Might as Well (Not) Jump

I was going to write a nice little post about my High School reunion. It was gonna be full of old friends and jello shots and puppies and gobs and watermelontinis. You would've loved it. I was going to mention the sound grown women make when they greet each other after such a long time apart (kind of a hybrid of the tween/teen squeeeee! and the college girl/young adult woman wooooo! - and don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about, 'cause you do). I was going to mention the things that change and the things that don't. I was going to talk about actually putting your arms around someone you've been virtually (((hugging))) for two years - and feeling theirs around you. I might've made a gentle winking reference to reading glasses and pill-minders and hot flashes. It would've been the feel good post of the year.

It would've been those things - it was all written out in my head - I just needed to find some computer time.

Between the time I wrote it in my head and I actually got computer time, though, something awful happened.

Classmates posted their pictures.

And I died.

There were seriously tears as I looked through the first batch, and numb resignation as I looked through each subsequent batch. That is NOT me. How can that be ME?

The pictures weren't the only reminder that things had indeed changed (for me). A lot. Let's just put it this way: If you're significantly overweight and have degenerative arthritis in your knees and David Lee Roth tells you you might as well jump, you should probably ignore him because it will be a very bad idea and hurt for a week. It won't hurt as much as looking at those pictures, but still...

Damn, I wish I could find a way to make the outside match the inside.

I'm not - this.

I'm nothing like this.

I guess you're just going to have to trust me on that one. Can you trust me more than you trust your eyes? Can you take that leap? Can I? Or will what's inside eventually morph into something as ugly as what's outside - just to bring balance to this dichotomy?

I know - there are people in the world with real problems. Hell, there are people in my very immediate world with real problems. People I love are hurting - and I am literally brought to tears because of what I look like. It is shallow and ridiculous and vain. I need to get over myself and put it in perspective.

And yet...

People tell me the pictures are great, and I die even more - because in most cases, the people who are saying this would die - DIE - if they looked in the mirror and saw something that looked like me gazing back at them. (Wow - drama much? Read that sentence again and see if you can't manage to swoon just a little. You know. Before you DIE!)

I just need to avoid cameras. They are a serious buzzkill. And - despite all I've said here - the reunion really DID provide a pretty darn good buzz.

And as badly as my knees hurt now? I'm still glad I jumped.

Antici............................pation

Hello, Classmates!

Can you believe it's been thirty years?

When that invitation arrives in the mail it strikes fear in the heart of most of us who have gone ahead and aged like mortals. I skipped the last one. It's not much fun to be the one who "got really fat" (I hope you read that in a stage whisper so I would/wouldn't hear you...) Who can forget the words of Suzanne Sugarbaker when she accepted an award for 'Most Changed' at her reunion on the They Shoot Fat People, Don't They? episode of Designing Women:

Well, this is quite a surprise. I guess maybe I deserve this award for the Person-Most-Changed, but (pause) not for the reason you think. Last night I got my feelings hurt because I came to this reunion thinking I was beautiful and what I find out was that I'm fat (pause) at least you think I am. But that isn't the biggest change in me. The biggest change is that the old Suzanne wouldn't have shown up here tonight. She would've just gotten thin before the next reunion and then she would have gotten even. But I'm a little older and I hope a little wiser than that person used to be.

A lot of things have happened to me. A lot of things have happened to all of us. Sandy Smothers was killed the night before we graduated. Diane Mitchell's got two sets of twins and Gayland Chadwick's working in the White House. We had a lot of dreams together and there's no point in pretending some of mine came true and some didn't.

I met a little boy from Africa tonight whose family died of starvation and I realized that I spent the whole day at home worrying about the fact that I had too much to eat. I'm not sure the old Suzanne would have appreciated the absurdity of that but this one does.

Some of you men wanted to know about my bra size, but I’d rather talk about my heart because (pause) it's a little bigger than it used to be. The old Suzanne wouldn't have forgiven you for the things that you said, but this one will. Because when I look around this room tonight, I don't see receding hairlines and the beginnings of pot-bellies and crow's feet. I just see all the beautiful faces of old girlfriends and sweet young boys who used to stand on my front porch and try to kiss me goodnight. And you can remember me any way you'd like, but that's how I'll always remember you.

And so I thank you for giving me this award for the Person-Most-Changed, however you intended it. I'm gonna treasure it because #1. I love trophies and #2. I earned it. Thank you.

Suzanne rocked, no doubt.

But I've never had Sugarbaker strength. I am not going into it feeling beautiful. I feel - ashamed. I hate that I will be judged by it, but I will. It's not fair, and it's not right, but it will happen. I don't know if knowing that - like I do - or not knowing it - as was the case for Suzanne - is worse. Just because it won't catch me by surprise, doesn't mean it won't hurt.

So why don't I just skip it, then, for Pete's sake? Well, blame FB for that. I've renewed contact with so many friends from that period of my life. We've shared our stories - our trials and our triumphs. I would hate to deprive myself of the opportunity to spend face-time with these people just because my face now sports an extra chin (or so...).

So I stress about it. I've stressed about it since the invitation arrived months ago. I stressed about it every time I saw a classmate on FB mention that they hoped they could drop ten pounds before the reunion. I could gain or lose ten pounds without it being noticed. I suppose there's a sort of comfort there. Nothing to be done about it - certainly no quick fix. I'm not going to look good - no amount of torture at this point - or at the point where I got the invitation - is going to change that.

I should be packing, today. Packing for our trip, that begins with the reunion and ends with the shore with a lot of relative-visiting in between. I should be packing. I should be making my house ready for the time we'll be away. But I'm not. I'm trying to do a hundred things at once and not doing any of them well. I'm sitting here with a rock in my stomach, certain that I'm going to hurl. I can't concentrate on anything. I am - in a word - manic.

What the hell?

I'm sure I'll be telling you in a few days about how much fun it was.

Pretty sure.

Mostly sure.

But right now? I'm just gonna sit my fat self in a corner and rock. And maybe hurl.

Your Post

So if we were drawing a Venn diagram of my friends, the place where the circle containing people I actually know and people I know through the blogosphere would have a very small overlap. My friend Eric is one of those rare folks who would belong in that small overlapping area. A few months ago, I told him that I was going to write a post for him for his birthday to let him in on something he didn't know. His birthday was last weekend. I worked and worked on this post, but I found myself adding details to make it accessible to readers who DON'T know us that ended up making it cumbersome and - I thought - a little boring. So I wrote him a letter, instead. When Tom read it, he said - post it with a little note explaining why it's a letter. Eric agreed that that would be okey dokey with him. I hope this will suffice as that.

One year I wrote a post for my daughter, Lea, for her birthday. When she tried to explain this to her friends outside the blogosphere, she said, "My mom wrote a post about me for my birthday. It's kind of like when normal people write you a song." I don't know what world my child is living in - where normal people are writing each other songs all the time, but there you go.

Without further ado:

Your Note

My gift is my song, and this one’s for you. – Elton John

For the most part, I like people. I like talking and I like listening. I enjoy the exchange of information, philosophies and thoughts. I am a social creature. You know – on accounta being human and all. I crave human discourse.

When I was younger, thinner, and generally more attractive, this was a much easier need to meet. There was always someone on the next barstool willing to expand upon their theories. Often they were interested in hearing mine, too. Barstool philosophy, phone calls that lasted all night, confidently meeting friends of friends of friends – it seemed that there would always be someone to talk to. It never occurred to me that it would ever not be this easy.

But as I got older, bigger, and generally less attractive, meaningful chat with strangers became more and more rare. Apparently, in the eyes of strangers, the quality of my conversations was inversely proportional to the size of my ass.

