As I Live and Breathe
I spent much of my twenties scorning the mundane. I’d had a near death experience and after that, people seemed so…superficial. I reserved special scorn for those who wasted precious moments blow drying their hair. I was not exactly the poster child for living in the moment, though. I moped, napped, lay around, and had boyfriends. A Buddhist teacher might have diagnosed that I was “stuck in the unconditioned.” Or existential despair.
This morning I brushed my hair (having warmed it by the wall heater) in the mirror and realized: people blow dry their hair because it makes them feel like themselves. It makes them feel like humans. I felt flush with love & acceptance. Maybe it was the Chaka Khan blaring: will you love me, will you comfort me, will you come to my rescue.
I can’t believe it took me until I was 60 to truly discover her. And I’ve loved Soul Music most of my life—more than my own mother and father, probably more than God.
But I have not lived in vain. Yesterday I was in a FB group on fiber arts where the chat had turned to bra underwire. I posted about how to pull that wire out. I wrote that I was 63 1/2 and hadn’t worn underwire since I was in high school. Someone else wrote that she was 63 3/4 years old and had just pulled out the underwire. Underwire is bad. I once read it gave you lumps (untrue) but it sure is uncomfy.
Will you love me, will you comfort me, will you come to my rescue? I sing as I make oatmeal. Sure, says my husband Rich, as he heads out the door on this overcast November day.