Ladies Luncheon

In the English language we do not assign gender to our nouns, but certain words tend to imply it. For example, luncheon. Men don't have luncheons, they have lunch. Important men have power lunches and thinking men have working lunches. But women (at least here in the South) have luncheons. The term in and of itself is more adjective than noun; conjuring up an atmosphere of relaxation, fostered by polite conversation and an air of sophistication. The 50's era Femme with pillbox hat and patent leather pumps, accessorized with pearls, fussing with manicured civility over petite morsels and frosted beverages. Splashes of cotton candy pink and hushed greens accented by the always appropriate black sunglasses seated at an outdoor cafe.

To a passerby, the Ladies Luncheon might seem trite and insignificant, a forum for gossip and giggles. Its' outward appearance gives away nothing of its' more meaningful agenda. There is no aura of glamor in the term 'Group Therapy' but it is a better fit for what is occurring.

If a crazy lady screams in a forest and no one else is around, does she still make a sound? The answer to this is No. She needs compadres who are keen listeners, able to console, empathize and offer advice. Others who have had similar experiences and can provide feedback in the form of comic relief. And this, along with the opportunity to dress in something other than my mommy uniform of khaki shorts and t-shirts, is why I look forward to the monthly Ladies Luncheon.

Often much of what is discussed is that from which we are briefly fleeing- kids, jobs, daily ho-hum. This is the cathartic portion of the session, but also, and no less significant, is the visualization segment.

At this Saturdays' luncheon, fueled by bottomless Mimosas and Bellinis, those in attendance, fantasized a girls' trip A La Paris. The logistics ironed out over a sampling of cheeses drenched in honey. The absentees were considered, but in the end we all agreed that they would vote Oui!
Looking back, maybe our future endeavor is a bit grandiose. But one can always dream!

Until next month....Au Revoir mes amies! xoxoxo

Cavewoman Mentality

There was a time in the not-so-distant past, when I could tell you the ages of my children in months and weeks. Coincidentally, or maybe as a direct result of this new found mental capacity, I completely lost track of my own age. After age 29, my brain seems to have taken a little hiatus from me-think and that portion of the cerebrum was overtaken with them-think.

An adaption of sorts, probably developed as some type of survival/coping mechanism by cavewomen shortly after they squatted and bore their first little cave dweller. I imagine that the early cave mom had to keep track of her offspring's' development in much the same way we do today...About how many loin clothes does he wet per day?...Can he drag a carcass using alternating feet?...Does he scribble on the cave wall using a dominant hand?...Approximately how many grunts is he using?....

This, along with the daily routine of tidying up the cave, making sure her child doesn't wander off the edge of a cliff, and picking the nits from cave husbands' head after a long days' hunt would leave no time for vanity.

Besides, according to Piaget, we get over self-preoccupation during our childhood. He surmises that by age 7 we are over the Me Stage (the preoperational stage ) and are no longer as egocentric as we were from the ages of 2 through 7.

But then, just the other day I'm reading my friends' blog (Sugar Mama), and she's answering this chain email that asks all sorts of random questions. The purpose- to glean some insight into the kind of person you are-you know-likes, dislikes etc. I had answered the same email from a friend months earlier and was not surprised that many of our answers were similar. I like to think that I'm like her because she's funny, smart, successful and not in the least bit vain. OK, I'll admit that she has a leg up on me here. This is a woman who considers Chapstick makeup, whereas I apply only for medicinal purposes. Anyway, our answers to question #16 - What's the least favorite thing about yourself? totally caught me off guard.

I didn't even have to blink to answer this one. I put, Thinking I know what others are thinking about me. She had answered, Worrying what others think about me. I had been so proud of my statement because I had carefully side-stepped the stereotypical female responses dealing with issues of outward appearance-ie weight, hair and skin and breast size (the excessive, the bad and the lack of- in that order). I was a higher level thinker and my answer to question#16 would be proof to any doubter who came across my cyber-profile. How on God's Green Earth could our answers to this question be so aligned?

The answer is simple. In fact, it's held secure by a nondescript magnet on the surface of my mom's refrigerator. A plain white 4x6 index card, neatly fonted gives Piaget a run for his money. It states:

When we are 20 we worry about what others think of us.
At 40 we don't care about what others think of us.
At 60 we find they haven't been thinking of us at all. -Ann Landers.

Maybe my #16 answer was not as original as I had thought it to be. Maybe, it's just an age thing. A kind of adult psychological stage of development that we weren't exposed to in college. Or maybe Ann Landers is a descendant of Piaget (along with Heloise and Dear Abby) and she took it upon herself to extend his theory (modernizing it and making it more relevant to us in our post-collegiate years).

I can't wait till 60 when I have this epiphany that no one has been thinking about me. In the meantime, Ill just muddle through my 20's- er 30's trying to check the right box and making sure my cave children don't wander off a cliff.