41... and Done!

I was just reading over last year's birthday post... and, wow! I really sucked at turning 40!

What is it about that milestone that does so much damage to a woman's psyche?

As I ring in 41 this week, let's look back at the kind:cruel ratio that was my Year of Forty.

• The Quickest Mid-Life Crisis in History: I whined, complained and threw cyber-tantrums as I crested the middle-aged slope and fell directly off its cliff. It was a quick freefall and then I was like, "Oh, sorry about that world!" and went back about my regularly-scheduled business. I like to think that what it lacked in longevity it made up for explosiveness. Was it fair to the world? No. But the world survived it, so I'm over it too. 

• Finally Found a Home: The last thing on my "40" bucket list was to purchase real estate and be living in said real estate by the end of the year. Due to my stubbornness over price and location, it took me an entire year of house-hunting to achieve this final tick mark. (Not to mention, four different mailing addresses in the same amount of time. Believe me when I say that my year of homelessness is still confusing the local post office!) So, does signing the deed at the age of 40.8 still make the cut? It counts in my book! And, being stubborn paid off. I'm in exactly the location I had my heart set on and actually came in under budget, too!

• My Boobs are Playing Tricks on Me: It seems like much more than a year ago that I had my first breast cancer scare, but it was just last summer. Tacky as it may have seemed to some when I decided to share that journey; the conversations it started among friends and family really proved to be worth the embarrassing exchange. (Click link for a recap. To those who missed the follow-up, it was just a cyst in the end!) It seems most women at this age have had their "scares" and for someone who once favored male friendships over female, it really proved to me the necessity of the female-sisterhood. (Love you, ladies!) In other boob news, is there a once-a-decade law of physics that is keeping the bra industry in business?! It happened at thirty when the elasticity of the dermis began to betray me. New bra size! Must go shopping! And, here it is again at forty. Holy tit! As if gravity weren't enough of a foe, they've now decided to go running off in opposite directions! It's like each side is in a race to see who can reach my back first by the age of fifty!* And, of course, hello! New bra size again! This is getting old business is expensive business.

Somehow, this is the only Before/After depiction I could
find on my laptop!

• Lost Weight: I have always been cursed in the weight department. (By "American fashion" standards, at least.) I was a tall gangly child, who got called "String Bean", "Carpenter's Dream"** and the like, more often than necessary. (It's really not necessary to comment on children's body types. Ever. Or, anyone's, for that matter. Will the world never learn?!) Once puberty hit, I was hippy and bootylicious during the entire Kate Moss waif trend. Then, totally missing the boat on both ends, my body chose to revert back to waify twelve-year old proportions in middle-age, just in time to usher in the decade of the butt. I literally cried*** when that Meghan Trainor song was released because it was so catchy that I wanted to sing along, but in order to do so I had to call out "Skinny bitches"**** and lyrically agree that "Boys like a little more booty to hold at night.♫" Which leads me to publicly present a challenge to today's pop stars. It's great to celebrate all body types! But, please realize that you can celebrate yours without shaming others in return. Hear that, Meghan? Nicki? Other girls whose names I forgot because I'm not entirely up to date on pop music?

• Lost My Filter: My filter has slowly been slipping away from me since my twenties. The decline has only increased in rapidity at 40. I probably cuss more than I should. I definitely give more unsolicited advice than I should. I fast-tracked from age 39 to 80 in my comfort level of thinking I'm old enough to not have to censor myself. Which is not necessarily a good thing, I do realize. On the upside, it's caused me take better care of my self-worth. If somebody wrongs me, I suddenly have no problem calling them out on it. Which is something I could have never dreamed of doing half-a-lifetime ago. Has it made me popular? Of course not! But, it's sharpened my true friendships and pinched off the ones that were sapping my reserves. Forty had no time for drama. And, forty-one's schedule is looking pretty booked as well. 

• Lost My Grandma: Forty was a terrible year of loss for my family. Both sides lost their last matriarchs. Not just that, but personally my biggest cheerleaders as well. Through all the sadness, I had the privilege of sitting with my Grandma in hospice during her last weeks on this earth. I received from her the best compliments of my entire lifetime and advice that I will cherish forever and ever. Though, it was exhausting, I still miss her every day and have never fully finished grieving over that loss. As my birthday draws near, I will miss that yearly card from her where she would underline in ink pen every word in the lame Hallmark poem that reminded her of me. And, I will forever regret every year that I was too lazy to call and thank her for thinking of me.

• Lost My Way: This year, I decided to be good. Again. Like, daily. Constantly renewing that pledge. Every morning, asking God for a clean slate and yet another do-over. I'm learning to not only speak more kindly, act more kindly and (most importantly) react more kindly. (Powder Keg Mecham, at your service!) I'm really focusing on thinking more kindly, so there are no judgmental or unfriendly comments rooted anywhere to have any chance of slipping out. This used to come so naturally for me, which means my heart must have slipped into an ungrateful place somewhere along the way. I have decades-old walls I'm breaking down. Bear with me! They were there for good reason, but I've grown too old and tired to keep holding them up. I've heard unkind things about myself this year. I don't want to produce that same kind of hurt in others. If I love you, I'll show it. If I give you a compliment, I really mean it. There's no sugar-coating. I'm too lazy to waste my breath like that. 

