Unfettered 50

Partnership and our light

by Nancy Colasurdo on February 18, 2012

I’m 50 years old and I’ve always been single. It makes some people uncomfortable and that used to bother me a lot. Now I see it clearly as a choice I made, just one that isn’t very popular in our country, where the American dream is equated with a a spouse and offspring. I always knew I wasn’t up for the latter.

But if I’m being really honest, there’s been a steady beat running through the song that is my life. This unspoken feeling that a man would hold me back from everything I want to achieve and the kind of life I want to have. To be clear, this has never meant I didn’t want a life partner and it still doesn’t now. But I want the kind of relationship that enhances my life, a man who can handle my strength and realize of course that comes with times of weakness. And I think it’s pretty clear I am perfectly willing to remain unattached until I have it.

Never have I been more aware of this part of myself than when I watched Oprah Winfrey’s re-airing of her 2010 interview with Whitney Houston on OWN this week. Oprah asked her if then-husband Bobby Brown was jealous of her success — right around when she had made her film debut in The Bodyguard — and Houston hesitated before answering yes. And acknowledged, after poignant followup from Oprah, that she had dimmed her own light in an effort to make him feel better, bigger. A nod to love that was really a nod to the demise of love. A man not at all emotionally equipped to handle partnership with a force the likes of this accomplished woman.

That spoke to me like I can’t tell you. I got that. You don’t have to be a singing sensation or national treasure to know that feeling that you’ve latched yourself on to a person who wants to take you down a few notches. And maybe in my heart it reinforced just a little this notion that it’s an either/or proposition. I’ve spent days asking myself if I really believe that at my core. I don’t think I do, but I confess to some fear that it underlies everything.

Watching Kevin Costner speak at Houston’s service in Newark, N.J. today, I was struck by how he described her fear of inadequacy as she embarked on her role in The Bodyguard. Another example of how fear can be the best possible sign that you are doing something that signals living and following your passion instead of staying in the comfort zone that is also a fear-free zone.

I suppose in my case that means having faith in the human spirit, that a potential partner does exist who wants to buoy and support rather than squash and diminish. And who will welcome and savor my love and support in return. For if that faith doesn’t exist within me, if fear swallows it, am I not in some self-constructed comfort zone?

All this applies to my life across the board, but honestly I have never doubted that my career path would be what it’s supposed to be. I am so much better at following signs, having courage and patiently riding things out in my craft than I am in my relationships. What I have found out time and again is that I am happiest when I am writing and unhappiest when I am not. It doesn’t get much simpler than that.

My dating life is more of a puzzle. Perhaps I’ve spent too much time trying to piece it together rather than just exuding joy and pushing through pain and letting it unfold according to the Universal plan. Be. Just be.

And remember that I am living my American dream every single day.

{ 0 comments }

Happy Valentine’s Day

by Nancy Colasurdo on February 14, 2012

As I write this, I imagine there are women running around getting pedicures and bikini waxes and men filling candy stores in droves. And the frugal and philosophical sorts making a big deal of not celebrating. And the people in dead marriages not knowing what the hell to do with the whole red and pink extravaganza.

I am sitting home with my left knee in a brace, crutches next to me, letting a sprain heal. My peek at Louise Hay’s chart that relates a physical problem to a probable underlying cause tells me the knee is about this — “Stubborn ego and pride. Inability to bend. Fear. Inflexibility. Won’t give in.” Even the fact that it’s the left side of the body is meaningful — “Represents receptivity, taking in, feminine energy, women, the mother.”

Hay’s suggested new thought patterns with relation to both are:

~ Forgiveness. Understanding. Compassion. I bend and flow with ease, all is well.

~ My feminine energy is beautifully balanced.

Before even reading this today, I felt this happening within myself. I’ve been buoyed with love since injuring myself on Friday — one friend dropping off a prescription, another picking it up, yet another bringing DVDs to pass the time better, others calling and stopping in. It is heady to be so cared for at a time when I am in unknown territory. I was never an athlete (but, ironically, as a sports writer saw many go through it), so I find this time very scary and the control freak that lives in me is cursing up a storm.

Yet at base I am calm. Grateful. And, oh yeah, wondering why there is no lover this year. I kind of know. And I’m not in a spin about it or anguished in any way. This is a serene Valentine’s Day. I can’t leave the house. It is me and my thoughts.

What I found myself thinking this morning is how several of my friends are adamant that I get back into the online dating world. Put myself “out there” so to speak. My gut says no. You know why? It finally dawned on me today.

