Natalie Whatley

As a self-professed first-born stick in the mud, I was recently surprised by deep feelings of intrigue over a new-to-me concept I would typically consider flighty. The artsy and more literary than me will no doubt be amused over my late bloomery. (The preceding is not an actual typo. Bloomery: a place in which malleable iron is produced from iron ore. I’m all about strength coupled with adaptability.)

Approaching four decades of life, my creative side began painfully birthing itself—much appreciation to those of you still holding my hand in the delivery room. Sadly, I’m known for long labors and ensuing surgical intervention. No, the baby hasn’t arrived.  Yes, professionals may be needed to intervene.

French essayist and poet Charles Baudelaire penned the following in “The Painter of Modern Life” (1863): “For the perfect flâneur, for the passionate spectator, it is an immense joy to set up house in the heart of the multitude, amid the ebb and flow of movement, in the midst of the fugitive and the infinite. To be away from home and yet to feel oneself everywhere at home; to see the world, to be at the centre of the world, and yet to remain hidden from the world—such are a few of the slightest pleasures of those independent, passionate, impartial natures which the tongue can but clumsily define.”

First, I’m always amazed at how so much of “modern” stays the same through time. The environment changes; the human condition does not.

Second, wow.  For an introvert like me, observing is not a second-rate choice behind participating. Staying out of the scene while still in it inspires me. I’m a passionate observer. Among, yet alone. Just the way I like it—free to watch, to think, and enjoy all the nuances. And the perfect end to that is a good solid chunk of solitude to recharge my batteries.

Extroverts, energized by outside activity, find that bizarre if not bordering on mental illness. But in the words of the wise spinach-consuming Popeye, “I am what I am.”

There aren’t words to illustrate how great it was to find that I had been doing something my entire life that couldn’t be explained in my native tongue because there wasn’t an English word for it. That’s fitting because, well, most days what wanders through my mind is indescribable in a quirky, quite possibly boring-to-others kind of way.

English has no equivalent for flâneur, or the feminine flâneuse. The literal English translation is “idler or loafer”. That’s quite an insult and not at all Baudelaire’s “passionate spectator”.  

Now that I have a fancy, floral-sounding word I’m going to practice the art of flâneurie, or strolling about without aim, a little more. You can do it, too: give yourself open stretches of time, go somewhere new, assume the perspective of a child and see everything in a state of newness.

Enjoy being a flâneur or flâneuse and enjoy some late bloomery with me. And if we’re accused of “idling” or “loafing”  . . .  we’re blossoming!

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

Last week I announced physical fitness was moving to a higher spot on my priority list. I’m entering a phase of life where health must be attended to or the quality of said life will gradually decline.

I told all of you because I may need an added layer of incentive to stay on track: nothing like a few extra eyes to keep me motivated. Plus, you’re all welcome to join me.  And I realize I picked a rough time of year to start. I held my ground last year, so I’m looking to one up myself and actually see some improvements as I hit the other side of this holiday season.

My newest challenge: adding more muscle to my frame. (The men folk in my house are very afraid. Assurances have been made that it is not my goal to look as if I could lift a car.) It’s a proposition that’s going to tax me mentally and physically, but I’m up to the task.   

Research on long-term success has led me to adopt some basics of balance and common sense. Real life won’t allow me to do crazy drastic things, and I have no desire for this project to take over my life. Results will be slower that way, but if it’s doable I can do it forever.  And that brings me to the how of it all: proper nutrition and good old exercise. I’m a no frills kind of girl.

“Diets” and gimmicks don’t work. Instead of some complicated meal plan, I’ll be “eating clean”—most of the time. In a nutshell that means eliminating processed foods (man-made ingredients) and having everything that enters my mouth be as close to how it appears in nature as possible.  Pretty simple.  I’ll even build in “cheat” days because life totally devoid of junk food is bland. Funny thing is, though, once junk foods clear the system, cravings drastically diminish. I can vouch for that.    

On the exercise front, I’ll be replacing some running/walking with more muscle-building strength training. Working with weights has been a part of my routine for years, but in order to make muscle gains at this point I’ve got to crank up the intensity and force my body to work much harder. It sounds crazy, and I don’t like pain, but good things come to those who weight train. Rewards include an increased metabolism making the body a fat-burning machine capable of sustaining weight loss and there’s the not-so-minor detail of a much improved appearance.

And in line with my no-frills approach, a body-fat scale (very accurate ones are available in the $50 range), journal, and a mirror will help me track progress and determine what works.  

In the end consistency in nutrition and exercise are key. But it all starts with having a goal, getting excited about reaching it, and finding ways to balance the journey in the context of life. There are many things beyond our control—pick up some weights and healthy food and take your health into your hands.

