Being All Evel Knievel With My Bucket List.

I watched a move a couple of years ago with Morgan Freeman and Jack Nicholson called "The Bucket List". About old men, dying old men, who decide to hurriedly do everything they have ever wished before they croak. Cute. Didn't really pertain to me for I was forever young with all the time in the world on my side. 


I totally get it now. 


Don't get me wrong, I am not...1. an old man and 2. not getting ready to croak (as far as I know). There is just this sense of daredevilry, absolute 'I don't give a f**k' freedom that is happening right now that cannot be denied. On scales big and small.  


And I don't mean like in the old days. Having sex without a condom and employing the pull out method. Freely mixing all sorts of liquors while cocktailing for hours sometimes days on end. Fully sitting on a public toilet seat. With no paper down. In a dive bar or questionable eating establishment. Pshaw.   


It goes from something as simple and uncomplicated as additional cheese on my pizza (the hell with the Gout!) to something that is guaranteed to put me in an early grave if it goes, well, wrong (Plummeting to the earth outside of a plane (aka skydiving)? Sure.). Swimming immediately after eating? Getting needled and inked in 'sensitive' areas? Parasailing off a raft in the middle of the ocean without true professional assistance? Been there. Done that. 


Now, I watch videos of bungee jumping and think YES. I see stories of people hang gliding off the rockiest cliff on the planet with only a few hours of instruction and think HELL YEAH. I see the young men diving off of naturally formed rocky ledges and think *chest pound* I AM A YOUNG MAN. Can't catch my breathe due to the excitement. And not totally due to the lithe bodies hitting the warm water. 


Not that I was ever a mousy woman scared of my own shadow. Challenges have always turned me on.  I have always forced myself to do the impossible, to attempt the unachievable, to risk all that there is to risk personally and professionally. But something about this decade just makes me feel...crazily free. Completely, unabashedly untethered. The world is really my oyster, throw caution to the wind, all that jazz. 


And no, I don't need to 'speak to somebody'. 

This loss of fear (even if you've never had any), this influx of what the hell excitement, is exhilarating. Running with the bulls in Pamplona. Tied of simply reading about it. Swimming with sharks. Not the businessmen but the real McCoys. Eating spicy food after - yes, after- midnight. Singing out loud in public comfortable that you are piercing ear drums and busting windows (and not in a good way). Do it. Do it. DO IT. *Pounding the top of my desk while flinging my head from side to side* 

It's not that you're in a rush; you're in a 'now'. You realize that all of the previous years have gone by pretty damn quickly and now is the time to get 'er done. That well maintained plot underneath the beautiful cherry tree or that oven fit for one is not a dream but a reality. And you can't live forever. Not just yet. 


xo,
Fabulously Fourty(ish)

My Body. Myself. Screw You.

When you enter this decade, the best relationship you will have is the one with your body. You have made peace with your form and your function. You have made peace with the decisions you have made in regards to life and liberties. You are grateful that you have had the opportunity to make those choices and move on. 


Unfortunately, it is beginning to appear that the next generation(s) of women will not have those rights. 


As of late, there have been a number of laws and bylaws passed in an attempt to control women and their bodies. Which if you know women, any woman, you know that this is the dumbest idea on the planet. Suicidal to even suggest or attempt. Unfortunately, quite a few politicians - read 'testosterone driven' - in their infinite un-wisdom haven't got that memo. 


Let me give it to you now. 


Dear Male Politicos:   


Shut the fuck up. 


Unless you have all of the accoutrements needed to be classified a Female (naturally), shut it. If you do not go to a doctor who politely asks you to put your legs into cold metal stirrups as they insert a cold metal prod into your vagina...shut it. If you are not physically able to be initially responsible for the feeding and caring of the human race within your body...shut it. You do not have a right to swing your penis into matters that do not concern you. 


If you plan on having sex with any woman, ever again, in your lifetime, then you better make sure there are options available outside of abstinence (haven't we tried this already?) and the condom you have been carrying in your wallet since your early "oh, is he still in the bathroom?" days. I will decide if I want to repopulate the species or not. And if I cannot, will not, for any reason, I should be guaranteed the right to make another decision, legally and safely. 


When exactly did we become the enemy? When we took off apron and stop frying the bacon? When we started busting through the glass ceiling you put over us? When we started purchasing cars, homes, islands without your assistance? When we started making the conscious choice to become single parents on our terms? Grow up. 