• Gave in to the Stereotype and Became a Fur Mama: Forty and single equals cat mama... Der! I absolutely adore this girl. And, she seems to tolerate me in exchange. (Although, she's currently glaring at me for having the light on this late at night and impeding upon her 22nd hour of sleep for the day.) Is it cheesy to say she completes me? No, just creepy? Well, thanks for keepin' it real. 

So, last year's post... What did I know? I was just a young 39.99 year-old when I wrote it. Little did I know 40 was bringing with it the highest of highs and the lowest of lows. If this trend keeps up, 41 may possibly leave me with whiplash!*****

But, seeing that I won't see another milestone for nine years is quite a relief. What's on my "50" bucket list, you ask? Let's just start with "Not Dying" and take it from there.******

No pressure this decade.

*Okay, maybe slight exaggeration on my part. They're still pretty cute for their age. Supported or not. And, healthy, most importantly!

**ie. Flat as a board.

***Disclaimer: Hormone surges may also be partly at fault for tears.

****Don't argue that the following, "...Just playin' , I know you think you're fat.♫" lyric makes up for this. No, we don't think we're fat. We're now just doubting our desirability thanks to your insensitive lyrics. Big or small, booties are soft to the touch... and that's what really matters. Trust me, I'm older and wiser. There's no need to cut others down to build yourself up. Lecture over!

*****Whiplash. Best movie of my fortieth year. Go see it!

******And, less footnotes. :)

No Makeup No Filter

Lady Gaga. No makeup, no filter.

I've noticed the emerging trend of celebrities posting bare-faced selfies with the rule "No makeup. No filters." 

I think it's great.  It gives us regular folk that same feeling I described in my last post, replacing, "Oh, they're lumpy too!" with "Oh, they also have puffy eyelids!"

Although, some celebs seem to be cheating... maybe just due to the advantage of privilege with their Botoxed, eyelifted, dyed eyelash "natural" faces.  Or, dare I mention the ones who have (gasp!) actual flawless natural beauty.

It's fun, though, to see those who make a living being completely made-up become unmade.  Not to mention unlit, unedited and unairbrushed.

Then, I noticed a new trend. Regular folk.  Unfamous bloggers posting their own "No makeup. No filters." selfies.

It made me think.  Who doesn't use a "best case scenario" shot as their profile pic?  

My favorite photo edits (besides abusing every exposure and saturation button my photo editing program provides) are airbrushing out three particular facial flaws of mine.  1.) Any zits that have come to roost.  2.) The red scar above my left nostril that came in to being after several decades of living life as the Girl With the Perpetually Runny Nose. 3.) This weird purple vein on the right side on my mouth whose "came into being" story is unknown.

I walk through daily life with my nose dot and face vein completely exposed. I'm not even shy about leaving the house without makeup on a lazy laundry day.  

But, for some reason, nose dots and face veins I deem unfit for life-long posterity on the internet.  Not out of shame or insincerity... but merely because if the "airbrush" button exists, why not use it?!

So I've decided to join the club. (I've already showed you my cellulite for Pete's Sake!)

Here's an airbrushed, edited, crisped up and overly-contrasted picture of myself that was taken just last week.  A particularly ambitious laundry day where I actually ended up doing my hair and makeup for a change:

Of course, this is also my Pinterest profile pic

And, here's my No Makeup No Filter photo taken just this morning. (A regular standard-issue laundry day):

I now realize that I may have misunderstood the rules of the challenge by not bothering to get dressed, comb my hair or even leave the bed before taking it. But, clearly there were no makeup or filters used in the production of this selfie.  

This is an honest look at my morning. (Minus the smile. It took about seven practice shots before I could muster up one of those in the a.m.!) My nose dot is actually on the other side of my face, but I was kind enough to leave one giant pimple on full display (who's creation story involves pub cheese, if you were wondering. Lots and lots of pub cheese.)

So, there you go! It won't be my new profile pic. It won't be pinned anytime soon. But, I personally like knowing that no one is nearly as perfect as their Facebook profile would claim.  

The comfortable thing about this world is that we're all flawed. I may not love all of your flaws (especially if yours is whistling in public...) but I love that we live this life imperfectly together.

P.S. If you're really into a naked face challenge, check out The Naked Face Project.  Sixty days, no makeup, no shaving, no primping. FYI: You won't find me taking this one on unless I'm convalescing at the time.

Cellulite... That's Right!

If there's one thing that should bond us women together, it's our cellulite.

