Am I aging well or failing miserably?

Image by State Library of Queensland, Australia via Flickr

I think there should be a website where women can go to see how well or how poorly we're aging. We would post a current face and body shot upon joining, and complete a profile questionnaire that covers our lifestyle choices, diet and exercise histories, bad habits and for how long, pregnancies and at what age, stressful jobs and methods of unwinding, and whether or not we've shouldered more than our fair share of heartbreaks.

If you've had any work done you must cop to it. And by work done I mean chemical peels, microdermabrasion, topical non-invasive stuff. But no plastic surgery. That should be a whole separate website.

Why? Because no woman should ever have to compare herself to another woman of the same age or any other age for that matter who has had "work done". Butt jobs, boob jobs, all that good stuff. I'm not saying I'm AGAINST that stuff mind you. Go for it if you're well of age and doing it for the right reasons with realistic expectations. Still, those of us who haven't gone under the knife shouldn't ever compare ourselves to you. It isn't fair and it does undue damage to our psyches.

One might argue that women should never compare themselves to other women. But come on. Did you make it through that argument without snorting? All we do is compare ourselves to other women. All everybody does is compare us to other women. Right? And if they don't there's no way we'll be convinced to the contrary.

Let's line ourselves up like show horses and get down to business. I want a realistic picture of how I stack up against others of my sex. How old are you? Forty? Good, I'm turning 40 in September. What's that? A hint of crow's feet? But no sun damage? Grrr. I hate you. And you, what about you? 40 too? You look a little apple-dollish but your cleavage is young woman cleavage. Not a hint of crepe or drape. I hate you too. What, you never went to a tanning booth? Wish I could say the same thing. I don't know why I did. Who knows what I was thinking. I knew it was wrong and I did it anyway. What? You used to lay out in your back yard and slather yourself in baby oil? Yup, been there too. Why did we do it? Oh, that's right. We were only thinking of the moment and how the tan would make us appear ten pounds thinner. Ten pounds thinner than some other woman. And how we wanted to look good in that short skirt at the club that night.

I'm serious. Let's do this thing. In my eyes every other woman my age looks much better than I do. When I see another woman on television who I suspect might be around my age, I strain forward to judge her skin condition. Not a line in sight. Sigh. I'm not aging well. When people see me they'll make a note and when asked about me they'll widen their eyes and say, "She's not aging well." And just like that my postage stamp sized share of relevance will be obliterated.

I guess the shocking reality is finally hitting me. We don't grow older, but our bodies do. I always assumed I would look out at the world through 40 year old eyes and feel like a 40 year old — mature and actually wanting to wear sensible shoes. It doesn't happen that way.

Ah, wouldn't it be nice if we could look at ourselves and see only "me" instead of transpositions of thousands of other women? If we could look at each other that way too? If growing older weren't akin to miserable failure? As though we could control it somehow. Personally, I respect women I see aging gracefully and pity the ones I see fighting it tooth and nail every step of the way. Don't send any nasty letters, I don't mean the women who take reasonable measures to keep themselves up. I think we all should. We owe it to ourselves and our loved ones. I'm referring to the desperate, sad ones who haven't felt pretty or loved since the day they stopped looking eighteen. The ones who think they have nothing to offer to a soul outside of a pleasant representation of womankind.

Oh, please don't fashion me into one of those women! Instead, saturate me with acceptance and calm. Turn my eyes outward and blanket them with kindness so that I may help those around me to feel loved and beautiful... because they are.

What was that song called?

Joe's been acting up around dinner time lately. He flat out refuses to dine with us and bounces around the kitchen asking for food items he knows he won't be getting. "Blueberry lollipop" is his new mantra. Do blueberry lollipops even exist?

Tonight one thing led to another and Joe found himself in a two minute time out. After I sprung him, having been unsuccessful in my attempt to procure an apology, I capped things off with a fruitless round of reasoning.

Me: Some things are for sharing, but some things are not for sharing. Mommy's writing things...

Dennis: ...and Mommy's sex drawer.

Me: (Background: Last week Joe found something he was never meant to and ran around the house with it as I stood transfixed and horrified.)

Dennis (casually washing a plate now): Is that what that song is about? Sex Drawer?

Me: Do you mean Sex Dwarf?

Dennis: Yeah. *snicker*

Me: Did you know it was called Sex Dwarf, or did you really think it was called Sex Drawer?