This was hurtful and surprising at first, in the days when I would still freely turn to that stranger on the next bar stool, or on the next seat on the airplane, or in line at the grocery store – whatever – and expect a friendly exchange. I soon realized, though, that while this behavior was viewed as charming when I was generally attractive, it just became intrusive and creepy as I veered away from societal standards of beauty.

I convinced myself, eventually, that it was ok for people to discount my thoughts and words. I began to believe that I indeed WAS unworthy. And then – because that wasn’t bad enough – it got worse. I convinced myself that being in my presence was a burden and that no one should be subjected to it. And I accepted that.

I accepted it.

It got to the point that I could barely remember a time when it had been different. To tell the truth, it didn’t even hurt any more. It was just the way things were.

Enter you.

We met briefly at the first Martini Club and exchanged about three sentences – enough to establish ourselves as the matriarch and patriarch of the group.

The next month, you arrived first and I was second. You beckoned me over to the barstool beside you and we talked while the rest of the crew trickled in. When conversation at the bar became cumbersome, we moved the party to a table. You sat at one end and I moved towards the other. It was my natural impulse to give you a break from my oppressive presence. I would’ve done the same for anyone. You had been kind to talk to me so long at the bar. I was grateful. I was ready to give you a chance to talk to younger, thinner, more generally attractive and therefore obviously more interesting people.

You didn’t take it.

You caught my eye before I actually sat in a different spot and patted the seat beside you. I was startled. You wanted to keep talking to ME? Even when there were so many other more societally acceptable options available to you?

I loved you a little bit in that moment.

Finding common ground and enjoying someone’s company – something I’d done effortlessly and almost constantly a couple decades before – was happening again. It took me completely by surprise.

It shouldn’t have, but it did.

Since then my confidence, while still nowhere near the levels it hit when I was younger, thinner, and generally more attractive, has improved by leaps and bounds. I no longer just assume that my presence is an imposition and a bother. I’m learning to take it on a case by case basis. I can accept that people – really GOOD people – might – just might – be able to like me for me. I trust myself enough to at least make the effort to find out.

So happy birthday, Eric my friend. My gift to you is cluing you in on your gift to me. I think I got the better end of the deal.

I hope you don’t mind, I hope you don’t mind, that I put down in words – how wonderful life is while you’re in the world. – Elton John, again. He’s very good. He’s no David Soul, but he’s still very good.

Learned Weakness

In my past life as an Early Interventionist, learned weakness was a concept I spoke to parents about all the time. Parents of a child with a disability tend to have an urge to do things for their child because they don't want them to have to struggle. Heck, most parents have that urge - but it is often more pronounced among parents of children with special needs because just the day to day existence stuff is so often a struggle for them. They don't want to add to it if they can help it. It was my job to remind them that the struggle would make the child stronger and that the feeling of success they would achieve after working hard to meet a goal would be worth far more than achieving the goal itself.

An excellent example of a parent who chose this path presented itself when we were working with a child with multiple physical disabilities. Every night his mother made him climb the stairs for his bath. It was hard. It was a struggle. With every step he would beg her to carry him the rest of the way and she would say no. She watched him do the work. She helped him if he needed it, but she never did it for him. It was grueling for him, both physically and emotionally, but when he got to the top his pride radiated throughout the whole house. He would scream, "I did it! I did it!" announcing his nightly victory over the stairs, and his dad and his siblings would respond from wherever they were in the house, "Good job, buddy!" Mom? She would help him with his bath, help him into bed, and cry herself to sleep. Watching him struggle when she could have so easily carried him up the stairs was hell on her, but she knew that his rewards were twofold. He got the short term reward of pride in a job well done and he also got the long term reward of strengthening his body. Win/win.

Another parent on the other end of the spectrum referred to her child as her "cross to bear" and did everything - and I mean EVERYthing - for a child who was capable of actually doing quite a lot on her own - out of a sense of penance.

Twenty years later I don't have contact with either of those families, but if I had to hazard a guess as to which one was leading a more independent life, I'd put my money on that little guy who climbed the stairs every night. Although the extent of the little girl in the second scenario's disabilities was far less than his, his mother had taught him to be strong where hers had taught her to be weak. When presented with a task, his first answer would probably be a confident, "I can do that!" whereas hers is more likely to be a resigned, "I can't do that."

Her mother thought she was being kind. Her intentions were good. The result was a child who has learned only to ask for help.

Obviously one doesn't have to have a disability to be an "I can do anything" type or a "I can't do anything" type. I drew from what I know for those admittedly extreme examples.

Me? (come on - you KNEW we were gonna talk about me, right?) I was taught that I couldn't do anything. As a child I was rather obedient. I feared authority. If I was told not to do something, as a rule, I didn't do it. Case in point: In fourth grade, my Science teacher had to call my parents because I was so adamant about not lighting matches - which was something we had to do for many of our experiments. I remember being torn. I wanted to follow my teacher's instructions. I was - as we've established - a rule follower and a respecter of authority. But my parents were the ultimate authority and they'd said "never light a match". They'd been very clear on this. So, in an unprecedented move, I defied my teacher. My parents were quite embarrassed when he called and they changed the rule that night to "never light a match unless you are being closely supervised by an adult". That seemed to cover all the necessary bases.

I have never mowed a lawn. Growing up, I was told it was "too dangerous for you". I believed this without question. In the years when I might have been prone to a lawn mowing rebellion, I lived in apartments and it was not a necessity. When I got my first adult lawn, I was married and pregnant. That's no time to learn. Now it's too late. Tom has taught Lea to mow the lawn. I can't watch. There is still a little piece of me that thinks this is a very dangerous activity for a fourteen year old girl.

Even more dangerous than bumper cars.

That's right, bumper cars.

You can get whiplash, you know.

Just ask my parents.

(Avert your eyes from my arms for a second and look at the face of a 44 year old woman in her very first bumper car - 8-15-07)

So you get the idea. I was raised to believe that the world was scary and that I was ill-equipped to handle it. Somewhere along the line - not entirely by choice - I ended up alone in that big wide scary world. And I managed. I managed to drive without getting lost and pay my own bills and matriculate like a mofo and make my own mistakes. Managed? Hell, I thrived. Life was a bumper car ride and I was daring whiplash to catch up to me. I worked and played in the city and could parallel park in three swift moves. If I'd had a lawn, I would've mowed the hell out of it. I lit matches just to smell the sulfur.

That's right.

I was just that bad.

And now? Now I'm scared again. I'm scared of everything. My confidence is shot.

I hate feeling this way. I don't know what happened. I've lost my mojo. I decided to take action in what will sound like such a small way.

My sister had just cleared some ground and put down some pavers in her front yard. It looks great and it took her less than an afternoon to complete the job. I had something similar in mind in my own back yard on a much smaller scale. I asked if she'd help me do it and she agreed. But she's out of town for two and a half weeks. So I thought to myself, I thought: I can do this without her. I can do it without her and I can do it without Tom and I'll have time left over to run through the house with scissors. Pointed any damn way I please.

That was five days ago.

I don't even have the area excavated, much less the project completed. I spend a good bit of time just looking at the mess I've made and thinking, "what the hell have I done?" followed by "THIS is why I don't take on DIY projects".

Should I keep climbing the stairs? I sure would be proud of that little bit of landscaping... Or should I wait until my sister gets back and humbly turn the job over to her? She'll get it done and it will be nice. I can spend the next two weeks reading on the deck (with my chair turned so that I can't see the mess) and drinking summertime malt beverages. But then I'll have to put the scissors and the matches away and stay clear of the bumper cars.

And I kind of remember loving the bumper cars.



