Happy 40, here’s your hospital gown…

Happy 40, here’s your hospital gown…

Turning 40 means many things: wisdom that comes with age (so I’ve heard), no longer feeling silly about using Retin-A, not being able to mock Big Sis for being so much older than me…

Turning 40 also means being initiated into the yearly mammogram. There is nothing like sitting in a room full of nervous women in hospital gowns (all trying not to act nervous) to make one really want a cocktail.

Why hasn’t anyone invented a mammogram/martini party yet?

I don’t ever remember contemplating my mortality as I did this morning, looking around at the not totally unpleasant waiting room (yezzzzzz, very zen-like, no doubt done by decorators equipped with the Feng Shui), waiting for my name to be called. Something about stepping into the unknown, thinking everything is fine at that moment but realizing one quick snapshot could upend my life?!?!?!

There is feeling of community in the waiting room, knowing each of us are there for the same thing. Different ages, races and sizes, but all with the same question in mind. Will they find something? Will I be the one for whom everyone wears the pink ribbon?

The actual process was a letdown. All that nervousness for 10 minutes of pulling and prying my flappy small breasts into the machine to be smooshed, only to see a picture that means no more to me than an inkblot. Then I find out I have to suffer through 4 weeks of waiting to see whether the breast gods deem me lump-less…ugh.

Now where’s my birthday cake??

Bailout Plan

Bailout Plan

Sometimes I wish for a Bailout Plan of my own. Kind of like the government version for Wall Street. But at what price do we value our freedom?

Love is…

Love is…

Love… the cursed four letter word. Makes me do crazy things, like fall off the bike on a recent date while bragging about how athletic I am (still have scars to prove it.) Or cram myself, sausage-like, into the most uncomfortable, hot, sweaty, spandex straitjacket (otherwise known as Spanx) in the hopes that the dress I’m wearing brings him to his knees. (You’d have thought we would have gotten over girdle when we starting burning bras…what has happened to us??)

Love seems silly, really. All that hunting, for what? My catch and release record would tire even the most avid fisherman. My dating bruises put a NFL quarterback to shame. If I had that success rate in anything else, I would seriously question my own sanity (already have plenty of material for that.)

Yet I keep at it, like approaching the shoe sale rack with innocent hope that there will be more than three sad and lonely size 11s waiting to be adopted (meanwhile, the size 8 rack always seems to be overflowing in abundance.)

Sale Season!!

Sale Season!!

Timing my shopping around the third markdown is the female equivalent of waiting for deer hunting season: it is all about stalking my prey with patience and precision, waiting for just the right time to pounce.

Get nervous and buy too soon, you may pay more than you need to, depleting your reserves that could be used elsewhere.

Wait too long, you may be hunting amidst the reject pile.

As the moment approaches, Big Sis and I lay out our game plan………Where we attack first is based on previous scouting missions with a keen eye to who has the most product, like an overgrown herd that needs to be thinned.

Having a good spotter is key; a sales person who knows your preferences and stalks for you, hiding among the reeds, pulling your favorites the minute the third markdown hits.

You may think us silly for our process… but remember, next time you eye my new Pucci skirt, just remember it cost the same amount as that shirt from Ann Taylor, and its a heck of a lot more fun.

Cookie Monster

Cookie Monster

What is it about a cookie that paralyzes me? As if eating a single cookie will put another 3 pounds on my hips. I stare at the cookie, thinking to myself… “Don’t do it, you don’t need it.”

“Okay, I will take a bite, but I will only eat half of the cookie.” I am afraid if I start eating the cookie, I won’t be able to stop. Then it will be 2 cookies, 3 cookies, a slice of pizza, then the whole pizza…and I won’t just stop with the cookie, I will then eat the right arm of the person next to me because I will find myself unable to stop.

The more I try to control myself, the more the cookie controls me, my thoughts, my ability to concentrate on anything else. Somehow this cookie has started to represent something MUCH bigger… if I am able to control myself, that makes me good. I have earned my gold star for the day.

Yet somehow the cycle doesn’t end, because I will find something else to struggle with….to judge myself with because I have not achieved perfection. Today its the cookie, tomorrow the mistake I made at work or the thing I said but shouldn’t have said because it made me sound less than intelligent.

Why are we so hard on ourselves? I don’t remember hearing any men complaining that they look fat in those pants… or that they are a failure because the couldn’t control themselves from drinking 6 beers and inhaling a bag of Doritos while watching the game.

Tired of second guessing myself, controlling what I eat, judging what I say, obsessing about what outfit I am going to wear. I want to eat the cookie when I want, wear what I want, say what I want, without the cookie monster standing over my shoulder.