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, Spring Break | Tags: Atlantis Resort, Bahamas, clothing, Dancing, family, fashion, humor, Middle-Age, parenting, Spring Break, teenagers, teens, travel, Victoria's Secret
Ahhh…the human mating ritual, commonly known as Spring Break, has begun. For those high school seniors lucky enough to be able to flee the cold and go somewhere warm, bathing suits are agonized over, spray tans are purchased, and cheesy, I-think-this-is-what-grown-ups-wear-at-night-in-bars-clothing is packed.
I recently spent a week at the Atlantis Resort for my teenaged daughters’ Spring Break. While my kids are not even close to being eighteen and they weren’t eligible to drink, I saw many who were, and it made me realize one very, very important thing:
There is NO WAY my kids are going to a resort for Spring Break when they’re eighteen, at least not without my being there.
I also learned several other things:
- Spring Break at a beach resort is a Victoria’s Secret marketer’s Nirvana. Everywhere we looked during the day, there were bathing suits and cover-ups from the catalog, as well as the requisite Aviators and Ray Bans. At night, herds of 18-20 year-olds wandered through the casino wearing in-style shorty-shorts with super-high heeled wedges, looking like preschoolers playing dress-up. However, unlike the models in the catalogs, most of the teenage girls were not an emaciated 5’8”; they were pasty white (or white with red sunburn blotches), and lurched around like giraffes in those ridiculous shoes.
- I have no desire to wear anything from the Victoria’s Secret catalog ever again.
- I am proud of my ability to manage a buzz (after years of practice). In years past, I would have watched with perverse admiration as a guy upended a Grey Goose bottle and chugged away. This time, all I could think was, “Dude, you’re just gonna hurl on the next girl you dance with. Good luck with that.”
- I enjoy the fact that I can walk into a casino and out of it again without blowing a ton of money on the tables, or my dinner on the carpet.
- The amount of material that passes for a bikini these days could be purchased in the Band-Aid section of a pharmacy. Before we left, I spent some time outside the Target dressing rooms, waiting for my girls to find something we could agree on. I eventually buried my hypocrisy, realized there aren’t any bottoms that cover enough to make me happy, and choked back a “Hell no, you’re not going out like that!” I shouldn’t have worried. Compared to many of the girls I saw at the resort, my daughters and their friends looked like nuns.
- I have new appreciation for the tankini, especially when riding in a tube in the Lazy River. Those who are brave enough to wear a bikini top risk becoming the newest super hero: UnderBoob, as the top tends to ride up unexpectedly. There is also less risk of leaving a layer of sunburned skin on the tube when you’ve been in it for as while.
- Hip-hop music is addicting, no matter how old you are.
- Bourbon is a great lubricant for dancing–however, 40-year-old knees don’t bend as much as 20-year-old knees, and it IS possible to get stuck.
- I am not the cougar I thought I was. I used to say I wanted a guy with a 40-year-old brain in a 20-year-old body. But there’s a reason a 40-year-old brain is the way it is–we’ve learned all the things 20-year-olds are still toddling through, and it makes us more interesting. Ok, that was a load of crap. The truth is, any 40-year-old who has a 20-year-old’s body spends WAY too much time in the gym, and wouldn’t have any time left for me.
10. I don’t want to be eighteen again. Twenty-five? Now that I could do, at least for a weekend.
Filed under: Spring Break | Tags: Bahamas, clothing, family, humor, Middle-Age, mom, resorts, south, southern, Spring Break, teenagers, teens, travel
Spring Break at a resort in the Bahamas—what a great place to people-watch! And, like anywhere else, there are stereotypes galore. Here are a few I enjoyed watching as I sat by the pool, turning my skin into leather and racking up more dermatologist bills:
UnderBoob: The woman who wears her bikini top on the water rides, and unbeknownst to her, it rides up
Aqua-Velva Man: Sixty-year-old men who consistently try to pick up 20-year-olds in the casino
Flash More-Mom: Mom whose bathing suit is too small for her augmented breasts
SliderMan: The guy who slides his way in front of you at the bar and gets served first
Fatman & The Toy Wonder: The fat, Eurotrash guy who has a trophy wife/girlfriend on his arm; the toy is usually blond and significantly younger.
