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Friday 02-19-2010 2:54pm PT
This week:Dishing at Costco, and how dudes describe Cougars, Moms and Women of a Certain Age :)
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Madonna, Kim Cattrall, Oprah, Michelle Pfeiffer. You don't think you have anything in common with these women, think again. It's called menopause, and it's not your mom’s menopause. No, we're not shuffling around aimlessly in our house dresses. We're owning it, and talking about it. I've got my stories and want to hear yours, and by the way we're not limiting this to hormones and belly fat....I want to hear from you...
 Big Box Therapy
Friday 02-19-2010 3:26pm PT
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I could either start in with my therapist again, or
just go to Costco with Rosalind. It’s a big ass store…okay, it’s a big box
store, but the point is, its huge and it takes about 50 minutes to get through
the aisles, which is precisely the time of a typical therapeutic session. Plus,
here we get to sample the free spicy meatballs and hot apple cider and talk
ourselves out of a bunch of stuff we don’t need. If one of us has a little
breakdown there’s no shortage of tissue available for weeping women. And we’ll
spend as much $$$ on our colossal sized paper goods and buckets of Advil as we
would sitting across from our PHD/MFCC/LCSWs. We run the gamut: marriage, love,
sex, children, careers, and what we’re planning to do with the rest of our
lives. The usual stuff. Strolling though the acres of merchandise gives our talk
some structure. A bit of free association occurs. I pick up a piece of salmon
which reminds me of a recent dinner I prepared for my husband, (remind me to get
you the recipe) so we talk about him. Purchasing soap brings to mind Ros’s son
who is away at college and doing his own laundry, so we speak of our children
for a bit. True we never linger long enough on one item to get to the dark
despair, but we scratch the surface just enough to know what the three or four
really tough issues are. Pity we have to close off this session of Costco
Therapy. We leave our bulkier troubles behind in the wide aisles emerging
clearheaded and well stocked.
My 51 Year Old Secret
I’m listening to the two guys at work talk about a woman we all know. One
of them says “OMG she’s 50 you know”. The other is astonished. Someone bring I
the defibrillator. “She looks good”, speaking of her like he’s inspecting the
chassis of a slightly damaged, but dependable used car. They’re dumbfounded,
first because “She’s so old, dude” and second, because they can’t believe they
know a 50-year-old woman…who isn’t doing their laundry and answering to the name
“Mom”. I know this relic of whom they speak. Technically she’s 51, she and I
have birthdays about 10 days apart, making me the OLDER one. I smile at the
boys, lock eyes with them, force them to take a good long look at me and I see
they don’t notice that I too, am their new old friend. Listen, I’m grateful to
keep having birthdays. To be healthy, upright and fooling 25-year-old children
into thinking they can safely talk about old people without offending me. I feel
alternately good about my little charade and utterly uncomfortable. Dermabrasion,
Pilates, antioxidants and Rock and Roll. These things are keeping us younger
longer. I got these babies hoodwinked, I so want to ask “How old do you think I
am”, but why ruin my fun? That would only do irrevocable damage to our
relationship. I tell the toddlers I have to leave, get to the post office to
mail a package to my son. “Where’s your son”, they ask. “College”, I say. The
room falls silent. They don’t ask I won’t tell.
Working up a good sweat...in the middle of the night.
Monday 02-01-2010 12:11pm PT
The hot flashes came back just in time for the cold snap. While everyone else is shivering I’m shedding clothes and drinking iced tea. The flash of searing heat passes, and I’m turning up the thermostat again. It’s a shame I’m not hot long enough to impact the rising cost of heating my home. I check in with a girlfriend about her Hot Flashes and she reports that her core body temperature fluctuation wakes her up in the middle of the night, so she strips (quietly, she doesn’t want to give her husband any ideas. ”Oh, there’s a naked woman in my bed and she’s really warm”) She puts on another of her extensive collection of tank tops.
