The Day I Forgot My Mascara

I'm in no way what you'd call "high-maintenance", but I don't think there's been a day in over 40 years that I haven't worn mascara.

Until yesterday.

Every day of my life, unless I'm deathly ill, I put on at least a little bit of makeup. I guess I feel I owe my husband that much. (I'm not easy to live with.)

I had errands to run yesterday, and on the days I'm forced to leave the house I usually put a little extra effort into my appearance. I can't do much to make life on this earth more beautiful, but I can try not to frighten small children. (A little lot of makeup can cover a multitude of problems.) I thought I'd applied everything I needed--spackle, paint, and the like--but somehow I forgot mascara.

I swear I checked my appearance in the mirror before I left the house. At some point before the day was over, I'm sure I took another quick glance. And last thing before going to bed, I spent a ridiculous amount of time in front of the mirror removing my makeup so I could apply my magic potions that do all the heavy lifting while I sleep.

I never noticed something was amiss.

At around 4 a.m. I awoke with a headache...and an odd panicked thought. "Did I ever apply my mascara today???" (The mind is a very strange thing.)

So what exactly is going on in my post-menopausal brain??? Have the nearly 40 years I've been raising children taken a dangerous toll on my memory??? Is life on Planet Earth simply getting to be too much for me??? Am I losing my mind completely???

I might never know what happened yesterday, or why I had a 4 a.m. "awakening". But if I start to forget too many steps in my beauty routine, it could get real ugly real fast. It's hard enough to be called "Ma'am"; my fragile ego could never handle being called "Sir".

Time Marches On...Dreams Stay Behind

I can't believe it took me this long to figure it out.

I see other women my age (post-menopausal) who seem to accept who they are...more or less. Yes, they might try to "turn back the hands of time", but they seem to know who--and how old--they are. On the other hand, I've been struggling for years to reconcile the old woman I encounter in the mirror with the 45 year old lady I expect to see.

And now I know why.

Before I reached my 30th birthday, I thought I had my life-plan in place. My youngest child would finish college while I was still in my mid-forties, and there would most likely be many good, healthy years ahead for my husband and me to enjoy life as a couple. But before that day came we found ourselves with one grandchild to care for...and then another. And shortly thereafter it became necessary for us to become their legal guardians. Eventually it became apparent that this was no longer a temporary arrangement and we would remain parents until these two precious children were grown.

Groan. 

I love my grand/daughters dearly, I truly do, and for their sake I was happy to spend the past 18 years caring for them. But now I'm old, tired, and falling apart. And last week, just a few months after I allowed myself to once again entertain ideas of a carefree future, my dreams were...once again...shattered.

I thought we had the oldest grand/daughter on her way to adulthood. She seemed to have a plan and we thought she was on her way to achieving her goals, but then she dropped the bombshell that she wanted a do-over. Not only did she drop out of college (after we had paid for the entire year), but now she wanted to take a year off to figure things out.

When, oh when, will it be my turn? I have it figured out...if only everybody else would do what they're supposed to be doing!

And it isn't just the death of my dreams that has me upset. The stress of endlessly raising children--and not always agreeing on the best way to do that--is taking a toll on my marriage. My husband and I celebrated our anniversary yesterday, but by today there wasn't much to celebrate. I still love him and I think he still loves me, but I don't know how many more stress-fueled arguments we can endure while trying to deal with the seemingly-endless task of raising children into responsible adults.

Anyway, back to the old lady in the mirror. The much-younger lady inside put her life on hold at 45, and subconsciously must have expected to come back eventually and find things just the way she had left them.  But it doesn't work that way. My life stopped...but the clock didn't. And I'm not especially happy about it all. Not because I can't handle a little adversity or hard work, but because I have a difficult time dealing with the impact on my life from the immature, irresponsible, selfish choices of others.

Today was excruciatingly difficult. Tomorrow is looking like it might be worse. But I'll try to start fresh anyway, and pray that if it can't be better I'll at least make it through. God has brought me this far, and I have faith He'll carry me on from here. He might have to. I'm not getting any younger.

