I hit 90 on I-435 at 11:40 a.m. today but cars whizzed past on either side.  My son’s voice on the hands-free  urged me to figure out what had happened when I shared this news with him.  Thinking of the eye doctor appointment scheduled for 3:00 p.m., I squinted at the speedometer and realized that somehow, it had been switched from miles per hour to kilometers per hour.

I had no idea my car had that feature!

A few minutes later, I put aside the oddness of the experience and focused on my client’s difficulties.  By 1:30 p.m. I had gotten back in the Prius and headed south on Noland Road, having found the button to switch back to standard American.

But the whole event got me thinking about the measures by which I assess myself and how easy it might be to push a button and change them.

Too fat?  Re-evaluate.  Can I sustain moderate exercise for twenty minutes, twice a day?  Do I avoid sugar and minimize carbs?  Perhaps what I weigh should not dictate whether I consider myself healthy.  Perhaps instead, I should look in the mirror and judge if my cheeks seem rosy, my hair shiny, and my stance straight and strong.  I never had a “weight problem” until menopause.  I doubled my weight and held at 190 for three or four years before slowly working off 90 pounds.  By 2011, I weighed 103.  Now I’m on the way back down after a tough two years.  I have to let go of a measurement which says that I’m only beautiful if I don’t tip the scales past 100.

A financial failure? Changing how I view myself in the area of money takes a bit more imagination.   I can find statistics for the average salary and savings of a 34-year veteran of the Bar.  I might need to revolutionize how I think.  Lights on? Food in fridge? Water flowing? Full tank of gas? Moderate monthly income?  Call yourself a success by mid-American standards and blessed by most measures.  I never wanted to be rich, and my health has prevented the monumental work effort that real wealth requires.  Why does this bother me so much?  Those of us who spend our childhood in lower-middle-class or even poverty have a skewed relationship to money, I think.  In my case, I know others expect me to be rich, and I’m not.  This is one over which I need to shake the holy water and walk away.

Here’s a nagging question:  What is the measure of the worth of a woman?  Is it the loyalty of the husband whose arm she held?  The children she raised?  The heads she turns? The friends who ring her phone?  The curve of her breast — the shape of her bottom — the arch of her brow?  If my eyes are the beholder, and the mirror provides the image, how do I judge myself?  As I think others see me?  Against my mother’s strong features and stubborn dedication?  The long career and enduring marriage of my big sister? The popularity of the women around whom I fall silent?

Before I realized that the speedometer had gone rogue, a hot flush burned my face. I glanced around for flashing lights and listened for sirens.  I had not thought that I’d been doing anything wrong, but still I did not question my initial assessment.  Speeding!  You broke the law!  I hadn’t, though; I leaped to a false conclusion.

I find myself wondering, Have I unfairly condemned myself on other issues?  

Perhaps I need to start measuring myself by new standards.

It’s evening on the sixth day of the forty-third month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.

                                                             – Rumi