Filed under: Exercise, Middle Age | Tags: adulthood, Beauty, Botox, humor, menopause, Middle-Age, mom, parenting, plastic surgery
Like many women, I have toyed with the idea of “getting some work done.” There are so many options available! You can inject things into your face to get rid of the wrinkles. You can make your lips fatter, your bottom rounder and your thighs skinnier. You can even take fat from one part of your body and put it somewhere else. But none of those things has ever really appealed to me. I have found a much cheaper way to make myself feel better about the toll time has taken on my face and body.
I recently heard a speech/performance by Canadian poet Shane Koyczan, about bullying (you can watch it by following the link at the end of the post.) There were many phrases and ideas of his that resonated with me, but the one I want to share is…
“If you can’t find something beautiful about yourself, get a better mirror.”
So I did.
My new mirror isn’t anything special. I got it at the Dollar Store for, well, a dollar. It has a white plastic rim, and for the moment, doesn’t have any water or toothpaste splotches. The glass doesn’t really magnify anything, but it did show me some things in a much different light.
The crow’s feet around my eyes come from years of squinting at diamonds on turquoise seas and Virginia mountain sunrises, and from searching for the Daughters #1 & #2 as they shot a goal or cantered over a jump.
The bump on my nose that makes my glasses lopsided is a reminder of my love of sports, although playing soccer might not have been one of my better choices (I broke my nose by kicking the ball into my own face. Try it at home—I dare you). Running, jumping, kicking and throwing—what a way to celebrate the body I was given!
The wrinkles on my forehead are the marks of a mother who worries about her family—are they doing okay in school? Will we have enough money for college? Do I still make Hubby happy? It is a miracle to have those things to worry about. Why would I erase them?
Even the wrinkles on my upper lip are testimony to the years of clamping my mouth shut in twenty years of marriage. I finally learned that not every opinion needs to be voiced—even though mine is usually better.
The freckles and age spots on my hands come from hours of driving my children to and from school as we talked about our day, from driving across country with Hubby, and riding horses as often as I could. Sure, I could get them lasered off, but why? I don’t want to look like I never had any adventures.
My hips and stomach are no longer flat or small. They shifted and made room for two daughters. No, I don’t have the body of a twenty-year-old anymore—I have the body of a mother, of someone who has survived my babies’ colic, teething, first steps, tantrums, first day of school, and first dates.
None of this is to say I’ve totally accepted this body I’m living in. I still highlight my hair every two months to cover up the gray, and I struggle to fit into jeans that I probably shouldn’t. But when the mirror on the wall in my bathroom isn’t making me happy, I try to remember to get the other one out, the one that says “You’re beautiful because of those lines, and wrinkles and sagging parts. They are the result of living your life, of all the things that have made you who you are.”
The erosion of the walls of the Colorado River could have been viewed as a tragic invasion of pristine countryside—instead, we now see the Grand Canyon as a wonder of the world. Why can’t our bodies be the same?
To see Shane’s performance, go to www.ShaneKoyczan.com.
Filed under: Middle Age, Misc. Humor | Tags: Food, humor, menopause, Middle-Age, mom, shopping
Recently, I showed Daughter #2 a sign I saw on FaceBook that said, “There should be a line in the grocery store for people who have their shit together.” She laughed, then looked me dead in the eye and asked, “Which line would we be in, Mom?”
Ah, from the mouths of babes. Ok, from the mouths of sarcastic 13-year-olds. Lately, I’ve been feeling quite superior during my shopping trips (see previous blog about dressing for shopping success), even allowing myself to make some snarky internal comments about people who still pay for groceries with a check…in the express lane.
Then there’s the whole karma thing again.
The other day, I took my load of groceries to the check-out line, put them all on the conveyor belt and remembered I needed to go find a chocolate bunny to give someone as a thank you. So I left my things on the belt, took the cart and browsed for about ten minutes in the Easter aisle. When I looked down I had no idea where my stuff was.
I stood there for at least twenty seconds drawing a complete blank, when suddenly I remembered—I’d left it on the conveyor belt in the check-out line! I grabbed my cart and chocolate bunny and dashed back to the line, which was—shocker—empty. The twenty-year-old cashier was just staring at me as if I’d sprouted another arm out of my eye socket.
Not sure if I was blushing or having a hot flash, I fanned my face and gasped, “I am so sorry! I don’t know what’s wrong with me!” I’m pretty sure the teenaged bagger was smirking.
I think there should be a designated line in every store for middle-aged women. It would be long, because there are lots of us, and we’re always running back because we forgot something—usually the list we wrote to remind us not to forget anything. The line would have a bin of “found” reading glasses to use or reclaim at the front of it, and a coffee dispenser at the end–your reward for making it through. There would also be a sensor telling you when you’ve walked away after paying and left your bags sitting on the counter.
Clearly, I will never be in the line for “people who have their shit together.” Those days disappeared the day I had Daughter #1. But I still haven’t made it to the “still pays with a check in the express lane” group either.
Filed under: Middle Age, Parenting | Tags: adulthood, aging, elderly, family, growing old, humor, memory, menopause, Middle-Age, mom, parenting, parents, south, southern
I remember the day I was with my kids in an antique shop, and I had to explain what a typewriter was and how it worked. They were interested for about twenty seconds, and then I heard myself droning on and on and on, like all older people do when they get a chance to reminisce about “The Good Ol’ Days.”
When I mentioned this incident to some friends, we began talking about the things that we will one day start doing to our kids to drive them crazy. So, while drinking our coffee on the deck at some un-Godly hour in the morning (because that’s when us Middle-Aged people get up now), we made a list of things to remember as we approach The Golden Years:
1. Make sure you have a hobby and stay busy. It will help keep your mind alert, and it will help keep you from driving the rest of your family crazy.
