Boobs and Bicycles, My midlife crisis.

I recently turned 38 and I find—because for once I'm paying attention—that I am going through a serious awakening. Serious. I don't know if it can be categorized as a crisis, but it is definitely comparable to the impulses men experience entering midlife. Impulses like when men go out and buy two seater sports cars when they have 4 kids to cart around, or suddenly plucking their eyebrows and getting manicures, or jumping out of a plane. My impulses don't involve things that don't already jive with my personality. Those who know me well probably aren't worriedly chatting amongst themselves about sudden changes in my behavior, expecting me to have a mental breakdown at any given moment because all of a sudden I'm buying Prada bags and joining in on orgies. My midlife crisis is more like waking up after having been put to sleep for surgery and regaining awareness of your body by slowly wiggling your toes and fingers—realizing that you made it through okay.

Have you ever been swimming in the ocean and had a wave crash over your head? There's a slight moment of panic you experience if you get turned around and don't know which way is up for air. But you do get reoriented and the moment you break the surface and gasp that first drink of air, there's a tingly feeling that charges throughout your body from the endorphin rush. And, in a quick moment you know you're okay and go right back to swimming. This is how I'm experiencing my midlife crisis. A sudden gasp for air after having been underwater for a long time. And, like a person who has been rescued from a desert island would have a mental list of the things they want to do when they get home, I have a similar list. My list is pretty short, comprised of just a couple things: Boobs and Bicycles.

Bicycles:

First of all, who doesn't love to ride a bike? Think about it. It's probably one of the only activities everyone can do as an adult that will transport you right back to being a kid again. Try it. Go get on your bike, go to the top of the steepest hill you can find, and hurl yourself down it while hollering out "WHOHOOO!". The feeling you will get coasting down a hill on your bike is the exact same one you had as a kid. I guarantee it will make you feel young again. But, I don't want to just get on my bike and coast down the paved hills in my neighborhood. I don't want to shove myself into fancy Lycra cycling outfits and go on road trips with all the other well-to-do professionals. I want to hurl myself down a rocky trail, fall off it, and show off my battle scars. I want to be the gnarliest mommy trail rider there ever was. I want to take unnecessary risks and live to tell my grandkids about it. I get on my bike now days and I scour the hills surrounding my neighborhood for new construction sites being carved out of the rock. I wait for the semi-trucks hauling off their rock loads, and I blaze trails for myself. It's ridiculous..but it's so freaking fun.

Boobs:

I don't hate my boobs. I really don't. But, now that I have regained strength and am pretty close to the shape I had 'pre-alienbabies-growing-and-cut-out-of-my-belly' (yes, pregnancy and birth was a science fiction horror flick in my experience) from all the cycling and yoga I do, I look down at the girls and they don't look like they are quite as enthusiastic about our midlife awakening as I am. In fact, they look downright disinterested. I'll even go so far as to say that they are resentful of me for shoving us into our push up bra. Oh, they will sit up like good girls in their torture chair...but they are not about to pretend like they're having a good time. So, I'm thinking about getting a boob job to restore my faded starlets to their glory years. I have late night fake boob google research sessions. I have looked at so many boobies online that I consider myself an augmented boobie connoisseur. I can tell you which are saline, which are silicone, and which are gummy bear. (Yea, you read that right...gummy bear! They call them that because just like if you were to take a gummy bear and cut it in half, the gummy bear silicone implant won't leak it's insides out.) I have already had one consultation with a plastic surgeon, and I plan on having a couple more. You know, just to get the perspective of the dudes that construct women's boobs all day long. My first consultation went well. He was very knowledgeable and not once did I feel uncomfortable while he mashed, folded, squished, and drew upon my girls. He told me that I would need a lift and implants because the breast feeding made my girls saggy and implants alone would only make them look inflated and saggy (ouf!). The cost of his service...only $11,000.

