 Today I went to the store not wearing something that 10 years ago I swore I never would…no makeup. And I paid for it dearly just like I thought I would during all these many years of not venturing out the door without, at the very least, a good coat of mascara. As far as I was concerned my lack of an encounter with the sales girls confirmed my suspicions that no makeup=no service. So I just stood there at the counter while two young sales clerks had a gossip fest that would make Hedda Hopper and Louella Parsons proud. Finally, I started to get annoyed. But here is the thing. It wasn’t so much that the girls were ignoring me that upset me but it was the fact that I was all but invisible to them. HUH? Since when did this cloak of inconspicuousness begin to envelop me? I mean it seems like just yesterday that I was twenty-five and men would whistle and sales women couldn’t wait to give me the time of day. So when did I become invisible?
I wish I could pinpoint a time that I began to disappear. A day or an event that I could look back on and blame would be nice. A moment at which I could say “Ah ha. It was the day you stopped dying your hair,” or something significant like that. Yet, if the truth is told, I do have a vague idea of when this slide into nothingness began. It was around my 40th birthday when I gained twenty-five pounds and crows feet all in the same day. It was the year the Dow dropped precipitously and so did my boobs. And it was the year my collagen supply diminished and my shoe size increased as everything in my body suddenly let go and “loosened” up. Instantly, I was no longer youthful nor desirable to Madison Avenue or the man on the street. Society began to dictate no more cute low cut dresses, open toe shoes or fishnet hose for me. In fact, the sales girls in some sort of giggly, jiggly, conspiracy started steering me towards the matronly woman department. You know the place. It’s where they sell swimsuits with huge explosive pink flowers with aprons to cover your “older but wiser” big ass. Here you can find shoes without heels and interchangeable inserts for shoes and bras. It’s the one place on earth where the minute hands are removed from watches so as to not remind you of your impending demise. And it’s where White Shoulders perfume strangles the air. Come to think of it, after turning forty I never again received free samples of tanning lotion, sculpting gel or feminine deodorant spray in the mail. Now its just, AARP news, denture cream and life insurance spokesman Ed McMann that clutters my mailbox.
This invisibleness I have taken on is not of my choosing and somehow it doesn’t seem fair nor does it suit me. I mean, come on, when my mother was forty she was OLD. I on the other hand, well, I am hip, sassy and can still have a decent conversation with “the girls” about sex that would make even Oprah squirm. In fact, I almost jumped into the sales girls conversation when it started venturing towards men’s body parts. But instead I laughed out loud thinking about how young, inexperienced and naive they were. It was then that they turned, and gave me “THE LOOK” that told me they thought that dementia was settling in and making a permanent home in my soon-to-be grandma brain.
“May I help you?” shouted a nineteen year-old bleached blondie named Brittany who had a permanent Botox IV drip inserted under her skin. She sashayed over to where I stood in her perfect size 00 hipsters; her perky boobs still able to arrive at my side of the counter five minutes before the rest of her.
“I believe you can. I want the biggest jar of anti-wrinkle cream you have,” I said. I remembered to smile while trying standing a little straighter in a futile effort to raise my boobs an inch higher so I would not inadvertently knock the samples to the floor.
She gave me the “poor pitiful you there is nothing that can help” look as she placed my purchase in the bag with her set of perfectly polished two inch nails.
“Oh, I threw in some free samples of the newest and most technologically advanced firming creams on the market,” Brittany said patting me on the hand. “They guarantee that it will make you look ten years younger. It really helps women YOUR age.”
It was at that precise moment a miracle occurred and I grew comfortable in my aging skin. For in that second, I knew without a doubt, that invisible and fifty-five was a thousand times better than insecure and nineteen. Sure she may have the world by the tail but give it a few years and Brittany would soon be directed to the matrons department by girls just like her. But there would be one big difference. She would arrive scared, not confident. She would be feeling dread, not optimism. Instead of my BRING IT ON attitude she would the type who would cut, lipo, shape, tweeze and pilate her way into middle age. Eventually, she would begin to develop a flat head as she engaged in twenty minute headstand marathons trying to get her breasts somewhere up near her shoulders again. Then she would discover gravity doesn’t work that way and it would be all downhill from there.
Luckily, I am one of those that “Age” has been speaking with for a while now. I have slowly gotten used to having her around. Sometimes she speaks softly to me offering encouragement. At other times “Age’ becomes loud and brassy with a “Take A Look At Me Now” attitude; daring the world to see what I see when I look in the mirror…naked. She gives me a comforting yet gentle push to the future even as I resist her intrusion into my life. We have a love/hate relationship going on. Yet,I am fortunate because for others “Age” is not so kind. She digs her stilettos in, fighting to remain in the past, fearful of what’s to come. It was obvious Blondie would be one of those.
