Let me start by saying out loud I was no Jane Fonda.
Not a very big exercise buff but I maintained over the years. Always wanted to look good, feel good inside but particularly in my clothes. Every since my youth, it was stressed that keeping fit, keeping healthy, was very, very important. It would help keep your limbs and even your mind (more on that later) limber into your old age.
Bullshit.
Being a City kid, there were a million ways to keep in shape. Running with wild abandon, hide and seek, hopscotch, double dutch, RCK (runcatchkiss), the President's Fitness Test (remember that?), handball. Then, as I became a young obnoxious teen, there was paddleball, tennis, swimming, dancing all night long. Adulthood beckons and so does the age of "let's get physical". Now, there were cute outfits in which I could prettily sweat while doing step aerobics,running in place, Billy Banks, yoga. When not in a gym, I was climbing mini-pyramids in exotic locales, hiking waterfalls... I had it going on.
All bullshit.
While away in the Bahamas for a dear friends' wedding, I was playing pretty volleyball (you know the kind, gracefully leaping with my sexy cool bathing suit on and corresponding sunglasses not breaking a visual sweat) and came down prettily on my left leg. Small snap. Burn. Ouch. My left knee begins to throb and grows alarmingly hot. Then as quickly as it began, it ends. I wave my hand, "naw, I'm okay. Don't know what happened...hahaha..". W.T.F.?
So, it begins. Twisted island knee became the gateway for all sort of physical ailments to come marching in. Twisted knee becomes major surgery. Banging my elbow accidentally in the bedroom door frame becomes a bone chip. Accidentally stabbing myself in the eye with my mascara wand becomes Pirates of the Caribbean with eye patch and snarl. One slight twist in my high heels becomes a swollen ankle and a suggestion that I purchase "more comfortably heel height friendly shoes for a woman my age". And those are the explained injuries.
And all those unexplained. Waking up and discovering that my pinkie toe hurts. No reason. Can't put any weight on it so I walk around all week, waddling like an umpa lumpa: heel, roll, big toe. Then, instantly, a couple of days later it stops. All's well. Until...while folding my bath towels, the base of my thumb starts to ache. Yes, the base. A week later, after many failed hand massages, it also just stops. Or, my absolute favorite: I stand up normally from leaning over the bathroom sink spitting out toothpaste foam and feel my back 'pinch'. Burn. OUCH. I really did not know your entire life depends on your back. I learned to pee standing up. Such a lady. Once again, two weeks plus, it also just stopped. Per my Doc (who I was seeing more than my live in boyfriend), my back just "seized up". No reasonable explanation. No rationale. Pay your bill at the desk.
Per my bibles, the MORE and the O magazine, we are instructed to continue to work out, stay physical as often as possible for as long as possible. Bike, fast walk, "soft" jog (?), wear enhanced cross trainers, sweat absorption outfits, drink a ton of water. Easy on the cocktailing (harumph), stop the smoking. I do. I try. I did. I still believe that being as physically fit as possible can be nothing but positive for you in the long, seemingly long run. BUT, I also realize my body and I are no longer a team; my body is now The Boss. A mean faux leather clad dominatrix with ridiculously high heels (glad SHE can wear them)and a smoking cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth who threatens to whoop me mercilessly throughout the day. See that couch over there? My feet are killing me but it looks too low to sit on. I will never get up from there. Those steps over.., well, anywhere? They look pretty steep. My knees will be on fire for the rest of the day. The subway pole that runs along the top above the seats? Can't hold onto that. Might throw my shoulder out with all the jerking. Downward dog yoga pose? Did you NOT listen to my back debacle?
While I may no longer wake up and bounce out of the bed every morning, I do wake up. And if it takes me a while to moan and creak everything back to life, to squeeze myself into my spandex yoga ensemble, to lace up my super expensive no promises guaranteed trainers...well so be it. I will admit, the uncertainty does make for an interesting day: what will work today? what won't? And really don't we just love the surprises life throws our way? *silence* Yeah. Still not really.
There is no other option. Remember that phrase "kicking and screaming"? Well, this is the screaming part. Trust me my lovelies, just approach this in the same manner as you do everything else in this decade: with a resigned sigh, a sometimes silent scream, a tiny tight smile and a big cocktail in hand. Just remember to be careful as to how you put that glass down.