(hmmmm - there's got to be a nature vs nurture post in here somewhere, since my sister grew up with exactly the same parents but a completely different set of issues...)

Come as You Are

I think I'm going to have a party. You need to promise me you'll come, though - I have a genuine fear of planning a party for which no one shows up. So promise, ok? Pinky swear?

It's going to be a come as you are party.

No, not what you're wearing right now! If I opened the door in the oversized mens gym shorts and ratty nightshirt I'm wearing right now - sans bra and shoes, of course, though I DID take the time to gather all of my hair into a flattering Pebbles Flintstone/Gene Simmons top of the head ponytail - you'd run screaming for the hills. No - I want you to come as you ARE. Come as who you feel like on the inside. (and hey - if who you are on the inside is a Flintstone/Simmons hybrid with baggy clothes and saggy boobs - I won't judge. Come on in. Make yourself at home. Drugs to the right, hookers to the left.)

Wouldn't that be a great party? Better than Halloween. People showing their true colors. Speaking of colors - my inner gypsy, of course, would be wearing lots of them. And scarves...so many scarves... I would still probably have bare feet - but there would be jingly ankle bracelets and toe rings... And I would open the doors of my house - just as it is, with no apologies - to cowboys and rock stars and princesses and captains of industry - to super moms and pirates and pin-up girls. We would mix and mingle and the people we meet would see US - not some time-worn, society-driven version of us - the REAL us.

Are you packing your bag and planning your wardrobe? You promised you'd come. You pinky swore.

A friend told me recently that in her dreams she is always thin. She asked if anyone else experienced the same thing. I quickly replied that I am always thin, I always have amazing hair, and I'm usually wearing white. I don't know what that's all about - since my inner self, as I've already mentioned, is a huge fan of color. But my dream self wears white. And she moves like water; like wind... She's awesome.

She's not coming to the party, though. Because even though she's me in my dreams, she's not me on the inside. Plus, she doesn't seem like the sort who could get her party on.

So, I need to know: What are you wearing to my party? What will I see when I see the real you?

Act Your Age

I used to always be able to sleep on planes. Once in my early 20's, when I was much younger and way cuter than I am now, I fell asleep on a flight and woke up with my arm wrapped around the arm of the gentleman next to me and my head nestled comfortably into his shoulder. There may or may not have been drool involved. He was, as I already mentioned, a gentleman. He didn't mention it. He was a complete stranger. My embarrassment was mild and fleeting though, because he clearly found the whole situation adorable.

If I repeated that scenario now, I suspect that the reaction of a stranger would not be the same.

On my most recent flights I couldn't even relax, much less sleep. I spent the bulk of my time scrunching my shoulders inward in a ridiculous attempt to take up less space than I do. When I board a plane now, I can almost hear people's thoughts as I head up the aisle, "Dontsitbymedontsitbymedontsitbyme" followed by a relieved exhale as I pass them by. When some unlucky loser in the seat game DOES have to sit next to me, I wonder if they can hear my equally loud thoughts,
"Imsorryimsobigimsorryitakeupspaceimsorry".

What's adorable behavior for a young (relatively) attractive woman would be absolutely appalling behavior for - well - me.

Take flirting. Oh my Lord, I like to flirt. Always did. Probably always will. Now, though, you're unlikely to find me very flirtatious before my third cocktail. The inhibitions that come with age, and weight, and feeling generally unattractive need to be softened up a bit these days before I can muster up enough confidence to play the coquette. Even using that word - coquette - to describe me seems wrong. I'm a big woman pushing 50. I'm not anything -ette.

But I always have fun when I let myself give in to it.

Bartender? I'll have another of those, please. (Lowers eyes and raises them at the bartender just like Susanna Hoffs circa 1985. Just. Like her.)

Ah, but acting one's age can be as difficult to figure out as dressing one's age.

When kids are very young, it starts. We don't want them to act any younger than they are - that's immature and annoying. We don't want them to act any older than they are - that's precocious and obnoxious. Yet most kids err on both sides of that equation from time to time.

I still err on both sides of that equation from time to time.

Sometimes I still feel as though I could party like a rock star (complete with massive amounts of flirtation) and sometimes I'd just rather bitch about my arthritis and my hot flashes. Only difference I see between that and kids getting it wrong is that when I err on the side of youth it's obnoxious and when I err on the side of geriatrics it's annoying.

Act your age, not your shoe size. And while I'm at it, I should probably stop buying my shoes in the Juniors department. Candies aren't cute with cankles. Friends don't let friends wear mary janes with support hose.

But what is a woman my age supposed to act like? What is she supposed to look like? What is she supposed to dress like?

Ah, friends, it's just another variation on the theme I've been exploring for weeks - no, months - no, years: I need to simply be who I be.

Such a simple sentiment, it really should be easier for me to grasp.

I Married Johnny Bravo

Tom and I were sitting in the ski lodge waiting for the kids to finish tubing and watching the band set up for the evening's entertainment. There was one guy setting up equipment who was hard to miss, because he had not only a mullet but also bangs. Now either of those hairstyles on a man warrants a second glance, but both? Well, suffice it to say, it was nothing short of glorious. After a few moments, he approached us. Scratch that. He approached Tom. He held his hand out for a handshake and said to my husband (he said), "You must be a musician."

Now we were both watching them set up, so why he was able to single Tom out as the musician among us is a mystery. No it's not. Tom has beautiful long hair. It naturally dries in perfect spirals. It makes him look like a rock star. We had a chuckle about him having been approached by a man in a bar based entirely on his appearance and that was that.

Or so we thought.

We left the lodge for a couple hours and when we returned Mr. Rock Star was enjoying a sandwich. Mr. Mullet Bangs Rock Star, to be clear, not Tom. He approached Tom once again, asking what he played and where he was from and if he had a day job - which was weird enough - but then he handed Tom his phone and asked him to enter his number. Not knowing how to gracefully decline, Tom did so. Dude definitely wanted to play (some music) with my handsome hubby.

Now Tom is a kick-ass bass player. Know how I know? I know because I've heard him play; not because I've cleaned remnants of his glorious locks from the shower drain.

As we turned to leave, he introduced his drummer to Tom. Tom introduced me and Mr. Mullet Bangs Rock Star said, "I'll never remember that - I'll just call you Mrs. Tom."

I called Tom Mr. Tammy the rest of the night in an attempt to regain some identity and to recover from the blow to my ego.

My self-image/identity crisis had been quite the recurring theme in 2009 and I was hoping to unofficially resolve to leave it behind in 2010. It only took one silly man with an even sillier haircut to remind me that middle-aged fat housewives are not relevant.

Nah, I can't give him credit for that. I wasn't really in any danger of forgetting.

I think I'm gonna resolve to take up smoking instead. That way if I fail in my resolution before the week's out - or before I even actually attempt it - I can still be considered a success. Sort of.

Or maybe I'll just get a mullet.

I'm Not Like This

"I wasn't always like this." Thus spake Gilbert's mother in the great 90's classic What's Eating Gilbert Grape. The scene, should your memory need a refresher, was the one in which Gilbert Grape - a young broody Johnny Depp - introduces his new girlfriend - a young and gloriously weird Juliette Lewis - to his morbidly obese mother. In what is perhaps one of my favorite movie scenes ever, Miss Lewis' character - young, slender, offbeat and sweet - responds, "Well, I wasn't always like this, either."

I love that scene.

None of us 'was always' as we are now.