You can control your business. You can control the remote. But you cannot control us. Do yourself a favor and stop this madness right now. It is not acceptable nor is it very smart. It will affect all of us - but primarily you - from the voting booth to the boardroom to the nursery to the bedroom. As with any type of behaviour, only you possess the mindset to change it. 


And do remember: It is not nice to screw with Woman Nature. 


xo,
Fabulously Fourty(ish) 




TAKE NOTE: Here are the recent laws which have been passed:


Virginia: Ultrasound Bill Forces women seeking an abortion to get an abdominal ultrasound exam.
Oklahoma: "Heartbeat" Abortion bill.
Arizona: Bill passed allowing Doctors to not inform women of prenatal issues to prevent abortion.
Texas: Women's clinics have their finances cut. 

Why Is The T.V. Remote In My Purse?

There are two forms of absentmindedness that begins to occur during this decade. 

'Senior Moments' - when you draw a full blank when attempting to remember people, places or things. In the family room staring down the hallway at my nephew. "Come here (frantically beckoning him).....you." Pause.  "You know your name...". 


'If I have this, Where is that?' - the hilarious game in which you pick up one thing (say, the garbage) when you meant to leave the house with something else (say, your purse). 

It starts out pretty small and insignificant. You walk into your bedroom because you forgot your sunglasses. You walk out of your bedroom with the Costco sized moisturizer in your hand. You walk into your office looking for a file. Stand in the middle of the room staring blankly at nothing for a moment. Ah HA! Pick up the stapler and proudly stroll out of the room.

Remember the way you would tease your parents about being old and forgetful? Mocking them about not being able to find their glasses while they were visibly on top of their heads? Wondering why they gave you a comb when you asked for a soda? And both came from the refrigerator?


As someone who was a spelling bee champion, as someone who could remember multi-pages of script overnight during her fledgling acting days, as someone who prided themselves on being a storehouse of useless knowledge (what is the home planet of Luke Skywalker? The Godfather. All of them.) and therefore much desired at Trivial Pursuit parties, this whole experience is quite....mortifying. yucky. fucked up. 


Yes, I should be more concerned that this might be a medical issue and not a matter of bruised pride. And at first, I was. Started eating more carrots. They are supposedly good for memory. What's up doc and all that. Started exercising more. The rush of endorphins are suppose to keep your body and mind active, aware. In addition to achy, breathless and tired. Started doing brain puzzles - in a little worn out paperback book, fumbling with the Rubik's cube, choking on the Sunday NY Times crossword (damn near killed me), wherever, whenever. By all appearances, you would have thought I was a freaking genius. Unfortunately, nothing seemed to be working as instantly as I willed it. Still forgetful. Still blank. I obviously had a brain tumor. 


So, I went to my much put upon, extremely kind, scarily patient doctor. The one who was attempting to survive my fourties with me. With a straight face, I asked for a brain scan. He released a deep sigh. Gave me a very patient smile, a gentle double pat (pat-pat) on my upper arm and said, "Relax. This is all part of the process." 


Well, that's certainly reassuring. 


Have to admit, my 'brain freezes' do come in handy during certain times. Running into an old booty call who I couldn't stomach in the light of day...that boring barfly who attempts to regale me with stories of her swinging '60's life while I hang out with my friends....going to the corner store for garbage bags but walking out with cookie dough? Priceless. 


During a mid-day shopping expedition (I do conveniently remember where the shoe stores are located) with a friend who is also living this decade to the best of her ability, we started to discuss a really popular movie that we liked. Could not place the name of  the super important most desired actor that appeared in it. Snapping our fingers, hitting each other...arrrggghhhhh. "I can see his face but can't think of his name". We shrugged. It would come back to us in time. And when it did, I called her. At 4:00. In the morning. 


As long as I can still remember the important things - my nephew's birthday, when my TV show 'the real housewives of grab your hair throw a drink in your face' comes on, how to insert a tampon, the best way to make a cold martini (shake it baby not stir)...I'm good. I figure the shit I can't remember isn't that important anyway. Or at least, not today. 


xo,
Fabulously Fourty(ish)

Can I Wear This? Should I Wear This? What The Hell Am I Wearing?

I had a girls night out recently where I wore a pair of leather leggings, open toe high heeled booties, a pleated waist length top and some long punky earrings (baubles beads chains oh my). I looked around the room at the other ' 38-50 ' groups and thought   b  o  r  i  n  g . A bunch of old broads. Ha. Another look and I saw they were checking me out. Really checking me out. Ha. Flipped back an earring. Take that you out of date unstyl-....wait. Dear jeesus. Was I the one who was being mocked? Were they more appropriately attired than I was? Was I the old lady still trying to look hip? 

