Hot. Cold. Hot. Cold or The One I Didn't Want To Write.

To date, I have been open and honest about what to expect during your forties. I have expressed no hesitation about the anger, forgetfulness, sex, graying of pubic hair, loss of time - the highlights of this decade. All in (in what I like to believe) are funny and poignant ways. But this is the column I didn't want to write.

The Pause.

Yeah. I wrote it out loud. Perio-menopause, menopause, trust me it is all the damn same. It really should be renamed, 'If you thought your menstrual cycle was a hideous never-ending life experience just wait until you get a load of me' pause. 

And boy oh boy... it's a doozy. This phase will make you absolutely crazy if nothing else has done so so far. Your body will cease to be a wonderland and will become a Tim Burton amusement park. Even if you like horror, you won't enjoy this. 

First, throw out every single 100% wool wool blended winter whatever that you own. Keep only the cashmere for those are the only items that will be able to accommodate your erratic temperature mood swings. You will go from fanning yourself on the porch, in your birthday suit, rocking and bemoaning the temperature with a frosty drink by your side to cranking up the thermostat to the highest affordable number while walking around in a cashmere sweatsuit fur lined booties and a skully cap in your own home. Poor neighbors. Poor significant other. Good times all around. 

Second, your handbags will all become roll on suitcases. The more room to accommodate everything you will soon be carrying: seasonal jacket, summer sweater, cashmere sweater, long sleeve shirt, short sleeve tee shirt, tank top, cashmere scarf, gloves, hat, flip flops, fur lined ankle boots, hair ties, hair bands (for the sweat), the kitchen sink (well, you have everything else?) and hankies. For the tears of frustration. And that's only for one day. 

Third, you are going to save a shit load of money when you shop, for seasons have ceased to exist for you. No Fall/Winter ; just Confused/Still Confusing based on your daily here & now needs. My career uniform consists of a tank top with a blazer. Add a scarf for winter. Carry a hankie for summer. You will save on closet hangers thereby having more room for shoes. See? Silver lining. 

Fourth, no more all day appointments in the beauty salon. Every wonder why every older woman you see has short hair? You won't anymore. Since it will become a guaranteed damp sweat filled nest, cut. if. off. And if your significant other likes long hair, get a weave or a wig. Better yet, get them a weave or a wig and have them sit in a heated sauna, fully dressed all day long. That will put an end to that conversation. See? Silver lining.

The Pause signifies the end to all of the previous bullshit associated with being a babe, a girl, a chick.  It represents your status as a fiercely real Woman and that is something to be chest puffed out proud of. In spite of the constant presence of upper lip sweat. 

xoxo,

Fabulously Forty(ish)

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)

It's My Birthday. And I Ain't Crying.

Dear Readers,

Todays date is the cause for equal parts sentimental messages tempered with bawdy overtones (for those who love me) and burning me in effigy while chanting in a circle (for those who despise me):

It's my Birthday.

And my simple wishes are such:
Good meal.
Good drinks.
Belly laughs.
Get laid.

Despite having the most fucked up year of my life in every way imaginable (and I do mean EVERY way), I feel friggin' great.

And in this moment in this time of my life,  I am fond of the past, realistic in the present and dream for my future. For while a lot of time has been spent, I still have a large bank of it to use.

I will honor my Mother and my Father who conjoined to give me life by celebrating this day to the full extent of its offered 24 hours in every inappropriate way imaginable. But always 100% me.

So when you see me today and think "dear Lord" followed by eye rolling, know that it will end soon. (Seriously, I am fourty something...)

Just enjoy the show while you can. I will.


XO,
Fabulously Fourty(ish)

Where The Hell Is ' Aunt Flow'?

Every woman has an Aunt like I do. Uptight upright forcefully peering at you over her pinched glasses who, even though unloved and uninvited, would arrive wherever I lived at the same time for the same number of days every month for years on end smiling maniacally while causing pain and havoc at the most inopportune times ('gonna get my groove on' big date, white bathing suit vacation, form fitting dress up event). 

I call her 'Aunt Flow'. And she comes with party favours. 

The headaches, the ever present sensation of wanting to puke, wearing stretchy pants because I cannot get into my jeans, unquenchable thirst for water water anywhere, the jonesing 'yo man, you got a Hersheys bar? a m&m?', the unexpected emotional outbursts preceded by swiveling my head 360 degrees while shooting foul language at anyone who dared ask, "Are you okay?".

