2009 has been an odd year so far. Weird stuff has happened, like me teaching grammar to college students. That's about as expected as me teaching etiquette classes at Ms. Mona's School for Wayward Boys. But I'm doing it and wondering what other unique and unexpected things the new year has in store for me.
I also haven't been sleeping well. You probably haven't either, what with the pink slips flying everywhere (I think the U.S. has turned into a giant snowglobe and instead of snow flakes, we've got lay-off notices). Then there's global warming. And the fact that we won't have George W. Bush to kick around any more.
My insomnia may be more personal. On January 1st, I decided to start cutting my estrogen patches in half -- which, by the way, isn't as easy as it seems because they are tiny and sticky and I am a klutz who is usually not allowed around sharp utensils of any kind. Now I only have half as much estrogen coursing through my veins (or whatever estrogen courses through). Perhaps this is why I feel more assertive and late in the day seem to have the faintest outline of a Johnny Depp goatee.
It's been almost 2-1/2 years since I started taking hormone replacements and I'd really like to stop, but like a cigarette smoker, I've found I'm hooked on the stuff. Several times a day I have to take a break to hang around with younger women just to suck up some of theirs. I'm sure complete strangers don't mind when I give them a full body hug and linger just a little longer than socially acceptable. I also find myself waking up early in the morning needing a fix, so I turn on The View.
Now if only I could find a way to sleep through the night sweats. I thought about filling the tub with ice water and putting an air mattress at the bottom, but the dogs objected. They insist on sleeping with me and let's face it, if the dogs aren't happy, no one's happy. I've tried sleeping with the windows open, which is refreshing on these winter mornings that dip down into the upper teens, but all that cold air tends to turn my sweat into frost and I have trouble turning over when I'm actually frozen to the sheets.
There's also a slight issue of the mood swings coming back. But they are much easier to live with now that I've got the Darth Vader helmet I used as a Halloween costume last year. I wear that to the store and people know not to mess with me.
But I muster on, pioneer that I am. I only hope that my experiments prove useful for all the other women out there who are ready to rip off their patches and face the world sweaty and pissed once again.
I hate going to the mall, but
sometimes, the call is too hard to ignore. Especially when the call is 75% off
and I’m told every night on the news that if I personally don’t get out and do
my part to save the retail industry, the burden of the recession will be on my
shoulders.
So
the day after Christmas (which, by the way, is also the day after Jimmy
Buffet’s birthday), I headed down to J.C. Penney’s to pick up a few items for
gifts for next year’s Buffetmas. (Please don’t hate me because I am one of
those people who plan and shop ahead. It’s a genetic disorder.)
There are many reasons I don’t like
the mall, but foremost among them is the temperature. In the winter months,
every store seems to set their thermostat on “Phoenix” and as a hot-flashing woman, the
minute I walk in I have to start my striptease. Off comes the hat and gloves,
which are then stuffed into the pockets of my imitation down-filled parka. Then
I untie the scarf from around my neck and set it temporarily aside so I can rip
my jacket off before I reach nuclear meltdown. The jacket, of course is too bulky
to carry without knocking over small children, so I tie it around my waist with
my scarf. I’m still sweating, but at least it’s confined to my mid-section.
Then I unzip my sweater as low as common decency allows and roll my pants legs
up to my knees. I strip off my socks and put them in my purse, making sure the
video camera operators see me take them off, so they will know I didn’t steal
them. On my way out of the store, I get to put on the whole show in reverse.
Yep,
I’m a thing of beauty to behold at the mall.
Lately,
however, my mall shopping concerns have doubled because I believe I’ve
developed Mallzheimer’s disease. No matter where I park my car, I can never
remember where it is when I’m done shopping. Sometimes I can’t even remember
what car I drove – and I only have the one. But I’ll flash back to cars I’ve
previously owned in my life and in my desperation to find anything that looks
vaguely familiar, I’ll find myself trying my 2004 Toyota Camry key in a green
1992 Honda Accord despite the fact that it has a child seat in the back and an
NRA bumper sticker. Or worse yet, a red 1977 Ford pick-up that resembles one I
once hitchhiked in during college.
I
have no recourse but to stand in the doorway of the mall as the stores close,
munching on a soft pretzel to keep my strength up, as all the other shoppers
find their cars and leave. It’s not until the parking lot is three-quarters
cleared out that I usually “remember” where I’ve parked and can rewrap myself
in my winter outerwear, dash through the rain, and finally head home.
