Postponing the Inevitable

This aging thing really sucks.

I've been reading a great book that discusses the fact that we all age but we don't have to grow old. And there is a difference, which went unnoticed by me until our holiday in Mexico.

I never thought about wrinkles or osteoporosis in my twenties because I was too busy soaking up every last moment of unburdened youth. In my thirties, my body started to change but I was absorbed with motherhood, career and a disintegrating marriage. I went weeks without looking in the mirror.

Then forty arrived like a punch in the face and practically overnight, my forehead creased, my eyes began a pilgrimage to the back of my head, I developed batwings under my arms, my bottom dimpled and my boobs needed wrestling into a bra each morning. Suddenly, people stopped asking me for i.d. and called me "ma'am". My doctors are infants and I'm old enough to have given birth to some of my kids' teachers. The point is that time is passing, I'm aging and the whole process scares me just a bit because it's like being tied to the tracks and feeling the rumble of an approaching train.

Case and point:
On the Friday we arrived in Mexico, we spent about an hour at the pool and then the entertainment staff announced that it was time to head to the beach for a game of volleyball. Excellent. I'd played throughout most of high school and considered myself a decent player. I was completely delusional. I sucked. The sand made a BIG difference. What's worse was the physical response that I had to the heat and the exertion. My face turned as red as a beet and I found myself gasping for air. My heart rate was so high that I thought I might vomit. The one clear thought I had as I struggled through the game was, "WHEN DID I GET SO OLD?"

When it was over, I focused on trying not to do a big face plant as I slogged through the sand with quivering muscles, to the pool area. After rinsing off in an outdoor shower, I dove into the pool, desperate for some icy relief. As I came to the surface and swam back to the edge, I felt the first whimpers of pain in my quads, hamstrings, lats and glutes. I medicated with fruity cocktails and vowed to exercise every single day of vacation.

Sunday afternoon, I played beach volleyball again. This time, I was far more effective as a player. As I warmed up, I became more confident and consequently, more aggressive, diving for balls and blocking at the net. Somewhere along the way, I forgot that I was forty two and living a largely sedentary life behind a computer. Midway through the second game, I planted my left foot and twisted violently to bunt the ball back over the net. My knee screamed in protest and I found myself limping. No big deal, I thought. Just a twist. Yeah, maybe at twenty it would have been minor. It's still buggered.

The book that I'm reading tells me that this type of injury is to be expected because my body is in a state of decay due to my lack of daily exercise. It says that if I want to stop the rot, I have to move my ass, vigorously, every single day without fail. I know this. On some level, I've ALWAYS known this to be true. Since turning forty, I've been obsessed with the cosmetic repercussions of aging. After hurting myself, I realized that it didn't matter how wrinkle free my face might be if I had to use a walker to get around. I don't want to battle cancer. I don't want to be another heart disease statistic. I don't want to wake up each morning having to swallow a fistful of pills just to keep myself alive. Obviously, I can't stop time and I am going to age but I don't want to get old.

So last weekend, with a commitment to health at the forefront of my mind, I accompanied Dallas to our local clinic while he got his Mexican intestinal issues sorted. This clinic takes a whole body approach to wellness. One half of it is purely medical. The other half is more like a spa offering services like massage, nutritional counseling, supplements, weight loss programs and..umm...Botox. They want you to get well, stay well and look well. I like that.

I got into a conversation with one of the staff members concerning a skin check for Dallas and me since both of us have had plenty of sun exposure. I'm not sure how that led into a discussion about Botox, but it did. She told me that they were running a special for the month of August....$11/unit. Since I had no frame of reference as to whether that was a good price or not, I had her explain it to me.
And I learned that it's totally affordable. She pointed to her own forehead (smooth as a baby's behind) and the to the non existent creases around her eyes admitting that she'd had it done.

"But why?" I asked because she looked to be in her late twenties.

"Because I'm forty," (GET OUT OF HERE!!!!)"and Botox is my little gift to myself," she replied.

And in that moment, my vanity took over and I decided Botox would be in my immediate future. Feel good, look good...why can't I have it all?

Keep you posted.

Look Who's Forty

Dallas celebrated a milestone birthday this month and unlike me, he didn't run out and buy something shiny, fast and dangerous to herald in his midlife crisis.

