After reading on Facebook (where else!) that my 21-year-old son was planning to be “grumpy” for the next 40 days by giving up fast food and caffeine for Lent, or more likely using Lent as an excuse to do something healthy, I decided that I, too, would be grumpy.
Certainly not by crossing caffeine off my list, but rather by giving up the one thing that has kept me relatively sane these past few years: my hormone replacement therapy. My son Nick had motivated me to complete my first marathon last year, and as it was an experience I’ll never forget. I figured it was time to do something memorable again. Plus, I was not about to be outdone by this young whippersnapper; after all, I was the one raised as a Catholic, not he. It was my job to suffer more.
We women know how to suffer, but the summer of my 50th year was particularly traumatic, and I’ve done things in my life. I graduated from West Point. I’ve jumped from airplanes. I’ve birthed monster spawn the “natural” way. I got my navel pierced when I turned 41 and my first tattoo at 51, and finally just had the nerve to show my mother. Shouldn’t have. I’ve taught in the public school system for five years. I’ve been with the same man for 29 years. But the warrantee on my “parts” had expired quite surreptitiously, and like truculent students in the springtime, they all wanted to be out. It was as if Mother Nature — that bitch! — was jealous of my accomplishments and good health, and felt the need to remind me that women’s “sufferage” was meant to be a lifelong gift. Pretty much everything south of my bejeweled belly began behaving badly.
“But teacher, you told us that words starting with ‘pro’ are good things, like professional and pro-literacy?” Well, kids, every rule deserves its day in court, and every “prolapse” deserves the death sentence. Now look up the word “kegel.” Ready? Begin, and don’t ever stop. And don’t even think twice about letting the nice doctors remove your 9 pound 7 ounce baby in a way requiring knives and drugs. There’s a reason both my darling cherubs ended up as natural climbers; I believe they clung to every possible organ during their descent into this world. Thus, years later, after being a brave young woman and doing things the way they “should” be done, I nevertheless went under the knife, drugged, and joined the ranks of those already sweating out their “change of life.”
Change of life? Let’s just call it what it truly is: a horrifying metamorphosis from butterfly back into shriveled cocoon. But perhaps I exaggerate; after all, how wonderful is it to be rid of “the curse,” which is really just years of routine practice for menopause with the added inconvenience of all the yuckiness? It’s pretty wonderful, and although I still get that “Awww!” feeling whenever I see a cute baby or a puppy, I’m quite happy with my current inability to produce either. Hooray for change?
My 83-year-old mom doesn’t remember having a hard time with menopause. Of course, she doesn’t remember giving birth to five girls, either, because doing things naturally wasn’t “in” back then. My understanding is that while the gents were smoking stogies in the waiting room, the moms were offered red wine and spinal taps, and when they awoke, were handed their neat little bundles. “No hot flashes?” I ask Mom. “Well, nothing bad, but my poor sister still gets them.”
WHAT? Hold the phone! I rush to WebMD, search “menopause,” and read, “Some women have hot flashes for a very short time during menopause. Other women may have hot flashes — at least to some degree — for life.” Sweet! Possible lifetime membership in the Hot Flash Club! While my hubby is cocooned under the covers in our 55-degree bedroom, I’m down to one sheet waiting for my internal organs to spontaneously combust. Suggestions for preventing hot flashes include avoiding everything you enjoy, and taking nonprescription vitamins or prescription antidepressants, anti-seizure drugs, other hormones, soy products, black cohosh, flaxseed, evening primrose oil, and the list goes on. “Although there is no scientific evidence to support this… [and] side effects include nausea and diarrhea.” Well, harrumph.
We Americans love our drugs, and so it was easy to say, “Hook me up, Doc” after months of post-surgical menopausal madness. But after a couple years of taking my daily dose, the guilt I felt about being “on drugs” ultimately overpowered my rationalized need for comfort. My recent decision to embrace the changes of my metamorphosis as a way of cherishing the experience of womanhood (almost sounds like I mean it, right?) has freed me to re-evaluate how I will handle my remaining years.
I’m 53 now, and I like telling people that I’m not even middle age yet because I plan to be dancing on a bar, around a bar, behind bars (it won’t matter) for my 110th birthday. I’ve already decided that by the time I’m 70ish I’ll have saved enough for my “six-pack-lift trifecta,” cheek lifts (and I’m talking both sets here) and the inevitable “thanks for the mammaries” lift. What I failed to get from my progenitors in the way of “booty pop,” I more than made up for in my frontal region. Since I’ve already had my first reduction of the axe-handle-wide endowment I received from my mother’s mother (it just had to be done), I figure “the girls” will have gravity thwarted for at least a decade or two more. The cheeks, however, both fore and aft, will require attention.
When your cheek bags (and I’m talking about the face here) are floppy enough to flip around your neck as a fashionable scarf, it’s time for the scalpel, and although I’m not there yet, I see my future in my mother’s face. I thought it was awesome to finally have a mature, “chiseled” profile with pronounced cheekbones, now that the baby fat is gone, until I realized that my youthful filling was now starting to hang, Deputy Dog style, below my chin. Perhaps in 15 years there will be a drive-through for this fix.
