self confidence

Dame Helen Mirren who turned 70 this week.

This is from back in 2015 when I was a Huffington Post contributor and my very existence seemed to rest on whether or not they ran something I wrote. Maybe you can relate?

I look back on this and marvel at how much I’ve changed in five years. No longer at HuffPo, and writing mostly books and screenplays, I’ve developed what I guess you could call a ‘submission callus’. I write, submit and go on with my life because what I’ve had proven to me over and over and over again that God, or the Divine, or whoever runs this show—she has a plan—and the details and timing involved are none of my business.

Carry on,

xoxJB

Hi, My Lovelies!
Here is my latest Huffington Post essay on rocking the years after your fifth decade, AND, there’s a cool, humiliating, humanizing, little life lesson attached.

I know there are a few over-fifties in this group and you guys will appreciate this post. So you get your glasses while I find mine…

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/janet-bertolus/turning-50_b_8282198.html

Anyway, the lesson was this: I gave this to the HuffPo over three weeks ago. Three. That’s like an eternity in dog years.

Anyway, cue the crickets…

I was well aware that the divorce pieces had gotten some legs, but come on! There’s more to my story than a divorce that happened thirty years ago—WAY more! Yet, the divorce pieces continued to run and my thought process went something like this:

Why didn’t they run the Over Fifty piece, it’s been a week? Clearly, they hated it and are rethinking their decision to make me a contributor. Shit. I’ll just lay low, fly under the radar.

Then…

It’s been two weeks, I can’t continue to just lay low, maybe they never received it. Should I risk seeming desperate and re-send it? I sent something else instead, an essay on unsolicited advice, you know, just to check the system for bugs (no bugs detected, the piece ran the next day).

Instead of making me feel better I was now convinced they HATED the Over Fifty piece. A plain and simple case of literary loathing. 
In my imagination, they all laughed over lunch about how stupid it was, “Can you believe that Janet Bertolus! She doesn’t know shit about being over fifty! Or writing for that matter!” Bahahahaha! (insert diabolical editor laughter here).

Fuck.

By week three I decided that for the sake of my mental health and to maintain any shred of self-confidence I had left (it was hiding somewhere in the vicinity of my big toe) —I had to just forget about it and go on with my life.

That was last week. Yesterday, they sent me the email that they were running the Over Fifty piece.

Oh, really…that piece? Remind me again which one? Oh, yes, hahahahaha (insert insipid, forced, and awkward laugh here) the one about being over fifty, Oh, well, I’d forgotten all about that one. (Insert somersault inducing eye roll here).

When I pulled up the link I literally gasped (and not for the reasons you think, like grammatical errors or blatant overuse of commas). There, at the end of the essay, was one beautiful photograph after another of spectacular women over fifty! What a great surprise!

Sometimes I can be incredibly batshit insecure.

They’ve obviously been busy the past three weeks compiling pictures to run in this section—and here I thought it was all about me.

Lesson #1789–Trust the process. At a certain point, it has nothing AT ALL to do with you.

I’m beginning to think this applies to every situation in life!

Carry on,
xox

(This photo —I can’t even!)

For about six months back in the 1970’s I left my armpits unshaved.

For me, it was a bold and calculated act.

I wanted to fit in with the California hippy subculture whom I held up as the greatest examples of what was current in the world around me. They were the touchstone for all things necessary to fit in as a young, budding feminist in the post-patriarchal zeitgeist at the time.

Plus I saw pictures of Joan Baez and Grace Slick with long black hairy armpits. And besides that, the twin’s older sister Martha, who listened to Frank Zappa, and was so naturally organic and liberated, made it look pretty. Almost sexy.

Then I decided to let the hair on my legs grow out.
Mostly because no one noticed my radical armpit statement on account of the fact that the hair was blonde…and relatively sparse… and also because I wore a short-sleeved white cotton blouse as part of my uniform in Catholic High School so my pits were perpetually covered.