Oh no. He was very sensible and mature. He and a friend flew out to the east coast for a weekend filled with Nascar, Crown Royal and hobnobbing it with racing royalty. I am ashamed to admit that I was green with envy.

Not to be outdone by said Nascar experience, I had a small group of our peeps over for BBQ and some adult beverages the following weekend to celebrate. It was a very low key, relaxed affair. This past summer, friends of ours introduced us to their recipe for the best ribs that I have ever tasted. EVER. They are unreal. I have never been a big fan of ribs because they eat like a bowlful of spaghetti minus utensils. The sauce gets everywhere and you end up a sticky, smeared mess. These ribs are worth the loss in dignity, though. Seriously, if you want people to bow down at your feet and worship your culinary abilities, try this recipe.

THE BEST RIBS EVER MADE (à la Suzy and Ron)
Cut pork baby back ribs into 3 or 4’s.
Season liberally with Head Country All Purpose Seasoning
Cover and Bake in oven 350 degrees for 2.5 - 3 hours
Pour on Sweet Baby Rays BBQ sauce and grill low to med just until the sauce has caramelized.

(If you have trouble finding either the seasoning or the sauce, send me an email and I'll try to help you out because we all can't be fortunate enough to live in the south.)



Some of us stare 40 in the face and lose our minds while others are more accepting and slip into middle age gracefully. Dallas falls into the latter group. He has recently begun to grow a and goatee but only because I've asked him to and not because he is trying to be uber hip or anything. He is a man who is quite comfortable in his skin. He's the one who suggests the beach stairs while I am making a run for the cliff.

So I knew this wouldn't rattle his chain....much.



Happy Birthday, love.

The Upside of Friday Night

I was going to tell you about Ashley's visit and purposely gloss over Friday night but after hearing the events of that evening repeated to me over and over again, I felt that I had to share. To do otherwise would save me from certain embarrassment but it wouldn't be terribly authentic. So here it goes and while you read, please remember that up until three months ago, the most exciting time I had on a Friday evening was cleaning my toilets.

After a couple of positive business meetings, Ash and I decided to have dinner in the "city" on the main drag. We were celebrating. Since the college is nearby, every shop is either a pub, microbrewery, boutique restaurant or used bookstore. Using the principles of "The Secret", we nabbed a great parking spot behind the most popular row of bars and smugly congratulated each other on our mutual enlightenment. Oh yeah, we were golden. Unfortunately, neither of us thought to look back at the car because if we had, we would have seen maturity, sobriety, dignity and common sense waving good bye.

We started with a bottle of Pinot Grigio (of course), mussels and some fried clams. The conversation was intense because Ash and I just do not know how to have a light discussion with each other. We eased into a second bottle of wine for the main course and by the time that we were finished with dinner, we were toasty.

We left the restaurant and ambled over to one of the pubs where the bikers like to hang out. We walked up to the bar and made the first in a series of poor decisions. Ashley ordered both of us a shot of Jagermiester, or as I fondly call it: poison from Lucifer's bowels. I had heard horror stories about Jager and its equally deadly, hot cinnamon cousin, Goldschlager, but I had never partaken.

Now, I know why.

Under normal circumstances, I probably wouldn't have had more than one shot but there was this girl standing up at the bar and we started chatting. She announced that it was her 24th birthday and she was a bit freaked out because she was closing in on 25. I remember shaking my head, laughing and telling her to wait until her fortieth. "It's a doozy." I said. She took a step back, all Moon Zappa gag-me-with-a-spoon valleygirl and said, "Like, oh my God. You so do not look forty. You look, like, thirty two at the most."

And with that statement, more shots were ordered and consumed.

It was awful. At some point, Ashley stopped making sense and the world took on this unpleasant blur around the edges. Apparently, I was still in possession of a few brain cells, though, because I called my special friend to come and get us.

It became abundantly clear that Newton's Law of Motion was spot on. To every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.

I'll tell you all about it tomorrow.

It's Good to Be Forty

This has been a weird week.

