Natalie Whatley

Because I visit the salon chair of Mrs. Sharon Saenz on a very regular basis to keep my tresses not the shade nature is intending, I couldn’t ignore the onslaught of recent articles extolling the wisdom, virtue, and current fashion savvy associated with gray hair.

Bear with me for a moment as I delve into a bit of cliché. Apparently, gray is the new black. But since we’re talking hair color, what I’ve been led to believe is that gray is the new blonde. Maybe some of you who have done both can report which was more fun.

I’ve been fighting my hair’s natural progression of fine textured, dark-honey brown to wiry, dead-rat gray for just over a decade. I could get excited over the change if what my hair was morphing into wasn’t so . . .  well, there’s no other word I can find to describe it besides hideous. You know I would never exaggerate.  

It appears that a metallic head is now a fashion must-have. For the first time — ever — I find myself able to be on the leading edge of a trend and could sport my au naturel self while claiming to be the pinnacle of sophistication and style. But I don’t really want to go there. I’m caught between a bottle of hair dye and showing my true colors.

In the name of liberating those who color their gray, proponents of this movement claim dyeing is a disturbing addiction that robs untold numbers of money and time as they chase youth and shun reality.  What do I know? I just bought a red sports car and it is has already taken me to a hair-color appointment.  

The fad is so white-hot that younger people who haven’t sprouted any gray yet are intentionally causing their hair to take that hue. Pardon me, but it just doesn’t look right. Spooky comes to mind. Plus, it tricks our senses into thinking someone is more mature and sensible than they really are. Life experience is a much slower process than apply, let sit for thirty minutes, and rinse.

In the end, I stumbled across a little tidbit that caused the whole tangle to make perfect sense: The fashion industry is reeling from the economy. High-end designers are now in the position of having to be more relatable to the consumer. Simply stated, they’re desperate.

Gray-haired, “mature” (and GASP! “curvy”) models were spotted on the runways in New York, London, Paris, and Milan in April. “Mature” women, bent on making better spending decisions, will not risk on what may not be suited to them. It’s sort of a shame it took such drastic measures for this change to occur.

So, my new black as I deal with gray in a way that suits me will be to see the silver lining of making it far enough for gray hair to be an issue and for not having much bigger things to worry over at present.  And if genetics are an indicator, I’ll have some pretty, silvery-white white hair in about twenty years.

Until then, I must pass through this awful in-between stage. No matter what color my locks carry, I’ll try to be as authentic as I possibly can. And when I’ve earned the degree of wisdom, virtuosity, and style savvy to sport the silver medal of self acceptance, I will wear it proudly . . . just not today.

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

This past week was one crazy and contradictory journey. It saw me through a road trip I’d fantasized about for quite some time. But much to my surprise, when the light turned green I had a difficult time placing my foot on the accelerator.

Twelve short years ago, while three months pregnant and wrangling two boys ages five and two, I met Blue. It was love at first sight.

He was a brand-new, 1999 Chevrolet Suburban with all the seating and room my growing family would ever need – the quintessential mommy-mobile. (Some hold minivans in such esteem, but for reasons I can’t quite explain, I refused to go there. They’re just not me, but if you love yours, I respect that.)

Blue carried us home that day, and a long committed relationship began. Over the years he’s been present and provided reliable transportation for many major milestones: took all three of my children to their first days of kindergarten, brought home baby number three from the hospital, carried us safely to Florida for a Disney family vacation  . . . the list goes on and on.

Of course it’s easy to remember the big events, but what I appreciate the most about Blue was how he was always there for me day in, day out. There were hundreds of trips to the grocery store, school outings, doctor appointments, containing and transporting treasures I found during the course of my days; he safely delivered me and my cargo to every place we needed to be – even when there was no particular destination save for a needed clearing of the mind.

But life has a way of changing and I now find myself in a much different place. Today I’m feeling blue because my Blue is out in the driveway with “For Sale” painted on his large windows. I can hardly bear it.

Research has been done – some scientifically formal and some pure quackery – on the theory of “you are what you drive”. I read a good deal of it, and can say that Blue absolutely personified me and where I was in life for many years.  As you all know, I’m in a far different place now and so is Blue.

