Appreciation

I am at the age where I actually stop and take stock of my life.

And believe it or not, there are quite a few things I appreciate about it:

• My nephew and godchildren think I am cool. 
• My boyfriend is much younger than me. 
• I can bounce out of bed in the mornings if I am not hungover.  Well bounce is slightly exaggerated. 
• I can roll out of bed in the morning when I am hungover. Hitting the floor still smarts though.
• Instead of throwing plates, I err on the side of laughter. And therefore, keep my dishes.
• I can still fit in my skinny jeans from three years ago. Still can't breathe in them either.
• My tits are still riding kind of high. Even without the six inch foam pad. 
• I love freely. Not free love; just loving without requiring a deposit. 
• I can't do dairy, so I do vodka. Perfect replacement. 
• I have regulated my swearing to begin at 12 p.m. instead of 12 a.m.   
• My skin still looks pretty good and tight. Thanks Mom and Dad. 
• My hair is not thinning nor falling out. Yet. 
• I really like yoga. Seriously. 
• I don't get carded but I do get 'checked out'.
• Still smart as a whip. When I can remember shit.
• Can't do white wine but red is just fine. 
• My sweet tooth seems to have fallen out. Yay. 
• Instead of a fast boil anger (going from zero to one hundred sixty in mere seconds), I do a slow simmer. And warn you in advance. 
• I still enjoy sex. A lot. 
• The gym and I continue to not have a relationship. And I am fine with that. The gym has no choice. 
• I love the family and friends who are with me at this point in my journey. I have great taste in people. 

Everyone can appreciate anything at anytime at any age.

But for some unexplained reason, at this age it's just sweeter. 

xo,

Fabulously Fourty(ish)

What The F**k is AARP? And Why Am I Getting It?

Since January of this year, I have been receiving publications that I have not ordered nor paid a subscription fee. For free. They are as follows:

AARP                      (I don't know what the hell this is)
More Magazine    (for ladies over 40ish)
AAA Magazine     (yes, triple A produces a magazine)
Reader's Digest     (yes, still in publication)
Health Magazine (new upstart. like a young annoying cheerleader)

These publications are supposedly geared to people a hair shy of fifty and over. So far, I haven't crossed that line and am not rushing towards it. I still consider myself a Vogue Cosmopolitan Glamour Essence sort of girl. I mean woman.

I don't want to read about the best way to maintain vaginal moisture; the best time of the day to eat trans fats; how to fight that difficult gray (ah...scratch that);  the best food to lube your joints; the best makeup to hide those imperfections that come with age. Fuck you.

I am sure these were written with the best of intentions. A bunch of young folk sitting around an advertising conference table trying to gently help those who are slowly realizing that their 20's and 30's are really over easing them into the later stage of their lives. Like their parents. And I wish I was at that stage to accept this graciously given gift. But I am not.

Look, I still act inappropriately in all ways for my age. Not that that is right or wrong - just something that I continue to do. It's not that I don't want to 'age up'; it's just not my time to do so. For goddess sake, I internet. I twit. I Face the book. These are activities that 'older' folks do not understand or do. Harumph.

Yes, dear reader, I agree. My current rant is a lot of sound and fury signifying nothing - except the fact that I won't face the reality looming before me. Dragging my heels kicking and screaming. Desperately clawing at anything on the gravitational pull to fifty, reaching out for anything to retain my dear remaining youthful life.

I will say, these magazines are way lighter in pages and content. Is the assumption that I have learned everything already? They make great placemats but not door stoppers (not heavy enough). There are no 'special' issues (i.e. the September issue of Vogue) for life just moves on at a consistent piddling pace at this point. No surprises any longer? Nothing to look forward to? The advertisements have changed from hot clothes, hot vacations, hot clubs to drugs, drugs and more drugs. Legal drugs so it is not as fun.

They are damn depressing.

