Wearing My Big Girl Pants…


As I’ve aged, I’ve discovered one thing to be perfectly true about myself. My mind has a tendency to wander. Have you seen that new kitchen gadget that’s supposed to make your life that much easier? Umm…actually, wander is probably too gentle a description to describe how my self-deprecating, and still un-medicated brain cells work. Racing is probably the right word. Yep, that bitch races like she’s part of an AARP NASCAR event on steroids.  No control, and most certainly…NO filters!

But I don’t worry too much about it. First off, I’m too old to care what people think, and secondly, I know people now, and my new best friend just happens to be a bail bondsman, so I pretty much say or do whatever I feel like saying or doing now!  If you’re menopausal, you will completely understand why you should have people like this on the same page as you.

Anyway, the other day I was busy plucking one of those stray eyebrows that seems to always pop up in several places on my chin, and on my other chin, when all of a sudden, out of the blue, my mind took a turn and raced backwards to that time in my life where this kind of grooming was for old broads unheard of.

I was remembering when I was that ‘skinny, perfect, glamo-rama’ girl. Holy crap! That was the greatest time of my life!

Back then, in my almost famous era, I never, ever considered leaving the house unless I was camera ready, just in case the paparazzi got wind that I was out and about!  Those days were spectacular!

I was in my twenties then. I had the world by the balls, and let me tell you…those balls were enormous. I could juggle them and never miss a beat. My boobs were perky and there was only one level to my chin and my butt. I wore crop tops, short shorts, mini skirts and, O.M.G. fuck me high-high-heels!  Of course, this last item may very well be the reason I can longer tippy-toe around today!

Back in that day…

…my thigh’s never rubbed together.

…my underarms never jiggled.

…my ass never undulated.

…my stomach was as flat as a washboard.

…my skin was taut and sprung back like a rubber band.

…and my neck, well, it’s something I usually prefer not to talk about, but back in the day…oh, it was flawless.

I had no skin crevices yet, no barnacles springing up, no wrinkles, no age spots, and no cellulite…nada! I was perfect in every way. (Of course, this is what I tell myself now as I look back on the journey to where I am today.)

I never once feared reflective surfaces during those early years. As a matter of fact, I was actually drawn to them, relentlessly, because back then, that was my job. You know, being beautiful, being on television, being photographed on a daily basis. I spent every waking moment working diligently towards keeping myself in my ‘perfection’ mode! How I looked back then was my moneymaker. I was a model/actress and eventually, after my daughter hit middle school, I had proudly moved into M.I.L.F mode! (If you don’t know what that is, I suggest you Google it!)

But here I am today. All of a sudden, thirty years have flown by. Lot’s of things have changed, relocated or…umm…nope, every thing has pretty much relocated. It’s then I realize that, when I see someone staring at me now, my inner ego springs to attention and I find my hand automatically going to my chin first (to check for gangly strays) and then to my upper lip because I may have left my humble domicile without shaving that small mustache that’s taken up residence between my nose and upper lip. And if that’s all okay, I then check to make sure that the girls are safe and sound in my bra because I’ve caught them trying to sneak out the side of it every so often because I’m so damned cheap now. I still try to wear my old bra’s that contain not one stinking thread of spandex in it, so I completely understand why the girls doth protest on occasion. It keeps life interesting, that’s for sure.

These days, working in and through the fucking fantastic menopause phase, everything has changed about me, including my demeanor. I can clear a room in less than five seconds if my hormone level has taken a dive. My wrinkles laugh lines have become deeper, and I can now actually, truthfully, answer that age-old question of ‘do your boob’s hang low, do they wobble to and fro, can you tie them in a knot, can you tie them in a bow’? And the answer to that my friends is…YES, YES, YES, YES…they do…and I can!

I have also discovered that my body had lost all of its moisture producing abilities, which sometimes proves embarrassing. The other day I had lunch with a friend. When I arrived at the table she reached out to touch my pants and asked me if they were corduroy. I had to admit to her that, NO, they were not, it’s just the sound my vagina makes now when I walk because I sometimes forget to use a vaginal moisturizer. Bitch please! She’s the same age as me. She should know better than to assume the noises my body makes now are not due to costume malfunctions.

As for the elasticity of my skin, well, that’s also gone to hell in a hand basket. Here’s a perfect example of how bad it is. Last week I got out of bed, walked down the hall to the bathroom and when I got there, I realized only one of the girls had come with me. I guess that my husband, at some point during the night, had rolled over on top of the other one, so yeah, the bitch was still snuggled up underneath him somewhere. I had to sit there on the toilet, bracing myself with both hands on the wall just in case he happened to roll over and free her before I peed and got back into bed.

Oh yeah! Menopause is grand. Wearing my big girl pants is mostly fun!

All in all, when my estrogen patch has been safely installed somewhere on my groin, life is pretty damned good. My kids are still alive (only because I discovered my hormone deficiency early on)! My husband still loves me warts and all, and my dog? Well, bless his heart. He still nose butt’s me in the ass after I’ve been gone all day, even though my gastro problems have grown exponentially during this sacred phase of my life!

Yep, I’m a big girl now. Attitude is everything, right?

SIZE MATTERS…


…when it comes to certain body parts.

My size issue is my ‘Large Canadian Breasts’! At least that’s how the hubby refers to them.

Now don’t get me wrong. I am in no way complaining! I sooooooo love the girls! They’re not to small, nor are they too big! They are the syrup to my waffles, the cream to my coffee, the…well, you get the point. We’re close, in every sense of the matter! They love to go out and they love to stay home. They like playing dress up as much as they like to swing about wild and free.

Other than my clothes always having to compensate for said ‘grande’ boobs so those designer tops don’t make me look like I’m in a constant state of pregnancy, the biggest problem I’ve encountered is, I always seem to have a bruise on the inside of my upper right arm, which I firmly believe, is caused by brushing my teeth twice a day without a bra on.

I have to admit though, watching a breast gyrate sideways (even if it’s mine) is far funnier than when it bounces from your chin to your belly button. That chaotic arc always makes me bite my tongue. I don’t like that! Nor. Does. Ms. DoubleChin!

Good news is, I’ve recently come to discover that there really is a reason to call them ‘fun bags’!

My next-door-neighbor is like the worlds laziest bastard on earth. The only way he breaks a sweat is by standing in the sun in a supervisory position. He hires people to do just about everything around his house. There’s always a truck of some sort idling away as they repair, renovate, replant, repaint, etc. etc!

But there’s one thing he actually did himself, and this is where the fun bags come it!

He installed several of those clap on-clap off  [‘THE CLAPPER”] devices in every room of his house, including (and this ranks highest on the lazy scale) his garage!

This I’ve discovered allows me to mess with him on a regular basis.

My bathroom window overlooks said garage, and when Girl #1 and my inner upper arm get going, I can here the door opening and closing. I’ve seen him out there.

In the dark.

Staring at the garage.

Scratching his head.

Wondering what the fuck!

Oh, I so love that I have this power.

Since his livingroom is also close to the window, I can turn his TV on and off at will. I can also offer a wake up call in the middle of the night. I get up in the wee hours of the morning and immediately brush my teeth. I figure I save him a bit of electricity because he doesn’t have to use an alarm clock anymore. I brush my teeth, voila, his bedroom light comes on. The only thing I have to be careful about is, I have to pace myself because these devices are just as easy to uninstalled. I do not want the ‘fun bags’ to go idle!

The other morning I almost got busted! 

Lazy ass gets up to go to the gym every day around 5:30 am. Even though I’m usually up hours before, I put off brushing my teeth till then. I stand there in the darkness of my bathroom and wait till he’s about 15 feet from the garage, I see him begin to raise his hands……and then I brush.

I. BRUSH. HARD!

Up goes the door!

I wait for the reaction.

I have to see the look of astonishment on his face, and I can, because he’s standing in the ring of light from the motion-detector lights he had installed above his garage door a little over a week ago.

I can see him look around, trying to figure out why this keeps happening every morning since installing the device.

I have to cover my mouth to stifle my chuckling, which in turn makes me snort through my nose.

My Bad!

Guess my snort came out far louder than I anticipated. I see his eyebrow go up. I knew we should have sprung for those double paned windows when we remodeled.

His eyes start to roam over towards my property so now, I can’t move, because if I do then I risk detection. I hold my breath!

Then the unthinkable happens!

I don’t hear hubby coming down the hall to pee.

Suddenly the lights go on.

I STAND THERE!

LIKE.  A.  FUCKING.  DEER.  CAUGHT.  IN.  THE.  HEADLIGHT’S.  OF.  A.  CAR!

My boob and right arm are exposed. The tooth brush, which my lips have held in suspended animation, falls from my gaping mouth.

“What are you doing?” hubby asks when he sees me body slam myself against the wall next to the window.

“Nothing.”

“Why are you standing at the window half naked?”

“I’m brushing my teeth.”

He looks at my exposed boob and I see the glimmer of hope in his eyes.

“Can I help you brush your teeth?”

“No. Thanks. I’m done.”

“Hey…Just tryin’ to be helpful.”

I watch as he trudges back towards the bedroom.

“Can you turn the light off on your way out?” I ask, my back still pressed against the safety of the wall.

There is no response. But his hand slides down the wall to the switch.

The room goes dark once again. I step towards the window and realize the moment has passed.  He’s gone!

The thrill is gone.

My boob is cold.

Oh well!

Tomorrow’s another day, right?

Dear Ms. Le. Bido…


…I know you’ve had a lot on your mind over the years but I wanted you to know that I miss you terribly.

O M F’ing G do I miss you!

