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Posts Tagged ‘middle age’


I think I’m having a midlife crisis.

Why else would I have cut off my hair, gone Pole Dancing and and taken a trapeze class all in the last month? Yep, that’s me on the trapeze…though not me (I mean , seriously) on the pole.

I think it all started with my 7th annual 39th Birthday. You know, one birthday nearer to “closer to 50 than to 40.”  One birthday closer to “invisible to men under the age of 70.” Closer to a serious debate on whether or not to get Botox. Closer, let’s face it, to the complete demise of my face. Is it just me, or is it true that every year, the day after your birthday, you develop a new physical flaw?  The day after my fortieth, I noticed my first age spot. The day after my forty-first: two little creases between my brows.  Forty second? Wrinkly knees.

Hair cut?  It’s a wonder I didn’t shave my head like Brittany Spears. (more…)

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Weight Watchers.

The two most terrifying words in the English language.  (Though I suppose that “Compassionate Conservative” and “Hairy Back” might be contenders.)

And yet here I am, once again, doing the WW.  Counting the points, weighing the portions,trying to decide if a deck of cards (the proper size of a serving a meat) is the same size as the giant hunk of leg-o-lamb I’ve just plunked on my plate. (that would be NO.)

Full disclosure:  a publicist from WW gave me three months of Weight Watchers for free.  I figured that if I can’t follow the program and lose the weight when I don’t even have to pay for it….Well, then I might as well  just accept that “trying on bathing suits” will forever remain the four scariest words in the English language.

Today was my second weigh-in.  Week two.  Week one, I lost 1.4 pounds.  Not bad.  Not great, but not bad.  So week two, I decided to be extra careful: I weighed everything.  I wrote everything down.  And you know what?  I stayed the same.  EXACTLY the same.

It’s better than a gain, I know.  But still.  And this was a week where I skied, worked out with a trainer, took yoga, took a dance class, took a ballroom dancing lesson AND dieted. What else am I supposed to do?  Cut off my left arm from the elbow down and use it to beat the pounds off of me?

It was also a week where I went out to breakfast with a friend.  Here’s what I had: one poached egg (2 points) and one piece of dry whole wheat toast (2 points).  Here’s what she had: a three egg (one yolk only) mozzarella and tomato omelette , french fries, and two pieces of whole wheat toast slattered in butter.

Now, here’s what she looks like: five foot four, one hundred and ten pounds, size four or six.

And here’s what I look like: five foot seven, NOWHERE NEAR one hundred and ten, or even one hundred and twenty, and lets face it, it’s been 20 years since I’ve seen 130 pounds.  Size eight or ten.

Sometimes, life just isn’t fair, is it?

Straight after my weigh-in, I went to Loehmann’s to  – TRY ON BATHING SUITS.  I figured, hey, I’m already depressed about my body, why not go all out and make myself downright dismal???

I had already been to the world famous Town Shop last week, trying on Karla Coletto suits, and that hadn’t gone well.  I have sung the praises of her bathing suits before, but this time around.  Well, let’s just say it didn’t go as well.  The bathing suits are still beautiful.  Still fabulously designed.  I will admit, I look better in a Karla Coletto bathing suit than I have a right to. BUT (and it’s a big but – not to be confused with my big butt), this year, the suits were see-through.  I’m pretty sure it wasn’t intentional – but they were showing a whole lot more than I feel comfortable showing.  (Or that you’d feel comfortable seeing, believe me.) For $200 and up, I expect a fabric that at least doesn’t show my (theoretical) tan lines through my suit. Or, let’s be frank, the depth of my bikini wax. So no Karla Coletto for me this year.  I’m looking on the bright side: this way, I won’t be tempted to spend $200 plus on a bathing suit!

ANYWAY – so there I was in Loehmann’s, and  as I entered the (communal) dressing room, I see my naturally (and preternaturally) thin friend, J.  (And as you read, remember, she’s a FRIEND) She takes one look at my armful of bathing suits (size 8′s, I might add – it’s not like I was kidding myself) and says “Are you going to fit into those?”

Youch.

I suppose the proper response would have been: “Are you going incredibly mean, incredibly unfeeling, or just a bitch?”  Or maybe “Are you going to go through puberty ever?  And get breasts?”  But no, all I said was:  “Well, I’m on Weight Watchers.”

All I can say is, it better work.

So check in every Wednesday for a Weight Watchers update. I let you know if I’m up or down, and I’ll tell you what’s working and what’s not.  Hey, maybe it’ll keep me honest, and finally, finally, get me to lose those ten pounds I’ve been struggling with for the past twenty years!

If you have any great Weight Watchers knowledge to impart – well, let me know.  Evidently, I need all the help I can get.

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I don’t buy the new cultural zeitgeist that forty is thirty, thirty is twenty-one, and sixty is twenty-two. Has no one done the math?

And I’m not thirty. Just ask my crows’ feet and slackening jawline. If forty’s the new thirty, somebody forgot to tell my thighs. And my ovaries. Oh, and my neck. (And since I’m not Nora Ephron, if I hate my neck nobody cares.)

Somebody has to tell the truth about forty (OK OK 43). It’s not thirty, or even thirty five. It’s puckering elbows, and sagging knees, and not really wanting to go out clubbing. It’s not being considered hip no matter how many outfits you buy at Scoop or Intermix. It’s not looking appropriate in mini-dresses, no matter how many Core Fusion, Pilates, Gyrotonic torture sessions you’ve been to. It’s weighing the same but looking different. It’s being invisible to men under forty. It’s needing reading glasses…..or longer arms, seeing babies and knowing that’s not gonna be you anymore, realizing that all those insecurities you had in your twenties and even thirties were a colossal waste of time.

Forty is middle age. Let’s face it. And embrace it. And maybe sometimes rail against the Gods of aging for making it so.

But I’m more than my age. I’m mom to those two cuties in the banner. Although even they are older than that now. Even they have passed through infanthood, and babyhood, toddlerhood and little kid-hood (hey parallel structure allows fake words!). They’re pretty big kids now. They have attitude. They critique my clothing. But thank goodness they’re not above sitting on my lap or asking for a lullaby. They’re still my babies. And they still give me plenty to do and plenty to worry about.

Here on my blog I’m going to write about aging. Me aging. And maybe you. And I’m going to write about “Momming,” too. (I also write about motherhood here.)Hopefully, you’ll see a little of yourself in all of it. ‘Cause I know there’s gonna be a lot of me.

Check in every few days and see what horrors middle age and motherhood have Birthday Cake from The Big Daythrust upon me. And maybe to pick up some tips on how to get through it without (too much) wine.

Hey, if we have to get older, the least we can do is laugh about it.

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