SAY WHAT?!  Yeah, I said it.  Since nobody one else will!

80-95% of us have it (depending on which study you choose believe is most accurate.) That's a higher instance of commonality than anything else we as ladies share. 

Marital status, skin color, education, tax bracket... the only thing we women have most in common is undeniably our cellulite.  So why don't we ever talk about it?

Because it's a gross part of life that we'd like to forget is there. 

So, no, don't worry... I won't be trying to work cellulite into everyday conversation. (Got that, readers who actually know me personally?  There's no need to dodge into the nearest doorway/elevator/house plant the next time you see me coming.)  We're going to keep this to a one-time thing between you, me and the internet.  As it should be.

How many of you pick up the annual Cellulite Issue of that tabloid that you normally despise? I admit, I've never actually purchased these issues (just can't bring myself to feed the beast), but I've definitely sneaked a peek in the checkout line or if I find a loose copy left lying around the lunchroom.

Obviously, the tabloid magazines that make big bucks from their annual Cellulite Editions are doing it for the wrong reason.  They're officially in the business of knocking celebrities off of their pedestals and bent on ruining the lives of the privileged by whatever means ethical or not.  (Sidenote: That's why I've cropped all faces, captions and identifying features from the "backside" photos I've used here. It was done without their permission the first time around. I'm not about to be the repeat offender.)

But, let me tell you what I personally get out of peeking: The relief that we're all just as sexy as one another.  

If I would have captioned the accompanying pics, you may have been shocked to learn that these lumpy ladies being crucified in the tabloids are the same ones gracing the "Most Beautiful" covers of other publications. The same bombshell airbrushed in the swimsuit issue may be the next one featured on the cellulite edition's cover.

Go figure!  Even movie stars and divas are a part of the 95% of us.  We really do have something in common after all!  (And, those remaining 5% probably either lied during the survey process or are a part of the under-21 demographic.  They're not fooling us!)

My cellulite story started at a very young age. Probably early teens. That's when I started wearing swimsuits with skirty bottoms because I was one of the first of my peers to enter this passage of womanhood.  (Why couldn't the boobs have come first?!)

See, it does come on arms.
Even celebrity hottie ones!

It started on the butt and upper thighs, like it always does, and slowly crept it's way down past the knees over the following three decades.  As I get closer to 40, I'm finding it sneaks up in the most unexpected places like, Ack! My calves? What?! My arms!  I wouldn't be surprised if my ears were next. 

There's different kinds of cellulite, too. My personal brand is "skinny girl's cellulite". I've always been tall and small-boned, so unfortunately my cottage cheese has nowhere to blend within normal womanly curves. It just stands at attention, grasping to my skin as if it were in fear of falling off. (Little does it know, I'd be perfectly fine with it falling off!)

I've learned to dress to camouflage, but the "skinny girl" blend always gets the biggest reaction. People don't expect you to have it, because you look so "normal" when fully dressed. So, when that first trip to the beach, pool, spa, store dressing room with us catches them off guard, it is usually met with screams and stares. (Screams from the small children who don't know any better and stares from the shocked adults who are trying their darnedest to feign unfazed.)

In the winter, it's easy to forget about because we're covered up, shivering and forgetting to shave. (What? You're not from around here? You have to shave year-round? So sorry to hear...) But, the weather will eventually turn warmer and the cycle begins again. 

I'll buy a new pair of shorts that looked surprisingly great in the dressing room, but the truth is soon revealed in my obscenely well-lit bathroom. Swimsuit season jiggles in to greet us and I'm in a mad dash to find the last pair of swim-shorts in my size.  No more string bikinis here!

But, then the latest Celebs with Cellulite issue is released to save me just in time.  I can peek, feel at home with my famous fellow 95%-ers and be lifted back out of my shame spiral.  

What else are you gonna do? There is no cure. Yeah, there's expensive creams and treatments that really don't work. The latest trend being caffeinated lotions. I've considered trying a poor girl's version of rubbing Folgers Crystals around on my thighs, out of curiosity, but it just seemed too messy. Besides, if I did find a way to make it disappear then what would we all have to bond over?

So, why did I post this?  Some of you are probably saying this in your head, or aloud to one another as you snicker and judge me. If you haven't figured the answer to that question out yet, take a look at your own backside. I know I'm not the only one who takes a spin on the self-pity tilt-a-whirl this time of year. Misery loves company and so does cellulite. We're all in this together... at least 80% of of us. The rest of you can go eat a burrito while we join hands and ♫ We shall overcome...♫

If you take away nothing else, at least take away this: When you're people-watching at the beach this summer, don't gag and make jokes at others like the tabloid do. Remember that you're most likely sitting on a similar lump of Jello. When you catch your boyfriend or husband ogling the latest chick on the Maxim cover, don't get down, feel free to point out that if he flipped her over, odds are, she's as lumpy as you are.  

