In beginning of The Blind Assassin, my favourite book of all time, there is a scene where octogenarian Iris is presenting an award at the local high school, watching the graduates file on stage.

Up they trooped, solemn and radiant, in many sizes, all beautiful as only the young can be beautiful. Even the ugly ones were beautiful…None of them understands this – how beautiful they are.

I first read this book when it came out, in 2000, when I was only 25, and this scene resonated with me even then. I think about it all the time, particularly at this time of my life, particularly when I see groups of girls walking together, going home from school or hanging out at the mall. I always think they don’t understand how beautiful they are.

Because, let’s face it, they don’t. I mean, I didn’t! And I am not going to write about the perceived negative effects of aging and perimenopause on my face and body – that’s IMPLIED, my goodness – because the truth is that I feel so much more confident in my appearance now, at 48, than I did 30 years ago. I would rather FEEL beautiful, the way I do, than BE actually youthfully beautiful, with all the insecurity around my appearance that I had when I was youthfully beautiful.

Now, let us be clear, I’m not blind. I feel beautiful but I know how mirrors work. I realize that my neck looks like a striated tree trunk when I smile a certain way – but that certain way is when I’m really happy and excited. I realize that my forehead is lined from a lifetime of speaking expressively with my whole face and that I have lines around my eyes and mouth from laughing and smiling, but I think those are a pretty decent price to pay for visual reminders of joy and happiness. I realize that my breasts resemble semi-deflated water balloons and require feats of engineering in the bra department, and that my waistline isn’t quite so defined anymore, but I HAVE breasts, which I do not take for granted, having so many friends go through cancer treatments, and if my pants are a little tight at the waist, well, it’s a sign of enjoying my life and also that, perhaps, my incredibly frequent Ladies’ Holidays might be nearing the end. I rejoiced at the expansion of my waist during pregnancy, and while I am not rejoicing, I refuse to be upset with the expansion of my waist during perimenopause. It’s just a new stage of life, and also, elastic waistbands exist.

Listeners of Alison Rosen Is Your New Best Friend will be very familiar with the segment “Just Me Or Everyone?” where guests will talk about something that they do or think, and wonder if it is something only they experience or if everyone else is experiencing the same thing. I love this segment. I, too, feel sadness and concern when I see a little boutique or restaurant that is empty! I, too, feel guilt when dusting up a spider web, thinking I destroyed the hard work of an industrious little arachnid who is trapping pesky bugs for my benefit!

When I see groups of young girls, and I think of that quote from The Blind Assassin, I want to actually go up to them and interrupt their conversations about whatever young girls discuss to tell them how beautiful they all are. I mean, I have to remind myself that this would be a creepy and strange thing to do. Imagine! Imagine how weird that would be! But I see teen girls, and I know – I KNOW – that they are filled with that special kind of female self-loathing perpetuated by our patriarchal society that makes girls and women think that their worth lies completely in their physical appearance, I know that they are all dissatisfied with their faces or their hair or their bodies or all of the above, and I want to pull over my car, jump out, and tell them to their beautiful, youthful faces how gorgeous they are. Probably they wouldn’t believe me anyway. Probably they would just live with their loathing until several decades go by and they look at photos of their younger selves with wonder. Is it just me, or does everyone want to do this too?

Speaking of the youth, is it just me or does everyone get confused when people change their names on Instagram? This seems to happen quite frequently, and it always throws me off. Who is that? I’ll think as something shows up on my feed. Where did they come from, why am I following them? Finally I’ll realize that my friend’s daughter simply changed her handle for the fifth time, or that random follower from my YMC days got divorced, or that I’m not even following that person at all, they are simply “suggested for me.”

Despite occasional confusion, I do love Instagram. Mostly because I am nosy and I love little peeks into other people’s lives; I realize that what people share and the reality of their lives can be two different things and yet, I love it. I most certainly understand that no life is a highlight reel of fabulous vacations, brilliant, high-achieving children, or even good hair days; there is a side of everyone’s life that they don’t always care to show.

