Queen of My Own Castle

Sometimes you hear the most profound statements when you're doing something totally innane. This morning I was in the pet aisle at Walmart picking out a jumbo size container of cat litter (two cat household), when I overheard a petite silver-haired woman thank another lady in the same aisle for getting her one of the containers she couldn't reach. "I was looking for a man," she quipped, "but I couldn't find one." I wanted to walk up to her and say, "Me either, but I survived pretty well without one." Where did that thought come from? Oh, me. The woman with a pair of anti-social cats and a twenty-seven-year-old daughter squeezed into her tiny, two bedroom condo. Emphasis on HER. "Yep, that's right," I wanted to confess to this total stranger, "I have my own home, my own bed, endless nights of chick flicks, and total ownership of the remote control." I also would have gone on to tell her that this year I'm celebrating my twentieth anniversary as a post-marriage, independent woman. Break out the champagne!

Okay, so maybe I wouldn't have really divulged my personal life story to this poor woman just shopping for kitty litter. Especially one who probably never could have imagined life as an unmarried woman. Even if she had wanted to be independent or had the temperment/ desire/financial capcity to do so, she undoubtedly would have found the idea of remaining unmarried for two decades (and presumably many more), to be, well, sad. Catastrophic even. Oh, maybe there were moments she might have fantacized about the possibility, but, as a woman who probably came of age during a world war, the idea of remaining single by choice would have been incomprehensible. I can reasonably guess at this because I grew up with very traditional grandmothers. If either was alive today, I'm betting they would have been praying novenas for me. Please God, send Elaine a decent man, one who isn't too good-looking so he won't have other women chasing after him. My paternal grandmother, especially, might have gone off in a rant of indecipherable Italian, believing that the only role of an unmarried daughter was to take care of her parents or unwed brothers. That's the way things were. Lucky for me, my three brothers are married, and my parents know I can't even keep a houseplant alive.

It's not as if I planned it this way. Few of us do. But after managing parenthood single-handedly and enjoying several longish, monogamous relationships along the way, I finally came to wonder, isn't this just fine where I am? The day I signed the papers on my condo, I made family history, in a way, by being the first woman to own her own piece of real estate. I was breaking new ground. Taking the path less traveled. Being a pioneer. And it felt really, really good. Well, except for the sleepless nights, the anxiety attacks, and an outbreak of hives, but still, all first-time homeowners go through the pain and agony of mortgage approval. With keys in hand, I suddenly felt a sense of pride and power I'd never experienced before. I was queen of the castle. I had equity. It was a sobering feeling: here I was, just two generations away from standing at a kitchen stove all day, up to my elbows in meatballs and rigatoni.

Fast forward to 2009, and women owning their own homes is no big whoop. My mother is one of them. Many of us--especially with grown children--aren't hankering to give up a portion of our hard-earned medicine cabinets or make room in the closet for HIS stuff. We may choose to, but the expectation that there is a huge void in our lives that needs to be filled by a husband is fast becoming as outdated as silicone breast implants. We have choices.

My friend, Marguerite, who's a feisty little Italian like myself, told me one day that she was dating someone after many, many years of self-denial. She had three kids to raise by herself, thanks to a deadbeat dad, and just never had the time. When I asked her if it was serious, she flicked her hand in the air and said, "I don't care. I'm having a good time, and I don't want to get married again."

In her 1998 bestseller, In the Meantime, Iyanla Vanzant would have called Marguerite's arrangement a "meantime" relationship--one you enjoy in the meantime while you're waiting for the right one to show up. That was encouraging news to women back then who feared divorce after 40 condemned them to a sexless, loveless life.

Eleven years later, the meantime has become "me-time." Not selfishly indulgent, but living life without waiting for something to happen. I have another friend, who bears a freakish resemblance to Annie Leibovitz, who is set up financially so she doesn't have to hold a 9 to 5 job. She spends her time traveling to Peru and other lofty places, fulfilling herself creatively as a photographer. There have been men along the way. She'll even confess that she wouldn't mind finding one to share closet-space with. But if he doesn't show up, so what? She has a full and, I'll admit it, enviable life.