Unfortunately,
I did the math last week. I spent $43 on items that had originally cost $171,
which by the store’s calculations is 75% off. But my quick stop at the store
ended up lasting five hours, which at my usual hourly rate of $50 (I’m
self-employed, so I have a usual hourly rate) cost me $250, or $225 if you
factor in the break for buying and eating the pretzel. Add the $43 I spent plus
the $225 it cost in my time and subtract my savings of $171 and my trip to the
mall cost me $97.
Hot flashes,
memory loss and bankruptcy at the mall. I think next time I’ll pass.
There's a store at my local mall called Forever 21. I'm pretty sure they don't actually mean that, but "21 Until You're 29 and Then You Can Only Shop Here for Your Daughters" isn't as catchy a store name.
The problem is, I'm attracted to everything in this and every other store meant to cater to young, partying women. Despite the fact that I am neither young nor partying (unless you include a night playing Pictionary at home until 9 p.m. when all the guests leave because we're all middle-aged and appreciate the value of a good night's sleep).
I walk by these places and I'm like a child with A.D.D. "Look, a pretty butterfly. Sure, it's on a miniskirt I could only wear as a headband, but look how shiny and purple it is!" Everything is bright and colorful and just exudes fun. Unlike stores meant to cater to women over 50, which basically are either so mother-of-the-bride I feel like crying or they're all red and purple because apparently, once you're old enough to be a red-hatter, these are the only colors you can wear when you want to have a good time (not that there's anything wrong with that, but I need chartreuse and tangerine and turquoise. And apparently, I need it smaller and tighter than should be legal at my age.)
Is it my fault I grew up as a member of the Spandex Generation? We came right after the Hippie Generation and their flowing, gauzy maxi-dresses and long fringed vests. My generation saw a floor-length paisley skirt and thought Grandma, not sexual revolution. We wanted things that clung to our bodies to show off our assets (never mind that my main assets are my hair and my teeth) -- and anything with Spandex fit the bill perfectly. We didn't need hallucinogenic drugs, we had the spinning disco ball, Donna Summers and clothes so tight they took our breath away.
The weird thing is that now that I'm over 50, instead of thinking of Spandex as a fabric that shows off parts of me, I think of it as having the power to flatten out or spread around parts of me. Unfortunately, the only things made with the miracle fabric for my age group are "body shapers" which operate on the principle that without them your body has no shape. Mine has shape. It changes depending upon the earth's gravitational pull that day, but it does have shape. Today's is Bartlett Pear.
Body shapers are made with Spandex and they do accomplish my flattening out/spreading around goals, but they are meant to be worn under clothing. As a hot-flashing woman, I always dress in layers, but I like to know that I can strip down to layer #1 without small children screaming and young men unable to look their mothers in the eyes ever again. So I need my Spandex in the form of shirts and skirts and pants, oh my. Anything to hold in my tummy and thighs and return my boobs to their original longitude.
So if you see me shopping at Forever 21, and I tell you I'm shopping for my niece, just avert your eyes and keep walking. I have Spandex, don't make me use it!
Last week I had
both my head and my cervix examined. One was tilted slightly to one side and
the other wasn’t screwed on tight. So, basically, the same ol’, same ol’.
It was a
coincidence I went to both my shrink and my gynecologist on the same day. I
only see my therapist when I need a tune-up every few years. With my gyno,
however, it’s once a year every year. Like clockwork actually. You see, he and
were born in the same month of the same year, so we celebrate our birthdays with
a pap smear. I toss some confetti on my nether regions and he warms the
speculum over the appropriate number of candles.
I’ve been going to
the same guy (yes, I still go to a male gynecologist, but it’s okay, he’s Czechoslovakian)
for almost a decade. While I was lying there with my feet in the stirrups,
opening my birthday chocolate, I thought about how the whole process is
different now that I’m over 50.
It
starts out in the waiting area where all the baby magazines scattered on the
tables no longer scare me. Now that I’m menopausal, I don’t have to scan
through the baby names just in case. Which is good because I’m pretty sure a
girl named Pinot Gris would probably be teased mercilessly. And when I see all
the pregnant women traipsing in and out of the doors, I don’t get jealous. I
smile quietly, thankful that at least my mood swings won’t last eighteen years.
