I Get So Emotional Baby....

I fancy myself a tough bitch. 


A born and bred New York City woman who can step over a drunk body or a dead body with the same indifference. A woman who can command a sidewalk elbowing folks out of my way like bowling pins while making my way from point A to point B.  A woman who would seriously like a mink / crocodile farm in order to have her coat, purse and shoes made at the same time. I am not emotional on the inside or the outside. 


Talk is cheap. 


During this special oh so very special decade I have taken to crying unexpectedly, instantly and at great shock to me and everyone around me. It's freaky weird and embarrassing. I never know when the water works will start. It could be something as normally horrifying as the loss of a love one or as outright stupid as not being able to find the right birthday card. For a kid. Who is 1.  


I have always prided myself on facing life realistically. To me, there was/ is no crying in real life; at least not in front of others. Crying was for the weak. That was something you did behind closed doors, preferably in a bathroom while berating yourself for it. You take a moment, shake it off, re-apply your face powder, return to the situation to the life at hand. Chop chop and all that. 


Ah, the good old days. 


Those stupid Hallmark commercials, any commercial involving family/sentiment/feelings receives a watery salute. The video where the momma dog adopts a slew of mewling kittens receives a ghostly tear track. Any video where a serviceman returns home and surprises his young children at school...you have to pry the kleenex decorative box out of my shaking hands. The moment when I return home and realize the cashier mistakenly forgot to pack my jar of mayonnaise for my tunafish pasta salad...well, I think hysterical weeping leading into hand wringing leading into 'why God, why?' might be a bit much. 


Yes, I realize that each incident preceding the tears touches me in some way. Reminds me of life in some way. The loss of youth. The loss of innocence. The loss of love. Subconsciously crying over spilled milk and all of that. But crying over actual spilled milk is kind of freaking me out. 


I actively work against it. When I realize that for whatever ridiculously insane reason I am starting to blink rapidly to prevent another damn burst, I pinch myself. To draw blood. Or step on my own foot. Or bite my tongue. Or think of something really nasty disgusting (having sex with my Ex) or really hysterically funny (having sex with my Ex). Either way it works like a charm. Sure. 


Actually, there are annoying positive aspects. The massive amounts of water have proven to be a plus for my skin. The tears have proven to work for me in certain public situations ("Oh my goodness lady, it's okay, it's okay...here, I'll just include this cookie with your coffee since we don't have any more organic napkins"). The salt is amazing at removing waterproof mascara. Really.


Cry me a river? *shrug* My damn pleasure. 


xo,
Fabulously Fourty(ish)

I Am Too Old To Worry About That S**t.

What is refreshing about this time is that your concerns have become practically non-existent. 


People, places and things that used to effect you emotionally, that would make or break your day are still there. They just no longer have that power. Outside of any pressing medical issues, you really could give a crap. 


'Eh' with a shoulder shrug should be printed on tee shirts for this decade. 

Let me give you a few examples:


- Getting ready to go out to dinner. Hair, makeup, nails done. Outfit on. Rocking shoes. Grab bag. Overall slow check in full length mirror one more time. Bend head down to scope errant hair from breast of shirt. Lips brush fully against front collar. Red lipstick. White shirt. Loud curse. Quick stare down in the mirror. Shrug shoulders. Exit. 


- Having folks over for dinner. Vacuum, dust, polish days beforehand. Day of the dinner sweet furry felines decide that their hair should be the party gift. Review party landscape right before guests arrive. Take a pointed look at thin, slivery hairs softly floating in the air. Landing on the furniture. Everywhere. Oh well. Break out big rolls of masking tape for guests.  


 - Standing on quick process line in supermarket. Behind woman with shopping cart of more than ten items. Who has no understanding of the scanner. Repeated blips. Moving like molasses. Time ages me. Finally I state loudly "For God's sake lady!". Everyone looks at me ugly, horrified. What an asshole I am. Did I mention she was about eighty? Lady says to me pointedly, "you'll be blessed to reach my age". Yeah. But it won't be at the inconvenience of every one else. 


