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.

In Passing…

…gas that is, I’ve come to the conclusion that every time I let one rip I’m adding yet another X on my carbon footprint. CRAP! That’s why I never attend those ‘green’ conferences. Without a doubt I’d be the one walking around with the big neon sign hovering near my ass that say’s “guilty, guilty, guilty”. I’ve tried to do my part for the environment.  I’ve been pretty diligent about changing my light bulbs and unplugging appliances, but this internal gas thing it seems is completely out of my control now.

Age tends to load us up with lots of aches and pains, and from my experience, after you let cheek-flapping farts loose, many of those aches and pains disappear. I swear to God, ninety-nine percent of the time I’m spot on. I’ve always been a big believer that everything that ails you boils down to gas.

My kids tell me their stomach’s hurts.

“Once you fart you’ll feel better”, I say. “Let her rip.”

“But Mom!”

“I think I have appendicitis.”

“Fart, you’ll feel better. Trust me.”

“But Mom!”

“I think I broke my arm”.

Just fart…oh…wait…maybe we should see the doctor.”

I hate it when they throw a wrench in the engine.

Okay, sometimes it’s not gas and you actually have to do something to cure what ails them, but for the most part, it’s a pattern they follow as they reach for attention.

In mid-life I’ve come to the conclusion that gas is one of life’s perks as you age. It’s a glorious thing too! We can write off nearly everything that’s going on in our body as gas related. Who wants to think of the alternative? Yes, I tend to live in the mind-set where ‘ignorance is bliss’.

When we were kids, we never thought too much about it, we just let it go whenever. We didn’t care who heard it. As a matter of fact, the grosser we made it sound the better we felt. It became a job well done! Oh yeah, if you could press your butt against something solid, something that would enable the noise to become this thunderous crescendo, whoo hoo!

We used it as a tool to gross out our friends. We did it in the classroom because we knew no one could escape from the foul air.

We did it in the car when we knew our parents had the safety locks on the windows so none of us could accidentally fall out of the moving vehicle. We waited patiently for the aroma to waft forward from the backseat waiting for signs of recognition on our parents face, and then we waited with great anticipation for that age-old question of ‘WHO FARTED’?

“Not me”.

“Not me”.

“Not me”.

“Not me”.

It was a game we all played very well.

It was always a giggle inducer as my sisters and I sat piled on top of one another watching as my mother secretly surveyed my fathers face out of the corner of her eye to see if she could detect any signs that he was the culprit. Even if she did suspect him she’d never say anything because it was never good to embarrass the husband in front of the children. She’d just crack the window a little and maintain her presumption that it was one of us kids. Why is that father’s don’t need an excuse for this kind of behavior? They just do as they please and expect everyone to ignore it?

Fortunately, or unfortunately, somewhere along the way we developed this sense of  pride and that took all the fun out of it. If we got gas we’d undo a button, let a zipper open an inch or two to help relieve the pressure, or we’d suck back some kind of bubbly drink hoping it would diffuse the bubbles in our belly without having to let them pass naturally. We suffered through countless seconds, minutes, or hours until we could find a private place to let our suffering go. We had reached the age where it just wasn’t polite to fart in public anymore because we knew we would suffer ridicule if we got busted. It didn’t matter how bad you felt holding it in, you just sucked up, squeezed your butt-cheeks together and waited until an appropriate time and place arrived where we could undo the evil that lurked within.

On a recent visit to my local grocery store, the one that offers seniors shopping day every Friday, I was inexplicably possessed with joining my elders in their unpretentious symphony of sound. I showed up at the store with that awful gurgling feeling in my gut. I tried to wait it out at home but realized I was running out of time to get all my errands done so off I went. I knew the evil was lurking and ready to go but pride was fighting me tooth and nail. I sucked up, walked up and down the aisles squeezing my cheeks together like I was doing some kind of cardio-muscular exercise to improve the look of my butt.

But try as I might, there was no doubt in my mind that there was no holding this one back. I started to become desperate because there were more people in the store than usual, and most of them seemed to be around my age. I began searching for that ‘golden aisle’, the one that had a couple of senior citizens ambling along. BINGO!

“Hello shoppers, we’ve got two old farts on isle ten.”

I think by this point there was even a tear in my eye as I approached them. I’m not sure if it was relief or disbelief that I was going to blow and let them take the fall. The fact was, I didn’t care at this point. I managed to manouver myself between the two of them. I reached up and grabbed a can of something from the shelf in order to maintain my position. I felt ‘it’ move and prepared myself for release. Ahhhhhhh! There was no sound, thank God, but it took longer than anticipated.

Out of the corner of my eye I could see one of the seniors slowly approaching my position. Unfortunately, just beyond her was this very handsome guy also making his way towards ground zero. “Oh no”, I thought to myself. I knew I had to bust a move so I set the can down and headed directly towards the two of them. If I could get next to that old gal then I’d be home free. Like most things in life, timing is everything.

I got next to her, and because my nose is very sensitive, I knew that foul odor had followed me. I took two steps beyond her, which put me about five feet from the handsome guy. He looked my way and I reverted to my old acting chops. I grimaced. I pointed my thumb towards the old lady and then appropriately waved my fingers under my nose. Then I made that ‘whew’ expression and kept on moving. It was going to be okay.

In the check out line, I stood there waiting for them to slide everything over the scanner. Low and behold both the old gal and the handsome guy got into the same line as me. I tried to ignore them but suddenly found the front of her cart bumping into my hip. When I turned to look at her in protest of this physical intrusion I couldn’t help but notice this odd look on her face.

Girl, you should take something for that,” she says to me. “Jesus Christ, you just about bloody killed me back there.”

The handsome guy of course is privy to this dialogue and starts to laugh uncontrollably.

I left the store vowing that I will never, ever again, pass gas at the grocery store no matter how old I get!