On Tuesday, my daughter claimed to be ill. She came downstairs, refused her favourite breakfast and said she didn't feel well. She looked pale and felt clammy to the touch. I suspected that a visit to the toilet might do her a world of good but she insisted that she'd already been there and done that. I explained to her that staying home from school meant she would have to stay in bed all day without TV, sidewalk chalk or her bicycle. She made the choice to go back upstairs to bed. Well, I thought, she MUST be sick. About an hour later, I heard her up in the bathroom and fearing she would vomit in the sink (her usual MO), I flew up the stairs but stopped abruptly at the top because I could hear music. In her special little girl voice punctuated with new kindergarten moxy, Olivia was softly singing:

"I didn't have to go to school to-day. I stayed home with Mummmmmmmy".

I turned around and went back downstairs to my bathroom so I would have the benefit of a mirror while removing the giant hook from my mouth. Needless to say, she spent the rest of the day in bed with nary a hint of sensory stimulation. That night, she dramatically wiped her brow with her hand and told me she was soooo happy that she felt sooo much better. Uh huh. Let me tell you a story about the boy who cried wolf.....

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Wednesday, I went out for a run in my neighbourhood and noticed that the sidewalks were filled with toads. I guess when the sun goes down, these warty creatures come out and hug the cement for warmth. I was convinced that I was witnessing the Apocalypse in my subdivision since "plague" is only loosely defined in Revelations. They were gross. I tried to take a picture to show you how one toad's eyes defied the laws of physics but the iPhone doesn't have a flash. The worst part is that I don't see well in the dark. I am not a feline, bat or an owl so jumping off the sidewalk onto the road is always a crap shoot for me. One day it could be success, the next could mean knee surgery. Anyway, the queerest thing was that the toads WOULD NOT HOP AWAY. My feet were pounding down right beside them and they didn't move. I had visions of scraping squished amphibian out of my shoe treads and it was more than I could bear. I moved to the street where every leaf looked like a tarantula and every stick resembled a snake. When I got home, I was relieved to find the children still in their beds so the Rapture hadn't happened after all. I won't be running at night anymore.

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Yesterday, I got to see my favourite Dr. Sexy Metro Boy and when I left his office, I was feeling positively sassy. He told me that I was a "stud" because I had healed so well and had such great use of my arm. He lavished me in superlatives and I basked in all of that good patient glory. On the way out he asked me to wait because he had something to show me. Then, he goes into this office and comes out with his brand new iPhone. He tells me that he got it because of me. Small talk and more basking ensued. I told him I was learning how to ride a hog this weekend and he lifted up my pant legs apparently to see what my shins looked like before I tore the skin off of them. Now, that is just not positive thinking but no matter. I still have a crush.

And speaking of my Rider's Edge course, I learned one major thing tonight. Motorcycles are a little bit like pregnancy. Everyone has a horror story about some friend of a friend. So far, the other eleven people in the class seem great. I met one guy who just turned forty in January and like me, his fascination with Harley Davidson has roots in a mid-life crisis although I don't think he would actually coin it that way.

And hey, I know that I appear to be the poster child for the whole crisis scenario but I am having the time of my life right now and I wouldn't change one thing. This isn't a crisis! It's EVERYTHING I would have done in my twenties if I'd had two nickels to rub together. In class tonight, I learned that one of the other instructors owns the most reputable tatoo parlour in town. Coincidence? I think not.

It's good to be forty.

Dating Is Not For The Weak

Dating in your forties is a minefield. I entered into this process with twenty year old rules firmly planted in my brain and like our education system, it became evident that my assumptions were hopelessly outdated.

Assumption #1: Men only want one thing. Wrong. They certainly are interested in THAT but they're also looking for intelligence, humor, self-sufficiency and (gasp) conversation.

Assumption#2: If he has a tattoo, he's a bad boy with a checkered past and not someone you could bring home to mother. First of all, there aren't many I'd bring home to Mum because it would be like being put under a magnifying glass in the blazing sun. Second, the term "bad boy" is a completely subjective pronouncement and these men have more layers than an onion. Tattoos have received a bad rap.

Assumption#3: Razor blade. Tweezers. Pumice stone. Period. Apparently not. I would like to find the little porn star who took advanced waxing and electrolysis from the daring few and made it mainstream. Then, I would like to beat her until she was unable to say Brazilian.