So to amuse myself (since they will not stop sending them no matter how often I insult customer service), I have decided to send back my response card with pithy, fun comments: "Fuck you"!. "Screw you!". "Go to hell!". Etc. etc, etc. They might find it amusing at first ('oh, that little old lady still has some fire!') but twelve months of being told to screw yourself in all sorts of inappropriate ways should guarantee a reduction in placemats for sure.

I'll keep you posted.

xo,

Fabulously Fourty(ish)

The Sounds of Silence

It seemed as if I couldn't stand to be by myself. Big lights big city noises party parade celebration house party dinner with twenty or more rock concerts outdoor music movie films in surround sound cable T.V. stereo what's on the radio.


I couldn't wouldn't think for hearing. Silence was truly golden. And unwanted. Had to be in the thick the midst of all things. Adapting the beats to the pace of my life, stronger, faster, louder.


Days pass. Months pass. Years pass. Decades pass. Time folds noise into sound into dimness into comfortable stillness. It's not just the physical it's the internal as well - the soul the mind the heart the head. Not fresh faced anymore full of boiling churning emotions feelings everything either one hundred percent or nothing, happen now or never with foot stomping intense impatience. 


Now the ability to actually hear myself think is a nice miracle in real time. To arrive at conclusions without feeling like I was in a drunken stupor while doing so. Waking up comforted in the decisions that were made the evening the day the week before. The absence of a question mark and the insertion of a period makes all the difference. 


Not attending nor being counted nor part of the fray. Silencing out without benefit of headphones earbuds Kindle Nook or actual book. Being alone without being lonely every and any where. Getting in touch my with myself without touching myself. 


I found I'm not too shabby company, either. Full of musings imaginings philosophies comedic rhetoric sprinkled with liberal passions and sometimes misguided semi-concretely held beliefs. I am finally my own best company. My own best counsel. My own best friend. 

xo,
Fabulously Fourty(ish)

Oh Say, Can YOU See?

I can't see shit.  


My vision, while never 20/20, was always pretty good. I only needed cute glasses for watching movies or television - far sighted not near. (Is that right? whatever). I could read the fine print on a menu at three hundred paces away. And just like a Lifetime teevee movie of the week...*blink*. I am holding the menu directly in front of my face, over a candle, underneath a thirty bulb one hundred watt chandelier and can't see shit.  Squinting to make out the regular print forget the fine. 'Yes, I'll have the item highlighted in red, medium well. Oh, that's the restaurants name?".


I can't hear shit. 


In the 'before' days, you could whisper my name from miles away in a crowded school yard on a crowded subway in a crowded nightclub while standing on a loudspeaker the size of a small car and I would respond ('whaaaat'). Now you could be standing on top of me, shouting my name while using sign language and I would blankly stare at you,'whhhaaaaadidyousay'. To accommodate this unfortunate circumstance, I have developed the sexy (ha) side tilt. I laughingly lean in, tilt my head ever so slightly to the left/right and whisper back 'hmmmm?' at least twice before I can understand the words that are coming out of your mouth. And if I still don't understand, I simply laugh and change the topic. 


I can't speak for shit. 


In my minds eye I can see the words I want to say I can formulate them in my brain while exchanging witty adult banter. But what happens in my head and what comes out of my mouth are vastly, laughingly different: '"Oh yes, his performance had me totally stuck in my place" (mesmerized). "The color palette is so congruous with the wood stain." (consistent). Funny. While conversing with children under the age of five I don't seem to have this problem. 


Yep, this is the definite area where it all goes to hell in a round woven object (handbasket). And there is absolutely nothing you can do. Nope. Frustrating. Yep. But it is simply the body beautiful aging the hell out of you. Unless you can 'jump' bodies (did anyone determine that yet?), you are stuck in your own. 


