Filed under: Middle Age, Parenting | Tags: clothing, humor, Mammary Jack in the Box, Middle-Age, muffin top, Plato's Closet, southern, tank tops
There’s something about hitting your forties that stirs up a civil war inside your psyche, or at least it did for me. Part of me (a large part) is vain. I still strive to keep the muffin top from lopping completely over my waistband, I hide the gray streaks under a veneer of bleach, and I apply ridiculously over-priced creams to a face that I like to tell my kids shows “I had a fun life.” I go to the gym and flail around on the “I-limp-and-drool” every other day. I even have a pill tray so I can keep track of my vitamins, glucosamine, calcium and allergy meds. At least I’m not on the cholesterol/diabetes/heart medicine train just yet. And, for the most part, I’m pretty happy with how I look.
But I’m beginning to have some setbacks.
At the beginning of the summer I took my daughters to a consignment store called Plato’s Closet. This store is great, stocking name brand clothes for teenagers (and those hopeful they might still be able to wear them) at deeply discounted prices. In fact, I have gotten a few J.Crew and Banana Republic shirts there myself. This time, however, I made a grave mistake. I tried on the tank tops.
While my daughters flipped patiently among the racks, I snuck to the back of the store and spied several cute tank tops that weren’t too young, or too slutty, or splattered with Aeropostale across the front. With a gleam in my eye and a prance in my comfortable mom-approved New Balance sneakers, I dove into the changing room to try them on.
Guess what? They didn’t fit.
Shocker.
Apparently, the makers of teen-age tank tops long ago realized something I had not: Teen-age boobs are not located in the same place on your body as “I’ve had two kids” boobs. In fact, there is anywhere from a half-inch to a THREE-inch difference!
So, still innocent of this bitter pill I would soon have to swallow (right after I choke down another calcium pill because you have to take them three times a day), I tried pulling the tank tops down, only to have them ride up again until they looked like some awkward, Victorian-cut nightie. My boobs were happily bouncing beneath the seam, making me look like a dog who’s had a few too many puppies. So I tried another one that looked more forgiving. With a vague feeling of desperation I made one last try. I took each boob in hand and tried to tuck it into the empty space in the shirt where they should rest. They looked great until I moved, then out popped each one, like a crazy mammary Jack-in-the-Box.
And don’t get me started on the jeans! Thankfully I had sense enough to know they were never gonna fit my forty-year-old ass. I mean, look at how they fit on the teenagers. Low-rise waists can’t hide their hormone-in-the-chicken-and-milk muffin tops, and they certainly didn’t make the tramp stamp folded in half on their lower backs look any better, although I have to admit there is something mildly entertaining about trying to figure out what the stamp actually is when you can only see half of it. Half a butterfly or angel looks a lot like a “W”, which I assume stands for WIDE–hey, if the tattoo fits… Anyway, if fourteen-year-old girls can’t wear those jeans and look good, you know an ass that’s sunk two inches and flattened like a pancake isn’t going to fit.
But I took heart in knowing that:
a) Pretty soon I’ll be like my older brother and will just give up entirely (he admits this–this is not intended as an insult!). Then he won’t be able to make jokes about my not knowing what color my hair actually is.
b) I will never have to worry about whether I have on my good undies (you know, the ones where the elastic waistband is still covered by cotton) when I wear my mom-waisted jeans, and
c) I can afford to buy the good bras and Spanx that put everything (temporarily) where it should be. Deal with that, Teenagers Who Still Have To Bum Money Off Your Parents! I may not have your bodies, but I only have a few more years to fight the good fight. You’re just entering the ring.
Filed under: Middle Age | Tags: Blank Slate, humor, Katie Couric, red dress, southern, subourbonmom, The Bloggess
I was watching Katie Couric’s new show (self-named, of course), and marveling that she can still pull off wearing a super-tight, red dress. As I made snarky comments to myself about how the camera seemed to be carefully fuzzy around her face, I finally began listening to her chirpy voice. The guest Katie introduced was one of my favorite bloggers, The Bloggess (hysterically funny, when she’s not going all Oprah on us–check out the link). Apparently, The Bloggess found a way to pull herself up out of a deep depression by wearing an outrageous, fun red dress and having a photo shoot in a Texas graveyard. In the spirit of the Traveling Pants, she then decided to pay it forward and send the dress on to others who might need the lift. The dress and others like it has gone around the world, helping women get through their personal dark times.
