Filed under: Food/Drink, Middle Age, Misc. Humor | Tags: Food, health, self-care, stress, winter
Morning Me (and by morning, I mean 6:00am) is half-asleep, full of optimism, lists and plans to eat fruits and vegetables all day. I’ve scheduled my water and stretching breaks from the computer. Sometimes I even decide to skip a shower so I can have some extra time to write my stories before the real world starts intruding. In my mind, I’m sitting by the window, calmly sipping a cup of coffee, musing about what my latest characters are doing, or what the next blog topic will be.
I’m also feeling pretty superior to, well, everyone because I have control of my life. I’m ready for anything.
And then one or all of these things happen:
- I realize it’s winter, and I still have the upstairs thermometer set to FRIGID because I’m 50. I know I’ll have to sprint to the bathroom to take a shower to warm up, or put on my new Comfy (a Snuggie on steroids) that I got for Christmas and hope I don’t have any zoom calls later. I am not molting back into human form once the Comfy is on.
- I make the mistake of reading the news on my phone. Then, because I’m disgusted by the partisan slant, I read the BBC news to get a more balanced view. This is followed by a quick check of what’s new on FaceBook Marketplace, because who doesn’t love thrifting from their bed? Suddenly it’s 8:00 and there’s no way I’m taking a shower now because… I’m adulting.
- I step out of bed and realize I didn’t do my stretches the day before and my feet are acting up again. There’s no way I’m going for that early morning walk. Now I have to take a shower to loosen up my feet and leg muscles, but by the time I’m done with the shower, I’ve already had two freak-outs about work or something else in my life, and that picture of coffee sipping by the window isn’t even a distant memory anymore.
Afternoon Me, or Monster Me, is like Dr. Jekyll to my morning Mr. Hyde (or is it the other way around?). Afternoon Me has changed into sweats. Afternoon Me’s styled morning hair has been yanked back into a ponytail with a scrunchy from 1988, because I realized on a video call that I need a haircut and a dye job. There are three half-empty cups of coffee on the windowsill and zero glasses of water. I’ve eaten a bologna sandwich at my desk with a side of cookies. Afternoon Me has gone from planning to sip coffee by the window to planning to drink a (large) glass of wine and declare it’s Cereal Night. Again.
I don’t know about you, but despite Afternoon Me’s ragged appearance and snarky mood, I still have hope. All is not lost because, if it was, I wouldn’t be Morning Me at all.
So, here’s to all the Morning Me’s out there and all they represent for us. May your Morning Me always be there for you.
Filed under: Exercise, Middle Age | Tags: aerobics, Exercise, humor, pandemic, pool, quarantine
Like a lot of people, I’ve gained some anxiety pounds during this pandemic, even though I have all the means I need to eat less/better and get more exercise. For the last week or so I’ve been staring at my flapping arm wings and the growing tire around my tummy while drinking wine and eating jalapeno poppers like it’s the end of the world (if you watch the news every night, that’s exactly what it feels like).
I knew I had to do something when my sports bras started making it hard to breathe, causing me to question if I have the “‘rona”, until I remember it’s just that extra layer of fat squeezing into the modern-day corset causing the issue. For more on sports bras, read “Sports Bra Removal – The Struggle is Real.”
Even my exercise shorts, designed to be stretchy and provide lots of leg room, were cutting into my stomach and making my muffin top flop over and nestle against my also-tighter workout shirt. I basically feel like a moon pie that’s being held too tightly.
One of my Quaran-Tuck It List items is to start doing an exercise regimen in my pool. I’m lucky enough to have one, so I should get my butt in there and use it, right? I downloaded a couple of YouTube pool exercise videos and started doing them yesterday.
That shit HURTED! (To quote Daughter #2)
I had forgotten how hard it is to run around a pool while swooshing your arms and pretending you’re doing certain dance moves under water. That night I was sore and tired, but that means it’s working, so I’m going to keep it up.
But here are a few tips for those of you who might want to try the same thing:
- Check your dignity at the door. You’re going to look ridiculous, even if it’s in your backyard. If you can, get a friend to do it with you – then you have blackmail on each other.
- Make sure your bathing suit fits snugly – that 3-year-old Target suit isn’t gonna cut it. I had on my old bikini bottoms, and they were so loose that they kept making a THWOCKA THWOCKA sound every time I jumped around as they scooped up water like a sail, smacking it against my back. It was so loud I couldn’t hear the instructions, and I had to keep stopping and pulling them up again.