I had a clear flashback this morning to an incident - a moment, really - that took place some twenty-five years ago in a bar. On this particular night, the bar had exotic dancers early, then just became a regular dance club later. My friend and I arrived just as the 'entertainment' portion of the evening was wrapping up. I went to the ladies' room and one of the dancers was in there changing into her street clothes. She had changed into jeans and sneakers and was throwing a flannel shirt over breasts still adorned with pasties when I walked in. She turned to hide herself, ashamed of the nakedness we both knew she'd been flaunting moments earlier on the stage. As she pulled her hair into a ponytail she looked at me for the first time. Her look conveyed, more clearly than any words ever could have, "I'm not always like this."

I spend a lot of time trying to convince people I'm not what my appearance conveys.

I spend a lot of time trying to convince myself I'm not what my appearance conveys.

When I was in college, I had a serious boyfriend. We dated for four years. After the third year, we got engaged. His mother was against it - not because of our tender age, but because (and I quote - because you don't quickly forget being told something like this) "we might date people like that, but we don't marry them." At the time I thought she must be referring to religious differences because, superficially, that was all I could see. We had the same socio-economic status. Our education levels were identical. Yes, I told myself, it's the religion thing. That explanation worked for me until he married a girl a year or two later - with his mother's full blessing - who shared my religious background. Something else, then. But what?

Je ne sais quoi. Something. Some thing defines class, culture, breeding. It isn't money alone, although money helps. We all know (or know of) people with plenty of money and no class. Perhaps we also know people with no money and miles of class. So money isn't the single defining characteristic.

I look in the mirror and see a heavy middle-aged woman with a stringy non-hairdo and bad clothes. I see the sort of woman who could incite ridicule and judgment based entirely upon her appearance. I see a woman who doesn't go to Walmart - ostensibly for politically valid reasons, but also, just a little bit, because she's afraid if she goes to Walmart looking like she does, it will only be a matter of time before she is immortalized as a 'People of..."

I tell myself I'm not that woman. Clearly I don't think I am - I used the third person to describe 'her'. That's not me - that's someone else. Someone who, from time to time, shows up in pictures next to my husband and kids.

And sometimes I think I'd just be happier if I stopped fighting it. March - or waddle - into Walmart, buy myself an oversized Tweety T-shirt, some leggings, and a pack of Marlboro's and call a spade a spade.

Now. As I am not as stupid as I might look, I can almost hear you saying, "Get over yourself! Get yourself a nice haircut and some nice clothes and - while you're at it - get yourself some exercise! Hair, clothes and weight are issues we have some control over!" True words, to an extent. Money does make a difference with the clothes and - in my case - the hair. As for the weight - ugh - I don't feel like rehashing all of that. It all sounds like rationalizing - even to me - but it is a hard truth. Dieting and exercise have failed me miserably and completely. I have wasted enough of my life being obsessed with them.

So.

Do I deny my reality, like the stripper, or try to explain it away, like Gilbert's mother? I've tried each of those tactics and have been wildly unsuccessful with both. Obviously acceptance is the key. But how can I accept something that feels so false?

Today is my adoption day. Maybe that's why I'm so obsessed - today - with figuring out who I am. What is nature and what is nurture and what just is?

Do you guys need me to continue my blogging hiatus until I'm in a better mood?

Sonnet #1: A Reluctant Crone's Dilemma

To color, or not to color: that is the question.
Whether 'tis nobler in mind to suffer the slings and arrows of an aging head with only a sparse few grays, or to take chemicals against a sea of potential grays, and by opposing end them?
To dye, to fake; to fake: perchance to deceive.
For who would purposefully bear the whips and scorns of time?

All of this is because I'm debating coloring my hair. Yeah. Nobody ever accused me of being not quite dramatic enough. You might even say I had quite a dramatic streak. Streak... that brings me back to hair color now, doesn't it?

Here's the thing: I colored my hair all the time when I was younger. A few of my friends were graying and I just didn't want to know about it. I figured if I kept color in it all the time, I'd just never know when I started to go gray. It seemed like a foolproof plan. When I had my kids and quit working, keeping up with color just wasn't a financial feasibility. I decided to see what was under there - under the color and the perms and all the other ridiculous affronts I had been imposing on my tresses. Turns out what was under there was not one single gray hair. I couldn't believe it. I was into my thirties and most of my friends were a little if not a lot gray. Not that anyone would've known that, of course. Fans of the color they were and are. I don't fault them for that a bit. But I didn't have a one. How 'bout that? Growing the perm out was a little more traumatic. My real hair was shiny. It was soft. It was not gray. But it was as fine as a toddler's. I considered using little velcro bows to try to manage my coiffure.

I haven't colored it or permed it or indulged in any other chemical processes since that day. (Ok, there was that one time, when I was asked to be a hair model - a before and after sort of thing. It was crazy fun and he did a great job with the color. I wouldn't mention it, but a couple of you know I did that and I know how you are. If you think I'm lying about that you'll figure I'm lying about everything. And I'm so not. I'm all about full disclosure. But that was years ago and it has long since grown out, so - sew buttons on ice cream.)

Now I'm no longer in my thirties and I only have a little bit of time left in the forties. My head is no longer completely devoid of grays. But I've gotta tell ya here, at the risk of seeming immodest, there are precious few of them. And I'll tell you something else - a secret, almost - I don't really hate them. They're not gray so much as they're silver - white even. They're not the bane of my existence. Sometimes I even think they're sort of pretty. Don't have a heart attack and die from the shock. I guess that's what happens when they don't start to show up until you're ready for them.

But lately - lately my crowning glory is not looking as shiny as it used to. Some days it's downright dull. It is still soft and it still behaves badly when I try to style it, but now it isn't lustrous. And I want it to be. Is that so wrong? The fast track to shine is color, right? And if it covers those couple few grays that insist on framing my face, well, that wouldn't be the end of the world I suppose.

All of this led to my Shakespearian inspired sonnet. Hamlet never had a dilemma like this. Plus, in the immortal words of The Boss, "I'm just tired and bored with myself".

Shakespeare and Springsteen in one post. Yeah.

I'm Big Enough; I'm Small Enough

A pretty typical activity for teachers of young kids is a project called some variation on 'I'm Big Enough; I'm Small Enough'. This is a great activity for kids who are at an age where they're being sent conflicting messages to help them figure out exactly where they stand. Kids who are not yet old enough to make many decisions, but are constantly being told they're "old enough to know better". The idea is to come up with positive things on both sides, for example: "I'm big enough to tie my own shoes; I'm small enough to cuddle in Daddy's lap for a bedtime story". This of course evokes "awwwww's" from the grown-ups, but it also helps the wee ones figure out that there are positives to being bigger than some and smaller than some.

I wondered if a similar activity would help with my midlife crisis.

I'm big enough to worry about not fitting in an airline seat;
I'm small enough that I don't need to drive a special car.

Hmm. That certainly didn't make me feel much better.

Perhaps I need to change it up a bit given my circumstances. Let's try: I'm young enough; I'm old enough.

I'm young enough to want to get my party on;
I'm old enough to know when to turn over the car keys.

I'm young enough to travel;
I'm old enough to afford it (theoretically, anyway).

I'm young enough to be idealistic;
I'm old enough to be practical.

I'm young enough to listen to and respect dissenting opinions;
I'm old enough not to let that change my mind.

I'm young enough to want to dress fashionably;
I'm old enough to have been forgotten by the designers.

I'm young enough to want to go to rock concerts;
I'm old enough to want to have somewhere to park my ample ass available at same. I might also want earplugs. If Pete Townsend wasn't immune to hearing damage, what makes me think I'll be? I'm also old enough to like Pete Townsend.

I'm young enough to want a beer at that concert;
I'm old enough to realize I can practically buy a twelve-pack for what that beer will cost. It can wait.

I'm young enough to want to try to fit in;
I'm old enough to not put so much store in other people's opinions.

