You’re in the supermarket self-checkout line, and you see an older woman in front of you. She has a lot of items, seems tired, and keeps rubbing her eyes. All you have is a Kelloggs Fun Pack, milk and a box of Trojans. You exhale impatiently. You’re busy, and you just want to get out of the store to get ready for this great date. She’s doing her best to move quickly, but she keeps screwing up her scanning. When it’s time to pay, she squints at the keypad, trying to read the instructions. You roll your eyes slightly, and when she turns to you to apologize, you smile and say, “Don’t worry about it,” and mean it. You feel bad, because she seems nice, but you’re glad when she finally pushes her big old mom cart filled with Twinkies and Fruit Roll-Ups out of your way. You watch her walk away and you think, “Cute, for an older lady.” She doesn’t cross your mind again.
I am that harried woman.
You’re pulling out of the supermarket parking lot, and see a woman picking up items off the ground. You’re late for the gym, but you feel sorry for her. You pull into a parking space, and get out of your car to help her. She thanks you, and explains that she left the back hatch of her Jeep open when she pulled away, so all of the items fell out of the back. She’s distracted, she says, because she has to pick her kids up from baseball, and is in a rush. How embarrassing, she says. The eggs are broken, but she doesn’t make a big deal of it. She comments that if that’s the worst thing that happens to her today, it’ll be a good day. You smile and walk away, feeling good that you helped, and relieved that you’re young and unencumbered.
I’ve been that bag woman.
You go to the gym, feeling young and energetic. There’s a fit older lady on the elliptical in front of you, really working hard. You run for a few minutes, admire yourself in the mirror. You look hot, you say to yourself. You’ve been tanning and working out all week, and it’s paid off. You walk around the gym, half heartedly working on some machines, knowing all the men are admiring your youth and beauty. As you walk by, you notice that the older lady is still on the elliptical. You feel sorry for her, having to work so hard, when what you have comes to you so easily. You take a steam and a sauna, leave the gym, and see her still working out.
That older woman is me.
You’re walking on the beach with your friends. You’re wearing your new bikini, and feeling awesome. It’s summer, and anything goes. You have plans to go to a party later, and you can’t wait. You look up the beach, and see a woman in a huge beach hat carrying a beach chair, a boogie board and a beach bag. You stand by the water, and watch her yell at a bunch of kids to get their sunblock on. You see her finally settle into a chair, and pick up a book as her kids play in the water. “Boring,” you think to yourself. You feel bad for her, that all she has to look forward to is a dumb book.
That’s me, reading that book.
You see a woman at the baseball park. She’s clapping for her son, who just had a great hit. It strikes you how happy she seems, as she talks with her friends.
You see a woman in the mall, trying on one piece bathing suits as you look for a bikini. She smiles at you, and tells you that the blue one is prettiest. She remembers the days she could wear bikinis like that, and laughs, but doesn’t seem to care. You admire her, and tell her that her suit is pretty, too. And you mean it.
You see a woman walking her dog, checking out books at the library, doing laps in the pool, renting a dirty movie, drinking wine in a fancy restaurant. And every time you see her she looks beautiful, and happy. She’s always laughing, never embarrassed, and comfortable in her own skin. She tells you you’re beautiful, but you think she is. She loves her kids out in the open, has great clothes, and is a great cook. She’s every woman who has reached the point in her life where she likes herself, hopes others like her too, but doesn’t care if they don’t.
I’m all those women. And I thank God for it.