Many years ago, as the director of a program for women starting over after a major life upheaval, I once organized a big shindig with some minor celebrities—a small group of women who had been married to Hollywood stars (men) who had left them for a newer model. Three of the gals were in Palm Beach County and I invited them to speak to our group of maybe 300 clients.

One of them was Patti Lewis, the other Cindi Landon, and I can’t remember the third, but Patti had a story to tell that had nothing to do with her ex, Jerry Lewis. The group had been speaking all over the country to women’s groups, often women who had been cast aside as had they, and whose self-esteem had admittedly taken a hit.

Patti told a story about a time in Las Vegas when, as luck would have it, she lost a crown on a front tooth the night before they were to go on. She said she moaned and cried and cursed and almost didn’t go. But she had an epiphany, not one that would embroider well on a pillow, but one that was universally true: “I am not my tooth.”

The worth of her, the sum total of her value to the world, did not rest on a missing front tooth. She mattered more than that. She kept her date with the audience, missing tooth and all. And, she used it.

My group, all happily willing to identify all their flaws, defining themselves by them even, got the message. As did I.

From that great example, I expanded on my truth and have tried, really tried, to keep it in mind as life has it’s way with my body, both through my overindulgences and surgeries and general wear and tear.

And here is my point:

Our bodies are not our selves, in spite of evidence to the contrary.

Our bodies are the package, the vessel, that carries our Self into and through the journey of this particular life on this particular planet at this particular time. You didn’t choose your package; it chose you. And then it did its job. You? You are the gift inside the package.

Some would prefer to use the term soul. Fine. I’m more attached the essence of who I am—my energy, perhaps—my spark, or my creative urge. Maybe even just my personality. That personality has in some ways changed over the years and in others it is still the same as when I was first aware.

If you get down on yourself for gained weight or wrinkles or sagging skin, or aching joints, stop, and maybe just be grateful that your package has taken you this far. Say thank you.

I drove to the mountains with a long-time girlfriend. Took us seven plus hours from here, through what seems to be the longest state in the US, Georgia. We visited some mutual friends in Highlands, North Carolina, a posh little town with sweet little shops filled with mostly expensive things, lovely restaurants, and beautiful people. Highlands is one of the highest towns east of the Mississippi River, with an elevation at 4,118 feet. It’s also located in one of the few temperate rainforests in North America. It rains a lot in the summer, and there’s nothing more relaxing than swaying slowly on a bench swing listening to the gentle drops of rain on the mountain laurel. Pondering on that deck of our friends’ three-bedroom log cabin was divine.

I’ve known all of these people for more decades than I care to admit, and even though we’ve all grown into our own unique personalities, history holds us in one another’s grip—shared memories are often the topic of conversation. It doesn’t hurt that we’ve all come to similar opinions about ‘left’ and ‘right’ political theories. We are in agreement that A) We’re much more afraid of fascist ideals than socialist ones, and B) We can’t wrap our heads around anti-vaxing. We all lived through polio and knew people who spent months in an iron lung or ended up walking with braces—like FDR—for the rest of their lives. Aside from confirming one another’s biases, we played cards—who does that anymore?—and enjoyed eating great food, both home cooked and restaurant offerings.

The weather stayed under eighty degrees in the daytime and hovered around mid-sixties at night. No wonder people with the means to do so come here—some to spend the summer and some for brief stays like our one-week visit. It was hard to leave to come back to our lives in Northwest Florida, where the heat and humidity are stifling, forcing us to stay indoors in the air-conditioning.

I don’t know about my friend Jean, but I came home happy. I think I’d been walking around with some resentment, which I knew wasn’t good for me, some underlying anger at my husband’s disability. I wasn’t consciously angry at him per se, but I had this grim set to my mouth, and there was a heaviness about my psyche I couldn’t explain any other way than to say I was resenting his limitations and the need to ‘take up the slack.’ I’m being brutally honest here; isn’t that what blogs are for? Anyway, I feel lighter and more agreeable, and even more grateful for small and large things. That’s one thing that has occupied my mind.

But there’s another.

While wandering around in Highlands, I noticed how friendly people were, how quick to converse with strangers. Admittedly, such strangers looked a lot alike—all well-heeled, nicely dressed folks, some with dogs on leashes and some with adorable children, and, of course, all white. I have to say, I too chatted happily with people I didn’t know. I joked with a man in the grocery store about taking his four cute kids off his hands, and I commiserated with a mom standing in line to put her name down for lunch. She was wearing her mask and explained that she was fully vaccinated but worried about taking something to her two kids. I got it and I said so. I was ordering three iced teas to go, and she even tried to pay for them, but the cashier was too quick for her. Nicest lady.

Why do I mention this? Well, at some level I felt a betrayal of my egalitarian value system. I knew these nice, smiling people were all rich (I’m not, so much, but I have been quite comfortable in the past, and I put on a good show). I was pretty sure that they wouldn’t be so quick to dish with each other in a different setting—one where there was a diverse crowd and they weren’t so sure of their place in the pecking order. Even if they supported Black Lives Matter. Even if they voted for Biden and were appalled by Trump. I’m not sure of the division of Republican to Democrat, seeing as how most Rs are likely to be wealthy, but I had to imagine that these nice people were also not haters. I wanted to believe that anyway.

My comfort among these folks left me feeling a little like a phony—or at least not exactly loyal to my code of inclusion. But, I’ve been prickly way too often in situations like that, and it annoys people who are just trying to have a good time. I could have brought it to my compatriot’s attention that if a busload of less-privileged citizens dumped itself out onto the Highlands Square, the mood might have dampened some. But I didn’t. I kept my observations to myself—at least then. I’m sharing them with you and hoping for feedback.

Nobody ever ‘talks’ to me through this blog; maybe I’m not set up correctly; maybe I just bore readers (all three of them). But if anyone reading this has anything to share on the topic—or any topic—I’m open to conversation.