I'm young enough to love Andy Samberg;
I'm old enough to have loved John Belushi - first run.

I'm young enough to want to try new things;
I'm old enough to be a little set in my ways.

I'm young enough to feel cute in my new hat;
I'm (almost) old enough for that hat to be red.

That was a pretty decent start. Maybe I'm just young enough and just old enough. Maybe this is just the right young/old for me to be. How about you? What are you young enough; old enough for? Or big enough; small enough, if you really want to go to there. I'm dying to know - I know I've missed good ones!

Average Joe

I think I'm pretty average. I imagine you think you're pretty average, too. Most of us do.

When Lea was a baby I remember describing her progress as "Right on track. Average." My mother hit the roof. She couldn't imagine why I would say such a horrible thing about my baby. It wasn't such a horrible thing. Average isn't bad, it's, well, average.

By its very definition, most of us are average.

graph courtesy University of Kansas Medical Center

This is so dissatisfying.

We all want to be special. We all want to be remarkable. I may have offended you when I implied that you were probably average. You're probably not, really. Not you! But me? Yeah. (Heck, sometimes I find myself WISHING for average...) Because we all want to beat this curve. We all want to be that 2% that is definitely superior. Or at LEAST the 14% that is probably superior. We all want to be special.

I think people who are constantly reminding us of how special they are are usually just trying to convince themselves. Those who are truly awesome don't need to tell us so. We know.

It's not such a bad thing to want to be in that 16%. We should always strive to be better, I suppose. If we settled for average - well, I guess that would be pretty dull. I'm not implying that we should ever become complacent. Just, maybe, that we shouldn't look on 'average' with such disdain.

We all have our gifts. The bell curve isn't as straightforward as it appears. We fall at different points along the spectrum in different aspects of our selves; positioning ourselves very low in some aspects of self and much higher in others. In the end, though, it all - um - averages out.

When I was teaching, I told my students that I didn't want their grades to align perfectly on the bell curve. I wanted a lot of A's and few if any F's. I felt like, if I was teaching the material well, the curve should look more like a slope than a bell. Usually it worked out that way, too. But there was one test that I wrote - and I administered this same test almost 20 different times to 20 different sets of students - and each time - each time - the results shook out into a perfect bell curve. When I recorded a lot of C's, a few B's and D's and only a couple A's and F's into my grade book, I hated that test. But when I plotted all of those scores on a graph and saw that curve appear - it made me feel really good about my test-writing abilities. But then I would wonder about my teaching abilities. If I was truly teaching the material well, shouldn't there be more A's? The answer is, of course, no. A C isn't a bad grade. It's an average grade.

And average is, well, most of us.

Average grades, average looks, average income, average level of talent or ability - average.

So here's to the average Joe. May we stop beating ourselves up while we continue to strive. And by we, I of course mean me. You're probably way above average. But if you're not? Well, welcome to the club. It's a big one. And here's to ya.

(apparently my ability to get the whole image to display is below average...)

That's Me in The Corner

Ok, so here's the thing: I have perfect teeth. Now the only people who have ever bestowed that compliment upon me were dentists and x-ray techs. I have perfect teeth, not a beautiful smile. Not by any stretch. Capish? You see, while they're perfect - structurally - and while I've never had a cavity, and while I have a perfect bite (oh, this is sounding a lot like bragging, but I promise, that isn't where it will end up...) - I have my share of problems. Maybe more than my share, but don't we all sort of think that, where problems are concerned?

The first is purely cosmetic. One of the two reasons I do not have a beautiful smile. I have never whitened them. They are the natural shade of teeth well into their fourth decade of existence. That shade is, I can assure you, not a blinding white. The reason I haven't jumped on the whitening bandwagon has to do with the other, much more major problem.

When I was seven and still had a mouthful of baby teeth I was playing Brownies and Fairies in a church basement with my Brownie troop (oh, like you never played Brownies and Fairies...) and I tripped over my own clumsy feet and slid face first into a stage. I knocked out my front tooth - one of my ONLY permanent teeth - in a perfect diagonal. There was a lot of blood. And a lot of screaming Brownies. I think the Fairies were pretty distressed, too.

Because I was so young the only solution they could offer was a series of temporary caps as I grew. I had my first root canal in second grade. The dentist expected me to completely lose all four of my front top teeth due to the impact. Forty years later, that one tooth remains the only one I've had problems with, but oh the problems I've had.

I had a second root canal sometime in Jr. High. I remember this clearly, because my mother sent me to school in the morning then picked me up a few hours later, signing me out for a dental appointment. I had the root canal with a local anesthetic. When it was all said and done, there were about 45 minutes left in the school day. Instead of taking me home, my mom took me back to school. I was still drooling a little bit when she dropped me off. For one lousy class. Sometime in the middle of class, the drool stopped and the pain started as the anesthetic effect wore off. I didn't learn anything in that class, I can assure you. Then I had to walk home. My mom still feels a little bit bad about that. I may or may not remind her of it from time to time.

Sometime in high school I had a permanent cap installed and that was pretty much that. I needed a new one every 10 years or so. Just couldn't whiten because the cap wouldn't whiten and would then stand out. Not too bad.

Until recently.

Now they tell me there's bone loss, and quite a good bit of it.

Now they tell me I need an implant.

Right there in the front.

And that while the implant itself heals, I'll be toothless for - oh - about six months - give or take - depending on how well the healing is progressing. But not to worry! Because I can use a flipper! Which I have also referred to as a flapper and a flopper. Which makes the dental people laugh, but it seems like a pretty easy mistake to make to me. It is a purely aesthetic device that will keep me from looking like a picture with the tooth blacked out. It will not be functional. Think about that. I cannot eat without having a big blank space right in the front of my mouth.

Oh. My. Hell.

Do you know how much of my social life revolves around eating? Did you read my last frakkin' post? This means I can't even eat dinner with my family. For half a year. I'll drink a lot of smoothies through straws and nibble on things huddled over in a corner when no one is around. Maybe I'll lose weight. That would be a nice side effect. Of course I'll gain it right back as soon as I go back to solid food. I know how that works. I've seen Oprah. So there's not even that.

Ok, so I have this diagnosis that is giving me nightmares. Then comes actually getting some of this accomplished. First I made an appointment with a clinic near my home. I was pretty comfortable there until they told me how much it was all going to cost. I mentioned my concern to my primary dentist and she said, "well, there IS another option..."

Long story short, she sent me to an implant clinic at the local university. I am freaking out at this point. Dental school? Really? But it was a difference of around $2,000. But STUDENTS??? Freaking out is really an understatement. I won't get a manicure at a cosmetology school. There were a couple of days there when I couldn't stop crying. Ask Tom, he'll tell you. He kept saying, "Go back to the place where you're comfortable! It's only money!" Only money. Yeah. Money, in case you didn't know, is not something we swim around in, here. A couple thousand is significant to us.

So I go to the school for a consultation.

It's a big medical center and a big school. There was construction and I was detoured. Shit. Google maps hadn't said anything about that. Parking? She was a bitch. I got lost several times once inside the building because I couldn't find the clinic I was looking for. When I finally did, I felt my heart fall into my stomach. This was a school all right. There was no privacy. There were just chairs in a big open room. That's where all of this humiliation would begin. In a wide open space full of teachers and students. With me as a visual aid.

Now at this point I reminded myself that as part of my living will I agreed to donate my body to science. And I read Stiff. I know how cadavers are treated. But I figure privacy won't be as much of an issue when I'm a CORPSE!

So, despite my reservations, I take a seat and I sign the papers. The papers that say:

- a student will do all of the work, which will then be approved by a certified oral surgeon.

- there is no guarantee that your results will meet your expectations.