Oh and yes, if you’re wondering, Mr. Dick Wad misses you as well!

I know that for a long time you’ve been down in the dumps and tossed around like a cheap salad because I’ve been so busy with my life, but I just don’t understand why you’re not responding to any of my e-mails or calls?

I don’t remember abusing you or misusing you in any way so I just don’t get it!

I’ve been searching for you non-stop these past few years.

I’ve looked under the couch hoping maybe you’d somehow accidentally slipped out that night I had one to many tequila’s and slept with my legs askew. That would have been an easy fix since I could have just slipped you back inside and no one would have been the wiser.

But no, you were nowhere to be found!

I’ve looked in the back of my closet and inside all my boots thinking maybe you felt you needed a break and quietly slid down my leg that day I had to stand in line at Costco.

I have a vague memory of a horrible itch that day. I seem to recall it was really hot and my panties were making me uncomfortable, but it would have been too embarrassing to scratch ‘down there’ in public. I’m sorry if that made you uncomfortable , so again I apologize if you felt neglected.

I’ve searched and searched endlessly!

Hell, I’ve even scoured my underwear drawer several times hoping that perhaps you just got stuck on one of my thongs but my search proved fruitless. You have simply vanished.

I recently put up posters hoping that someone would recognize you and bring you home safe and sound, but apparently posting pictures of our atrophied ‘Ms. Gina’ is against the law here.

I found this out the hard way after two uniformed officers showed up at my house informing me that in order for me to continue putting up these posters I would have to add a pair of underwear to the picture to cover Ms. Gina and I wasn’t sure, since you’ve been gone so long, which underwear you would recognize.

It’s been a tough road without you, and although it’s far more work these days to get my mojo on, I persevere.

I’m still holding out hope that one of these days we’ll cross paths again.

Until we meet again,

Mom

**********************************

Dear Mom,

Whaa, whaa, whaa!

Here’s the deal. You’re very needy. I had to make a stand. My biggest beef is that I felt over worked.

Sex, sex, and more sex! Whoo Hoo for you!

Jesus Christ!

You never gave me a break so I did what I had to do. I slipped out the back door during one of your, ahem, midnight silent killers.

I knew this would be the only way I could make a clean exit. Well actually, I guess it wasn’t exactly clean in that sense, but your hubby was so busy trying to get the pillow over his head I knew you wouldn’t even notice my abscence.

Just to let you know, I plan on coming back some day, but it’s not going to happen any time soon. I NEED MORE TIME. You’ve worked me hard for the last 35 years or so, I think I deserve some time off for good behavior.

I know you’ve been trying to lure me back and I’m appalled at the depths to which you can sink.

That Horney Goat Weed shit was child’s play. You actually thought you could drug me into returning?

By the way I’m currently in rehab THANK YOU VERY MUCH!

You’re such a fool.

If you were serious about trying to get me back you might want to step on the treadmill once in a while. I hear exercise really helps.

And while we’re on the subject, perhaps you’ll consider one less shot of tequila at night. This fucks with your brain as well as mine.


These are not threats but, I want you to take me seriously!

I know what you said to Thing One and Two and you just don’t scare me anymore.  One and Two still speak to me and they agree with the exercise thing.

Your’s truly,

Ms. Le. Bido

*****************************

Dearest Bashing Bido,

You suck!

Please do not rush back for my sake…bitch!

You should know better than to bite the hand that feeds you!

You know who.

Notes To Self…


Dear Thing One and Thing Two,

Please accept my apologies for anything you may have overheard during that heated conversation I was having with myself the other day.

You know that I have these random ‘talks’ with myself so I don’t know why you were so shocked, and I don’t quite understand why you reacted so irrationally.  You should be used to that by now. I expected better of you!

I just wanted to remind you that it’s been a lot of fun hanging with you all these years. We have travelled, reveled, placated, and well, we’ve done a lot. I know at times it’s been tough and I know you hate those nasty exams but hey, it’s for your own good. I wish you wouldn’t complain so often because I’m only doing what I’m told to do to keep you healthy.

That being said, I have to say I was pretty mad at you for moving without telling me first, but I’m over that now. As a landlord I’ve never liked lease breakers but I’m willing to look the other way at least for the moment.

You’ve both been faithful friends throughout my life and I know you’ve had to bounce around a lot! My apologies! Had I known that this bothered you so much I may have found a way to be more uplifting. Even though your perkiness has slowly been diminishing over the past couple of years I can’t help thinking that you threw in the towel a little early in the game.

I will miss seeing you on a day to day basis.

Love,

Mom

***************************

Dear Mom,

Thanks for the note.

We always love to hear you blather about how much you love us.

We too were sorry we had to vacate the premises but it was becoming, without a doubt, very obvious that moving south was our only option.

We have, and will always regard your chest as our first and favorite home, but here’s the deal.

We’re tired of always having to act as your frontmen. Yes we were able to get you into certain places because of our good looks, and yes we could always help you win over strangers by pointing out just how lovely you are, but the reality is, you’ve squeezed out about all your going to get from us without some kind of compensation.

Unfortunately, we also felt incredibly let down on occasion so we felt we had to take it upon ourselves to relocate to a friendlier, less obtrusive location.

Below is our list of complaints:

* We were tired of being gawked at over the years and never listened to.

* We were on many occasions forced to hold our breath because our clothes were too small, too tight, or both. (there were a few close calls when we thought the damage would be permanent)

* We grew weary of catching crumbs during mealtimes.

(You have no idea how harsh a little piece of granola can be when it’s hot and humid)

* We resent the fact that your exercise routine did not include us as much as we needed to be included, thus, it’s your own fault we were forced to join a swingers club.

(We are shy creatures and this is not fun!)

Rest assured we are happy, warm, and feel very secure in our new home.

So as not to add injury to insult please make sure you do not put anything sharp in the front pockets of your pants so we do not suffer any undue injuries.

Thank you,

Thing One and Thing Two.

***************************

Dear T One and T Two,

I shall take into consideration all your stated grieviences however, since you no longer will be habitating the area between my face and my belly button, I have been forced to sign a new lease for your old location.

The new tenant, Ms Double Chin, will take up residence as soon as possible. This is a move that she has apparently been anticipating for some time now.

This will require some alterations that may affect you and should not add to your aggravation.

Think of her as a welcome guest.

To make Ms Chin feel safe and secure it will be necessary to add a third cup to all your currents togs. I will do my best to color coordinate all materials, keeping in mind that you love luxury.

See you around,

Mom

*********************

Dear Mom,

We object to this intrusion!

Two’s company…three’s a crowd.

Fuck You!!

Don’t you ever listen to your own advice?

Please stop writing to us as we can no longer respond to your demands! This is a direct quote from T One by the way, who says she no longer wants to speak to you.

Ms Chin, to whom we have always looked up to, only adds insult to injury, especially now that she’s homing in on our old stomping grounds. We will try not to hold a grudge.

Remember we still have one other location to consider and will not hesitate to go there. As much as we would prefer to stay where we are, Sockville is still an option. We can make your life extremely uncomfortable so please consider carefully any further decisions that would force our hand.

T One and T Two

*************************

To Whom It May Concern,

Do not threaten me!

Mom

PS: Do I have to remind you that it’s summer and I won’t be wearing socks very often.

If you don’t watch your step you could end up homeless!

How embarrassing that will be for you.

Baby Fat…


…is something that all women have to deal with after that freaking blessed event of allowing a far too large object to slide out of the smallest portal on our body!

Let’s face it girls. We really don’t give much thought to our expanding girth when it’s falls under the guise of ‘baby fat’. As that little sucker grows inside of us we cling to that self-serving deception tactic of “I’ve got to feed the baby” or “I’m trying to protect the baby” with all this added cushion.

B-u-l-l-s-h-i-t!

Pregnancy brain makes us delusional is what I think.

What we’ve really done is stuffed our bloody faces until we look like we’re ready to explode because we think no one’s really watching our weight–they’re only watching the blessed progression of a developing baby.

So, flash forward a decade or two.

You realize your kids are nearly adults now and you’re still carrying around a pile of flab that’s been there since way back when.

Double CRAP!

With the recession like it is now, so many of us are left to our own devices to get in shape because gym memberships are still at a premium. The price of working out one-on-one with a personal trainer is also out of reach for most of us, so what do we do–we start looking around to find the cheapest possible way to get the most for our money.

Hubby and I usually walk every morning at our local park. If we go around the outside twice we can get in about two miles. Unfortunately, when it’s a little cooler outside, we take a shortcut so we can stay in the sun. Hello…short cuts will not get rid of said baby fat.

But the good part is, we find new inspiration during these little treks because every day we’d see different groups working out. You’ve got your boot camps, your one-on-ones, basketball games, joggers…there’s a plethora of people trying to get fit, or as I like to think of it–getting your J-ello to finally set.

One group I’ve notice over the past year is made up of several young mothers and their toddlers. They use the strollers for balance, use their kids as free weights, and all in all, they seem like their having a good time instead of just sweating their asses off alone. They’ve got that camaraderie going on, and from the look on their faces, they really don’t seem to mind the stretching, crunching, or jogging so long as they can do it together.

The more I think about it, the more it makes sense. You grab a bunch of your ‘baby-fat’ friends who are stuck at home with their young children and you work out together. It’s the perfect world–like minded women at the same place in their life.

So after pondering this idea I finally got brave enough to go ask them if it was an open group and how much did it cost to join.

“We don’t pay anything, we just work out together because it’s more fun to do it this way,”  says the girl who kind of looks like she’s leading the group.

“Oh,” I said.

