The Only Exercise I Wanna Do Is Hand to Mouth

I have avoided them all day.

They silently lay in the other room but I can feel their presence. Every since I brought them home, they have been waiting for their cellophane to be ripped off, their hardcovers forced open, to be gently lifted from their center and slid, on their backs, into the waiting gap.


They have familiar names: Rodney Yee A.M Yoga workout. Billy Banks Fitness Boot camp. GAIAM P.M. Cardio Walking. Richard Simmons Dancing to ...whatever.


In my youth, I was not an exercise aficionado, but I always had a gym membership. It was a waste of time for I was able to maintain my weight by bobbing and weaving through people walking the sidewalks during the day and furiously club dancing almost every night. If I was hungry, I had a cigarette (yes, they are good for something). If I couldn't fit into those tight jeans comfortably, I simply drank liquids for a week. Easy.


During my twenties that is.


It's pretty amusing that at the time of your life when you need to exercise, keep it oiled and lubed so that your joints will continue to get you from a to b without incident - I simply have no desire to 'just do it'. At all. But your doctor and your health dictates it differently.


Most of my women friends experiencing this decade are totally committed per their posts on my social media site: "Ran another buh-jillion miles today!"..... "Just signed up for the NYC marathon (holding up their number)".... "Here is the latest photo from my morning walk!". Really? Whatever. *raised middle finger*


Due to guilt and the slight wheezing from climbing the subway steps, I rejoined the gym. The first couple of weeks went extremely well. They always do. Visions of Rocky Balboa jugging up those infamous steps in that horrific sweatsuit - that's me in way better clothing. Of the moment reusable water bottle. Hip scientific sneakers - I mean athletic footwear. Five pound hand weights so I can enter the 'gun' show.


Then I get bored with the repetition of being indoors. Would be more inspired to be inspired by Mother Nature. Aaaahhh. As usual, the first couple of weeks go well. Fast walking boot camp classes free to be me yoga classes in the park. Seeing all of the other women in their exercise gear, fancy water bottles. We give slight nods to each other. High five sisters, we are doing it for ourselves.


Like the bloom on any rose, this glow also wears off. Alarm goes off, hit the snooze button remain in bed. Repeat daily. Heeeyyy....since I love my bed, exercise would be made easier by simply rolling out of it directly into my exercise gear. Enter the Internet. I can get thin by using my computer. And combined with the food diary from the weight loss conglomerate it will be so easy that it's stupid.


Stupid is as stupid does. I pull a calf muscle doing downward dog. Inflamed my knee (think swollen oversized knob) doing cardio kick boxing. While using my five pound weights, dropped one on the top of my left foot. Dropped the other one in the garbage. After a couple of  (finally) injury free weeks, I started using the computer to catch up on "Basketball Wives" before work. Surprise. 


The bitch of it is that I do feel better when I do work out. Lighter on my feet. Can stay focused during meditation without daydreaming about the 'what ifs'. Don't have to lay down to zip up my jeans. (score). And that pigeon crap on my shoulder? Bluebird love.


The problem is there is no everlasting joy in it. And you're allowing your endorphins to rule if you think otherwise.  Exercise is a necessary evil - period. Whether it's done in a gym, outside or on a yoga mat in your home, it still sucks. Basically, I only do it to look good in my clothes, to be able to eat food that is 'bad' for me and to drink fruity cocktails with wild abandon. 


 So until I am inspired to try something new (Zumba here I come), I will continue to practice the best exercise I know: Lift fork to lips. Lift glass to mouth. But... I will be using my butt muscles to clutch my backless bar stool so I can stay erect. 


That counts for something, right? 


XO,
Fabulously Fourty(ish)

Crossing the Burning Sands

I have a number of friends who are experiencing birthdays this month. Some within this decade, some just before it, some who are celebrating what we call a 'baby birthday'. Meaning you can still say the number out loud instead giving people the year of your birth and letting them do the math.

Birthdays always remind me of when I turned forty. Not any other birth year for they were just fodder compared to The Big One. Forty was the milestone, the immovable object, the rock which permanently closes the entrance to the cave. Unlike that story, there will be no resurrection of your youth beyond this point.

Remember the birthdays of yore? Cake, presents, balloons, the nervous happy anticipation, your friends and family wishing you 'Happy Birthday'! all day long, cards from Grandma with five dollars enclosed. As you got older,.. play hooky from work, surprise parties, dancing wildly all night with your girlfriends, intimate dinners with boyfriends/husbands/lovers, trips abroad to mark the occasion (the standard photo of naked feet with painted toes on the sand). Now? A non-fast food meal, a bottle of wine, maybe sex, lights off by 10. Exhausted.

I don't know how you spent the big one, but I spent mine in bed re-enacting a Bette Davis movie: peignoir, 4oo thread count sheets, cold martini glass, large martini shaker. Drinking and crying. Dripping non waterproof black mascara (for I got made up for the occasion). Drinking and crying. Flinging my arm across my face, sobbing loudly. Loud enough so that my neighbor proceeded to bag her broom handle on her floor (my ceiling). A drag queen didn't have nothing on me with all the drama I was bringing.

And then my head cleared. I got up off my ass and realized the world didn't stop rotating on its axis. The sun was still shining (horribly bright). I still had to get up, feed the cat and take my ass to work (that would be my home office down the hall). I made a vow then to never give up my real age readily or easily. I would make others work for it.

"Hey! You just had a birthday didn't you?"
Me: "Yes".
"If you don't mind my asking, is it the big one?"
Me: "What do you consider big?".
Dead stare.
Silence.
Dead Silence.
"Okaaayyy. Well, happy birthday anyway!". Nervous smile.

I had let everyone else's thoughts regarding that day turn me into a hot mess. That it was all over now...I was officially 'old'...that if I haven't done it by now...that it's vitamins, doctors and weather telling joints from here on out. It is only truly now (that I have sobered up) that I have stepped back and realize it is, it was the greatest day ever.

It means that I made it through my wild, wild youth and still live to tell the tales. Some of my dear friends did not. It means that I am 99% me. Instead of walking on clouds, I walk on solid ground with purpose to my step not uncertainty. It means that I may not have achieved all of my dreams personally and professionally, but I have new ones that excite me.  And there is still time to realize those.

So yes, the big 4-0 is a big deal. And you should treat it as such whether you do it out loud or do it quietly. Celebrate it for all of the right and positive reasons. You will never cross this way again. And that's not a bad thing.

Cheers baby.

xo,
Fabulously Forty(ish)

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)

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.