I took pity on the nineteen year-old. I reached into my bag and placed the new miracle of science back into her hand.
“Darling you take it,” I said with a laugh. “In fact, take all of it,” I laughed shoving the samples back into her hands. “Believe it or not someday you will need it.”
And with that, I turned and headed over to the hat department. There I found a vibrant scarlet red one; it’s upturned brim spotted with leopard material. It sits in my closet waiting as I bridge the gap between young and old, wise and wishful, content and always searching. Every once in awhile I put it on to remind myself that I am not invisible even if the youth of society and Madison Avenue wants me to be. It reinforces the fact don’t intend on bowing out quickly and quietly as a nearly invisible shadow of my former self. Instead, I have chosen to live my life celebrating my age, my lines, my sense of humor , the wisdom I have acquired, my many accomplishments to date, and my verve. I’ll be the one to decide if and when I will cease to exist, not some blonde bimbo at Bloomingdales. I may be older and grayer than the ME generation but I still have my power and I‘m still feeling pretty damn groovy.
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Marriage
The High Price Of Being A Temptress…298 Days To Fix This
This four-day holiday weekend is all ours. Today we pack up the car, wave good-bye to the kiddos and head due west towards the ocean. By ourselves. All alone. A time meant to revive this marriage to its fullest, a time to be ourselves and put away the parent mode and ramp up the “I’m too sexy for my shirt” one.
As I mentioned earlier my husband informed me that he misses the days when I would act like a temptress and seduce him while wearing sexy barely nothing there lingerie. I know that this week-end he is getting more than he bargained for.
I bought this beautiful corset dress. Here is it.
Sexy isn’t it? Paired with a pair of black stilettos it is definitely titillating to the max. If this doesn’t get him he is already seven feet under. The only issue with this particular item of non-clothing is that the bust was about five sizes too big and stuck out 8 inches in front of were my boobs should have been filling it up. This is what happens when you order on-line instead trying on in-store…things you think will fit here end up fitting there. I was bummed.
I mentioned my problem to my walking buddy L who told me to come on over and she would stitch it to fit. Thank goodness for good friends!
“No problem,” she assured me, “You will look beautiful when I am done with you.”
Today I arrived. I stuffed myself into the dress trying not to turn crimson as I stood in front of L who has never seen me in a bathing suit before much less a seducing suit. She fussed, she mussed, she pinned and grinned while I stood there completely flustered. But hey, I was doing this for my man I reasoned; so what’s a little lack of modesty amongst friends?
As we sat down in her perfect powder white chairs at the dining table so she could begin sewing I was horrified to suddenly see purple/black fingerprints all over her lovely pristine chairs. We both looked down at our hands to discover that they were entirely black from the dyed lace overlaying the corset. At that moment I wanted to die.
We bleached, used the Magic Eraser and we scrubbed with every cleanser known to man. Nothing worked to remove the awful purple fingerprints. By this time I was nearly in tears. Thank goodness I have a gracious, calm friend who kept reassuring me that “it is only a chair.”
But to me it isn’t just a chair. It’s two chairs. And they belong to my friend who was doing me a favor. And they are ruined.
Today I discovered that there is a high price to being a Temptress. It costs exactly $414.97.
One sexy corset $59.00
One pair of silk thigh high stockings $19.00
One tube of red lipstick $10.99
One tube radiant makeup overlay $19.99
One spool of black thread $5.99
Two white dining room chairs $300.00
Total $414.97
B is definitely getting more than he ever bargained for. I pray he thinks its worth it.
A Marriage Of Stone
Recently, I have started hand sanding rocks as a hobby. These are not ordinary rocks mind you, but Petoskey Stones direct from Lake Michigan. The Petoskey also has the distinction of being the state rock. These prehistoric fossil rocks were created long before dinosaurs roamed the earth and comprised of six-sided corallites. I love them.
The interesting thing about these rocks are that they are pretty ugly until given the care that they need. They often look like deeply pitted gray blobs while laying under the cold water but upon close inspection you can often just make out the outline of something more wonderful to come. My kids and I love scooping them out of the lake and lining our pockets, heavy with the weight of promise, as we make our way home.
Once home I begin the sanding process. Professionals use special tumblers as the rock can disintegrate if care is not taken. I just sand with ordinary sand paper. I start with 80 grit and move upwards until I reach a grit so fine it almost feels smooth as glass. Ever so slowly I sand away the imperfections of the rock, moving in a circular motion, like water carrying particles down the drain. As I remove layer upon layer the picture of what’s to come gets clearer and I can begin to see the exquisite beauty of each stone. Sometimes it takes days or weeks to get that kind of clarity.
