Ageless Body? Yeah, right.

Long ago, I discovered the secret to buying (passably) flattering bathing suits: the worse you look the more you pay. (Hence, the Karla Coletto bazillion dollar(and worth every penny) bathing suit.)  I then learned the secret to feeling young and attractive: hang out with the septaugenarians.  I’ve bemoaned the new fahion-math: in Hollywood, size six is the new size twelve. I’ve questioned the new age-math (not new-age math, mind you, but new age-math) which tries to tell us that 40 is the new thirty, and 80 is the new sixty.  By that logic, I’m actually getting younger every year.

Still, nothing prepared me for my recent beach-side discovery:  post-forty, bodies age exponentially.

Think about it: what was your body like at 20?  Was it so different at 25?  At 30? Probably not. As a matter of fact,  I was actually in better shape at 32 than I was at 22.  At 32 I was working out, jogging, eating right.  At 22 I was living in Paris, smoking, drinking wine, and thought exercise was something I only had to do in America, and only then when some oversized PE teacher was forcing me.

Now think of your body at 38.  Then at forty.  Then at 42. (If you haven’t reached this milestone, don’t read on: you might not want to know what’s next).  Still the same body?  Not so much, huh?

Last year, I noticed that my knees were wrinkling. Knees!! What the hell can you do about that?  This year, my quads have joined in.  Mind you, I weigh less (thank you Weight Watchers) this year than I did last,  and the muscles are still under there: yoga and Nia, and weight training, and even ballroom dancing sees to that.  But my skin doesn’t care.  My skin is aging.  Fast.

So is the rest of me.  Today, I went to Tip Top Shoes to try to find stylish shoes that don’t bother my back or my bunion. There, I said it.  BUNION.  If that doesn’t say “your body is aging” well, what does? (By the way stylkish shoes adn bunion really don’t go together. I don’t care what Mephisto says.)

Then there’s the fact that I can no longer drink alcohol.  I was never much of a drinker.  Maybe a few glasses of wine once or twice a month.  But now?  ONE glass, and I’m out of commission for three days. Jeez.

It isn’t that I don’t want to get older (well, I don’t, but that’s not the point) The point is, why is it happening so fast?  I pretty much looked the same from the time I was 20 until I was thirty.  There were little changes – maybe my skin wasn’t quite as vibrant – but overall, the changes were just a difference – not a decline.

So all this leads me to one thing:  should I change the name of my blog?  Let’s face it, agelessbodytimelessmom.com is quite a mouthful, quite a thing to type in, and awfully hard to remember, from what I gather. (Does no one get the Deepak Chopra reference?  Anyone? Anyone?)

I have been working on a manuscript for a while now, it’s called: From Hip to Housewife in Two Kids Flat.  So I’m asking here — should I change my website’s name to FromHiptoHousewife.com?  FromHip2Housewife.com?  Or just keep it as is.  Because, let’s face it, despite my best attempts, I’m not exactly ageless here.  

Votes welcome.  Vote, please, and fast.  I’m not getting any younger.

NYC Moms Blog Post: My Daughter Thinks She’s Fat and It’s all my Fault

Swimsuit season is upon us.  And with it the onslaught of diet ads on tv, magazines with pics of celebs caught having actual cellulite, and me, bemoaning my post-partum, post-forty, past passing for anything but middle-aged body.

Though I am, if I am completely, intellectually honest, neither truly fat, or particularly unattractive, I have made a life (and something of a writing career) of comically dissecting my physical flaws.  I’m the self-appointed Queen of Bad Body Image, chronicling on line and in print my twenty year quest to lose the same ten pounds.  I’ve joked about the fact that my belly button seems to be frowning, that the only men who find me attractive are septuagenarians, that I’ve chosen to paint my daughter’s room the same lavender color as my newly acquired varicose veins.

Ha Ha.  Nudge nudge.  Wink Wink. Very funny.  Until this morning, when my daughter refused to eat breakfast because, she told me through her tears, the boys in her class had told her she was fat.

