My Boobs Fell Down. And They Didn't Get Up.

I can handle (sure and haha) every other area of my body not being what it used to be. Slightly hanging, slightly hurting, all physically changing. But the one area I can't take, simply can't deal with, made me cry in front of the bra doyenne at a 'ladies' store...is the Falling Of The Girls.

My Ladies. Honey and Sugar. The Wonder Twins. My Tits. Fire and Ice. My Tatas. My Brown Eye Girls. Nnoooooooooo.

Our history goes way, way back. We have been together since the age of 12 when I was still just a flat board which blended into a roundish stomach. My Mother kept assuring me that one day they would come. And boy, when they did, they came BIG. Hurrah. 

At first, they invited ridicule for the boys didn't know what to really make of them. (Neither did I). Nor did they realize how much 'the girls' were going to affect their lives. Fast forward a few years and whaddaya know... I'm THE belle of the ball. Or balls. Smirk.

The Girls turned regular tee shirts into playboy worthy entries. They stopped traffic- literally. That simple shift dress hanging listlessly on the hanger? Va-va-vroom when slipped over my head plus some six inchers on. Laying on my back on sandy beaches invited hangdog stares. I always got weird neck tan lines since my chin almost rested on them. 

The number of speeding tickets I should have received, the jumps allowed in lines, the many doors held open waaay in advance of my arrival, the free booze purchased for me... all due to my ace boons, my partners in crime, my beautiful high lifted showgirls. Sigh.

We also experienced some tough times. When one of my initial boyfriends found that lump. The breast reduction needed for the size which originally thrilled and was now simply breaking my back. The resulting scars that scared a man out of my bed for he thought I was transgender. Not that there's anything wrong with that he assured me hopping really really fast around on one foot to put his underwear (really really fast) back on.

You would have thought I would have recognized the deflation sooner since we live together but, it wasn't until I went to dinner with my 19 year old goddaughter that I became 'aware'. She was wearing a lovely v-neck sweater dress that hugged her correctly and had all the boys turning around to appreciate her top assets. I also was wearing an equally lovely v-neck sweater but seemed to invite glances of 'sorry for your loss' instead of hungry appreciation. 

I instantly knew what the problem was: a drawer full of bad bras. So I visited the bra doyenne at that Ladies Secret and was promptly informed after being the recipient of an uncomfortable stare and not so gentle hand measure/squeeze, that I needed something with 'uplift for as we age they age also'.  Which is when the aforementioned crying commenced instead of the desired face punching.

Millions of dollars and one not large bag later, I walked out with my new fake breasts. In many colors, with underwire lift (who thought of this hell?), appropriate padding for tee shirts dresses silky tops you name it. They are the reverse spanx for my titties. Sometimes I sleep in them. And I never leave the house without them. Who knows when I might need a get out of speeding ticket card? 

My girls have matured into beautiful adult women. Who can still catch an eye or two when out. Even if they have to look...lower. 


xoxo,
Fabulously Fourty (ish)

Compliments. Or Are They?

"Yo Miss.. I just wanted to tell you that you have a  mad pretty face with a nice phat ass. For an older lady."

*s l o w   e x h a l e*

Even if you don't live in an urban city, are not familiar with urban lingo, street slang, 'hood' language....you get the general jist of this.  I stood there. Silent (which is highly unusual for me) and speechless (which is even more unusual). I couldn't decide whether I should be insulted - proper reaction for an older lady - or should I be falling down grateful that someone under the age of 110 thinks my ass still looks pretty good. So how did I reply? 

"Gee....Thanks."

When you enter this decade you become well aware of what doesn't quite look like it used to. The height of your breasts, the width of your ass, the firmness of your neck...and yes I could go and on. You learn to live with it, sort of accept it as graciously as possible (pilates three days a week anyone?). The last damn thing you need is to reminded of it. Especially when ill mannered appraisals of your being are being handed to you in a backwards, seemingly complimentary way.

Yeah, you get sensitive. Yeah, you should have a sense of humor about the whole aging process for you are beyond other people's insensitivity. Yeah you realize that people don't mean to be ignorant in the way they 'compliment' you which is why they follow their pronouncements with a genuine smile. Yeah. Trust me, the majority of days will find you asking people to 'please stop talking' before you literally punch them dead in the face. 

I have adopted a name for these supposed compliments: 'Thinly Veiled Insulting Compliments' or T.H.I.C.K. (sounds cooler with the K obviously). A few examples: 

"You are still beautiful for your age."