Then
when I get in the doctor’s office, the best part of the whole visit happens – I
no longer have to remember when my last period was and how long it lasted. This
is a real load off, considering my brain is already overloaded with the lyrics
to every song from the 60s and 70s. “Singing bye-bye ice cream and pie, walked
four miles on the treadmill to keep you off my thighs…” Okay, maybe those aren’t
the lyrics you remember, but they work for me.
Not
only don’t I have to remember the date of my last period, my gyno has it in the
computer and can pull it up himself! August 12, 2007.
My
visits are a lot less stressful in many ways these days. For example, it doesn’t
cross my mind anymore to flirt while I’m on the table. Because at this point in
our relationship, he and I are like an old marriedcouple. I know exactly what he’s going to do
before he does it, so the mystery is gone. And when he asks how often I’m
having sex and I tell him three times in the last six months, rather than
feeling like I’m letting down my gender by bringing their average down, doc
gives me a big thumbs up. That’s a real ego boost, you betcha!
There are a few
things that happen during my annual visit now that I’m over fifty that I’m not
that happy about. He always reminds me that I should have had a colonoscopy in
the past year. And I tell him, when they give them out for free at Jiffy Lube,
I’ll be first in line. And we do talk a lot more about moisture than I’m really
comfortable with. But all in all, gotta say like fine wine, my gyno visits have
gotten better with age. Especially now that I drink a bottle of the stuff
before hopping up on the table.
I've decided to celebrate my birthday dyslexically this year, so I'll be 25. Yeah, that's about right. Although most days I feel 7. I don't wanna clean up my room and you can't make me!
Don't you think it's a darn shame there are so many people who stop celebrating their birthdays after a certain age (officially "mumbledy-something"). Or worse yet, they hide under their beds curled in the fetal position and cringe if anyone reminds them they're now officially one year older. Posh! (No, I'm not referring to the Spice Girl.) If you're afraid of a date on the calendar, I can't imagine what kinds of drugs you're having to take to deal with really scary things like the economic meltdown or the fact that Karl Rove has a lot of free time on his hands these days.
Buck up and act your shoe size for a change. Put your hair in pigtails (even if you only have two strands of it left. And they're on your chin). Get your face painted, it'll hide the crows' feet. Run naked on the beach, relying on your hot flashes to keep you warm and keep onlookers at bay. Insist on a pony ride. Stick your fingers in the frosting of your cake. Hold up your age on your fingers (it's a good anti-carpal tunnel syndrome exercise after age forty). Get a pinata filled with vitamins and supplements.
Just make sure you do something fun. After all, you're only going to be this young once. At least until the next time around!
If you know a mumbledy-something woman with a birthday coming up, check out Leigh Anne's new book, Not Guilty by Reason of Menopause at Amazon.com. There's no better gift than laughter. Even if the recipient does pee a little.
There are a lot of
things that separate women from men, but none are more significant than the
fact that we women, especially those of use over twenty-nine, are willing to
put ourselves through a lot of pain in the name of beauty. Men usually are not.
When was the last time, for example, you heard a guy say, “I think this
Bermuda
short and
football jersey ensemble would look much
better with a pair of 4-inch platform wedges?” When it comes to eyebrows, a guy would
rather let his grow so bushy and thick that he has to part them to be able to
see to drive rather than experience the agony of plucking and waxing. Just look
at the anchors on the nightly news and you’ll see what I mean.
I actually did
some research on the subject recently. I decided I’d look younger by having my brows
“reshaped,” which by the way is from the Latin “to rip out by the root often removing
internal organs at the same time.” Even if it didn’t make me look younger, I
figured the constant look of surprise would confuse people long enough so I
could make a quick getaway before they focused on my face.
Not willing to
inflict this kind of torture on myself or let my husband do it (despite his
begging, pleading, and promising me more jewelry and/or chocolate), I went to
my local beauty shop. I love that phrase, beauty shop. As if you can purchase
beauty. “I’ll take two pounds of beauty today, and oh, go ahead, give me half a
pound of perfection while you’re at it.”
Anyway, I settled
into the chair, trying to act nonchalant and cool, like I used to do when I was
a kid and had to get a shot. Only with brow waxing, you don’t get a sucker
afterward no matter how well-behaved you are. Believe me. I asked.