So, just as a watched pot never boils, my leg-hair took forever to grow long. But when it did, it shone in the sun like a pair of corn silk knee socks beneath my minuscule pleated plaid skirt.
I loved it.
Everyone loved it.
Even Martha, whose opinion meant the world to me, thought it was “rad.”

There was about a year or so in 1974-75 that the hair on my legs was longer than the hair on my head.
My dad actually pointed that out at Thanksgiving dinner with all of our relatives present—and not in a “proud father” kind of way.

Everyone I knew had long, straight hair, parted in the middle that fell to the middle of their backs. I wanted to be different so I cut mine to barely 1/4 inch all around. Think Jean Sebring or Twiggy.

This rendered Martha speechless the first time she saw me. She actually dropped her cigarette and missed a few lyrics to Ziggy Stardust. I had not received a higher compliment before—or since.

When Martha daned to drive the gaggle of her twin sister’s young friends to the movies or the mall or somewhere else fabulous, I caught her, several times from the back seat, staring at my hair in the rearview mirror.

If we had all perished that night in a fiery crash I would have died happy, completely satisfied—with a smile on my face.

I’m not exactly sure why I’m telling you this. I suppose it has to do with finding my way in the world. Maybe you’ve had similar experiences. Figuring out who you are is hard. And hairy. There are a lot of options out there to embrace.

Perhaps you’re like me and others of a “certain age” who are in the process of a mid-life re-invention.

Standing here at fifty-nine, there is not a single thing about me that is the same as when I was sixteen.
My hair blonde hair is course and gray, my stomach, once taught and tight is now soft and squishy, and black hair grows in places I’d rather not discuss.

But I can feel those teenage emotions like it was yesterday. How new and invigorating each act felt. Like I was both the sculpture and the sculptor with my hands the clay. Creating myself as I went along.

I want to feel that again, don’t you?

Without apology, I am a culmination of all of those decisions. Good, bad and ugly. And so are you!

You can’t tell me you didn’t absolutely LOVE your mullet when you first got it.

Or that ghastly tattoo on your ankle that you had removed on your thirtieth birthday.

What about the multiple self-inflicted ear piercings?

Or the bust developer you ordered from the back of The Enquirer.

Mohawk? Nice.
Purple eyebrows? Even better.
Lambchop sideburns for the guys? Meow.
Pierced tongue? Ouch, but okay.

What we did to define ourselves along the way helped make us who we are today you guys. Some are mic-drops. Most are not. I can only hope I do as well this time around.

When I look back I really have no regrets. Except…

I will have to live with my disco era over-plucked eyebrows until the day I die.

What are the best fads you followed from the past? And what would you rather not remember?

Carry on,
xox

Yesterday, I couldn’t help myself, I plastered this all over social media.

”I think midlife is when the universe gently places her hands upon your shoulders, pulls you close, and whispers in your ear:
I’m not screwing around. It’s time. All of this pretending and performing – these coping mechanisms that you’ve developed to protect yourself from feeling inadequate and getting hurt – has to go.

Your armor is preventing you from growing into your gifts. I understand that you needed these protections when you were small. I understand that you believed your armor could help you secure all of the things you needed to feel worthy of love and belonging, but you’re still searching and you’re more lost than ever.

Time is growing short. There are unexplored adventures ahead of you. You can’t live the rest of your life worried about what other people think. You were born worthy of love and belonging. Courage and daring are coursing through you. You were made to live and love with your whole heart. It’s time to show up and be seen.”

~ Brené Brown

Photo: Helen Mirren, age 70  (70 is the “new” middle age.) 😉

First of all, because I find myself smack-dab in the middle of this mid-life thing —I absolutely love what this says. Secondly, are you farking kidding me Helen Mirren? You are my spirit animal!

And last but not least, I love it because my hubby was just telling me the other day how grateful he was feeling due to the fact that for our age (late fifties, early sixties) we seem to be beating the clock pretty darn well, MEANING… except for a few minor things here and there—we’re not sick (as a matter of fact he puts me to shame doing CrossFit like a beast three mornings a week), and we work at maintaining the gift which decent genetics has bestowed upon us, MEANING…without going under the knife we don’t necessarily look our age (but lets get real, we don’t look like Helen Mirren either.)

