Wolf Whistles

I got my first wolf whistle in over 30 years yesterday. You remember them don't you? You were young, strolling down the street on a sunny day, your long, straight hair flying. I was a teenager of the 70's - half the time we were hippies wearing striped bell bottom pants with bright, tight fitting t’s, the other half we were “staying alive” with over permed hair, sporting long, robe-liked dark sweaters over either our neon minis or staid colored midi skirts, tripping over our two inch curly cued platform shoes.

Out of the blue, a low long deep whistle. At first your brain doesn’t even register it. Let’s face, I’m way over 40, I’ve gone through 3 pregnancies from hell, gray is becoming my favorite color. Added to the mix, I’ve turned into an alien, the strange pale blue JustJoan creature without eyebrows staring back at me every morning in the mirror. Life has changed me, cancer has changed me. As the T.V. got bigger, better and wider, the willowy waif grew to a sturdy savvy earth mother business woman. Triple iced caramel macchiato drinks were my best friends. But along came cancer, changing how I ate, how I drank, even how I looked. My skin became scaly lizard like hide. The “Chemo Diet” wasted away pounds of flesh off of my legs, face and hips (thank god). Hair had been cut off, some recycled in the compost pile, some in smooth red braids stored away in plastic bags that are taken out from time to time to remember. But time has passed and I have changed.

Whistle, whistle, where did that come from? When I was 16 years old, the only whistles I got were accompanied with, “hey dreamboat, not you shipwreck”. Juvenile, yes, but back then boys were pigs and girls were giggly. This was a man’s whistle, deep, low and appreciating wide. Where was I, I was out in the sunshine trying to warm up, my mind full of past due projects still undone, business calls needing to be dialed. As, I continue to go through my chemo I suffer from painful neuropathy in my extremities, while it may be 80 degree dripping hot weather, my hands and feet feel like they are wrapped in freezing cold ice blocks. I seek heat wherever I can find it, warm towels fresh from hot dryers wrapped around my hands, to standing barefooted on steamy black asphalt.

I come out of my business fog and look it around. The whistle had come from a burly, shy, man’s man not known for compliments let alone whistles. I was dressed in dark baggy jeans, two sizes smaller than I used to wear. Lopsided chest, hidden by sleeveless bright t’s over t’s under a short dark bolero sweater. Short spiky grey (perhaps copper colored – I’m hoping but may be just wishful thinking) hair, with long dripping earrings that I flap around and pretend to be my long hair. I look up to see my co-worker and friend bounding up the stairs. He stops and I see he means it and for one bright moment, the world is just perfect and I am beautiful. We both laugh and follow each other into cube world back to our busy little lives.

I continue to write about the goods, but feel the bads may be coming out. There is so much pain, both physically and mentally. But the time is not now…….now it’s a nice memory to know that I was beautiful for a moment.