Another 365 Days

Well, I made it. Okay, I have almost made it. As long as I don't get maimed in some freak accident on the way to Target today, I will have lived for 35 years. Depending on your age, you will look at that number and either say "OMG, you are like so grossly old and nasty." or " Wow young lady, you have a long time to figure this whole life thing out." I feel like both are pretty spot on with how I feel right now. Some days I feel grossly old, like yesterday when I let my naturally curly hair be free from the burning smell of a straightener. I was embracing who I really am, which is someone with genetically crazed hair. When my preteen daughter came home, she found me in the bathroom scrunching (is that still a thing??) my rambunctious curls.

"What do you think?" I asked her, as I twirled around like a proud toddler with a new party dress on.
"Is that on purpose?" she asked.
"Yeah. My hair is naturally curly so I'm not flat ironing it today. How does it look?"
Chuckling, she said "Umm, you're really going out with it like that?" 
I told her to leave and proceeded to mope as I looked at myself in the mirror. Then I tried to fix the manic twirls on top of my head. I should have just shaved it all off and called it a Halloween costume. In that moment I felt old and really uncool.

Other days I feel like it is possible that I have a few more decades to figure this all out and that I am in the prime of my venture here on planet Earth. I can usually hold onto that feeling until I see myself naked in a full length mirror or hear myself saying "I don't care if she likes it or not. She is taking piano because kids who play an instrument do better in school." Better than what? I don't know, but that's what old people say and I'm there. The youngish feeling comes when I am hanging out with my brother and/or sister and strangers will say "Who's the oldest?" I selfishly point fingers and live on that high until the truth comes out. It's me. The midget of the bunch who still gets carded for beer, but has to dye her progressively graying hair.

I am more confident and less confident at almost 35. I'm happier and less happy. I'm mature and a completely immature asshole. While the number I am forced to list on surveys has gone up, I feel like I am the same person I was ten years ago except I have a different set of goals and a new set of worries under my belt. I don't have to concern myself with potty training or peeing on a stick in hopes that we can grow our family. Those days are gone. Now I watch my oldest put on makeup while she shares secrets with me about cute boys and going to movies without me. I'm not sure why she would want to, I'm really fun. I don't worry about money the way I used to when my husband and I were first married, but now I worry whether we have saved enough for a catastrophe or for college. Kind of the same thing. Getting old is weird and I have a love/hate relationship with it. Knowing what I want to be when I grow up is just as hard as not having a fucking clue. Being forced to shop for appropriate adult attire is just as hard as being followed around Contempo Casuals (remember that store???) by some super chic cashier. I'm 35, almost. And I'm still trying to figure this whole thing out. Perhaps that's the point.

Loving Dirty Underwear

Our wedding day, August 23, 2000.

I did my fair share of dating. By fair share, I mean what I feel was fair and enough that I didn't need to share myself with anyone else. High school wasn't the highlight of my life, social or otherwise, so very little dating went on and when I got out of high school I was convinced that there was no one romantically interested in a weirdo like me. I had gay friends who fulfilled the part of me that wanted to hear "You look hot" or "Let me pick you up for dinner, sweetie". I knew how to masturbate, so looking to get laid wasn't making my to-do list at the time.

My longest relationship, before meeting my husband, lasted a couple of months and ended when this particular guy visited me in Vegas and informed me that he wanted to give up his whole life and move in with me. The desperately needy thing was a turn off and I dumped him before he headed back home. I had one relationship (if you can call it that) which ended after I drove 40 minutes to bring Mr. Faker homemade chicken noodle soup and found him in bed with a girl whom he introduced to me as his girlfriend. There was the guy with a mullet who took me on a ride down State Street on his bullet bike and forced me to question the type of men I attracted. If they weren't in a band (equals jobless) than they lived with their mom (equals will love her more than you). My batting average wasn't very good. One of the band guys took me to his sister's house, where he lived on the couch, and proceeded to treat me in a manner that I imagine most prostitutes would find disturbing. A couple of weeks later, he introduced me to his girlfriend after I surprised him by showing up to one of his shows. Yeah, I've been that girl a few times.