As the technician
prepared my brows – which did not, unfortunately, include swabbing them with
Novocain to make them numb – I asked her whether she had many male customers.
She laughed. Then she yanked a waxy strip from one brow. “Men can’t take this
kind of pain,” she said. At least that’s what I think she said. There was a
loud ringing in my ears and I had double vision for a minute, so I couldn’t
read her lips.
Then she yanked
off the second strip. The room started to spin and I saw Elvis.
She asked if I
wanted her to do my upper lip as well. Actually she said, “What about the
moustache?” but my internal translator was in high gear. I figured at this
point, I couldn’t feel pain any more, so what the hell? I was wrong.
Finally, when I
was able to breathe normally again, I walked to the front desk to pay for my
“treatment.” That’s when I noticed a guy getting his hair cut and decided to
conduct a research project right there and then. “Excuse me, sir. I’m doing a survey. Have you ever had your eyebrows
waxed?”
He looked at me
quizzically. I could tell it was a quizzical look because his big hairy brows
kind of formed a question mark. “No, but
once when I was in college, a friend dared me to shave them off with an
electric razor. And I did.”
I pressed on,
testing the beautician’s theory that men can’t tolerate pain the way women can.
“If I dared you, would you have them
waxed right now?”
“How
much is the dare?”
“Uh, five bucks. Plus I’ll pay for the
procedure.” That’s me, the big spender.
“Hmm,” he thought about it for a second.
“Does it hurt?”
The beautician and
I exchanged looks. Well, I think I exchanged a look. My forehead was numb, so
it was hard to tell.
“Yes. A lot.”
The guy shook his
head.
“I’ll pass then. I’d have to be really drunk
to do something that stupid.”
I started to thank him for his participation
in my study, but decided to ask one more question. “How about your ‘bikini line?’ Would you ever have that waxed?”
“Lady, there’s not enough beer in the world.”
There you have it,
my scientific study of men, beauty, and pain. My conclusion? Men are certainly
able to tolerate pain, but when it comes to choosing to put themselves through
it for the sake of looking good, there’s not enough beer in the world.
I
took a friend lingerie shopping recently. She’s been married for two years now
and it’s time for her to switch to comfortable undies. Let’s be truthful here –
if you’re still wearing thong panties, you’re probably still dating. I have six
pairs of thongs. I use them to stake up my tomatoes in summer. In the winter, I
make little hammocks for my hamsters.
Eventually
there comes a time in every relationship when the words “Granny Panties” no
longer strike fear in a woman’s heart. This is at the point when she starts
calculating just how much of her time she spends digging her sexy underwear out
from places it doesn’t belong. And wonders how many times she’s been caught
doing just that on camera and then had to spend all night checking YouTube to
be sure.
What has always
struck me as odd is that men have no hesitation referring to any type of
underwear that covers a woman’s backside as “Granny Panties,” but they can pull
their tidy whities up to their nipples and parade around the house thinking
they look like George Clooney. That testosterone is one powerful drug.
I
took my friend to Victoria’s
Secret because she figured she could get something cute and comfy there. Ha!
Personally, I think Victoria
should have kept her secret to herself and we’d all be a lot better off. It’s
her fault men think that all women should dress like supermodels, who often
parade around in their matching bra and panties at the beach with a come-hither
look on their face. I’m mumbledy-something years old and have never felt the
urge to wade into the surf in nothing but my skivvies. My bra and panties
almost never match either. Hell, my boobs don’t even match – I have a B cup and
a C cup. The left one’s an overachiever.
And I must admit my “come hither” look is really more of a “she needs her meds
adjusted” look.
There
are many things you can buy to wear underneath it all that you really
shouldn’t. For example, anything with pearls where the backside should be. Now
don’t get me wrong – I’m originally from the south and I enjoy a good string of
pearls. Grace Kelly wore pearls, for gosh sakes.. Just not where the sun don’t
shine.
You
just know the idea of a pearl thong had to come from the testosterone-laden
brain of a guy during halftime. No woman would willingly create an idea so
heinous. Because while a pearl thong might look good on a supermodel with no
cellulite and legs that actually do go all the way to there, the rest of us are
screwed. Real women have real needs. Like sitting down. That’s not going to
happen in one of those. Nor is walking. You’d take a few steps, that sucker
would ride up and you’d have to shake your leg like an epileptic horse to
adjust yourself.