Just trying to finish the race.

Making a List and Checking it Twice

No, I'm not Santa. Sure, my hair is turning white and I am getting a little thick in the middle.  Not to mention I've noticed some new growth on my chin...the beginning of a beard perhaps?  But no, this list has nothing to do with good little boys and girls.  It's all about shopping.

I saw an ad this morning for a department store.  On Tuesdays they offer a senior citizen discount for customers 55 and older.  In case you missed my previous post on the subject, I was given the senior discount recently.  It still hurts.  So starting today, I'm keeping a list of every store that mentions a senior discount and the day that discount is available.  And on those days I'll shop somewhere else.

Time for a Change

For the sake of all things holy, I've decided it's time for a haircut.  I have been desperately clinging to a few long, thin, scraggly strands in hopes of fooling someone, anyone, into believing I'm under 50.  Obviously it hasn't been working.  And if it had, isn't that false advertising?  Some poor chap, just walking along minding his own business, sees this "hot young thing" walking in front of him, struggles to catch up and then turns nonchalantly to see the goddess he just passed, and -- HORROR! -- not only isn't she a goddess, she's a senior citizen!  The tease is over.  Yes, I'm old.  And so not hot.

And on that note, I was doing my weekly walk-through at Costco, granddaughter in tow, when I see this man giving me a look.  At first I thought maybe he was trying to figure out how someone as old and frail as me could be walking unassisted, but then he looked up, actually tried to make eye contact, and smiled.  Not the standard, "Whoops, I've been caught staring at the old lady with inappropriately long hair" smile, but an actual flirty sort of smile.  As I later told my husband (heck, yeah I'm telling him if some dude looks twice at me!), at first I thought maybe he was just being nice.  But based on my (much earlier) life experiences, this guy was staring to the point it was almost creepy.  To a normal person.  I'm not normal.  I'm menopausal.  And I liked it.

Two Chances to Save My Money

I need to go to the grocery store.  I got an email today and they have a great deal on party trays.  Sure sounds like a good idea for New Year's Eve, but I'm just not ready to return to the scene of the crime.  Guess I'll cut up some leftover ham and turkey, throw it on a plate and call it a year.

Which brings me to mention a commercial I saw today for a new age-defying skin cream.  This one promises to take off not the standard ten, but fifteen years.  Assuming it worked and the fifteen years came off my chronological age (making me look 37), I might buy it.  But I'm sure the promise is to take fifteen years off the age I look (which, as we learned yesterday, is over 60).  Yes, for $99 a bottle, this 52-year-old woman could like like a woman in her late 40s.  Woo hoo.

Save Your Money

I won't be wasting my money on expensive facial creams and serums any more.  If anything, I'll start a savings account with what I would normally spend on them.  Some day (God willing, very soon), I'll have enough for what I obviously really need--a full-blown facelift.

I got the senior citizen discount today.  I didn't ask for it.  I didn't want it.  It was only 5%.  All that humiliation and I saved a whopping $2.88 at the grocery store. 

I wanted to believe that maybe this particular store gives the discount to anyone over 50.  I'd like to think I don't look over 50.  Well, I've been proven wrong.

According to this store's website, today I benefitted from their "Club 60" senior discount.  Not only do I look over 50, I look over 60.  Dammit, I just turned 52.

Ugly Pictures

You didn't really think I would show them, did you?

I wanted a new profile picture since I've finally managed to lose the weight I'd found over the past few years.  As we were leaving for dinner out last night, and while I was actually wearing makeup and had clean hair, I asked the girls to grab the camera and take a few photos of me (I knew it would take several tries to even hope for a good shot).

There wasn't a decent photo in the bunch.  I've always been unphotogenic.  Always.  (Well, except the one baby picture I could find.  That was cute. Or so I thought.) 



Am I wrong?  I sure thought I was cute.