You would think with an Aunt like this, it would be a welcome relief when her visits became less frequent. The ability to wear white lace panties for instance. But instead of thanking the Gods, when Aunt Flow started to become sporadic and unpredictable I honestly became weirdly concerned.

When younger, while yes hellish, her visits did bring some heaven. Her humor was such that sometimes She would arrive much later than expected knowing her absence would cause a feverish panic, a late night run to any drugstore, some peeing on a stick with the oft quoted prayer ('I swear to God, if You get me out of this...'). And when She laughingly did show, I did breathe (angrily) easier. 

Then as I became more 'mature', I finally started to appreciate the gift She had been bringing me for years: the promise of new life. A reminder that I was a supreme goddess who ruled over my kingdom called 'Uteri':  the lush, fertile land of milk and honey, honey.  As long as my partner was a willing participant, as long as we agreed that it was time to seed, I was ripe for the planting. 

I could always set my calendar to Her arrival date. So Her recent unpredictability is slightly alarming. 

She gave no notice. Just didn't show up for Her regularly scheduled visit. This set the tone for our relationship from thereon. She would never arrive on time; She started to show up unexpectedly; there was never a confirmed length of time for her stays. Initially, I was thrilled. I could do anything with anyone at anytime. I could go anywhere wear anything at anytime. Freedom! Then the fun kind of wore off. She has been a dependable major part of my life for most of my life no matter how unpleasant. What was I with out her?  

And then I grudgingly realized, we are both growing older. But She has been around a lot longer than me. This torturous relationship is one She maintains with many, many others, thriving in our youth, gleefully cackling at us in our middle age, exiting unannounced and unceremoniously during the mature leg of our journey. If She wasn't family, She would be the meanest lover ever. 

It is weirdly comforting to know that my worrying is for naught. While I continue to express pseudo-anger against Her and her wicked, wicked ways, I still leave the door unlocked for whenever She decides to drop by. For while I am growing too old for her, I am still young enough to finally appreciate Her visits.  

xo,

Fabulously Fourty(ish)

Spanx. Not For Sissies.

After crossing the burning sands, your body does not exactly have that one hundred percent youthful elasticity it used to. Expected. Just not appreciated. Keeping that ass off of the ground the boobs in the air the waist cinched just so is a pain in that ass.

Back in the day, my Mom would deal with this issue by wearing a 'girdle'. Positively hideous in appearance, it was a flesh colored (actually no one had flesh that color) piece of body armor with hooks, snaps and elastic hanging parts. The ugliest dominatrix outfit I ever saw.  I understood why she was always in a very bad mood before going out.

Hello Spanx.

The kicky display with the sassy signage. Spanx promised to tighten my full figure curves without cutting off my circulation. A girdle for the new age. So pretty in design that a booty call would not know the difference. Smooth to the touch it felt like sex and whispered to me like a pimp, "I'll be so good to you baby".  Sure, the price equates to that of a budget for a small nation but that made me hustle even harder. I needed to make my pimp happy. 

What they forgot to mention, on the fancy tag, on the fancy signage, on the Oprah Winfrey show, is that they are a bitch to get on. I don't know about off for I am still wearing the first pair I ever bought. Here's what I learned:

One, you need at least an hour before 'Go' time for the Spanx ONLY. Forget the hair, makeup and nails; you will need the entire 60 minutes to squeeze your pliable flesh into this unforgiving scientifically enhanced armor. Yay modern age. 

Second, while body oil and lotion is good, there is nothing like the application of good ole Vaseline all over the body to help slip the sucker on. It makes the difference between putting the Spanx on upright as opposed to laying down on the floor breathing hard and curse-crying while you 'pull' pause 'pull' pause...like an oarsman in an old biblical movie. 

Third, there is a 'clit slit'. Yep and thank the Lord. A slit of an opening from tip of clit to start of ass to allow you to pee without having to remove or pull down the Spanx cause let's be honest, you ain't getting them off no time soon. If ever. You might want to wear a thong for though it might be considered daringly sexy to have your vay jay jay hanging out in reality it's just awkward.  

Now once on, the Spanx is second skin. I swear it - you won't even feel it. That memory of you laying on the floor crying? Pfffttt. It gives you the body of your waking and sleeping dreams. It makes you the envy of every man and woman for miles around. The dress those pants slip easily over and on. No jingling baby just well placed well paced 'thrust'. 

