"The Mirror has Two Faces"

In my seventh grade Home Economics class I learned about the four food groups; created in the 1950's by USDA food economists: protein, fruits & vegetables, grains, and dairy. My mother packed most of my school lunches, and other than the occasional silver-foiled ding-dong chocolate frosting-filled chocolate cake she'd toss into my Holly-Hobby lunch box (which I'd try to trade with anyone that had cheetos), she stuck to those food groups. I don't love cake, but I love cheetos; puffy ones, crunchy ones, jalapeno ones. I don't discriminate. I also don't keep them around. I could eat a family size bag by myself in one sitting and not bat an eye. Cheetos really don't have a place in the four food group chart, or the newer food pyramid. Do they even qualify as a food at all? Do Ding-Dongs for that matter?

Back in Jr. High as part of our P.E. class we were issued a challenge by the President of the United States issue a challenge to all school children to earn a fitness award; a six-part test consisting of push-ups, pull-ups, sit-ups, standing broad jump, a shuttle run, a 50-yard dash and a softball throw for distance. For some odd reason I was highly motivated to earn the award. Sweat dripping down the middle of my back, I ran around the track in my gym uniform of dark blue polyester shorts and blue and white striped polyester t-shirt in the Arizona sun I envisioned having some sort of medal placed around my neck as I humbly bowed my head while parents, teachers, and friends applauded. I passed off all the requirements for the challenge. There was no ceremony, just a little certificate with a pre-signed presidential signature and a cloth badge. Meh. I'd rather have been sitting at home beside the pool. Eating cheetos.

Now intuitive eating is all the rage. No assigning "good" or "bad" to any food. Just listening to your body and what feels right for you. I hear my name being called by little crunchy orangey goodies. One of the singular most challenging things I've had to deal with post-menopause and post empty-nesting is trying to figure out how much to cook and how much to eat. My caloric needs have dramatically shifted from my days of young motherhood. Chasing toddlers, nursing babies and cooking for and feeding a large family, I barely had time to focus on feeding myself. Now I finally have time to really dive into my food hobbies and recipes and I'm full after just a few bites. The irony.

Perhaps intuitive exercise should be a thing too. Other than my short stint with fitness as a thirteen-year-old Presidential Fitness Award seeker, I really never exercised. My hormonal deranged teenaged self would beg/bribe my little brother to give me a ride on the back of his bike-seat to the corner gas station. I needed chocolate and I promised to buy him something for his trouble. He'd always oblige. I'm sure he'd have done just about anything to tame my inner beast. Years later, I now realize that I needed the bike ride more than I needed the chocolate.

Every generation has it's own version of diet and exercise. My maternal grandmother told me stories of having to drink a large glass of water before eating dinner when she was a child. My parents raised their oldest children with the "clean your plate" and "only take what you're able to finish" mantras. The '70's brought about a more holistic natural approach to food. My mom hopped on that train and aside from the occasional ding-dong in my lunch pail, we kids were now being served lentil burgers, hot cracked-wheat cereal, salmon patties, and homemade whole-wheat bread. She found a neighbor that had a cow and bought two gallons of raw milk from them each week. The thick layer of cream that had risen to the top of the jug, she'd just vigorously shake into the thinner milk. That with some brown sugar made the hot cracked wheat almost enjoyable. I was never made to finish what I served myself, and even sometimes was allowed to have a bit of dessert before dinner.

Every evening Mama would read to my little brother and me. Having performed since she was a little girl, reciting poetry and being in the drama club in High School, she would always make up different voices for each character in a book. One of our very favorites was the "Frances" series of children's books. Frances is a very precocious little girl badger. And she loves food.

I can hear Mama reading to us the words of Frances' best friend Albert as she and her little sister walk past him to have a girls outing, they having recently been left out of his boys outing.

"What is in that hamper?" asked Albert as he came running out of his house. "I don't know, said Frances. "Nothing much. Hard-boiled eggs and whole fresh tomatoes. Carrot and celery sticks. There are some cream cheese-and-chives sandwiches. I think, and cream cheese-and-jelly sandwiches too, and salami-and-egg and pepper-and-egg sandwiches. Cole slaw and potato chips, of course. Ice-cold root beer packed in ice, and watermelon and strawberries and cream for dessert.

After the book had ended and Mama closed it on her lap, I'd inevitably ask, "What's for breakfast in the morning?"

Yesterday, as I was cleaning up after a weights class at our local gym, I noticed the large mirrored wall had a huge crack on it. My first instinct was "I wonder when they'll fix that, it looks pretty awful." But then I found myself just standing there staring at it for a while. Menopause has most certainly had it's way with me. Unexpected weight gain accompanied by even less of an appetite. Lack of energy, and more time needed to recover from exercise. Sleepiness comes over me almost as easily as it did when I'd be in my first trimester of pregnancy. My body sometimes feels as though it's been hi-jacked, but this time not by a tiny human being; just by time itself. The crack on the mirror. Isn't it just how we all are. We stare at the mirror expecting to see the person we feel we are inside. The age our spirit feels. But what looks back at us is most certainly imperfect, and changing by the year. Even by the day. Flawed and yet beautifully unique. Sometimes I get frustrated at my younger self. "Why didn't you do more....accomplish more with yourself while you could?"

A wise woman (my mother) once told me "People, for the most part, do pretty much what they want to with their time." I think she's spot-on. Other than the obligations of employment and responsibilities of child-rearing, we do what we want. Maybe it's spending time intuitively. Trying to find a balance in the second half of my life is tricky. So much time spent being a human-doing instead of a human-being; I'm learning that sometimes it's actually okay to do nothing and not feel guilty about that. I don't have to chase my younger self because I want to make up for the things I wish she'd done.

Yesterday I baked a loaf of sweet sourdough sandwich bread. I gazed at it and wished I could give Mama a big slice with a big pat of butter. She loved bread and butter. I think that's why she often chose to read us the Frances books. They are timeless and wonderful children's stories. The food descriptions were incredible. I can't find my collection of Frances books in the current renovation mess that we're in. I think I'll order some new ones. And I think I'll sit on the porch and read one to myself. While eating some bread. Middle-aged life doesn't get much better than that.