I put myself “out there” week in and week out. You see this post you’re reading? This is bare Nancy. My picture is on the site. Ninety five percent of my freakin’ thoughts, fears, joys, philosophies, rants and musings are “out there.” Gentlemen, really, this is one big, fat personal ad. Read it and cringe or read it and yearn for more. Your choice. Trying to keep my identity “hidden” via some clever hot user name requires more energy than I care to expend in that arena. I am very much alive and engaged in life. I’m a little bit nuts. Guys seem to dig my hair and the fact that I really listen.

This morning I woke to a “Happy Valentine’s Day” phone call from a man I love very much. We aren’t a couple and we won’t be (see roughly 8,000 previous posts for backstory). But as we spoke I felt that calm I described earlier in this post. The forgiveness, the compassion, the bending. I needed to touch base with my own humanity and talking to him was like a mirror and a direct route into that.

So it’s OK that this Valentine’s Day my leg will be spent propped up on a pillow that’s covered in a fabulous red Egyptian cotton pillow case. I’d sure rather be putting those sheets to another use, but hey, maybe next year.

{ 0 comments }

Lemmings and a ‘Fishbowl’

by Nancy Colasurdo on February 8, 2012

I enjoy reading the daily goings-on in the media via my Mediabistro.com email bulletin every morning. It’s a nice gauge on popular stories and how they played and it pulls interesting tidbits in from all over the industry.

So this morning I clicked on the site’s “Fishbowl” section for an article headlined, “O, The Oprah Magazine Without TV Oprah Isn’t Doing So Well.” (I use the term ‘article’ loosely here, as it was heavy on opinion, so perhaps more a column?).

Here’s how it begins:

When Oprah stopped her popular talk show last fall, women everywhere fretted over who would tell them what to read and how to feel about their feelings.

Seriously? A site about and for media (journalism?) creates a piece that starts off with a disparaging comment about women in an article that’s supposed to be informing us of the magazine’s drop in newsstand sales? How is this in any way appropriate or even remotely mature in its perspective?

You’re calling women lemmings, robots. We cannot have possibly enjoyed seeing a master interviewer exercising her craft again and again and again. No, we’re so easily led we must have been brainwashed by this fierce, all-powerful woman casting her spell.

You don’t get it and that’s just fine. You’re not a fan and that’s just fine. But what’s with the vitriol around those who are? Why must it be about women being led instead of being engaged and inspired?

Good grief.

I’ve just been thinking over the last month that OWN is beginning to achieve at a wider network level the viewer experience they got from The Oprah Winfrey Show. On any given day over the span of 25 years, that show evoked tears, belly laughing, astonishment, refreshing candor, inspiration, etc. Now I can turn on OWN and get a dose of those same feelings from a variety of sources.

Suze Orman upends her usual pragmatism/smackdown style and empathizes with this amazing couple. Winfrey gets in the trenches on weight with Gov. Chris Christie. Rosie O’Donnell hires a delightful unemployed woman from her audience to be her emcee or brings on RuPaul to introduce a little boy to his hero. There are Master Class shows with visionaries and Winfrey is doing one-on-one in interviews on location in Oprah’s Next Chapter.

I live in a town where our mayor blessedly decided we don’t need a Jersey Shore spinoff filmed here. I can’t watch anything with ‘housewife’ in the title. I much prefer focusing on people these days as opposed to politics, so that narrows my TV choices even further.

So, yes, sometimes it is a joy to flip over to OWN and see what Oprah Winfrey is serving up. Much of the programming uplifts or provokes thought. Same with the magazine. I’m sorry it has had a drop in sales. But could we not use that as an opportunity to take a pot shot at women?

I used to be more strident about this misogynistic stuff, but the last few years I’ve stepped back and only speak up when something really ticks me off. This did because it was wrong on so many levels.

So unprofessional and disappointing.

{ 0 comments }

Halftime and Madonna

by Nancy Colasurdo on February 7, 2012

Something came over me when Madonna’s name was announced last night during the Super Bowl. It took me by surprise. I became hyper focused on watching her, riveted to my bar stool in a Hoboken restaurant/bar.

As a relatively new member of the ’50′ club, I realized I was heavily invested in her performance as a fellow 50-something woman. It was weird. I’ve never been that attuned to her age before. I was sending her good vibes because I felt like she represented me.

Now, I can’t say it’s the first time I’ve related to Madonna. I love her music, dig her ability to express freely and, as one who was also raised Catholic, the rebel in me always loved that she was saying what I didn’t have the courage to say until much later in life.