(And if you find out what 'soft jogging' is be sure to let me know. Better yet...don't.)
xo,
Fourty(ish) and Fabulous
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Taking Stock. And it ain't pretty...
There is a reason why your 40"s is the specific decade for the mid-life crisis. Actually, I hate that term 'crisis' cause it's not true. It's a Clearing. Physically, emotionally and spiritually. You decide that you are carrying way too much baggage and whaddaya know, this is a short flight after all. You literally wake the f**k up. Shake your head, adjust your vision, clear your mind.
You know that lllooonng time friend who never asks about you or your life but feels free to drone on and on about her job her career her man her lack of man her fabulosity her her her...? That co-worker who always manages to consistently avoid the workload that you both should be sharing? Hairdresser that you have had for decades that leaves you with a style that has to be restyled at home? That man in your life who is kinda in kinda out kinda treats you right kinda doesn't kinda loves you kinda don't?
Listen to me and listen to me very clearly darling: Cut. That. Shit. (C.U.T.S.)
The last thing you want or need is people around you who add nothing to your life. Why hang onto them? It's like keeping those jeans from 1995: they don't fit and they never will. Enough. Enough. Enough. I was always told that you should be able to count your really close, good friends on ten fingers - no more no less. (Note: This does not apply to everyone; there are people who you don't have to keep in constant contact with. A few days, a few weeks, a few months, a few years can go by and the next conversation picks up exactly where you left off. Those are the good ones. Give 'em a finger.)
Once the C.U.T.S program starts, there will be no stopping you. You will constantly ask yourself, why oh WHY did I not do this sooner? Answer: It wouldn't have tasted as sweet. Now that you know who you are and what you will/will not deal with, there is a freedom that you will experience that is...well, there is no language. Stronger but similar to breathing fresh air after inhaling smoke from a passing bus or inhaling smoke from Mother Nature's garden after a long exasperating day. *silence* Yeah. It's that good.
This doesn't only apply to people; it also applies to places and things. That career that seemed like a good idea, oh twenty years ago, the one that you have invested so much life even though you are bored and unchallenged? Leave it. Take the 401K but get to stepping. Open that bar/store/brothel that you always secretly dreamed of. Your house will start to look like a monastery. A really broke monastery. All that extra crap (waffle maker - really?) will hit the curb. Those products in your bathroom cabinet (except for the age decreasing serums of course) garbage. Hair. Long and strong? Short and quick. Don't get crazy though - gray is not okay. Clothes - oh bless us oh heavenly father - clothes from the 80"s. 90's. 00's that we persist in believing - don't stop believing- will fit or come back in style? It ain't. And it ain't.
What I speak of goes across sex lines - it happens to both women and men who are living this decade out loud. Case in point:
I ran into a good male friend a couple of months ago who had crossed the burning sands and immediately started the C.U.T.S. He was speaking animatedly, almost a crazy babble. His hair looked slightly disheveled, his clothes (the ones that were left) did not quite match and were not quite on, his eyes darting to me and all around as he exclaimed in a stage whisper, " WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME IT WOULD FEEL THIS GOOD?" and then after a little nervous laugh he whispered to me "Oh God, am I going crazy?". Naw baby, you ain't crazy. Just really, really c l e a r.
This is the point where you will WANT to clean out your closets and clean out your life. Less literally becomes more in every way. It is the first time that housekeeping will feel completely natural to you. Roll up your sleeves, tie up your hair, grab a bottle of wine (or any alcoholic beverage) and commence to cutting.
And please remember: gray is NOT okay.
xo,
Fourty(ish) and Fabulous
You know that lllooonng time friend who never asks about you or your life but feels free to drone on and on about her job her career her man her lack of man her fabulosity her her her...? That co-worker who always manages to consistently avoid the workload that you both should be sharing? Hairdresser that you have had for decades that leaves you with a style that has to be restyled at home? That man in your life who is kinda in kinda out kinda treats you right kinda doesn't kinda loves you kinda don't?
Listen to me and listen to me very clearly darling: Cut. That. Shit. (C.U.T.S.)
