Shake Rattle and Roll to 50

Several months ago, I got serious about Rocking 50.  I even posted quite a bit about my plans to do so.  As it is turning out, it looks as though I'll be doing more shaking, rattling and rolling, than rocking, into my 5th decade.

Confession.  It's been bugging me more than I thought it would.  NOT turning 50, but all of the changes in my body that, no matter what I do, I can't turn back the clock on. And, the fact that, all of my "tried and true" tricks, the ones that worked like a charm when I was in my 30s and even my mid 40s, well, let's just say this old dog needs some new ones.

A week ago, Mr. B and I went to a formal wear (tuxes and gowns) place to get him a new tux.  Since they had gowns, I figured I'd try a few on while he was getting measured for his tux.  Loaded down with an armful of lovely frocks, I went into the dressing room and proceeded to have an extremely depressing time of it trying on dress after dress that either looked totally ridiculous, or made me look like a sausage or an aging mermaid with a pot belly.  Truly, I was in mourning for my rockin' abs of my late 30s/early 40s.  When did they leave?  How come I cannot seem to get them back?  

Enter Mr. B to help me with some of the more difficult dress contraptions.  Let me tell you.  This did not help matters as he wrested zippers while I stood there saying "Why won't it go up"?  "Well, you're too broad in the back". WHAT?  Talk about a not very funny scene reminiscent of an I Love Lucy show.  He tried to save the moment by explaining it was due to all of my working out at the gym; it was muscle, not back fat.  Well, thank you, universe.  And, oh by the way, said universe, while gleefully spreading the areas between tummy and knee, has woefully neglected to expand my chest area.  Which means the dresses that look good waist down sag quite unbecomingly in the top.  Finally, the clerk took pity on us and brought in a lovely plum colored gown that fit well and wasn't too expensive, either.  I should have bypassed all the torture and just asked her to pick something out in the first place.  I still haven't worked up the courage to look a the tag to see what size the dress is.

Yesterday, for whatever insane reason, I decided to try on my other evening gowns to make sure they fit.  Actually, it was a good thing to do because one of them didn't really look that great any more and if I'd taken it on board the ship with the expectation that I would be wearing, it, well, we may have dined en suite that night!  The other one will do, but I'll probably have to resort to wearing control top pantyhose to give me a tighter silhouette.  This realization left me in a somewhat foul mood.

Last night, we went out to a networking/social gathering; lots of folks Mr. B knows through our business.  I've met a lot of them before, at other events.  One young lady, probably about 25 (if that), was parading around in skin tight jeans, probably size 0, with a little middy top and high heels; long hair trailing down her back in a way that only girls of that age can manage to carry off well.  Touching my recently bobbed hair and thinking that my own jeans were feeling a bit on the tight side, I tried to not let it bug me.  I mean, why SHOULD it bug me?  I was 25 once and had some great times prancing around looking like that.  If I stopped and thought about it, that chick likely has some difficult times ahead of her in the next 25 years (like I did); not something I'd care to repeat, not even if I could look like that again.  

At one point in the evening, I came across her walking in front of me.  She'd put on a cute little Santa hat, with fake leopard "fur" instead of the usual white "fur" as trim.  She stopped and turned around, except it wasn't her, it was another lady I know who is 62 years old.  I was a bit flabbergasted.  I also found it hard not to stare at her very large and plastic-iky perky bosom.  Apparently, that is what she spent her surgical dollars on, not her face, which, although very attractive, still looked to be a 60 year old face.

We spoke for awhile and then I watched as she teetered off with a leering old man in her wake.  I glanced at my husband (who was NOT watching her teeter off) and realized I'd just received a message.

I think I've been receiving these messages for a while, but just haven't been paying attention.  For example, a few weeks earlier, I was looking at a website that promised if you don't eat or drink these five foods, you'll banish belly fat (which, really, seems to be my main culprit these days), in a few short weeks.  

Well, three of the five were coffee, wine and dark chocolate. You may as well shoot me now, because that just ain't gonna happen!

Nor am I going to have the time to work out hours each day ,or will I stop eating.

You get my drift here?  I am not willing to do the things I'd have to do to get back (assuming I ever could) to how I looked when I was younger.  Frankly, there are a few things I couldn't change, anyway; which would result in me possibly looking like the 62 year old lady at the party last night.  So, if I'm not going to do these things, that leads me to the place where I have to LET IT GO.  No, no, I don't mean this as in, let ME go; just move on towards Part Two.