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

As we near the feeding frenzy that begins with Halloween and comes to a nauseatingly-sweet end around February 14, I’ve got something seemingly superficial weighing on my mind. A major personal milestone is scheduled to occur during that time, and I think I’m finally ready.  

I’ve mentioned this previously-dreaded event plenty in the last couple of years and in a little over six weeks the big day will arrive.  I swore last year that I’d celebrated my last birthday, but with the full understanding that none of us are guaranteed tomorrow: It’s looking like I’ll make it to the BIG 4-0. (We’ll pause briefly to allow all my “senior” friends to giggle . . .  like I do when they call me young. Yeah, yeah. It’s relative.)

For some crazy reason I’d been dreading it. However, I’ve turned my thinking around and realize how blessed I am to have made it—physically in one piece (mentally is a whole different ball of wax). Among the blessings I can count are great health, but I know through vigorous research that I can’t take that for granted. I must work every day from this point forward to enjoy it further as it will surely decline if I let it.

I started off on a mission about a year ago—mostly for vanity’s sake— to hit 40 in the best physical shape of my life.  I’m happy to report that I hit the mark. It wasn’t terribly difficult in that I’ve dabbled in fitness over the years post pregnancies, but I’d never taken it to any level difficult to surpass.

Now I see how people get “hooked”. I am the best I’ve ever been, but I’m on a plateau and feel even more compelled to raise the bar because there’s still a great deal of room for improvement. Being satisfied is great, but constant forward momentum is greater. Interest in long-term health and vitality has surpassed the external benefits. And good health well into later years is a goal worth striving for.

Plus, researchers say the aging process can be reversed through exercise and a healthy diet.  Reversed! That got my attention. Sounds like the Fountain of Youth; I can’t gulp it down fast enough.

The great news is that no matter where you are in life it’s never too late to start improving your health and fitness. I admitted to interest sparking for vanity, but that turned into a powerful motivator that caused me to look into the other aspects: being mobile, healthy, and able to do whatever my mind cooks up on a given day.

Next week I’ll share more about my fitness goals as I enter my 40s and how I intend to reach them. In the meantime, think about where you are and where you would like to go. We may be in very different places, but we’re all traveling. Join me in making the journey to a place where age is a source of pride and nothing to dread.

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

Life has a way of taking on some predictable patterns. For many years that fact and semi-endless monotony brought me strange comfort, but while it’s nice to know to some degree what lies ahead a little unpredictability at least appears exciting.

The phrase “thinking outside the box” has been bantered around plenty in recent years. Generally, it’s used in business settings, but we all do it to get through the days when challenges arise. While I don’t mean to brag, my mind does a decent job of going outside the confines of my mostly self-imposed cardboard container. Lately I’m wondering if that’s a good thing.

Maybe I’ve leapt from the precipice of the mid-life crazies or gone stark-raving mad, but my travels outside of the box leave me exposed to novel ways that entice me to stay. The routine I held dear is no longer my friend.

Way back when (before I really had a clue) I decided how I thought my life should run, and quite literally put myself in a box. Eventually, a rather large spring formed from my two legs and anchored itself to the floor. One of my arms morphed into a crank with a red bulb handle – where a manicured nail once rested.

The outside stimuli I placed in my world became the hands that turned the crank and caused a terribly annoying song to play. Something along the lines of, “All around the mulberry bush; the monkey chased the weasel. The monkey thought ‘twas all in fun, Pop! Goes the weasel!” And people wonder why I get a little testy.

The crank turns at a speed not determined by me and I must spring up —with an enormous, frighteningly large, phony smile —every time, “Pop! Goes the weasel.”  There was a time when my popping garnered shrieks of delight and happy clapping; old habits diminish the surprise factor. Don’t even get me started on the garish clown suit or the awful, over-the-big-top circus make-up job. And it’s definitely not pleasant to be squashed back down under a lid that locks shut.

So I’ve been thinking: Wouldn’t it be great to sneak a pair of wire cutters and detach that spring? Just maybe I’d get my legs back, and I get a little giddy thinking about the shocked look on the faces around me when— unanchored— I pop into orbit. Of course I’d come crashing down, would probably even sustain serious injury, but momentary flight and the ensuing freedom might be worth it.

I’m ready for a different role. Maybe I’ll play the monkey. Monkeys always have a good time and chasing a weasel around the mulberry bush is at least a different form of tedium.  

It sounds like great fun, but I bet that sneaky weasel will eventually pop me back into reality and remind me that in all likelihood, without the box I’m just a clown.

© 2010 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.