Marriage is a little like those rocks. Marriages are held together with layers of our personal marital history melded with the fossils of our past. Often a long-lived marriage looks like it has come right out of the water…cold, wet, pockmarked and oftentimes so ugly and plain you think about just throwing it back. But then you remember that with a little patience, effort, time and care you will begin to see each small component of the whole looking shiny and bright. Finally, after much polishing and nurturing the beauty of your stone/marriage comes to life and you can see what all that hard work has brought you…something precious, lovely and beautiful to look at..a showpiece that the two of you have created from something that came before.
And all it took to see such beauty was a little elbow grease and a lot of faith that there was something better underneath.
A Seven…342 Days To Fix This
So last night when we were taking our nightly walk I made the mistake of asking B how was I doing on the changes he had asked that I make. I figured I was at a 9.5 at the least. After all I have:
- Not yelled in like 25 days
- My house is practically ready for a photo shoot in House Beautiful minus the sink where a pile of dishes is stacked because B needs to put in a new garbage disposal.
- We had explosive sex 5 times this week (confession, it was only explosive 4 out of 5 times but hey I’m 55 so I count that as a blessing) Unfortunately, it appears that “Bat Ears” radar picked up on the fact that we were “going at it” which may explain why he is walking around the house repeating the number “69” over and over again. Sigh. How will I explain this one to his teacher?
- I am smiling and dancing like a Pharrell Williams Happy extra when my heart is really breaking.
- I’ve lost ten pounds
Yes, I have worked myself into a brand new me and frankly I have been pretty impressed with her. For in the midst of heartbreak I am also feeling strong and optimistic about who I can be as middle age creeps up on me (at least a couple of hours a day anyway)
So after all this change and angst which I am working so hard at I was devastated when B replied, “Well, I would say a 7.” And that is when I realized we really may not stay together because, frankly, I am doing the best I can do. The best I will ever be able to do. I can do no more and I wouldn’t want to even if I could. And if that is worth only a 7 in B’s book then we are doomed. Because I am working so hard at making others happy that I am losing myself even further in the process. And losing myself is not something I am willing to do anymore. Not even for B, or my kids, or my church community. Because I know that in losing myself it only makes my relationships stay in a state of limbo and that in the end the relationship will never make up for what I have given up in order to keep things going. All I am doing is creating an illusion and building a house out of sand that will be swept away during the first big storm. And as luck would have it, this year is suppose to be a hell of an El Nino.
Time Revisited
I went back to look at something I had written about my husband approximately 12 years ago. This is what I wrote:
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I can write about just about anything but B because no words I might use to describe him and what he means to me would ever do him justice. It’s like trying to describe a shining diamond. While one can attempt to describe its brilliance as it sparkles in the light you would still miss some aspects of its perfection just by not being in its presence. You would miss the subtle flickers of color cast around the room; the blues, pinks and yellows. You would be unable to count the thousand little points of light that dance around the room. It’s just one of those things that you have to be around to fully appreciate its incredible beauty. That is how I feel about B.
B is my inspiration. He is whom I strive to emulate. He is kind, considerate, compassionate, joyful and he has a soul that is at peace with itself. He pushes me to try to be the best I can be and he teaches our children not through mere words but from example. B is also dedicated to our family, to making the world a better place and to living his life in a manner that is ethical and sincere. He is a wonderful father to our children and is always helping them find their way to themselves.
For years I struggled in a job that gave me little in the way of satisfaction, creativity and fulfillment. It was B who gave me the encouragement to try writing for a living and in doing so allowed my life to return to me in unexpected ways. His support (both financial and emotional) has allowed me to learn about myself, warts and all. Thanks to him I have been able to follow my own twisted path to enlightenment and happiness. If I died tomorrow, I would die happy because I am one of the fortunate ones to have experienced true love from a man who has often put my selfish wants and needs above his own. A man who heart knows no bounds and for whom love is endless and complete. B is my diamond.
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So how do I feel about this now? Do I feel the same when I re-read it 12 years later? For the most part I have to say I do. Time has eroded the sense of B being as ethical as I once thought he was at least as far as our personal relationship goes. I still believe he is ethical in his dealings with others, just not me at times. He is still kind, he continues to try to be joyful ( although I would say it has diminished some but let’s face it we have serious challenges in our family), compassionate and he still helps me try to be the best I can be. He is still a wonderful father and now he is a loving grandfather. His soul is definitely not at peace and that is due to our strained relationship and the stress he is feeling at work and whatever else he refuses to share. But what really strikes me about this writing is this:
Thanks to him I have been able to follow my own twisted path to enlightenment and happiness.
That is not true. At All. On so many levels.
And so what I really come away from in re-visiting this piece I had written is that things change. Quietly. Continuously. Changes exaggerate and expand as we age and get to know each other better. But in truth, we are who we are and although we will change we must also grow. And there is a difference between the two. Our relationship has changed but not always grown and we certainly have not grown together only further apart. And I have yet to find enlightenment.
Gardy Loo Pismire 