I suggest we go into business producing skinny tanks made of wicking fabric, just like professional athletes wear, under armor for the menopause set...with catchy phrases on them: “I’m hot...keep your hands off!” “This is not a wet t-shirt contest, this is a Hot Flash” “My other top is a polar fleece turtleneck”. I got all kinds of ideas, but I can’t keep track of any of them because with aging comes memory loss and distracting thoughts. Hot flashes, brain cell death, mood swings, heart palpitations and a sudden urge to strip off constricting clothing...it’s almost like being in love.
How come I'm not that perfect?
Monday 02-01-2010 12:11pm PT
She has narrow hips and obviously does a thousand lunges, squats or some grueling combination of these every day! She’s clearly way more athletic than I. Tall, sinewy with a purposeful gait. Why am I’m trying to keep up with her record setting pace? I’m not long and lanky enough to move ahead, so I stay behind and watch her perfect behind. These thin, fabulous girls. And they always have an adorable blond pony tail popping out of the back of their baseball cap. I’m small and brunette. We just can’t compete with statuesque and blond!
She makes a sharp left in front of me and I see her silhouette….and she’s about 7 months pregnant. I’m demoralized. How’s that possible? Who are these skinny pregnant moms sweating on the bike path in all their Liz Lange Lyrca glory. It’s a good thing I had my babies so long ago. I could’ve never kept up with these super sexy Moms to Be. I was…in a word… ENORMOUS-- A circus tent…a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade Balloon. Now, everywhere…skinny pregnant moms in their body hugging spandex, and snug designer jeans. I was pregnant in the pre-Desperate Housewives era. When I carried my babies around, the fashion options ranged from muu muu to caftan.
Truth be told, I’m a little torn. I imagine myself in a pair of power jeans with a snug baby orb-exposing top, flaunting all my pregnant glory, the plunging neckline exposing my newly luscious breasts. Nah…who am I kidding? The old model suits me just fine. Fat and happy in a giant sweatshirt and enormous sweats pants....looking like Violet Beuregaurd from the Wonka Chocolate Factory…a bowl, okay a big bowl, of Ben and Jerry’s in my hands….waiting to meet my babies.
Does this make my butt look fat, and other inane questions we should stop asking.
Thursday 01-21-2010 11:15am PT
I’m getting dressed and say to my husband (this is a man with a PHD mind you)...my butt looks so fat in this dress and he says…”I love big butts.” Well husband dear, that’s wrong answer! How many times have we been through this over the past 20 years? The right answer is so simple and it is... “You’re butt’s not fat, in fact I was just thinking….those squats and lunges are really working Celeste?” I figured we’d continue to have this inane conversation for the next years until I saw this on the Internet where all things can be true as long as you save it to your desktop and post it on FB. The headline read—Fat Butts May be Healthy. ... this comes directly from the report “Compelling evidence for the link (between health and a cushy tushy) comes from population studies showing the more fat individuals have in their hind area the less likely they are to develop diabetes and heart disease later in life…There’s much more science to this breakthrough than we have time to explore here. One problem with the news, now I have to admit my husband’s formerly stupid response was the right one all along.
Can you still eat with those lips?
Thursday 01-21-2010 11:15am PT
There are about a dozen women around the table. One is my really close friend. The lunch at a local Italian restaurant is in her honor. I know the other women, but just in a social…”how are your kids...love the new shoes” kind of way. The last guest to arrive announces, as she sits down, that she’s late because she decided to get the Restalyn in her lips too, in addition to the Botox in her forehead. I love that she just blurts it out, it almost makes me want to kiss her (almost) on the lips..they’re so plump and sexy. I admit it, I’m coveting those lips…they’re so Michelle Pfeiffer, all bee stung and pouty. She says they hurt a little, so she can’t eat too much…bonus novel diet plan. This woman’s Botox doctor is good, he knows just how much paralyzing botulism serum to serve up, because she still has vivid, natural expressions on her face. I think your plastic surgeon should be required to sign a vow, to stop all nipping and tucking, sucking and plumping in time to avoid the Joan Rovers/Garey Busey effect. Until then, plump away!
From Edgy to Comfy: Sensible choices for grown up girls.
