My Sex and the City Lunch

2013.12 girl-91143_1920Along the way we realized that the two good looking guys in the table next to ours were quiet, riveted by our conversation. Of course, we were a group of women discussing breast size and boob jobs without using our indoor voices. I think we can forgive them.

This was my semi-yearly lunch with what I call my “brunch friends.” We almost only ever get together for lunch or brunch, and the occasional drink. More than acquaintances, but not quite “visit you when you’re sick” friends. I think we average two or three lunches a year. Amazing how little it takes to keep a friendship alive.

Our conversations are lively, varied and often unforgettable. We have shocked many a waiter by being in the middle of a talk about sex, relationships, cheating, our bosses, our exes… our lives in general. On this particular day we were discussing, in a crowded restaurant, my friend’s recent lift. Or rather, we were discussing one friend’s sudden realization of another’s boob job.

“Oh my god, when did you get those?!?!” The Exclaimer asked, loudly. All our mutual friend had done was sit down at the table and take off her sweater. Underneath she was wearing a fitted blouse that looked great on her. And this resulted in having her business announced to the whole restaurant.

I hadn’t realized anything was different until the outburst. I don’t look at other women’s boobs that closely.

The Denier tried to play it off. She pretended not to know what The Exclaimer was talking about. She smiled coyly. She gave token resistance to our friend’s insistence. Then she talked. The lunch was, after all, an unveiling.

“I actually got this done last year,” she said. “But I wasn’t comfortable enough to dress showy.” Which of course means that she got a boob job but didn’t want anyone to notice it.

And thus proceeded an hour-long conversation on how much it cost, how she chose her doctor, who she chose, how she decided on size, what the recovery is like, what the impact was to her partner, etc., etc. And I sat there for an hour, bobbing my head from one side to the other following the interrogation: question, answer, question, answer, question, answer… and so on, and so on.

Through it all my friends seemed to have forgotten we were in a restaurant where they place the tables so close you almost couldn’t walk between them. And the tables around us got quieter as the two of them became more involved in the conversation.

Eventually, I put a stop to it. I mean, there’s something just wrong with talking about your friend’s boobs over lunch. And everyone around us was paying way too much attention to the conversation I was inexplicably roped into.

And I realized that I was in an episode of Sex in the City, or the closest thing I could imagine to one. I think that says a lot about my life.

I know I’m getting old

2013.11 spinster-156097_1280It happens to the best of us. One day you become a “ma’am.” You go from being the youngest in the group, to “normal,” to being the oldest. And, suddenly, you are the grown up in the room.

Yes, it’s even happened to me… though “grown up” might be a stretch. Here’s a list of ways you may know that you, too, are getting old:

The men in the “most eligible bachelors” list all look like children — and much too young to date. (Notice that I didn’t write “women.” Somehow, this doesn’t seem to happen to men — to them the 18-25 year olds always look old enough to date.)

You no longer qualify for any of the “under” awards (ie., 40 under 40, etc.). I got one like that just a month or so before I turned 40. And that was the last one of that, ever.

You only get invited to the “Young Professionals” groups as a speaker or mentor. And when you do get invited you look at the people in attendance wondering if you were ever that young.

The weather decides how you feel. I have an ankle that hurts when it’s cold, allergies that act up when it’s humid, and a head that hurts if the weather changes too fast.

The doctor has used the “a” word… “arthritis.” I have arthritis in my shoulders, and my back. So far, I’ve been lucky that I’m not in chronic pain, but it’s in my future.

You start having conversations about bodily functions. Yeah. This one is a little bit disconcerting. I never thought I would be one of those people who discussed… well, let’s leave some mystery here. Suffice it to say that I’ve entertained many a friend and family member with more information than they ever wanted to know about what keeps my body relatively healthy.

Your friends have started discussing plastic surgery as something they are actually going to do. I remember having conversations about cosmetic surgery like it was this silly thing other people did. Now I’m having to keep track of which friend got what done. And I’m wondering, in the privacy of this blog (with the dozen or so readers), whether I would want to have something done as well.

You never ask “am I too young for this?” Unless, of course, it’s about retirement or yearly checkups. And every once in a while you ask, “Am I too old for this?” (The answer to that should always be “no.”)

What would you add to the list?

Forty is not a bad word

2013.08 old woman 7430578188_3fa33c713c_z

Just in case you didn’t know, I passed 40 a couple years ago. This year I turned 42. Telling me I don’t look my age is not a compliment, it tells me you think my age is old.

That is all.

* * *


Confessions of an old woman

Last year I became a 40-year-old.

I had promised myself that I wouldn’t make a big deal out of it. Not the birthday itself, I love love love birthdays, especially my own. I love celebrating my birthday and I love getting presents and making a big deal about it. Every birthday is a reason to celebrate. It gives me a reason to be childlike with permission.

I mean that I wouldn’t make a big deal out of the milestone: turning 40. I didn’t want to be one of those women that made a big deal about getting older. I was certain that turning 40 was going to big no big deal and that the birthday was going to pass without a meltdown.

As I pass the one-year mark of this milestone I can safely announce two things:

I was right.
I was wrong.

The birthday itself passed without incident. I celebrated with friends and family members over a period of weeks. Lunches, dinners, and coffee breaks were punctuated by gifts, cards, and well wishes. I rolled along in a sugar-induced state of birthday euphoria for weeks. And there wasn’t a meltdown second in the whole thing.

But, over the last year, the “I’m old” feeling has crept up on my with increasing frequency. Putting aside the fact that I am bigger than I’ve ever been in my life, and don’t look like any of my headshots, and hate every single picture I see of myself… I’m obsessing over the lack of definition in my chin, the fact that my breasts are not perky, the laugh lines around my eyes, and the deep crease between my eyebrows.

I look at my wardrobe and wonder who bought these clothes. When did I start dressing like an old woman? What happened to the colors, the flashy accessories, the hats and flirty shoes that once filled my closet? When did I stop buying red and orange and bight blue? When did black and brown become mandatory items? When did shoes become sensible? When did I become the embodiment of “frumpy?”

I could list the many many things I keep stumbling over in my face and my body. I could write paragraphs about the gray hair that finally made an appearance, a good ten years after both my sisters started to gray. Or I could focus on how seldom I remember to put on makeup when I]m not in work mode. Etc., etc., etc. But the real thing that’s been bothering me is the change in my personality.

Once upon a time I would have gotten up on a Saturday morning and decided to drive to San Antonio for lunch. Once upon a time I was the type of person who stopped on the side of the road to take photos of the wildflowers. Once upon a time I wouldn’t have cared about blowing my savings on a new “toy” or spending this week’s grocery money on a new purse. Once upon a time I didn’t have to schedule going out, and I didn’t prefer to hibernate in my “cave” as a preferred method of unwinding at the end of a bad day.

In my work life I am progressive. I flatter myself that I don’t have any of these problems with decision-making at work, that I keep up-to-date and incorporate the newest techniques in communications. But then I know that I am no longer one of the newbies. If I started looking for a job today I would have a harder time because of my age, my experience (salary-range), and my size. It would be assumed that I am not as good at social media and online communications as someone… younger.

And so I obsess about my age. It’s gotten worse the further into my 40s I get. And words like hysterectomy, diverticulosis, and arthritis only make things worse.

I have decided, though, that if I can’t feel better about this then I am going to fake it. Eventually I am going to get over it. Really.

***** Written on my ipad. I promise to proof and edit it later. ******