I won’t come right out and tell you what has taken Blue’s place, but she’s red, sleek, has a sun roof, and dare I say, a “Kathunka-boomer” stereo. (Thanks to my fellow columnist, Chris Buckner, for providing me with that term. In honor of you, Chris, I’ll turn it down whilst fueling. I’m classy that way.) You should read what the “you are what you drive” research says about all that. Because I like to remain mysterious, I won’t confirm or deny its validity.     

I’ve already admitted to being somewhat in a midlife-crisis sort of place, so I’m taking all the comments along those lines in stride. Plus, I know that while “crisis” often has a negative feel, it can go the opposite direction and simply be a turning point. For certain, my traveling companions can attest to some sharp turns and being jostled about without warning.

Thanks for all the rides, Blue, and for your gentle way of tempering my spirited flares. I’ll keep those lessons in mind when Red throws too much fuel on the fire.

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

Finally, all the craziness that was the start of my summer is over. Don’t get me wrong, it was all enjoyable in a this-is-the-good-stuff-life-is-made-of way, but rather exhausting. 

I almost hate to publicize this because surely someone will try to find me something to do, but I’ve reached the time of year where I briefly come into an abundance of free time.  Don’t hate me because my time is bountiful.

Not to worry, I know time is precious, and I shall not fritter it away. I’ll spend hours, maybe days deep in the scientific pursuits of nephelococcygia.

If I’m pronouncing it right, sounds something like na-fell-a-cox-a-gee-ya. There’s a high likelihood I don’t have that correct, but I ask that you give me credit for studying such lofty ideas while I could be lying around doing nothing.

It sounds rather complicated; I assure you it’s not.  It can be done almost anywhere, but it is easier during daylight hours.

My favorite place to conduct research is resting on the sandy shores of some body of water. No one else in my family enjoys such pursuits, so I often settle for the lush green grass in my personal backyard.  Said family knows interrupting me carries a stiff penalty. Do not disturb; I will bare teeth and growl.

I’m sure it comes as no surprise that I can be a bit of a dreamer.  Decades of practice have honed skills that allow me to do it eyes wide open and while others suppose I’m doing something productive. (Let’s keep that between us, please. I can’t have everyone knowing my mind isn’t always where they think it is.) But then there are times I make it known that daydreaming is exactly what I’m doing and there’s no better way than nephelococcygia: the act of seeing and finding shapes in the clouds.

If you really want to get involved, there’s even a group you can join: The Cloud Appreciation Society. I kid you not. Look them up.

My favorite type of cloud varies depending on the time of day, but overall the cumulus – those big puffy ones that pile up – are the best for my purposes. Burdens remain grounded as my eyes swim through a pool of blue sunshine, arriving at the exact moment a castle morphs to a butterfly and flutters away.

Wispy brushstrokes of cirrus clouds paint breathtaking sunsets, and who doesn’t feel good about the day to come when stratus clouds create an early morning stairway straight to wide-open possibilities.   

So much of life requires me to be planted in terra firma. I’m so much better at dealing with that reality after walking with my head in the clouds. So if you see me still, eyes pointed upward, leave me be. I’m up on cloud nine. And when I’m enjoying that soft, fluffy place I conjure up guard dogs with sharp teeth to keep intruders at bay. I can’t promise they’ll stop at a growl . . . their owner’s judgment may be a little clouded.

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

“Hurry! Hurry! Hurry!  Get your tickets here!  Step right up and enjoy the show!”

Legal disclaimer: Unlike the Ringling Brothers, I cannot guarantee to wow and amaze or even provide “The Greatest Show on Earth”. The price of admission: a few minutes of your time. Sorry, unable to give refunds.  

After admitting I was in a similar predicament as Buridan’s indecisive donkey — dying of starvation and thirst while standing between a pail of water and a haystack — I got a phone call from the wise Gladys “Granny” Adcox of Highlands. I open my ears wide when she speaks because at ninety-four years young she has heard, seen, and practically lived through it all. I count myself lucky to know her.  

“Popcorn! Get your fresh popcorn!”

A sympathetic Granny accurately diagnosed my ailment — the midlife blahs — and offered counsel that gave me great hope: This too shall pass. It may take every bit of ten years to find the exit door, but leave it will. Having something to look forward to is nice.