Why
can’t we women just be happy with underwear that fits well, doesn’t bunch up, and
costs lest than a tank of gas? 99% of the time our undies are hidden under our
clothes, and the other 1%, well, he’s over there in the same pair of briefs
he’s been wearing since high school thinking he’s all that. I think our best
bet is to save the $135 a pair of pearl thong panties would set you back and
spend it on a tube of testosterone instead. I feel better about myself already.
I’ll just come
right out and admit it, I’ve had Botox.
I know what you’re
thinking: “Great, another vain woman caving into societal pressure to look
younger.” But my decision to jump onto the Botox bandwagon had less to do
with “caving in” and more to do with “continuing to have a career.” It may seem
a slight difference to you, but it is significant nonetheless, at least to me
and my mortgage lender. You see, my face is important to my career. No, I’m not
a mime, although imagine how pronounced frown lines would be with white cake
make-up though. Now there’s an occupational group with legitimate reasons to go
for the Botox.
When I’m not
sitting at home writing and opening and closing the door for the dogs, I am a humorous
motivational speaker and stand-up comic. It’s hard for me to get up on stage
and tell an audience how to get in touch with their inner child when my face
looks like its channeling my inner older person. So Botox was really a career move. At least that’s what I told
the IRS.
You
could come up with your own totally reasonable excuse for having some work
done. Perhaps a younger looking face will help you get that big promotion you
deserve but won’t get if you look like you’ll need nap breaks during executive
meetings. Perhaps your crows’ feet spell out your ex’s name when seen from afar.
I’m sure you can come up with something believable. Besides, thirty-somethings
get Botox all the time. They’re so afraid of looking their age, which is silly,
considering we’re the ones who look their age.
I
didn’t have my procedure done at one of those Botox parties you may have read
about in the paper or women’s magazines. There are certain things I don’t enjoy
doing at parties – disco dancing, buying lingerie, pretending to be able to
tell “French Vanilla” and “Plain Vanilla” candles apart, holding a breast pump
and not mentioning how painful it looks… Having needles stuck into my face ranks right
at the top of the list. Besides, I live in a small town. The closest thing I
could find to a Botox party was some suspect chicken being served at my
neighbor’s barbecue.
You may also be considering jumping into the Botox
chair yourself and you may wonder what it’s really like to go “under the
needle.” I’m going to tell you. Because if I share my experiences with you in
print, then I can not only write off my Botox, I can profit from it! Now that’s
what I call win-win. I’d smile if I could.
Let
me address some of the most common questions:
1. Does it hurt? Yes, a little. If I had to
rank the pain between stubbing your toe and birthing a ten pound baby, I’d put
it closer to stubbing your toe. Not that I have any experience whatsoever with
the latter, although I have been told long, long, long, horrible stories by
women, including my mother. If you’ve ever had your bikini area waxed, you’ll
find Botox injections no big deal at all. In fact, if you have both procedures
done at the same time, they’ll probably just cancel each other out pain-wise.
2. How long does it take to see results? I
got a huge bruise around my right eye immediately, but I bruise easily because
I’m pale and somehow have extra veins and capillaries. The good results started
showing up around the fourth day post-injection, just as my bruise was turning
a pale yellow. My crows’ feet and scowl lines had definitely softened. When I
asked my husband for the third day in a row if he noticed anything new, he
asked if I’d lost weight. So I know it wasn’t just a figment of my imagination.
3. Is it true you can’t move your facial
muscles afterward? No. You can move them, much in the way an ant can move a
rubber tree plant. I emceed a comedy show five days after my treatment and
laughed and laughed. Afterward my face was actually tired. Like I’d been
lifting weights with my eyebrows and my cheeks had run a half-marathon. And I
noticed that squinting to read the small print on things was much harder; but
since that’s what led to a lot of my problems in the first place, maybe I
should just act like a grown-up and wear my glasses.
4. What does it feel like in the days following
the Botox injections? My best description is “heavy.” I felt like I’d had
an eyebrow transplant from Cro-Magnon man. Part of this could be that I had my
procedure done just as the trees started to bloom in my neighborhood and my
allergies kicked in. But there was definitely a feeling that I might have to
push my head around in a wheelbarrow.
5. Does it work? In my case, absolutely. I
look like I’m seven and three-quarter years younger. When
I put my hair in a tight ponytail, I look seven and three-quarters. Except for
the wattle under my chin. I tried putting it in a ponytail, but I may have to
have some work done there too.