Those of us who breathe a little deeper, stretch a little more broadly, in spaces of our own--lives of our own--usually have gone down the road quite a ways. Some of us may have lost our significant others and simply feel they are irreplaceable, and choose to remain unattached. Others may have started out yearning for the "right one" that Vanzant promised would show up one day, but, as one year passed into the next, chose not to put a time limit on their independence because they've found unexpected joy in self determination. For some, it's professional fulfillment, or the ability to pursue an artistic unfolding. Others find their relationship needs met through friendships, children, romantic involvements that can last a day or stretch into years.

Rules? There are none. Each of us is making them up as we go along. What works for me, may not work for you. It may not work for me a year from now. Heck, I might even find myself falling head over heels for an Australian sheep farmer, and decide to pack my bags and book this life. Okay, he has to look like Hugh Jackman. Small detail.

Giving New Meaning to "Middle Age Spread"

Meno Brain: "I Swear It Was Here a Minute Ago"

My Saturday morning started off like this: I'm at the checkout counter of one of the local discount stores, rummaging around my wallet for my debit card. It was early, so there wasn't a line, and only one other person waiting (patiently). No card. So I pulled out everything in the bill portion, which, like any woman, includes an assortment of junk. Out came a JC Penney hair salon punch card, my credit cards, a Pottery Barn Gift Card, my car registration, my library card, an expired appointment card for my dentist, and a couple of reciepts. But no debit card.

At this point, I'm just annoyed because this happens all the time: my card gets stuck in between the checks or is facing backwards and I simply miss it. So I proceeded to do a thorough examination--the kind you expect when you go through airport security these days. I went through every zippered pocket, every pre-formed credit card slot, every extra pocket--twice. No card. Now both the cashier and the guy behind me are starting to get impatient. I apologize. And do the same pat-down with my multi-pocket purse. Still no card.

Now I'm starting to panic. Fear of finding my checking account drained is bringing on a cold sweat. I apologize again and tell the cashier I'll have to come back later. At that moment, all I could think about was the total white out over when, where and why I used my debit card. I got in my car and the first thing I did was check between the seats. Nothing. I looked under the seats. Lots of lint--how do you get a vacuum hose under there anyway?--a couple of pennies, a pen, and a map I'd been looking for for months. But no debit card. I checked the side pockets--both sides--even though the card would have had to leap out of hand into the passenger side pocket to be hiding there, but you never know. I did find my watch which was a pleasant surprise, but given the possibility of a drained bank account, I wasn't whooping it up.

Even worse, my brain was now going into spasms as I tried to retrace my steps from the day before. I bought gas, but was that before work or on the way home? I made a bank deposit--definitely in the morning. Maybe the ATM ate my card or I drove away without it. That would be a good thing because at least my bank would have my card. But, wait. I ran out to the local discount food mart at lunchtime to buy bagged salad. Did I use my debit card or cash? And didn't I stop for something else on the way home? What was it? I couldn't remember. That was the cold, hard thruth. I COULDN'T REMEMBER!

The whole time I'm racing home to check the coat I'd been wearing the day before I'm thinking, dementia is setting in! I can't recall what I did only 12 hours ago. So now I'm panicking because I'm going to be both penniless and brain damaged. Long story short---I found out by going to my online account that the last time I used my card was at a Rite Aid to buy some Sharpies. Good news: no other trasnactions. Bad news: the card wasn't in my coat pocket, and when I drove over to the drug store they told me no card had been turned in. I resorted to dumpster diving to go through the garbage bag I had just thrown out that morning to see if I had inadvertently tossed out the card with the junk mail. No dice. My last desperate act was to call my daughter at work to find out if she had borrowed my card for any reason. In panic situations, you start thinking ludicrous things. Of course, she thought I was nuts. She was like: "Why would I take your card?" Well, because honey, the only other explanation is that your mother is losing her mind!