They said other stuff, too, but those two got the tears flowing. Right there in the waiting room.

I had my consultation. They didn't want to give me IV sedation. I stood firm. They shrugged and said they'd try, but if I'm a hard stick, they'll just do it with a local. I'm a hard stick. Fuck.

Then the scheduling - oh my stars, the nightmare that was scheduling. They were to call me. I waited three weeks. (I wasn't in a real huge hurry) I finally called them. They informed me that they never call patients and that I had been misinformed. Really feeling like I'm in good hands, now. So they say they'll 'see if the doctor still has my charts' and call me back. Four days later, no call. I called them again. Answering service. Message. No callback. I called the next day. Got a person. They put me on hold. I got disconnected. Called back. Straight to voicemail. Where I left a detailed message, as instructed. Next day? No call. Called back, spoke to a real live person, got it scheduled. "Bring an iPod or something, because if they can't do the IV sedation, you can listen to music to drown out the sounds..."

I think it would take a lot more than an iPod to drown out the sounds (of my screams)...

I've assumed the position in the corner, now, knees to chest, manically rocking, thumb in (still fully toothed) mouth.

When are they gonna do this? September 10.

When is my hysterectomy? September 11. (Yep. 9/11. What could go wrong?)

I won't be able to eat brownies.

I could sure use a little fairy dust.

Happy lucky joy time in the casa de Mommakin.

There's no hope for me. Send help for Tom.

Clothes Make the Man. And the Woman.

When I first started waiting tables at the pizza shop, I was very nervous - always looked harried even when I wasn't (or shouldn't have been) - you get the picture. I was an old dog trying to learn a new trick. Then came Halloween and we decided to dress up. I bet you could guess what I dressed up as. I've given you enough hints.

It ain't easy, living like a gypsy...
Gypsies tramps and thieves...
I'm the gypsy - the acid queen...

I wish I resembled the first.
I only represent 66 odd% of the second (I've never stolen anything...)
The third was just thrown in for the power of three. (Honest.)


But I've digressed.

I donned my gypsy garb and was suddenly confident, competent and charming.

Even my boss noticed the difference.

It's true that when we get dressed up, we fall into the character that we're portraying. Well, it's true that I do, anyway. I read an article once that said your favorite Halloween costume - as a child or an adult - said a lot about who you were, or who you wanted to be.

Gypsy, or a pirate variation thereon, have always been my go to costumes of choice. I can usually pull either of those together on any given day out of things that get regular wear in my closet. I have bad hair - I like headscarves. I have big hips - I like long loose skirts. I have a good deal of estrogen - I like bling. What can I say?

I hadn't meant to spend so much time talking about Halloween in July.

Sorry.

Ahem.

I wanted to talk more about everyday dress-up.

Take yesterday, for example.

I was feeling Down. Frumpy. Old. Useless.

I'll stop.

No-one wants to visit that tangent...

So I looked at my wardrobe options.

I could dress to reinforce - and indulge - those feelings, or I could dress to fight them.

I opted for the latter.

I pulled out a pretty new maxi dress I'd been 'saving'. I would've saved it all summer and that would've been a darn shame. 'Cause it's a pretty dress. And you know what looks good with a pretty dress? A pretty summer maxi sundress? Well a big sunhat, duh. I told you I have bad hair. Sometimes I wonder if you're even listening. Sigh. I put on the hat and looked in the mirror. Almost... THERE we go! Big sunglasses FTW.

It looked good.

I had nowhere to go.

Then I realized I didn't HAVE to go anywhere.

I went to my deck - the only part of my house that I love - in my dress and my hat and my shades and I read.

I felt positively elegant. (I wasn't)

When I went to have cocktails (read: beers on the patio) later with friends (sans hat and sunglasses, as it was approaching dusk) I started lamenting on my dental and financial woes. My brilliant sister said, "We should get you on extreme makeovers! Then you'll get all the dental work free! And a bunch of other stuff, too!" On a day when I was feeling less elegant, I might have taken offense at how quickly they started rattling off the list of things that a show like that could do for me... but it was my day to be elegant, so it was water off a duck. A fancy duck. Then one said, and all agreed, that they couldn't send my picture in in that dress, though - because it was too darn pretty and wouldn't garner enough sympathy to result in all my free upgrades.

See?

It worked!

Dress the part/play the part.

I think today I'll be a princess.
(don't hold your breathe for pics)
Girls! Fetch Momma her tiara!

Act Your Age

Yesterday was one of those days when I felt old. Or maybe I just felt my age, I don't know.

While it is not unusual for me to throw off a flippant, "What do I know, I'm old" or "Well, back in my day..." or the occasional "You damn kids! Get offa my lawn!", I don't usually feel old. Or my age. Whatever.

I was chatting with someone recently about how - all through my thirties, if anyone asked how old I was I'd say, "23". I would immediately amend that with, "I'm sorry, I don't know why I said that. I'm 37 (or whatever my actual age at the time was)." I wasn't one to lie about my age - I'm still not - 23 just seemed like the appropriate answer. I think maybe I FELT 23. Sometimes I think I still DO. 23 was not a particularly stellar year for me. It wasn't a particularly anything year, so it's not like I wanted to freeze time. I think maybe I just have the soul of a 23 year old. When I was younger than 23, I wanted to be older and when I was older than 23 I claimed - at least initially - to be younger.

That's usually a good thing.
Until it's time to go clothes shopping. There are young clothes that I love but look silly on me and old clothes that I reject, leaving me headin' on down to frumpy ville.

Except when you're beat over the head with the fact that you're not.
Bifocals and dental issues, for Pete's sake, this is grandma stuff.

Yesterday was one of those days.
Of course there will be an additional fee, Mrs. Howard. Well of course there fucking well will. Let me grab my pocketbook.

Today will be better, I think.
I damn well hope.

How old are you? On the inside?

You Look Great! (For Your Age)

I have never lied about my age. I've discussed that here, I think. I don't color my hair. I'm not thrilled about the gravitational effects of aging, but aside from a good support garment, I don't do anything to stop or reverse them. While I'm considerably less than thrilled with my weight, I am also not willing to kill myself trying to become what society thinks I should be.

I've talked about all of this before.

But lately, I've been getting a lot of compliments AFTER I tell someone how old I am.

Wow, you look great.

Now these are not people who think I look great in a general sense. You know when someone thinks you look great, and I feel pretty confident telling you that, before the revelation of my age, none of these people were looking at me that way. But once they heard that number, they gave me a quick and relatively inoffensive once-over then proclaimed, "Wow, you look great."

So I'm thinking of starting to lie. Maybe I'll start saying I'm OLDER than I actually am. What do you think? If I look great for 46, I probably look AMAZING for 55. 74? Forget about it.

The other night a young man carded me - and looked very carefully at my license. It was one of those events where everyone was carded and, when you're old, it's just sort of a formality. But this kid was checking. I mean, I'm not stupid. He wasn't checking to see if I was under 21. Sheesh. But he WAS studying my license. When he finally gave my card back he told me that he couldn't believe I was born when I was. He didn't have a damn thing in the world to gain by flattering me.

Wow, you look great.

A few days back? I was feeling old. My neck was sore, my knees were sore, there were bags under my eyes, I was tired, and I felt old. Do you want to know what I did? I took myself out for a late breakfast at a place I know is frequented by people older than I. I felt so darn young after breakfast that I practically bounced out of the restaurant.

Wow, I felt great.

It's all relative, my friends.