And for once, I am not fighting it. I actually find it works in my favor: 
A ten percent tip for an asshole waiter instead of the fifteen. "Oh, so sorry...didn't see that notation on the bottom of my check". The contractor who informs me that he will show up at the end of the week to collect his final payment even though he took two additional weeks to complete my already late project."Ohhh...did you mean THIS Friday? So sorrreee! I heard you incorrectly." Reviewing an artist friend newest contemporary piece using their hair and plastic string. "Oooohhh...I totally get why this is a sham that it sells at this price....oops, I meant 'shame'....".


And sometimes it happens all at once. While peering at my neighbors hideously ugly baby that everyone was cooing over, I lost all of my senses and simply smiled lovingly when asked 'isn't she precious'. I apologized to my neighbors later saying that I simply lost my senses while staring at the wonderous new life. 


See? Jumping out of your body does work. 


xo,
Fabulously Fourty(ish)

Am I Becoming (gulp) Conservative?

I used to be 'that' girl with 'those friends'. 


You know, the young lady you would see in the super high heels with the super v neck top exposing almost everything with the super illegal short skirt that you can't bend down in or sit down in or breathe in. Trampi-I mean, traipsing around all sex before the city doing everything short of illegal and if it was, So. What. 


My friends were all artists and automatically cool. We partied in old churches converted into night clubs. Partied in lofts that were taken over by other artists with questionable electrical and sometimey water. Sexuality? Free to be you and me and possibly he. Fueled by liquor cigarettes and drugs we would laugh at our parents, the old folks, 'cause they missed the train on being young and fun forever and ever aaaaamen. 


Now I can't figure out if I am old or just jealous. 


I still consider myself kinda...hip. *cringe* I dress current enough to accommodate certain things (yeah, the old 'do I look fat in this?'). I still have the cool artist musician writer design photog friends except we all have super high rent or mortgages to consider. Gave up the drugs, still do part time cigs and the liquor continues to flow into my body - albeit on a very slow pre-determined schedule, And my party places? Well that old church is now a mall. And the party has moved to my couch. 


Even my politics seem to have taken a small turn right of 'let everyone be what they wanna be': So...you have many kids with many non-participating fathers. Suing because you spilled the hot coffee you ordered on yourself. Don't like the direction the country is taking but don't vote.  Watching your pant size increase but won't get off of the couch or really change your diet. I am not heartless but it isn't bleeding too much for anyone anymore. 

When packing my purse I make sure to carry a pashima an umbrella mints tissues lotion extra pair of shoes ibuprofen lip balm SPF face lotion ...Maybe it's just me and this is what people (women) carry all the time. No one could ever count on me having any of this stuff. Took my chances with weather, with heels, with the possibility of a mess. Now I pack for the Apocalypse. 


Ordering in restaurants is depressing. I consider my red meat intake my sugar intake my diary my carbs and settle for the freshly washed green leaf salad instead of the bacon garlic crouton encrusted buttermilk dressing salad. Settle for the steamed not the fried exotic. Settle for pseudo milk instead of the fourteen liqueur infused cocktail. 


During my 'me time' days, I make sure to tell the manicurist to paint them Ballet Slipper throw up muted pinkish grey instead of the Aiee Ya Ya vivid lime green that catches my eye. What would my clients think? A responsible adult makes responsible choices. 


Right? 

As with everything, as long as you can identify the problem, you can solve it. The problem: I was becoming an old judgmental asshole before my time. I could foresee it happening while kissing the sidewalk at the age of nine hundred (mumbling toothless at the feet of the young whippersnappers) but not now . The solution: just stop it. And it's not easy. You toe the line between being seen as the adult who can't let go of the past to the adult who can't let go and enjoy the future. 


So everyday I have to make a concentrated effort to play with my food. To remember to live and let live. Paint them nails in teenage shades. Carry a smaller purse (impossible). To listen for those thoughts those words of pure naked cranky adultness before they come out of my mouth. Stop paying attention to right sided people. Go back to the ways of the glass is half full. 

And maybe, just maybe, I can truly be cool again. 


xo,
Fabulously Fourty(ish)

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)