I am (no longer) Superwoman. You know what I mean — faster than a speeding bullet (at getting dinner on the table), more powerful than a locomotive (or the need for sleep), able to leap tall buildings at a single bound (or rectify the latest family crisis).
I am (no longer) that strange (serious, silly, saucy, stalwart) visitor from another planet — intrepid, indomitable — toiling by day or night, pleasing my partner, caring for kids, even baking for the neighbors. And all with stellar results!
I am (no longer) that midlife mother version of my post-empty-nest tireless, tenacious self — cobbling together a living, ogled by the occasional online date, convinced I remain (magically, miraculously, by sheer force of will) capable of “doing it all” if not quite “having it all.”
So what does it take to be an All-American Superwoman? What did it take, that I so wish to reclaim? Let’s see…
Sterling stubbornness (and gallons of coffee). More go-go-go than the Energizer Bunny (in cuter shoes). Resilience robust enough to create opportunity (of life’s quotidian complications). And… fearlessness in the face of all dastardly daily dilemmas (and personal demons) that would threaten to leave me — or you — feeling periodically powerless.
But WTF!?! When did I lose my superpowers?
Why can’t I accomplish what I could at age 40? Or even age 50? Why is it that I perceive myself as so much less than any variation of the (mythological) Superwoman starring as Working Wife and Mom, Working Single Mom, “Amazing Forward-Looking” Working Empty Nest Woman, or any other incarnation of the same?
Someone seems to have stolen my Super “S” — my hard-won symbol of Samsonian Strength, Sensational Stamina, and Savvy Solutions. So what gives? Why is my “now” sitting in such stark relief to my “then?” Why have my dynamic decades of purposeful activity seemingly eclipsed so quickly? Who am I as I exist in the world today?
The crux of my conundrum… recognizing the realities of time passing, or, as the orthopedist I (finally) saw last week said to me (about my lifting, lugging, hauling, hoisting, and other assorted moving activities of recent months) — with one eyebrow cocked and a disapproving gaze — “Don’t do that anymore.”
Her pointed Rx: No more rearranging furniture. No more carrying Christmas trees. No more shuffling book boxes around in a jammed closet. Hell. Washing and drying my hair is an uphill undertaking. And it’s back to PT, having again regressed, and who knows how many months just to reset to where I was last summer.
Hmmm… Wasn’t my trip to the ER four weeks ago enough to convince me that I need new ways to leap tall buildings, like networking and making connections however I can? That I should chase down leads (and type!) faster than a speeding bullet? That spikey stilettos aren’t optimal for strutting my stuff though kitten heels may be purrrrfect?
This isn’t the only time in my life when I’ve crumpled in proximity to Reality Kryptonite — Hello? Unemployment? Underemployment? And like most Phoenix females, I have risen from the proverbial ashes again and again, though generally in the service of protecting my children.
But these days (and nights), forced (again, still) to accept specific limitations — some a matter of the natural process of aging, and others, as simple as lingering injuries unlikely to fully mend — I am grappling with a lifelong challenge. Asking for help. This challenge persists under the harsh glare of my selective application of (and belief in) pop cultural motivational mantras like “you are stronger than you think” — that particular mantra, having served me well.
The problem is: Pushing yourself physically isn’t always advisable. Pressing or stretching yourself emotionally? Intellectually? For some, that is the tougher road. For me, not so much.
Enlisting an assist from my younger son is somewhat more palatable than turning to a stranger or an acquaintance, though I recognize that it isn’t easy for him to get to me, lend a hand, and return to his own life all in the space of a weekend. But I’m very appreciative of his good spirits when I call on him, and in recent days, I did just that. I also had to step back and let him make the decisions involved in getting things done in my life — without undue surveillance or commentary.
Isn’t this a parent’s role as children grow into adulthood? Doesn’t this process become a source of inner conflict — and pride — when incidents of role reversal crop up with greater frequency? Not only must we allow our young adult kids to make their own choices, but we must learn to trust them to make certain choices for us — and then execute.
When you’re accustomed to doing for yourself, it can be incredibly hard to “watch” and not do — even if the doing involves slogging through those tedious tasks like shopping, cooking, cleaning up. This is the daily drudgery of a woman’s life for so many of us, all the while working at jobs and raising our kids. And if we cannot perform these “simple” tasks, we — men and women — require family, friends, community, or paid assistance.
Sure, I have a great deal for which I’m grateful. My kids are both healthy and employed. I have a roof over my head. I’m in a (new) city that I know I will like (when I’m more able to fully explore it). But my worries, no doubt like yours, cannot be shooed away with wishful thinking. They are only addressable with real-world actions, real-world funds, and yes, certainly, a mindset that can move mountains — even if my arms cannot.
So I’m struggling. Struggling with the fact that this is where I am. Unable to rearrange furniture, unload boxes, hang pictures, make my bed. Unable to drive more than a mile or two, for now. Unable to get comfortable when I sleep, which of course impacts my sleep.
It’s hardly the end of the world, I tell myself for the umpteenth time in the past 28+ months. (Yes, I’m counting.) But this has been my reality off and on for years. It’s exhausting. And who likes a spent (and sulky) Superwoman?
Pas moi.
Naturally, a situation like this is a challenge for anyone without nearby family, friends, community or for whom paid assistance is hors question, which is the reality for most of us. (All rise as we sigh at the many ways in which American culture has changed in 30 years, and let us channel the Justice League to address the anguish of our overly mobile, isolation-susceptible, anxiety-ridden gig-working society.)