Later in The Blind Assassin, twenty-something Iris visits her childhood home and stands looking pensively at the portrait of her grandmother who she never knew, a portrait that had been there her whole life. With insight gained from her own life experience, Iris thinks I bet you were alleycatting around…I bet you had a secret life. I bet it kept you going.

Is it just me, or does everyone occasionally become struck with the idea that every single person we encounter has a whole side of themselves that few to no one sees; perhaps a secret life, like Iris’, but usually it is just a personal side of themselves. I remember this striking me incredibly when I was a young woman working on the trade floor for an energy company. There I was, surrounded by men in a professional atmosphere, everyone working and making decisions and, in some cases, screaming at people on the corded phones. I remember seeing all of their wedding rings glinting in the harsh overhead fluorescent lights, which, by the way, did not contribute to a feeling of positivity about my own face and appearance, see above for “self-loathing,” and I thought All these men are married. All of these men, who are currently swearing at their screens, presumably bought rings and nervously paced while preparing to propose, all of these men have a secret life that I know nothing about. And on the flip side, their spouses probably had no idea what their work life was like, probably they did not know the gritty details of their days and had no idea, while sitting across from them at the dinner table, that they spent many hours of the day tersely shouting at their brokers and were possibly being recommended by HR to take anger management courses.

People contain multitudes, is what I’m saying, and sometimes I feel something nearing awe at the idea. Every person has a multifaceted story and a secret side of life.

When I was visiting my parents last week, my mom and I went to my friend Merry’s Mercantile – if you are in Central Alberta, you MUST go – and when I saw that card in her display, I laughed until my stomach hurt and immediately purchased several. I am loathe to imagine anyone at all doing the deed, but there is something particularly unsettling and disturbing about one’s parents taking a trip to pound town. I’m sure my own children share this sense of horror and have mentally blocked out any such idea. Secret sides of life, we all have them.

Weekly Reading

The Librarian Of Burned Books. This book of historical fiction brings attention to the Armed Services Editions, books sent to soldiers in WWII, alongside book burning in Germany in 1933, and banned and censored books through the war. It also looks at the treatment of the LGBTQ community in Nazi Germany and what it means to be a bystander, and it felt like all these subjects, sadly, still have relevance today. It’s interesting and culturally relevant but I will say that unfortunately I found this book to be more of a “Tell” instead of a “Show.” That aside it’s still a pretty decent read, with different and connected characters.

This Is Big: How The Founder of Weight Watchers Changed The World (and me). Woof. This was one of the most depressing books I have ever read. Talk about self-loathing brought on by our culture of shame, judgement, and obsession. The book itself is well-written and is designed in a really unique way: the biographical chapters about Jean Nidetch, founder of Weight Watchers, are alternated with memoir chapters, where the author details her year of joining Weight Watchers and her life of weight cycling and, frankly, self-hatred. It is kind of hard to read: the author was put on her first diet before she was five years old, and her parents basically body-shamed her for her entire life (“you don’t need the bread basket.”). The author admits that she spent her entire life obsessed with food, diets, and hating her body and while I wish this was a unique experience, I feel like it isn’t. It’s an extreme case but I would say that every woman in this world has spent a great deal of time in the same way, and it is shitty. It is SHITTY. It is sad and depressing and terrible. The parts about Nidetch are fascinating and also very depressing. She built an empire, but after the sale of Weight Watchers to Heinz, she was no longer president, and kind of floundered, gambling and shopping and basically trading food for other obsessions. She ended up dying alone, with less than a million in the bank, and given she made a LOT of money, this is really saying something. I finished this book and just stared into space for a while.

Well. On that note, let’s pivot a little and look forward to the week ahead. We have a birthday to celebrate, I have some fun things planned, and the weather promises to be gorgeous. I hope you have a gorgeous week as well. xo