Now, since it’s all about  Dame Helen, here is the flashback part from a couple of years ago:

Today I met a couple of girlfriends for a leisurely, late breakfast. I hesitate to use the word brunch because that implies Mimosa’s and Bloody Mary’s, pots of hot coffee and the fact that it’s the weekend.

This was simply an egg, toast and tofu rice bowl breakfast, sans the alcohol.
In other words, a Monday.

We hadn’t seen each other for a couple of weeks, so there were lots of hugs, laughter, stories, and sharing of pictures on our phones.

One of my friends showed us a picture of the cute rainbow-colored, teeny-tiny bikini she’d just had the courage to purchase over the weekend. She is a stunning forty-year-old, who, in my humble opinion should be wearing her bikini to the Post Office and Trader Joes, but this was a big step for her.

No more modest little one piece for HER this summer.
She’s gonna rock a bikini, loud and proud. I applaud her for that.

Here’s what Nora Ephron had to say about bikinis:

Anyhow, my friend had been noticing scores of, for lack of a better word, average women, with their voluminous bellies and boobies, and their jiggly thighs, walking up and down the beach with heads held high, like they’re freakin’ Heidi Klum, and she thought: Hey, why the hell not?

Why not indeed!

I love what she said next. I think I’m going to embroider it on a pillow.

“If people don’t like me in my bikini, they don’t have to buy my calendar.”

Bahahahaha!
After we all got done laughing our asses off, my other friend told us the story of her holiday a few years back, in Italy with her friend Luigi. They were in some steamy southern Italian city and decided to go to the local beach.

Because it was Italy and you can’t be held accountable for anything you say, eat or do there, she was also wearing a bikini. (Italy is where Vegas got their slogan, I think Marcus Aurelius said it first)

Somehow, she and Luigi found themselves together on a raft, (this part of the story gets murky. There must be one hell of a reason behind this because my friend is not a “share a raft” kinda gal). Anyhow, there they were, paddling around in the warm, deep blue, Mediterranean Sea.

Luigi then suggests that they paddle (I’m still wondering about this), over to a small island nearby (what?), to visit a couple of his friends on the beach. As they approach, one of the women, as my friend tells it, slowly unfolds herself from seated to standing on her towel.

“Luigi, Mio Caro!” she exclaims, waving her long, tan arm in the air as she slinks toward the shore to greet Luigi in a warm embrace. (Okay, now I get it.)

So… picture this: Luigi is 5’3″.

She is 6 feet tall and shaped like a ripe pear. Large heaving breasts and curvaceously round hips all the color of mahogany bounce toward the shoreline…oh, and she’s topless.

My friend then recounted how Luigi’s face was buried in this woman’s smoldering Italian bosom for the duration of the endless embrace and no one even flinched. As a matter of fact, there was a lot more of this skin on skin hugging and all of the women were older, voluptuous, tan and topless.
Mama Mia!

Not a body issue to be found. OMG! That’s SO Italian! Actually, that’s SO European. What’s OUR Yankee doodle problem?

My friend admitted that in that moment, she was thrilled she wasn’t all covered up in her chastity inducing, IcantbreathbecausethisisSpanx, one piece swimsuit.

Why is it that if we’re over a certain age, or don’t have the bodies of supermodels, we don’t have the courage to flaunt what God gave us and rock that bikini?

Didn’t the paparazzi capture this picture of Dame Helen Mirren looking fucking awesome in a red bikini a few years back? Isn’t she over sixty? Fuck! I worship this woman.

We don’t have to walk around, with boobs a flyin’ like those gutsy and gorgeous Italians, but some body confidence couldn’t hurt.
I say let’s all get over ourselves, and buy bikini’s, or a least something flattering that plays up our good assets.

Come on, Guys too.
It doesn’t have to be a speedo, but it can be trunks that hit above the calf.
Most guys I’ve met, even if they have a belly, have GREAT legs.
Flaunt um!

