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. 

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