I Don't Want To See Your Butt At The Pool

It wasn't turning 40. Or 41. Or 42.

It's not the minivan.

It's not that I really started liking Vera Bradley.

It's not even that I rarely recognize the musical guest on Saturday Night Live anymore.

What's finally made me realize I'm in danger of turning into a reactionary old lady is the dismay another woman's bathing suit caused me.


In general, I try not to body snark. First of all, much as I exercise, I'm still far from an ideal weight, so I'm really not in a position to judge. Second of all, even if I did have a perfect figure, who am I to judge? Perfection comes in all shapes and sizes and if women would stop worrying so much about their thighs they'd have time to run the world. And be happier.

Steps off soap box.

My point is, I am not looking at other women at the pool and making judgments about their bathing suits on a regular basis (I can't say the same about the amount of back hair certain gentlemen seem to have, though). If you want to wear a bikini, great. If you want to wear a bathing suit with a skirt, great. As long as you're happy, I'm happy.

Unless you're wearing a thong, or the new trend that appears to almost but not quite be a thong:

I've now seen two women wearing this kind of bikini bottom; or should I say now I've seen two women's butts at the pool?

I think they're called "pucker bottoms", or maybe "Brazilian bottoms" and they leave very little of the ass to the imagination. Now, both the women I saw had great figures, though their butts did have cellulite. Not that's there's anything wrong with that, but had those women been wearing full bottoms, I wouldn't have known they had cellulite.

And despite all my statements about body acceptance, I can't believe people would willingly show off their cellulite when they could totally hide it. I mean, I'd love to hide mine, but then I'd have to wear bike shorts in the pool.

Anyway, as I swam around staring at these women's butts (thankfully I was wearing sunglasses so no one could tell), I wondered how on earth those suits could be comfortable. And why on earth you'd want everyone to see your imperfect (but admittedly much better than mine) ass. And I almost said, "I don't want to see that!"

And then I remembered how disappointed I was when people complained about Michael Sam kissing his boyfriend during the NFL draft. And how offended I was when some writer complained about not wanting to see plus sized actors kissing on a TV show. And how I want to smack all the people who complain about breastfeeding in public.

So, while I really don't want to see your butt at the pool, I'm not going to complain about it. Just because I'm starting to think like a reactionary old lady doesn't mean I have to start acting like one.

Getting Healthy After Forty

Actually, it was really after 35 that my body forgot how to lose weight. Up until that point, whenever I made any kind of effort - eating less, exercising more, not eating McDonald's at 3am - I lost weight. Since having Lovebug, and turning 35, though, the whole weight loss thing has gotten much harder.

I started exercising in earnest again 3 years ago. Three. Years. Like, 60 minutes on the elliptical trainer 4 or 5 days a week of exercise. For absolutely no weight loss whatsoever.

Not exercising much. 

Exercising. 

Recently, though, I made the decision to exercise and to eat less. At the same time. When I did that at 28, the weight melted off quickly and I looked AWESOME. In this case, after a month, I'd lost 3 pounds. It was disheartening, to say the least.

Then one day the gym was super crowded and I couldn't spend 60 minutes doing intervals on the elliptical trainer. I got on the stair climber and felt like I was going to die.. . . after 10 minutes. I suddenly had a light bulb moment about maybe I needed to switch things up a bit - even if My Fitness Pal said I burned the most calories doing the elliptical, I knew my old body needed to step out of it's comfort zone.

I spent the next week switching between all the cardio machines at the gym. . .and lost 3 more pounds. In a week. Of course, that level of weight loss hasn't happened every week since (dammit), but it's definitely come off faster than it did at first.

Of course, I am not a trainer or a doctor. I can find plenty of exercise sites and magazines that will back my claim up, but I'm more inclined to trust things I read from actual scientific studies and medical websites - none of which showed up in my admittedly cursory Google search. What do you think? Do you think changing things up in each work out is the path to weight loss? Or is it yoga, as I've read recently? Or running?

I really want to know. I have a strong suspicion that my machine switch up routine is not going to work forever.

Being 41 Is Like Being Drunk All The Time

Back in my pre-kid days, I used to drink. A lot. Regularly. And I used to hang out with people who smoked pot. A lot. Regularly. Needless to say, we had a lot of fun. There was much laughter. And sometimes we thought we were being so brilliant that we would write our ideas down.