Yes, I have the occasional most excellent day. Gotta love that. But then… ZAP! POW! SPLAT! She’s down! (And “dependent” again.) As other (former) superheroes will understand, my self-image is soooooooo tied up in my Superwoman stature and independent spirit that I feel small. Smaller each day. So small that I just may disappear.
Why can’t my mind convince my body to go along — vanquishing the villainous restrictions of an injury here, a complicating factor there? Must I REALLY bid au revoir — make that adieu — to my nifty red cape? Wouldn’t you be reluctant to retire the secret “S” emblazoned across your chest, or feel the wondrous “W” of womanhood waning in its power? And who isn’t reticent about reneging on motherhood’s mythology and actuality? Aren’t women — at our very core — motored by grit, gumption, and guts? Should we plaster those three G’s across our body parts?
As for the slippage of my superpowers, is this little more than a reminder of reality? A nod to the passage of Time with a capital T? Is this period of prolonged powerlessness a preview of old age? The physical fragility that I have to look forward to, even as I am appreciative that my mind fires on all cylinders?
Don’t we all have something — or several somethings — we simply must manage? Is it managing on one’s own that makes it so much more dramatic and, at times, defeating?
It occurs to me to offer this: an urgent recommendation to myself and to any of you who are “starting over” at 50 or 55 or 60 or 65 — reinforce those three G’s (grit, gumption, guts) by creating community wherever you can, as quickly as you can; by nurturing reciprocal relationships of reliance and interdependence; and by welcoming and valuing fellow courageous (and cute?) crusaders-in-crime when you encounter them.
So here’s the thing. I am no longer superwoman. I get it. But accepting it? Another matter. Dealing with “don’t do that” directives? Difficult. And more to the point — I don’t feel like “me” — a state of affairs exacerbated when I don’t have paying projects to produce outputs I can be proud of. Unfortunately, my current limitations are serious impediments to getting out and about, which is essential to creating real-world community much less establishing relationships to sustain my existence — physically, professionally, and financially.
I tell myself to “greet everything,” that adjustments are part of life, that I’m good at thinking outside the box, that I like my kitten heels.
I also tell myself that this is temporary. But temporary is taking a hell of a long time. And meanwhile, how do I flip the switch on my independent identity to make peace with where I am? How do any of us — as time takes its toll?
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Beautifully written and deeply honest. I relate to so much you have shared in your post today.
Glad you found this relatable. ? But I’m also sorry you found this relatable. ?
This is a hard subject — or rather, set of related subjects — to write about honestly. I hope it comes across that I am not seeking sympathy or comparisons — just needing to be real. And maybe to open up the discussion, without judgment, of the sometimes scary reality of growing older in this society, especially with so many of us on our own and of modest means.
D.A., This post is not at all sympathy seeking or about comparison judging.
As I have been following your journey for the past several years through your blog writings, this post is fabulously creative in presentation depicting the aging cycle of life and where you are now as a human individual and where we, as an American society, are now. I purposely did not contribute my own aged life dilemma at this point, as I too, did not want this continuing conversation to be about comparison judging. It is truly a topic to continue to discuss.
Over the past year as I have greeted strangers in conversations in rarer outings than my previous years, I have found myself apologizing for the contributions that I have made to society with no harm intent, but with hope to ease human life. I’ve found my age group to quickly grasp what I’m referring to, agreeing with what we have created, while the people twenty years younger than I, seek with curiosity to understand more of what I’m referring to so they may better navigate, and the forty years younger have no curiosity at all while dashing off to their own world of innocent adaptations.
The topic of the aging population is important. It is critical to keep it real! ??
I, too, have great difficulty accepting age-related changes, and they do affect my self image also. Once razor sharp and vital, now a bit vague and, well, lame. But no one around us knows the Once Was us, and the world is more accepting than we are of ourselves. Isolation is a killer in this. Felt very much like you, DA, early last year. Moved to a new city and accepted an employed (!) position for which I am badly paid and grossly overqualified. But it is with an NGO that does great work. Now I do great work too. Contact with our struggling clients and their hope and resilience is a privilege and a gift. Also, I have colleagues! Yes they bitch and they weep, but they also laugh and go to lunch and, amazingly enough, accept me as being part of their world. I am not sure yet who the me is they are relating to but I have a foot in that door at least. I am mysteriously happy. The trick now is to deal with continuing secret aspirations to move onward and upward.
So glad to hear about the work, Maree. And the secret aspirations. Aspirations — hopefulness – as well as doing for others — they keep us going.
The Once-Was Us, and the question of Who of Me are people relating to – You’ve managed to capture some elusive concepts.
I believe you are absolutely right, the world doesn’t know how we used to be. But then, I’ve come to the conclusion that the world didn’t know who we were at the time either, so it’s not as if we are now being duplicitous. People seldom have profound understandings of the personalities and capabilities of any but the closest, deepest friends. For an introvert, that could be perceived as a slight, as we don’t think we’re that hard to understand. However, when, despite limited knowledge, they like us anyway (or think we’re competent), it’s something of a compliment.
I can relate to all you say. I feel invisible in so many ways. I have a full time job in a dying industry (as I know it). Aches and pains new and old every single day. I try to be grateful for my children and grandchildren everyday. I have a long time therapist and an acupuncturist that help me on a regular basis.
I feel the aging and it can be depressing. I am going to keep on moving and stay positive as possible.Thank you for helping me with your blog.