My question now is: will my quality of life really improve that much after an $11,000 surgery? I'm not exactly walking around with low self esteem issues because of my boobs. Yes, they resent me every now and then, but at the end of the day perky boobs are just a matter of vanity and not a life and death matter. I'm happy already. Will perfect boobs make me even happier? I can't be sure they would. A new bike, however, would provide hours and hours of happy for me. Perfect boobs would provide temporary happiness for whoever is looking at them. I'm sure if I got them I would spend a tremendous amount of time looking at and talking to them. But, I wonder if after a period of time I would even notice my perfect boobs? Or would they eventually just blend into the scenery after the thrill of the new wears off? Like a new couch does.

Of course, when you're faced with a tough midlife choice it's wise to discuss it with your friends—particularly the ones who have perfect boobs. Unfortunately, I don't have any friends who have killer bikes AND perfect boobs (If you're out there please email me! I'd like your perspective). My friend's answers to my question, "Get a new bike, or get new boobs?", have been varied. Almost everyone has been in favor of new boobs, but adding the advise to shop around for a better price —like I would for a new pair of shoes. My favorite response was from one of my guy friends. He said, "I would get the new boobs, use them to get a job at a bike shop of choice (it's like all guys in those places), tell the guys how hot they look in the tight pants or on the bike, become a top seller, use my awesome employee discount to load up on gear, and then quit. Boom...you have it all. Of course, you could probably do that without the boobs, but wouldn't help my story much."

More than likely I won't go through with perfect boobie surgery, but only because I've been told that you can't exercise for six weeks. Man, six weeks without being on a bicycle and having endorphins rush through my body might put me back underwater again! The most perfect bobbies in the world ain't worth that risk, I don't care if they're made out of gummy bears and painted with gold.

But damn...it would be lovely to ride a bicycle without a bra...hmmmm...

Quirkiness, A Self Disclosure

I have been doing a lot of selling myself lately. I'll tell you why another time, but looking back on some of my communications I am struck by a profound realization that I am one quirky individual. I admit, I've always known that I tend to be an unusual thinker. That sounds so enlightened, "an unusual thinker". Mahatma Gandhi was an unusual thinker. Aristotle was an unusual thinker. Lucille Ball was an unusual thinker. I am not in that league of unusual thinking, but I am one none the less.

So, I've decided to make a bullet list of a few of my quirkiest self disclosures for online posterity—and also for the benefit of my children's future therapists (always a motivation to publish anything online).

• I told my kid there's no tooth fairy because I'm lazy. I just don't want to have to drag my ass out of bed at midnight to go swap a dollar for a tooth...it just doesn't seem worth it.
• I kind of go through hobbies a lot. My last was crocheting miniature robots, but I've gotten so busy that I haven't made one in awhile. 
• I have watched every single episode of the Real Housewives franchise. I can't stop, it tickles me silly and makes me feel fucking awesome about my own life skills.
• I find it incredibly easy to be myself online for some very odd and quirky reason that I'm sure a good therapist could easily pick apart.
• "Indeed" is indeed my favorite word of all time. 
• I have informed my son that first graders don't have birthday parties, but not to worry they will all start having them when he gets to second grade.  
• My mother used to tell my boyfriends that I was delayed five years in my cognitive development. I was not. I don't know why she used to tell people that. Admittedly I was a terrible student, but that is because "quirkiness" was not an acceptable diagnosis in the very late seventies and eighties. I was just extremely lazy in my academia. I blame private school for that. If you went to private school as a quirky kid, you know exactly what I mean.
• My favorite self quote of all time: "Ain't no amount of smart can make crazy easy to live with." Feel free to use that one in your next Hobby Lobby craft project. 
• I laugh every time my five year old uses the word "fuck". That shit is funny, ya'll. I don't care what they say.
• Sometimes, I wonder if my left brain will ever love my right brain as much as I do. And, if my right brain will ever stop treating my left brain like a punching bag—undermining it's endeavors. 

I will save the quirkiest of quirk for another time, but looking over my list I do suppose it could be worse. Somewhere on that bullet list could be something like...I don't know...Yesterday I spent a little too much time imagining a narrative about a North Korean Unicorn Army. I didn't really do that, but now I've planted that seed in my own head and I can't promise that I won't spend the next half hour doing that very thing.

How Online Dating Made Me Oprah's BFF

I spend a tremendous amount of time making up stories to entertain myself. It's a huge problem sometimes because I work from home and I easily distract myself from what I'm supposed to be working on—it's happening at this moment. I need an intervention.

