Showing posts with label women. Show all posts
Showing posts with label women. Show all posts

Monday, October 18, 2021

Best Things about Being My Age

Dear Lord, another birthday. Hard to believe I used to actually look forward to these annual events. When I was younger, I could hardly wait to be one year older. When I was 16, I desperately wanted to be 18. And, when I reached 18, I was equally eager to be 21. What a cruel twist of fate all these years later and I approach the anniversary of my birth with reduced enthusiasm. Being keen on always seeing the silver lining, however, surely there are a few advantages of being of a certain age. 

Now did you actually think I was going to write a blog about the good things about aging? Sorry for the "bait and switch," but what could possibly be good about getting old?? There's a reason the words "old and cranky" are often used in conjunction. But I was able to come up with a few. If anyone has any more to add, feel free to leave them in the comments. 

1. Calling everyone "doll." I'm not exactly when this started but at some point I reached an over-the-hill age when it just seemed right to starting calling everyone--complete strangers, cashiers, waiters and even work colleagues--doll or honey. No idea why or when I suddenly felt this privilege was bestowed upon me, but I won't lie; I do like it. Makes me feel a bit like a sage powerful Yoda of sorts. And, best part is people seem powerless to argue it. No one is insulted and right from the start, I've established that we are not equals. I've seen a lot of shit, just by living this many years so obviously I'm very wise, and possibly just a little nutty too. I've used all of these presumptions to my advantage plenty of times. 

2. Discounts at movies.  I have not yet made use of these but I will! That is, if I can push my vanity aside for a moment to admit that I'm this age. I get an AARP card in the mail monthly. I throw them away immediately, as if that will somehow disqualify me from the continuation of the aging process. 

3. Being shameless. Yep, that's right. I have reached the point age-wise where almost nothing embarrasses me. This newly acquired super power makes it possible for me to go damn near anywhere sans makeup, sometimes wearing the same shirt I slept in (tastefully under something else, like a sweatshirt, of course). Not only is this a real time-saver, but also has drastically cut my wardrobe and makeup budget. 

4. 9 years until retirement. Enough said. 

Taking a pause

A few weeks ago I had my belated annual physical. My doctor asked if I was having any issues. I actually feel pretty damn good for an old broad, but I did mention that sometimes during my second cup of coffee, I all the sudden get really hot. Super odd, doesn't last long but boy when it hits, I'm tearing off like my clothes like George Clooney is sitting on a bed and patting the empty place next to him. 

She kind of smiled and mentions that it's most likely the onset of menopause or I guess in this case, perimenopause. I just stared at her for a minute and then very calmly explained, or this case "doc-splained" to her, that it couldn't possibly be that. It obviously has something to do with the caffeine. I mean I'm not that old! I still have a IUD!! 


I've spent the better part of my adult years terrified of my own fertility. Both kids were conceived  instantaneously.  Freakish fertility runs in the family. My sister and my aunt both easily conceived kids in their 40s. My aunt is five years older, a mid-40s surprise baby!  I guess you gotta be good at something. 

Dating "Six-pack Will" for several years did little to alleviate this concern as I was fairly certain his sperm was probably in top shape and most likely very fast and agile. Having a baby in my late 40s was enough to keep me up at night and double-downed on birth control. So now the fertility chapter of my life is closed forever? 

So first up, I'm not calling it menopause. Just like the word menstruation should not have the word "men" in it, neither should menopause. Both annoying consequences of being female that hardly impacts men at all, other than dealing with the cranky, sweaty women in their lives. So henceforth, I'm just "pausing" or "taking a pause." 


What other fun things are on tap, I asked my doctor. Oh boy, brittle bones, hot flashes, weight gain, brain fog, dry vag, fatigue and night sweats...I can hardly wait. What a party! Sign me up! Brain fog? This will come as disappointing news to my coworkers and loved ones, who already suffer from my not-so-great memory. It's getting worse? Groovy. Wow, we really did get the short end of the stick, girls. 

Now I assure you that I'm not taking this news lying down, not going down without a fight. I can't do much about the "pausing" that I guess is coming, but no way in hell I'm getting old. 

I mean mentally I'm still 30. Despite my chronological age, I still feel like a rebel. A rule breaker. A troublemaker. A law breaker. I speed and curse, often at the same time. I can spend hours laughing at videos of people falling on Tik Tok (because my sense of humor stopped developing at 18). I have no filter, like a toddler or senile elder. 

I still love concerts as I have my whole life. I went to Lollapalooza, for God's sake! Didn't see a whole lot of AARP members there. I like to party (within limits), love my wine, and am a big fan of marijuana (once considered counter-culture, now hardly edgy since it's legal). But surely I'm way cooler than the typical perimenopausal old lady.


Was I supposed to mature and outgrow these things? Age out of that world? What's weird is I just don't feel how what I assumed someone 56-years-old would feel. And, I'm not planning on changing anytime soon. I certainly have a tough act to follow when it comes to physical aging. 

Some of you know Barb Senior, my mom, who has been defying the aging process for decades. She can still beat me in tennis, won nearly every golf tournament she played in this summer (including her club championship), has had 7 hole-in-ones, does pilates 3 times a week, and can probably beat up your mom. She's a legend, and I will be trying to follow in her footsteps every step of the way! 

A rebel with a pause

So to wrap things up: go fuck yourself, aging process. I'm not going quietly into this next chapter. I'm going to continue to be a slightly mischievous, rebellious girl who loves live music and occasionally getting high. Because I'm a rebel. That's why. 

To be honest I'm happier and in better shape than I was 10 or even 20 years ago. So bring it. I'm sure it won't be sunshine and rainbows daily, but I plan to enjoy this next chapter, despite having to take a pause once in a while. And, rest assured, you all will have a front row seat as I continue into my decent into menopausal madness so don't worry. 

