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)

Holidays Are Not For Children.

I absolutely love this most wonderful time of the year. Seriously.

When you have crossed the burning sands, you become guilt free in the knowledge that you are finally, FINALLY  grown and therefore not hostage to the dreaded holiday-fun-hell-fest. 

The purchase of the three foot high twelve inch wide delivery not included $ 5000.00 tree; the agonizing search for that perfect unexpected thoroughly hinted at 'gift'; attending family dinners that are not Rockwellian as much as they are real housewivey (upending the dining room table is always a nice touch though). 

I know what you are thinking. You simply can't 'opt out'. You can't let everyone down. What about your responsibility to your parents/spouse/children? Everyone depends on familiarity, everyone depends on an absolute sameness/order of events, everyone depends on YOU. The proverbial decorative martyr glue that holds it all together. 

Fuck 'em. Fuck 'em all. 

Look, children are resilient. Plus, those little bastards don't really believe in Santa Claus. What they do believe is that SOMEONE is gonna buy them SOMETHING to make sure they have the 'best Christmas EVER'.  Your parents and spouses/significant others? They are equal parts pissed and jealous for they now become the purchasers/wrappers/schedulers/transporters/psuedo merrymakers. 

Consider this your 'light bulb moment'.

The holidays now represent your 'Get Out of Holiday Hell Free' pass. A pass on going to the pilatesflyingyogasoulcycle class; a pass on drinking responsibly (what does that even mean); a pass on angrily putting on spanx cause really? spanx is no match for the holiday eating that is about to take place; a pass on keeping your inappropriate behaviour to yourself. Share it with others and become the darling of the twittering faceless instagramming social media clique. 

Get over the internal guilt. Ignore the sharp cries of people hanging onto your legs pleading, begging you. Let your muffin top become a cake top. Break out those stretchy pants. Truly, fully begin to enjoy the holiday season in the way it was really meant to be: happily two fisting your way through the ho ho ho's and the merry merry merry's landing flat on your face or flat on your back with no memory of what occurred.

Jingle bells baby.


xo,
Fabulously Fourty(ish)

You Will Still Have To Fight For Your Right To Be A Woman.

As per my previous musings, being a woman in this decade is full of spice, vinegar, tears and laughter. You will finally become the person you were always meant to be. You will become the sexiest, most loving, most confident, most empowered you you have ever been. You will become the fierce warrior woman with the soft appealing touch.

But, I am sorry to tell you that others will find this unacceptable. Not only professionally, some cases personally but on a grander stage, politically.

I live in the USA where women have equal rights. Okay, not exactly (can we talk about equal pay?) but we do possess the right to continue to demand them, argue for them, fight for them. We remain more fortunate than women in some other countries.

Our biggest fight is on the political stage. These are the individuals who determine whether we take two steps forward or a lifetime back. And during an election year, it almost becomes a matter of a real life or a sub par life.

And that is why during this election, I am working to keep the Man who is in office, in Office. For President Obama has taken the issues that pertain specifically to me as a woman to heart. Note:

* The POTUS signed into law the Lilly Ledbetter Fair Pay Act.

* The POTUS has consistently fought attempts to defund Planned Parenthood, one of the largest providers of women's health services in this country.

* The POTUS stands by Roe v. Wade.

* The POTUS has tripled the amount of women on the Supreme Court. For the first time ever, there are now three (count 'em THREE) women on the bench.

* General health care in which women's preventive care - such as birth control, mammograms, cancer screenings - are available with no co-pays or deductibles.

* The POTUS has increased funding to enforce the Violence Against Women Act.

* The POTUS created the White House Council on Women and Girls to support fair treatment in all areas of public policy.

President Obama is the closest thing to an actual woman in the oval office until there is an actual Woman in the Oval Office. And for this, in addition to many many other reasons, I continue to stand with him.

Especially for the next four years.

xo,

Fabulously Fourty(ish) 

I Am Grown Enough To Hate. Which Is A Good Thing.

You are taught as a toddler that hate is a strong word: "you should NEVER EVER use that word it's NOT a nice word" finger wagging in your face as you stand horrified wringing your tiny hands on the verge of tiny tears. Oh sesame street, what have I done WRONG??

Not a damn thing. You were just too young.

Hate is not a bad word nor a bad emotion. I can think of a million things worse that you can say or do. Hate  is the way in which you cement your dislikes for people, places and things. And let us be frank: at this point you have been around long enough to know that what you like you really love; and what you dislike you really hate. And well, it better watch out.

Yes, yes, yes, I have experienced the old 'hate is really just love' scenario. If you express so much hate for something or someone since you are experiencing that emotion it really means that you love it or them and that it or them still means something to you.

Ah...no.

It means that you are human. It means that you are taking the necessary steps to purge the thing or person from your system in a well deserved rage. It is once that rage settles, once that pot stops boiling, the beginning of that slow muted simmer...ah yeah...that's some good slow cooking hate.

It's not all 'aaarrgghhh' and 'gggrrrrll'. Sometimes it's humorous. Really. Two sides of the same coin.

On the frivolous side:
Gummy bears (Weird colors too sugary too rubbery takes a year and a freakin' day to chew then stays stuck in your back teeth. And why bears?); salad (it's cow food people. COME ON.); an abundance of pennies in my wallet; people who spit and blow snot out of their nose in public; teens teens teens; freshly baked bread with a burnt bottom; cheap perfume and the people who expose me to it; neighbors having loud sex when I ain't having any.

On the serious side:
Reaching the last drop of wine in the bottle when I am still thirsty; people who display a lack of compassion; being addicted to cigarettes and liking it; the loss of seasons in my City; men who cheat and lie in a relationship; not laughing enough everyday; being made to feel 'less' based on my sex my hair my size the color of my skin; feeling older than I am.

These hates don't create a knot in the pit of my stomach or make me stressed out. It is more a feeling of self induced calm. Stamped and filed under ' it is what it is', I have the unfettered ability to deal with being fabulously fourtyish in a more focused and clear manner.  Hate does a mind, body and spirit good.

Namaste.



xo,
Fabulously Fourty(ish)