If you made it this far, and you're a daring soul... I'm not letting myself off the hook that easily. Since I've exploited the backs-of-thighs of the rich and famous, it's only fair that I exploit my own. Below, I give you:

My Cellulite.

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You're welcome!

 (And, yes, macaroni and cheese was consumed during the making of this post.  It was GOOD!)

I'll Be Hair For You

Today I feel the need to stand up for my convictions and publicly celebrate the most overrated and underappreciated haircut of my adult years: The Rachel.

Come the turn of the century, I've heard The Rachel referred to as the "ugliest haircut on earth", "the biggest mistake of my life" and something to filed under "What were we thinking?"---mostly online and most likely by females younger than I, because anyone my age (or Rachel's age, for that matter) hands down would list their biggest hair regret as The Dorothy Hamill.

You didn't have to go full "Rachel", mind you.  There were modified versions, ala Courtney Cox's longer version and Meg Ryan's shorter adorable 'do in You've Got Mail.

All bearing the same hallmarks of the cut---tons of choppy layers on top and ends chopped at a near 45 degree angle that could be flipped up or tucked under, depending on the funkiness of your mood that day.

I'm going to go against the tide here and state that this was one of the most versatile styles of my twenties. You could scrunch it, curl it, flat iron it, tease it, wear it natural, pin back part of it, pin back lots of it and still have enough for a ponytail (...if you didn't opt for the full "Rachel" in the back, that is.)

If any of you have seen Jennifer Aniston's hair before she became famous, you'll understand where I'm coming from.  It was an unfortunate mix of poufy and frizzy that was not quite curly/not quite straight. Or, in other words, exactly like the stuff that sprouts out of my own head.

Her hairstylist found the brilliant solution to those afflicted with our unusual texture by cutting away enough of it, making it actually manageable!  Our mornings got shorter for those few blessed years.  Then the cut went out of style and those of my kind were forced to go back to frying our rebellious tresses with curling and straightening irons and/or chemical treatments for hours on end.

Well, I'm striking back!  After flipping past too many old Friends reruns this week (because, seriously, it's on like every second of the day) and post one late-night viewing of You've Got Mail, I started to remember how easy my hair had it back in those days.

Well why can't I still have it easy?  Who's to say?!  My hair had already received an over half-a-foot self-chopping this week. (Yes, I've been my own hairstylist since the age of sixteen.  I have "issues", have I mentioned?)  And, even with that extra weight removed, it was still hanging all blobby and frizzy in this Michigan humidity. So I decided, against trend, "That's it!  I'm Rachel-ing!!"

And, so I did.

Forgive the lack of makeup. Did I mention it's like a 100 degrees here?! Why waste good concealer?

I did a longer version and not as choppy as I wore it back in the day, and minus the crazy layers in back that make it signature... plus I've got bangs... well, maybe it's not exactly a Rachel 'do, but what da ya know?

It's still lighter than air!

It dances!

It's glasses-friendly, which is important!

It works for me!

Whether it's a "Rachel" I wear today or not, I'll still defend the 'do to the end!  Layers are good for people like me.  We weren't all naturally blessed with good hair like Phoebe Buffay.  We Rachels of the hair world need to not be so ashamed.  They're just layers... get over it! 

If you don't think it's still in style, but you miss it, go for it!  It was never as bad as The Mullet, for crikey's sake.  And, long after The Rachel---in this same century, mind you---came The Kate Gosselin.  Do you really want to pick that battle?

(BTW: If we're not considering this a "Rachel" then explain why am I having a sudden urge to dance in a fountain and elope to Vegas with Ross?)

Resolution

Now that I've made my new year's resolution, I'm finding it harder and harder to blog and update Facebook.  I resolve the same thing almost every year; to be nicer, less judgmental, to block out gossip and to try to say something positive when a conversation turns negative.

This year's difference is that I made this resolution in December, back when I was still lying sick in bed feeling as if death became me, and I found myself in a week-long bartering session with God.  "Why am I not getting better?",  "No one else's illness is lasting this long?",  "Are you trying to teach me something?",  "What did I do?",  "I will be faithful like Job, but do you realize I feel like I'm dying?", "Alright, if you heal me I promise I'll really try to be a nicer person."  And, then I started to heal.

Yeah, so this trade was intended to impact only my personal sphere of human beings... But then, by default, I found that each time a celebrity would go and do something dumb/weird/gross/off-the-wall, at the point that my snark usually kicks in, I'd run to update my FB status and find myself not being able to hit the "Enter" key.  I've literally gotten as far as typing out a hilarious comment (that was sure to get at least ten likes and five LOLs) and then found myself at the mercy of an immediate spiritual twinge that took control of my arm and made be hit the backspace key.  Delete.  Delete.  Delete.

Oh boy.  Celebrities are people too?  I'm screwed.  I even willingly let my People subscription run out!  I even skipped The Soup AND E's Fashion Police this week!  I even felt sorry, when flipping past one of those Kardashian shows, for Kim and her romantic codependency condition!