But then it hit me--could Mama have been wrong?  Or worse, did she lie to me???  Maybe the hard, cold fact is I'M JUST NOT ATTRACTIVE.  All the makeup and good lighting in the world can't change that. 

Is that why there aren't more pictures of me as a child?  Maybe Mama and Daddy didn't want photographic evidence that one of their kids was ugly.  They must have clung to that one good photo like grim death.

Oh, and just how thin do I need to get before I no longer look chubby in pictures?





This is the only glimpse you're getting



What a Difference a Day Makes

I woke up this morning, and just like magic I was happy.  I'm rarely happy.  I'm even looking forward to my upcoming Disney trip, not just because I love Disneyworld, but because I want to spend time with the kids.  Yes, you read that correctly.  I know, I'm shocked, too.

I love my granddaughters with every fiber of my being.  But as anyone who might read my blog knows (all three of you), I'm old, tired and can't deal with kids very well these days.  I focus too much on what I thought my life would be like at this age (yes, that's the only time I seem capable of focusing on anything--adult ADD perhaps?)  And then there's MENOPAUSE.  My brain has been scrambled like an egg, then fried.  (I'm thinking I should do a new Public Service Announcement along the lines of the old "This is your brain, this is your brain on drugs..." Only mine will show your brain on MENOPAUSE--scary, huh?)

Yesterday was my birthday.  For the past several days I've been having a meltdown.  I honestly didn't think it had anything to do with tacking another year onto the 50+.  But maybe I was wrong, and I was dreading a bigger number after all. And now that another birthday has come and gone, I seem to be in a much better frame of mind.  I woke up today and life is good.  Who knows, maybe life is good because I woke up today. 

I knew there would be a point that I would accept that I was old and there was nothing I could do to turn back the clock.  I mean, I see old people walking around every day, some even smiling.  They don't all seem like they're one rice krispy short of a treat.  So I figured they must have learned to accept the fact that they got old.  After all, everyone either gets old or they don't.  No one stays young forever.  Yes, I'm just happy to be alive.

Straight from the Doctor's Mouth

In case you've been lucky enough to miss my previous whining,  I've been feeling old.  Really, really old.

I had my yearly physical today and I hated every minute of it.  Until the very end, when the doctor sat across his desk from me with his findings...

"You're young and healthy."

The doctor said it, and in my book that makes it official.  I'm young.

Late Night Insecurity

I'm really tired of seeing all the ads on TV Land for a show called She's Got the Look.  It's a modeling competition for women over 35.  The host is Brooke Burke, who likes to shove it in our faces  remind us that for a woman over 35, she looks really good.  I've been told that for a woman over 60, I  look good.

I would like to say it makes me feel better to be told that.  But it doesn't.  I'm only 51.

What Happened? (Or why you should never calculate the time you have left)

I swear, someday I'll post about something I've handcrafted (not just the pathetic excuses I craft to explain why I'm not actually making anything).  But this is more fun.  Or more cathartic.  Well, at least I don't have to get off the couch.  I love my laptop.  So here's my latest realization for all it's worth.

Last night was another late night spent watching old episodes of Roseanne.  (Okay, after I spent too much time and money shopping online.  Again, I love my laptop.)  I was noticing how young some of the characters and guest stars looked, so I opened up my laptop (yep, love this thing!) and started checking their ages.  This required a little math, but I handled myself pretty well given the time of day and my lack of sleep.  The episode I was watching was from 1992, eighteen years ago.  As I was attempting to do the calculations, it dawned on me that those eighteen years went by pretty fast.  I remember very clearly what was going on in my life in 1992, and it seems like only yesterday.  With this came the sad realization that eighteen years from now (which will surely go by even faster than the past eighteen) I WILL BE 70 YEARS OLD.

70 YEARS OLD.  Now that is a sobering fact.  (For those of you who lack my math skills but are dying to know how old I am, I turn 52 this year.) Of course, with this realization I had to take stock of what I've done with my life so far.  Mostly it has been spent  wasted dreaming of a better future.

