Photo by Elisabeth Sophia Fuchs, Vienna, Austria

Being overly sensitive to how people judge us isn’t always a sign of low self-esteem; confident women also worry about how other’s view them. We are supposed to be perfect so we work hard to maintain this status. As a successful high-achiever, I have had to learn to take risks, love myself even when I make mistakes, and appreciate my aging body.

I learned my greatest lesson in loving myself in my first improvisational acting class. I attended a week-long camp in the woods in New York. I fumbled and mumbled through every scene and hid out from my fellow campers in the evening. I knew I looked stupid and couldn’t wait to get home.

Then I met Carol Fox Prescott. After begrudgingly performing a short song and dance on stage, she blocked my retreat and told me to repeat the performance. I did. She made me do it again. I did. She said, “Until you arouse every man in this room, you can’t leave this stage.” I saw myself as a corporate trainer and keynote speaker, not a sex object. I was instructional and motivating, not seductive. She made me perform again. And again. The angrier I got, the more I belted out my song and thrusted my big butt and hips around the stage. 

After the ninth rendition, everyone cheered, hooted and whistled. I fell to the floor in tears. Carol took my hand and said, “You have disconnected from your sexuality. Until you find this beautiful part of yourself and share it with the world, you will never fully connect with your audience or anyone else in your life.” I knew in my soul that she was right.

Carol brought me back in touch with the silly, sexy, loving woman that I had lost contact with in all my years of being the perfect achiever. While trying to be the perfect performer, I was not being authentic. Now, being perfectly authentic became my goal, a nobler aspiration than trying to look and act with precision.

Another acting coach Gary Austin told me, “It’s none of your business what people think of you.” He says your business is to give 100% to what you are trying to accomplish. “For every moment you give to thinking about how someone is judging you, you are detracting from your best performance. Quit worrying about what people are thinking and you will perform so well that their opinions of you won’t matter.” Gary helped me to see the pleasure in giving 100% and that people love my messy, silly, imperfect self even more than the “confident high-achiever” self I tried so hard to uphold. I may not sing and dance on stage, but I laugh whole-heartedly with my audience and even at myself.

*If you want to know about how the brain works, check out Outsmart Your Brain: How to Make Success Feel Easy by Marcia Reynolds on Amazon or http://www.outsmartyourbrain.com/.

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Summer nights are quite balmy here in Marin. The upcoming Indian summer promises to be a warpath of high temps and scalding sunshine. After being a fog friendly San Francisco Girl these past 25 years – I’m adjusting to the new climate and dramatic wardrobe differences. Even my sleeping attire has changed.

I’d forsaken my classic uniform: the flannel Lanz nightie months ago – and have been on a quest for the coolest (every pun intended) sleeping attire. From gowns, loungewear, men’s-style cotton pajamas to my birthday suit. I’ve been hot on the trail of locating the perfect sleepwear.

Baby doll pajamas were the rage in high school – and oh, baby, I am no longer that ‘doll’. Next. I don’t have enough foot traffic and company to warrant the purchase of a luxurious Peignoir set and as far as I’m concerned, Victoria can’t keep a Secret. Next.

I was recently at that popular chain of French Dept Stores: Target.  I was hoping to economically replace the very cool $70.00 Hobie sunglasses I’d lost, for a stylish $10.00 pair of sunglasses and I could lose and not care about.

While strolling the aisles I happened to notice men’s, colored T-shirts: “greatly reduced”. Aha! A sleeping shirt! And a major bargain…I found an XL Kelly green shirt for a mere $1.98. What a deal!

Then I wandered by the vast Lingerie department.  I perused the voluptuous racks of sleeping attire. I felt like Goldilocks – this one’s too hot; this one too small; this one too gaudy- what were they thinking?  And, then I spied a nightie that was just right! It was a stunning leopard print, spaghetti straps, shortie, nightie – which might double as a cocktail dress, (perhaps worn over black cigarette pants, heels, dangling earrings).

For $16.00

Whimsically, I bought it. What the heck? I could always return it.

When I got home, I tried it on. Whoa – good nightie!

Have you ever looked in the mirror – and been so impressed with what you saw, you thought:  “Where’s the party? I need to be seen.”  Me, either – but, that’s exactly what crossed my mind.

Later that night, I put on the soft, green T-shirt and I realized I looked like a big shamrock. I pulled off the ‘tent’ and put on my sexy, pretty, leopard print and decided: Life is short. You can look like a schlump when you’re 90.  Now is the time to be sexy, fun, and cool.

Give me your tired, your poor ol nightgowns,
Your flannel, your muu muus, your T-shirts galore
The wretched refuse of your dresser drawer
Send these, the tawdry, and the tasteless to St Anthony.
I lift my glass beside the boudoir door

~ Page Larkin

Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

~ Emma Lazarus

Page Larkin, San Francisco columnist for the Examiner.com, writes about Life in the Faust Lane: Dating at 50. A devotee of the thinking of Mae West, she concurs, “To err is human, but it feels divine”. See Larkin on Facebook and http://suddenlysingleminded.wordpress.com

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Today the world told me to let up a little, to not push so hard at doing. I ask myself, “What is rest?” And I must say he’s a poor acquaintance, and often unwelcome at my door.

Today the world told me that perhaps what I wish for is something not so big. A little loosening around the waist and eyes could be good, to let in a little more seeing and a little less thinking.

Today the world told me that a runny nose can be a good thing. I’m moist, liquid, made of moving matter.

A woman client said to me, “I love my baby. I have a good husband, two dogs and a wine cellar full of Beaulieu and Chardonnay and that it is enough.”

My Aunt Rosie keeps in her wallet a 70 year-old photo of her standing slim and proud, her hand on an old Chevy, her head cocked slightly to one side. “See,” she says, “See, I was once thin and beautiful.”

She has never learned to cook, or drive. People magazine is her Bible and everyday the thing she looks forward to is her next meal my Nana makes faithfully, every day. And I wonder, how do we judge a life? The past, the present, the future. What matters most as we sit down to yet another meal?

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I was talking to a colleague who I respect. We were chatting away and suddenly his head turned and locked. Silence. He became mesmerized. No, his brain froze or fried on the spot when a tall woman wearing a tight bright top revealing the exact shape of her breasts began to dance. Her pants hung so low you could almost glimpse her betty.

I thought about snapping my fingers, waving my hand in front of his face, or just walking away. I doubt he would have noticed. Then I realized I was mad. And jealous.

I was mad because I wasn’t commanding his attention with my presence. Sure, I could have yanked down my top so the effectiveness of my push-up bra could be revealed. I could have danced seductively too. But that’s not me. I want to be taken seriously — as a woman, I want to be listened to, cherished, not gawked at.

It’s not that I don’t recognize the power of skin. I just choose not to use it. Years ago, a friend told me that while she was talking to a man she liked she hiked her shorts up a bit so he could get a better look at her legs. This idea was so foreign to me at the time I couldn’t even imagine doing such a thing.

All my life my mother insisted I buy loose clothes to hide my ample ass. It didn’t work. The entire African American male population frequently commented on my “booty.” Some said that I must have Hottentot in my Caucasian ancestry.

Since then I’ve experimented a bit more showing a hint of cleavage, some thigh, clingy pants, but I wouldn’t want the general public to know if I had a Brazilian. Perhaps I’m alone on this. I always thought that a good present gave the most pleasure when it was beautifully wrapped.

Follow Susan Harrow on Twitter: www.twitter.com/soundbitesiren

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