I guess my resolution has just taken on new life this year, when elevated from just a good thought to an actual promise.

There are a few other things I've learned in the last year that I like to try to carry in to the new one:

• Stress is unavoidable, only the way you choose to handle it is in your control.
• It's okay to watch only comedies if that's all you're in the mood for.  There's no need to force yourself to sit through any form of entertainment that scares you, depresses you, grosses you out, makes you feel weird inside, makes you cry when you're not in the mood for tears, or anything else that seems like a waste of your time or that just isn't your cup of tea.  No matter how many awards it may win one day or how many friendly recommendations you've been given.  This goes for music, books and tv too.  Sorry, American Horror Story!  No offense, Girl with the Dragon Tattoo!
• Fresh air is like nature's vitamin supplement.  Be sure to inhale a recommended amount daily.
• Too many months of glasses wear has officially killed my vanity.  I don't even do my hair every day!  (Yes, I comb my hair everyday.  I just throw it in a ponytail much more often.)  Makeup, also, has become strictly optional.  Not sure if this is a good or bad thing yet.
• I have finally reached the point where I can honestly say, "Okay, I really do own enough clothes."
• I tried some new foods and didn't like them.  The curiosity is over and I never have to eat them again.  At least I tried!
• Go to the doctors while you still have insurance.

I thought the biggest challenge of 2012 was going to be wading through that puddle of job stress.  I'm now beginning to think it might actually be finding ways to make you guys LOL, without compromising my resolution.

Cheers to my trying!  Hang in there with me!

Chew on This

As I age I notice my teeth slowly moving away from the perfect position my teenage braces had molded them into.  This means, I've developed "food catchers".  You know, those oddly shaped crevices created between your teeth as they twist back away from one another and come to work as crumb traps.  Chewed food can sit in any number of these spots for hours (or until fate shines upon you and presents with it a mirror.)

It stinks that I'm at the age that I have to check my teeth after every meal and every snack.  Little kids can sneak around for days without picking up a toothbrush, but their teeth still remain crumb-free and shiny white.  Lucky suckers.

Grown-up teeth vs Kid teeth

Food catchers aside, I have somehow lasted 37 years now without a single cavity.  Whatever God graced my teeth with in strength, He's deprived me with in color, though.  I have fluorosis.  It's the condition that causes spotty teeth that are never to be movie star white (unless you add together each platinum spotty spot and create a digital composite.)

I've read, ironically, that fluorosis is caused by receiving too much fluoride as a child.  Can you believe that?!  Shocking to any 80's child who had to gag their way through yearly fluoride treatments like I (our dentist's uncompassionate choice in fluoride flavor: Sour apple.)  They put it in our toothpastes, mouthwashes, even our tap water!  And, all to just cause my teeth to overdose on the stuff and have unruly color for the rest of my life.  (But, remember... No cavities!)

My cat even had pearly whites, for crying out loud.  And, I'm not even sure she was aware she had teeth!  With no toothbrush, toothpaste or dental floss to her name and an overwhelming precondition to munch on her own toenails, she got to bask in the favor of perfectly curled whiskers and glistening white teeth.

I'd like to bet my dog had whiter teeth than me as well.  Even after all that toilet drinking!  Although, as he aged it became the norm--from time to time--to find some of his teeth randomly sprinkled amid the family room carpeting. (Unattached to dog gums, that is...)  So, I guess I pull ahead of him in score there.  It's only fair.  I never had a fence-chewing habit.

As much as I tend to bust my own chops, I guess I'm glad mine seem to chew well.  Which I'm sure was the sole purpose intended at their creation.  Modern culture seems to no longer recognize healthy teeth as good teeth.  The trend has somehow moved from, keeping as many of your original teeth as hygienically possible, to chiseling out all of the above and replacing them with chompers that look like they came from a Mr. Potato Head kit.  And, people spend alot of money to have Mr. Potato Head's teeth installed!

People with properly functioning mouths pay someone to drill all their teeth down to nubs and leave non-tooth-materialed picket fences in their wake.  Not for any health reason, but just to make them that much whiter, straighter and larger!  This is a foreign concept to me because, when I want whiter teeth, I use MI Paste (a fluorosis thing) and whitening agents.  (Yeah, mine might not look like refrigerator panels, but they're not yellow either!)  To straighten, I endured my two-year sentence in braces like the rest of the middle-classed patient folk.  And, larger?!  If my teeth got any larger, I'd begin to grow rabbit ears!

But, here's living proof that people really do this:

And then, there's the people who walk into their dentist's office demanding, "Give me the 'Donny Osmond!'":

I can't imagine going to such extremes myself.  And, I find it quite humorous when I'm watching a movie or television show where the actor is playing a homeless person/pioneer/prisoner/cowboy from the Old West/castaway (Sawyer from Lost, I'm talkin' to you!), and they open their mouth to reveal a 21st century set of white Chiclets.  But, to each his own.