"You can totally date a younger man for you can pass."

" Back in the day, a woman your age was referred to as 'handsome'."

"Grey hair makes you look seasoned. I love it!" *said by a younger person with not one single damn grey strand in their damn head*

"Those jeans make your booty look young."

And the list goes on and on. Gives new meaning to the term 'neverending'. You will never, ever get used to it so practice the art of accepting these T.H.I.C.K.'s as humanely as possible. For an older lady.  And look at the silver lining: at least people are still paying attention to you. 

And if you can't get used to it, if you can't find the 'funny', then start saving your funds for bail money. Cause I forsee a lot of left hooks in your future. 

Xoxo,

Fabulously Forty(ish)

Men: I apologize. Yes, to you.

Dear Men,

I am sorry. 

For the first time ever, speaking for women over a certain age everywhere, I sincerely, deeply, without a sarcastic bone in my body, apologize to all men who have women in their lives who are experiencing their 40's. Whether they are a wife, girlfriend, sister, mistress, secretary, boss, nanny or just passing you on the street....I feel for you. 

I cannot imagine being in your shoes for frankly, we can't believe we are in ours. You have never understood us under normal circumstances. From the first moment in the sandbox as we seductively smiled at you, beckoned you to come play, as you innocently, happily plopped down next to us and immediately received a handful of sand in your face while we screamed, "NNNNNOOOO GET AWAAAAYYYY!!", you have been doing a delicate dance around us. Not knowing the steps but doing your damnedest to keep the beat. 

It wasn't enough that you had to deal with the whole menstrual cycle shit (thank Momma Nature for that), it wasn't enough that you had to deal with the whole pregnant hormonal nine month gestation trauma (again Momma N) but now this. Dealing with the peri-menopausal regular menopausal instantly raging drop of a dime hysterically laughing looovvve you looove you not, charming happy woman you know and love one minute the flip side bitch you cower from the next, let's have crazy hot sex, wait why are you touching me, why are you even in the bed, I hate the sight of you, I love you please don't leave me. 

Sorry just doesn't seem enough.

All I can tell you is that this is the test of your lifetime. No easy cure. No easy remedy. And it lasts for approximately the next decade (yep, Momma you know who). You could opt to leave, to give up, but understand that in the state we are in we will hunt you down and kill you. Seriously. You are our rocks, the oasis in the sea of insanity, the peanut butter in our chocolate. Believe it or not, YOU are the only thing that makes sense to us right now. Go figure. 

So, take a deep breath and be a man, that man, the real man you believe - we believe- you to be. Even though we are two different sides of the same coin, so far, you have survived us brilliantly for which I give you major kudos. And while we might appear not to notice, we love you for it. Even when our heads are swiveling in their sockets. 

xo, 
Fabulously Fourty(ish) 

Happy New Year! Happy New You! (sorta)

Contrary to popular belief, it is not about completely reinventing yourself. Out with the complete old you; in with the new, whoever that might be, shiny you. It has been a long, hard journey getting you to where you are today. Why not appreciate the roads taken - and that ones that should not have been?

Contrary to popular belief, it is not about wiping the slate completely clean of any offenses/sins/foibles you might have committed and that might have been committed against you. Live and learn. Like putting your hand on a hot stove when you were a toddler, you won't make the same decisions again.

This New Year, as with every new year, represents your chance to 'er'.

Whether it is smart-er, healthi-er, strong-er, timeli-er, nice-er, less drunk-er, sex-ier. You simply want to add to the overall equation of who you are. Of who you wish to continue to grow into being. You will basically be the same but fine-er. At the very least, you will try. And isn't that what it's really all about?

You are a mature Bridget Jones and your life diary will continue to reflect learning curves, inappropriate choices and some lovely form of debauchery along the way (weeee). Consider this new year another mini-chapter in the overall story of you. It can be as calm-er or wild-er or dirty-er (yeah baby) as you desire. As long as it contributes to the growing of you. And a better you makes everyone else happi-er. Trust me.

I have an old quote on my wall that I continue to live by each and every year:
 "Always be a first rate version of yourself instead of a second rate version of somebody else."
- Judy Garland.
I wish that for you all. Regardless of how many times you need to 'er', no matter how many mini-chapters it might take to get there.

Happy New Year.

xoxo
Fabulously Fourty(ish)