I bet most of you who were reading my earlier entries about Rocking 50 already figured that out, huh?

Last night while falling asleep, a thought, a voice, said to me, "Stop wasting time and energy wishing for what you've already had but can never have again.  Get up and move on".

But FIRST, I'm going to send Mr. B to the closet with a pair of scissors to cut out that size tag before I see it.

And THEN I will totally Rock 50!

Mrs. B

Bony Moronie Looks at 50

It’s probably fairly obvious that one of the very first things a person may think about when approaching an age milestone, especially a woman,  is their appearance.  

As I mentioned in my previous post, there’s  a huge difference between what a typical fifty year old woman likely looked like a hundred, seventy, fifty or even twenty-five years ago and a typical fifty year woman in the 21^st century.  The good news is, we’re looking better, ladies! The bad news is, we’re looking better ladies! Meaning, there continues to be the pressure that began in junior high to be attractive that has not let up since.  At least those of us of a certain age can take some small comfort in that it didn’t start any earlier than junior high; while at the same time,  feel deeply sorrowful that some of the girls today begin to look like Hoochie Mama’s when they are ten.  Or six.   Or younger.  And then there is the on-going battle with eating disorders in girls which just seems to be getting worse and worse.

Although I’ve never considered myself to be a beauty in the traditional sense of the word, I didn’t make out half-bad in the looks department; this due in large part to being blessed with a relatively slim figure and the inheritance of my mother’s green eyes.  Combined with confidence (faked when I was younger, real when I was older), a great metabolism, and a good sense of what to wear that flattered me, I was quite the package if I do say so myself.  Oh, and I wasn’t a total bimbo-head either, which certainly helped.  Anyway, I had quite a wonderful stretch of years when I looked great, knew it, and didn’t have to work all that hard at it.  

Now, I WAS a late bloomer in this regard.  Although I was cute as a little mousie when I was little-little, around the time I turned 8 or so, I stopped growing.  What this meant was I turned into a little pudge-ball with a round round face and a broad barrel-ish torso.  I won’t go into too much detail about this period other than to say I thank my lucky stars that I was not born in the year 2000 because I’m sure my life would have been made a total, living hell by all those Hoochie Mama ‘tweens I was talking about earlier.  My Father told me later he always thought I was adorable at this stage, citing that I was “The right amount of round”.  Be that as it may, I was very happy when, at age 12 or so, my arms and legs grew at great length, pulling that roundness right out of me. 

 Cute Little Mousie

 The Right Amount of Round

Hello Bony Moronie!

After enjoying being a Bony Moronie for twenty or so years, at around age 30,  I had to work harder at the figure thing.  I started going to the gym religiously in the late 1990s and, for the most part, I’ve kept this up.  In addition, I did a lot of step aerobics at home and had (and still do) a torturous abdominal routine that requires at least 400 sit-ups/crunches per day.  For awhile, this worked great but as the years move on, well, I find I’m continually having to add to my fitness routine to get the same results.  Of course, this is no surprise, it happens to everyone and I knew it was coming.  Still, a funny thing; as you get older, you don’t always have as much energy as you used to and yet you have to use all the energy you have plus some to maintain some sort of figure that you can live with.

Let me take a moment here to say something very important. This is how I feel.  I am in no way casting judgment on ladies (or gents) who feel differently, or who don’t have the time to work out that much, or have a family history of heaviness or, or, or.  This is just me.  I’m probably never going to get away from wanting to be on the thin side.  In fact, honestly, it’s physically painful for me to get too heavy and I turn into an emotional wreck.  Know thyself, and all; and, of course, be healthy, whatever your shape.

Ok.  So here I am now approaching fifty.  I have a vision in my mind of what I want to feel like and look like physically.  And, it all boils down to a few things; be at a healthy weight, be toned, have decent strength and endurance, and look classy.  Note I didn’t say, “Look younger than I am”.  I really don’t care about this as much as I do looking good for how old I am.  As much as I long for the days of wearing those sexy tight clothes, it ain’t going to happen, even if I COULD pull it off.  I’d rather be an Audrey Hepburn than a Cher any day.