Needless to say, I headed directly to the bank to have my card cancelled. The young teller behind the counter was very patient and deactivated the card without making me get into an embarassing discussion about why I needed it cancelled. He has no idea how much Prozac he saved me from consuming. Or of the mortification I felt for being so reckless/distracted/ menopausal that I couldn't remember putting my card back in my wallet after using it.

This is what an estrogen-depleted brain does. It forgets. It loses track. It turns perfectly clear memories into white noise. It occured to me later in the day, when I finally was assured that no one was enjoying an unexpected shopping spree on my behalf, that if medical science spent less time trying to invent ways to give eighty year old men erections, and more on finding ways to cure menopausal brain lapses, we'd all be a lot better off. Besides, what difference does it make if your hubby or significant other can be frisky well past his golden years if you forget you even had sex? You want to do it again?!?!? We just had sex fifteen minutes ago! No, honey, it's been two weeks.

Honestly, if they can embed a GPS chip in dogs, why can't they come up with something that a woman can attach to anything she's likely to lose? I know, some of you are thinking why not put one on Mr. "I'm Happy, I Have Viagara." You could buy them by the six-pack at Staples. Make them in fashionable colors, and you're on your way to Trump Towers, my friend.

PS: That's my new alter ago, Evie, on top, who'll have lots more to say on midlife in the future!

Bikini Madness

Okay, we've all seen Valerie Bertinelli's look-what-I've-got-back body, clad in a teeny tiny bikini. All of us who have ever set--and met--a weight goal understand that this is an unpop the cork moment, and when you're over forty, that means the good stuff.

But let's get real here for a minute, can we? VBert started out unhealthfully overweight for her petite 5'4" frame. She was stressing out over (then) hubby Eddie Van Halen's continuing alcohol problem, dealing with the news of his infidelity; and gorging on jalapeno poppers for self-comfort. That she finally wised-up, went on a diet, and shed the excess pounds in a sane way is worth applauding, and we all did. High five's and you-go-girl. I'm not so sure vowing to get down to "bikini size" by her 49th birthday was an admirable goal. For one thing, she admits that she had to dwindle down her daily calories from 1,700 to 1,200. That's what, a handful of pea pods? She also hired a personal trainer to get her into camera-ready shape. So did Janet Jackson. And Oprah. Need I say more?

What was more admirable, I think we can all agree, was Valerie getting control of her life and wanting to be happy. Reaching for self-confidence instead of a bag of frozen cholesterol bombs. I read Bertinelli's bio--in part because I really did want to know what naughty vices this TV good girl supposedly indulged in--and found a woman like so many of us who substitute food for love. Feeding our stomachs instead of our souls. Of course, we celebrated with Val as the years of poor self-esteem and boundup resentment began to fall away and a beautiful, powerful, vivacious woman emerged. The question is: Why didn't she stop there? Why wasn't she good enough?

Maybe we're still hoping to be Bo Derek's 10 to Dudley Moore's fifty-something rut dweller. Maybe we believe that if we can run down the beach--in slow motion--without our boobs slapping against our bellies and our thighs chafing with every step, we'll be perenially nineteen. Maybe that will make us happy. The sad thing is, I understand it completely.

Last year, I suddenly dropped four sizes while continuing to eat boxes of Tasty Kakes and oily pizza for lunch. I slipped my new(ish) svelte figure into skinny size jeans for the first time in 15 years. I was on a thin-high. That was until my doctor told me I had hyperthyroidism and promptly gave me a combination of beta blockers and Tapazole to stop my metabolism from going at light speed, and, potentially, leading me to lifelong dependence on a defribrillator.