I notice that they’re all kind of staring at me in that odd kind of way because it’s obvious I’m a lot older than all of them.

“Could I come?” I ask.

“Well…you’re..um…I think you’re a little old for our group,” she says looking me up and down with that smug superior look on her face.

I want to bitch-slap her but I refrain from doing so because this might be my ticket to shed a few pounds without spending a dime so I keep my cool.

“No…I don’t think I’m too old,” I say as I crush the urge to take this bitch down right then and there. “I’m not as old as I look you know.”

The whole pack of them exchange a look, you know the one. I can see them trying to formulate a reason to get me to go away.

“Do you have kids?” she asks because I’m pretty sure she can see the daggers flying out of my eyeballs right towards her heart.

“Yeah, I’ve got kids,” I reply waiting to see where she’s going to go next.

She looks around at the others in the group trying to surmise by the looks on their faces whether or not she should offer me a place in the group. They pull themselves into a little huddle and have a short conference. A moment later they separate and the spokesgirl takes another long look at me.

“Why don’t you come Wednesday…WITH your kid,” she says. “We’ll see if you can keep up with us.”

Oh no you didn’t girl!

I can’t believe she went there so fast!

Yep, she upped the ante by attacking my competitive side. She may very well have opened Pandora’s Box!

Oh well, maybe this was exactly what I needed to hear to motivate me to undo what time and gluttony had done to me.

“Okie-dokie, I’ll see you Wednesday then,” I say.

I can hear them giggling as I walk away.

CRAP!!

I may have bitten off more than I could chew!

So here’s one of the only perks of home schooling. My son is constantly available, and fortunately for me, he has the same warped humor that I do. I know he’ll be game for this, and besides, he loves to work out so it’s game on.

Tuesday rolls around and I go to my neighbor and ask if I can borrow her jogger stroller.

“What do you need a stroller for?” she asks.

I lie and tell her I’m going to be babysitting a friend’s kid on Wednesday.

“Oh, okay,” she says.

Wednesday morning, I get up early, wash my hair, do my makeup, dress in my best workout clothes. I’m not going to let these young she dogs see the real morning me under any circumstances!

I get my son up, feed him so he won’t get cranky, and we head off to the park.

When I pull into the parking lot I can see them off in the distance. There’s five or six of them and they’re already stretching, and sucking back the last drops of their coffee. Why the hell do they look so perky already? I slap my face a few times trying to get that ‘warmed up already’ redness in my cheeks.

I get the stroller out of the back of my car, set it on the ground and try to open it.

Crap!

I guess we should have done a run through at home.

I realize it has some kind of dam fangled lock on it somewhere but I just can’t find it. I look around in desperation, and like a mirage before my eyes, there appears another health nut, a mother, with her kid, in the same kind of stroller, and I know she’s not part of the mommy group I’m about to join. She sees my plight and comes to my aid.

She flicks a little toggle and the god damm buggy springs to life just like when you pull the toggle of the life jacket on an airplane. Oh yeah! That’ll be a story for another time!

I jump out of the way and she laughs at me.

“Sometimes these things have a  life of there own,” she offers.”They take some getting used to.”

“No shit!” I say thinking these things must be manufactured by Toyota.

The smile on her lips turns sour and she glares at me.

I slap my hand over my mouth.

My bad!

I look down at her beautiful little girl who is also staring at me now.

“I’m sorry…that just kind of slipped out,” I say trying to salvage my bad self.

She say’s nothing in return for my apology. She just turns away and heads off with an air of indignation.

My son looks at me and we both burst out laughing.

Okay, so now we’ve got the stroller ready for loading. I look at my son then look at the stroller and wonder how this is going to work.

At six-feet-five inches this is definitely going to be interesting.

Knowing that my son’s in pretty good shape I figure we should be all right. It might take a minute or two to finagle his gangly limbs into it—but come hell or high water—it was going to happen!

My pride and mid-life fat was on the line here.

After ten minutes of pushing, shoving, contorting, and cramming his gangly body parts this way and that, he was sufficiently trapped in the damn blasted contraption.

Was he a happy camper? No!

“I can’t breathe,” he said. “My balls hurt!”

“Oh shut up you big baby,” I said slamming the sunshade down over his head.

Then it hit me. This was so uber-perfect because he was acting like a two-year-old.

I win!

As I approach the group I am met with stares, glares, and more of those WTF looks they’d given me on my initial approach.

I still win.

They never mentioned anything about an age limit—their loss—my gain!

“You didn’t say anything about your son being…well…older,” Miss Perky Boobs says.

“You never asked,” I say smugly because I know she can’t think of one damn thing to come back with.

I could see a couple of these young girls checking out my son and it brang a smile to my lips. He’s pretty damn cute if I don’t say so myself. He’s tall for his age and I’m pretty sure there’s a few gutter thoughts breezing through one or two of these young mother’s minds. But you know what? I don’t mind so much as long as they let me work out with them…FOR FREE!

Oh the sacrifice’s we mother’s make to save a dime here and there.

“Well, let’s just start then,” Miss PB says.

Now here’s where having my son in the stroller pays off big time. We’re starting out with squats.  I can see that these young girls are really going to have to use their leg muscles in order not to tip over their strollers as they use them to keep their balance. I watch as they check the safety straps and harnesses that will keep their littuns’ safe and sound.

My son is an anchor for me. His hundred and seventy five pounds of lean muscle hunkering down in that stroller means that I can disperse the muscle usage equally between my double chinned arms and my less than toned legs.

“Just hang on dude,” I warn him because the straps on this stroller are unusable with his size.

He unfurls his thirty-six inch inseam limbs, adjusts his gonads, then pushes the sunshade away so he can watch me. I here the first hint of a giggle sneaking out of him because he knows this is my least favorite exercise and I really have to concentrate so I don’t start laughing.

Miss PB starts the drill.

“One…hold it………………..Two…………..breathe.”

During the second squat, I start to feel that old familiar gurgle that emanates from my five-decade-old gas pipes.

CRAP!

Remember: mid-life and squats are not the best combination for me, especially with the absence of GasX . That’s what got me into this situation in the first place.

I take a deep breath and squeeze the old sphincter muscle as tight as I can in hopes that I can avoid the possibility of my butt actually erupting.

OOPS!

There goes the first warning shot! I count my blessings immediately because there’s no obvious noise.

Smell…well that’s another thing. Thank God I was down wind.

Dipping for number three felt a little better. I guess the warning shot had relieved enough pressure to let me continue without fear.

WRONG!

When I finally get all the way down—my butt, which has acquired it’s own life cycle, has decided it’s time to party. Oh yeah…bells and whistles—drum roll please—it was time to blow the party horn. The best I could hope for is that it wouldn’t react like a piñata that might actually spill its guts.

“WOW, THIS FEELS FANTASTIC,” I scream at the top of my lungs hoping it will drown out the sound of the thunderous blasphemy that seems to be taking its time exiting the building.

Of course my outburst is greeted with more WTF stares. I fight fire with fire and stare back because I don’t really care because, if I had my druthers, I’d rather they think I was a crazy old bitch instead of a stinking rotten smelly one.

I’d been so worried about the noise I didn’t notice that the wind had changed direction.

My first hint that something was way wrong was when my son clutched, first his nose, then his throat before making that gagging face over and over. About five seconds later he keeled over and played dead.

One of the girls noticed him slumped over while he was playing possum and pointed towards him.

“Is he okay?” she said with real concern in her voice.

“Oh yes, he’ll be fine in a minute,” I assure her.

I kick the bottom of the stroller to get my point across, to tell him to quit it. If he blows this for me there’d be a steep price to pay later.

That’s when he throws in a full body twitch just to make sure he gets his point across—that being that I’d nearly killed him as last night’s broccoli regurgitated itself.  I guess there’s only so much a person can do to reign in our personal carbon footprint.

“He just needs a little fresh air,” I say and start squatting again.

“Noooooooo…!”

It comes out of his mouth like a little childish whisper.

“OMG! Don’t do it Mom!” he says seeing me as I prepared to do the fourth squat.

“Can you just shut up?” I say to him.  “You don’t see any of the other kids making a scene.

“Hello…What are they, six months old…a year?” he says in his own defense.

I look over at their sweet little faces. They look like little angels ‘NOW’ and all I can do is smile.  They have no idea what’s to come ten, fifteen years from now.

Miss PB calls off the squats, announcing that we’re now going to jog around the park twice.

Oh Lord!

I knew I should have quit smoking a long time ago.

My mind starts to reel as I anticipate the possibility of respiratory failure. I know if I keep a fairly slow pace I can probably do it, but it’s much, much harder than I’d anticipated. I am comforted by the fact that I can see the giant hospital directly across the street from the park. I’m sure that if anything happens, like me going face down, the six of them can surely drag my sorry ass across the grass and deposit me in the emergency room in a timely manner.

The six of them take off leaving me in a heap of dust. Bitches! I watch their perky little asses and am fascinated by the fact that they don’t flop up and down like mine. WTF?

Before I can even think about running we have to reconfigure my sons legs back into the stroller so we don’t get tripped up and end up on a gurney for other reasons.

Okay, so we’re off. It’s not as bad as I thought it was going to be except for the fact that I can’t remember the last time I ran anywhere while trying to push a car in front of me.

My son decides he’ll help out by unfurling his legs and straddling the stroller trying to run along with me. Each time his foot hits the ground however, the stroller zigs in the opposite direction and we end up looking like we’re drunk.

“Put your damn feet up,” I yell. “You’re gonna kill us both.”

“I can’t, you have to stop first.”