The last thing you want or need is people around you who add nothing to your life. Why hang onto them? It's like keeping those jeans from 1995: they don't fit and they never will. Enough. Enough. Enough. I was always told that you should be able to count your really close, good friends on ten fingers - no more no less. (Note: This does not apply to everyone; there are people who you don't have to keep in constant contact with. A few days, a few weeks, a few months, a few years can go by and the next conversation picks up exactly where you left off. Those are the good ones. Give 'em a finger.)
Once the C.U.T.S program starts, there will be no stopping you. You will constantly ask yourself, why oh WHY did I not do this sooner? Answer: It wouldn't have tasted as sweet. Now that you know who you are and what you will/will not deal with, there is a freedom that you will experience that is...well, there is no language. Stronger but similar to breathing fresh air after inhaling smoke from a passing bus or inhaling smoke from Mother Nature's garden after a long exasperating day. *silence* Yeah. It's that good.
This doesn't only apply to people; it also applies to places and things. That career that seemed like a good idea, oh twenty years ago, the one that you have invested so much life even though you are bored and unchallenged? Leave it. Take the 401K but get to stepping. Open that bar/store/brothel that you always secretly dreamed of. Your house will start to look like a monastery. A really broke monastery. All that extra crap (waffle maker - really?) will hit the curb. Those products in your bathroom cabinet (except for the age decreasing serums of course) garbage. Hair. Long and strong? Short and quick. Don't get crazy though - gray is not okay. Clothes - oh bless us oh heavenly father - clothes from the 80"s. 90's. 00's that we persist in believing - don't stop believing- will fit or come back in style? It ain't. And it ain't.
What I speak of goes across sex lines - it happens to both women and men who are living this decade out loud. Case in point:
I ran into a good male friend a couple of months ago who had crossed the burning sands and immediately started the C.U.T.S. He was speaking animatedly, almost a crazy babble. His hair looked slightly disheveled, his clothes (the ones that were left) did not quite match and were not quite on, his eyes darting to me and all around as he exclaimed in a stage whisper, " WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME IT WOULD FEEL THIS GOOD?" and then after a little nervous laugh he whispered to me "Oh God, am I going crazy?". Naw baby, you ain't crazy. Just really, really c l e a r.
This is the point where you will WANT to clean out your closets and clean out your life. Less literally becomes more in every way. It is the first time that housekeeping will feel completely natural to you. Roll up your sleeves, tie up your hair, grab a bottle of wine (or any alcoholic beverage) and commence to cutting.
And please remember: gray is NOT okay.
xo,
Fourty(ish) and Fabulous
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
Partay over here! Partay over ther.....zzzzzz.
Partying in your 20's:
My girlfriends and I would go out four nights a week. I would stumble into my job/career with a ringing in my ears and an ache in my head, wearing pitch black risky business type shades. Twilight before vampires were popular. Mumble hello to my receptionist, mumble morning to my bosses, weave into my office, close the door and lay on the sweetly cold floor moaning about how "I was definitely NOT going out tonight".
At 4:30 p.m. the phone would ring. Damn. My girlfriend on the other line talking about some party we just HAD to go to at some club we HAD to go to where EVERYONE was going. Get my second wind at 5 p.m., brush my teeth in the office bathroom (I kept a toothbrush in my drawer), go to Macy*s, purchase an entirely new outfit, change in the store bathroom, jump in a cab and check my old clothes with my coat at the door. Party till the wee hours of the morning. Wear the dark shades. Stumble into work. Close the office door. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
"Partying" in your 40's:
Last night went out with my friend Kiks for dinner and drinks at one of our favorite restaurants. Laughed with our favorite bartender, did the whole wine/food/wine/dessert/wine thing. Felt pretty damn good (okay, slightly tipsy). Both of us looked at each other, swearing it was close to 10:00 p.m. Patting ourselves on the back for staying out ssssoooo late on a work night. Looked at our phones: 8:08 p.m. We had gotten there at six o'clock. P.M. Damn.
Going out for one night constitutes one full day of rest. Shades drawn for a dark cocoon. Ibuprofen at the ready. Maybe can venture out for food and water. Going out on consecutive nights? Sheeeeeet, that demands an IV hook-up, Valium strength ibuprofen, one full day of silent achy sleep and half of the next morning still indoors. Provisions better be at hand. When did I have to start scheduling my fun time?