I got what I wanted from her last night — entertainment, inspiration and a touch of nostalgia. The Madonna songs on my iPod sounded fresh during my workout this morning.

I suppose the age identification was about a subconscious feeling that I’ve entered this new place where so much is possible, ambition is soaring and I keep wanting to see others who are on that track, too. After the game, when I saw Huffington Post Tweets about Madonna’s minor stumble as the headline, I defensively fired back as if it was me, imagining some young twit editor dwelling on one of the most human things about the performance.

When I first saw that stadium setup unfold before Madonna as she sang, my stomach dropped. What is she thinking wearing those hot (but high) boots on bleachers? I wouldn’t have agreed to that in a million years, such would have been my fear of falling. But she took it on, moved past the stumble into grace, not fazed by the blip, not letting down her audience an ounce. She knew the material. She kept going. And she seemed to be enjoying it.

Prior to the game I heard the announcers quote her as saying she had never been more nervous than she was for that event. Isn’t it just the best when we take on something that turns our stomach inside out?

Like I said, I got everything I wanted. And more.

{ 4 comments }

Relishing

by Nancy Colasurdo on February 4, 2012

After I interviewed jewelry designer Jennifer Fisher yesterday afternoon for a future Game Plan column, I left her showroom to enjoy a bit of SoHo in the unseasonably mild temps we’re having in the Northeast. I wound up browsing in the Shabby Chic couture store and in Philip Lim. Then, making my way for a stroll back to the West Village, I saw a Diane von Furstenberg store.

Well, hello.

I walked in and immediately laughed because there was a little pink lip-shaped change purse that I had just ‘pinned’ on Pinterest. Fun to see it in person. But then my eyes drifted to a four-pack of Diet Coke bottles (only made of tin, like cans) featuring iconic DVF designs.

During a trip to Chicago in the fall, I had taken home my tin Diet Coke bottle from the Art Institute of Chicago at the prodding of my friend when she saw how lit up I was when I saw it. There is currently a wisp of eucalyptus in that one in my kitchen. I had seen these the first time at the National Constitution Center in Philadelphia for the Princess Diana exhibit a few years ago. Just something about the shape and design that appeals to me. Add in some DVF designs and it’s a no-brainer purchase.

Already quite the happy camper, I let my eyes wander over the clothes. They stopped short on a pink sweater. A must try. The salesgirl asked me what size and I told her my DVF dresses and jeans are size 12, so the largest they have would be best. That was a ‘medium/large.’ The shape of the sweater is over-sized, but despite my unmistakable curves it looked like I had absolutely no figure in this frock.

Good for my wallet, I thought. But then I asked her to bring me the smaller size. I put it on and it looked and felt sooooooooo good. Bright pink skimming over my black jeggings and knee-high boots. Slouchy but fitted somehow, as only good clothes can be. I put on my glasses to check my Blackberry for messages and noted the tag on the sweater (which I couldn’t see clearly before) said “Petite/Small.” As if there was any question then and there that my ego would lead the way on that purchase.

As I strolled out of there with my vibrant lip-emblazoned shopping bag, I knew what had to come next. Because, of course, that purchase meant that the impending happy hour would be curtailed to a few drinks. No dinner. No longer in the budget. But I couldn’t put alcohol in my empty stomach, so off to Gray’s Papaya in the West Village before meeting friends at happy hour in Hoboken.

Recession special — two hotdogs and a Diet Coke. Mine comes with sauerkraut, relish and mustard. The beauty of the experience is standing at the counter and eating and people watching on the corner of Eighth Street and Sixth Avenue. I thought about how it can’t be common for a woman carrying a DVF bag to be wolfing down hotdogs at Gray’s Papaya. And how if I saw anyone I knew it would feel a little like they caught me at a crack house.

By the way, did I mention the relish is new? At least to me. That was always the one disadvantage to Gray’s that I had overlooked because the hotdogs are so darned good. But now, relish.

Relish.

{ 0 comments }

Putting more ‘unfettered’ in ‘Unfettered 50′

by Nancy Colasurdo on February 2, 2012

Let me tell you about 50. Unlike, say, 20 years ago, I can almost take constructive criticism like an adult. So when my friend wrote me this evening to tell me he thinks I’m holding back in my “Unfettered 50″ blog posts, I got filled up with tears but I also went and scrutinized them a bit. On a few I think he’s crazy, but on others he had a point.

