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.
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 