Woman of a Certain Age

A certain birthday is creeping up on me. No…actually, it’s about to punch me in the face. It’s cocked and loaded and ready to shoot but I’m cool with it. Really, I am.

Last week I was killing time by perusing Ebay and Etsy for vintage clothes when I stumbled upon this:

Not me. Not. At. All.

I had that dress. I wore it in the early 90’s when I still wasn’t legally allowed to be in bars but went anyway. In fact, I rocked that dress back when Kurt Cobain was still breathing and astonishing the world with his rebuttal to 80’s hairbands. I wore the hell out of that tight little number and sang …can’t find a better man! at the top of my lungs while I drove into the city to hit CBGB’s. I smoked skinny little Capri cigarettes when I drank because those weren’t like smoking a real cigarrette…therefore, by technicality, I was not a smoker. I loved Eddie Vedder and imagined that, in a perfect world, we’d meet and get married and I’d be his cool wife who wore tight little black dresses and lovingly mopped the sweat from his forehead after particularly grueling sets.

I wore that dress with cowboy boots and black high heels and drank shots out of test tubes. I might have worn it while dancing on the bar at a place called Roxeanne’s with my best friends, Debbie and Corinne. I probably puked on it. Either way, my ass hadn’t fallen yet and my boobs were still perky. My hair was long and cut like Brenda Walsh’s and I exuded a major Don’t-Even-Bother-Talking-To-Me-Fella kind of vibe.

I was dork.

Last night, Dave and I were driving home from our date night when Guns n’ Roses came on the radio. There we were, two cool, aging hotties hurtling down I-95 with Paradise City and Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door blaring from the Saab’s speakers. Momentarily, we felt cool. The songs of our youth filled my ears and made me young again. I mean really young. I felt good and happy and…then the stupid DJ went and called those songs classics. CLASSICS, I say!

My dress is vintage and my music is classic. Bitch is gettin’ old…

Trouble

I have lots of trouble. At least that’s what I told myself this morning as I stood in Target looking at the workout DVDs. I’m not into Zumba. Don’t get all huffy and bent out of shape, I’m not passing judgement on the Zumba cult! Zumba looks like an enormous amount of fun if you’re… I don’t know, coordinated. I am not. Somewhere along the line my coordination vanished.

*POOF*

I took ballet as a kid, jazz, some gymnastics and I was even a cheerleader before I decided that drinking beer and smoking skinny cigarettes under the bleachers was more fun than doing splits in the middle of the gym at half-time. I suspect that  if I were to attend a Zumba class, I’d probably take out an entire row of women with my flailing, graceless gyrations. Why, just yesterday I walked smack into the open dishwasher door and went careening across the kitchen, washing the walls and floor in berry punch flavored Juicy Juice.

In the face of my spastic inability to dance, I like to run. But I don’t.

You see, last year I suffered the mother of all sinus infections and just stopped. In essence, I have done nothing other than sit on my atrophied posterior for the past year. Sure, I occasionally (rarely) ventured downstairs to use the treadmill, but mostly I just sat around writing, napping or reading books and it was lovely. I honestly don’t ever remember being so still. If I were a dog I’d most definitely be one of those shaky little terriers that never stops moving, snarling, playing and barking. Like Stella. Stella is the dog version of Kelli. Yet, over the past 12 months I’ve become the equivalent of a big old lazy Bassett Hound. No, that’s not right… I’m an aging, overweight Shar Pei. Yes, I’m thin but I’m developing weird jiggles and wrinkles in places that never jiggled or wrinkled before. For example, when I run up the stairs now, my ass continues moving for a half second after I’ve stopped. There’s also that thing where my outer thighs have begun pooching out with a layer of fat I’ve never seen before. It pains me to say it but, I have fat, flab and an ass that’s threatening to climb up my back and park somewhere that I never imagined my ass could go.

My Canine Soul Sister

I’ve noticed all of these new things over the past week or so. Like last week when I put on a pair of shorts that, two years ago looked perfectly lovely and cute. This year, I caught my reflection in the glass door on our porch and nearly fell over. Do those saddle bags belong to me? Then, just to punish myself, I put on my skimpiest bikini. Yup, I did.  The one I used to wear at Orient Beach in St. Martin where clothing is optional. By the way, have you ever noticed that the only people who actually choose to go nude are chubby seniors?

Anywho, I took that bikini off so quickly you’d have thought it was made of battery acid.

Yesterday I squeaked out a mile and half on the treadmill. I used to run 5.

This morning, at Target, I rolled the girls around filling the cart with diapers, laundry detergent and other equally unexciting items and thought about the load of trouble I’ve gotten myself into. I realized that after years of stringent excercise and healthy food consumption, I finally opened the door and invited the flab to come on in. It’s like a vampire, right? Once you invite it in, you’re doomed. Unless of course you’re a painfully bland teenager who recently moved to Forks. In that case, you’re good. Carry on.