Being loud and flamboyant, I don’t think just wearing a red dress would do it for me, no matter what the symbolism is. So I started to think about what it would take to remind me of who I am after wife, mother and teacher. In other words, when was I most, well, ME?
My immediate thought was college, because I was still all the “-uns:” un-married, un-employed, and un-taxed.The only thing I had to do was learn; everything else was gravy. So naturally, I spent an enormous amount of time playing practical jokes on people, drinking gallons of Beast and choosing the easiest Minor (women’s studies). One of the jokes we did a lot was to put an inappropriate book (i.e. Lesbian Ethics) in someone’s backpack, watch them get caught going through the detectors and have their bag searched at the front desk. So I thought maybe sending that book would be inspirational to those in their darkest times (Hey, no one said I was the brightest bulb in the bunch). I quickly discarded that idea, realizing that many, many people of all persuasions would be offended by getting a book with that title. So, I thought maybe an empty can of Beast, but declined for the same reason.
I decided to go back even farther….I think you’re the most free when you’re about 10 years old. Back in the day, you could roam the neighborhood for hours, only coming home at dusk when your mom would yell, or ring the bell, or do whatever your family’s signal was. You could build stuff and get cut, scratched and bruised without the world coming to an end. You were only dimly aware of responsibility, racism, world events and the vast future that lay before you. But what symbol to use for such freedom? My “blankie?”–too young. My Big Wheel–too bulky to mail.
Then it came to me. The answer wasn’t beer, toys or clothes–it was nothing. I know that for me to be free I need to be naked. Clothes, no matter how well-intended, always say something about you–where you’ve been (“I LOVE NY”), your job, your interests, your sense of humor, where you shop/your spending habits, etc. By shedding my clothes I could be me…and that means all the parts of me now. I want to go to a nude beach and walk around in the sun, letting it kiss the parts that are so white they look like a white bikini. I want to feel my drooping breasts bounce as I walk, and feel the muffin top I can’t get rid of jiggle. I want to feel the sand squish between my toes, and the salty air lift my hair so that the gray underneath sees the light of day. Most of all I want to feel weightless–not a mom, not a wife, not a teacher, not a daughter or sister or friend. Just me, the way I came into the world–a blank slate.
Ok, a much bigger blank slate.
So just imagine, all you soul-searchers out there just dying to be free of your life for a few minutes. It’s time to take them off. Walk around your house if you can’t go outside. Make sure the family isn’t there–this is definitely a by-yourself-thing. And you’re probably banking a lot of therapy hours for your kids already, so why add more?
Feel the air, open a window and stand just out of view–the breeze will still get you.
The best part of doing this is you can pay it forward by telling someone else about it. No post office fees, no badly-fitting dress to hem or take in.
Just you.
Naked.
Blank slate.
Filed under: Middle Age | Tags: menopause, shopping, southern, subourbonmom, walmart
So the other day I went into Walmart, a store that I loathe and desperately need at the same time. And while I go to ridiculous lengths to avoid times when I know the Creepers are going to be there, I recently encountered a new species of person to avoid: the Menopausal Woman.
Now, to be fair, I am on the cusp of becoming one of these creatures. In fact, most of the women I work with are in various stages of morphing: there is a constant battle going on over the temperature and caffein intake in our office, as well as constant discussion about why the “muffin top” won’t go away no matter how many sit-ups we do. There is also very little sleeping going on. Many of my co-workers FaceBook each other at 3:00am because they are awake for no apparent reason.
So imagine my surprise, when I have paused during my stroll (okay, pushing cart quickly, jaw jutting, not looking right or left so as to avoid getting sucked into buying shoes that I know will blister my feet, but OMG they’re only $5!), down the aisles at the pajama section, and I suddenly realize my cart is gone. Not only is it gone, but my purse, cell phone and 20 cans of dog food went with it.
I know, I know, we’ve all been told not to leave our carts unattended, and to keep our purses on our bodies. But this is Southern Suburbia, the insulated tin of Cream Cheese America! I felt naked (no purse or cell phone) and stupid, turning in circles, stalking around the pajama racks as if I am looking for something to buy and not frantically wondering how long I’ve been wandering around without my cart and where the Hell did I put it, anyway?
Finally realizing someone has walked off with my things, I faced a dilemma: Do I
a) find an employee and tell them I lost my cart somewhere between the shoes (yes, I stopped) and the pajama section, and face their looks of pity,
b) borrow someone’s phone to call my husband to come get me and admit I’m too stupid to shop at Walmart, or
c) cruise around the store looking for the perpetrator, wasting valuable time when the professionals could be catching him/her?