“No way Jose,” I say looking over my shoulder. The girls are about to lap me.

He somehow pulls his legs up so we can keep moving. I try desperately to keep ahead of them, but it’s no use. One by one they zoom past.

CRAP!

I hate failure!

Try as I might I cannot keep up. Plan B starts to formulate in my befuddled, not enough morning coffee brain. I can see the group is about to round the last corner of the track, the home stretch, and realize that if I don’t act now I’ll have to go down in defeat.

I tell my son to get out and we cut across the center of the track. If I time this right, not only will this put us ahead of them, we’ll also have enough time to squish him back into the stroller and build up a little sweat.

When the girls finally ‘catch up’ with us they look confused.

“I know…I know, you didn’t even see me pass you huh?” I say pretending to be breathless. “Evelyn Wood’s Speed Running…took that course last year.”

This seems to impress them or at least this is what I tell myself.

Really, all I want to do is sit down, slug back some water, have a smoke, and rest for a few minutes.

No such luck. Apparently this workout group works like a ‘real’ boot camp. No rest for the weary.

This is really fucked up! How come I didn’t notice the ferocity of their regime during my walks? Guess that boils down to the old adage of ‘you only see what you want to see!’  But then again, this is probably why Miss PB’s boobs are still perky, and why all their butts are so firm. Guess I’ve been out of the loop a little too long.

Miss PB barks out that we are about to use the children as free weights so we should unleash them from their stroller seat.

I gasp, my son sighs!

We are instructed to lie on our backs, pull our legs up to a fetal position and then place our child up onto the lower part of our legs so we can do callisthenic leg lifts.

As I lie there on my back looking up towards the sky and the smirk on my son’s face, it hits me that I should have brought a towel because now my back will be scratchy all day as the dead grass penetrates my t-shirt.

“Wipe that stupid smile off your face son, this is serious business,” I say.

“Oh I know, I can’t wait to see how this works out,” he says getting down on his knees.

He maneuvers his chest onto my lower legs. About two seconds later as his dead weight hits home, I feel all the air in my lungs disappear.

OMG!

Where oh where had my lower body strength gone?

I’m the handy man/woman of the house! I’ve framed in walls, built fences, framed out and built concrete stairs, hung drywall, plastered walls, moved two tons of pebbles, sand and rocks, planted trees out of their twenty four inch boxes, changed tires on cars, reworked plumbing, and gave birth twice vaginally.

How was it that this had not strengthened my legs. Why was this hundred and seventy-five pound punk suffocating me?

I looked to my left then my right, and each one of these girls was breezing through the routine.  Well no shit! They were balancing maybe fifteen or twenty pounds at the most.

Miss PB is glaring at me by this time. I’m sure she’s formulating the words she’s going to say to me after all is said and done that will make me go away and let them get on with their business of getting fit.

My son is looking down at me with that ‘what are you going to do now’ look and all I can do is smile.

“You know, you could help me out here you little Peckerhead! Put your hands on the ground and take some of the pressure off,” I say to him.

“But Mom…that would be cheating wouldn’t it?”

He says this not knowing that these words were, in reality, a death wish on his part.

“Sweetheart, if you don’t help me out here your gonads might just meet up with an unsightly accident,” I say smiling through gritted teeth.

“Oh,” he says as the smile evaporates from his lips.

He realizes that he’s in a compromised position. He lowers his hands to the ground in self-defense.

Okie Dokie then! In this position I can actually lift him. We manage to get about ten leg lifts done. Just as I really start to get the rhythm down Miss PB says we’re done.

She stands up and sets her oh so sweet daughter down in the middle of the circle with the other toddlers. She looks over at me, smiles her movie star smile, and I start to wonder whether or not my family can sue her for unnecessary cruelty in the event that I actually drop dead from exertion.

OMG! I know she can see the sweat pouring off me like Niagara Falls, and that my face must be red as an apple at this point, but she doesn’t say a word—nor do I.  It’s just another moment where I want to bitch slap her for pushing me to, or rather, beyond my limit.

I am older and wiser and she is not going to win!

I need to gather myself here and pull my t-shirt up so I can swab away some of the fluids that have leaked out of me. Not a good move on my part because now they all see the body sucker I’ve been sporting under my clothes to reveal only my curvy side.

OOPS!

I can see them staring at me.  Yep! There were twelve eyes bearing down on my girdled midriff.

“I have a bad back. I need the pressure to hold my spine in place,” I say returning my t-shirt to where it should have never left.

Crap!

This is going to hell in a basket!

Miss PB rolls her eyes back in her head. I imitate her so she’s aware that I am not going to let her throw me. She announces that she’ll stay with the children while we go free jog.

WHAT? Free jog? She can’t be serious! That last stint nearly killed me even at the piddly-assed pace I tried to maintain. If I had to move faster than that, which I assumed she would want us to, I might never see my family again.

My son plopped down amid the toddlers and waved me off.

“Go on Mom, don’t worry about me,” he said right before he burst out laughing.

I put one foot in front of the other and made my way back to the track. Without the distraction of the added weight (my son and the stroller) I figured I could ace this portion of the workout for at least for one lap—maybe even two.

Unfortunately, my boobs, otherwise known as thing one and thing two, had other plans. I don’t know why I hadn’t thought about doubling up on the sports bra, I just know that I hadn’t. Big mistake!

I was now being bitch-slapped by my own flesh.

My breasts had turned into out of control Slinky’s—undulated up, down, side-to-side—stretching in ways that could—in no way—be considered flattering.  I slowed down in order to stop this hideous circus act. I hadn’t even reached the second turn on the track when two of the young mothers lapped me.

Son of a bitch!

I did the only thing I could. I stopped.

I made my way back to the center of the track.

With my shoulders slumped in defeat I headed directly to Miss PB.

“You win! I’m done.”

“But we’re just getting started,” she says flashing her chicklet-white smile.

I’m so tired I can’t even be witty. I glare at my son who is currently sucking his thumb mimicking the other toddlers. I have just enough wherewithal to pull my shoulders back and stand as proud as I can.

“Let’s go son,” I say.

“Where we going Mom?”

“To lick my wounds!”

As we finish packing everything back into the car I catch sight of a group of seniors doing Thai Chi under the shade of several giant eucalyptus trees next to the parking lot.

“Ah-so young grasshopper,” I say smiling at my son. “There is a God after all—I’ll be right back.”

…is something that all women have to deal with after that freaking blessed event of allowing a far too large object to slide out of the smallest portal on our body!

Let’s face it girls. We really don’t give much thought to our expanding girth when it’s falls under the guise of ‘baby fat’. As that little sucker grows inside of us we cling to that self-serving deception tactic of “I’ve got to feed the baby” or “I’m trying to protect the baby” with all this added cushion.

B-u-l-l-s-h-i-t!

Pregnancy brain makes us delusional is what I think.

What we’ve really done is stuffed our bloody faces until we look like we’re ready to explode because we think no one’s really watching our weight–they’re only watching the blessed progression of a developing baby.

So, flash forward a decade or two.

You realize your kids are nearly adults now and you’re still carrying around a pile of flab that’s been there since way back when.

Double CRAP!

With the recession like it is now, so many of us are left to our own devices to get in shape because gym memberships are still at a premium. The price of working out one-on-one with a personal trainer is also out of reach for most of us, so what do we do–we start looking around to find the cheapest possible way to get the most for our money.

Hubby and I usually walk every morning at our local park. If we go around the outside twice we can get in about two miles. Unfortunately, when it’s a little cooler outside, we take a shortcut so we can stay in the sun. Hello…short cuts will not get rid of said baby fat.

But the good part is, we find new inspiration during these little treks because every day we’d see different groups working out. You’ve got your boot camps, your one-on-ones, basketball games, joggers…there’s a plethora of people trying to get fit, or as I like to think of it–getting your J-ello to finally set.

One group I’ve notice over the past year is made up of several young mothers and their toddlers. They use the strollers for balance, use their kids as free weights, and all in all, they seem like their having a good time instead of just sweating their asses off alone. They’ve got that camaraderie going on, and from the look on their faces, they really don’t seem to mind the stretching, crunching, or jogging so long as they can do it together.

The more I think about it, the more it makes sense. You grab a bunch of your ‘baby-fat’ friends who are stuck at home with their young children and you work out together. It’s the perfect world–like minded women at the same place in their life.

So after pondering this idea I finally got brave enough to go ask them if it was an open group and how much did it cost to join.

“We don’t pay anything, we just work out together because it’s more fun to do it this way,”  says the girl who kind of looks like she’s leading the group.

“Oh,” I said.

I notice that they’re all kind of staring at me in that odd kind of way because it’s obvious I’m a lot older than all of them.

“Could I come?” I ask.

“Well…you’re..um…I think you’re a little old for our group,” she says looking me up and down with that smug superior look on her face.

I want to bitch-slap her but I refrain from doing so because this might be my ticket to shed a few pounds without spending a dime so I keep my cool.

“No…I don’t think I’m too old,” I say as I crush the urge to take this bitch down right then and there. “I’m not as old as I look you know.”

The whole pack of them exchange a look, you know the one. I can see them trying to formulate a reason to get me to go away.

“Do you have kids?” she asks because I’m pretty sure she can see the daggers flying out of my eyeballs right towards her heart.

“Yeah, I’ve got kids,” I reply waiting to see where she’s going to go next.

She looks around at the others in the group trying to surmise by the looks on their faces whether or not she should offer me a place in the group. They pull themselves into a little huddle and have a short conference. A moment later they separate and the spokesgirl takes another long look at me.

