The Guilt Hat

The Guilt Hat

I’ve come to the conclusion that I spend a lot of my life wearing what I call the guilt hat. The guilt hat is invisible, but trust me, it’s there. It’s the hat that magically appears every time someone else’s problem lands in my lap. Suddenly, I’m wondering if I should do more, call more, help more, fix more, worry more, or somehow become personally responsible for things that were never mine to manage in the first place.

The crazy part is that nobody hands me this hat. I put it on myself. Someone is unhappy? I reach for the guilt hat. Someone made a bad decision? Here comes the guilt hat. Someone’s life is a mess? Let me see if my guilt hat matches my outfit.

Somewhere along the way, many of us learned that being a good person meant carrying things that don’t belong to us. We confuse caring with carrying, and they are not the same thing. I can care about you without fixing your life. I can love you without solving your problems. I can support you without making your responsibilities my responsibilities.

What I’ve finally realized is that not every problem is mine to solve, not every burden is mine to carry, and not every crisis requires my involvement. Just because something lands in front of me doesn’t mean I’m required to pick it up.

These days I’m trying to retire the guilt hat. Not because I don’t care, but because I’ve learned that carrying everyone else’s worries doesn’t make me a better friend, mother, spouse, or person. It just makes me tired. 

Turns out the guilt hat was never a requirement.  It was just an accessory I forgot I could take off.

Aged to Perfection

I’ve reached that stage of life where I no longer want my picture taken. Not because I’m ashamed of how I look or trying to hide from the camera. It’s because every time I see a picture of myself, I think, “Who is that woman?” In my head, I’m still me—the same personality, the same sense of humor, and the same person I’ve always been.

The strange thing about aging is that it sneaks up on you. One day you’re taking pictures, and the next you’re volunteering to be the photographer. Women have it the worst. Everywhere you look, someone is reversing, freezing, fighting, injecting, lifting, tightening, or filtering aging until they resemble a startled cartoon character. Apparently we’re supposed to spend retirement trying to look like we just graduated college.

I don’t want to look 22. I survived 22. I paid my dues for these laugh lines. I earned every gray hair, wrinkle, and reminder that I’ve actually lived a life. That doesn’t mean I want to let myself go. I still want to look nice and take care of myself. But there’s a huge difference between looking younger and looking good for your age.

Somewhere along the way, society decided “for your age” was an insult. I think it should be a compliment. Looking good for your age means you made it to your age. Not everyone gets that opportunity.

The truth is there has never been a fountain of youth, and there never will be. The choices are pretty simple: die young or live long enough to get old. That’s it. Yet somehow we’ve convinced women that aging is a personal failure instead of a privilege.

And people age differently. Some are blessed with great genetics; some aren’t. Some spent years in the sun; some didn’t. Some wrinkle, sag, or turn gray at 30. Some never do. None of those things make someone better than anyone else.

Maybe it’s time for a new motto. Not anti-aging. Not age-defying. Not forever young. Those are all marketing slogans designed to make us feel bad enough to buy something.

I say the new motto should be: Aged to Perfection. Because perfection isn’t looking 30 when you’re 60. Perfection is reaching an age where you finally stop apologizing for looking exactly the age that you are!

For As Long As I Can

My mom is 92 years old, and if I’m honest, it’s hard for me to picture a world without her in it.

When she found out she was pregnant with me, the doctor told her she would enjoy having a baby later in life. I think he was right. She loved me fiercely from the very beginning, even though I spent most of my childhood proving I wasn’t going to stay on the short leash she had planned for me.

Over the years, she became my favorite adventure partner. We could turn something as simple as shopping for coffee cups or decorating a room into a day full of laughter. And Lord, did we laugh. The kind of laughing that left tears running down our faces. Daddy would come into the room after trying to sleep and say, “You girls need to settle it down,” and we’d laugh even harder.

My mom has loved her family with her whole heart. She loved my daddy. She loved me. She loved my children and grandchildren. Not because she had to, but because loving her family was as natural as breathing to her. No matter what was happening in life, I always knew she was in my corner.

Now I watch the woman who once seemed larger than life grow tired. Her body doesn’t cooperate the way it used to. Her mind gets weary. And sometimes I look at her and think part of her heart has already started looking toward Heaven, where Daddy is waiting. I understand that. But I don’t like it.

Because no matter how old I am, I’m still her daughter. I’m still the girl who calls her mom. I’m still the girl who wants one more story, one more laugh, one more shopping trip, one more ordinary afternoon together.

I know the day is coming when I’ll have to let her go. But today is not that day. Today I’ll hold her hand a little longer, listen a little closer, and love her a little harder. And when the time finally comes, I won’t be grateful for losing her. I’ll be grateful for having her.

For 92 years, the world has been blessed with my mom. And for my entire life, I’ve been blessed that she was mine.

 

You Were My Cup of Tea, But I Drink Wine Now

I have two ex-husbands, which means I have enough experience to speak on the subject with at least some authority. Not expert-level authority, mind you. More like someone who has touched the hot stove twice and now feels qualified to give safety demonstrations.

The older I get, the more I realize that ex-husbands are a lot like tea. At one point, they seemed like exactly what I wanted. I chose them. I committed to them. I invested years of my life in them. I was absolutely convinced they were the right choice. Then somewhere along the way I discovered that what I thought was a rich, satisfying blend was actually lukewarm tea that had been sitting on the counter too long.

The funny thing about getting older is that your tastes change. At twenty, you’re looking for chemistry, excitement, and somebody who gives you butterflies. At my age, butterflies are suspicious. They usually mean something is wrong. What I’m looking for now is someone who can back a trailer, fix a garbage disposal, carry a heavy box, and not need emotional support when a project takes longer than expected.

When I was younger, I thought potential was attractive. Potential is highly overrated. Potential is just another word for “maybe someday.” I spent enough years around “maybe someday” to know it often turns into “probably not.” These days, I find competence incredibly attractive. A man who knows how to solve problems without creating three new ones? Swoon.

My husband now is good at pretty much everything. It’s honestly a little annoying. If something breaks, he fixes it. If something needs built, he builds it. If I have an idea, he figures out how to make it happen. Meanwhile, I once spent twenty minutes looking for my phone while talking on it. We all have our gifts.

I used to think romance was flowers, candlelight, and handwritten notes. Now I think romance is hearing, “I already took care of it.” That’s it. That’s the whole love language. If a man says, “Don’t worry about it, I fixed it,” I may need to sit down and fan myself.

The truth is, I don’t regret my ex-husbands. They taught me valuable lessons. Mostly expensive lessons, but lessons nonetheless. They helped me figure out what I wanted, what I needed, and what I would never again tolerate. Sometimes the purpose of an ex isn’t to stay in your life. Sometimes their purpose is simply to make you appreciate what comes next.

So yes, they were my cup of tea.

But life is funny. You grow up. You get wiser. Your standards improve. Your taste gets a little more refined.

And these days?

I drink wine now.