The Best Kept Secret Blog - The Hypothetical Reasonable Woman

By far the most useful class during my years at university was a business law course offered in my final term. It was there that I met the hypothetical reasonable man.

A bit of legal fiction, the "reasonable man" represents what a reasonable person would do under a particular set of circumstances.

Though originally intended for crimes and misdemeanors, the reasonable man so captured my imagination that I began applying the construct to my young-adult life as the hypothetical reasonable man morphed into the hypothetical reasonable woman.

Sometimes the hypothetical reasonable woman wins out - "The hypothetical reasonable woman wouldn't agonize over whether to buy the black pair or the silver pair of sexy, strappy sandals. They're on sale. She'd buy both."

but sometimes I give in to my baser self - "What would the hypothetical reasonable woman do? Eat a healthy salad for dinner and get a good night's sleep or tuck into the McSingle Woman's Happy Meal (popcorn and Chardonnay) and watch Sex And The City reruns until the bottle runs out? No contest there. Pass the clicker and find the cork screw."

As the years have gone by I've come to rely on the hypothetical reasonable woman whenever I don't know what to do. She's become particularly indispensable in my 40s when I sometimes question my behaviour. Is it proper or perimenopause?

Situation: Comment to husband that favourite black pants must have shrunk at cleaners. Husband responds - "Or maybe you've put on a couple of pounds."

Hypothetical Reasonable Woman: Ponder possibility that perhaps husband is right, make a
healthy dinner for the family and resolve to get back to the gym.

Blatantly Insecure Perimenopausal Woman: Fire back snappy reply "Look who's talking, donut boy", run to bathroom and spend next fifteen minutes alternately weighing self and observing self in mirror while sucking in stomach.

Recently, I've even added a new level of moral rectitude. Now when a questionable situation arises, I go that extra mile and ask myself, "What would Oprah do?"

Putting myself in Oprah's stilettos for a few minutes, I'd guess that if Steadman ever suggested the lovely Ms. Winfrey were packing on the pounds, she'd be hauling him in for relationship counselling with Dr. Phil faster than you can say, "The Secret". She'd begin a diet journal and invite like-minded endomorphs to come on the show and share in her journey.

The hypothetical reasonable woman model (or, if you've feeling particularly virtuous - step it up to What Would Oprah Do?) can be applied to all sorts of midlife situations.

My recently divorced friend, H. who is back on the dating scene after twenty-odd years uses it all of the time.

Situation: Join new computer dating community and post picture and profile.

Hypothetical Reasonable Woman: Get hair done, put make up on and hope for the best. Write witty, funny and truthful synopsis of self. Be open to all suitors - you never know what form your prince charming will take.

Blatantly Insecure Perimenopausal Woman: Select picture from seven years ago before gravity reared its ugly head. Lie about age in hopes of attracting younger, and in her opinion, sexier men.

What Would Oprah Do: Make plea to the universe that the right man comes her way. Call in army of "friends" for marathon session of health and beauty makeover.

While at times she seems a little bland, the Hypothetical Reasonable Woman is a friend indeed at those times when you just don't know which path to take. She's a kind of decision-making auto-pilot when we just can't see the forest for the trees.

And remember you don't have to follow her directions every time. For those situations when you're absolutely clear on how to proceed, helloooo Blatantly Insecure Perimenopausal Woman!

The Best Kept Secret Blog - Talking 'Bout My Generation (I Just Wish Someone Would Listen)

Imagine a comic strip. Or a greeting card, perhaps.

On it you see a crude drawing of a dog and his owner, standing in the garden. The caption along the top reads, "What You Say and What Your Dog Hears".

A voice bubble protrudes from the owner's mouth. She is admonishing the dog. "Now Rusty," she scolds, "don't go pee pee on Mommy's flower patch again!".

A thought bubble hovers above the dog whose head is caulked while he gazes quizzically at his owner. What does the dog really hear when his owner speaks these words?

"Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah"

I am that owner and my children are that dog. No, they're not peeing on the roses (at least not as far as I'm aware) but there is some serious miscommunication going on and I think it's thanks to the Generation Gap.

The last time I even thought of that phrase was more than thirty five years ago when I was firmly on the other side of the divide.

My father, a kinder, gentler version of Archie Bunker was mistrustful of all things "hippie". Anytime a teenage boy with hair past his ears walked by our house, my father would mutter to no one in particular, "Look at that hippie. He'll never get a job."

He was terrified of "the drug scene" and had me convinced that pushers would offer me LSD-laced chocolate bars on the playground at recess until I became hooked (which apparently would happen after just one CaraMilk). The story ended with me on a bad trip, believing I could fly and jumping off a balcony from the 20th floor of an apartment building.

He thought "Guess Who's Coming To Dinner" and actresses showing cleavage were pushing the envelope and he simply didn't know what to make of my mother who was in the throes of "Trudeau mania".

I thought his ranting was all a bit much. He obviously didn't get it and I politely tuned out whenever he had something to say. I was never disrespectful, but as far as I was concerned, it was all, "Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah"

Fast forward to present day where I am the parent of a daughter who is teetering in the no-mans land between sweet, innocent girl child and rebellious lip-piercing teen. Sadly for me, I am learning what goes around, comes around.