“Why don’t you come Wednesday…WITH your kid,” she says. “We’ll see if you can keep up with us.”

Oh no you didn’t girl!

I can’t believe she went there so fast!

Yep, she upped the ante by attacking my competitive side. She may very well have opened Pandora’s Box!

Oh well, maybe this was exactly what I needed to hear to motivate me to undo what time and gluttony had done to me.

“Okie-dokie, I’ll see you Wednesday then,” I say.

I can hear them giggling as I walk away.

CRAP!!

I may have bitten off more than I could chew!

So here’s one of the only perks of home schooling. My son is constantly available, and fortunately for me, he has the same warped humor that I do. I know he’ll be game for this, and besides, he loves to work out so it’s game on.

Tuesday rolls around and I go to my neighbor and ask if I can borrow her jogger stroller.

“What do you need a stroller for?” she asks.

I lie and tell her I’m going to be babysitting a friend’s kid on Wednesday.

“Oh, okay,” she says.

Wednesday morning, I get up early, wash my hair, do my makeup, dress in my best workout clothes. I’m not going to let these young she dogs see the real morning me under any circumstances!

I get my son up, feed him so he won’t get cranky, and we head off to the park.

When I pull into the parking lot I can see them off in the distance. There’s five or six of them and they’re already stretching, and sucking back the last drops of their coffee. Why the hell do they look so perky already? I slap my face a few times trying to get that ‘warmed up already’ redness in my cheeks.

I get the stroller out of the back of my car, set it on the ground and try to open it.

Crap!

I guess we should have done a run through at home.

I realize it has some kind of dam fangled lock on it somewhere but I just can’t find it. I look around in desperation, and like a mirage before my eyes, there appears another health nut, a mother, with her kid, in the same kind of stroller, and I know she’s not part of the mommy group I’m about to join. She sees my plight and comes to my aid.

She flicks a little toggle and the god damm buggy springs to life just like when you pull the toggle of the life jacket on an airplane. Oh yeah! That’ll be a story for another time!

I jump out of the way and she laughs at me.

“Sometimes these things have a  life of there own,” she offers.”They take some getting used to.”

“No shit!” I say thinking these things must be manufactured by Toyota.

The smile on her lips turns sour and she glares at me.

I slap my hand over my mouth.

My bad!

I look down at her beautiful little girl who is also staring at me now.

“I’m sorry…that just kind of slipped out,” I say trying to salvage my bad self.

She say’s nothing in return for my apology. She just turns away and heads off with an air of indignation.

My son looks at me and we both burst out laughing.

Okay, so now we’ve got the stroller ready for loading. I look at my son then look at the stroller and wonder how this is going to work.

At six-feet-five inches this is definitely going to be interesting.

Knowing that my son’s in pretty good shape I figure we should be all right. It might take a minute or two to finagle his gangly limbs into it—but come hell or high water—it was going to happen!

My pride and mid-life fat was on the line here.

After ten minutes of pushing, shoving, contorting, and cramming his gangly body parts this way and that, he was sufficiently trapped in the damn blasted contraption.

Was he a happy camper? No!

“I can’t breathe,” he said. “My balls hurt!”

“Oh shut up you big baby,” I said slamming the sunshade down over his head.

Then it hit me. This was so uber-perfect because he was acting like a two-year-old.

I win!

As I approach the group I am met with stares, glares, and more of those WTF looks they’d given me on my initial approach.

I still win.

They never mentioned anything about an age limit—their loss—my gain!

“You didn’t say anything about your son being…well…older,” Miss Perky Boobs says.

“You never asked,” I say smugly because I know she can’t think of one damn thing to come back with.

I could see a couple of these young girls checking out my son and it brang a smile to my lips. He’s pretty damn cute if I don’t say so myself. He’s tall for his age and I’m pretty sure there’s a few gutter thoughts breezing through one or two of these young mother’s minds. But you know what? I don’t mind so much as long as they let me work out with them…FOR FREE!

Oh the sacrifice’s we mother’s make to save a dime here and there.

“Well, let’s just start then,” Miss PB says.

Now here’s where having my son in the stroller pays off big time. We’re starting out with squats.  I can see that these young girls are really going to have to use their leg muscles in order not to tip over their strollers as they use them to keep their balance. I watch as they check the safety straps and harnesses that will keep their littuns’ safe and sound.

My son is an anchor for me. His hundred and seventy five pounds of lean muscle hunkering down in that stroller means that I can disperse the muscle usage equally between my double chinned arms and my less than toned legs.

“Just hang on dude,” I warn him because the straps on this stroller are unusable with his size.

He unfurls his thirty-six inch inseam limbs, adjusts his gonads, then pushes the sunshade away so he can watch me. I here the first hint of a giggle sneaking out of him because he knows this is my least favorite exercise and I really have to concentrate so I don’t start laughing.

Miss PB starts the drill.

“One…hold it………………..Two…………..breathe.”

During the second squat, I start to feel that old familiar gurgle that emanates from my five-decade-old gas pipes.

CRAP!

Remember: mid-life and squats are not the best combination for me, especially with the absence of GasX . That’s what got me into this situation in the first place.

I take a deep breath and squeeze the old sphincter muscle as tight as I can in hopes that I can avoid the possibility of my butt actually erupting.

OOPS!

There goes the first warning shot! I count my blessings immediately because there’s no obvious noise.

Smell…well that’s another thing. Thank God I was down wind.

Dipping for number three felt a little better. I guess the warning shot had relieved enough pressure to let me continue without fear.

WRONG!

When I finally get all the way down—my butt, which has acquired it’s own life cycle, has decided it’s time to party. Oh yeah…bells and whistles—drum roll please—it was time to blow the party horn. The best I could hope for is that it wouldn’t react like a piñata that might actually spill its guts.

“WOW, THIS FEELS FANTASTIC,” I scream at the top of my lungs hoping it will drown out the sound of the thunderous blasphemy that seems to be taking its time exiting the building.

Of course my outburst is greeted with more WTF stares. I fight fire with fire and stare back because I don’t really care because, if I had my druthers, I’d rather they think I was a crazy old bitch instead of a stinking rotten smelly one.

I’d been so worried about the noise I didn’t notice that the wind had changed direction.

My first hint that something was way wrong was when my son clutched, first his nose, then his throat before making that gagging face over and over. About five seconds later he keeled over and played dead.

One of the girls noticed him slumped over while he was playing possum and pointed towards him.

“Is he okay?” she said with real concern in her voice.

“Oh yes, he’ll be fine in a minute,” I assure her.

I kick the bottom of the stroller to get my point across, to tell him to quit it. If he blows this for me there’d be a steep price to pay later.

That’s when he throws in a full body twitch just to make sure he gets his point across—that being that I’d nearly killed him as last night’s broccoli regurgitated itself.  I guess there’s only so much a person can do to reign in our personal carbon footprint.

“He just needs a little fresh air,” I say and start squatting again.

“Noooooooo…!”

It comes out of his mouth like a little childish whisper.

“OMG! Don’t do it Mom!” he says seeing me as I prepared to do the fourth squat.

“Can you just shut up?” I say to him.  “You don’t see any of the other kids making a scene.

“Hello…What are they, six months old…a year?” he says in his own defense.

I look over at their sweet little faces. They look like little angels ‘NOW’ and all I can do is smile.  They have no idea what’s to come ten, fifteen years from now.

Miss PB calls off the squats, announcing that we’re now going to jog around the park twice.

Oh Lord!

I knew I should have quit smoking a long time ago.

My mind starts to reel as I anticipate the possibility of respiratory failure. I know if I keep a fairly slow pace I can probably do it, but it’s much, much harder than I’d anticipated. I am comforted by the fact that I can see the giant hospital directly across the street from the park. I’m sure that if anything happens, like me going face down, the six of them can surely drag my sorry ass across the grass and deposit me in the emergency room in a timely manner.

The six of them take off leaving me in a heap of dust. Bitches! I watch their perky little asses and am fascinated by the fact that they don’t flop up and down like mine. WTF?

Before I can even think about running we have to reconfigure my sons legs back into the stroller so we don’t get tripped up and end up on a gurney for other reasons.

Okay, so we’re off. It’s not as bad as I thought it was going to be except for the fact that I can’t remember the last time I ran anywhere while trying to push a car in front of me.

My son decides he’ll help out by unfurling his legs and straddling the stroller trying to run along with me. Each time his foot hits the ground however, the stroller zigs in the opposite direction and we end up looking like we’re drunk.

“Put your damn feet up,” I yell. “You’re gonna kill us both.”

“I can’t, you have to stop first.”

“No way Jose,” I say looking over my shoulder. The girls are about to lap me.

He somehow pulls his legs up so we can keep moving. I try desperately to keep ahead of them, but it’s no use. One by one they zoom past.

CRAP!

I hate failure!

Try as I might I cannot keep up. Plan B starts to formulate in my befuddled, not enough morning coffee brain. I can see the group is about to round the last corner of the track, the home stretch, and realize that if I don’t act now I’ll have to go down in defeat.

I tell my son to get out and we cut across the center of the track. If I time this right, not only will this put us ahead of them, we’ll also have enough time to squish him back into the stroller and build up a little sweat.

When the girls finally ‘catch up’ with us they look confused.

“I know…I know, you didn’t even see me pass you huh?” I say pretending to be breathless. “Evelyn Wood’s Speed Running…took that course last year.”

This seems to impress them or at least this is what I tell myself.

Really, all I want to do is sit down, slug back some water, have a smoke, and rest for a few minutes.

No such luck. Apparently this workout group works like a ‘real’ boot camp. No rest for the weary.