- Make sure you’re standing in the right water depth – a couple of times I slipped on the ledge going to the deep end and went under. Again, check your dignity at the door.
- Don’t try to watch the videos on your cell phone at the edge of the pool. It’s really hard to flap your arms around effectively while squinting at the lady in the video, and also not get your phone wet. I suggest you watch the videos a couple of times and write down the exercises on a piece of paper that you can prop up somewhere – for those of you 40 or older, make it BIG.
- Wear water shoes if you have them – nobody wants those weird red sores from the bottom of the pool on your toes – people will think you have COVID-toes.
Even if you don’t have this on your Quaran-Tuck It List, go ahead and make one. It’ll help you focus…but be realistic. “Have sex with Brad Pitt” is not realistic; however, “Dream about having sex with Brad Pitt” is certainly an achievable goal.
What’s on your list?
Here are the videos I was using (thank God at least one of those women isn’t a 20-year-old in great shape!):
Filed under: Middle Age, Parenting | Tags: adulting, family, health, menopause, menstruation, mental health, Middle-Age, relationships, women's health
Women of a certain age joke about menopause all the time.
“If I had a dollar for every time I get distracted, I wish I had some ice cream.”
“I don’t have hot flashes, I have short, tropical vacations.”
“Menopause – it’s a thin line between love and homicide.”
This happens…that stops happening … and thank God THAT doesn’t happen anymore (you can Google the symptoms – it’s not secret knowledge, despite what our mothers’ generation thought). I always thought that knowing those things made me have a pretty good handle on it, mentally. My kids are grown and I’m definitely ready to kiss the whole period/PMS thing goodbye.
So, when mine stopped happening, I diligently started counting down the months until the magical 12-month mark with no period – then it would become official. I’d be in a new stage of life that didn’t involve trips to the store because I ran out of tampons and packing extra underwear to take to work and on vacations (just in case). I was looking forward to emotional stability, sleeping through the night and becoming the wise old matriarch I am destined to be. I was even getting used to this new, fatty swim ring permanently hanging over the top of my pants, no matter how many sit-ups I did.
And then, at 11 months and 3 weeks – I got it again.
Are you freaking kidding me?
I was at the finish line, looking official Middle Age in the face and she laughed, said “Bitch, please,” and drew another 365-day line in the sand.
A couple of nights later (and one emergency trip to CVS for supplies), I dreamed I was pregnant (I’m not). And in that dream, I was very upset. I cried and wept, feeling angry and betrayed and trapped. I remember wailing “I don’t want to be 70 when my kid graduates college!”
It took me a few days to process what was happening with that dream. I finally realized that even though my body decided to have a last laugh or last gasp, whichever way you want to look at it, in my mind I had already moved on. I’ve raised my two wonderful daughters and experienced the joys and agony of watching them go through the ages and stages. I am ready to start a new phase of life.
That’s something the OBGYN, memes, Facebook and even your friends probably don’t talk about – the mental and emotional adjustment of menopause. I’m sure most women feel it is liberating, devastating, or some combination of the two, but we just don’t talk about that part of it.
Memes are way funnier, let’s be honest.
But eventually you either embrace or resent this new phase of life, this new you. You come to terms with it, or if you don’t, society will most likely not be very kind to you. There will be a lot of pursed lips and head shaking when you show up in your Daisy Dukes, 4-inch wedges and bikini top at age 60, no matter how in shape you think you are.
On the surface I was annoyed, but deep down getting my period again shook the fragile estrogen bridge (made of HRT pills and a secret stash of Midol) I was clinging to, as I tried to cross the chasm between youth and middle-age.
When I look behind, I see a thinner version of me chasing my children, arranging play dates, juggling work and parenting and a busy social life, and generally burning the candle at both ends without a thought. I see Hubby working hard and picking up the slack, leaping into the chaos when he got the opportunity, and juggling the same crazy things. It’s a busy, almost frantic life back there, and I get tired just watching them. When I look forward, I can see the other side, at least what we’re told is there: great, worry-free sex, wisdom, acceptance of certain physical flaws and changes that actually celebrate the life of a woman. I see Hubby and I standing together watching our girls make their own way in the world, their own families, their own memories. I see us figuring out this new existence together and connecting in a new way. I see us being the team we were in the beginning.