Better to wear Gary Busey's grin than this one!

Cheetos?  Meth mouth? Cheetos + Meth mouth?  You decide.

Girls Who Wear Glasses

You know what they say about girls who wear glasses? That we don't see very well.

There's a dreaded block of weeks that come out of every year.  It hits once in the Spring and once in the Fall when the weather changes and the new mold, pollen and ragweed is grown.  Allergy season.  The first few weeks of allergy season hit me hard and contacts are just not doable during these times.

There's always the people who will avoid me these weeks, because either: a.) My eyes are all red, swollen and dripping and they think I have pink eye; b.) I'm sneezing like it's a contest and there's money involved, so they think I'm contagious with something; c.)  My sinuses are swollen, I'm grumpy and I'm not wearing makeup, so they think that my paleness equals the flu and their flu shot hasn't kicked in yet; or d.) I'm wearing my glasses and they don't want to be seen with a four-eyes.

As an adult, I've come to terms with Allergy Weeks.  I was very vain in the past and was a glasses refuser for many a year.  If you don't remember my Back to School post, this was my first pair of glasses:

I wasn't diagnosed as near-blind until middle school.  Even though the schools gave us eye exams every few years, I had the worst time trying to see the blackboard and would have to pull the side of my eyelids out toward my ears to be able to see what that night's homework assignment was and I was known to accidentally try to open my neighbor's locker from time to time.  No teacher caught on until I was thirteen.  (Thanks public school system!)

Getting glasses opened a whole new world of near-20/20 vision to me.  My mom was amazed on our ride home from the eye doctors that first day of vision.  I marveled at the ability to read traffic signs (I had always wondered why they didn't make them much larger) and the fact that I could see the outline of every individual leaf on each tree. (I had always thought that, until you climbed up in one, trees were supposed to look the way every grade-schooler drew them. Brown stick with green cotton candy blob on top.)  The world was finally mine, because I COULD SEE IT!!!!

Then came high school. 

I don't believe a picture exists of me donning my high schools frames.  In fact, I made sure of it at the time!  But, rooting through some boxes in the basement produced the brown plastic glasses that made my life a living burning hell.  They looked a little something like this:

Now imagine that look on a younger, paler, less made up and greater eyebrowed fourteen-year-old whose-face-hadn't-filled-out-yet version of me and you can imagine my pain. 

I never felt ashamed of wearing glasses until high school. I was just ecstatic to finally be able to see up until that point.  Perhaps it all started when the female bully in my math class would torture me by having her friends call me "Goggle glasses" for almost every day of my geometry life.  When I'd turn around and glare to half stand up for myself (a move my older sister often used effectively on me) she'd howl, "Ooooh!  The look of death!  If looks could kill!"  If only I had the courage to ask, If  I'm in 9th grade and you're in 11th grade, why are we even in the same math class?"  But I didn't. 

One of her friends eventually did stand up to her one day (since my teacher never did) and said, "Why don't we just leave her alone?"  A few years later, after high school, that same friend delivered a pizza to my house.  I was wearing contacts and eyeliner and had come into my own by that age, but I noticed a vague flicker of recognition in her eyes.  She had a small look of fear that I was going to now chew her out for going along with the "Goggle glasses" chant her bully friend had wrangled her into.  But, I always chose to remember her as the girl who made it stop.  I never mentioned recognizing her but gave her a good tip, it was the least I could do.

From that year on I was Jan Brady.  Glasses were donned only to see the chalkboard, came back off as quickly as possible and then placed back on once a parent would emerge.  Finally, at age sixteen, I was granted a pair of contact lenses.  The heavens sang!

Contacts changed my life.  They somehow gave me confidence.  Then there was the boy, who supposedly liked me, and showed such affection by asking me, "Where's your glasses? I thought you wore glasses.  You have a 'glasses' kind of nose."  Yes, thank you.  I'm flattered.  You too can achieve such a nose by standing yours in front of every basketball and volleyball in gym class that comes your way.  Using this technique over the course of several years, your nose will eventually develop a shelf of a bump perfect for resting a pair of Coke bottle lenses. 

Then came the insecurity about the nose.

These days we have wonderful inventions like glare-proof coating and feather-weight lenses (my "glasses kind of nose" until then would throb under the weight of my thick prescription.)  Frames became smaller and trendier, and some people even wear them, despite their natural 20/20 vision, with clear glass in them for---get this--fashion! 

I don't mind wearing my glasses anymore.  But, only on a from-time-to-time basis.  There's still a small part of me that shrinks a little once the frames hit the bridge of my nose.  I find it harder to sit tall and make eye contact with them on.  I'm a little less witty and not a fan of the loss of peripheral vision that goes with wearing them.  But, I've learned over time that the glasses/nose/tanness of skin/clothes/looks don't make the (wo)man.  People eventually start being impressed by your personality and talents and all the rest of that stuff becomes backdrop.

