The first thought that pops into my head after naming my blog is the actual accuracy, or perhaps inaccuracy, of the title. I mean, afterall, has anyone ever actually defined what constitutes middle age? When 60 year olds proclaim they are "middle aged", I immediately think to myself, "Since when is the average life expectancy 120 years?" So I will qualify my self-described middle age status by stating I am clinging to the middle third of my life (assuming the average life expectancy of a woman is about 76) by the very skin of my teeth. But I haven't yet come up with an apt term for what I will think of as the last third of my life. Anything I've come up with thus far seems morose and like I'm counting down to doomsday. I just don't want to be ridiculous and claim I'm middle aged while enjoying my senior citizen discount at the nearest Country Cookin' restaurant.
To actually think I may have something meaningful or insightful to impart is, in itself, kind of humorous to me because I'm not sure that I actually do. But I do like to hear myself talk. Since no one else seems to find listening to me as infinitely capitivating as I do, and since my trying to do so without any actual listeners might land me in the nearest emergency room experiencing an injection of an anti-psychotic, I thought this might be a "safe" way for me to ramble on without repercussions.
At this stage in my life when my face is going to hell in a handbasket, and my ass is on an equally steep decline, I must try to appreciate what I do have going for me-my brain. That is not to say it is an especially fine brain because I am by no means a genius, cannot even manage the "easy" sudoku challenges, and must use a pencil with a large eraser to attempt the local newpaper's daily crossword puzzle. But I think about a lot of stuff. Add to that, I'm incredibly irreverant and my poor husband and kids are usually the butt of most of (what I think are) my jokes. Besides which, I've put on a few pounds, so if I blog instead of poking at my family or in my fridge, maybe I'll be a better person with a nicer ass.
Speaking of my looks and whether or not they are fixing to exit stage left, I made the mistake of letting my daughter record me trying to take out my contacts the other day. She thought it would be educational since I am new to this process and was unable to see what I was doing wrong when I would try to remove my lenses. DO NOT let anyone talk you into recording yourself unless you do the following first:
Be sure the computer, camera, or recording device is situated slightly ABOVE you. This will force you to raise your chin just slightly thereby eliminating the beginnings of a waddle or a double chin. Furthermore, this slight incline will allow gravity to work FOR you rather than AGAINST you by slightly pulling the droopy-ish skin away from your face, much in the same manner that a facelift would, but without the pain or exhorbitant cost. Not that any of us can manage walking around like this all day, but at least when your face is recorded for posterity, future viewers won't immediately ask, "Which grandma is that?"
And the older I get, the more rules there are to follow about how to dress. I have to dress to camouflage my changing figure, to accomodate my age so I don't look absurd, and to be certain I am comfortable. The older I get, the less I can tolerate discomfort. I am like a todller in this regard. I'll change my socks repeatedly if the seam will not line up across my toes and bunches up at my pinky toe. Panty hose? Please....by the time I find a pair of control tops that don't pinch my girl parts, that also have the reinforced toe so they won't run and snag easily, but not so reinforced that they look like therapeutic varicose vein stockings and are in a size that will accomodate my plump butt AND my shortness, I am sweating and exhausted and that's just from straining to read the diagram on the back of the package because I left my reading glasses at home and I still haven't figured out how to put my contacts in or take them out.
Sigh....and this is just the beginning. For instance, what if I want to wear cami-style tops with the built in shelf bra in lieu of a bra and shirt? Stacy London says I can't because it's not appropriate for my age. Spoken like a woman with long legs, a tiny butt, and plenty of money. So there's this never ending battle between my physical comfort which is of paramount importance, and my need to feel like people don't think I'm an idiot which tends to guide nearly every other decision in my life. When my physical comfort is juxtaposed against my need for approval, and the two are in conflict, I am in crisis. I usually opt for which ever torture will be the shortest lived. I am perfectly fine with looking like I'm trying too hard by putting on my camisole tops at home or with people I know really well and whose opinion I either don't give a crap about or whose opinion is important because of their total acceptance of me even when I look like I'm trying (and failing) to look like Pamela Anderson from the neck to the waist.
However, if I am going to be in the company of people I know slightly, I will willingly experience a certain level of physical discomfort, for the short term, just so that the pharmacist at Wal-Mart won't think I'm a complete buffoon, or that I shop for apparel in the Miley Cirus section of his fine establishment. Really, I shouldn't care what people think, but that has been my albatross, or for you catholics, my cross to bear, my entire life. But without it, how would I make decisions? Where would I go; what would I do? My need for acceptance is my North Star, if you will. What a crappy constellation to have!
But back to the comfort vs. caring what people think about how I look debate. This is why I can't wear spanx. I will be forever thinking about how this specific section of my anatomy, or that one, is feeling....well... pinched. YES, I know that's the whole idea, to pinch one enough to look ten pounds lighter but I just can't do it anymore. It's socially acceptable enough for a person my age to look like they could lose a few pounds, so I forgo the spanx. However, should that change, perhaps I can look forward to becoming bulimic because I am NOT going to stop having the foods I like to have every so often and I will NEVER give up my crisp little pinot grigio in my favorite stemware with my cute little jewel denoting it's MY glass of wine. It tastes good, makes me feel fabulous and....well...I got nothin' else, just that I am willing to trade in a bikini at my age for something that actually gives back. I mean seriously, other than maybe an occasional appreciative glance, what does a bikini give a woman? Now, compare that with the positive feedback one gets from a nice glass of wine: the pleasure of taste, the feeling of pampering oneself and possibly a slight little buzz to boot. Please, it's like comparing a paint-by-number with a Picasso.
On that note, I think I'll put this debate to rest for the day and go have a glass. Cheers!