Want to read the rest of this post?  Click here to go to NYC Moms Blog. (and while you’re there, leave a comment, wouldja?)

Put some clothes on!!!

This week, summer prematurely came to New York and with it, came a few discoveries. 

1. People on the East Side spend a lot of time on their knees, while people on the West Side spend a lot of time on their food.  How else to explain the plethora of tulips, hyacinths, and daffodils sprouting from every tree-trunk garden  from East 69th Street to East 91st Street, and the presence of Zabars, Citarella, H&H, Barney Greengrass and Fairway in roughly the same area on the West Side of town?

2. When your children scooter to school, it is unwise to wear your brand new bright yellow beaded Rafe flats.  You will get blisters.  You will bleed.  The yellow will turn orange.  And not in a good way.You don’t want orange shoes.

3. Whichever Ice Cream your child wants from the Ice Cream vendor whether it’s neon green shots, disgusting Sponge Bob ice with gumball eyes, or even the basic Ice Cream sandwich — said vendor will be out of it.

4. I am old.

No,  this isn’t about my upcoming birthday (Sunday – feel free to leave birthday greetings right here in the comment section.  No.  Really. Do.)  This isn’t about saggy knees, or brown spots, or elbows that look as if they’ve been crumpled up in the back of a drawer for a few decades.  No, I know I am old because I am consistently horrified by what “young girls” are wearing.

Yes, it seems I have jumped right from young mom in trendy threads, to disapproving Grandma in hip-high underwear without stopping at middle-aged woman still trying to be relevant.

But seriously.

Is there some rule that if you are female and possessing of a bustline you must display it so prominently that one might think your are at a State Fair, vying for the blue ribbon in Breast Augmentation?

Longboat Key: The Secret to Staying (relatively) Young

The kids love the calm water

If you’re from the Northeast -and maybe even if you’re not – going to Florida means one of two things: going to the ultra-hip, cool, and trendy South Beach, or going to see your Grandparents.

Of course Grandparents-in-Florida means a lot of things:

• - polyester pants -
• canasta by the pool -
• early bird specials -
• really really bad driving
• women sneaking rolls into their purses at the diner
• constant discussions over the price of a can of Tuna Fish
• constant monitoring of every single piece of food you put in your mouth because your grandmother is obsessed with being thin and you’re not. Thin, that is.

Oh, wait. Was that last one just me?

Self Deprecation Update!

I know what some of you have been thinking: “Wait! She can write about something other than herself?!?!?  Where’s the humor?  Whence the jokes? Wherefore all the political stuff?”

Fear not.  I’m back.  I mean, why should I worry about right-wing, tale-telling, potential leaders of the free world when I can obsess over my age spots?  Priorities people.  Priorities.

I’ve been writing for months now about the beginning of the end for my body. In the past few weeks, things have gotten worse.  And today — well, I can’t even talk about it. (and yet, you know I will.)

Here’s what’s been going on:

First, I have started needing longer arms.  You know, so I can read all that teeny weeny print on everything.  I call it “trombone-arm” because that’s how I have to move it to be able to see anything.  Can I read the newspaper at a high C? Nope.  Middle C? B flat? G? And down the scale until I might as well be playing the tuba, I’m so low.  I know what’s next, the indisputable sign that one is over the hill: reading glasses.  Just give me a wattle, a polyester pant-suit, and a funny hat for luck and I’ll meet you at the bingo hall.

Wii Are not a very Good Athlete

I

Although I have been opposed to video games for years, I now own a Wii.

I own this Wii because some publicist obviously mistook me for someone with a wide audience and sent me one. He also sent me a Wii Fit. (Which I blogged about Here)

The Wii Fit is an amazing toy/exercise tool. It weighs you, calculates your body mass index, and then tests your reflexes and balance to determine your Wii Fit age, which it then uses to select exercises for you.

