Anne Lamott, 69, may well be my patron saint.
Her incandescent writing about parenting, friendship, addiction, love, faith and her wonderful hair have enthralled me since I read “Operating Instructions,” her book about the birth of her son Sam, just after the long-ago birth of my own son.
Her writing about writing reminds me how noble — and difficult (“shitty first drafts”) — what I try to do for a living can be. It seems almost embarrassing to mention Lamott’s writing and mine in the same sentence, but there it is. She’s that important.
Now, though, it is her writing about aging and all that it means that rings the most true for me. Lamott has a unique ability to cut right to the heart of it, and I wanted to be sure you didn’t miss her essay in The Washington Post (gift link).
This excerpt pretty much sums it up. It’s from a conversation between Annie and Pammy, her childhood best friend:
Pammy and I went shopping a few weeks before she died. I needed a new dress for a concert with a new boyfriend. At the time, she was in a wheelchair and a wig. I came out of the dressing room wearing a short dress, tighter than normal, and asked if it made me look big in the hips.
She looked me in the eyes, calmly. “Annie,” she said, “you don’t have that kind of time.”
Thanks, Annie, for the reminder.
Thanks for this, Leanne. I remember Anne’s words about loving our bodies and treasuring them—she wrote that she calls her thighs “the aunties”. She puts expensive lotion on them and treats them gently. I always think about that when I get out of the shower and start to get really judgmental about what I see in the mirror.
I have done a lot of work to break the lens through which I view myself (and other women!) but there is still so much to do. It really helps to keep the discussion going.
What do you think about Pamela Anderson’s decision to stop wearing makeup? I find it incredibly brave for a woman like her; society would have her believe that her importance, her talent, her loveability comes from her sex appeal. I love that she is flipping a figurative middle finger to all of it.