Hope this blog finds you all well. Hoping to keep up a better cadence now that outdoor activities are probably coming to an end soon. Enjoy the fall, everyone. It will be 2022 before we know it!

We'll talk again soon.

Barb

Barb

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Sunday, February 7, 2021

The Barb-buda Triangle

Greetings all fellow survivalists! Still hanging in there, I see. Vibe, as predicted, seems much improved. Sounds like vaccines are coming; my parents get their first one this week so assuming that our most-at-risk loved ones will soon have at least some protection from this viral beast. That is good news indeed. 

It sounds like it will be April-May for the rest of us in the general population (not at greater risk) so as promised, the end is finally and blessedly in sight. I want my get-out-of-jail card as soon as humanly possible, and I'm sure I'm not alone. 

These idiots who refuse to get a vaccine...good riddance. More for the rest of us. My theory is these morons will get weeded out; a thinning of the herd perhaps was in order. Darwin's theory playing out. In this case, the weak might survive but the dummies won't. Sorry if this offends anyone, but I have no sympathy or compassion for such stupidity. 


Keeping the lawn maintained        

Ok, so I'll probably be tossing in more than my fair share of euphemisms in this blog because the words I want to use might offend or embarrass some...and when I mean "some" I mean my mom. 

Many of you are aware that I was married for 21 years. I met my ex-husband when I was 19, married him at 23 and divorced at 46. So safe to say, things in the dating world changed a little during these two and a half decades. 

After my divorce, my sister and I were on vacation somewhere and as I was undressing my sister said to me, "You know Barb, you're going to have to do something about that bush. Women don't really have pubic hair anymore." What? 

I thought she was kidding me at first, but as I starting polling my girlfriends, many confirmed this horrific fact. One friend, (hey, Laura), was an ultrasound technician, and she said even pregnant woman come for their scans sans hair. I'm not even sure this part of the southern hemisphere was visible to me while I was pregnant. Hell, putting socks on was a chore. 

Initially I just tried to fill in the many blanks, like why? I'm going to assume the origins of this particular trend was porn. That or someoneprobably a hooker or stripperdecided this was a thing. Didn't French prostitutes invent pantyhose? Another bane to female existence. So then men jumped on board, and then women adopted the herd mentality and followed suit? I don't know the answer but could we have not all voted on this first? I mean because I think I could have made a pretty compelling argument against this rather drastic shift in social norms.

Regardless I was very enthusiastic about re-entering the dating world, and I certainly wanted my "den" to be warm, inviting and not at all hostile so I began to ponder my options. Googled and read just enough about the process of getting a bikini wax to nix that as an option right off the bat. Hot wax and my coochie shall never meet.



Side note: when I have envisioned how the movie about my life (blog > book > movie) would start, this is the opening scene:

I'm sitting in one of the procedure rooms of the laser hair removal center, pretty much buck-naked, wearing just a paper napkin-like panty that is supposed to be salvaging my modesty and is failing miserably. 

A stern-looking woman enters. My hand shakes as I hand her my Groupon voucher. She glances at it and then says rather dismissively, "Well this is just for one appointment; the bikini area often requires multiple visits." She then attempts to up-sell me to the "Full Monty" package (my words) for just another $1,500. Considering my initial buy-in to this adventure was only $100, I balked.

I'm so close to just bolting at this point, but considering my rather hefty investment and my outfit, or lack thereof, I decide to hold my ground. This woman, who I call "the closer," then left and laser-weielding Broomhilda came in. I told her my conundrum, hoping for a little sympathy. She said that she could go higher on the setting, which might help, and then asked casually about my tolerance for pain. I said I was pretty tough, and then immediately regretted my decision and started to sweat profusely. 

Then, as she left the room, perhaps to get more gas for the laser, she asked (in an eastern European accent), "Are your Greek?" I quickly said no, hoping desperately that it was the right answer. She nodded, seeming to indicate this was welcome news. 

Panic was definitely starting to set in and the image of me running through the waiting room partially naked did flash in my mind. Always good to have a mental escape plan at the ready though.

B (we're friends now) asks what style I wanted. What style? I just stared at her. I had no idea what style I wanted. I managed to sputter out, "What are the girls getting these days?" fully realizing I'm now sounding like I'm 80. God help me. She starts listing a few, a landing strip, which sounded a bit like a Hitler mustache but on the perpendicular.  She mentioned a few others. I panicked and chose the only geometric shape I recognized: the triangle (hence the title).  

I won't lie. It was painful, and the burning smell did little to calm my nerves, but Broomhilda didn't appear to be concerned. Overall not a pleasant experience. And, the hair, of course, grew back. How can I be expected to tend my lady garden on my own? With no idea how to maintain my newly coiffed down-there hairdo, I made the executive decision that since I don't make a living as either a stripper or a hooker, permanent hair removal really wasn't necessary. 


And, due to the aforementioned fear of waxing, I turned to shaving, but let's face it: shaving is a royal pain in the ass, and the hair grows back and as it does, it itches like hell.  It's like chasing your tail. Constant maintenance. 

Fortunately I have been able to negotiate with most guys I've had longer-term relationships on the topic of lawn maintenance, and were able to come to a mutual agreement. Keep it trimmed, everyone's happy. And, on the topic of "manscaping," I think only swimmers and gay men (and only if that's their thing) should be subjected to hair removal. I mean unless it's on their backs. Ew. 

Ok, well, I'm glad I got that off my chest...or well you know.

Ciao for now,

Barb

Missed any blogs? You can catch up with the past blogs with links below:

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