Look, I am glad not to be 20. I fully, and I mean FULLY, enjoyed my youth and everything that came with it (thank God there were no camera phones or the You Tube or the Instagram or the Facebook back then). Frankly, I am surprised that I am still alive to tell the tale(s). I understand that the body 'naturally progresses'; that I couldn't repeat those times if I tried - and trust me, some nights I do. What I don't appreciate is feeling younger but doing "older". What a mean cruel joke Mother Nature is playing on me. On us. Bitch.
But, I ain't dead. I won't take it laying down (HA!). Neither should you. Keep on keeping on. Go against the grain, enjoy life to the fullest, hang until you can't hang anymore. And let's make a pact: If you see me nodding off in the corner, pass some smelling salts underneath my nose so I can get my ass home. And I will do the same for you. Remember, an extra IV is always in my purse.
xo,
Fourty(ish) and Fabulous
My girlfriends and I would go out four nights a week. I would stumble into my job/career with a ringing in my ears and an ache in my head, wearing pitch black risky business type shades. Twilight before vampires were popular. Mumble hello to my receptionist, mumble morning to my bosses, weave into my office, close the door and lay on the sweetly cold floor moaning about how "I was definitely NOT going out tonight".
At 4:30 p.m. the phone would ring. Damn. My girlfriend on the other line talking about some party we just HAD to go to at some club we HAD to go to where EVERYONE was going. Get my second wind at 5 p.m., brush my teeth in the office bathroom (I kept a toothbrush in my drawer), go to Macy*s, purchase an entirely new outfit, change in the store bathroom, jump in a cab and check my old clothes with my coat at the door. Party till the wee hours of the morning. Wear the dark shades. Stumble into work. Close the office door. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
"Partying" in your 40's:
Last night went out with my friend Kiks for dinner and drinks at one of our favorite restaurants. Laughed with our favorite bartender, did the whole wine/food/wine/dessert/wine thing. Felt pretty damn good (okay, slightly tipsy). Both of us looked at each other, swearing it was close to 10:00 p.m. Patting ourselves on the back for staying out ssssoooo late on a work night. Looked at our phones: 8:08 p.m. We had gotten there at six o'clock. P.M. Damn.
Going out for one night constitutes one full day of rest. Shades drawn for a dark cocoon. Ibuprofen at the ready. Maybe can venture out for food and water. Going out on consecutive nights? Sheeeeeet, that demands an IV hook-up, Valium strength ibuprofen, one full day of silent achy sleep and half of the next morning still indoors. Provisions better be at hand. When did I have to start scheduling my fun time?
Look, I am glad not to be 20. I fully, and I mean FULLY, enjoyed my youth and everything that came with it (thank God there were no camera phones or the You Tube or the Instagram or the Facebook back then). Frankly, I am surprised that I am still alive to tell the tale(s). I understand that the body 'naturally progresses'; that I couldn't repeat those times if I tried - and trust me, some nights I do. What I don't appreciate is feeling younger but doing "older". What a mean cruel joke Mother Nature is playing on me. On us. Bitch.
But, I ain't dead. I won't take it laying down (HA!). Neither should you. Keep on keeping on. Go against the grain, enjoy life to the fullest, hang until you can't hang anymore. And let's make a pact: If you see me nodding off in the corner, pass some smelling salts underneath my nose so I can get my ass home. And I will do the same for you. Remember, an extra IV is always in my purse.
xo,
Fourty(ish) and Fabulous
Friday, February 3, 2012
Who You Calling "Ma'am?"
I remember the first time it happened.
I was crossing in the middle of the street around the back of a van and a young man was doing the same on the other side. I didn't see him until the two of us almost collided behind the van. He stopped short and said, "Whoa! That was a close one Ma'am!". And smiling, he quickly walked off. I had a smile on my face that had turned to stunned disbelief by the time I reached the sidewalk. Did I just hear him right? "Ma'am"? Naw. Heard wrong. I kept walking.
It was like Pandoras' box had been opened.