I no longer dread the whole 'whatamIgoingtowear' phase. I can wear it all. As long as there's grease. 

xo,

Fabulously Fourty(ish)

Introducing...Betty.

Ladies and some Gentlemen,

I wrote a post, not too long ago, entitled "Grey Grey (ahem) Everywhere" in which I referred to a hair dying brand that I attempted to use in my 'downstairs apartment'.

Well look what I found. In many colors (gotta love the malibu) for many moods for many hours of out and out laughter.

Happy dying.

xo,
Fabulously Fourty(ish)

The infamous 'betty' dye with lovely sketch

Feminism Reversed

All of this independence isn't what it's cracked up to be.

WAIT.... Let me begin by saying that I truly believe women rule the world. Whether it's in the boardroom or the bedroom. Whether it's loudly or stealthily. I believe in paying my own way, having my own business(es), being self sufficient and owning my own uterus. Roar.

But I gotta tell you... I'm exhausted.

I daydream about what it would be like to only have to concern myself with the running of my house (maid driver housekeeper cook nanny), my children (if I had any) and my husband's (if I had one) work and social schedules.  I wonder what it would be like to be a 'kept' woman. Have my rent paid, my daily/weekly/monthly expenses taken care of, travel exotically often, my one job making sure my ass/nails/hair were always well maintained. Available for my sugar daddy every so often like a long awaited treat (or a semi-retired hooker depending on how you look at it).  No roar needed.

Can you tell I'm tired?

Too many real housewives episodes. Too many basketball football baseball player wives shows.  These times don't allow anyone to stay home chillaxing. Running a home (sans maid cook housekeeper nanny driver) has turned INTO a business. My fourty(ish) age will not garner me the type of sugar daddy I envision and I am not the camera ready bottled barbie he envisions. With my luck, I would get the wealthiest but oldest raisin in the world hooked up to a respirator (promising) but fighting to live forever (boo).

Wish I could write this laying down.

These thoughts do come fast and furious during this decade. For if you are in this decade, you were next to me at the front tail-end of the feminist movement/fight/war. The fight for equality for recognition for equal pay for ownership of our body against the tyranny of men since college. Determined to make our mark on our terms. Changing the perception of a what a woman is suppose to do as opposed to what a woman can do.

I'm gonna lay down.

At the end of the day, I am not fooling myself. I know those roads never taken, if I had to do it all over again, would remain untraveled. Daydreaming about the grass possibly being greener is what we all do whether it is professional or personal. You will simply do it a little more often during this decade. Especially when you're tired.

And that movement, that fight STILL exists today (here's looking at you Republican party which ain't no party).  So like any weary determined warrior, I pick myself up, put on my warpaint, gather my weapons, toss back my ale (wine vodka) and run screaming into the fray. ROAR.

 (But sometimes it would be nice to hire someone to do it for me).

xo,
Fabulously Fourty(ish)

Doctor, Dentist, Nutritionist, Internist. Why are they in my life?

The amount of appointments I schedule for doctors is starting to surpass the number of appointments I schedule for my business. Word.

I have always had pretty good health even outside of the drinking, the drugging and the smoking. For God's sake, I was  achingly young and therefore experiencing all of the great stuff that happens with youth: limber limbs, clear glowy skin, full set of shiny non-cavity teeth, almost 20/20 vision, batman like hearing. The only doctor I saw, the only doctor on my speed dial was my GYN. And you know why.

Back then, I could simply pick up the phone, call the nice receptionist, exchange pleasantries (how is your little boy?  yeah, loooonnnggg time no see!), get an appointment. In fact, she would work with my schedule to make sure I got an appointment that worked for me.

Here's how it happens now:

Take off one full work day. Have writing pad, three working pens, computer booted up, a complete list of doctors, telephone numbers and questions at the ready. Have coffee, cigarettes and large pin for stabbing yourself in the palm of your hand. Be prepared to call a few times, scroll through the endless options, finally hit 'O', speak to the overworked gum chewing tooth sucking attitudinal receptionist, be put on hold for years without music, then given an option of available appointments that wouldn't work for Jesus himself.

A sampling:

My dentist only works on Monday/Wednesday/Friday for he has a summer/winter home and really prefers to be there. 