But something more was in play. I was only a wee bit defensive. More like feeling grateful I have chosen to surround myself with smart, honest people. This friend once told me something I’d written hadn’t an ounce of vulnerability. Yep, he’s good. So why was I biting my lip to hold back the water fall?

Duh. Because he was right. I was holding something back.

I un-Friended someone I love on Facebook this week. To paraphrase a line from the Sex and the City movie, I love him but I love me more. I invested a lot of time and emotional energy in him, hoping for romance at one point but agreeing to friendship when that seemed my only choice. The connection was that good. The friendship has been strong but challenging.

Finally this week, though, the price to be friends with him became too high. His Facebook posts are a reminder of what isn’t. My Facebook feed is a place I go to relax with the terrific community I’ve built and I want to keep it that way. I can no longer be “big” about it at my own peril.

So with a click of my mouse I was free. That’s how it felt when I un-Friended him. Incredibly liberating. Mature and weirdly “junior high” at the same time. Take your shot at happiness, my friend, while I take a deep breath into mine.

The next day I woke up and while I was preparing breakfast I looked at the photo he’d taken in Ireland that I’d blown up and had framed for my wall. I wrote about it in another blog post but didn’t fully explain the weight behind taking it down. When he was here a month ago I saw him glance into the kitchen to see if it was still there. It meant something to him that it was.

I have no bitterness around any of this. As I wrapped the picture in plastic and put it away, I remembered telling him I liked “life through his lens.” He loved that because he’s a man who appreciates words. It felt soothing to think of the memory.

After breakfast and a workout, I was walking by Carlo’s Bakery (yes, home of Cake Boss) and, lo and behold, there was no line. I walked in and bought two chocolate-covered strawberries, my absolute favorite treat there. It had been over a year since indulging in them because this now nationally acclaimed hotspot is always mobbed.

From there I visited a shop where I could buy some flowers and walked out with two bouquets — Gerbera daisies and tulips. As I walked through my home gazing at the fresh flowers, eating a strawberry, it felt like the Universe had given me my own special Valentine’s Day filled with nurturing self-love.

Now I feel raw and euphoric and more like me than I’ve felt in a long, long time.

And I take criticism pretty well, too.

Imagine that.

{ 0 comments }

Body love

by Nancy Colasurdo on February 2, 2012

In separate conversations with some friends this week, the subject of our bodies came up. We’re all between 49 and 55. At one time this would have been incessant breathless chatter about the latest gimmick in cardio or some infantilizing language about how “good” or “bad” we were at lunch.

This week’s dialogue produced some laughs and some basic sharing, but what I loved was the insight I had when my friend brought up the concept of the flat stomach being a thing of the past. Apparently common wisdom dictates that’s pretty much the reality “at our age.”

By Mary Ann Farley

Suddenly it hit me that, finally, there is an advantage to never having had a flat stomach my entire life — I don’t miss it!

Not to sound like I’m resigned to couch potato status or anything. I feel better than ever before. I lift weights, punch a bag, do yoga and walk almost everywhere because I live an urban life. I eat a lot of salads and fruit, but I don’t pass up rice pudding if I’m really craving it and I’m an Italian woman who adores her pasta. Today I slathered peanut butter and jelly on some whole wheat toast (two slices) and devoured it like someone was going to take it away.

I’ve let go of the lamenting when I see a primo body on another woman. She looks great, but so do I. This is me. It’s who I’m supposed to be. It’s how I’m supposed to look. Thinking any other way is not honoring the Creator. This body is alive and pumping, it feels pleasure and pain and is unquestionably a miracle in its functioning and capacity.

I don’t have a flat gut. I have a very healthy appetite. When I was younger and heavier I would have hesitated to admit either. And I would have stared longingly at some other woman’s tight butt or toned abs and measured myself against it.

Now I’m 50. My body is precious. You’ve gotta love it and have faith it will love you back.

{ 0 comments }

Picture perfect

by Nancy Colasurdo on January 31, 2012

I woke up this morning and made oatmeal. On my kitchen wall was a photo of a window in Ireland that a friend took. I had it blown up and framed because I really like how the light comes through the ferns.

But it never really fit the wall. The scale was off. I tried to make it work. Had a few ideas that were never quite right.

This morning I took it down and replaced it with a piece of art that used to hang there. It’s painted silk. It’s a bunch of fish in vibrant reds, pinks, blues. I painted it while in Turks and Caicos many years ago and it’s a reminder of how much fun it is to blast out of your creative comfort zone. I had never painted anything before that day. Years later when I had it framed, the woman in the frame shop took great care with it and we put it in pewter.

