I'm No Jan Brady...and That's Okay

Let's get something straight: I've never identified with Jan Brady.

Yes, we're both the middle of three sisters, had blond hair and questionable eyesight (thanks to Lasik, my is no longer questionable, thank you very much).  But that's where the similarities end.

{That's me on the right, next to my big sis and helping hold our younger sis. Aren't we cute?}

I say this because growing up in the '70s there was very little in the way of relatable and aspiration-worthy icons for a middle sister. Especially if you thought Jan Brady was kinda whiny. ("Marsha, Marsha, Marsha!" anyone?)  Even Jan didn't want to be Jan.

Sure, there were some badass females during that era — The Bionic Woman, Charlie's Angels, Pinky Tuscadero — but all of these women seemed a bit cliché, over the top and not like someone I wanted to be. (Well, I did really did like pink as a child but that's for another post.)

Think back to when you were a little kid — who did you want to be?

It may surprise you to learn that I was an extremely shy child.  Like hiding-behind-my-Mom's-leg-when-our-parents-had-adults-over-the-house shy. This was in stark contrast to my older sis, who, as a first-born and all-around superstar, preferred to use the opportunity of having a new audience in the house to demonstrate her latest gymnastic moves. And to her credit, my sister's leotards did come in handy when constructing our 1976 Halloween costumes — Electra Woman and Dyna Girl (guess who was who?):

{Halloween 1976: Raggedy Ann, gypsies and hobos, oh my!}

But as it is with siblings, when one goes one way, the other goes another.  In the end every child is just trying to find his or her own place in the world, especially as it relates to getting attention and discovering his or her unique gifts and talents.  If you have siblings (especially if you hit the proverbial sibling jackpot and have awesome, rock star older and younger sisters like I do) you know what I mean.

My Dad would always tell my sisters and me (with PC apologies, as this was the '70s): "Be the pilot, not the stewardess. Be the lawyer, not the secretary."  His point was to never limit ourselves or let others dictate what our destiny would be.  And you know what?  He was right.

So who do I want to be?  That answer keeps evolving.  And that's okay.

That said, I can definitively say there will be no Afro wigs in my future.  But you already knew that.

Owning It

The other morning my Mom stopped by to swap cars with me (she needed the "spaceship" aka the minivan to pickup a kayak...but that's another story). When she entered the house she was carrying a shopping bag, and eager to tell me about its contents.

"I was at McCracken's (store's name changed to protect the accused)," she started. Upon seeing the expression on my face she continued: "I know you think of it as an 'old lady' store but you know what? I *am* an old lady!"

Now anyone who knows my Mom knows she is most definitely *not* an old lady, at least not by my definition: staid in their ways, has an affinity for appliqué sweatshirts and "cute" Holiday sweaters, and somewhere along the way forgets that she can be a mature woman without looking like, well, a "mature woman."

By contrast, my Mom takes pride in her appearance and takes good care of herself. She has an adventurous spirit, a dry sense of humor and looks decades younger than her chronological age. But here, in my entryway, she was describing herself, unequivocally, as (gasp!) an old lady.

Which got me to thinking.  When my Mom made that declaration, she wasn't talking about appliqué sweatshirts, she was being be true to herself.  Authentic.  She was owning it.

And I thought, maybe there's a lesson here. Instead of worrying about what other people (or even your own daughter) think of you, perhaps you could just shed all that excess baggage and those expectations and just be your unique and most fabulous, confident self.  

I guess that must come with being a mature woman.  Or, you know, an "old lady."