My GYN is only available to probe me on Friday/Saturday for she has a residence in Westchester and really prefers to work there.

My primary care physician, who pretty much works seven days a week, has a reception room the size of a football field and a wait just as long. 

My internist I only met once. Could not pick him (her?) out from a police line up. 

My nutritionist is unattainable and therefore the love of my life. He is a rail thin 108 year old slightly stooped Southern gentleman with the biggest salt and pepper black power afro I have ever seen who always talks to me with a tone of exasperation. 

"I am feeling really light headed and tired." 

"Uh huh. Probably anemic.".

Panic.  "Oh my God, What should I do? What should I take?"

*Exasperated long sigh*

"Eat a burger. Twice a month. See Viola on your way out."

You will need these appointments. All of the mechanisms that are used to keep you upright, seeing, hearing, eating, tasting, smelling, just being fucking human, seem to have an expiration date (surprise). And this decade starts the warranty count down. 

So when your Mother asks if you are dating someone special, say "Yes! And they are all doctors."

xo,

Fabulously Fourty(ish)

Dating. Again. (sigh)

I never thought I would ever have to deal with this topic during this decade. It helps that I am drunk.

You see, I have -well, had- a boyfriend. While we didn't live together, it was a two year daily story of togetherness. His luggage, my luggage, combing the two sets and working in any additional small bags - it was good. For me.

For him, apparently, my luggage was the kind he really really liked; just didn't love.

At first, I laughed. Shocked. Then I stared at him. Had a clear vision of me grabbing his beautiful head and pounding his beautiful dimpled face repeatedly into the car window shield (yes, this happened in a car, after a date, on a Saturday night) until the blood flowed freely and I could leave him for dead. Not because I was heartbroken (that would come very soon later); but because he was making me single. Again. Which means I had to start dating. AGAIN.

I could absolutely positively fucking kill him for that.

Dating in my twenties was beyond fantastic. Men over here, men over there, men everywhere. I had my pick of various litters. Dick over here, dick over there, dick everywhere. I didn't want to marry, didn't even want a commitment. I was a City girl living big in her world career on track watch my smoke. Yeah babee.

Dating in my thirties got a little - and I do mean little- more serious. Had to start setting the foundation for the big 'I DO', for children, for the house (not a two car garage but a condo with a doorman or brownstone with stoop), for the car, for the credit cards, for the ring, for the prestige ('Oh sorry, can't come tonight, the HUBBY and I have plans...').

That didn't turn out too well. Obviously. I have - had- a terrible short fuse and threw them out as fast as they came in. Thought I had all the time in the world. Ha. HA.

Enter this decade and I threw my hands up in the air. Whatever happens, happens was my mantra. And boy did it keep happening. Terrible blind dates (did my friends REALLY know me??); terrible dates I made on my own (did I REALLY know me??); terrible dates I had the common sense to leave ('excuse me, you suck and I am leaving.').

Now...who do I date? As far as I can see, here are my options:
Men younger than me who consider me a 'sexy cougar' while addressing me as ma'am.
Men my age who are divorced and angry. Really ANGRY.
Men my age who want to date women the age of my god daughter (18).
Men in their fifties who find me 'sassy'.
Men over sixty who want to date women my age (the age of THEIR daughters).

I am fucked.

My attraction is to men who are men. Not boys. Not guys. Men who live life like they have no birth certificate. Live, laugh, love, hard, loud with a sense of responsibility, of gravitas when called for, of common sense daily. Men who walk not in front of me or behind me but beside me. And if they are in front, they at least have the decency to hold the door open.

Yes, I expect a great deal. For I am a great deal. 

I realize that while my heart is healing, I am in no position to even consider dating right now. Can't see the trees for the forest. But, I always prefer to tackle unpleasant situations in advance, head on. It physically makes me sick to my stomach knowing that I will be 'out there' again -older, wiser and with a lot less enthusiasm. A LOT less.

But once I stop crying unexpectedly in cabs, on the toilet, when people greet me "hello"... But once I stop smoking cases of menthol cigarettes combined with morning afternoon evening vodka.... But once I start actually leaving my house to see sunlight...I will start taking stock of my (sigh) options. And attempting not to hurl in the process.

There is a silver lining to all of this: As with most things I don't want to do, when I finally do it...it usually turns out to be great.

*Fingers crossed*


xo,
Fabulously Fourty(ish)

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)