From then on, every damn week, every damn day, it seemed every damn minute, someone, somewhere addressed me as "Ma'am". Helping me with a price check; allowing me through the door first; waiting to pay at the register; flirting in a bar ("Ma'am, you are funny!"); EVEN ON THE PHONE. Are you kidding me? Are you f***ing kidding me? Had I previously been called ma'am and just blocked it out? And if so, dear Jesus, I was going deaf too. Calm down, calm down, everyone told me, it's just a sign of respect. But this wasn't the South. And there wasn't that much respect in the world.
My Mother is called ma'am. As she should be; she's my MOM. I was referred to as her "lovely young daughter". Okay, I have a younger sister so not the young part but the 'lovely' made me feel young so I just put it in there. Now when I am out with my Mom it's, "Oh Mrs. X, YOU don't look old enough to have a daughter so....grown". Ha-rumph.
It bothered me when the young boys said it; it made me feel that I was past my sexual prime. Then I remembered that young men loved 'cougars' so that cheered me up immensely and I was okay with it. I simply imagined that it was their way of saying " you might be as old as my Mom, but I would still totally do you". Cool.
But boy oh boy, it really infuriated me when the young girls said it. Lithe bodied, fresh faced, always with a slight hidden smirk behind their eyes, a sweetly dripping sarcasm in their tone that implied "step aside old bitty". Okay, okay, they didn't actually do that but it sure felt as if they were. Screw that, they probably were. And then I remembered, they are not as 'seasoned' as I am in the use of their feminine wiles (wink wink) and once again, I felt a whole lot better.
The shock does go away. The acceptance takes a while but it does come. And then you will cease to hearing it at all. Promise. Plus, you have to prepare yourself for the next stage.
"Yo! See that lady over there? She's the kind of MILF I would do".
xo,
Fourty(ish) and Fabulous
I was crossing in the middle of the street around the back of a van and a young man was doing the same on the other side. I didn't see him until the two of us almost collided behind the van. He stopped short and said, "Whoa! That was a close one Ma'am!". And smiling, he quickly walked off. I had a smile on my face that had turned to stunned disbelief by the time I reached the sidewalk. Did I just hear him right? "Ma'am"? Naw. Heard wrong. I kept walking.
It was like Pandoras' box had been opened.
From then on, every damn week, every damn day, it seemed every damn minute, someone, somewhere addressed me as "Ma'am". Helping me with a price check; allowing me through the door first; waiting to pay at the register; flirting in a bar ("Ma'am, you are funny!"); EVEN ON THE PHONE. Are you kidding me? Are you f***ing kidding me? Had I previously been called ma'am and just blocked it out? And if so, dear Jesus, I was going deaf too. Calm down, calm down, everyone told me, it's just a sign of respect. But this wasn't the South. And there wasn't that much respect in the world.
My Mother is called ma'am. As she should be; she's my MOM. I was referred to as her "lovely young daughter". Okay, I have a younger sister so not the young part but the 'lovely' made me feel young so I just put it in there. Now when I am out with my Mom it's, "Oh Mrs. X, YOU don't look old enough to have a daughter so....grown". Ha-rumph.
It bothered me when the young boys said it; it made me feel that I was past my sexual prime. Then I remembered that young men loved 'cougars' so that cheered me up immensely and I was okay with it. I simply imagined that it was their way of saying " you might be as old as my Mom, but I would still totally do you". Cool.
But boy oh boy, it really infuriated me when the young girls said it. Lithe bodied, fresh faced, always with a slight hidden smirk behind their eyes, a sweetly dripping sarcasm in their tone that implied "step aside old bitty". Okay, okay, they didn't actually do that but it sure felt as if they were. Screw that, they probably were. And then I remembered, they are not as 'seasoned' as I am in the use of their feminine wiles (wink wink) and once again, I felt a whole lot better.
The shock does go away. The acceptance takes a while but it does come. And then you will cease to hearing it at all. Promise. Plus, you have to prepare yourself for the next stage.
"Yo! See that lady over there? She's the kind of MILF I would do".
xo,
Fourty(ish) and Fabulous
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
You Can't Handle The Truth.
At the supermarket: "Please don't let me, waiting at your register with a cart full of perishables, interrupt your texting talking social media-ing."
At the DMV (to nasty clerk): "I see you fit the requirements of this position puurrrr-fectly".
At the restaurant (to the host hostess waitress waiter): "Ah, no. I don't want to sit there. Ah, no. Not there either. Hmmm...there. I want to sit THERE."