This is really fucked up! How come I didn’t notice the ferocity of their regime during my walks? Guess that boils down to the old adage of ‘you only see what you want to see!’  But then again, this is probably why Miss PB’s boobs are still perky, and why all their butts are so firm. Guess I’ve been out of the loop a little too long.

Miss PB barks out that we are about to use the children as free weights so we should unleash them from their stroller seat.

I gasp, my son sighs!

We are instructed to lie on our backs, pull our legs up to a fetal position and then place our child up onto the lower part of our legs so we can do callisthenic leg lifts.

As I lie there on my back looking up towards the sky and the smirk on my son’s face, it hits me that I should have brought a towel because now my back will be scratchy all day as the dead grass penetrates my t-shirt.

“Wipe that stupid smile off your face son, this is serious business,” I say.

“Oh I know, I can’t wait to see how this works out,” he says getting down on his knees.

He maneuvers his chest onto my lower legs. About two seconds later as his dead weight hits home, I feel all the air in my lungs disappear.

OMG!

Where oh where had my lower body strength gone?

I’m the handy man/woman of the house! I’ve framed in walls, built fences, framed out and built concrete stairs, hung drywall, plastered walls, moved two tons of pebbles, sand and rocks, planted trees out of their twenty four inch boxes, changed tires on cars, reworked plumbing, and gave birth twice vaginally.

How was it that this had not strengthened my legs. Why was this hundred and seventy-five pound punk suffocating me?

I looked to my left then my right, and each one of these girls was breezing through the routine.  Well no shit! They were balancing maybe fifteen or twenty pounds at the most.

Miss PB is glaring at me by this time. I’m sure she’s formulating the words she’s going to say to me after all is said and done that will make me go away and let them get on with their business of getting fit.

My son is looking down at me with that ‘what are you going to do now’ look and all I can do is smile.

“You know, you could help me out here you little Peckerhead! Put your hands on the ground and take some of the pressure off,” I say to him.

“But Mom…that would be cheating wouldn’t it?”

He says this not knowing that these words were, in reality, a death wish on his part.

“Sweetheart, if you don’t help me out here your gonads might just meet up with an unsightly accident,” I say smiling through gritted teeth.

“Oh,” he says as the smile evaporates from his lips.

He realizes that he’s in a compromised position. He lowers his hands to the ground in self-defense.

Okie Dokie then! In this position I can actually lift him. We manage to get about ten leg lifts done. Just as I really start to get the rhythm down Miss PB says we’re done.

She stands up and sets her oh so sweet daughter down in the middle of the circle with the other toddlers. She looks over at me, smiles her movie star smile, and I start to wonder whether or not my family can sue her for unnecessary cruelty in the event that I actually drop dead from exertion.

OMG! I know she can see the sweat pouring off me like Niagara Falls, and that my face must be red as an apple at this point, but she doesn’t say a word—nor do I.  It’s just another moment where I want to bitch slap her for pushing me to, or rather, beyond my limit.

I am older and wiser and she is not going to win!

I need to gather myself here and pull my t-shirt up so I can swab away some of the fluids that have leaked out of me. Not a good move on my part because now they all see the body sucker I’ve been sporting under my clothes to reveal only my curvy side.

OOPS!

I can see them staring at me.  Yep! There were twelve eyes bearing down on my girdled midriff.

“I have a bad back. I need the pressure to hold my spine in place,” I say returning my t-shirt to where it should have never left.

Crap!

This is going to hell in a basket!

Miss PB rolls her eyes back in her head. I imitate her so she’s aware that I am not going to let her throw me. She announces that she’ll stay with the children while we go free jog.

WHAT? Free jog? She can’t be serious! That last stint nearly killed me even at the piddly-assed pace I tried to maintain. If I had to move faster than that, which I assumed she would want us to, I might never see my family again.

My son plopped down amid the toddlers and waved me off.

“Go on Mom, don’t worry about me,” he said right before he burst out laughing.

I put one foot in front of the other and made my way back to the track. Without the distraction of the added weight (my son and the stroller) I figured I could ace this portion of the workout for at least for one lap—maybe even two.

Unfortunately, my boobs, otherwise known as thing one and thing two, had other plans. I don’t know why I hadn’t thought about doubling up on the sports bra, I just know that I hadn’t. Big mistake!

I was now being bitch-slapped by my own flesh.

My breasts had turned into out of control Slinky’s—undulated up, down, side-to-side—stretching in ways that could—in no way—be considered flattering.  I slowed down in order to stop this hideous circus act. I hadn’t even reached the second turn on the track when two of the young mothers lapped me.

Son of a bitch!

I did the only thing I could. I stopped.

I made my way back to the center of the track.

With my shoulders slumped in defeat I headed directly to Miss PB.

“You win! I’m done.”

“But we’re just getting started,” she says flashing her chicklet-white smile.

I’m so tired I can’t even be witty. I glare at my son who is currently sucking his thumb mimicking the other toddlers. I have just enough wherewithal to pull my shoulders back and stand as proud as I can.

“Let’s go son,” I say.

“Where we going Mom?”

“To lick my wounds!”

As we finish packing everything back into the car I catch sight of a group of seniors doing Thai Chi under the shade of several giant eucalyptus trees next to the parking lot.

“Ah-so, not so fast young grasshopper,” I say smiling at my son. “There is a God after all—I’ll be right back.”

Suppleness is…


…a major concern for women of every age. Many of us who’ve passed the hormone marker, as in we have none any more, are constantly searching for the perfect combination of serum’s that will lift, soften, and moisturize our skin.

We’re constantly in pursuit of these miracle fluids or creams that can reduce those wretched wrinkles we lovingly refer to as smile lines that form around our eyes. We want something that will rid us of those hideous brown spots that seem to manifest themselves out of nowhere. We want something that will reduce the swelling and dark circles that appear underneath our eyes while we’re sleeping. You know the ones I’m talking about–the ones that make it seem as though you’ve recently been involved in some sort of brawl. We want something that will eliminate those spidery veins that leave parts of our body looking like road maps. We want, we want, we want!

It’s an endless quest. It’s expensive and time-consuming trying to track down these products that promise the fountain of youth but we do it anyway.

No big deal right?  Vanity know’s no boundaries I guess.

But here’s my new dilemma.

Because I’m a major insomniac I watch television in the middle of the night when my writer’s mind experiences what is known as writer’s block. You can pretty much be guaranteed that most of what’s on during these early morning hours are infomercials.

What’s amazing and particularly cool about that is that it makes me realize I’m not alone, I’m not the only woman who rises at these ungodly hours because most of these adverts pertain to women’s problem.

I’ve witnessed women losing 20 pounds of belly fat in ten days, women growing a full head of hair back in less than a month, women losing weight by popping a pill a day without having to change their diet, women getting a face lift in under ten minutes, and eewwww, women getting their butt-hole bleached for some God awful reason. The list goes on and on.

The exercise infomercials that really irk me are those freaking cardio routine ones. You know the ones. You can’t keep up, you trip over your own feet, and you have to take a five-minute break between every rep because your lungs no longer have the capacity to suck air in at that kind of speed.

What’s really a pisser is that usually there’s not one single female in the video who needs to lose one single stinking pound. Most of these bitches…I mean girls… are between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five. They already have protruding rib cages, and that perfect little line that runs down their perfectly concave belly defining their tight little abs. Their hair remains perfectly in place. Their makeup does not run. Their perfect teeth glow like neon chicklets as their highly glossed pink surgically altered gargantuan lips part in smile. Their breasts, which are usually bursting out the top of their little skin-tight half-shirts, remain pert and immovable, and not one single ass cheek bounces around.

Never ever do they show some fat-ass woman wearing baggy ass clothes, sweating her fat ass off while gasping for air as they try to keep up the pace. What the hell is up with that?

Where is the reality here?

Okay, so I have to admit that once in a while I’ll bite the bullet and work out with them to make the time pass quicker. I’ll grab my resistance ropes or my little weights and follow along. I’ll work hard enough to get to the burn they talk about and I’ll continue until the fail point but then I stop because my heart is sending out that message ‘you stop or I’ll stop’.  At that point all I want to do is bitch slap the smile off their faces.

Oh yeah, I’ve been sucked in many times. I’ve picked up the phone within that golden ‘ten minute time limit’ to get the deal on their program or pill or cookie or whatever. I now own more exercise equipment than most gyms, most of which can be found hidden away in my 15 year old man-childs room. He loves that I like these infomercials.

Yes, I am constantly being barraged in the middle of the night with a plethora of images and information on how I should be taking care of my body.

With so many things to already worry about in order to have a somewhat reasonable appearance,  the last thing I ever thought I’d have to worry about is VD.

Yes, you heard me right–vaginal dryness.

At my age I’m apparently supposed to be worried about this. From what I understand now, almost forty percent of women my age suffer from this affliction.

‘That’s just fucking great’ I’m thinking to myself as I watch this stupid commercial that’s somehow slipped under the FCC’s critical eye . Like I don’t have other things to worry about, now I have to worry about that little sucker too!

What a bitch!

So there I am at three in the morning wondering whether my vagina is worn out after fifty some years of workin’ it.

Has it gone the way of my face?

OMG!  Say it isn’t so!

The thought of wrinkles and whatnot down there sends a shiver right through me. Should I go get this stuff and moisturize just in case, or should I just let sleeping dogs lie?

If you think about it a vagina get’s put through its paces over the years.

A good night of sex is like sending your ‘gina’ to the gym. Sometimes the work out’s slow and steady and sometimes it’s fat- burning cardio speed. Either way I’ve always considered this a good thing.