Okay, scary stuff. But I whined. I pleaded. I balked at every pound that appeared each month I stepped on the scale. I went into denial every time I squeezed myself into the size 4s and then settled for the size 6s. Every time I go in for my bi-monthly check-up, I try to look pathetic so he'll take pity on me. So far, he hasn't fallen for it. Drat. The point is, I finally had the bikini body I'd lost decades ago, and within a year, I gradually began to lose it. People stopped remarking on how great I looked. My tummy roll was beginning to creep out over the top of my pantyhose waistband again. But my boyfriend, bless his heart, said: I like you better this way. You were getting too skinny. And I thought: who am I trying to impress, anyway, with a Sports Illustrated bikini figure?

If there's anything about Bertinelli's re-ignited fame we should be celebrating it's that, at nearly 50, she proves that it's never too late to reinvent yourself. That we can be stronger, healthier and more resilient. That we can set even ludicrous goals, and achieve them because we want to challenge ourselves and, and at the end of the day, that's all that really matters. I want to be a published author. They never show your picture from the waist down, anyway.

I've become resolved to the fact that I'm unlikely to see 115 again in this lifetime. Personally, I didn't like the knobby little protusions of my shoulder blades poking through my blouses. But I've also completely overhauled my eating patterns, and have come to accept that an "ideal" body is one that allows us to live most joyfully. I hope when Ms. Bertinelli begins to see the little dial on the scale inching up again, she doesn't bemoan the loss, but (eventually) comes to accept that we are many woman during our lifetime. Some of them will look different than the one before, but each of them has dreams to fulfill. We just have to be willing to move on.

Who Designs This Stuff?

Any time I can't come up with something earth-shattering to blog about, or don't have a convenient event occur that sparks a litany of thoughts worthy of sharing, I go shopping. I know. With the economy and all, it's not exactly the PC thing to do just to grease my rusty writer's gears, but I think of it as doing my part to help the American economy.

Also, it never fails to provide me with at least one wow-would-you-look-at-that moment. Like today. I went to Marshall's looking for a new throw for my living room sofa. I needed something light and springy after this interminable northeast winter that started back in October.

While I'm waiting in line at the check-out counter, I spot this display of nylon canvas bags on wheels. This certainly must be a gift unique to women: the ability to immediately zone in on the newest item in a store, no matter how much it's surrounded by sale signs and mini bags of Jelly Bellies. I'm looking at these things, which it turns out are called "shopper bags on wheels," and what caught my attention was how fashionable they were. You had your array of bright colors; a little design motif on the flap. Everything that the well-dressed bag lady could want. And then it hit me: these things are marketed to ME. The woman who has to haul fifty pound plastic grocery bags about 100 feet between my car and the front door of my condo then up two flights of stairs. The woman who no longer has the muscular strength of Xena, Warrior Princess. The woman who would like a little mechanical help in the bag-carrying department, but wants to be stylish as well as practical.

Even though I thought these were pretty nifty contraptions--especially for only $19.99--a tiny part of me seethed. How dare these manufacturer's appeal to my anxiety about loss of muscle tone, higher incidences of hip fractures from falling, and pure feebleness? Then I began thinking about how designers, in general, seem to hit a blank wall when women turn forty and don't pick up the ball again until we're well into our 70s. They just don't know what to do with us! Are we crumbling at the knees, or are we marathon runners? Do we still want to flaunt our sensuality, or are do we fear being labeled "cougars?" Can we handle sexy little thongs, or are we ready for granny panties?

Truthfully, it's a little confusing to us, too. There are days I feel OK raiding my 26-year-old daughter's closet, and there are days I want to look as pulled together as Michelle Obama. I want a high heeled, calf-hugging boot to slog through the winter slush in style, but I also want a super-resilient, ultra-waterproof muckluc that looks like something designed by Big Foot. I want jeans that fit like a glove, but have plenty of lycra to give around my not-so-slim parts.