I don't know how or when this switch is turned on, but I'm glad that it does.  If only we could teach the teenagers this trick.  If I only knew then what I know now, I could have steam-rolled that bully with sarcasm and had the whole class turn on her. 

But, I'm glad that I didn't.  I'm a better person this way.  Four eyes and all!

Hair Today, Dyed Tomorrow

My roots are currently more than an inch, less than a foot... so I know tonight's the night to hit the bottle. Of hair dye that is!

My hair's been through alot in one lifetime.  Surviving the eighties alone should earn it some sort of medal.  The biggest relief to my beauty routine was the ushering in of the 21st century's "natural is in" trend.  Yay, I don't have to perm or tease the life out of my poor follicles anymore! 

No gel, mousse or 1/4-inch barrel curling irons can be found anywhere near my hair these days (or my house for that matter.)  I'm not even sure I could scrape up a stray bottle of hairspray in my bathroom if I were, for some ridiculous reason, ever in dire need of it.  Soft hair came back!  (It better be here to stay...)

My hair hasn't crunched in almost two decades now. No kidding!  Touch it.  TOUCH it!  (You won't lose a hand in there anymore. I swear!)

But, the dye will never die. 

I've been coloring my hair since the age of 16.  With a meager allowance, I started out using straight peroxide mixed with water in an old hair spray bottle.  This was 1990 and the days of Sun-In.  I would apply my concoction (on top of permed hair, yikes!) Then, instead of wasting time sitting out in the sun, I would stick my head right under the blow dryer.  Check the mirror. Eh, we can do better... and repeat the process multiple times until all visible hairs were properly brassy.

Matching eyebrows, not a concern in 1990.

Yeah, my head stank like the nurse's station, but I fit right in beside my Sunned-In friends without anyone being any wiser.  (We'd bleached all the wisdom out of our heads by then.)

My first experience with a "real" at-home dye kit came the following year.  Age 17, my first time applying plastic glove to applicator tip and shaking gently.  (This was also my first time applying brown splotches to the wallpaper in my parents' bathroom.)  And so, my natural hair color was never to be seen again.  (Unless we're counting that top inch of mane that crops up every couple of months.)

Since that day I've been everything from blonde to strawberry blonde to orange to reddish to all-shades-of-brown-but-the-natural-kind to black.  In my twenties it was almost like an Olympic-worthy event.  I would change my hair as often as once a month.  I liked to keep my on-lookers on their toes. 

I even went one year insistent on having the opposite hair color of the season.  Meaning dark hair in the summer, light in the winter, red in the spring instead of fall.  You get it?  Ooh. Such a rebel I was.  I don't remember what brought that on.  It could have been the miswiring in me that always wants to be different than everybody else.  Or, it could have just been the simple fact that the Clairol bottles go on clearance when they're out of season.  (Did I mention, I'm cheap?)

Whatever the case, consider me the guinea pig and trust me that it's near impossible to keep your hair dark in the summertime. Especially if you spend alot of time outdoors like I do.  It's not rebellious, it's just plain stupid.  The sunlight doesn't tend to make your hair any darker!

There was a day when it was impolite for a woman to admit her hair color was fake.  Now everybody dyes and nobody cares.  Everyone also seems to pretend that they've been dying their hair for so long that they "can't even remember what my natural hair color is."

They're liars.  I can remember with great confidence what color my natural hair is.  That's why I keep dying it, duh. 

People politely refer to those with my natural coloring as "mousy brown".  That brings up the cute depiction of cartoon Disney mice.  Real mousy brown hair is the color of real mice.  The mice you find in the sewers or rooting through your trash on garbage night.  With no depth or real color shading the hue.  Not dark and rich enough to be milk-chocolatety.  Not light and warm enough to be coined as golden.  Real mousy brown hair is the color of tree bark.  Not cartoon tree bark.  That real tree bark that is currently peeling off the oak in the backyard.  Colorists call it "ash" brown.  Dull and lifeless.  So dull it can almost be mistaken for gray.  (Sadly, my grayish brown natural hair is also now streaked with actual silver.)

Tonight I tried the newest fad in hair coloring.  No-drip "sublime" mousse.  I have to admit, it was pretty sublime.  Not at all messy to apply.  It didn't splatter or drip down behind my ears.  Easy to rinse out.  Less smelly on the smelliness scale.
 

Yes!

Yes!

Yes!

Consider this my endorsement.  Dye your hair all you want.  (Just, please don't use straight peroxide.)  And, buy the mousse if you're a born mess-maker like me. 

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go nurse a wicked head rush.

How O-Old are You?

I recently came across an essay I had posted on my old web page titled "Thoughts on Thirty".  I posted it in the summer of 2004 praising the coolness of turning thirty years old. 

