I had a development seminar today at work in which the facilitator asked us to write 3 to 5 things our inner critic harps on us about. My IC used to work overtime but not anymore. I told the group of forty or so women (all of them younger than me) that one of the good things about getting older is I don’t give a rat’s about most things I used to fret over. Not to say that I don’t care but rather I’ve fine-tuned my outlook to focus on what truly matters to me and what I want for my life. Listening to criticism—lobbed from inside or out—didn’t make the cut. Here are three actions I took that have improved my well-being exponentially:
- Telling my IC to get lost and inviting my inner praiser to take up residence
- Ridding myself of expectations
- Being perfectly okay with the fact that I—and only I—am the only person in the world I can ever count on 100%, taking the pressure off loved ones I used to burden with the role
They say aging isn’t for wimps, and I’ll add that aging also isn’t for people who can’t figure out how to love themselves.
I had an appointment in my old neighborhood this afternoon, so afterward I went for a walk in an old haunt. My little marsh was flush with geese, likely the descendants of the geese couples that I’ve witnessed raising young here for the past 10 years. More apartments have gone up in the field across the road where I used to walk, and more are yet to come. I’ve been taking pictures of this place periodically since just before the developers started their destruction. I wanted to have a record of what it used to look like. I guess these apartments and the soccer field are what some call progress. Sometimes aging also isn’t for those who hate to see open spaces cluttered with “progress.”