There are some products out there, however, that deserve a huge round of applause for being tuned-in to middle aged women and their schizophrenic needs at a very twisted-mind time of life. L'Oreal's Root Touch-Up for instance. This is such a ludirously "duh!" product, I can only imagine that it wasn't developed sooner because there are fierce salon lobbyists that fought against the introduction of miniature hair coloring products. My hat's off also to Replens. After two unsuccessful attempts to get a prescription for a low estrogen product that would save my withering vah-jay-jay for under $150--I'm not kidding--I did a little research, and discovered Replens, which is touted as a "bio-adhesive." It's kind of messy, but it works, and only $20 for a tube. Although I've never bought a pair, Spanx certainly tops the list of brilliant, practical, why-didn't-I-think-of-that marvels of design for reining in midlife spread. I can also personally vouch for Estee Lauder's Brush-On Undereye Illuminator. It's not cheap--about $30--but it lasts almost a year, and I've never, ever, ever, found another product that works as well at hiding my queen of the damned undereye circles without getting cakey, crackly, or vanishing altogether. Love it!

How about you? Use a product that you swear by for your over-forty body, face, life?

Chocolate doesn't count. Chocolate, afterall, was invented by God because she knew no man would ever think up a product that made us crave it, lust for it, and be satisified by it more than him.

It's Hip to Be Grey

A friend asked me the other day where I get the ideas for my blog posts. Like most people, they come out of life, but once in awhile, the perfect phrase or scenario drops down like brain manna from the gods. Case in point: Last week I attended a professional seminar on social media, and the young (ish) presenter told us that the user age for Facebook was steadily climbing upwards, into the 35-44 year-olds. He glibbly called this "greyification." Oh boy, I thought, there's a blog topic just waiting to be developed!

The fact that everyone in the room understood what he meant says something about how we Americans almost universally associate "greying" with aging. Which is strange considering the fact that I know men who are completely bald by thirty, and we don't use the word "balding" as a way of referring to states of degeneration, for instance, erectial dysfunction. I mean, you're not likely to hear this conversation in the doctor's office: Man: Gee, doc, I've been experiencing some balding in my bedroom performance lately. Doctor: I hear a lot of that from men your age, George.

Greyification is an interesting word, when you think about it. It can have positive connations, like the Hollywood trend towards featuring more and more women over forty in plum roles. You could also use greyification to describe the uptick in relationships between older women and younger men a la Jennifer Aniston-John Mayer or Demi Moore-Ashton Kutcher. If Americans had more of the European attitude towards older women, we wouldn't be so perplexed over these couplings.

On the downside, greyification could mean the adoption of what we view, none too happily, as "old people" habits. Like reading glasses. Despite years of squinting to read maps and prescription bottles, I finally overcame my own grey resistance and bought a pair at the dollar store. I figured I better, or else I'd be double-dosing on clonazapam and wake up a week later.

And then there's the hair thing. This is one of those areas where stylists must read from the same manual that says, "sexy hair dos are for young women; dowdy hair dos are for post-menopausal women." There was a time I dreaded going into a salon for fear of coming out with bowling ball head. Even though I would come in with loads of pictures from hair styling magazines, I'd inevitably end up with senior hair. Basic blah. So one day I decided to try a different tactic: I said to the stylist, "I want TV hair. I do alot of PR on camera stuff, so I need something, you know, like Vanna White or Katie Couric." That did the trick. I walked out with the cut of my dreams. It took me two hours to duplicate, but what the hell--it erased ten years from my face.

What I find personally vexing is the attitude that over-forty means it's time to let down our hems, throw on a ratty cardigan sweater, and tie our (grey) hair up in tight little spinster buns. If pictures of Ruth Buzzi doing her infamous grumpy old woman bit on Laugh In are coming to your mind, we're on the same page, sister. Who decides these things? Where is Project Runway's Tim Gunn with his elegant lilting voice saying: Sweetie, what are those sacks in your closet? Show off your curves!