Sex with the lights off? For god's sake. Glad to be having sex period. Flared pimple in the middle of my nose on the big date/presentation/ first day of vacation? *shrug*. Pop it. Wear red pulsating dot all day. Grey silver roots appearing faster, openly, brighter? Eh. Wear it like I don't see it. And you don't either. Pizza garlic breath and no gum? *eh combo shrug*. Breathe normally. Talk directly to people face to face. And not behind my hand. 


It's not that you won't have a flicker of 'Oh God, should I.....?". It's just that you won't back step. One foot in front of the other. Keeping it moving. You have become strongly aware that, shit, this decade IS the halfway point. Life is shorter than you thought. All of this 'stuff', this toxic cloudy mess of uncertainty mixed with superficiality...do my colors match, what do my friends, my boss think of me, does my mustache show (too lazy to wax today), choosing your actions so very carefully before a reaction, speaking from scripted thought instead of from your real mind...... *you know the routine*. 


This is the time of your swagger. Let your 'I could give a shit' flag fly (pretty visual that one). Peel off the decorative plastic wrapping and show the gooey goodness inside. Whether it's to everyones liking or not.


xoxo,


Fabulously Fourty(ish) 

Sex. Sex. And Mo' Sex.

They say men think about sex about a million times a day. So what. You will think about sex about a million times a minute.

And not love making, not soft core porn, not 'caress my face before deflowering me' women made for women movies of the week. Just hard core straight up doggy style reverse cowgirl rough and ready ride 'em make me yell your name hard and loud sex. You will become that prepubescent pimpled boy. Without the bathroom time or the Playboy magazine.

The sense of urgency is palpable. Almost controls you instead of you controlling it. Foreplay? A thing of the past. Not required to ride this ride. By the time you say "Hello", I am standing there naked. Liberating? Hell yeah. Embarrassing? Only when it happens in public.

As a major sex supporter, my desires went from comfortable to ridiculous pretty instantly. I could not look any man in his face without itching to survey his crotch first. Is that zipper straining? How big were his lips? The size of his hands, his feet - and yes nine times out of ten it's true. Shoulder width? (Good for climbing). Oh God. What was happening to me?

At first, red faced, stuttering shame. I was mature on the outside but a raging hormonal booty call on the inside. Later, no shame. When I was caught, I coolly met their eyes. Dead on. Yeah, big boy. Bring it.

Every little thing will set you off. Every little thing sets me off. A breeze. A purring car engine at a stoplight. The smell of a musky cologne. A shoe sale. Handing the male bus driver my metro card. Whatever. Whenever. I exist in a perpetual state of 'blush' all the time.

Mother Nature, in all of her infinite wisdom, made women over fourty possess the libido of a zippy college boy. Made men over fourty have the libido of a eighty five year old man. With a broken hip. And a cane. Sucks. Especially since we have 'arrived'. Are 'seasoned'. Know exactly where, how to position our lips. Our hips. When to 'inhale' and not 'inhale'. Wink.

Forget sex toys. Pocket rabbit vibrating weird color penis clitoris massager...nothing will help. Or slow you down. All of that cold plastic. All of those required batteries. A little nerve wracking to say the least. Ain't nothing like the real thing baby. In reality no one has a tiny sex rabbit. No one has a penis that vibrates. That feels, smells and tastes like plastic. Not that I've come across.

I do get concerned - sometimes. How much can my sugar box take? Have I really lost my freaking mind? Am I a sex addict?  My boyfriend, who is  eight years younger than me, wonders out loud what the hell he has gotten himself into. Ever seen a grown man really cry? Most of the time he stares at me in stunned disbelief. Damn woman, AGAIN? Ah...yes. Please.

So what. This is the best highlight of this decade ladies. We are so sexually healthy it is every mans wet dream. Or it could be. Hold your head up. Put your embarrassment on ice. Experience this gift to its fullest whether that is in or out of bed.

Who are we kidding. Preferably in.


xo,
Fabulously Fourty(ish)