Part of my problem is that I get email and text push notifications on my desktop. When I see that someone has messaged me while I’m “working”, I can’t ignore it. Why? Because I’m a sucker for an audience, even if it’s just myself.

For example: Today I’m working away on one of my freelance gigs like a busy little bee—super proud of myself for sticking to my self imposed schedule—and up pops a push notification. Ooo! My neighbor has sent me a message. I have to respond, right? She can probably see that I’m online..it would be rude to ignore her(I tell myself this every time). 

She: “What r u doing?”

Me: “Working, what’s up?”

She: “Working. I’m joining an online dating site...thinking about what to write for my profile. What should I say?”

Me: “I don’t know, if it were me I would say something like: My interests are varied, but I enjoy art more than anything. Well, I like yoga too..it’s up there...and kayaking...and sushi...the smell of lavender...and cookies. Wait, what were we talking about? Thinking solely from the right side of my brain sometimes is my downfall.”

She: “Lmao! You should join too.”

Me: “Maybe. Hey, wouldn’t it be funny if the same guy were to become interested in us both and one weekend he picks you up for a date and the next weekend he picks me up? How funny would that moment be when he drives up and realizes that he was just on our street the week before?! We’d have to be sure to get his reaction on camera though.”

She: “Omg, that WOULD be funny!”

Me: “Right?! Then I would blog about it and some huge corporation would see it—like match.com—and they would think I’m so freaking witty that they would offer me a job as their head blogger and I would become rich...and Oprah would call wanting to replace Gale with ME as her best friend! She would take me to Africa with her and we'd open schools together and change the very landscape of the entire continent.”

She: “Wow.”

And that’s how it happens. It just takes one second and I’m off on an imaginary trip to Africa with my buddy Oprah instead of doing my work. Did you know she likes baked potatoes? Can I tell you how much I LOVE baked potatoes? Oh shit...I did it again. Back to work!

How To Tame A Cranky Neighbor

I have a cranky neighbor. She's always yelling at my kids to stay out of her front yard, which I would totally understand if they were ever actually in her yard. So one day I bit back and sent her a to-the-point email asking her to please refrain from scaring the neighborhood kids and that perhaps she could take up yoga or even find herself a boy toy to relieve some of the stress she's under. A week later she called me and asked me if she could get me anything from the grocery store–being that I'm a single mom and she knows how hard it can be. I asked her to bring me a box of Cheerios for my kids. She obliged. The moral of the story: Even the crankiest of neighbors can be tamed with a little tough love.

A Gradual Difference

©2008-2013 GruEliSm

We all make decisions that change the course of our lives unexpectedly. I'm not talking about decisions like, "If I had only waited one hour this morning to leave the house for work I never would have been in this car accident." I'm talking about the little decisions you make every day like, "I'll wait until next week to call the plumber about that tiny leak in my outdoor faucet." or, "I've had this headache for one week—but I'm sure it's just allergies." I'm talking about the every day decisions we make out of the comfort of our monotonous daily routines.

You never know in the moment of making the seemingly inconsequential decisions what's going to be different or how it's going to change you. Sometimes the difference brings you to a screeching halt, but most of the time the difference is gradual—sneaking up on you when one morning you wake up out of a deep sleep that you didn't know you were in. For some people the difference is so gradual that when they finally do wake up it's too much for them to take in, breaking them temporarily. I say temporarily because for most of us the difference is adaptable. Uncomfortable—at times terrifying—but survivable, even though it may not seem like it when it's new.

I have been through a lot in my life. Not so much so that it seems extraordinary to me, but enough so that when I go through the introductory phase of new friendships, people are impressed enough to express a sense of amazement that I stand before them able to form complete sentences. I admit that in the telling of some of my life's stories sometimes I impress myself that I am not a complete wreck of a human being. I've been told many times, "You're a rock. How did that not put you over the edge? I never would have been able to get through that." People always underestimate themselves when it isn't their story. People don't realize that we have evolved to survive, it's in our DNA.