I have a lot of personal experience with mature woman wardrobes, having been a creative director at one time for a retail department store client. At least three times a year, we'd have to shoot ensembles by Alfred Dunner, the mainstay of matrons everywhere. Inevitably, we'd be using twenty-something models, and would end up having to tape and clamp the excess material in order to make the clothes look presentable. I came to dread growing older, envisioning myself in calf length skirts, boxy jackets, and oversize, floral bow tie blouses, all in Pepto Bismal pink. Surgical scrubs started to seem like a reasonable alternative.

But that was twenty years ago. Thankfully, fashion is starting to wake up to the fact that women over forty want to show off cleavage, our hard-won slender legs that we've spent decades on treadmills achieving, and our generous--and apparently appealing--plush booties. But we also have to give a round of applause to our brave sisters who dare to stroll the beach in teeny tiny bikinis, cellulite be damned (Donatella Versace), as if you to say: "Yeah, it's old and flabby. I love me, and so do young European men. Deal with it."

Hmmm. Sounds like a slogan that belongs on a bumper sticker or coffee mug. Orders, anyone?

A Naptime Manifesto

I don't know about you, but Sunday is one of those days that calls to me to put down my weary head and catch some zzzzzzz's. Forget the "to do" list. Let the clogged drain go another day. Stop frenetically thinking about my work load.

It's especially started to be less of an urge and more of an inescapeable phenomenon since I passed the half century mark. It's finally starting to hit me that all this bruhaha about fifty being the new thirty was made up by someone with a line of vitamins to sell. My body tells me otherwise. No matter how many really, really important things I have to do--like clean the cat's litter box; take my recyclables out to the garbage--my inner clock tells me it's snooze time.

The fact that the older I get, the more I need some mid-day downtime, came home to me after one of the rare Saturdays I had to work. It was an especially long day that started at 8:30 a.m. when I left the house and ended when I crashed on the sofa at around 3:30. I remember my daughter coming home around that time with a Tim Horton's bag, and the next thing I know, the same daughter was asking me what was in the plate in the refrigerator (left over chicken from my work-related function), and if she could eat it. I said, "Didn't you just come home with food?" And she answered me in that "duh, mom" voice that young people have, "Yeah, that was like four hours ago." Apparently it was nearly 7:00, and I had been conked out all that time.

I bring this up because I don't normally come home and crash for four hours at the end of the day, but by the time the weekend rolls around, all systems seem to want to go into a "pause" mode. I don't think that's an accident. Even God, the diligent designer of the universe, rested on the seventh day. I think there's a good reason for it. I believe the Great Allness was simply pooped and needed a guilt-free, unapologetic excuse to give in to physical, emotional, and spiritual fatique. Take a day off. Nap.

I'm coming to realize that we aren't a culture that allows for embracing our natural life rhythms, and that includes the need to curl up and shut down. Instead of appreciating the benefits of decreased capacity and the inevitable slowing of our functions, we chastise ourselves for sitting around on our doopas (a favorite word uttered frequently by my Lithuanian grandmother), and staring off into space. We associate "not doing" with being slackers, and that's a bad thing. Our little Baby Boomer brains are hardwired to our parents' immigrant work ethics. No slacking allowed.

Except our hard-working parents are now into full-fledged seniorhood and have something valuable to teach us about giving in to our body's inner wisdom. My mother, who's in her 70s, is a perfect example. On Christmas Day, I had the family over to my place. After everyone else went home, I popped in the DVD Wall-E. About midway through the movie, I noticed she had nodded off. She missed most of the movie, which, truthfully, I didn't get at all, but sat through, nonetheless; and when she woke up said, "that was pretty good." It made me think, maybe life is just as enjoyable if you snooze through some of it.

Sunday is a good day to reflect on this coming-of-age aspect of life, I think. We all need to make room for silence, for musing, for "not doing," for naps. If I'm snoring away on the couch, just leave me there. If it's that important, it can wait until I'm fully conscious.