This past weekend found me in Future Shop, being talked into buying some latest and greatest electronic gizmo for my eldest daughter.

I think our home is already wired enough. On a recent family ski excursion, the four of us set out for the day with no less than five devices that needed to be plugged in and charged. This was for a one hour ride on the way to the slopes.

As my daughter and husband debated the merits of the "basic" versus "ultra-demanding on the power grid" packages, I couldn't keep myself from saying, "Honey, do you really think this will be fun? Wouldn't you rather get a craft kit? Or maybe a new book from the library?"

My daughter paused briefly, looked at me like I was speaking Swahili, and continued the discourse with her dad.

I tried again.

"In my day, we played after school. We'd ride our bikes, or talk with our friends. We had loads of fun without all this stuff."

Her look was long-suffering. Her words were respectful, "It's different now, Mom." But in her mind, I know she was thinking, "Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah."

And it was in that moment that I realized I was broadcasting from the far side of the great generational divide.

Now I've got to tell you, the experience left me with a whole bag of emotions.

First off, it made me feel very, very old. Hey, I'm a part of the Baby Boomer generation. We're not dictated to by standards, we set the standards. Don't we? But suddenly I realized that not only was my knowledge of the technological scene about as outdated as a blue polyester leisure suit, I was pretty limited in most other areas of current pop culture as well.

I fleetingly thought I could bone-up on the current trends of the day - a last, desperate gasp to be hip and in the know. But just the thought of the hours I'd have to invest in front of MTV, YouTube and reality shows wearied me to the bone and I had to sit down.

The whole experience left me feeling like I wanted to be with my own kind. I needed a glass of red wine, The Beatles in the background and a good session with my friends.

They'd commiserate and make me feel good. Heck, after two glasses of wine, we'd be sharing stories of stuffing our bras, debating who was cuter, Starsky or Hutch, and reminiscing about where we were when Neil Armstrong walked on the moon.

A lot has been said about the difficulty of being in the "sandwich generation". And I don't deny that on days like last Sunday, dealing with the younger generation is quite the trial. But I'm happy to report that I discovered some relief from the other half of the "sandwich" after my daughter had gone to bed.

My mother-in-law called to see how we were and when I relayed the details of our trip to the store, she launched into a monologue about the "right" way to raise children. I sat back and smiled because all I could hear was, "Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah."

Dang it feels good to be back on the other side.

The Best Kept Secret Blog - Dear Oprah Winfrey, Please Cut Me Some Slack

Dear Oprah,

How are you? I am fine. Well, actually, I'm not so fine considering I woke up with night sweats four times last night and my middle-aged eyes are so bad I can't read a blessed thing which is why I accidentally took the dog's medication instead of my thyroid pill.

But oh! Let me stop right there. Instead of flinging such negative karma to the universe, you would want me to choose gratitude for what comes my way. Therefore I declare that I am thankful that I will never have to endure the ravages of heart-worm.

I'm writing you today about last Thursday's show when you and your gal pal, Marianne Williamson asked us to embrace the miracle of aging.

Now Ms. Winfrey I try to do all the things that you say. Were it not for your book club, who knows what I would read. And how else would I refer to my va-jay-jay in public if it weren't for you spreading the word. All though I do wonder just why I want to be referring to my va-jay-jay at cocktail parties and such but not matter. I'm sure you'll have a friend on your show who will explain that to me too.

And speaking of your friends, I really must say I'm enjoying them all. Especially that cute Dr. Oz with his deep, probing questions. Gosh, when he wanted to know, "Do you ever sit back at night and think, 'Why do I have public hair?'" , I was ever so impressed. I had never considered that before.

If anything, I usually sit back at night, in the spare five minutes I have after the kids are in bed, the dog has been walked, the dishes are done and the e-mail's been checked and lapse into a comatose state. If ever I think of my pubic hair these days, it's to idly wonder if Lady Grecian makes a formula for the nether regions.

You and Miss Williamson (who is lovely by the way - kind of like a cross between Mary Ann from Gilligan's Island and Leona Helmsley) directed us viewers to believe that 50 and beyond will be the most miraculous time of our lives and I so want to believe!

But Ms. Winfrey there is one teeny, tiny thing niggling at the edge of my mind. I hate to bring it up, your Oprahness because I know what I project will ultimately come back but ma'am, what should we do about the parts of midlife that suck?

Don't get me wrong, I know that forty is fabulous and fifty is fearsome. But do I have to love everything that's happening to me now?

I know to look at the good side of things, really I do. I try to be happy when I notice my hair thinning. "It's not gone," I tell myself. "It's just moved." To my chin.

I'm trying to make the best of my hot flashes too. I'm Canadian. Surely the extra heat means I'll save on my winter wardrobe.

And when I can't read small print on prescriptions or pill bottles, I try to stay positive and just guess what to take. Golly, apart from that near fatal overdose, things have been fine.

I'm not just asking for myself Oprah. I'm thinking of my friends. Unlike you, we don't throw lavish parties where famous friends read us poetry. Our little get-togethers are modest affairs with bottles of moderately priced Merlot and lengthy discussions of our raging hormones, wayward teens and Betty the Cougar's affair with Alex the pool boy. We need to blow off a little steam.

So please Oprah Winfrey, please cut me some slack.