Dennis: It's great when your wife thinks you're so stupid that you think Sex Dwarf is called Sex Drawer. *rolls eyes so far back into his head they never quite returned all the way*

Me: Well, how would you know that song? You weren't a mod. You didn't go out dancing. That song is from my day.

Dennis: No it isn't. It's from the seventies. For a period of time they played it all the time. How does it go?

Me: Something, something, and the dumb chauffeur.

Dennis: Isn't it nice? Luring disco dollies to a life of vice?

Me: Yeah, that's it.

Now I can't get the song out of my head. What was it called again?

Monday Weigh-In

Image via Wikipedia

I'm not a member of a formal weight loss program, so I post these weekly weigh-ins to motivate me and keep me honest.

8/11/09-8/17/09: Down 3.4 pounds

Total Weight Loss Since 7/13/09: 14 pounds

Exercise: Whatxercise?

Feeling: A little better. It's nice when the temperature dips under 110 and we can leave the house.

Notes: Lots of popcorn this week. Please tell me this is helping and not hindering because I love popcorn with an unholy passion.




8/04/09-8/10/09: Up .8 of a pound (nooo!)

Total Weight Loss Since 7/13/09: 10.6 pounds

Exercise: None. I've been a slug.

Feeling: Awful, can't sleep

Notes: I gained back almost a pound! I haven't been eating much, just not as many fruits and veggies. And I have been writing and not running around exercising. Time to:
1) Start eating raw fruits & veggies more
2) Force myself to use the Wii & hope and pray that Joe doesn't jump on it while I'm in a yoga pose



7/28/09-8/3/09: Down 3 pounds

Total Weight Loss: 11.2 pounds

Exercise: None. I've been a slug.

Feeling: Icky

Notes: I need to exercise!



7/21/09-7/27/09: Down 2.2 pounds

Total Weight Loss: 8.2 pounds

Exercise: Nonexistant

Feeling: So-so

Notes: It's that time of the month!




7/13/09-7/20/09: Down 6 pounds

Total Weight Loss: 6 pounds

Exercise: A bit on the Wii, need to step that up. Running around the house in circles with Joe.

Feeling: Pretty good. :)

Nuts and a Diet Coke

Image via Wikipedia

Saturday, from the master bathroom...
Dennis: It's like I opened the door and stuck my head inside your butt!
Me:
Dennis: Shouldn't it be gone by now? I've been waiting to come in here.
Me: I'm sure it wasn't as bad as...
Dennis: Baby. No, it was worse. Stink molecules are still in my nose.
*****************************
Holding up remnants on a plate...

Me: What's this?
Dennis: It's my breakfast — nuts and a Diet Coke.
Me: You are what you eat!

Writing Exercise: Cricket

Oh Mr. Cricket
You move really fast
when you want to

Some people eat
Crickets with
chocolate

But I think that's really
gross so I don't
really do that.

You're green and
you're mean if you
know what I mean

I like to think of us
as a team me and you
Mr. Green

I have to admit that
I'm using you to break
my own rules

And prove a point to
the naysayers and
pooh-poohers

They claim that descriptive
writing is easy and not prone
to make one look like a fool

To them I say HA just read
this and weep
take that!

and a jar of shampoo.

Image via Randy Cox at Flickr

I can't see

Image by ohmann alianne via Flickr

Now John at the bar is a friend of mine
He gets me my drinks for free
And he's quick with a joke or to light up your smoke
But there's someplace that he'd rather be
He says, Bill, I believe this is killing me.
As the smile ran away from his face
Well I'm sure that I could be a movie star
If I could get out of this place
From: The Piano Man by Billy Joel

Billy Joel sees what I can't. I've lived forty years inside my head, a landscape with which I am all too familiar. It is possible to bring the world into focus, but it's the exception and not the rule. When I encounter another I routinely avert my eyes lest he should volley a pleasantry for which I have no reply. I don't look at people. I feel them. I get a beat on their intentions by osmosis. I don't see them.

I am a coward.

Since I can not remember and describe that which I can not see I will duct tape my eyelids to my brows. When I walk past people I will look them square in the eye and elevate the corner of my mouth just so. I will perform the quick chin jerk that is the universal signal of acknowledgement in the land of men. I will practice the eyebrow lift, nod and audible release of breath followed by sheepish grin commonly offered to women with small children.

Is this seeing? I have a feeling it isn't enough. How can I exercise my vision without inspiring shudders of discomfort in the subjects of my consideration? Only creepy people stare.

Perhaps it's better to start small. I shall position my children in various places about the house and observe them and jot down what comes to mind.