Assumption#4: People my age waited longer to have their kids. Again, this would not be correct. Seemingly, while I was taking classes and changing majors, my male counterparts were taking vows and changing diapers.

Assumption#5: Chivalry is dead. Oh no, not by a long shot. Principle: bravery-any person who elects to jump into the dating pool after divorce, alimony, division of assets, step-parenting, custody battles and lengthy settlements is either a loon or very courageous. Principle: Gallantry and generousity- men now remember details like the fact that dark chocolate is manna from heaven. They come with little gifts casually mentioned in conversation and bouquets of the most exquisite flowers. They pick up the tab even when they know that you are perfectly able. They use words like "beautiful" and they mean it. Chivalry is alive, kicking and the rule, not the exception.

Perhaps the most erroneous assumption that I have made is that time means the same as it did fifteen years ago. This was such a miscalculation on my part. When you factor your work day, time for the kids, time for normal life chores, time for sleep, time for exercise and time for your extended family and friends, there is precious little left to give to a relationship. So what happens is that the few moments that are spent together are very intense because there is this underlying current that so much ground needs to be covered, quickly.

Wrong there, too.

I suppose exploring relationships at my age is kind of like giving birth. You are encouraged to give a little push to start things off, so you do what you're told and then all of the sudden, the situation is much further along than you had anticipated and holy crap! Someone had better be there to catch that baby before he's dropped on his head!

Pant, pant, pant, pant, EXHALE.

Taking the Plunge

When you are twenty something and Mr. Right for Right Now presents himself, the first blooms of lust and infatuation can be enjoyed without the burden of emotional intelligence because the purpose of your third decade on this planet is largely to get your groove on.

In your thirties, the focus becomes career and the raising of a young family. Mr. Right for Right Now has turned into Mr.You Had Better Be Right Because We Have a Mortgage, Kids and a Minivan. Some couples survive this decade and watching them is like witnessing the ebb and flow of the tides. They have either learned the dance of compromise or someone in the relationship is heavily medicated.

Other couples do not survive (ahem) and thus, parts of their thirties are spent getting their heads around the concept of single parenthood which is akin to being pecked to death by a sparrow. Divorce is painful and afterward, it sometimes takes years to dip one's toe into the dating pool again because relationships can be like licking a metal pole in the dead of a Canadian winter. Your tongue will get stuck and the only way to be freed is to rip yourself to pieces or allow someone to pee on your head. Neither option is terribly appealing.

Then the forties arrive and as part of a married couple, I can only assume that the main goal is for both people to withstand each other's midlife crisis. For those of us who are single, our life has come full circle and we are once more thrust back to the circumstances of our twenties. Again, Mr. Right For Right Now may present himself but in the fifteen or twenty years that have passed, he has changed. He is mature, somewhat battle weary and he is looking for a partner, not a conquest.

The trouble is that the incident with the steel pole, while firmly in the past, is still fairly vivid. Lust and infatuation are most definitely present but they are now tempered with experience and just a speck of common sense. Then one day, you are surprised to find that your breath unexpectedly catches in your throat at the sight of him. Belatedly, you realize that your heart has taken the plunge and you find yourself hoping that he knows how to dance.

Midlife Crisis

I was speaking with my friend the other night and she expressed that perhaps the recent lifestyle changes could be attributed to my very own midlife crisis.

Huh? Are you kidding me? Midlife crisis is for people in their forties.

*blink*, *blink*

Hmmm... maybe she is onto something.

Yes, I have recently taken up golf. Yes, I have spent an obscene amount of money on equipment but can you really equate my Big Bertha's with ..say..um..a shiny, new, Corvette? I'm not so sure. Of course, the (sexist) argument could be made that sweet golf clubs draw men like mosquitoes to a zapper.

Yes, I got divorced but I didn't get out of my marriage to jump into a relationship with some hot, young boy toy . I left because I spent the better part of each day trying to convince myself that killing my ex husband in his sleep was not the answer. I was intimate with that just-under-the-surface, bubbling, festering, barely controlled rage.

Yes, I have let my hair grow long because it makes me feel more feminine, not younger. You see, as I have aged, the resemblance to my father has become more pronounced and short hair merely accentuated the issue. Besides, that whole pixie look is for young, perky women who don't have to step into their bras in the morning.