Thirty was the light at the end of the tunnel for much of my later twenties.  I was perturbed that everyone thought I was younger than I was, I was growing tired of showing my ID at R-rated movies and I was just plain convinced that world didn't take me seriously enough.  Oh yeah... and that thirty was going to fix all of that!

I'm looking at the essay again right now and I see that I had drafted up a list of pros and cons about that hallowed age.  The cons pretty much consisted of too many (necessary) bottles of products on my dresser top and that "My cholesterol level, hypoglycemia and GI tract are no longer what they used to be."

The pros list included that "I'm guilt-free in finding out that being an aunt is much easier than being a mom", that it's easier to say "no" now, blah blah blah, some spiritual stuff... and then the real kicker: "I think my body is better than ever... looking that is. Things fall into place girls... trust me! And, then they'll fall out of place, but that will be my 'Thoughts on Forty' entry."

Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!!!!  Excuse me while I ROFL for a minute.

***INSERT ELEVATOR MUZAK WHILE THIS BLOG IS ON HOLD***

Ooh, look at me. I'm thirty and so sexy!

[Wipe the tears.]  Okay, I think I caught my breath again. 

I don't know when it was that my body "fell into to place", or for how many days that lasted...  But seven years later, I can assure you that that fall was a continuous decline.  I don't know how it's possible, but my butt has slid a full foot down the back of my legs in the last decade.  If it could have once been referred to as a nice "basket-ball shaped" backside, it has since deflated in the garage from lack of use.  I once could fill a pair a jeans, now I need to cram stuff into my pockets to get any kind of shape back there.  (Unless we're counting "droopy" as a shape... then I can safely say that I'm shapely all over.)

Being thirty and complaining about aging products cracks me up too.  I was unwrinkled enough to brave this haircut that same year:

Ooh! Lookit the little ones!

If I attempted that look now people might mistake me for a chemo patient.  Once the forehead creases, the eyes puff out and the complexion becomes more see-through than tan, it's officially time to rule out the pixie cut. 

Aging is a curious thing.  It takes awhile to get there but, boy when it comes, there's no missing it!  (Or stopping it!)  I keep antacids on my nightstand these days.  I can get heartburn just by watching the Food Network.  I have literally pulled a muscle just by washing my hair.  Nothing makes you feel older than having someone ask you, "You have a stiff neck.  What did you do?" and having to answer honestly by saying, "I looked to the left too early this morning."  If someone had warned me that I could one day harm myself simply by turning my head, I wouldn't have rushed into this decade so quickly.

My knees are a swollen mess.  I have bodily functions I was too ladylike to have in my twenties. I have no muscle tone.  Even my skinny parts jiggle.  The nine-year-old is currently obsessed with, what he refers to as my "chubby elbow".  He's amazed by it's stretchability and likes to squeeze it, tug on it like Silly Putty and pick at it's dry skin.  Call me crazy, but I usually allow it.  I'll take whatever physical affection he's still handing out at that age.  (But, I remind him that it's impolite to refer to any part of a woman's body as chubby.)  It's also getting harder and harder to cover up the gray.  Dark hair dye doesn't stick to it as well and so I'm counting down the years until I have to go full-on Betty White blonde.  What're you gonna do? 

So, I turn thirty-seven tomorrow.  I officially have to refer to myself as being in my late-thirties now.  But, guess what?  I no longer get carded at the movies (maybe because I'm usually only buying tickets to G-rated fare these days.)  I not only have learned to say "no", but I can openly disagree with people and still maintain their fondness.  Even though I'll admit to the jigglies and the cellulite, I simply have stopped caring.  If it's hot outside, I'm wearing shorts and a tank top.  I don't care if that exposes my chubby elbow or my dimply legs.  I don't have eyes in the backs of my thighs!  So what if my farmer's tan starts four inches below my hem.  That's your viewing problem, not mine! 

However droopy my body parts, I find it's actually easier to buy pants that fit these days.  When I was curvy and solid, no matter how in-shape I was, it was hard to find a pair of jeans fitting in both the waist and the hips.  Everything was firm, there was no working around it.  Now, I can just stuff the spongy parts into whatever area of the pants they fit into.  Half a size off?  Just tuck in the muffin top.  All parts are now moldable.  Hip hip hooray!

At 37, I worry 200% less.  Other people's drama bores me and  I have little concern for what other people think about me.  I'm as content as I've ever been.  Thirty-seven is one big exhale!  You may steal my body parts one by one, Old Age, but my happiness is mine to keep.

No matter what I may have stated seven years ago, thirty ended up being just another year.  No matter how much I was looking forward to it, it took thirty years to get there and then lasted only 12 short months.  I may have thought I was the bomb, but I now have seven extra years of wisdom grown on me.

I'm also now smart enough to know that if we're going to get greedy and start wishing for bodies of the past, I think I'll opt for twenty-one instead.  Even J Lo's trainer couldn't get me back those legs!