EnvironMan: The granola tree-hugger who walks around the resort in recycled flip-flops and a t-shirt that says “Save the (fill in the blank),” but drinks from a Styrofoam cup
Narrow: Named for the narrow strip of banana-hammock (man-thong) occasionally seen on European men, which only makes other men and women narrow their eyes to reduce the sight as much as possible, without looking openly grossed out.
Dumber Woman: Can be pretty or not, often has a high-pitched squeal of laughter, orders champagne because it’s the only drink she can remember, and wonders why other women avoid her like the plague
The Incredible Bulk: The fat, pasty-white guy/girl who sweats all over the lounge chairs by the pool, and leaves a film of sunscreen in the water
Octopus Prime: Club dancer whose hands roam so much it’s like there are eight of them
Selektra: The teenage girl who, like, must agonize over which, like, lounge chair to sit on, which, like sunscreen to use, and, like, which frozen drink to order;
Green Banter: The jealous men and women who viciously make comments about the others at the resort; when it’s not about you, it can be funny
Filed under: Exercise | Tags: Exercise, gym, humor, Middle-Age, mom, southern, sports, workouts
In my quest to keep myself occupied at the gym, I have started playing the game, “What animal does he/she look like?” Most of the time the people look like what they are—overweight homo sapiens. Occasionally, though, some stand out. Here are a few:
The Gerbil (this would be me): I didn’t realize I look like one until a guy walked by grinning and making gerbil hand motions at me as I powered through on the I-limp-and-drool. There are a lot of us doing this, so I didn’t feel too bad, but it did cross my mind that if Obama is looking for alternative energy sources, he could just hook something up to the gym machines in America. Of course, there would have to be tax incentives.
The Sloth: These people trudge into the gym, wearing the same expression one has when sitting down in a chair to read a book, which is what the Gym Sloths do. They bring a book/magazine/iPad to a recumbent machine and proceed to slowly pedal for a good 45 minutes. They rarely break a sweat and are in zero danger of causing undo stress on their heart or joints. But hey—they’re not sitting on the couch.
The Peacock: These members are usually dressed in some form of spandex or lycra, and deserve to wear it. They preen and pose and flex as they work out, glancing around to see who is watching. (In the gym I go to, these folks don’t show up until after 5:00 p.m., when happy hour is fueled by exercise endorphins, instead of cheap alcohol.) What’s fun is watching one peacock show off for another, only to have the one they are trying to attract start preening for someone else. Not much different than a club, or a henhouse, I suspect.
The Magpies: These are the moms who show up in groups or meet there for some much-needed adult chat. They frequently climb on the treadmills or the I-limp-and-drools and chirp away, moving at a pace fast enough to justify being there but not so fast they gasp as they gossip. While they exercise, their bodies pop up and down, heads bobbing, looking like birds in a nest (or whack-a-mole).
The Chameleon: (me again) This person begins their workout with a normal skin tone, probably a little pale from pecking away in a cube all day. However, as their cardio workout progresses, their face and body language undergo some changes. First, their cheeks get pink, then red, until their faces turn into something resembling a rare tuna steak. At this stage, blood vessels burst and sweat drips onto the machinery. Controlled movements become a weak flailing, and their breathing sounds like a locomotive, or the puffing one hears during Lamaze class. While their appearance isn’t intended to serve as a form of camouflage, their ability to change appearance is remarkable.
The Cat: These women come to the gym dressed in sleek, black spandex yoga pants and fitted tops. There is not a panty line in sight. They are generally long and lean, and attract the envy of the other women, and the lust of everybody else. Men actually stop what they are doing to watch as these cat-like creatures slink through their routines. They slowly bend and stretch, demonstrating their flexibility and toned musculature. Having the grace of a hippopotamus, I’m totally jealous. Meow.
The Chicken: These male gym creatures come in all ages. They spend most of their time doing upper body work, and have the bulging pecs, biceps and triceps to prove it. However, they neglect the lower half of their bodies. Below their workout shorts emerge two spindly legs, looking remarkably like two pieces of kindling, or chicken legs.
Who knew the gym was such a wealth of entertainment? It’s my own personal version of Animal Planet.
Subourbon Mom 