When we look back at pictures from twenty years ago, we were HOT and we thought otherwise at the time.

We’re never satisfied, so let’s just love and embrace what we have.

I’m not certain I’ll be able to comply. I can’t be expected to hold in my stomach for more than half-hour increments, and if I eat more than a single grape, it’s impossible altogether.

But….it I do,  I have my new motto:
“If people don’t like me in my bikini, they don’t have to buy my calendar.”

Too much?
Xox

Today I met a couple of girlfriends for a leisurely late breakfast; I hesitate to use the word brunch because that word implies Mimosa’s and Bloody Mary’s, pots of hot coffee and the fact that it’s the weekend.

This was simply an egg, toast and tofu rice bowl breakfast, sans the alcohol.
In other words, a Monday.

We hadn’t seen each other for a couple of weeks, so there were lots of hugs, laughter, stories, and sharing of pictures on our phones.

One of my friends showed us a picture of the cute rainbow-colored, teeny-tiny little bikini that she’d just had the courage to purchase over the weekend. She is a stunning forty-year-old, who, in my humble opinion should be wearing her bikini to the Post Office and Trader Joes, but this was a big step for her.

No more modest little one piece for HER this summer.
She’s gonna rock a bikini, loud and proud. I applaud her for that.
Here’s what Nora Ephron had to say about that:

Anyhow, my friend had been noticing scores of, for lack of a better word, average women, with their lusciously voluminous bellies and boobies, and their jiggly thighs, walking up and down the beach with heads held high, like they were freaking Heidi Klum, and she thought: Hey, why the hell not?

Why not indeed!

I love what she said next. I think I’m going to embroider it on a pillow.

“If people don’t like me in my bikini, they don’t have to buy my calendar.”

Bahahahaha!
After we all got done laughing our asses off, my other friend told us the story of her holiday a few years back, in Italy with her friend Luigi. They were in some steamy southern Italian city and decided to go to the local beach.

Because it was Italy and you can’t be held accountable for anything you say, eat or do there, she was also wearing a bikini. (Italy is where Vegas got their slogan, I think Marcus Aurelius said it first)

Somehow, she and Luigi found themselves together on a raft, (this part of the story gets murky. There must be one hell of a reason behind this because my friend is not a “share a raft” kinda gal). Anyhow, there they are, paddling around in the warm, deep blue, Mediterranean Sea.

Luigi suggests that they paddle (I’m still wondering about this), over to a small island nearby (what?), to visit a couple of his friends on the beach. As they approach, one of the women, as my friend tells it, literally unfolds herself, slowly moving from seated to standing on her towel.

“Luigi, Mio caro!” she exclaims, waving her hand in the air. She then slinks toward the shore to greet Luigi in a warm embrace. (Okay, now I get it.)

Luigi is 5’3″.

She is 6′ tall and shaped like a ripe pear, with large heaving breasts and curvaceous round hips—all the color of mahogany…oh, and she is topless.

My friend recounted how Luigi’s face was buried in this woman’s smoldering Italian cleavage for the duration of the embrace and no one even flinched. As a matter of fact, all the woman were older, voluptuous, tan and topless.
Mama Mia!

Not a body issue to be found.

In that moment my friend was thrilled she wasn’t all covered up in her chastity inducing, Grandma Moses one piece swimsuit.

OMG! That’s SO Italian! Actually that’s SO European. What’s OUR Yankee doodle problem?

If we’re over a certain age, or don’t have the bodies of super models, why can’t we have the courage to flaunt what God gave us and rock that bikini?

Didn’t the paparazzi capture this picture of Dame Helen Mirren looking fucking awesome in a red bikini a few years back? Isn’t she over sixty? Fuck! I worship her for that.

We don’t have to walk around, with boobs a flyin’ like those gutsy and gorgeous Italians, but some body confidence couldn’t hurt.
I say let’s all get over ourselves, and buy bikini’s, or a least something flattering that plays up our good assets.

Come on, Guys too.
Doesn’t have to be a speedo, but it can be trunks that hit above the calf.
Most guys I’ve met, even if they have a belly, have GREAT legs.
Flaunt um!