I wasn't made to withstand the "bliss" of having a random guy buy me a drink in a bar, ask for my number and then fuck my best friend the next weekend. I've never enjoyed having strangers buy me drinks, I'm clear that there is an expectation. My parents taught me that nothing in life is free, so that shit never worked on me. I don't like wondering if you want to hold my hand or kiss me at the end of our date. I find no joy in hearing you call your mom a horrendous bitch or informing me that you have two kids you never see because their mom is cunt. It tells me a lot about a man who speak about women in derogatory terms and I don't like it.

Then one day it all changed. I met someone who worked, went to school, and respected me. He wasn't in a band (which makes sense if you have ever heard him sing) and after 13 years, I have never walked in to find him fucking anyone else. Or introducing me to his girlfriend. We had new love that eventually grew into saggy boobed, spare tire love. While some may tout the heart palpitating joy of new love, I will take old love every day of the week. The longer I wake up next to the same farting rear end, the more I realize that I wasn't cut out for single.

I like consistent. I like waking up to the same bad breath, the same inability to take a quiet shower, the same pair of holey underwear and the same drink cups left in every corner of the house. I love washing aforementioned holey underwear and turning the one leg of your jeans inside out before I throw them in the washer. It is a little piece of heaven when you gently caress my back and ask me if I am up for one more show. I am totally up for one more show. I was built for long, smelly, old, fat, nasty love. That new stuff is highly overrated and I get the same butterflies I did the first time you kissed me, except now I don't ever wonder if it will be the last time. We will kiss again tomorrow and the next day and then we will fight about money or who is getting up with the kids. I will apologize and so will you and I'll curse your dirty underwear after you leave for work. But I wouldn't have it any other way.

  Our first 5k together, May 2013.

Don't forget to head over to mythirtyspot.com where I have a new article about raising boys and why I was scared shitless to do it. 

Aging And My Genitalia

My mom has the best attitude about aging. I am constantly in a state of panic about getting old, mostly due to sheer vanity, and she will tell me "Well, it's better than the other option." I can see the truth in that, but as the days start to fly by I am struck by how repulsed I am at getting really old.

The commercial that nearly brought me to tears was one for a trans-vaginal mesh. The part of me that wants to believe I am young wanted to make a nasty joke, the part of me that knows I will live to be ninety-nine was wondering if I should start a savings jar for that surgery immediately. Did you know your vag needs to be held up by foreign material after a certain point? Yea, me either. It was the worse news I had heard since learning that my husband's balls will one day reach his knees. It's happening, ladies. Start marking his thigh now so you can watch the natural progression of his nut sack from between his thighs to around his ankles. I knew the outside of my body would age, I've had grandparents. They were soft and wrinkly and all around wonderful. What they never told me was that the inside of your body is deteriorating at the same rate and that your insides have no where to go but down. Think about that for a minute....mesh holding in your privates. NO FUCKING WAY!! I plan to invent a better option. Super tight rubber panties, a vag sling that doubles as suspenders, or perhaps a wheelchair that has a elevated crotch area for those in need of some between the legs support.

One of the other issues I lose sleep over are my teeth. Teeth make me crazy...good teeth and bad.  I am more likely to describe someone by their teeth than their skin color, body size or facial hair.
Me: "Remember that guy at the bar the other night, the one with gangly teeth?"
My Sister: "You mean that cute guy with dreads? He was really nice."
Me: "Did you see his teeth? Damn. I didn't know he had dreads. Weird."
This leads us to old person teeth, also known as dentures. My second worst nightmare. My great-grandma had dentures and while I never noticed them as a kid, I did notice the weird cup on the bathroom sink set up and waiting for something to soak. Denture cup. Gummy kisses and soft food. I just can't accept the fact that one day I would wake up next to my husband and look like my face had been sucked in through my mouth. Shear vanity. I have heard of younger folks who had drug problems or face-to-curb issues and have had to get dentures. That would make me manic. What if you forget to glue your teeth in? What if you have a one night stand and wake up next to some dude who suddenly has no teeth? I guess breakfast is out.

I know I will get old and simply because I detest the idea of being a hundred years old, I will be one day. The Universe will feel an overwhelming desire to smash my self-confidence and force me to love the parts of aging that I can't yet wrap my mind around. At which point, I will discontinue the use of mirrors.