It hurts my head to think about this. I'm not sure I can do this. I tried once and my efforts resulted in a page of prose worthy of submission to The Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest. Is doing something very badly better than doing it passably? Is there a flip side to that joker?

I'll do it. I'll write what I see with no thought to the nausea it inspires. Shortly thereafter I will summon my old friend edit. Edit's cup overfloweth with forgiveness and second chances. After all, I can't do it alone.

My Apology to Stay at Home Moms

Originally posted by me at my iVillage Expecting Club shortly after I gave birth to my son Joseph 12/06. I'm keeping it here so I never forget how very wrong I can be about something so very important.

OK I admit it now. Before I had Joseph I used to secretly bemoan all the "whining" moms did. I work full time and I used to get irritated when I heard or read moms complaining about how difficult it is to be a SAHM. I figured - oh sure, many have to work a full 8 hour day, commute, AND do everything you do. I thought they should perhaps consider themselves lucky that they have the choice to stay at home with their babies/kids and quit complaining.

I apologize. I was wrong. I had no idea how difficult the job is.

Don't get me wrong - I've never been happier or more fulfilled. I've never known love so great or strong, nor have I felt the tug of the biological pull that draws me to my son like a magnet and makes me cry so often tears of joy when I see him, hear him, smell him or think of him. My life has been better each and every day since he was born into this world, and I know things will get even better with the passage of time.

But sheeeeeeeeeeeeeyiht! This job never ends! I find myself thinking and saying all of the phrases I've heard and read before and suddenly they make perfect sense. If you haven't been there, you simply can't know. You don't get to step down from "high alert" for one second of the day because your baby might need you. You don't look forward to sleep because you know you won't be getting any. You can't enjoy going out at night and unwinding (aka drinking) because you know you won't be sleeping that night and it will just make things harder on you and your baby. You don't get to schedule your day (or your baby's day) anymore. You TRY. But it doesn't work. You need to learn to do the best you can but leave time and room in your temperament for flexibility. You learn to survive in what feels like a different dimension of an alternate universe due to the complete and total mental and physical exhaustion you feel. Sometimes you sob for 1/2 hour straight because you are trying to take out the trash and wipe the counter because you are expecting company and your baby is crying and it tears at your heart and no matter what you do you can't comfort him. Sometimes you have to just accept that you will not be able to get a darn thing "done" that day besides tend to your baby and see that his needs are met and that he is safe and feels loved.

And then your baby smiles at you. One of those big toothless grins that makes time stop and it feels as though there are sugar-winged butterflies tickling your heart. You sit back with a tear and a smile and hold your baby for a few minutes until you notice another sensation - your stomach is rumbling because you haven't eaten yet today and you don't see that happening any time soon unless you can scrounge up a breakfast bar or a banana.

Moms, if hats didn't make my big fat head look even bigger and fatter I would wear one just so I could tip it to you. Though sometimes you feel inadequate, lonely and unappreciated you put on a smile for your young one(s) and you don't ever give up because you know there isn't anything more important or fulfilling that you could be doing at that moment. You are the essence of the divine.

This post irritates me

Am I the only one who spends too much time thinking about irritating people and being irritated by it? I don't mean people worthy of being hated — deeply mean people, abusers, etc. Just irritating people.

What irritates us about others is supposed to teach us something about ourselves. What's more irritating than that?

Case in point....

1. Image by sokaris73 via Flickr

   
   Penélope "How you say...?" Cruz. The "Spanish enchantress" exudes a certain, "I'm a little girl and I need you to help me. *pout*" quality that makes my skin crawl. She also apparently inspires me to overuse quotation marks. Unforgivable! Yeah, yeah I can see she's gorgeous but that's beside the point.
   
   Sub-category: Feist's "1234" bugs me for the same reason.
   
2. Agenda Thumpers. People who aren't just passionate about a cause, but consumed by it to the point where it's all they can talk about. They're past the point of listening and reason. Everything is black and white.
   
3. Pompous Elitist Asses. They're better than you and consider it their responsibility to make sure you know it. Get uppity and they'll give you a public lashing so fierce you'll wish you were in diapers.
   
4. People Who See Right Through You. You know these people. They could be the cashier at the supermarket who completely ignores you and talks to the bagger, or the workmate who looks away and hurries past you when you meet him with a direct question.
   
   Sub-category: People who like you in private, but ignore you in public.
   