2. Go out and make new stories so you’re not telling the same ones over and over. It’s ok to tell the same family history stories over and over again—especially if you’re Southern. That’s how family legends are born. But make sure you have new ones, too. Otherwise, you’ll become one of those crazy legends. (I suppose that’s not half-bad, either–at least they’ll remember you).
3. Keep a list by the phone of things you want to discuss with people. When they return your call, you’ll have a better chance of remembering why you called them in the first place.
4. Don’t wear Velcro shoes. Those are for preschoolers ONLY.
5. Don’t talk about your sex life. Nobody wants that mental image.
6. Label the furniture and knick-knacks in your house. If it has a story behind it, write that down, too. Let your heirs know why it’s in your house in the first place, and maybe it’ll end up in theirs instead of an estate sale.
7. Clip your fingernails and toenails—enough said.
8. Make it a regular practice of being fully clothed during the day. Nobody wants a preview of what’s to come.
9. Admit you really can’t hear/see/remember things. Don’t try to work through them. In the words of Clint Eastwood, “improvise—adapt–overcome.” Get a hearing aid/glasses/notepad. (Refer to #3 if you forgot)
10. Stop trying to convince yourself that the Darth Vader wrap-around glasses are cool. They’re not.
11. Trim ear/nose/eyebrow hair. No one likes hanging out with a living chia pet. Grandchildren can help you with this. They love scissors.
12. Help protect the environment—turn down the heat and put on more clothes. Just because you’re almost done with the environment doesn’t mean the rest of us are.
Feel free to add to my list in the comments. Now, I’m going to post this list somewhere important, like next to my pill-a-day box. Then, I’m going to try to remember where I put the remote and turn up the t.v. I’ll bet it’s somewhere near the phone.
Filed under: Middle Age | Tags: Christmas, clothing, dress, family, humor, Lowes, malls, menopause, Middle-Age, mom, shopping, south, southern, subourbonmom, success, walmart
Maybe you’ve heard the saying, “Dress for the job you want.” Well, I am a firm believer in dressing for the help you want when shopping. If you dress like a tired mom in stained sweat pants and unwashed hair, see how many sales people come up and offer to assist you. You’ll be leper in the middle of J.Crew, all alone somewhere in the sale section. However, if you dress in a way that says you’re ready to buy, and that you have the money to do it, things are vastly different.
A few of weeks ago, I dressed for a day of shopping at the mall, in my good skinny jeans and a sweater that covers up those saddlebags that no amount of leg lifts will eliminate. I even had makeup on because, let’s face it— women dress for each other when they shop, not for the men. Sorry guys, but it’s true. At the clubs it’s a different story—we’re all about you (just keep nodding and smiling, ladies—they don’t know!).
The first stop that day was Lowes, a store I feel lost in the minute I step through the doors. The signs are hung too high, and nothing is organized the way I would do it. Who puts storage stuff behind the gardening stuff? It should go somewhere in the house section.
But I digress…so I walked in, feeling like a delicate daffodil among the burly men prowling the aisles. There were a couple of other women there, too, and I’m sure they were doing something admirable, like fixing the drywall in their kids’ playroom. But I was heading to the mall afterward, and had dressed for the Nordstroms dress section, not the Lowes drill press section.
Eventually, I found the enormous storage box I was looking for. A male employee about my age (we’ll just smile and call it 30) said he would carry the box to the checkout counter for me. Flexing his muscles, he marched the box past two lines of at least 6 irritated people, and opened a new register just for me. I could feel resentment drilling into my back from the other customers. I never did get his name to give to the manager, but maybe that was a good thing. I think he might have gotten in trouble.
A week later, I had to go to Lowes again to make a return. Again, I was looking decent—ok, maybe it’s a subconscious thing—I dress well when I know I’m going into the giant man cave. I made my return, and immediately tried to exit through the ENTER door.
I walked into it.
That’s right, I walked into the door at Lowes.
I stood there for a moment until my menopause brain eventually noticed the backwards ENTER letters. To my shame, as I turned to go out the actual EXIT, a male employee came over and said, “Here, ma’am, let me help you.” He pushed open the ENTER door for me, like I was Cleopatra, and I waltzed through as if nothing had happened. Maybe it was pity for my blatantly blonde moment, but I’m telling you, dressing for the service you want really works.
Now, if I had watched someone like me walk into the ENTER door, I would have rolled on the floor laughing.
The only store I have found where this strategy doesn’t work is Wal-Mart. No matter what you look like, what language you speak or what expression you have on your face, the employees always treat you the same—like cattle going through the chute. But in a way, that’s ok. There’s no pressure. I can go in there at 7:30 a.m., wearing my ridiculous sequined Christmas tree shirt that I break out once a year for the program at school, or I can be in a cocktail dress getting a last minute hostess gift (i.e. cheap bottle of wine), and I get the same treatment.
I’m anonymous, and I love it. Wal-Mart may be a lot of things, but it is definitely the great equalizer.
Every woman wants their Pretty Woman moment—they want to walk into a store that previously shunned them, and get fawned over when the sales people realize she’s now the real deal. If you want that moment, I suggest starting off small, like in a Lowes or Home Depot. Dress in your “I’ve-lost-all-hope-stay-at-home-mom clothes one day,” and then in your Spanx, good shirt and jeans, and supportive bra, and see what happens.
And don’t forget to say as you leave, “Big mistake. Huge. I have to go shopping now.”
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.
Subourbon Mom 