6. How often do you need to do it? The
doctor, who, by the way, administers his own Botox injections, said for most
people, it’s every three to six months, but that often after eighteen months or
so, the muscles may start to relax on their own and you don’t need Botox as
often. I guess it’s like obedience training a dog. Eventually, your eye brows
and cheek muscles sit and stay on their own.
7. How much did it cost? For my twelve
injections (three above each brow and three around the corners of my eyes), the
cost was a little over $500. So, if I do this every three months, that will be
2000 smackers a year. I may not be able to squint or frown, but I can still
multiply. I guess I’ll have to cancel the cable and learn to live without air
conditioning.
8. Will you do it again? Honestly, I don’t
know yet. I’m highly trainable and am hoping that instead of waiting a year and
a half, my face starts to behave on its own right away. I’m planning to make a
motivational tape I can listen to at night while I’m asleep that repeats over
and over, “Your face is youthful and line-free. Not to mention that you now
speak fluent French.”
9. Do you feel at all guilty about refusing to
look your age? No! I work my body out every day with the goal of not
looking my age, so why should my face be any different? I’ve tried to get my
face up on the elliptical trainer, but it always balks.
10. Couldn’t I get the same results with duct
tape? Probably, if you had it applied by a duct tape professional. But I’ve
heard they’re just as pricey.
There
you have it. Everything you needed to know about Botox. I hope. I can’t
actually read what I’ve written here because I usually squint to see my
monitor.
I
remember when my medicine chest was full of fun stuff like perfume, eyeliner,
and Rolling Stones concert tickets I was hiding from my parents. Today though, it’s mostly full of lotions and
creams with the phrase “anti-aging” somewhere on the label (usually it’s the
only thing in a type size I can read).
There in the right
hand corner next to my hair mousse (I use mousse instead of spray because
saying “mousse” to my friends makes me feel hip) are two bottles of stuff, one
that guarantees to “reduce the signs of aging by 61% in one week” and one that
guarantees “84% more youthful skin in three days.” I wonder if I mix the two, can I actually
turn back time and look like I did in a previous life? Maybe when I was Cleopatra.
My
math skills may be a little rusty, but here’s the equation I came up with. In one week, I should be 61% + 84% +84% +
(84% divided by 3) = 257% younger than before I rubbed on either of the creams! Let’s say for argument’s sake that I’m
51. (I will deny that on a stack of
anti-aging product instructions in a court of law). A 257% reduction in my age would be, uh…
okay… I’m stuck. It’s probably an imaginary number. Those always stumped me. My best guess is that I’d be minus 67 and a
half years old. Does that sound right to
you? Heck, I’m probably too young to
even be driving yet. Much less worrying
about crows’ feet.
The
problem is – I mean besides my inability to do higher level math – for the past
month I have been mixing these two anti-aging products together, along with
five others that guarantee other kinds of results (from “Regain your youthful
complexion” to “We promise you’ll never see your mother in the mirror!”). Remarkably, I haven’t noticed any real
changes of any kind. I still have laugh
lines, frown lines, and carry-on bags under my eyes. Thank heavens, the limit is two.
When I look at my
face closely in the mirror lately, I don’t see anything at all. Until I take off my contact lenses so I can
see that close up. Then I see
pores the size of potholes. But that’s
only because I have to use one of those magnifying mirrors that makes
everything look ten times bigger than it is. I tried holding the magnifying mirror up to my checkbook one day hoping
it would have the same effect. It
didn’t.
When my face
finally does come into focus, I can see some patches of dry flaky skin, a
broken capillary on the side of my nose that showed up after my last two-week
cold, the scar where I jumped from my high chair as a toddler, a few extra layers
of peach fuzz above my lip (I forgot to duct-tape them off last week),
etc. It’s the face of a woman who has
been there, done that, and laughed, frowned, and squinted her way through it
all.
I don’t expect
miracles from the miracle products in my medicine cabinet. I know that no matter what type of math I
use, even in the metric system my face is pretty much my face, no matter what I
put on it. But I would like to be able
to smear on a cream and say truthfully, “I think I see a 22% reduction in fine
lines around my mouth this morning.” Especially considering that just one of these bottles recently reduced
my weekly income by more than 22%.