5. Image via Wikipedia

   
   John Basedow. What is his deal? It's okay to be small, John. You don't need to work out to within one inch of your life, spray-tan and highlight yourself shamelessly.
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
6. The kids need me. I reserve the right to add to this list at a later time.
   

I realize you have your own opinions about my irritators. I don't claim to be right or rational. What is simply is and I can't will it not to be so. What am I supposed to learn from all this? Am I like these people? The mere thought of that irritates me to no end.

The far lighter side

Image via Wikipedia

Oh boy. Just look at my recent posts. I've been sloshing around in the thick of it. In the interest of balance, I present to you...

• Facebook Rap from Joseph Heck on Vimeo. (Warning: Contains dirty words, and on a Sunday too. God — don't watch this until Monday.)
  

• Stephen Lynch's "What if that guy from Smashing Pumpkins lost his car keys?"

• 
  Source
  

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  Source

Happy Sunday! xo

Muse?

Image by Smithsonian Institution via Flickr

I'm not feeling it. Hmmm... is my music loud enough? I know I was listening to this same song last weekend and it was filling me with all kinds of deep thoughts.

LIVE, I love you but I'm not feeling what I was feeling last Sunday. Come on, man. I needed that. Don't hold out on me now.

While Stripes. Oh yeah. If anyone can get it going it's you. Dirty and raw.

Not doing it.

Oh shit. SHIT.

Don't even tell me it's not the music. Frick! Fricken fracken m frick fr. Sigh.

If the music doesn't do it then explain to me why I was feeling the way I was feeling last Sunday. It even spilled into Monday. I dreamed about it. I fell asleep with the songs in my head and woke up with them on my breath.

I'm listening to the same songs OVER and OVER and OVER but I'm just not there.

If it isn't the music then WHAT is it that's making me feel this way?

A story in progress

Image by unprose via Flickr

I'm all about experimental writing exercises these days. I'm going to start a story with one sentence. Not a good sentence or a bad sentence. Just a sentence. I'm hoping you will make the story live. Make it fun or dull. Serious or silly. Whatever. No pressure or expectations with regards to quality of writing.

Post the next line or section of the story in a comment. No rules, except that it should make reasonable logical sense. I'll edit the post to add your contributions, with occasional input from myself. If this catches on, I'll bump the post periodically so the whole world can marvel at your creativity. If it doesn't, I'll just blame it on you. :)

********************************************

Chapter 1

That damnable zipper was doing its best to humiliate me. I finally decided to go skinny dipping - in the ocean, middle of the night, all dark, save the moon - and, now, I couldn't get out of my dress. So I did what any self-respecting, thirtysomething woman-in-crisis would do... I gave up and sprinted through the icy waves in my dress, laughing as I went. The instant my ankles hit the water I realized two things; it was far too cold for me and there was no way in Hell I could stop now or I'd never live it down. Unfortunately, my granny panties were not up to the task and had fallen around my ankles. Before I knew it, my undies had captured 2 sea urchins, a starfish, and a good length of sea weed. Then My grannie panties were full of codfish too. Since our family had not eaten in 2 days due to the famine, we feasted that night as we had never before. And next morning we saw our garden that we'd given up for dead due to the drought -- was bursting with corn, tomatoes, beans, peas, melons, potatotes, squash and hundreds of sunflowers.

Did you hear that?

Image via Wikipedia

Mairzy doats
and dozy doats
and liddle lamzy divey.
A kiddly divey too,
wouldn't you?

That song makes me smile. It also reminds me that my ears can't always be trusted. It's important to engage as many senses as possible as often as possible — to overlap them. This helps me to perceive the hidden notes and experience things more fully.

I went many years without. Without music. Without candles and incense. Feeling the sand and water on my skin. Eating quality food. Drinking fine wine. I wonder what I missed during that time? What was supposed to be heard that didn't get heard?

I believe the universe re-plays certain themes until we finally "get it". I must believe that. Otherwise I'd have to think of those missed opportunities as lost forever.

I'm starting to understand why The Buk drank

Image by Marshall Astor - Food Pornographer via Flickr

Writing isn't for the faint of heart.

It's hard.

It's not just the time you put aside. It's the way it hijacks your brain. Writing is like fire. The compulsion is all-consuming and potentially dangerous. It eats your air. It strips away your flesh and then expects you to carry on as though nothing happened. It doesn't always call you in the morning. Sometimes it doesn't call for weeks. Then, just when you've moved on it appears on your doorstep at three in the morning sans apologies and looking hot. There's no question that all is forgiven and it begins again.