So, how to get there from here (or, rather, last Monday when I started)? First things first.  Diet and exercise.  Yeah, like a lot of folks, I fell off the gym wagon during the holidays.  Generally speaking I didn’t eat all that badly (I managed to avoid all the cookies I baked until right before Christmas), however I did eat more than I usually do and I certainly drank more than I like to and all this went on for a period of about four weeks.  Combined with not going to the gym, let’s just say the end result was not very attractive, as judged by a picture I took of my stomach while laying in bed one night after Mr. B had fallen asleep.  Seriously.  I was reading and happened to look down at myself and almost screamed.  "Who’s big white flabby fish belly is THAT?"  "Sorry, honey, it’s yours!"  So I wouldn’t forget, I whipped out the trusty cell and snapped the picture.  No, you won’t be seeing it on Facebook (or here), I’ll spare you that.  Well, ok, maybe I’ll post it along with the “after” picture once I get my rock hard abs back.

Anyway, I digress.  We all know the only way, really, to get into shape, is to diet and exercise.  Nothing will ever change this, I don’t care how much money you drop on pills or Dr. Oz’s remedy or that funky device that supposedly you’re able to stand on it for 10 minutes a day and you lose a ton of weight and tone up.  So, diet and exercise; that’s what I’m doing (along with millions of other people in the world this January).  However, I will keep at it; thankfully, I do have self-control/self-disciple (thank you again, Mr. Jordan, for assigning me that report on ducks).  With the help of Lance Armstrong’s Live Strong website My Daily Plate (I make no commentary on HIS troubles this January) and my YMCA membership, I  shouldn’t have any trouble getting where I want to get, albeit it’s likely going to take me longer than it would have ten, or even five years ago. 

However, although the bad news about not going to the gym for awhile is muscle, if not exercised, tends to turn into lard fairly quickly;  luckily, the reverse of this is true.  Once you do return to exercising, the muscles soon remember their former shape and hop back to it faster than you’d think.

Isn’t that sorta true about a lot of things? 

That’s life. 

Mrs. B

Rock 50!

In a little more than 11 months, I’ll turn the big 5-0.  Sometimes when I think about this, I simply can’t believe it; me, fifty?  Oh, I know many who have gone ahead of me have had similar thoughts, but, still.  ME?

At the risk of totally stating the obvious, times are decidedly different from when my great-grandparents, grandparents or even parents turned fifty.  Recently, I’ve been doing a bit of genealogy work on Ancestry.com.  As I’ve put in birth, marriage and death dates of my ancestors and sometimes been able to upload a picture or two of them, it really has hit home how lucky most of us are now compared to our ancestors; certainly in the areas of education, opportunity, convenience, physical comfort, health and appearance.  God only knows what I would have looked like if I had, say, only received an elementary school education, married at 15, popped out ten or more children (likely watching several of them die), lived in a small cabin with no electricity and a dirt floor and worked my butt off on a farm subjected to all of nature’s harshest elements and back-breaking labor for thirty or more years.  Yes, I probably would have looked and felt like hell at 40, let alone 50. 

Taking it deeper, I know that I have much to be grateful for as I head into my fifties.  I also feel quite strongly that I need to be doing something to reflect how grateful I am.  Believe me;  I’m working hard at figuring out what that is, or, rather, I’m working hard at allowing whatever it is to reveal itself to me. 

In any event, a while back, it dawned on me that, due also in some large part to my ancestors and their general tendency to live into their 80s or 90s, I have, quite possibly, another 30-40 years ahead of me and I can’t rely on what I did for the past fifty years to get me through these next several decades.  Oh, sure, there are certain things in my tool kit that I’ll be holding onto; it’s never good to throw the baby out with the bathwater and all, but, for the most part, there’s just gotta be some changes a foot.

By way of comparison, when I was in my twenties and thirties, it was all about two things, really; looking good and my career.  I worked diligently at both and was more than moderately successful in each.  Along the way and by the grace of God, I was surrounded by my wonderfully supportive family, a bunch of fantastic friends and was handed my fair share of good luck.

Now at 49 and some change, I sheepishly admit I still want to look good, however, it’s not all vanity speaking.  I’ve learned a thing or two about myself over the years and one thing is this:  If I don’t feel good physically (weight, energy level, mental alertness and, yes, appearance), than not much positive is going to happen; certainly, my mood won’t be positive.  So, if I am convinced I need to be giving back somehow, it will be a deal breaker if I don’t have the motivation to get out there and do it.

Anyway, I’ve decided to use this Blog to capture my journey to 50; what I’ve done up to now, what I want to do, what I actually do and everything in between.  I want to embrace 50!  I want to be at the position when I hit that milestone to go forward into the next thirty or forty years prepared for what comes and ready to make a difference. 