When we look back at pictures from twenty years ago, we were HOT and we thought otherwise at the time.

We’re never satisfied, so let’s love and embrace what we have.

I’m not certain I’ll be able to comply. I can’t be expected to hold in my stomach for more than half-hour increments, and if I eat more than one grape, it’s impossible altogether.

But….now I have my new motto:
“If people don’t like me in my bikini, they don’t have to buy my calendar.”

Too much?
Xox

Live life as if everything is rigged in your favor.
~Rumi~

OMG. THAT is my new mantra. What if we all did that?
We’d walk differently in the world. I know I would.

Like a card shark at the Blackjack table. If he knew the game, the deck, was rigged in his favor, he could just sit back, and relax. No more counting cards, no more strategy running though his mind……..no more fear of losing. He’d know, that no matter how it seemed, as the cards were dealt, that the game was rigged in his favor, and he’d bet…….BIG.

There would be an ease, a facility to things. Life would have a lovely flow.
We wouldn’t worry about each day so much, or how shitty things may appear in the moment. “It’ll all figure itself out”. We’d say “you know, it’s rigged in my favor.”
“Well, that’s funny, because life is rigged in my favor too” the person next to us would reply. And that would be okay. Because there’s enough good, enough money, enough love to go around. No one else has to lose when we win.

Using the Blackjack analogy, the player would win big, but the house could cover the bet. It makes money on food and shows and liquor and such.
There’s enough. There’s always enough.

So live life like its rigged in your favor. Bet BIG on your success.

Question: Would that take the fun out of the game (life) if you knew it was rigged for you to win? Interesting huh? Maybe the challenge isn’t so bad. I’d really love to know what you think, tell me!

Xox

You want to make ten million bucks? Have at it.
You want to be the next Mother Theresa? Cool.
You want to live at the top of Kilimanjaro in seclusion? That’s fine too.

We get down on ourselves for the life we want. WTH?!
It’s okay to want what you want.

Some of us feel bad for not wanting the white picket fence and 2.5 children.
Those that have it, feel bad because they should want a big job and a sexier life.
We’re all afraid that what we want is too much…….or not enough.

The people that want the house on the beach in Tulum never say it out loud, for fear of getting laughed at. “Oh sure, don’t we all!” no, not everyone. But there are some that DO have the Tulum house and the first step was being ok with wanting it.

At 27 years old, Richard Branson took his girlfriend on a weekend excursion.
He wanted to impress her. He was pretending to buy an island.
It was a perfectly remote, completely deserted tropical paradise. As part of the charade, he made a ridiculously low offer, and that was that.
Well……I’m sure he got lucky that night.
A year later the real estate agent called him with this unexpected news: “All the other offers on the island have fallen through, if you can up your offer to $125,000- you can have it.” Of course he bought it. He wanted it. He eventually developed it into his private paradise, Necker Island.
He even married her there.
That man has no shame, and I love him for it.
He knows: It’s okay to want what you want.

My husband’s mother was in her fifties when she sold everything. All her worldly possessions. Every carefully curated collection, tchotchke and piece of furniture. She condensed her life into two suitcases and moved to Europe, where she traveled extensively, living with friends in Spain, Germany and Austria. She lived very simply and very happily.
I never met her, but from all accounts she was extraordinary. She lived life on HER terms.
I think because she came to the point in her life where she believed: it’s okay to want what you want.

We can get so preoccupied with second guessing ourselves. We judge what we want our life to be as silly, or extravagant.
Too simple, or overindulgent.
Instead, we live on the default setting, where we watch our list of unacknowledged wants circle the drain.

You want to quit your job and travel?
You want to quit corporate and run a non-profit?
You want to work hard and play hard?
You want lots of kids and a big family?
You want to be a full time mother?
You want to live in a flat in London for a year?
You want to speak Italian…fluently?
You want to take a luva?

It’s okay to want what you want. OWN IT.

Do you go for what you want, or judge it? Tell me in the comments, I’d love to hear about it!

Xox