Perhaps something that makes it look like surviving life's drama is easy for me, is that I have always been able to sense when difference is brewing in my life. It's one of my greatest survival skills. I just get the sense that, huh...this feeling is different or that person is acting different—something must be about to change. So, most of the time I'm ready for it and never really too surprised when change comes knocking at my door. That is why I'm not broken. That is why I'm a better person after the shit hits the fan. It's not that it's easy for me, it's just that I have a deep sense that this—insert tribulation here—is survivable. I understand that what seems like a monotonous decision today, could very well change everything tomorrow. Man, that reminds me. I've got to call the plumber about that leak first thing in the morning.

Resolved To Try in 2013

It's a New Year. Yippee!!!! (Pause for a millisecond to feel sorry for myself that I don't have someone to kiss at midnight.)

As I sit outside my children's rooms--waiting to pounce on them the minute I hear their precious little munchkin feet try to get out of bed (GO TO SLEEP! For the twentieth freaking time!)--I can hear the jovial sounds of fireworks and people laughing and shouting outside my house. Two thoughts go through my head:

1) Man! People in suburban gated communities can party just as hard as urban folks can, and maybe a little more shamelessly because they're pent up behind gates, stuck in loveless marriages.*
2) This might be the best New Year's Eve I have had in eleven years.

The nanosecond of self pity I felt beginning this post is gently pushed aside with a Ken Burns effect and replaced by the memory that I haven't had a New Year's midnight kiss in the past eleven years of marriage. So why should the absence of one this year be so bad? I have so much to be excited about starting 2013. I'm newly free of a ball and chain, my children are beautiful and thriving, I'm not crushed by debt, I've got talent and the ability to make more money. What more could a girl ask for to start off the New Year? Maybe a little more energy, but that's nothing a few yoga sessions can't remedy. There's just the matter of getting my ass too the yoga sessions that I probably should spend some time figuring out. I guess that's where the resolutions come into play. Okay then. I resolve in 2013 to get my ass to yoga. And, to stop using the word fuck when telling my kids to go to sleep. Oh...and to stop saying yes to every favor anybody ever asks of me. That goes especially for drug addicted people...I'm not Jesus you know, I can't save everybody. I also resolve to be more resolved in my parenting, work, and most of all in regard to my creativity. I will also try (because resolve implies that I will actually try to follow through with, and I can't promise that) to become a better self editor. In my communications, not my writing...but I'll try that too.

*By the way, I don't think all people in gated communities are pent up and stuck in loveless marriages. I don't mean to suggest that there aren't some blissfully happy couples in the gated hood. All I'm saying is all that glitters is not gold, that's all. Particularly in gated communities.

Christmas Blues

A friend of mine, a single mom, recently messaged me, “I don't like the holidays! For some reason I always get a little lonely and sad. Why do you think that is? Is it normal to feel that way?" I responded:

"Because finding out when your a kid that this guy doesn't really exist is just the beginning of the lifelong disappointment that our fantasy of what Christmas should be like, doesn't line up at all with the reality of what Christmas is like?"

"Because we're brainwashed to think this is what Christmas is supposed to look like?"

"When for moms, single or not, it really looks like this?"

"I'm so glad you asked me that...aren't you?!"


Her question got me to thinking. I know a lot of people start to feel a little deflated around Christmas time. However, I think that just because the fantasy doesn't line up with what our reality is doesn’t mean that Christmas can't be magical—it just means that you have to think a little more outside of the box as to what magic is for you. We have to create for ourselves the magic that can make it a special time of year. Companies spend hundreds of thousands of dollars a year in marketing to convince us that a magical Christmas involves stuff, stuff, and more stuff. But stuff doesn't equate to magic. It's just stuff. Magic is not tangible, it's abstract...a state that you can define for yourself.

It’s really hard to escape the Norman Rockwell-esq images of Mom, Dad and Grandparents all sitting around the dinner table with a golden turkey at the center. But—much to the chagrin of the Focus on the Family folks, what family “looks” like has changed..it has evolved.

I think to get the magic back into Christmas we have to let go of stereotypes. It’s twenty four-hours out of 8765.81 in a year. Fill that day with only the things that are meaningful to you—not the things that some marketing exec or religious organization wants you to think are.