Yes, I have purchased a few (thousand) anti-aging products. I could pack a week's worth of clothes in the bags under my eyes. I had even budgeted for Botox until I was introduced to Arbonne. Soon though, even great skin care products will not be able to stop my eyes from falling into my head (like spitting into a snowbank...thanks Norma) and I am determined not to go gently through middle age. I'm not talking Joan Rivers or anything quite so scary but plastic surgery is most definitely in my future. I have a laundry list...

And finally, I suppose I am much more serious about my health. The reality of this is while you still feel great, the body starts to betray you in little ways. The common cold, if accompanied by cough, can be a challenge for any woman who has had more than one child. Carrying your kids up the stairs can make your knees sing. Having one too many cocktails now wipes out the entire next day. This isn't mid life crises, it's the epiphany that happens when you realize that you have to do everything in your power to maintain good health because your quality of life depends upon it.

My mum said that your forties are a great time...even better than your thirties because you still look good, have money, some life experience and you are finally comfortable in your own skin.

Yeah, I like that.

So, if my lifestyle has changed, it is because my perspective has shifted. and if this is a midlife crisis, well I just want to welcome it with open arms. Oh yes, and just because I divorced for all of the right reasons doesn't mean that I'm not open to a little May-December thing. Isn't that what being a coug is all about?

Forty-something

I turned 40 in February and for the first several weeks, I couldn't say the word, "forty" without stammering, sputtering, stuttering stupidness. I was like Porky Pig:

"I'm fffff.."
"I'm ffffoor.."
"I'm fffoorrt, ffoorrt.."

"I'm middle aged."

My mum sent me a birthday card which said that the best thing about turning forty was that it wasn't fifty. Nice.

It has been my practise to drink take a life inventory at these milestone birthdays. I reflect back on the last decade and sort of grade myself.

Marriage: F - married the man who was a lot like our president..cute but unable to form complete sentences. Divorced after nearly a decade of purgatory.

Motherhood: A -gave myself the high grades here because even after begging someone to kill me in the throes of childbirth ("walking epidural" is an oxymoron), I firmly embraced the secret code of women everywhere and drank the "forget the pain" elixir. Five years later, I found myself nodding vigorously as the anesthesiologist asked me if I would like a little drug cocktail to take the edge off as baby #2 made her way out.

Career: A+- very pleased with the progress made in this area. Besides the lovely boost in compensation and traveling the world, the unexpected lift in self esteem was worth every miserable minute I spent in my twenties asking questions like, "Would you care for fresh ground pepper with that?"

Health: C+ -this is a mixed bag here. Bad marks for smoking and having to explain to people that I had just had a baby (four years previous). Good grades for going organic and refusing to be bullied by the medical establishment.

Friendship: B -again..this one is not a cut and dried category. I did mature. In fact, people told me that I would be their phone call if they were on "Who Wants To Be A Millionaire". On the other hand, I was unable to shake that little bit of crazy, that intangible, irresponsible urge which makes babysitters of the people closest to you. I am also not great at staying in touch. Email has certianly simplified things but I am ashamed to admit that I have a huge trunk full of addressed, unsent Christmas cards going back as far as 2000 (nobody sent cards in 1999 because the end of the world was nigh and who could afford postage after spending whacks of money on bottled water, generators and canned food ?!!!)

Finances: A - great comeback decade. Went from abject stay-at-home-mom poverty (just my situation..lots of SAHMoms have normal husbands who don't say things like, "Where does all my money go?") to comfortable single parent. I finally had "stuff"; which is not to accentuate the material but more the accomplishment. To this day, I can't put into words the emotion I felt closing on a house with only my name on the deed. Life insurance, pension, 401K, living will directive, etc.....all very grown up and responsible.

Not a bad decade, all in all.

I think back to my twenties, living near the beach in San Diego with a decent job, no responsibilities and uncensored enthusiasm. I used to watch the cougs in the bars and feel pity. In the blink of an eye, I'm the COUG!!! This is why I avoid the bar scene like the plague.

Then, my mum was able to put things into perspective for me. One night I was whining lamenting about my age and she said,

"You being forty rattles me, as well. Do you know what it is like telling someone that you have a FORTY year old daughter?!!"

And just like that, I was over myself.