I've been participating in some self-driven writing exercises that involve visiting some emotionally stirring places. Music helps with that. It can remind you how things used to feel when you were young and stupid and filled with passion. It can also stir up completely new emotions. Better ones. Scarier ones.

I had no idea this would happen.

Why didn't you warn me?

"Drinking is an emotional thing. It joggles you out of the standardism of everyday life, out of everything being the same. It yanks you out of your body and your mind and throws you against the wall. I have the feeling that drinking is a form of suicide where you're allowed to return to life and begin all over the next day. It's like killing yourself, and then you're reborn. I guess I've lived about ten or fifteen thousand lives now."

—Charles "The Buk" Bukowski, Interview, London Magazine, December 1974-January 1975

The beauty of gray

Image by Roo Reynolds via Flickr

Why do we get gray hair? What is the meaning of it? To announce to the world that we are no longer under any circumstances to be considered young and viable? To render us invisible?

If that be the case, riddle me this. Why was my head first assaulted by gray at 21 when I was arguably still reasonably young and passably attractive?

And why does gray hair look so dang good on men?

What is its evolutionary purpose? Why can't we enjoy the hair color of our youth well into our eighties? Is gray-speckling meant to protect unsuspecting butt-ooglers at rock concerts? I mean, who does it help if they receive the shock of a lifetime when butt woman whips her head around waggles a bony finger and crones, "What are you looking at, sonny?"

I can't help but think that gray hair evolved to signal the presence of wisdom; that it was intended to instill reverence in the beholder.

I wonder when that changed?

Within lies the rub

Image via Wikipedia

It's hard out here for a Mom learning to write. I need to be present for my kids. 100% in the moment. But when I write, even if I'm not actively putting pen to paper, my mind is someplace else — formulating an idea, straining for a sentence. Sometimes when I snap to I am filled with anxiety. Disoriented. Even when my kids are with me. How long was I gone? Two minutes? Three days?

I'm insane about being responsive to my babies. One of my worst nightmares involves a smiling Joe or Lily turning to meet my eye, giddy with discovery or accomplishment, and being met with the side of my head. If this happens enough times will they stop wanting to share and burrow deep inside themselves? To be honest, this is one of the main reasons I need to be with them. Why I quit my job and decided against daycare. I'm not saying it's rational. It just is.

Yet I am compelled to write. How do I get past this? I've always thought of writing as a solitary endeavor involving a cabin in the woods, a rusty old typewriter and a tin mug filled with java-laced Wild Turkey. To be honest, that's the way I'd want to do it. When I think of writing I don't picture a middle-aged woman, wet hair in a clip, stirring black eyed peas with one hand and ruffling her young son's hair with the other.

I could stay up all night and write, but I suffer from an inconvenient sleep situation. I require eight solid hours per night. If I don't get it I become emotional and fuzzy-brained. My temples throb. What feels like an overweight hamster with a limp takes up residence in my frontal lobe. And paces. Everything seems too bright. Happiness irritates me. My sense of perception falters and nothing seems right.

I've thought about training my brain. One good sentence per day. I was going to share that one sentence with the world to keep me honest. But then I realized that I can't come up with one good sentence a month. It really sucks to be compelled to do something for which you have no natural talent. I think about those of you to whom writing comes easily, it's as easy as breathing and yet you have no desire to pursue it. And I think unhelpful thoughts about you.

Maybe if I keep writing the answer will come to me. I would go to the answer, but I don't know where to find it.

Want it.

Image by julkastro via Flickr

We watched The Answer Man last night. It was a cute but not fabulous romantic comedy in the spirit of As Good as it Gets. A little overacted by Jeff Daniels, but I digress...

A conversation took place that went loosely along these lines:

Kris: I have all this potential but I never do anything with it. How can I get past the crap and do what I want to be doing?

Arlen: At any given moment we are doing exactly what we want to be doing. There is always a choice. Everything is a choice.

This got me thinking. In order to change our lives for the better and live up to our potential, could it not be a matter of actively changing our wants? Maybe we really do want to be lazy. Maybe we want to remain in the shadows because it's safer there. Maybe we want to be ignored. Unfulfilled. Misunderstood.

Because if we really put ourselves out there and give it a shot — and I mean the shot, the one golden bullet we were all blessed with, and are met with failure or rejection, we will have to let go of the notion that sustains us — and I mean the notion, "If only I had done it, I would have been great".