And I realize that I’m looking forward to getting over this bridge, despite the bottles of Aleve, the moments of missing what used to be, and the memory losses that are already starting to peek around the corner at me.
So, another 365-day countdown begins. Now, if only I could remember where I put my calendar….
Filed under: Middle Age, Parenting | Tags: adulating, college, college life, kids, raising kids, school, university, venmo
As a parent, you know when your kid goes off to college to live in the petri dish they call a dorm, there will be times when they have to “adult,” like making doctor’s appointments or figuring out how to get to Target because because, God forbid, they can’t have a car on campus Freshman year. What we didn’t realize was that all of these things would be documented in Venmo, the payment app.
You can parent your college kids however you want to, but one of our decisions was to let both of our kids charge Uber and Safety rides to our cards, so that they never felt like they had to get in a car with someone who’d been drinking so they could get home.
They used it. A LOT.
(And we were glad.)
We also allowed them to ASK for help when they needed it, like for doctor’s appointments and things that normally wouldn’t be in their budgets. But what we didn’t count on, but were happy to pay for (mostly), were the MANY charges from multiple trips to urgent care, Target and CVS for medicines….and many other “necessary” items.
Since her year got cut short, I thought i would share this little financial diary. For so many reasons I’m sad that her and her sister’s years were cut short…and one reason is because I will miss these entertaining requests:
And then there are the requests for daily living, because adulting is expensive:
Welcome to adulthood, young lady.
And welcome home. 🙂
Filed under: Middle Age, Misc. Humor | Tags: dermatology, doctor, medical, medicine, plastic surgery, skin cancer
Like many middle-aged women I know, I recently had to get yet another piece of my face removed because I used to lay out on the roof with tanning oil, sauteing myself for future meals made of wrinkles and regrets.
This time, however, it was a basal-cell something or other, and not just a precursor to skin cancer. And, since I’m vain and didn’t want my dermatologist to cut a Franstein-looking chunk out of my face in an effort that may or may not get it all, I opted for undergoing the MOH procedure. In the MOH procedure, the dermatologist/plastic surgeon numbs you up, cuts one layer at a time, bandages you, tests it to see if they got it all (this takes about 2 hours per slice), and repeats the process until they know it’s all gone. This can potentially take all day. It has something like a 99% removal success rate, and these surgeons also tend to leave less scarring.
The process for me was a one-shot deal – we didn’t have to repeat the excision, and it was pain-free. However, there were a couple of things I didn’t anticipate:
First, HOLY SHIT WAS IT EXPENSIVE!! Even with insurance…so investigate before you get your vanity on.
Second, I was the youngest person there by 30 years. The only people my age were the ones helping out their parents for the day. I felt like a toddler.
Third, it looked like a Leper colony had taken up residence in the waiting room. These folks didn’t just have a cute little bandage on the sides of their faces like I did. The men had great, whopping bandages covering their ears, like old, weather-beaten Princess Leah drag queens.
And/or they had giant bandages over their noses and on top of their heads. It was like sitting in the aftermath of the best geriatric bar brawl ever. (I’d post pictures but HIPPA frowns on that, so I didn’t take any. You can Google it, but it’s pretty gross.)
And finally, I had no idea what getting your face stitched up feels like. For the record, it’s weird, and I felt like I looked like Heath Ledger’s Joker afterward (it actually looked pretty good). Since mine was by my ear on my jawline, the internal stitches were deep and right by the jaw hinge. As the doctor was tying the internal stitches, it didn’t hurt, but I could feel her tugging hard – MY WHOLE FACE MOVED.
I finally had to say something: “You know that’s my face you’re pulling on, right?” She replied, “Yep. It’s the face lift you never wanted.” To which I said, “Well, just make sure it’s even.” Afterward, I has to ask: “So is that my future sitting out there? I’m not a big Princess Leah fan.”
“Oh honey, no,” she said. “Those are the guys who’ve had a bump on their nose or scabs on their ears for years, and finally decided it’s not a cut or a bug bite. or their wives finally made them come in. You come in every year, so you’ll be fine.”
You can imagine my relief…so consider this your Public Service Announcement: Go to your dermatologist, even if you think you don’t need to. Chances are you won’t need to have this procedure done, but let’s face it – not everyone can look as beautiful as Ingrid Bergman with a face bandage.
Subourbon Mom 