These phrases were all uttered by yours truly (accompanied by a straight index finger point with a slight head tilt). Yes, I sound like the world's biggest asshole and I've got news for you: you will too. Soon. If you haven't started already. Why, do you ask?
Welcome to the Age of Instant Rage. or A.I.R. (perfect, huh?). Gives a whole new meaning to, "I got frustrated with that /him /her /it /them so I came up /went out for some A.I.R.". You can say this in mixed company (those of varying age groups) and no one will be the wiser.
As noted above, I started to become a little concerned about the free-ness of my mouth and the possibility of getting beaten to a pulp. I mean, I have never bit my tongue but at least I always attempted to be coy about it. Masking any hidden venom behind a joke or a fancy quip. But this? This was something totally new. I had no control whatsoever. The words were stomping on my tongue, then flying out of my mouth at a rate so unexpected, so surprisingly fast, that I was left looking as stunned as the victim (whether they were the intended or not).
So, I decided to consult my new bible for guidance: O Magazine.
At the DMV (to nasty clerk): "I see you fit the requirements of this position puurrrr-fectly".
At the restaurant (to the host hostess waitress waiter): "Ah, no. I don't want to sit there. Ah, no. Not there either. Hmmm...there. I want to sit THERE."
These phrases were all uttered by yours truly (accompanied by a straight index finger point with a slight head tilt). Yes, I sound like the world's biggest asshole and I've got news for you: you will too. Soon. If you haven't started already. Why, do you ask?
Welcome to the Age of Instant Rage. or A.I.R. (perfect, huh?). Gives a whole new meaning to, "I got frustrated with that /him /her /it /them so I came up /went out for some A.I.R.". You can say this in mixed company (those of varying age groups) and no one will be the wiser.
As noted above, I started to become a little concerned about the free-ness of my mouth and the possibility of getting beaten to a pulp. I mean, I have never bit my tongue but at least I always attempted to be coy about it. Masking any hidden venom behind a joke or a fancy quip. But this? This was something totally new. I had no control whatsoever. The words were stomping on my tongue, then flying out of my mouth at a rate so unexpected, so surprisingly fast, that I was left looking as stunned as the victim (whether they were the intended or not).
So, I decided to consult my new bible for guidance: O Magazine.
And lo and behold, in one of my many issues, there was an article that touched on the "flash rages" that women start to experience once they are past the age of fourty. Apparently, 40 is a marker; a switch in the recesses of our brains points to "ON", red lights flash and it's mayhem and madness from there. Wheeeee!
And it doesn't take much for us to fly off into a verbal rage: talkative barista at the coffee shop, movie previews too long, can't get our make-up right in the morning... e v e r y t h i n g. And as soon as it begins, it ends. Everyone around you looks horrified while you look as if you have just awaken from a refreshing nap.
And it doesn't take much for us to fly off into a verbal rage: talkative barista at the coffee shop, movie previews too long, can't get our make-up right in the morning... e v e r y t h i n g. And as soon as it begins, it ends. Everyone around you looks horrified while you look as if you have just awaken from a refreshing nap.
Cure? hahahahahaha...there isn't one. And believe me I truly tried. I tried yoga, meditation, retail therapy (wink wink), having more sex, reducing my sugar, having no sex, organic vitamins, counting to 10 before speaking (then 20, then...) and nada, zero, zilch. I still felt the flush of heat, the ringing in my ears, my teeth grinding when someone would say, well anything.
Apparently we are allowed to vent at our leisure and cannot be stopped for it. Apparently there is a universal understanding that once a woman who appears seemingly normal starts verbally tearing you a new hole for no real reason at all, it is generally understood that she is: 1.Over 40 2. Legally crazy and 3. Not to be messed with.
Apparently we are allowed to vent at our leisure and cannot be stopped for it. Apparently there is a universal understanding that once a woman who appears seemingly normal starts verbally tearing you a new hole for no real reason at all, it is generally understood that she is: 1.Over 40 2. Legally crazy and 3. Not to be messed with.
So, relax. Enjoy! The freedom to be a honest, inappropriate asshole will make you happy in more ways than you can ever imagine.
xo,
Fourty(ish) and Fabulous
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