It is a perfect fit on the wall again. Later I bought some multi-colored Gerbera daisies for the table in front of it because I just adore their bright, lively vibe.

There are so many symbolic meanings for fish, but today I’m going with the Buddhist one: happiness and freedom.

On my wall. In my life.

{ 0 comments }

Anger unleashed

by Nancy Colasurdo on January 30, 2012

Went through a nice, long period of learning to be more spiritual in my 40s. It was great to acquire more knowledge, go within and strive to wipe out anger.

Now, with the dawn of 50 a month ago (and maybe a little before), I realize anger is healthy and often more than appropriate. Where I used to think it was a compliment to be called a “class act” in certain situations, now I see it as another way of saying “You really took that kick in the teeth well. Thank you for not expressing what you’re really feeling because that would have made me so uncomfortable.”

Uh huh.

I am so over the B.S. This whole idea of writing under the heading of “Unfettered 50″ is like a get-out-of-jail-free card.

I am a person who sees the good in people, the glass half-full in most scenarios, the unfolding of a wonderful Universal plan and profound joy in simple things. But sometimes I am so angry I mutter things that would make a hip hop artist blush and sputter. I would almost certainly not lay a finger on another human being in anger, but every so often I have luscious fantasies of people twisting in the wind and, wait for it … I am the wind.

I am so immensely proud of the spiritual path I’m on and even more proud that I have reached a place of real. I’m not pretending I want everyone who darkens my door as a client. I’m not pretending every pitch in my mailbox is a good fit for my column. I’m not pretending any more that it’s OK for a guy to look at me with longing goo-goo eyes when his status is “married” or “in a relationship.”

Boundaries. Respect. Release. Love of self.

Anger. Zen.

All of it.

Fresh start.

Amen.

{ 2 comments }

Workout buzz

by Nancy Colasurdo on January 26, 2012

Let’s go inside my mind for an entire workout, shall we? In fact, let’s start prior.

I wake up this morning with a headache. First thought, no gym. Perfect excuse. Takes about five minutes for hard-driving Nancy to kick in and say, really? Get over yourself. Pop some Excedrin and let’s go. So you did yoga last night and now you feel all “obligation fulfilled.” No, it’s not. Get thee to the gym.

It begins, as always, with stretching all nice and solo in an empty aerobics room. Really started to get the value of stretching about a year ago and now it’s vital. The music gets me pumped and the blood starts flowing and then I’m on a mat doing abs. Headache is almost gone. Pat myself on the back for pushing myself.

Time to lift. Doing upper body today. At machine one, I spot a guy I’ve never seen before. Oh my. Michael Jackson is blaring in my ears and I am covertly (?) enjoying this maybe 30-year-old working a nearby machine. Each time I move to another station, the mirrors all around keep him in my sights. Thank you, whoever you are, because between watching you and the effects of highly caffeinated Excedrin kicking in, I am pushing myself hard.

Now for the elliptical. I hop on. Not one to turn on the TV when I’m doing cardio, I’m focused on the Van Halen coming through the iPod. A young woman next to me is watching “Sex and the City” and come on, I have to watch. I instantly recognize it as the last one in the series because Carrie is cradling her broken necklace at the front desk of her Parisian hotel. Big is about to walk in.

My mind is churning. I love and hate Big simultaneously. I know what it feels like to have a guy care, not do anything about it, but never really go away either. He stakes no claim, but checks in every so often and changes the subject whenever I bring up my dating life or sex life. Big. Grrrrr. And yet, he tells Carrie she’s the one and I get teary. I don’t even have the audio and I’m all emotional.

Now Pink is coming through my earphones. Yeah, man. She’s still a rock star. She’s got her rock moves. Don’t mess. And now Harry is telling Charlotte they’re getting a Chinese baby and he shows her a picture of a gorgeous little girl. Charlotte cries and I’m teary again.

I take off one earphone and motion to the woman next to me. She looks at me quizzically and I tell her I’m all teary when I can’t even hear what she’s watching. She smiles and says, “I know. Me, too.”

We go back to our elliptical worlds. I finish up and head toward the locker room, but not before one of my gym buddies stops me. He’s a married guy who routinely tells me I’m hot and is clearly looking for some side action. I tell him I’m not interested. He pushes a bit. Really? ‘Cause as tempting as it is to hook up with a guy who’s breaking vows, wouldn’t spend a single holiday with me and hasn’t an ounce of interest in my intellect, I’m gonna pass.

Whew, another workout in the bag.

{ 0 comments }

← Previous Entries