Tuesday 01-19-2010 12:00pm PT
Things we need to accept as we age: belly fat, reading glasses, insomnia, night sweats, crashing fatigue, hair thinning, sudden bloating and watching sensible television. I know, I know, everyone’s drooling over “Dexter, while I’m spending a nightly ½ hour with a cocktail and Alex (Trebek). “Dexter” is a Showtime drama starring Michael C. Hall. Dexter works for the Miami Metro Police as a blood splatter expert and moonlights as a serial killer. I’m sure I’ll love Dexter –how can 2.6 million viewers be wrong—but right now I’m too lazy to catch up, which would require Netflixing all the former seasons. My entertainment choices, like my shoes are shifting from edgy to comfy. Mahnolos to Uggs. Listen change is good, but it’s also unsettling, which is why every night at 7:00 I tune in to the thinking person’s game show. “Jeopardy” also provides a safe place for my husband and I to work on our deeply held issues around competition. We really like to win. Our 7:00 session with Dr. Trebek is way cheaper than couples’ therapy. Sometime this year I’ll start watching Dexter; I need to be prepared when it becomes a “Jeopardy” category.
And now The Breast of the Story
Tuesday 01-19-2010 11:59am PT
I’m not kidding the first piece of mail I opened on January 1st 2010 came from the Breast Health Center. It read—“Good News! Your recent mammogram shows no evidence of breast cancer.” The second piece of mail was my gas and electric bill, which of course is seasonably high due to last month’s cold snap. Right there in my hands the good and the not so good. For the first time in my adult life I decide, at that very moment, to make a New Year’s resolution. No, I won’t be turning the heater off, which would take way too much discipline and polar fleece. I’ve decided to work on being more grateful, you know for the good stuff...just like my mother always said, “count your the blessings”. Those ordinary gifts, the things we take for granted, because we’re so busy, thinking about everything we don’t have like the the full time glamorous high paying job, the youthful bounce to the skin on my face and ass, the really cool ruffle blouse on the back cover of the new J.Crew catalog. There’s so much pretty and pricey stuff that gets in my way, on the road to happiness and enlightenment. I have a clean mammogram, this is a good start to 2010. I’m sticking that Happy Breasts Announcement up on the wall above my desk...not on my desk; it would get lost in the clutter of bills and Crate & Barrel catalogs. Good luck with whatever you resolve to do this year...I figure if I’m grateful enough I can treat myself to that new blouse.
I promised to change my friend's name to...June...when retelling this story.
Tuesday 01-05-2010 11:19am PT
Here goes. I answered my hands free communication device as I was driving home last week and, as if in mid thought…June began speaking without a formal greeting. No, “Hi Celeste” just a nearly hysterical June bursting out with, “I hate it when I laugh, then pee….it sucks getting old”
Of course I was afraid to laugh now, for obvious reasons, on-coming traffic the least of my worries. I calmed her down and said, “It’s not like you’re incontinent; you just have a really good sense of humor, and an overactive bladder”. Yes, June you’re just another of the 1 in 4 women over forty trying really hard to avoid laugh inducing situations, unless you’re in the loo, of course. Time to switch from LOL to PML (peeing myself laughing). Texting for grown-ups.
Yes there are feminine products, meds, and even surgical interventions, but for now, June, I recommend those toning exercises they taught us about when we were pregnant. Remember kegels. And you thought all you had to worry about was tightening your flabby triceps.
Tuesday 01-05-2010 11:12am PT
My mother came to visit about a year ago, she stayed for two weeks, danced at my son’s Bar Mitzvah, gave me her beautiful jade ring, which I’d been coveting since the day my Dad put it on her finger 30 years ago. She had a wonderful time, (I’ve got video to prove it) but when she returned home she had already forgotten why she came to see us. Now she doesn’t even remember my name.
To think, my siblings and I were once the center of her universe. In fact, I’m stung by guilt knowing there were days (okay years) when I prayed I could get off of my mother’s radar screen. She was like a reconnaissance drone aircraft in those days, relying on simple intuition to track me down. Note to the CIA: You should’ve enlisted my mother back in 2001 when you began searching earnestly for Bin Laden. We’re blessed if our parents are still alive, but heartbroken to see what many of them are going through. We worry: will they suffer, are they lonely, can we afford the best care….and naturally, we have to wonder: Will that be me someday? Could I possible forget my own children?
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