Her words were such relief. The pressure to completely revamp my life post the-most-labor-intensive-child-rearing years has caused me considerable mental anguish.

“Soda! Ice cold soda, here!”

 The phrase “get a life” sounds simple enough to execute, but I’m not known for taking the easiest route anywhere. Stubborn or just not the brightest bulb? Feel free to reach your own conclusion. No offense will be taken either way.

Trying to figure out the next ten years as opposed to the rest of my life (hypothetically speaking, of course – I don’t forget for one second that there’s no guarantee of a tomorrow) feels so much more like the living in the moment I’m striving to reach.

“Peanuts! Hot roasted peanuts!”

After much reading, deliberation, and a mindset bent on lighting the endless circle of blahs into a ring of fire to somersault through, I have decided to join the circus.

World travel, nomadic life, and glitzy costumes can all be mine. I won’t have to answer to anyone except the audience. Who wouldn’t like to stand before a cheering crowd begging for an encore? My stomach and heart flutter just thinking about it.

“Get your swirling light sticks! Twelve dollars!”

At the bare minimum, I could feed the animals. They would appreciate it and look forward to seeing me. In the other extreme, I have years of experience as a ring leader. Those who can only run three rings have nothing on me, and I can crack a whip like nobody’s business.

As a mom, I’ve been contorting and walking a high wire while performing acrobatics for years. No wonder I’m feeling like I’ve been fired from a cannon.

Many days, life under the bog top sounds sweet, but of course I’m clowning around. A girl can dream. A hormonal woman stuck in midlife knows her best shot at circus employment probably involves being the side-show bearded woman.   

“Cotton candy!”

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

Other human beings frequently make me aware of my weaknesses and cause me to see areas where I need enrichment. During a riveting conversation this past week with a friend and mentor, I realized that I needed to acquire a new skill: mind reading. I couldn’t help but think that being adept in telepathy could make all areas of life easier, or would it?

Did you know that some scientists claim they are on the trail to real mind reading through PET scans and MRI’s? Such tools combined with complicated methods of computation make it possible to identify how and where the brain stores our intentions. Yep, researchers could see what a person would do (mentally speaking) before they did it. Fascinating and scary all at the same time.   

Through a little impromptu training I learned that as a highly intuitive person (it comes standard with the introvert package of which I am fully equipped) I can already glean a little more than the standard human. (Maybe another day I’ll tell you how I sometimes wish I could turn that radar off – being in a crowded room can be exhausting for me. I notice everything.)

While some find parapsychology offensive— akin to dabbling in dark science or mysticism— I am intrigued. But I’ve never so much as played with a Ouija Board. Merely hearing about others’ experiences gives me the creeps. Besides, religious leaders and parapsychologists alike have many tales of those things dredging up demons. Uh, no thanks. I have enough of my own to battle without calling in extras. But I digress.

I promise I didn’t veer off into weird things; I just need to be able to read minds. Seriously. And some people in my life seem rooted in the knowledge that I already know how. I grow weary trying to hit a moving target, and I know I make people squirm with my probing questions. So, let’s just cut out the middle man here and let me use my new-found skills to get straight to your thoughts.

It’s working already. I hear you. “No way, sister! My thoughts are my own!” Please don’t go all George Orwell on me. I won’t use it in nefarious ways and should we ever be subject to the Thought Police, I promise not to turn you in.

Wow. That’s some scary, mixed-up stuff. I really didn’t want to know about . . . Your neighbor did that? Tell your wife you hate that casserole she’s been making for 22 years. I’m sorry you hated my grocery store column; I was having a bad week. Things are getting all jumbled up . . . Somebody’s husband is seriously grating on her nerves with . . . Whew! That’s enough.   

My head hurts. I’m putting on my tin-foil hat to scramble the incoming signal until I figure out how to turn this off.

I’ll stick to reading between the lines. I can control what my conjecture defines.

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

American essayist, poet, and philosopher Henry David Thoreau wrote the following over 150 years ago: “Why should we be in such desperate haste to succeed, and in such desperate enterprises. If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away.”  Sounds like my kind of guy. Also makes me think that while our environment changes, the human condition does not.