My husband has an
explanation for why my anti-aging stuff isn’t doing its job. He thinks that rather than working together
to increase the number of years I can wipe off the face of my face, the mixed
products are counteracting one another. In his math, by adding the 61% cream to the 84% cream, I actually should
look 23% older. He thinks I should stop
mixing stuff together.
He could be right.
I guess I should just choose one and see how good of a job it does on its
own. But how will I spend my free
time? Hey, I wonder what would happen if
I mixed his Rogaine with my Nair…
Check out my latest book, Not Guilty by Reason of Menopause, available at bookstores and online booksellers everywhere.
I don’t have kids. Even with three marriages under my
belt, I never inherited any along the way either – unless, of course, you count
husband number two. And believe me, I do.
Maybe
I AM selfish and self-centered, as a woman once told me when I politely asked
her if she could please move her giant race car shopping cart filled with three
young children to one side of the aisle so I could get to the coffee. Who came
up with the idea for these giant plastic race car things anyway? They’re almost
as big as the SUVs out in the parking lot that transport the hordes of children
to the grocery store.
Now
you’ve undoubtedly come to the conclusion that I don’t like children. That’s
just silly. Children are people and I don’t dislike people. I don’t just LIKE
them because they ARE children. I’m as
picky when it comes to my younger friends as with my older friends. Just
because you’re two and have blonde hair and innocent-looking eyes doesn’t mean
I’m going to fall for you. You’ve got to enjoy peek-a-boo and be able to
participate in a stare-down without hiding behind your mom’s legs. And it
doesn’t hurt if your nose isn’t running.
I
have maternal instincts, I just take them out on my dogs. And yes, I know it’s
not the same, as Oprah always makes sure to add when she compares herself as a
dog mom to “real” moms.
Maybe
it was the seventeen years of raising my brothers and sisters when my father
was “between wives” that dulled my hearing when my biological clock started
ringing. Although I think really what I had was a biological calendar. Once in
my twenties, my thirties, and my forties, I briefly entertained the notion of
becoming a mom. But I also entertained the notion of becoming an astronaut, a
ballerina, a back-up singer for The Eagles, and Secretary of the Interior, and
I didn’t pursue any of those either. Perhaps my main problem is I procrastinate
too much.
In
my thirties, I actually attempted to have a baby. I went through the “lie on
your back with your legs up in the air for thirty minutes after sex” routine,
followed by the “take these hormones we usually reserve for dairy cows”
routine, and all the way up to “we have a Petri dish with your name on it”
routine. That’s where I drew the line. I’m weird enough to think that if my
getting pregnant requires equipment from the old chemistry set I had in junior
high, maybe I’m not supposed to have kids. Besides, Petri is what I had been
planning to name the baby.
My
then-husband, who was twenty-seven at the time, had his sperm tested. It passed
mobility and quantity with flying colors, but failed geometry and American
history. He offered to take the test several more times during the course of
our baby-making attempts. I think they had better porn at the fertility clinic
that he had at home.
When
I went in, the tests weren’t so fun. I remember one particular episode in which
they injected dye into my uterus and then took pictures. I don’t know about
you, but my uterus is not photogenic, even on good days. As a result, she’s shy
and tends to try to hide behind my kidneys when the flashbulbs go off. So when
none of the x-rays actually showed anything uterus-like, a medical person whom
I have referred to every day since as “Satan’s Little Helper,” told me to hold
still while she “straightened out my uterus” with a pair of forceps. If your
own uterus just shriveled up to the size of a pea at that last sentence, I
don’t have to explain to you just how painful that was. In fact, I consider it
second in my all time most painful life moments. Number one was getting something
pierced that shouldn’t have a hole in it. I’ll just let your imagination run
wild.
They
sent me home that day with a lovely photo of my tilted uterus and told me there
was a distinct possibility I’d never get pregnant. I still have
that photo. In a frame on my desk.
So
we couldn’t have kids the natural way. We talked for a while about adopting,
but I wanted organic, free-range children and he kept falling for girls about
twelve. I may be dense, but I can see trouble when it jumps up and slaps me in
the uterus. I said no to adoption until my husband was done growing up. Which hadn’t
happened by the time we got divorced and he moved back in with his mother.
The
best part about not having children or grandchildren, is that there’s no one
around who can prove that I’m older than I look. And the dogs, they’re not
talking.