Back to my ancestors.  Chances are by the time they hit 50 or thereabouts, many of them were ready to retire to a rocking chair on the front porch.  And, who could blame them?  I know I owe a lot to my elders:  “The glory of youths is their strength, but the beauty of the aged is their gray hair.” Proverbs 20:29.  The fact that they earned their gray hair early due to the times they lived in is just the way it was.

Thankfully, the way it is now means that I can head into the next decade of my life rockin’ the years in an entirely different way.

Mrs. B

Mirror Mirror

Ok, guys, this entry is for the gals as (with the possible exception of my brother Doc), most men won't get this.

Yesterday I was sitting in the chair at the salon getting my hair done. Frankly, this whole procedure falls into the category of "If my man ever saw me like this, I think I'd die (or he would)!" Be that as it may, there I sat with bag on head, looking at myself in the huge mirror on the wall that faced me.

I have to admit, I didn't look all that hot. And, it wasn't just the bag on my head or the very attractive (and heavy) black rubber robe I had over me to keep the hair goop off my clothes.

Some mirrors just don't flatter me. Well, actually, it's probably more the lighting than the mirror (unless we're talking about one of those fun house mirrors where everyone looks like a two-ton Tessie).

It's hard to describe, but in some mirrors in certain light, I just look horrid. It is like I can see every single bad nuance about my face and body; you know, wrinkles, dimples, scars, furrows; all of that.

So, as I was sitting there yesterday, I got to thinking about other mirrors and which ones are "safe" mirrors, which are "steer clear from" mirrors and which are "I look FAB" mirrors (not as many as these, alas).

One of the obvious "steer clear from" mirrors is any mirror in a dressing room. You'd think if department stores/clothing stores and the likes ambition was to sell clothes to women, they'd try harder to make sure that the women were flattered by their reflection in the mirror. I've been in some dressing rooms where I looked so awful in the mirror, that, I got too depressed to even try on the clothes I'd taken in and simply left. One notable exception is Nordstroms. Of course, they know how to treat people there (and you pay for it, too).

Another "steer clear from" is any mirror in a doctor or dentist office. UGH.

I have "safe" mirror (which means, basically, not hot but not terrible; probably better known as "reality") in our bathroom that can turn into a "I look FAB" mirror simply if I turn off the light. Ha ha, NO, I didn't mean because I can no longer see myself; what I meant was if it is daylight and the light is on, I look "so so", but, if I turn the light off, I look pretty damn good. I guess this means I look better in natural light.

This might be true because, hands down, one of the best mirrors I've ever seen myself in is in the bathrooms at the Durham Bulls Athletic Park. I kid you not! Every time I see myself in those mirrors, I cheer up. There is usually a lot of natural light in there (although once it gets dark outside and the lights come on, the mirror moves into the "safe" category).

Right before a ball game, the announcer always says, "Hey, Bulls fans! Have you visited the cleanest bathrooms in the Triangle?" Maybe he should add to this, "Hey, ladies! Are you feeling fat and ugly? Visit our bathrooms where we have the most flattering mirrors in the Triangle!"

Whenever I think of mirrors and women, I am reminded of two things. One is that, as she aged, the extremely vain Elizabeth I ordered all mirrors in her palaces to be either taken down or covered. It is said that she never looked at herself in a mirror again after that. Hey, not a bad strategy; out of sight, out of mind.

The other is from the movie "Titanic"; the character Rose, in her old age, is pleased to receive back some of the articles she'd lost when the Titanic sank. One of these items was a lovely and ornate silver hand mirror. She exclaims as she's admiring the back of it, "Oh, this looks just like I did the last time I saw it!" As she turns it over and looks into the mirror she adds, "The reflection has changed somewhat, however" as she puts it aside.

For a very long time, I had a habit of stopping and looking at myself in any mirror (or mirrored surface) I came across. This both greatly amused and irritated my family and friends (except, perhaps, Doc, who was more than likely fighting me for mirror space).

I've noticed that I tend to avoid mirrors now (other than when it is necessary to "check my look"; which brings to mind a lyric from a Bruce Springsteen song, "I check my look in the mirror, wanna change my hair, my clothes, my face!") I suppose I know what I look like by now and, frankly, as long as I don't have spinach stuck in my teeth or have my lipstick smeared all over my face in true Joker style, it doesn't much matter.

Except at Durham Bulls games, where, every few innings, you'll find me in the bathroom admiring myself in the mirror.

Nah, seriously, it's only because I gotta pee!

Mrs. B