Daaaammnnnnn.  

Look. I live in the N.Y.C. where project runway is being reenacted everyday, everywhere, in every way, regardless of race, color or economic status. Women whose faces are as lined as the sidewalks upon which they step, Women who have just begun their tentative march into the ages, Girl babies who can't comprehend what a 'potty' is, all rock fabulousness from the jewels to the Vogue worthy ensembles topped off by noteworthy shoes, reptile rich handbags (whether hobo/clutch/or diaper) with the sharpest shiniest hairstyles or funkiest hats imaginable. This is the City where women wear their fierceness at all times whether they are going to work, to play, to the gym or to the corner store. It is about creating a picture, a look, a lasting impression. Giving everyone an instant polaroid of Who.You. Are. 

For the very first time in my life, I am Not. Quite. Sure. 

Well, let me rephrase that: I know who I am. I just apparently have misplaced my sense of 'dress' used to convey this thought. Shopping now requires some actual thinking.The kind of thinking normally required for scientific studies is now needed when deciding whether or not days of the week underwear is age appropriate (oh, shut up). 


A draped top with enough layovers to cover Mt. Rushmore provides camouflage for the middle (formerly known as The Waist). Cap sleeves are more feasible than no sleeves for they decoratively hide the slight waddling on the upper arms (known as The Flappers). All jeans/stretchy ski type pants must have at least 95% Lycra content for they also serve double duty as spanx. Yes, they prevent my ass from jingling, baby, but unfortunately they also prevent me from getting laid. Not very sexy when your partner has to remove them with lube and Home Depot tools instead of his teeth. Heels? Hahahahaha. The six inch f**k me pumps have turned into the 'walk with bad knees' comfort sole. With all of that, the least of my concerns should be whether or not my outfit is age appropriate.  The fact that I can still get into half of this shit and walk, talk, sit and breathe is enough of a major coupe. Yay me. 

But occasionally, I have wondered. And continue to wonder. Actually said it out loud to my cats, to my friends, to myself, to my mirror. Are supersupersuper straight legged dark rinse jeans for me? Can I get away with a funky 'I Heart NY' shredded tee from the teen department at Target? If I put it under a suit jacket? How about those adorable short waisted tight sleeved designer motorcycle jackets? Too much Joan Jett and not enough Julie Andrews? Who is Joan Jett? Fuck off. 

I have taken to looking at other women in my age group to see how they are handling this issue. And by what I can see, it's a fifty-fifty proposition. Some have a prom queen dream happening on top (from THEIR teen years) that segue ways into a fashion police pit stop in the middle dragged kicking and screaming into a "oh no she didn't' moment on the bottom. Confused to say the least. Others appear flawless. Striding about in skyscraper heels in the latest fashionable 'an-som-ball' and flowy highlighted locks. Effortless. How long did it take them to reach nirvana? Well, they look older than 40'ish to me. Just saying. 


St. John separates are not for me. Neither are Crocs - at least taken seriously. And those mature matching tailored sweatshits, I mean, suits? I think you know my answer. Instead of being able to leave the house in under 10 (mins) it is taking me over 10 (hours) with plenty of yelling, flinging and "I'm just not going, dammit" in between. What to do when you are *ahem* seasoned but don't feel seasoned? 

Ignore everything. Ignore everyone. B R E A T H E. Continue to listen to yourself. If you start questioning whether it is appropriate or not, it probably isn't. Just like that twenty eight (one can only hope) year old hot boy you were flirting with. Might be a good idea at that moment but the residual effects will be long lasting. Stop worrying. Stop fussing. Wear the hell what you like with your head held high. People will realize that you are obviously 'going through' something and will turn away after giving you a slightly lingering glance. Depending on what the hades you put on this morning. 

Yes, you are still you. More rather than less. Fashionable, sexy, cool you. Do the leather skirt; just end it lower than the hair on your pleasure box. Do the motorcycle jacket; just don't put a multi-colored sequin skull on the back. The six inch heels? Necessary evil. Wear them from the car to the bar - seat. And the pants? Can't be helped. Just bring an extra tube of lube and a set of pliers with you. 

xo,

Fourty(ish) and Fabulous

Grey, Grey (ahem) 'everywhere'....

During this decade, the hair turns weird. Horror show weird. 