Aside from the good exercise as stated above our poor old vagina’s have to endure years of menstruation, which is both a blessing and a curse. Then, when we decide to have babies, we pray that it’ll play along when it’s time to give birth because it’s got to stretch itself far beyond what it signed of for as that little pink bundle slides out into the world. That’s a work out like no other and all we can do afterwards is pray that it’ll use common sense and somehow return to its normal size.

Seeing this commercial brought to mind a question my daughter asked me several years ago.

“Have you ever queef’d during sex?” she asked.

That was the first time I’d ever heard that word.

“Of course I have”, I replied without blinking an eye.

My assumption was that it was when some  sort of epiphany that happened during sex.

She laughed her ass of then went back to her room at which point I hightailed it into my office to look it up in the dictionary.

“Queef: (verb)…a vaginal fart during coitus.

No wonder she laughed. I’d definitely experienced that once or twice but I’d never given it a name.

All this time I’d thought it was just my vagina trying to catch its breath. My bad!

I digress.

Maybe those ‘queef’s’ were a sign of some sort. Maybe that’s the signal that you’re headed towards a vagina that will soon be reminicent of the Sahara Desert. One that is awaiting the presentation of an oasis in the form of vaginal moisturizer.

Based on its location it’s not easily accessible to your own eyes. The thought of asking the hubby about what he see’s down there is completely out of the question. This is in line with ‘if you don’t draw attention to a problem people won’t notice it’.

I think this is a gimme here!

I guess all I have to do now is decide which way to go here. Will I work under the premise that  ‘knowledge is power’ or ‘ignorance is bliss’ on this issue.

Exercise is…


sometimes like corporal punishment. We brutalize our poor little muscles mercilessly in hopes  they’ll shape up as fast as possible. We stress and strain them, often times beyond their capacity, and then wonder why they seek revenge the day after or the day after that. They’re smart little buggers. They can tie you up like a pretzel on crack.

Yes, they’re sneaky little bastards.

My last trainer’s favorite phrase was, “Do twenty more”.

I’d look at him with my best ‘fuck you’ glare.

Twenty more and they’ll be picking out a pine box for me. Twenty more and I might be picking out a pine box for him.

“My fat does not want to do twenty more” I’d tell him.

He’d glance at my gut knowing this would hit home. I’d cuss him under my breath but start counting.

“One, two, three…”

Bastard!

By the twelfth curl I’d feel that little candle like flame burning sensation building itself up to bonfire status.

“Why are we using such big weights,” I’d ask while trying desperately to suck in a breath.

“They’re only two pounds,” he’d say.

“Oh.” I’d say.

The thing about trainers is that they’ve already done all the work they need to on themselves so they’re well aware of the pain they’re inflicting. Do they emote any sympathy towards you as you struggle through each exercise? Hell no!

What I hated most about my trainer was, when I’d start moaning and grunting like a pig during our weight lifting sessions, he’d take his fingers and strum the fat on the underside of my upper arm like a virtuoso harp player just to make his point.

I’d try desperately to ignore his mockery of my fat flags and his snarky little grin. The whole time I’d be thinking, with very little effort I could probably make contact with the side of his head with the ‘two-pound’ dumb bell clenched in my sweaty palm.

Oh yeah, I’d picture him slowly melting towards the ground shortly after impact completely unconscious, in which time I could pour water over my head and down the front of my shirt then sit down next to him. When he’d come to all I’d have to say is ‘wow, that was a good workout, see you next week’. Unfortunately, I could never actually go through with it because we worked out at a public park. There would be witnesses. I had to force myself to stay in control and out of trouble.

Of course by this time he’d gotten that underarm fat moving so fast it was actually creating a nice little breeze that kept me cool.

“…eighteen, nineteen, twenty.”

At that point I’d feign exhaustion then let the weights drop from my hands hoping one of them would meet with his foot, but he was too fast. He knew me too well. He’d step back, smile, then bark out what was next.

“Squats,” he’d say.

“How many?” I ask.

“Fifteen,” he’d say.

I hate squats. I like what they do for my butt, and I like what they do for my legs, but I fucking hate doing them but not for the reason you might be thinking. The word ‘squat’ and the menopausal gastrointestinal system do not go together.

Once that word left his lips all I could think about was whether or not I’d taken my Gas X that morning.

He’d tap his watch and wait for me to spread my legs, square my shoulders, then raise my arms out in front of my body hoping to keep some semblance of balance. I’d start to lower my body ever so slowly. One inch, two inches, three inches. It’s then I’d remember that I DIDN’T take that little green pill. I’d meant to–I really did. I’d popped it out of its little vacuum sealed package but then I’d set it down on the kitchen counter while I went to retrieve a bottle of water.

OH NO!  I knew right away this was not going to be good.

“Go deeper,” he’d say.

I’d feel my stomach starting to gurgle. It wanted to purge itself in a big way.

“NOW,” he’d say as he put his hands on my shoulders pushing me towards the failure position.

I’d close my eyes and put all my concentration on keeping my sphincter muscle clamped tight. This is where all those kagel exercises you learned during pregnancy come in handy.

I’d go down a few more inches as requested and as always I’d feel my knees starting to shake. I could also feel one of those humongous gas  bubbles traversing around in my gut like a slalom racer looking for the gate.

OMG!

I knew I could only do about two or three more of these dips before this situation reached the ‘Houston, we’ve got a problem’ stage. I knew my limit.

“Two,” he says out loud as though I’ve lost my ability to count.

I suck in my lower belly as I rise hoping somehow to push this gaseous troublemaker back up to where it started. No dice my body tells me. This puppies gonna blow pretty damn soon.

My mind would be racing by this time. Maybe it’d be one of those polite silent ones, and if there is a God, it wouldn’t be one of those Chernobyl stinker’s that are bad enough to take out an entire neighborhood.

He’d move in closer to better control the depth of the squat and all I could do was concentrate on keeping my butt cheeks together.

As you can imagine, this is nearly impossible in this position.

Then it would occur to me that this strategy would eliminate the possibility of silence.

If the gas left my butt during the tightening of the cheeks it would likely come out sounding like one of those canned air horns. I’d  have to think on my feet and make some kind of decision. Let her rip and take my chances it would just blow out like a soft gentle breeze or publicly acknowledge that I had a rip-roaring case of gas.

But wait, I’d say to myself. If I let mother nature take its course and let it blow in its full glory, the sound ringing out like a proud duck quacking with a cold, this might put an end to this particular exercise. Maybe he’d see that it was not in his best interest or mine to force my body into this ridiculous position.

Oop’s!

Too late. My bad!

Half way down on the second squat my body took control, my sphincter relaxed and justice was served. It was not polite, nor was it quite. As a matter of fact a few people passing by us during this assault actually looked up in the sky searching for the flock of ducks they’d just heard.

“Jesus Christ,” he’d say looking down at his legs to make sure I hadn’t left skid marks on his tight white workout pants.

“What are you talking about?” I say pointing to the people looking up into the sky. “Didn’t you see them, the ducks?”

He’d follow their gaze searching the clear blue sky for any sign of birds.

Then it would hit him.

The air surrounding us was so toxic it rippled the same way hot summer sun does over cool asphalt.   It smelled so bad the end of his nose actually curled in such a way as to close itself off from the foulness.

Distraction is the best defense so I began to squat one more time.

“NOOOOOO,” he’d manage to squeak out while trying to hold his breath. “We’re done with those.”

“Oh, okay,” I’d say. “What do you want to do now?”

“Shower,” he’d say.

“Oh, okay. I’ll see you next week.”

“No…I think I’m busy next week.”

As I stood there digesting his comment I realized that we were done–forever–so I bent over to pick up my towel and delivered a parting prize.

I guess I should be grateful he dumped me. All the money I’d been spending on getting in shape has now been diverted to purchasing the big box of Gas X from Costco. My entire family is grateful to him now I work out at home.

Weight has…


 

…always been an issue for me. For the better part of my youth I was what you’d call a big girl. You know that girl. The one whose face you’d compliment because you couldn’t see all the way around the rotundness to compliment anything else.  

I never thought of myself as ‘gigantic’ because I was smaller than most of my friends. Now they were hefers! So yeah, weight has always been a big issue in my life.  Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not grossly overweight in the physical sense but my brain always tells me different. I think that makes me like most women who’ve had these little [or big]  battles with their body identity.

I suffer from what many middle-agers suffer from…that dastardly, annoying, freaking spare tire-ish bulge that seems to gather around our waist while we’re not paying attention. What comes to mind when I happen to catch a glimpse of this stockpile of flesh is elephant ankles where the skin just seems to lay in layers. Part of this problem of course is due to menopause, at least that’s what I tell myself. Okay, I may bitch about menopause but it does have some perks. We can lay blame to a lot of things that happen to our body during these non-blood-letting years. Thank God for small favors!

Something I find kind of interesting is how belly fat has become big business. Their main target is women, especially the ones who’ve earned their baby badges. Every day you see those asinine ads for pills/patches/smoothies that will reduce your protrusions with little or no effort. You know the ones. Pop a pill starting Monday and drop a few clothing sizes by Friday. Helloooooooo…

Is anyone out there really buying this crap? Are we that stupid? I mean really!

Okay…so I’ve sent for a few of these products. Admittedly, I am an I-D-I-O-T!!! I got sucked in by a few of those smooth talking salespeople who made it sound so easy, so believable, soooooo promising. I followed the plan, popped a pill, put my feet up and waited. And then I waited some more, and a little more after that. Was my ass or gut shrinking? NO! Not even one eensy-teensy inch.