Well.

According to the Wii Fit, I am 48 years old. According to the Wii Fit, I am on the cusp of 50, I am headed for menopause, about to get some serious crows feet, about to droop so badly that my current body will seem taut in comparison.

According to the Wii Fit, my body is five years older than I am.

I’ll Never be an Olympian

The Olympics start today. Actually, they’ve started already. (Just not on primetime, so not at all. If the Opening Ceremonies happen, and the networks don’t put it on TV, did they really occur?)

Something about seeing all those young people from all over the world — well, dorky as it sounds – it always gives me a thrill. It’s their skill, their talent, their promise. Olympic athlete. It’s like a synonym for there’s nothing you can’t do.

Of course I was never much of an athlete, so I never aspired to the Olympics, but these games have made me think about all of the promise I had, and all of the things I didn’t do.

So here’s a list: the failures, the flops, the missed opportunities: my life in a nutshell. Only this time, I’m going to find the silver lining in the muck of it all.

1. I’ve been trying to lose the same 10 pounds for the past 20 years.

Silver Lining version (SLV): I haven’t gained any weight for the past 20 years! It may not all be where it once was (didn’t my butt used to start up HERE?) but there’s not any more of it, either.

2. I’ve been saying I’m going to write forever. Book? Where’s the book?

(SLV) I have a blog! I write for another blog!! I’ve been in two anthologies (click and buy, click and buy!) A literary agent wants to see my book. Oh wait, book? where’s the book?

3. I always thought I could do something with my singing.

(SLV) I sing for my kids every night. Good enough for me.

4. I thought I’d be in show biz. See any shows? Do I have any biz?

(SLV) I did write for TV for eighteen years. The armpit of TV, but TV nonetheless. I’ll count that.

5. I never did work out super hard and get into great shape.

(SLV) I never injured myself over-exercising.

6. There’s that Koulibiac of Salmon I never made. That sewing machine I never learned how to lose. The young adult novel that’s been half-finished in my drawer for 15 years.

SLV: There’s still time for it all.

yes, it’s me, being hopeful. So maybe I won’t be an Olympian — I can still have the promise — and keep the promise, too: I will do some of these things. Maybe even the ten pounds.

Middle Ages

“Mommy! You’re Middle Aged!” screamed my daughter for no apparent reason.

There I was, enjoying a perfectly fine day when suddenly: “mommy…..you’re MIDDLE AGED.” WTF?

Turns out, my daughter, bless her firm little buttocks, was simply reading from a Leap Frog book about the Human Body.  And according to the Frog, I am middle aged.  Well of course I am, but do people need to be telling my child this?  Now, she’s doing the math to figure out how old I’ll be when I die.  

If I’m middle aged at 43, and 43+43=86, well, then, I’ll be dead at 86, she reasoned. And by that time she’d be….well, that math was a little hard for her, but she came up with it: 51.  

“Fifty-one!!!”  She cried. “But that’s so young!  You’re going to die when I’m only 51?”  Amazing, isn’t it, that at 43, I’ middle aged, but at 51, she’s too young to lose a parent. 

To reassure her, I told her that  I think the equation goes more like this:

43 +( twins – baby nurse) + (marriage /housework) x  breastfeeding two babies

-1 bunion + 1 aerobics class x  2 year over-priced gym membership + no carbs (well almost no carbs) = 97.  

Yup, I’m going to live until I’m 97.  Yipee.

Hey, if 40 is the new thirty, and 80 is the new sixty, I’ll actually be getting younger every year.  Gotta love new math.

And gotta remember to get rid of that Leap Pad.

French Woods/Facebook Finds

Humiliating though it may be, I’ve only just discovered the joys of procrastinating with Facebook. Oh, I know all about procrastinating with Stumble Upon, or Snood, or obsessively checking my email. But this Facebook thing – well, it’s brough time-wasting to a whole new level. Plus, it’s made me realize that everybody I’ve ever known knows somebody I know. Really. Six degrees of eat-no-bacon! Jewish geography hits the internet!