Of course, I picked C.
Four aisles over, I spot her: Menopausal Woman, quilted purse slung over her shoulder, staring at her list with a pencil in her teeth. I cautiously approached, experience having told me never to startle such a creature, and said, “Excuse me, M’am, but I think you have my cart.”
Menopausal Woman looked with confusion at the piles of dog food, cat food and $50 worth of toiletries (more on that later), and turned about eight shades of red.
“Oh my Gawd, what is wrong with me?” she exclaimed.
We laughed it off and I took my cart back, chuckling to myself and feeling superior. About three minutes later, I see Menopausal Woman sidling up to me again.
“Excuse me, M’am,” she said, her face a bright fuchsia. “Where exactly did I steal your cart? I still can’t find mine!”
I answered her, knowing that someday I will be Menopausal Woman. The signs are all there: I walk into rooms and have no idea why; my rear end is no longer the coldest thing in our bedroom; I have been known to stand in the grocery store parking lot and have no idea where I parked. So, I took this as a sign: be nice, for you shall reap what you sow.
Now, off to Starbucks for my $3 hit of caffein. I didn’t sleep well last night.
I’m in my forties, and things just don’t work the same anymore. As in, try going running with your 14-year-old daughter and see how humiliating that is. However, there are a few of cool things that come with being 40-something: first, you tend to know exactly what you want (a man with a 20-year-old-body and a 45-year-old brain); second, if there’s something you want, you’re usually no longer afraid to ask for it (“Yes, Waiter, I do want my steak cooked medium-well, and I don’t care what the chef thinks about that”); and third, if there’s something you really need, chances are that by now you can probably afford some version of it (a smooth bourbon and gingerale on a hot summer’s day–but I’ve been known to settle for warm beer and cheap pinot grigio).
That said, there are some expenses I’ve decided are worth it:
1. A good dye-job;
2. Membership at a gym (disguises hot flashes and you can hone your secret search for the elusive 20/45-year-old combination)
3. Underwear that fits, no matter how much it grosses out the kids (or Hubby)
4. Sunscreen (Yes, Dr. H, I was listening as you scraped off yet another questionable mole)
5. A good bed
Most of that is self-explanatory, except maybe the last one. But believe me, I think a good bed could put a lot of marriage counselors out of business.
In college, where Hubby and I met, we were happy to sleep together on twin beds (sorry Mom, it’s true). When we got married, we bought a queen–we were officially grown-ups! But when we moved to a king, well, that was Nirvana.
And yet…Hubby still managed to sleep diagonally, forcing me to curl into the fetal position all night. Later, after the kids were born, my back started hurting (go figure). For the next five, years Hubby and I spent each Saturday flipping the mattress, trying to make it comfortable (Hubby could sleep in a bowl of jello and be comfortable).
One day, we were walking through the mall when Hubby grabbed my hand and dragged me into the Sleep Number Store. Missing the shopping gene entirely, all I wanted to do was try a couple of mattresses so we could go to the cheaper places where there weren’t teenagers reeking of DIRK, or whatever the latest flavor of cologne was. Instead, and hour and a half later, we walked out having purchased a $4000 marriage-saving piece of furniture.
According to their machine in the store that measures pressure points when you lay down, Hubby likes sleeping in a hammock (#35), while I like something resembling plywood (#60). Our other mattress was definitely in the hammock category.
So we got the thing installed and marveled at how much better we were sleeping. Even The Dog was grateful (also a hammock sleeper). But there were added bonuses that I’m sure the company can’t/won’t advertise:
1. The diagonal sleeper can’t cross over to the other side without sinking or raising their legs above the level of their head.
2. There is a secret joy in annoying your spouse by inflating/deflating their side of the bed right before they crawl in. It’s a small thing, but sometimes it eliminates the need for words you might regret later.
3. If you sleep on the harder side, your spouse must first climb out of the ravine in order to approach you. There’s no sneaking a quick squeeze without causing a 6.0 earthquake, and it prevents overuse of the “I have a headache” excuse.
4. You can inflate the bed to rock-hard status for better sex. This is helpful because, let’s face it, none of us have the abs and back muscles we used to!
Yes, my world changed for the better with our acquisition. I am happy. Hubby is happy. Even The Dog is happy. Now if that gym membership would just get me those abs back…
Subourbon Mom 