The drummer I’m hearing these days — I’m certain some of you are hearing it, too — is tapping out a slow, rhythmic emergence – a cadence with crescendo leading us to (drum roll) . . . April. My favorite month.

And desperation as mentioned by Thoreau pretty accurately describes how much I was ready for the colorless, dreary days of winter to be over. I’ve been laughed at and told by Yankee friends that I’m a weenie and could never handle a “real” winter. I suppose they’re right. But I also remind them that they couldn’t handle a “real” summer.

March has been described as a time when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold. That sounds about right. I wish I could figure out a way to bottle the gentle warmth and cool breeze of this time of year for both the scorching, drippy days of our summers and the icky (I challenge you to find a better meteorological term) damp, frigid (it’s relative – below 50 degrees qualifies in my book) yuckiness that defines a Southern winter.

 But then again, the vibrancy of spring is probably more enjoyable simply because it is fleeting. To have it available at my whim would ruin the whole concept, I’m sure. Plus, I read somewhere that I should be interested in the changing of the seasons as it will make me happier than being infatuated with spring alone. I can’t help it, though. My eyes see it all in Technicolor, and it does appear more attractive than the others.

As I walk outdoors, I can hear the popping, the bursting, the chirping, the struggle of rebirth, the fluttering, and, yes, the quiet dusting of pollen particles floating through the air. It all comprises what ends up being my heart singing its own little concerto of awakening.

So, if I seem a little off tempo with the rest of the world, know that I try to march with others, but invariably end up out of step as I revel in the wonder of what will unfold along with new blooms. I know it sometimes makes me appear mad as a March hare, but I prefer calling it spring fever. And you won’t find me looking for a cure. I rather enjoy the frenzied pulse – creates a catchy tune. Marching to the beat of a different drummer – there’s nothing further from desperation and nothing closer to the boldness of enterprise.

My yard looks awful. Most of the plant life is crunchy, dull brown, and decaying. The only things lush and green are the unsightly weeds that somehow survived the hard freeze.  It’s an embarrassment given the “Yard of the Month” sign has graced the plot of land in previous years.

My personal yard man, Jeff, gathered all my potted favorites prior to the cold-weather event and put them in the shed. The one I most wanted to save (received it at the hospital after the birth of my now 17-year-old) fared quite well, but all of the others, not so much. I’m hoping to nurse them back to health.

The flowerbeds went uncovered as the major occupants are freeze-hardy, and the lesser inhabitants, well, I’ve wanted to dig them out and do something different for a good while.  It seemed harsh ripping up live plants while they still served their purpose, even if they were no longer what I desired. In a cruel act, I allowed them freeze to death. Until very recently, I busied myself to assuage the guilt and turned my eyes from the carnage upon entering and exiting my home.

Since February is knocking on our door, I began my customary early-spring cleaning. (We only get so much sunshine minus the sweltering heat. I’ll not waste one minute of it cooped up indoors once spring has officially sprung.) Worked like a mad woman inside, cleaning this, scrubbing that, gathering up items and clothing no longer wanted or needed, etc.  Long, boring story short, and since I refuse to clean kids’ rooms, I finished with time to spare.

A couple of nice sunshine-filled days prompted Scooter (my guard dog) and I to begin working in the yard – assessing what needed to be done by the resident yard man. (I should mention that Jeff LOVES for me to do this. He more appreciates it when I prepare a written list where he can check items off and track his progress. It’s the least I can do.)

The nice weather also provided me an excuse to stay outside post assessment and actually do some work. I pulled up the victims of my premeditated herbicide and began plucking the weed-infested areas.

True to my form, I started thinking of the parallels between the human condition and nature. (Yes, it’s sometimes exhausting being inside my head. Planning to spend some time thinking about whether or not I overthink things. ) Anyway, it occurred to me that over the course of many years I’ve blown a few of my own arctic blasts – froze a few things and left them to rot.

Through a great deal of reflection and a subsequent thaw, I realized that I had turned my back, chose not help those things recover, or bother to clear away the weeds that nearly choked them out for good.  My flowerbeds have been sprinkled with my blood and sweat on numerous occasions.  I can now add tears to the list.