And We Danced

Remember when you were very young and you would spin and spin and spin until you couldn't maintain your balance anymore and you would fall down, preferably into a big pile of sofa pillows, and watch the world spin while you laughed at nothing in particular? If you were a little girl, perhaps this feeling was enhanced by a wonderfully twirly skirt that made you feel beautiful as well as carefree and dizzy. I've often said that most of us who indulge in alcohol or drugs when we get older are just trying to recapture that feeling of spinning and spinning and spinning. (Then, somewhere along the way, most of us decide we don't really like that feeling very much at all. But that's another story for another day)

I have always loved to dance. I have never been any good at it. Grace is not my stronghold. I have rarely cared. Dance like no-one is looking was never just a platitude for me.

I remember Jr. High dances. Sitting with the girls on one side of the room while the boys lined the other. Maybe awkwardly dancing with girlfriends for a little while before dissolving into giggles when we realized the boys were watching. Tentatively swaying with the boys during slow songs. Beth? I hear you callin'. But I can't come home right now...

I don't remember high school dances as much as I remember going EVERY weekend in high school to the underage disco, The Glass Diamond. Now say what you want about disco. You'll probably be right. I've probably said it too. As a musical genre, it was deplorable. But as a scene? Honey, even the underage scene was on fire. I remember putting on my deep scoop necked Danskin and a black wrap skirt and ridiculous heels and heading to the diamond. It felt so sophisticated and grown-up to enter that disco and say, "Hold my purse. I love this song." And then proceed to boogie ooggie oogie till I just couldn't boogie no more. I remember practicing steps and moves diligently in girlfriends' basements to get ready for that one night a week. Saturday Night Fever was not entertainment, it was a How-To-Guide.

College led to dancing on beer-sticky basement floors in frat houses then small apartments with the furniture pushed back, then finally, senior year, in clubs. College was dancing like Belinda Carlisle. College was trying to learn the "Thriller" dance without the benefit of a VCR. Or, you know, the aforementioned grace. And, if any of my college friends are reading, it's 10:00. What song is on the stereo? (Godzilla) And where are your feet? (not on the floor)

Post college involved a lot of dancing and clubbing, too. At least twice a week, quite often a lot more. DJ, VJ, live band - it was all good. And it was all an opportunity to dance. For inspiration.

Then dancing became something I only did at weddings. Celebrate good times, come on!

Then dancing became a lovely form of synchronous reciprocity when I danced with my babies and they responded to the gentle rhythms.

And I thought maybe that was it.

Every now and then I'd dance around the house with the kids. Every now and then at a concert or festival I'd feel my shoulders start to move. Even more rarely my hips would become engaged. If I thought no one was looking. On rare occasions I'd headbang a little. Which is, as everyone knows, the same but different.

Last night I got a gift.

The pizza shop had karaoke night.

From a business standpoint, it was a complete failure. But the very thing that made it a failure for the business made it a resounding success for me. It was like a private party. A private party for girls. The only folks there were myself, my two girls, my sister and her daughter, our friend, one other waitress, and her friend. Everyone (but me - I have my limits) took a turn on the mike. That was fun. But more fun than that? We danced. I mean we DANCED! No little shoulder dancing, no shifting weight from one hip to the other, full on dancing. We forgot we were too fat or too skinny or too old or too young or too any darn thing at all and we danced. Me? Who has spent the last couple decades trying to be invisible so no-one will have to be offended by the ampleness of my behind? Child, I was doin' the butt. I was a brick house. I p-pushed it real good. And I did all of this with women I loved who were doing it too. And we laughed. We laughed so hard and so well. And every bit of it was laughing with, not at. (ok, the young boys who were working at the shop might have been laughing at. But if you're not living your life in a manner that is amusing on some level to adolescent boys, you're probably not living it right.)

Moving like that felt AMAZING! I felt like that little girl swirling in my pretty dress till I couldn't swirl any more. That was cool. But cooler still was that I was sharing this experience with my girls. This wonderful, multi-generational girl power feeling was just palpable. I hope they never forget it.

I know I won't.

Lay Your Hands on Me

While waiting to have blood drawn today, I couldn't help but notice an older gentleman sharing the waiting room with me. I was looking at his thin delicate skin and feeling sorry in advance about whatever pricking and poking they were going to impose upon him. He was quite old. He was mostly (but not completely) bald - and even his head was wrinkled. My eyes were, for some reason, drawn to his hands. I was immediately struck by how lovely they were. They were quite deeply wrinkled and covered with age spots. Two things we're taught to fear and fend off as long as possible. Looking at him, I wondered why. He was beautiful. Perhaps that's just my personal aesthetic, but I don't know. He looked beautiful to me. His hands looked particularly beautiful. I found myself wondering what he'd done for a living - how he'd used those hands as a younger man - if they had stories. I was pretty sure they did. I had to force myself to look away - I'd stared too long and was in danger of appearing rude.

I turned my attention to my own hands. I complain about them being wrinkly, and they are - certainly more wrinkly than they were when I was in my 20's - but no where near the glorious wrinkles that that man was sporting. I wondered if he loved them or hated them or was completely indifferent to them. I hoped he loved them. Indifferent seems like a more likely answer, though. I don't love my hands. Even before my skin started showing the ravages of time, I didn't like how short my fingers are. Now they're short and wrinkled. Blech.

When my turn came, after all of this thinking about hands, I pretty naturally focused my attention on the hands of the woman who would be drawing my blood. They looked a lot like mine. But they didn't bother me on her. Hmmmm. So apparently middle-aged hands don't bother me as long as they're attached to someone else. I hope I get over this silliness by the time I have gorgeously deep wrinkles like my companion in the waiting room.

This same reasoning transfers to gray hair for me, too. I think women with gray hair are really beautiful. Women with white hair are downright enviable. And men with gray or white hair? Child, please. Yet graying hair? Not quite as charming. Which is why, I suppose, so many people attempt to cover it up. I bet if we went to bed one day with dark hair and woke up the next with gray it wouldn't freak us out nearly as much as watching the little grays slowly, one by one begin to take over. Because we can hide a couple. And we can hide a few. And then we MUST! The alternative becomes unbearable.

But hands. We were talking about hands. Weird. It's so unlike me to go off on a tangent...

Tom has beautiful hands. Long graceful fingers. He was born to be a musician. When both girls were born, it was immediately apparent that they had inherited his lovely hands. Liv's fingers - at age 11 - are already longer than mine.

My hands aren't so lovely to behold, but they are deft and true. I think maybe I ought to give them a little more respect.


*The title for this post was originally going to be "Hands Down" or "Raise Your Hand if You're Sure" or something like that, but when Tom informed me that today was Jon Bon Jovi's birthday, nothing but "Lay Your Hands on Me" made any sense.

**This is post #99! How shall we celebrate 100? Oh the pressure! Forget I said anything - I think I'll let it come and go like any other. Or maybe I won't. We'll see if inspiration strikes. But if you think of a swell way to commemorate it, I am indeed open to suggestions...

They Don't Know (About Us)

You know how you'll hear an old song and it takes you back and makes you feel all warm and gushy and young and nostalgic? That didn't happen to me tonight.

The girls have friends over. The house was loud. The hubs was frustrated with me. I wanted a beer - no, a martini - no, a margarita - no, a shot of tequila - no, a really cold shot of Jaeger. But I couldn't do any of that. Remember? The girls have friends over. Just what I want them to go home telling their parents... So no mommy juice for me. But I still needed to get out - the walls were closing in. Just for a little bit. Just for some air.

So I went to the grocery store. As you do.