First, the hair on your head begins to reflect your new found personality. Acting all wild and crazy and completely out of control. Running with scissors and jazz hands screamingly on edge. No brush, amount of gel or chainsaw will get it under control. Second, it begins to leave. Starts as a trickling; as if your head suddenly became a bad neighborhood and the real estate value plummeted. Third, it moves onto your body. You begin to sprout hairs in territories unheard of to man (well,, woman). Center of your neck, around the areola (yep) even in the booty crack. But it can be controlled. Removed. Noted. And Third, but definitely not least, it starts to turn grey. Silvery, pretty grey which is nice for a car or an appliance but not for a living human being. And with that comes this weird coarse wiry texture. One of these hairs is not like the others, no ma'am. These greys are like uninvited guests: acts out but cannot be brought under control. Will not mingle with others. Will not politely leave on their own so have to be forcefully removed. 


 Unfortunately, they did not start out invading my head. At first.  


I discovered my very first grey in the center of my beautiful 'bush garden'. Yep. My vajayjay, my p-town, my pleasure box. Down There. Front and center. Wiry long little bastard. I was appalled/disgusted/shocked as hell. I stared at it for what seemed like hours. First, by using my make-up compact tilted at weird angles (Cirque du Soleil had nothing on me) and then just standing naked in my full length mirror. Son of a bitch. I could never have oral sex AGAIN. I could never have regular sex AGAIN. Did this mean I had an old p***y? Of course. I cried. And then I immediately yanked it out as viciously as I could (NOT recommended).


When I made my discovery, I told a few of my girlfriends in horrified hush tones. And they started laughing. And laughing. My freak-out-ness amused them to tears. At a friends intimate annual Christmas party, during a game of secret santa, I received a box called "The Betty". On the front there was a cartoon line drawing of a woman's waist, hips and thighs with a triangle dead center. "The Betty" was a natural, lye-free, vaginal hair dye. And it was a bright Orphan Annie red (color: 'Red 02'). Did I mention that my hair color is 'natural black' (Hair Lie no. 42)? 


So, I used it. And it was much brighter than the box indicated. During our sexytime, my boyfriend, upon seeing it, actually produced a high pitch scream and scrambled to the other side of the bed. Clutching a sheet. Staring at me. "What the hell? Is that?". And then, with a little coaxing, he remembered. Lesson confirmed: Men will screw anything. 


After the Betty wore off, I decided to try a henna. All natural, right? Ah, no. At least not for 'down there'. More like slow simmering warm embers on a constant basis type hell. Oooof. After that wore off, I decided to shave it off entirely. If you can't see it, it doesn't exist. Felt young like a newborn baby. Except, I forgot about the growing back part. The part where you begin to rub your private parts against anything within reach like an old dog scooching his butt across the floor. Desk edge, casually front facing a wall, standing in a crushingly crowded subway car pressed up against a mans' messenger bag: aaaaahhhhh. Waxing was not an option. I once did all of that screaming to remove one and fifty marched back in its' place. Plus, I just couldn't get that ripping sound out of my head. *shiver* 


Look, it's one thing to have an errant grey hair on your chin. Pluck or pull. A grey eyelash. Pluck or pull or carefully dye. Even a grey eyebrow strand. Pluck or pull or thread. And grey hair on your head? You accept that. You expect that. And you handle that. There are entire salons dedicated to the restoration of your rich, natural color ("only She knows!"). There are gay hair dressers everywhere nodding in agreement when you say, "it's pretty, but, it ages me". There are slews of brightly lit drugstore aisles across the nation dedicated to the hiding of silver strands via color boxes 1 through 501. It is the worlds most obvious resistance movement. And I was ready, financially and spiritually. 


But the 'pleasure box'? Damn. I mean, common sense (which was now cowering way way way back in the back of my head) dictates that you will grow grey wherever you grow hair. Fine. But there are no salons dedicated to that fight. No specialists who would tell you (much less look at you), " Ah, darling, do not worry. We can restore you to your natural bush color in no time. No one will ever know the difference". There are definitely not any brightly lit drugstore aisles of vajayjay specific color to assist in this war. And no, my gyn will not do hair.


Now, I simply keep it as low as it can go while acting like it doesn't exist at all. Can't shave anymore due to the wanted posters of me. The drapes upstairs are slightly different from the curtains below (jet black sheen' (Hair Lie no. 63) versus punk rock entity). I co-exist as two people: a still relevant hot mama hanging in the upstairs residence with a silvery fox keeping time downstairs. 


And so far, we are all good neighbors. 


xo,
Fourty(ish) and Fabulous