You might as well just find a drug dealer who can supply you with speed, or better yet, just switch to espresso. All it did was make me talk faster and run around like a chicken that just got its head cut off. Another side affect is the shaking. You know that nervous twittering you get when your blood sugar is to low. Maybe this is how you actually lose the weight–you shake it off.

I’m not exactly sure what the ingredients are, I’ve never been into reading labels, but they drove my ADD into hyper-drive. This pissed my husband off, because on occasion [I’ve always been the ‘handyman’ of the house] I’ve been known to strip a room down to its studs in under four hours rather that just splash a new coat of paint on the walls to get the same effect. Oh yeah, those $30 miracle pills cost us about $20,000 to rebuild our kitchen.

So, working on the premise of ‘been there, done that’, I came to the conclusion that any extra pounds I’ve acquired, well, they’re just going to have to come off the good old-fashioned way. Starvation and exercise. Fuck me!

I knew I had to make a plan and so plan I did. Me and the Hubby [whose idea of exercise is moving the fork from the plate to his mouth] started walking every morning. This is not only good for the body (fat), it’s also a great way to clear your head. We’d  try to get in at least a mile and a half each day. We’d been doing this faithfully for about a year but then I fucked that up when I discovered a shortcut. Duh!

Another brilliant realization I came to because I’m such a clean freak was that I could use normal household appliances as part of my cardiovascular workout. I have this horrible bad habit of loading my laundry machine in an uneven way. It used to piss me off listening to it bounce around trying to escape from it’s built in space, but then, the more I thought about it the more I realized that maybe it was trying to tell me something. Maybe it had been trying to get my attention all along.

I stood there one morning watching as it gyrated and it occurred to me that there was a good possibility it could help in my endeavor to slim down.

At first, I just leaned against it, kind of testing the waters you know. Oh boy, that was an eye opener. All of a sudden I could feel my loose flesh slop back and forth, kind of like those waves you see in a pool after someone does a cannonball.

I found this quite depressing because I realized there were things moving that I didn’t expect to move. You know, things like my recently acquired double chin. Oh yeah, I know it’s there, I’ve seen pictures. Hell that’s why I always hold my chin up so high now. Do you know how many reflective surfaces you come across in a day? Crap, they’re everywhere! The other double chins, the ones that hang loosely on the underside of my upper arms were also having a hay-day. My butt…hell…that sucker was having its own party too. 

So much for Plan A.

I knew that I’d have to figure out a way so that I didn’t actually feel this stuff, my fat, moving around as though it was possessed by the devil himself.

After pondering on this for a day or so Plan B unfolded in a moment of brilliance.

Because I’m very conscious of my flaws I have several undergarments that forcefully mold these devilish curves back to where they’re supposed to be. It was simple. I’d don one of these one-piecer’s  under my housecoat, [I’m usually doing the laundry in the middle of the night because I suffer from insomnia–again–thank you menopause] throw on a pair of running shoes, and off to the laundry room I’d head. Thank God my family is slobbish when it comes to their clothes because there’s never a lack of laundry that needs to be tended to. I’d be able to do this every day.

Taking this experiment one step farther I decided it was time to jump on board. I hoisted myself up on top of the ‘now-on-purpose-overloaded machine and pushed the button. Whee Hah! It was like riding one of those electric bulls at a country and western bar. I would not recommend drinking coffee while doing this unless you put it in one of those travel mugs. Oh well, more laundry for me.

Now, this is quite a tricky process because there’s a good possibility that the machine will buck you off like a pissed bronco bull, so you’ve got to figure out how to brace yourself. The door frame was a good start. I’d put one foot up there and then I had to move the big cabinet that holds all my tools a little closer so there’d be a place for the other foot. It’s not exactly a pretty site but it seems to do the job. I figure I can get in about two hours of this before the sun comes up so there’s no chance of getting busted in my ridiculous looking pose wearing things no one should see publicly. There is also another perk while using this method. Not only does the machine gyrate it also vibrates if you get my drift. Yes I go about this chore happily now. My children think I’m nuts because I’m always gathering up their clothes now–dirty or not. I’m not going to tell them any different. 

The other thing I invested in are those rubbery ropes, the ones you do calisthenics with. They’ve got little hand grips on either end so they’re fairly easy to use. Using these started out with a bang, and then my decision to stop using them also came with a bang. If you’re going to use them outside to work your back, you have to sling it over something to add pressure. Well, let me tell you if you choose a tree branch, it better be a big ass tree branch. I made the mistake of using a lower thinner branch, which did not pan out. It only took two pulls before the twiggy little bugger broke free and crashed into the bridge of my nose. It was at this point I realized these particular workout tools also make good gardening tie-backs.

All in all, I’m getting it together this year. My New Year resolutions have unfolded. I’ve vowed to walk slower. This way things I don’t want to move don’t, or at least they don’t move enough to attract attention. I’ve vowed to look in the mirror once in the morning while I’m getting ready and avoid anything that might reflect my image during the rest of the day. I’ve vowed never to give my fat and fatter clothes away again. I’ve vowed to tell myself I’m not fat–I’m just not thin. You know bullshit things. A girls gotta do what a girls gotta do, right?

So there you have it in a nutshell. I’m starting this year off with a fresh start. I’m going to get in shape or at least shape what I got. 

Well, I’ve got to run. The timer just went off. I think my brownies are done! Bon Apetite!

 

 

 

Does This Make…


…my ass/gut/back/neck/face/thigh/calves/ankles look fat?  We’ve probably all been guilty of asking this stupid ass question once or twice. What possess’ us to ask it in the first place is beyond me because, point in fact, there is ONLY ONE ANSWER we want to hear–NO, NO, and NO! Any other answer could lead to, let’s just say–a good bit of damage control from the questionee.

There can be so many repercussions to this answer.

Of course this also explains why my husband never wants to shop with me I guess. Maybe he’s smarter than I think. The second he hears the words ‘does this make’…he’s up and out of the room faster than a Daytona race car. God bless him! That man has a survival instinct like no one else I know.

The first thing they teach you in school, if you can remember that far back is…

if you already know the answer, don’t ask the question’

…unless of course you really want to put someone in the hot seat. If you, after giving this some thought, still ask the question–well–you’re dumber than you look!

We’re not complete idiots about our body image. We know when all of the above looks good or not. We have mirrors! We can see as plain as day when our boobs have fluctuated in size and our cups runneth over, or the dry cleaners have shrunk our pants (AGAIN)!

At this age, most of us are in denial about what’s happening to our, for lack of a better word, flesh host. Yes, sometimes we put the blinders on for self-preservation, but we know. We feel “IT” move when we walk. This is why I don’t run anymore. I do not want my back-fat or ass gyrating and screaming “look at me–whoo-hoo” in public places. I figure the slower I move the better I can hide it.

I think the first inkling that change is upon us is when you start to lose those little hollows in your cheeks. You know exactly what I’m talking about. It that thing that makes your face look like you have those glorious cheek bones and can often make you appear thinner than you really are. It’s flattering and it’s youthful. Unfortunately, when the tides of youth start slipping into middle age things tend to get lost or buried in the shuffle. That’s right!  When that hollow fills, it means that extra weight is secretly being added while you sleep. (This has nothing at all to do with the second helping of cheesecake, or the loaf of bread you ate with last nights dinner.)

This is not good because it also means that jowls are right around the corner. Yeah! It seems cruel that the face is usually the first place this shows. I’ll admit, both my dimples have become buried amid the debris of the passing years. Well actually, the truth is, I just noticed that they’re not really gone, they just relocated to my ass. Traitors!

A lot of people judge what’s going on with their body by how their clothes fit. This I believe is a really good way to judge your GIRTH because, if they still fit you, it’s a win-win situation. No gain, no pain!  This falls under the category of reverse-reverse psychology. Think of all the money you’ll save not having to shop for skinny clothes or larger (fat) clothes.

I’ve learned my lesson over the years as my weight fluctuated up and down. I’ve come to the conclusion that after twenty-three years of yo-yo dieting, trainers, boot camps, and starvation, I am never going to lose my baby (pregnancy) fat. As a matter of fact, I don’t think I can actually use that term anymore when it comes to those little pudgy spots. The truth of the matter is that this is plain and simple fat-fat now. Yep. This is finally the time in our lives when we have to suck up and admit to ourself that our MILF (Mother I’d Like To F@#k) days are a thing of the past. CRAP!

I threw my scale out a long time ago because it always betrayed me. I’d strip down to nothing, stand on its hard cold surface, and the little hands would just start spinning out of control as it determined how much it was going to punish me. Well I’ll bet it really spun out of control as it descended towards the cold hard pavement after I threw it out the second story bathroom window. Bastard!

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not hideous, BUT, everything is relative isn’t it? When your waist expands it becomes more relative with your hips and your rib cage, as in–if they’re the same size, you actually can no longer refer to it as your waist. It is now considered part of your torso, or as I like to call it my boy shape, my masculine side. This isn’t always a bad thing because if you happen to have a little more junk in the trunk it will no longer stand out on its own. There will be no references to pears or any other fruit. This can be a good thing.

What I wonder is why don’t men ask this question? I mean, mid-life does the same thing to them so why do they remain silent? How are they able to maintain their calm, cool, and collected demeanor when their belly crosses the border before they do? What is their secret? Could it be that age changes us in different ways? Do they lose their peripheral vision first? Do they see only what they want to see? Or are they simply perfectionists at tom-foolery?

Maybe we should just rip that page out of their book and stick it in ours!

Oh well, I have to run. I just heard the timer go off. I think my chocolate cake is done!