Tag Archives: Sharon Nesbit-Davis

Mirror, Mirror…Do You See Me?

By Sharon Nesbit-Davis

My mother didn’t change the furniture in her house. Once placed it stayed until they moved out over forty years later. So when I visited with my children my bedroom was exactly as it was and I lifted them to look into my old mirror. They giggled at the distortion. I remembered that was the best part about it.

The wavy mirror had been my grandmother’s. It watched me grow-up. We spent hours together. A few times I stared until I had an out of body experience, but mostly I imagined. I imagined putting on makeup for a date. Getting dressed for my wedding and taking one last look at the little girl about to become a woman. I perfected acceptance speeches. I am prepared to win an Oscar for best actress and best director of the best picture, the Nobel Peace Prize for eliminating war, and reluctantly a Presidential nomination. “I am both stunned and honored you want me to be your next President.” I also mastered the Miss America wave.

None of those imagined things came true. By the time I was old enough to date I boycotted makeup. That had to do with animal testing and not knowing how to put it on without looking like my mother. By the time I married, I’m pretty sure I was already a woman. We had a hippy-style wedding in a park and I took a quick look in our VW Bug’s rear-view mirror. Very quick because we were over an hour late.  My dream of being in the movies took another route. Mimes rarely get respect and never win Oscars. Eliminating war was more complicated than I thought. Silly me. I didn’t realize it was such a big money maker. And no one should ever draft me to be President. For a few years I was Board President of a progressive private school. At my first meeting I asked everyone to get up and dance to “I Heard it Through the Grapevine”.  I discovered it’s hard to make people follow the leader. As for the princess wave it was never needed, but has been used. I’m not going to describe the circumstances.

If I had the skills I’d paint a picture and title it “Reflections on a Mirror”.  There would be the little girl me, looking at the grown me, holding my baby. The little girl me would smile with recognition as if she had a premonition this was going to be her life. She didn’t. She would have thought it boring to be married with children. She didn’t know what a mime was. She didn’t know that love for seasonal changes and a man would make her forget Hollywood dreams.

I don’t look in mirrors much now. The wavy one is packed in a box among possessions of my mother kept with no need or place for them. Mirrors are used functionally to remove spinach from teeth and snot from my nose and coat eyelashes with mascara. I buy the kind that states no animals suffered and hope it’s true.

If I take a moment and look, I don’t see me. This reflection doesn’t show what I’ve seen and done and think. It doesn’t show what I find hilarious and sad or that I can feel that way about the same thing simultaneously. It doesn’t show the grief of children lost and parents buried and cancer ridden friends or the splendid births of grandchildren or bits of memorized poems awakened by the site of an old woman’s smile or a little girl’s grave.

I wonder if others know what they see isn’t me. If they don’t I won’t be insulted. I probably don’t see them either.

Words © by Sharon Nesbit-Davis

Version of this was published on “Open Salon”

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Filed under "things we don't talk about", grandmother, growing up, mother, Sharon Nesbit-Davis, story

A Snap, then a Cackle and a Pop!

By Sharon Nesbit-Davis

I celebrated my fifth decade by performing a one-woman show entitled “Mime in Mental Pause.” I wasn’t there yet. But I was ready. Unrelenting pain, blood clots, and ruined panties were not fun, no matter how I adjusted my attitude. Sometimes the universe hears and is kind. Soon after my 50th birthday my periods diminished with barely a moan. I think it was the soy.

I do not regret being past child bearing age. I’m content to view it from afar…or close up when my daughter pops the babies out. I thought it would bother me to see her in pain, but it doesn’t. I might be slightly sadistic. Or just gloriously happy to have grandchildren. But not once did I wish to trade places.

With the perspective of a few years free of “Auntie Flow” there is something I miss. I miss the power of “PMS” (Pre Menstrual Sinfulness) I did not need to announce I had it. My husband was on the watch for it. There were times I cried easy and long and hard. When asked what was wrong my tongue jumped out and slapped him upside the head. Never mind what happened when he didn’t ask.

After I said we would all be dead in three days because I detected a shift in the earth’s orbit, so we didn’t need to renew the life insurance policy, my husband asked if my period was coming. I chastised his sexist remark and he apologized. Two days later I hid the tampon dispensers at the bottom of the trash. He caught me with a heating pad under the blanket. He’s a good man and never said “I told you so”, but he isn’t perfect. He smiled too much.

A couple years ago my daughter-in-law invited me to a women’s gathering. I was the only post menopausal woman there. The topic was our periods. We shared how we learned about it, our first one and embarrassing moments. The stories were funny and sad and what I expected until a young woman said she loved her periods. Really. Just loved them. She felt a oneness with all women. She meditated on this life giving essence and was thankful for her role. She felt creative and spirit filled during this time. She did not mask the pain. She welcomed it. Other women nodded. I laughed. A lot. Then told my stories of fainting and trips to emergency rooms and my gratitude to be done with them. They politely listened and exchanged glances I recognized from my youth, when I respected elders but knew they didn’t understand. And never would.

They were wrong. I do understand. What this woman expressed is the way it once was. Thinking about it almost made me want a “do over”, but only if I could have my own moon lodge.

In Native American tradition there was a special lodge for women when it was their moon time. Other women cared for their children and cooked for their husbands. They brought her favorite food, then circled the lodge and prayed for her. She was free from work, could rest, talk with the spirits and create. She returned with new songs and geometric designs and renewed energy. Western observers surmise the women were involuntarily isolated and considered unclean. It was never that. When asked the medicine men explain women have a “built in” purification process. Men put themselves through sacred ceremonies to attain what women have naturally. Women in their moon cycles do not participate in sacred ceremonies. Their power is too strong. It’s been known to send spirits running and crashing into things.

Without periods my life is balanced and calm. Maybe a little too calm. I miss not knowing what thoughts may scream their way past polite filters. Sometimes the power of that made me feel beautiful. I knew I wasn’t. I had mirrors. When pimples erupt on a middle aged face you don’t claim outer beauty. But there were moments I felt like a warrior woman. And she was magnificent. I wish I had honored her more, instead of reaching for the Pamprin®.

Of course there is still time. My warrior woman didn’t die with PMS. She morphed into Big Fat Mama: Post Menopausal Juicy Crone. No one knows what that means, but with a perfectly executed head snap, and a cackle then a pop from any number of bodily regions, it’s scary enough to have some fun.

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Filed under Menopause, menstruation, PMS, Post Menopausal, Sharon Nesbit-Davis, story