As I rolled around Target pondering my big ass, er…trouble, something magically caught my eye. There, on the top shelf, awash in a beam of light from heaven was a DVD called No More Trouble Zones from Jillian Michaels. Last year I did P90X, but somewhere near the second week, I wanted to punch Tony Horton in the face. I can’t stomach Tony Horton’s incessant babble again. So Jillian Michaels, bring it on. Yell at me. Tell me I’m loser. Go right ahead and call me a lazy bitch because nothing, and I mean nothing, gives me more incentive than a fellow bitchy woman. If I could hire another chick to come to my house and run on a treadmill next to mine, all the while looking over at my time and speed, increasing her own to match, I’d be a fit and skinny in no time. That’s why I used to love the Oak Square YMCA. I’d pick a treadmill right smack in the middle of a bunch of girls and run like the wind. I nearly always won the race.

I smell a lawsuit!

Jillian claims her workout will “Eliminate Love Handles, Muffin Tops and Wobbly Arms for Good!” Let’s hope she threw a little something in there for saddle bags, wine guts and double chins because once I’m flabless again, I’m going to run like the wind!

I..like..big…Butts and like ’em round! Yeah, not really. But I do like when I see that you’ve vote for No. 7!!Vote for me @ Top Mommy Blogs - Mom Blog Directory

Pretty Suckers

Like three tiny vampires, they sucked the pretty right out of me. The first two went relatively easy on the amount of beauty they stole. They sucked just enough pretty to allow me to replenish. They were kind enough to leave the pretty somewhat intact, considerately taking only what they needed. They didn’t cry too much, they slept through the night and, mostly, I only had to chase them around a Boston apartment with two bedrooms and no stairs in the living area. We all went to the gym together, we took advantage of Boston’s sidewalks and the Charles River Esplanade that was right around the corner. The park across the street wasn’t half bad either.
 
Then we moved to the country. We bought an 150-year-old house and got pregnant in the middle of our grand plans for tearing down plaster walls and renovating a barn (insert the sound of a scratching record here).
 
The third one is the real culprit. She’s the one who sucked the last vestiges of pretty out of me. Please, allow me to present the People’s Exhibit No. 1.

Exhibit No. 1 - Still Riding the Pretty Train

Exhibit No. 2 (below) shows me one full year after the photo in Exhibit No. 1 was taken. Notice that I was still riding the pretty train, looking fit and well-rested. I was running four times a week at that point. You can tell right? The gym was within walking distance to our apartment and they had free babysitting. God bless the Oak Square YMCA. I miss you.

exbibit no. 2 - still pretty

Then we moved away and purchased what I consider to be the mother of all Pretty Suckers.

Exhibit No. 3 - Evil Pretty Sucker

Just when we began tearing down 150-year-old plaster walls, we were struck with some rather unexpected news.

Exhibit No. 4 - Pretty Sucker Number Three

 Pretty Sucker extraordinaire was born nine months and one scaled back kitchen renovation later. Bathroom renovations? Forget about it. Walk in closet? Yeah, that became a pooky-pink nursery. Have you ever lived through construction in a 150-year-old house? That old horsehair plaster dust sure can travel! Not to mention the possibility of lead dust, the four steep and narrow staircases and drafty windows. So we sold the mother of all Pretty Suckers to provide a safe, warm and comfortable habitat for our little Pretty Suckers.

exhibit No.5

 Pretty Sucker Number Three looks like a beautiful, quiet baby doesn’t she? Look at her peaceful newborn slumber. Breathtaking, isn’t it? *sigh*

Well, here’s the reality of Pretty Sucker Number Three’s first two years.

exhibit no. 6

exhibit no. 7

exhibit no. 8
She is also the star of the Narragansett No. 7’s banner. She’s my muse.

Sometimes the Pretty Suckers can’t control their vicious nature and they are forced to squish themselves into small hiding places to avoid public detection. On the day that this photo was taken (Refer to Exhibit No. 9), Pretty Sucker Number Two was feeling particularly vicious. It hid in this spot at LL Bean in Freeport for 20 full minutes before re-emerging in the form of a child. Under no circumstances should you approach a Pretty Sucker during this heightened state of agitation. They will scream very loudly and there is a strong possibility of a nasty bite. Slowly back away and pretend to ignore the Pretty Sucker. Attempt to make eye contact with the horrified adults in the general vicinity while pretending that the Pretty Sucker belongs to someone else. If possible, laugh and snap a few pictures, but do so from a distance to avoid further provocation.

exhibit no. 9

The male Pretty Sucker is relatively quiet and has a terrific sense of humor. These days he tends to leave me and my minuscule amount of remaining beauty alone. That is, if I allow him to assume his alter ego and scare the other two Pretty Suckers.

In my earliest days with the Pretty Suckers, I foolishly thought they would allow me to retain my pretty. I read them bedtime stories in skinny jeans and a pair of Jimmy Choos before going on dates with their daddy. My hair was still long and luxurious. Well, I was stupid!
 
Four short years and the addition of Pretty Sucker Number Three has left me in a rather haggard state. I’m considering Thermage coupled with a chemical peel to attack my fine lines and wrinkles… 
Click the brown box below if you would like to donate to my plastic surgery fund. Okay, not really…but a click on the box will register a vote for No. 7 at Top Mommy Blogs!
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