Forty and Fabulous?

Is forty “middle age?”
A few weeks ago, while flipping channels, I heard a newscaster refer to someone as “middle aged.” The woman, pretty with high cheekbones and perfectly plucked eyebrows seemed familiar. Although she wasn’t someone I officially knew, what made her recognizable were the tell-tale symptoms of “forty-hood.”
Faint laugh lines at the corner of her upturned lips, Crows feet, probably caused from un-protected eyewear, and slight sagging near her jowls.
Betrayed by age.
Still, amidst the signs of onset adulthood, the woman was stunning, even glamorous.
I watched her from a distance and wondered, am I middle aged?
I ran to the bathroom, pulled out the drawer of lotions, tonics and creams guaranteeing beauty if properly applied. I lifted my chin and glanced in the mirror. Same laugh lines, same crows feet, same sagging jowls.
I’m growing old.
Something inside me turned soft and small. The scent of jasmine wafted from a bottle of “Eternal Youth.” I slammed the drawer and reached for my compact. There. Above my right eye. Gray eyebrow.
Poof.
I’m old.
I left the house, foregoing the sunscreen. Donning a hat and dark sunglasses, I headed for the gym. A slew of fellow do-gooders were mounted on the ellipticals. No worries, I myself prefer the treadmill. I set the timer for sixty minutes and increased my pace from stroll to brisk walk. Start slow. My breathing increases. Winded already? My mind starts to wander.
In my twenties I was pretty. Creamy complexion, lustrous locks, tight abdomen.
I glance at the timer. Fifty-six minutes to go. I bump up the speed.
When I turned thirty, the first signs of gray appeared. Having bore my first child, my pancake-flat belly rounded and swelled. Sagging skin folds, stretch marks and cellulite appeared in places I didn’t know existed. No longer were the days of random eating without calorie counting. It took longer to burn and I was sleep-deprived and nursing an infant. I pierced my navel to hold onto some semblance of youth.
Was I growing older?
Years passed. Thirties blurred by, faster than a sale at Nordstrom’s. Second child. Body hasn’t sprung back as quickly as I’d hoped. Breasts are sagging from two years of nursing, spider veins speckle my thighs, dark shadows a constant reminder. I’m tired, constantly hungry and sexually un-aroused.
What’s happening to me?
Forty comes and as the saying goes, it’s fabulous. My breasts are perky, thanks to a little plastic surgery, my thighs are toned, thanks to hours on the treadmill and my hair regained its brilliant shine, thanks to a very talented colorist.
I’m fabulous. With a little help.
Kids are bigger and I’m no longer sleep-deprived. I have a wonderful career, I’m a stay-at-home-mom and have a house in a desirable neighborhood.
How much more fabulous can it get?
Forty-one and my eye color is fading. Each year, new wrinkles appear and cellulite is growing faster than mold on cheese. I increase my workouts and cut back on the cupcakes. Hey, it’s not my fault. Seems like every weekend there’s a birthday party to attend.
Forty-two. I’m tired. If I drink a glass of wine, I awake the next day feeling like leftover rubbish. My belly fat is a permanent fixture and I’ve added my colorist’s number to speed-dial. Trips to the dermatologist (who gets acne in their forties?) appointments for mammograms, colonoscopies and skin peels. My shopping cart is laden with lotions and creams with un-pronounceable ingredients.
My bank account is depleting.
My colorist drives a Mercedes.
So, here I am, approaching forty-three. It’s two weeks before my birthday and I’m standing in line at the grocery checkout. I ventured out today with minimally applied makeup. A daring feat in a town of beautiful ones.
Faces in magazines stare back on the shelves. Roberts, Berry, Aniston, Pfeiffer and Cox. Wait. These women are not only fabulous, they’re over forty and downright fantastic. I inch closer and pull out my readers for a better look. Although some of the women appear to be airbrushed, I know in my heart, if we stripped away their makeup and put them in the middle of a PTA meeting , these women just might resemble someone like…me.
My lips stretch into a wide smile. I feel at peace. Twenty something’s are vibrant and youthful, but let’s face it, when I was twenty, I smoked, had bad credit and never dreamed of donning a pair of running shoes.
Six months ago, I completed my first half-marathon. Next year I hope to run a full.
Outside, I shield my eyes from the sun and shuffle towards my hybrid SUV. In my twenties, I drove a sports car. It was red, guzzled gas and went way too fast for someone without patience.
I slip inside my vehicle, blast the air conditioning and pray it’s the humidity, not hot flashes, that make me drip with perspiration. I rev the engine, just for fun, check the rearview mirror and slowly back out. A group of teenage girls pass by my window. Their cut-off jean shorts reveal far too much thigh.
I let out an audible sigh and head for home.
Youth, is wasted on the young.
　