My childhood was spent dreaming of the day I'd be an adult and could make a happier life for myself.  When I was grown and had my own family, we wouldn't bake our cake mixes.  No, we'd enjoy the batter right out of the mixing bowl the way God intended.  I don't remember a lot of other specifics (or at least any I'd be willing to share).  Just knowing my children and I would eat cake batter with a spoon was enough for me.

As a young adult with very little money, I always dreamed that some day my bank account would be full. I never let myself get too consumed by the day-to-day pressures of adulthood or the things we had to live without.  I knew someday it would all get easier.  And it did.  Well, for a while at least.  Until the real-estate bubble burst, taking my retirement funds (and all the rest of our money) with it.

After having children and realizing it was freakin' hard work, I held on (admittedly by a thread) knowing that someday the nest would be empty and my husband and I could relax and travel the world. Okay, maybe only a couple of times a year, but it would just be the two of us.  No kids whining about how boring Hawaii is or how they wish they were at home hanging out with friends.  And if the kids matured on schedule, we would find ourselves in a kid-free zone before we turned 50.  Hallelujah!  Still young enough to get around without scooters.

Now that my forties are behind me, I find myself raising my two grandchildren.  It will be at least another ten years before the youngest leaves for college. I want to be happy that I'll still be in my sixties when I finally have my freedom.  But I'm already tired.  My joints hurt when I walk.  I've lost my enthusiasm.  And my nest egg cracked long before the kids flew away.  So I'll try to hang on for a little while longer, content (for the moment, anyway) that at least I still have a nest.

Pimp My Cane

I never wanted to need a cane.  When the physical therapist told me I should start using one, she might as well have handed me a hearing aid and a box of Depends. But I stopped on my way home and bought it anyway (the cane, not the diapers).

As soon as I got home I started practicing.  The better I can walk with it, the less attention I'll draw to myself.  If I could fade into the background completely you'd get no complaints from me. Using the cane at home doesn't bother me.  Using it in public does.  Yeah, I'm vain.  

As soon as my 11-year-old granddaughter (the one who knows everything) saw me with the cane, she couldn't resist pointing out the obvious:  "Nothing personal, but that cane makes you look like an old lady."

I'm not dealing well with this "aging" thing.  I'm not real thrilled with the alternative, either. 

Well, I've been thinking.  Maybe I can make the cane look a little more "hip".  (Hip. I hope that isn't the next bone I break.)  Lets see-- I could hang some glittery streamers from the hand grip.  Or what about a cool paint job?  Maybe some red and yellow flames up the sides.  (Oh wait, that was an episode of House.) Who am I kidding?  Nothing is going to hide the fact that it's a cane.

So yes, little Miss Know-it-all, I am getting old.  Nothing personal, but when the time comes you're first in line to change my diaper.

Deterioration

After I broke my ankle, I never stopped to think of all the ways my life would be impacted.  Good news--I've lost about ten pounds.  (How, you ask?  Who the heck knows.  But some things are gifts and we shouldn't question.)  But on the downside, everything is falling apart.  My life, my house, my body.

I was old and withered already.  Well, I was slightly plump, so the withering wasn't quite so noticeable.  Ten pounds lighter and everything sags.  I thought losing weight would erase the jowls I was sporting below my face.  Nope.  Without the fatty underlayer, they just hang a little lower.  Likewise, my boobs.

Yesterday I decided my surgical incisions were healed enough that I could safely take a bath without encasing my leg in a garbage bag.  (Yeah, it was just as pretty a sight as you are imagining.)  With a clear view of both my legs in a side-by-side comparison, I realized what just one month of inactivity can do to muscles. 

For the past few years, in a desperate, futile attempt to regain my youthful, (almost) thin body, I've been working out regularly.  I dropped a few pounds (eventually) and although I was still mostly a short, wide ball of flab, I was rocking some well-toned calves.  But now my left leg looks as if it is attached to the body of someone who has been bedridden for twenty years.  And since my right leg has been doing all the work, it has become even more muscular.  Now I know how those women who test a new product on only one side of their faces must feel.