The upside: as I care for my still-alive plants, I realize that a hard freeze doesn’t necessarily mean the end. Pruning away damage and providing tender loving care makes way for something fresh, new, and possibly better than what was there before. And since I remember how quickly I frosted a few things, I have the added comfort of knowing that rapid freeze-drying actually prevents decay and spoilage – what’s underneath has been perfectly preserved.

So don’t be alarmed if you see a woman watering flowers with tears on a sunny day, she’s pouring out her heart and melting some frosty layers away.

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

I recently read A.J. Jacobs’ The Guinea Pig Diaries: My Life as an Experiment, where A.J. makes himself a human guinea pig in “radical lifestyle experiments”. I think he’s on to something. I’m intrigued to the point of wanting to conduct a few experiments of my own.

The title and author, whose other books I’m currently reading, came to my attention during the last Starbooks at Starbucks presentation by Sterling Municipal Library’s Jamie Eustace. Check the library for availability of the book and future Starbooks dates.

A.J.’s intentional shenanigans include posing as a beautiful single woman (he’s a married man) on an online dating service (that should serve as a warning) and following the teachings of the Radical Honesty Movement’s guru, Dr. Brad Blanton.  He lives through each of these little slices of life—among others—for a month and gives hysterically poignant accounts of his findings.  If you enjoy the nonfiction/humor genre – one of my personal favorites as it provides the best medicine, laughter – I highly recommend it.

It was fitting that The Guinea Pig Diaries and the idea of experimenting with life came to me as 2009 drew to a close. I was in a period of intense introspection and was already thinking of trying on a few radical changes. Why not? There are plenty of days when I get the feeling I’m a lab rat – the subject of scientific study on the pliability of the human soul. Any loud “SNAP!” you hear coming from my direction, will be indicative of my personal study’s conclusion if not my demise. Rest assured science will go on as specimens living with teens are in plentiful supply.

For longer than I care to admit, I’ve been scurrying around the bottom of a beaker. (No trying to bust a glass ceiling here – just glass walls, mostly of my own construction.) Some days I felt the Bunsen burner was on its highest setting; I reached melting point and came close to boiling before the gas supply was exhausted. I won’t be refueling that particular device, but must find another source of heat or risk having the contents of my beaker reach freezing point. Science is complicated.

In the spirit of the new year, I’ll be donning a white lab coat and goggles. Please join me with some of your own ventures and tell me all about them. We only get one ride through this thing we call life. Who knows what I’ll put myself and my family through, but it sounds fun.

For all the things that don’t prove to be too embarrassing, I’ll give an account of my findings here, lab-report style – complete with hypothesis, method (to my madness), supplies (this could get funny) and results.  Goodness, just expecting a little unexpected is exciting.

Since it may be impossible to remain objective and avoid skewing data in the roles of scientist and subject, I might ask for outside input from unbiased parties. You’ll know you appear a reliable soul if I walk up and ask you to participate.

Gosh this is going to be fun – sort of like going to the high-school-chemistry lab knowing the potential exists for a spectacular explosion. Happy New Year! It’s going to be a blast!

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

Imagine if you will a strobe-lit room filled with balloons, streamers, and me throwing confetti above my head. Today marks a special day for me, and I decided to throw myself a little party. Welcome to episode 100 of my column! (I realize 100 is a mere drop in the column-writing bucket, but I wasn’t sure I’d make it this far.) Incidentally, my little celebration is a twofer as I’ll also be observing my very last birthday on Monday. I’m turning 39.

I’ve decided to stop there, because, well, the thought of admitting I’m 40 makes me cringe. I’ve got a year to make peace with it, so I guess I better get busy and seek professional help now.  

I keep hearing that 40 is the new 30, or even the new 20. Yeah, right. I suppose if one’s a multi-gazillionaire and has access to all the latest-and -greatest treatments and procedures, plus on-staff nutritionists, personal trainers, stylists . . . For the rest of us, 40 is 40. Sigh. I haven’t heard the song “Landslide” in quite some time, but for some reason it just popped in my head. And I prefer the Stevie Nicks version:

                Can the child within my heart rise above?

                Can I sail thru changing ocean tides?

                Can I handle the seasons of my life?