In the harsh light of a hangover morning, we'd look at our scribbles and say, "What the fuck? Why was this funny? Is this a letter or a number? Fuck this, I need Tylenol and McDonald's fries."

Since I have never allowed a hangover photo, I give you a picture of my favorite drink, the gin and tonic. 

Or something like that. Don't expect total accuracy, I was hungover, for God's sake.

Anyway, even though I rarely drink anymore, I sometimes get ideas at approximately the same time of evening. You know, the time I should be in bed, sleeping. Instead I am in bed, hastily scribbling down blog ideas that just occurred to me.

I don't turn on the light to do this, because that would ruin my going to sleep procedures. Plus, the switch is across the room. I don't write neatly, because I must hurry and finish before my boyfriend Jon Stewart comes back on the TV. It usually takes me a few days to remember I've written something down - like, I'll be sitting in front of the computer trying to think of a blog topic and suddenly remember that I wrote down a brilliant idea the other day. So I'll run up to get my notebook and flip eagerly through the pages, only to think. . . .

"What the fuck? Why was this funny? Is this a letter or a number? Fuck this, I need Tylenol and McDonald's fries."

I don't get the fries anymore, though.

You would think that after the first few failures, when running up the stairs to get the notebook has yielded nothing more than my being out of breath, that I would stop writing these bedtime ideas down. But much like I never learned that shots do not mix with four gin and tonics, I keep writing and hoping.

Even more disturbing than the notebook problem might be the bruise problem. When I was a drinker, I would occasionally get a bruise. I would never have any idea how I got the bruise, at least not until I mentioned it to a friend and she would remind me how I tripped over my own front step. Nowadays, I still get the occasional bruise of unknown origin. And (so far) my kids are no good at chronicling my embarrassing moments.

My final reason for believing that I am actually drunk all the time nowadays is that I talk to myself a lot. It used to be, when I would come home drunk from wherever, I would talk myself through my nighttime routine so that I wouldn't forget anything. Because make-up removal, tooth brushing and allergy pill ingestion seem like calculus when you're really drunk. But here I am at 41, talking myself through the errands I have to run or how to make cookies or whatever.

Is it possible that all the painkillers they gave me at my c-sections have never actually worn off? If I start drinking again, will I get smarter? Do I have a brain tumor?

Answer me, internets. I'm so drunk I'll believe anything you say.

Thirty-F**King Nine

Er, I kind of missed True Confession Tuesday this week. And then I forgot to blog yesterday. Do you think I can blame old age? I'll be 39 tomorrow.

Thirty-fucking-nine. I would much rather be forty. Forty is the start of something. Who knows what will happen in my forties? Look at most of the Desperate Housewives stars. But thirty-fucking-nine, that's an ending. Not only of my thirties,  but of my entire youth.

I read InStyle (yeah, I still read it even though my current version of style is to wear a shirt that doesn't have a stain) last week and there was not 1 trend that I hadn't already worn before.

I'm overly excited to go to Ikea today.

Instead of just keeping in touch with a few select people from high school, I am now friends with a ton of them on Facebook. And I enjoy hearing about their lives. Because I have forgotten how much they may have annoyed me 21 years ago.

When I stay up really late, it's because I'm reading.

People born when I graduated from high school can now drink legally. So, if I had gone in a different direction in high school, I could go out drinking with my kid.

When I diet for a week, I do not lose 5 pounds.

After 20+ years of dyeing my hair for fun, now I actually have to dye it. Because I'm too young to go gray, right?

The only thing I'm too young to do is join AARP.

My first class of first graders has graduated from high school. Actually, so has my second class. Crap.

The President is 10 years older than I am. Ten years! That's appropriate dating age. Unless you're 16.

I am now more comfortable wearing a bra than not wearing one.

I remember what life was like before the internet. Hell, I remember life what life was like before cordless phones.

I can't remember how to use all the features on my cell phone.

I can remember when Charlie Sheen and Tom Cruise were hot, though.

In short, I would prefer it if you didn't mention to anyone that I'm 39. I would like to be described as "40-1".

Thanks.

Also, if you would like me to have a happy birthday, you could sign up for my rss feed over there on the right hand side (uh, it's still there, right?). Or link to me. Or both. :) Hey, if you can't shamelessly ask for attention on your birthday, when can you ask?