may have horrible relationships with your aging parents and feel alone in that. (I assure you, you’re not.) What do you want your future to look like?
I’ve inherited some of my worst traits from my mom. Like her, I can be very critical. Like her, I have a sharp tongue” and often say things I regret. But over the last few days I’ve been thinking a lot about which “Betty” I want to be, and I encourage you to do the same.
I will continue to love and honor Betty G. and make her last days as pleasant as I can. But for my own future, I’m choosing to be like Betty White.
Easier Said Than Done 