Pinworms, Publishers and Bullies

Pinworms, Publishers and Bullies

I returned home last Sunday from an annual conference. Once a year I allow myself the luxury of putting on my “work hat,“ and playing grown up amongst fellow writers.
When I returned home, my family greeted me with the usual enthusiasm and pummeled me with anecdotes of their weekend adventures. My children recounted, with relish, stories of: staying up too late, eating gobs and gobs of junk food and other tales of falling outside the realm of healthy living. There were play-dates with children I normally consider off-limits and video games shunned from my video library. Although I am grateful for my husband’s “babysitting,” currently I am washing vegetables with anticipation of returning back to a state of food guidance adherence.
Monday, my normally joyful ten-year-old came home from school with tears in her eyes.
“What’s wrong?” I asked her, as she plopped into my backseat, her face darker than the exhaust cloud trailing from her school bus.
“Can’t talk now,” she replied, crooking a finger towards her brother and his buddy.
I nodded understanding. Later. She’ll talk later.
An hour later, when the after school homework/snack dust had settled, I spoke with her in private. The problem, it seems, was a bully in school.
Last year, a friend of my daughters had suddenly become her worst enemy. The child, a friend and former classmate had suddenly turned a cold shoulder towards my daughter. There were incidents of bad-mouthing, an incident where she intentionally invited the entire class to her birthday party (with the exception of my daughter,) and continued ill will. She made it through the year, emotionally unscathed, but still hurt and confused by the child’s behavior.
Flash forward.
This year, my daughter has a new friend. She’s sweet and soft-spoken and kind to everyone. At recess, she likes to play with my daughter. And then the other girl and a pack of her friends arrive and the dynamic changes and my daughter feels left out.
The new friend is having a sleepover birthday party, my daughter informs me.
“That’s great,” I say in my optimistic mommy tone.
“No. It’s not. She’s worried about inviting me.”
Apparently, the girl with the problem and her clique of friends are pressuring my daughter’s friend not to invite her.
My daughter’s face is crestfallen. Sudenly, we are reliving the tragedy of last year. Worry knots her eyebrows and her stomach is upset. Later that evening, she’s groaning with stomach trouble. Even later we discover the cause of her discomfort:
Pinworms.
She lies in bed, unable to sleep. She’s scared and lonely and confused and I cannot console her.
What did I do wrong? The look on her face implies.
Nothing. Not a thing.
She’s sweet and kind and shouldn’t be worrying about these things.
But this is life. Sometimes people make others feel bad. For who they are. For what they wear. For what they believe. For…whatever.
In light of recent suicides, I worry about my child. In my day, I wasn’t exposed to bullying or cruel friendships. I grew up in the city and having not had a mother in my life, my friends seemed to protect me. They were kind, empathetic, caring. I naturally assumed, my daughter would have these kinds of friends too.
But sometimes I’m wrong.
I am sitting here, trying to finish the edits of my book when the phone rings.
It’s the school.
My daughter is sick and needs to be picked up. Maybe it’s the pinworms. Maybe it’s nerves. Either way, I go to her.
She needs me and I have to stop working.
I hit the send button. No editing. There are many mistakes in this e-mail.
Why have I sent it to you?
Because you know her.
Because you are a parent.
Because you are a teacher.
Because you have children of your own.
Because your child might be the one.