I have found SO MANY people that I haven’t seen, thought of, or heard about in DECADES.

And now that I’ve found them…..well, I’m not quite sure what to do.

There is definitely a SERIOUSLY HUGE OMG factor.  Especially the camp people.  I discovered that there is a Facebook group for French Woods Festival of the Performing Arts Alums from the 1970’s.  Whoa.  Yes, it’s been THAT long.  And yet there are quite a few of us still waxing poetic about our camp days. What does that say about us?  That we’re the theatrical equivalent of HS Jocks who can’t let go of the big game?  ”Remember back in ‘76 when I played Mary Poppins?  The crowd wasn’t expecting such a performance, but I had them from the get-go!”  You can almost see the scotch in my hand and smell the cheap perfume in the air.

Or maybe it’s just plain old nostalgia.  For me, it has been, all joking aside, kind of thrilling to hear from people I haven’t seen for more than 25 years.  People with whom I spent every summer bonding with as we put on show after show.  Camp was the only place I was in the “popular crowd,” and man, did it feel good.  If we’d been allowed to pick a lunch table, I would have been with the big shots.  Being able to sing was like being on the cheerleading squad: instant cred.

But I’m kind of worried — what if we can’t get past “how’ve you been for all these years I never once thought of you or you of me?”  What if the OMG factor is all there is?  Will it spoil those memories if I meet these people today and the magic is gone? 

I don’t know — but I think I’m gonna have to find out.  The “Middle Aged French Woods Reunion Party,” or the “If you’re old enough to have worn tube tops Party”  or maybe just the “Damn it was Fun back Then” party. 

Yeah, I’d go to that.

Back Attack

Last Fall I had the most excruciating experience ever: a herniated disk.

You might wonder where I plan on finding the humor in that. What might I find funny about being in so much pain that I would given my left…well, I’m a lefty, so maybe my right arm to make it stop? What laughs could I possibly get out of being a 42 year old woman with the aches and pains of a 90 year-old, out of shape, overweight, former hormone taking power lifter?

Well, I can’t find anything amusing about it. Not funny. There’s nothing like back pain to make you feel old. I went for a run (ok a jog. ok a plod) on Saturday, and now, I’m feeling about 192. My lower back has been invaded by pain-inducing aliens who are screaming “You’re too old to go jogging! You’re too old to go jogging! Have you seen your thighs? Give it up already!”

The worse thing is, nothing seems to help. I’ve tried acupuncture. I’d rather stick needles in my….oh, wait, that’s what they did and IT DID NOTHING. (In fairness to my practitioner, she did say before we began that she had her doubts.) I went to a chiropractor who wrapped me in ice packs while he administered tiny electric shocks. All I needed was Nurse Ratchett to complete the scene. I tried prescription strength pain killers. All they did was make me loopy AND in pain. I tried massage. (Nothing says relaxation like a Korean woman barking orders at you IN KOREAN while you are naked and in pain.) I tried ice and heat. Heat and ice. Hot showers, jacuzzis. Sitting for long periods. Walking through the pain. Ignoring the pain a la James Sarno. (it is NOT all in my head. It’s in my BACK)

The only thing that worked was three epidurals of steroids and lidacaine. Relief.

I don’t really want to do that again any time soon. Something tells me that making a habit of shooting up even mild doses of that stuff with any regularity might not be the best idea.

So I’m doing restorative yoga. Not the “look at how strong I am/how flexible I am/what an overachiever I am even when I’m engaged in a totally non-competitive physical activity” yoga so popular among the skeletal chic crowd. But Iyengar Yoga. All about form, all about breath, all about such teeny tiny details that we sometimes spend fifteen minutes on mountain pose. You know what mountain pose is? Standing up.

Oddly enough, it seems to help.

Hey, whatever it takes.