                Well I’ve been ‘fraid of changing ‘cause I

                Built my life around you

                But time makes you bolder

                Children get older, I’m getting older too

 As far as I can tell, I’m not buried under a large mass of earth that has fallen down a steep slope, so just maybe this phase in my life will be an overwhelming victory. Only time will tell. Stinks to be impatient.

It seems like just yesterday I was introducing my column and inviting you all along on the ride that’s shaping up to be my midlife crisis, uh, I mean journey to rediscover the parts of me that took the backseat to motherhood.

Putting aspirations on hold – at least temporarily – was a conscious and necessary decision given the particulars of my family. Then I found out like many before me that despite educating myself on the finer points of parenthood and giving it most of what I had, the whole business is a risky, uncertain venture riddled with variables that cannot be controlled.  

Those “variables” are going to force me to ratchet up my maintenance if I’m going to remain 39. Heck, who am I kidding? There’s already too much wear-and-tear.  I might have to revise my plan. Plus, I had some goals I wanted to reach by 40, and it looks like I may need a little extra time.

On second thought, I don’t think I want to be stuck at any age. Through hard-earned wisdom I’ve learned there are some points (possibly years) in life, where it’s desirable to move through a phase quickly. Not that I’m wishing away a single minute. I need to live through it all . . . that should provide at least another 100 columns.   

Thanks for celebrating with me, and for reading. I couldn’t have done it without you letting me know I’m not alone in struggling with the “variables”.

© 2009 Natalie Whatley

Now that Thanksgiving is over, let the hustle and bustle begin! In recent years, retailers forced us into Christmas mode the day after Halloween; some sneaky ones started before that. I fell prey to such tactics and in years past gloated over having shopping completed by this point. I wish I could get back in that pattern because having that task out of the way cleared my mind and calendar for appointments with joyful and triumphant. For some, desiring the company of those two is, “no appointment necessary” – if only I could be so spontaneous.

Part of the problem: I’m just not that into the holidays any more. Sad, but true. It’s all become over-the-top and too much for my enjoys-peace-and-quiet, introverted self. Cindy Lou Who, of “The Grinch Who Stole Christmas”, summed it up quite nicely when she told her father, “It’s just that I look around at everyone getting all kerbobbled. Doesn’t this seem superfluous?” I’ll say it for you, “Bah humbug!” It’s just that I’d rather make a special day over something unimportant to the rest of the world than participate in mass festivities; I’m a bit of a rebel that way.

To get through the season with a socially acceptable level of style and grace, I employ a multitude of coping strategies. All the usual suspects are used: exercise (I’m convinced the mental health benefits far outweigh the physical), eating healthily, taking vitamins, getting adequate amounts of sleep, drinking plenty of water,  not overloading the calendar, beating my head against the wall while mumbling incoherently . . .

This year, I researched additional prospective tactics to add to the tool chest as I found myself stressed long before the holidays arrived. An article on the Mayo Clinic website suggests “being realistic and planning ahead”.  Shoot, there’s another problem: I’m steeping in realism, and “planning ahead” (laugh). I try, but with four other people, a dog, a cat, 2 hamsters, 3 automobiles, and a home, the monkey-wrench possibilities are endless. 

Another interesting pointer came to me via e-mail from Dr. Oz’s Real Age Newsletter and caused me to welcome a germ into my world with open arms. Supposedly, I can introduce the inner embryo of the wheat kernel to my oatmeal and it will make me feel less stressed.

Wheat germ contains the phytonutrient octacosanol, which is known to help increase physical endurance and improve the body’s ability to handle stress. From the virtues extolled, one could sprinkle this stuff on just about anything – even glazed, fried-in-lard donuts – and make it healthy. OK, not really. But seriously, sprinkling is for stress sissies; open the jar and dump it down the old gullet. (Maybe have a glass of water handy. I haven’t tried it yet, but it looks pretty dry. And I would be remiss if I didn’t mention wheat germ is very high in fiber. How to put this politely? Well, if the bathroom isn’t a place of refuge, don’t follow the whole-jar advice.)

 It will all be over before we know it, and it’s coming regardless of whether or not the house is decorated and the “perfect” gifts are under the tree.  And I will enjoy numerous things, but I can guarantee not one of them will come with tags, my peace and joy always comes without packages, boxes, and bags!

© 2009 Natalie Whatley