And no, as a kindness to anyone who might read this, I will not post a photo.

Remarkably Unmemorable

I've long been accused of having multiple personalities, but there's evidence that they each bring a unique face with them.  Sometimes I feel invisible, other times I think I'm just non-descript.

I've lived on this small street for almost 20 years.  My neighbor was already here.  Shortly after my family moved in I met him at a neighborhood block party, and we have seen each other off and on since then.  He only knows who I am because he remembers my husband.  If we (as a couple) see this neighbor, he always addresses my husband by name, then turns to me and says, "I don't think we've met", or "Nice to meet you".  What???

I've "met" one of my husband's business associates several times now (you know, as in "Nice to meet you.")  At least twice, it was in my own home.  Huh?

These men must think my husband likes to remarry often.  I thought that as men get older, and presumably more successful, the tendency is to marry younger, more attractive women.  I guess they all assume that my husband is in dire financial straits because he keeps marrying down.

At the rehearsal dinner for my daughter's wedding, I met the groom's grandfather.  We sat at the same table and had a very nice, lengthy conversation.  It was an outdoor event and it started during daylight.  The next day at the (daytime, outdoor) wedding, as I was being escorted down the aisle, this man asks, "Who is that woman?"  (Same lighting, same conditions--different me?)

For several weeks after the wedding, I wondered what it was that made me so forgettable.  Then my daughter sent me a digital copy of all the wedding photos.  As I looked through them all (admittedly excited to see how I looked, since I don't get all dolled-up very often), I realized there was no picture of me being escorted to my seat.  Did the photographer not recognize me, not realize who I was?  We had spent several hours before the actual ceremony taking all the formal photos, and then there were those "candid" shots that were taken with my daughter as she was getting dressed.  Between then and the ceremony, just where the hell did I go???

Maybe the photographer did snap my picture as I walked down the aisle.  Perhaps what I feared the most has finally happened:  I've disappeared completely.

Fading Fast

Date Night

It finally happened.  I was getting dressed to go out (okay, just to run errands and have an early dinner with my husband and granddaughter, but "going out" sounds better).  I had spackled my face as best I could, fluffed up my increasingly thin hair in an effort to hide my scalp, and was attempting to find a flattering outfit (does one even exist?)  I finally decided on the blackest, most slimming get-up I could find (yeah, the same one I wear every Saturday for "date night"), took a deep breath, then looked in the mirror.  It just seemed so drab.  Well, maybe a necklace would give it a little style, so I tried that.  And then for the first time in my life, my waistline wasn't the biggest problem.  I had to pick a new battle.  I could no longer bear to draw any attention to my droopy jowls, so the necklace was out.  It seemed like the lesser of two evils to slap a belt across my pot-bellied love handles and call it a day.

All Dressed Up for a Night on the Town:

I'm Having a Mid-Life Crisis...and you can't stop me

There's something freaky about turning 50. You start to feel that time is running out, that you need to step up the pace to accomplish everything you should have done before now. And of course you can't quite figure out why you look so much older in photos and the mirror than you do in "real life". It's shocking when you discover that the "older person" you just met is the same age as you. You find yourself telling your offspring (and any other young people who'll give you the time of day) about how things were "back in my day". Everything starts to ache or sag, sometimes both at once. Whereas you and your spouse previously finished each others sentences, you find that now the two of you combined can't complete a single thought. Most magazines have at least one article where the author describes how liberating it was to turn 50, and the cover is usually graced by an over-50 celebrity who, if we are to believe what we're told, looks 35 because of genetics and healthy habits. And could someone please explain how the padding on the bottoms of my feet migrated to my thighs?

I'm old and I feel like crap. I want a face lift, liposuction and a tummy tuck. I want to do fun things, but I'm too darn tired. And my feet hurt. I think I just need to get out of the house for a while. Now where did I leave my keys?