As I'm shuffling through the grocery store feeling frumpy and more than just a little sorry for myself, the song "Chevy Van" is being played on the muzak. I know it's not muzak anymore, but I reserve the right to use the term anyway, because I darn well like it. Anyway. "Chevy Van". Now this is definitely not a squeeee worthy "OHMIGODILOVETHISSONG" kind of song. Although it might be a nice tune for one of those SNL skits where the stories of "the first time I heard this song, I was..." get exponentially more ridiculous and uncomfortable with each repeat of the chorus... But I digress. It was a nice little tune that came out when I was a pre-teen. I was aware of and familiar with it. That's all. But hearing it tonight at the grocery store in the mood I was in, it just made me so sad. I got that familiar hot feeling behind my eyes and I said to myself (I said) "you will not cry over a 70's country/pop song all by yourself in the middle of Kroger on a Saturday night. You. Will. Not. Now pull yourself together and head for the dairy aisle. Milk and eggs aren't going to buy themselves."

Hormones are wicked, wicked entities.

I was mourning the freedom and sweetness and beauty expressed in this song about a one-night-stand with a hitchhiker. Because I used to have tan legs and moonlight in my hair, damn it! I'm sure I did! And now I'm grocery shopping on a Saturday night AS AN OUTING!!!

Does anyone remember the Tracy Ullman video for "TheyDon'tKnow" (cleverly referenced in the title of this post) which begins with a glamorous Tracy falling in love and ends with her shuffling through the grocery store in pink fuzzy slippers, pregnant, disheveled and with a little kid or two? That was exactly how I felt.

That video ends with her looking glamorous again and driving off into the sunset with Paul McCartney, though. So there's that...

For now, though, time to "get some sleep and dream of rock and roll" (lyric - Chevy Van 1973)

Battling the Two-Headed Beast

I am surely reminded, as I am every January, that having a bigger than average body is the scariest most horrifying thing in the world. Having a bigger than average ass is an almost unspeakable abomination. I am reminded of this every time I turn on the TV, walk into the grocery store, have a conversation... Folks will do anything to fend off fat cell growth - employing all manner of unnatural devices behaviors and eating plans to do so. Do whatever it takes or you might get fat! And then what? Shudder to think. On second thought, don't even think. Just buy this this and this, join this this and this don't eat (or drink) this this or this while eating (or drinking) plenty of this this and this. Ka-ching! While this goes on all year, of course, there's a big surge in January to further motivate the resolution warriors.

People who go to the gym regularly - a group I used to be part of and hope to be part of again within the next couple of months - look at these resolution warriors as a scourge at worst and a joke at best. I remember the year I was pregnant with Olivia. I continued going to the gym after the pregnancy was confirmed, but very shortly after that the pregnancy was deemed high risk and my activities were limited. Doctors orders were to stay away from the gym and any other remotely vigorous activity until 6 weeks after the baby was born. No big - a pregnant me was a compliant me, for sure. It was less restrictions than I'd faced with Lea's pregnancy (which had me spending 3 months or so lying on my left side with next to NO activity...) No big - except that Liv was born November 25, making 6 weeks post-partum just a week into January. I really sweated this - I even considered putting off starting back a few extra weeks, lest I be mistaken for a resolution warrior. (I ended up going back the first day I was allowed. Figured everyone who knew me at the gym knew when the baby was born and knew my plans were to return as soon as I was allowed. I decided I didn't care about what anyone who didn't know me might think. But I really did put quite a bit of thought into it...)

But back to the scary part.

Last week over at Shapely Prose a lively discussion emerged on a similar topic. When it was mentioned that this was scary scary stuff for most women, a lot of folks - bigger folks, like me - started chiming in about how awesome we must be because we face that fear head on every day and still manage to continue existing. I told Tom that since I was able to face the two-headed beast of fat and aging in the mirror without perishing I must be some kind of superhero. I live with what you fear daily and survive! Yay me!

Except that's not honest. I guess I don't fear it any more. Guess I've got that part conquered. But I don't exactly live with it in peaceful harmony. I, too, give it - the two-headed beast - more power than it deserves.

The other day a dear friend confessed that she'd always been jealous of me. This really threw me for a loop. I couldn't begin to imagine what would make her feel that way (and she wasn't divulging). I am entirely unenviable. I really couldn't figure it out.

Then I put some thought into it. I really do have it very good. I have caught a lot of breaks and been afforded quite a few opportunities that not everyone has. I'm educated, well-traveled and happily married. I have a home (humble as it is) and enough money (no extra, so I find time to whine about that, but always enough). My family is relatively happy and healthy. Damn! That is some enviable stuff, for sure! But I convinced myself that I am unenviable because I am fat and my once exciting life has become mundane. Good heavens! All of those wonderful things negated so easily! Wow! That two-headed beast is powerful indeed!

It shouldn't be so scary. We're all different sizes and shapes and ages. It would be terribly dull if we weren't. Easier to look at, by societal standards, perhaps, but dull all the same.

When I do go back to the gym in a couple months, I know what I'll be. I'll be that person you look at who gives you just that little extra push. "Damn, if I don't keep running/stepping/pedaling/lifting I might end up like that." Instant power surge. You're welcome, I guess. No one sets out to be a cautionary tale. But if that's my role, I suppose I'll take it.

The last time I ever ran, I was entered in a small 5K. I was in pretty good shape at the time - I'd been working out/training pretty heavily and my strength and endurance were probably the best they've ever been. But I was still fat. Because that's how I am. Anyway. I started running and there were two girls behind me. One said to the other, "Ohmygod - how's THAT for motivation to keep doing this?" Then they giggled. Now let's think about that for a moment. I was probably both twice their size AND twice their age, yet they were looking at my caboose in a race. How is it that I'm still the punch line in this joke? Yet I somehow was. I made it through that race, but never entered another. Know your place. I kept going to the gym though. And I kept being fat.

So I've got to tame that two-headed beast - somehow strip it of its power - because it isn't going away. Power to those of you who continue to try to fend it off. Because I guess you're kind of right. It IS scary.

Smile

Tom and I have almost completely stopped going to bars because it is inevitable that someone - often more someones than one - will approach us and say, "Smile!" or "Cheer up!" or some variation thereof to indicate that our sour countenances are seriously harshing their buzz.

Now, I'll confess, we're rarely the life of the party. And Tom has confessed to studying the frown as an art form. But we're basically happy enough people. Well, content anyway. And we're funny as hell. Well, at least in our own minds.

It's true - we don't sit there with simple grins pasted on our faces for no apparent reason. So I suppose we maintain neutral countenance. That doesn't seem so bad to me. But it seems to bug the shit out of all the strangers around us.

I do not have lovely teeth. Actually, structurally they're pretty nice - perfect alignment and never had a cavity. But we all know "it's not how you feel, it's how you look." And they are not nor are they ever likely to be blindingly white. Or even whitish. So there's that. But probably more importantly, when I was 7 and still had a mouthful of baby teeth I broke one of the only permanent teeth I had right in half. A front one, of course. Being 7, there wasn't much they could do till my mouth grew a little. I had a new temporary cap every 4 months. (I have a permanent cap now and it precludes me from using any of the commercially available whitening systems currently being marketed to target yet another of our insecurities). It was not very cosmetically appealing. So I learned at 7 to smile with my mouth closed. Never had a big toothy smile in my life. I thought the more subtle Mona Lisa type close-lipped smile was a fine substitute. And way more intriguing. Ahem. We think what we've got to think.

A new friend just commented that my somewhat flat affect stops people from seeing what a bright happy person I am. (Ha! New people will say ANYthing!) But seriously - it does make me wonder. Does my fear of looking silly and simple as well as my lifelong practice of smiling with my teeth covered result in a look that is off-putting? I would hate to think that that was so, but I hate even more to think about how weirdly false and possibly manic and scary a constant shit-eating grin would be.

So if you make me smile, apparently you've accomplished something. Congratulations. Don't you feel lucky?