As for the droopy ass issue, I may have found a solution already in the eyes of a Brazilian dreamboat! Yes, Leandro! I want to lift my butt for just three easy payments of $19.95 plus shipping and handling! I may have been booty butt challenged for the first 53 years of my life, but with the Brazilian butt lift workout, I believe I can finally sculpt the supermodel butt of my dreams! Well, at least I can still dream. Although…
Perhaps it’s because I’m awake for so many hours that I think I might also be losing weight with all these hormonal changes. I’m hoping it’s not just bone loss setting in already; I’ve had a sinking feeling over the past several years that I’m shorter than I used to be, but when asked how tall I am, I’ll stick with “five-five-and-a-full-half,” thank you very much. I think I’m getting soft, too. But “women should be soft and round,” says my bag-of-bones mother, her decorative-scarf-cheeks swaying gently with emphasis.
It’s not just the softness, however, that disturbs me. Along with the chicken skin neck meat and the cable-top hands is the saggy leg syndrome. I remember resting my feet on a table several years ago and looking over at what was hanging from my shin bones. It was frightening. It used to be my tights that were baggy around the knees. Now, my knees are baggy without tights, and the hair which is thinning on my baggy knees now grows — willy-nilly — in ridiculous places.
As a child I was horrified by the fact that Grandma needed a shave. After several boxes of wine with sisters some years ago, we laughed until we peed (just a little bit) over our “chair hins,” and then they shared with me the secret of their smooth, hairless, just-starting-to-sag faces — a little $14 “trimming wand.” But those abominable spiky chin hairs still grow at the speed of light, completely thwart the magical wand and will always require diligence, just like my new Einstein eyebrows. I always thought those mad professor eyebrows were awesome — on dudes — but add those to the nose and knuckle hairs I’m now sprouting (what’s THAT all about?), and I’m thinking about making a reservation at the zoo for my Golden Years.
And so I say, “Herpa-derpa-schmerpa.” It would appear that one more menopausal “side effect” is early dementia, or “chronic brain syndrome,” as the PubMed Health site calls it. Do yourself a favor: do not look up symptoms of dementia because it will make you lose sleep at night, which is, by the way, one of the symptoms. I’m seriously praying that this side effect won’t last too much longer as it may interfere with that…longish…thing…I’m writing.
I look at the calendar (trying to pretend that I remember the day’s date) and commend myself on sticking steadfastly with my sacrifice. Nick’s resolution was thwarted on day three when his college buddies couldn’t stand what a bummer he had become sans caffeine, and that’s okay; he’ll have plenty of time to be grumpy when his future wife hits menopause. As for me, I’ll sleep soundly, someday, knowing that suffering is good for the soul.
But wait! I forgot to tell you about my hemorrhoids! OMG!
— Laurel McHargue
Laurel (Bernier) McHargue teaches as an adjunct instructor at Colorado Mountain College in Leadville, Colo. She is the co-creator of Not Your Mother’s Book…On Being a Stupid Kid and will have stories in many of the series’ titles. Read her blog here.
Flu season is here. Bathe in Purell. Do not kiss anyone unless it is Tonto in a mask. Wear fashionable gloves day and night. Unless you are on your honeymoon and staying in your room 24/7, postpone hugging.
While every possible precaution must be taken to avoid this dangerous virus, I encourage you to catch a cold. Yes, my friends, the common cold. Why it is called the common cold is beyond me as even a Duke and a Duchess have been caught in its clutches. Yet it is the very best thing that can happen to you. It benefits your body, which is crying out for love.
Grownups rarely cry. Sure, when they lose at golf or a caterer runs out of cake, tears may flow, but even then, it’s not too often. It’s too bad. The truth is, a cold gives one an opportunity to revert to a childish state: to be pampered and cared for. It permits the strongest people to let go without tarnishing their reputation.
Here are a few documented medical examples:
One man literally strikes fear wherever he journeys. He is a tyrant and a huge troublemaker. Yet when he is at home with a bad cold, he sucks his thumb and calls his wife “Mommy.”
An actress who played the warden in prison films permits her mate 24 hours to be sick, prepares chicken soup and allows him to moan, “I’m dying, I’m dying” every hour on the hour while she rocks him in her mattress-size arms. The next day, she makes the bed and pushes him out the door. This one day keeps him functioning for the rest of the year. He is often seen without a jacket on wintry days, stepping in puddles and sleeping with a wet head stuck out an open window praying for a relapse.
Historical Fact: The reason some battles are called “Cold Wars” is because the need for love was not met. It might have been avoided if opposing sides could stay home and get a little cuddling. And really, who feels like fighting with a runny nose?
My Advice: If someone sneezes, don’t just say “Gesundheit.” Understand that this person craves compassion. Be gentle, but no kissing. Unless you yourself feel needy, in which case, place a lip-lock.
Rx: When you do catch a cold, get into a cuddly bed and collapse. You can drink liquids or not. It doesn’t matter whether you stand on your head singing the Kardashian National Anthem, your cold will last two to seven days or as long as you need it. That’s it. Call me in the morning and leave your insurance information.
P. S. If you happen to have an extra Kleenex coupon, send it. Along with some cough drops and…a spare lover!
— Jan Marshall
Jan Marshall is the author of her second satirical survival book, Dancin, Schmancin with the Scars: Finding the Humor No Matter What! She’s a columnist, certified clinical hypnotherapist and motivational speaker. This piece, reposted by permission, appears on her blog.
I love Black Jack.
No, not the game, my dog. My wonderful, dorky, pubic-haired Schnoodle. Sunday was his last day with us. About 10 p.m. that night he went to his new home. I’d like to say I handled it well, crying just enough to look beautiful in my sorrow, but I’m a terrible liar.
For two hours prior to his departure, I cradled him in my arms while sobbing into his curls. He licked the salty tears and snot off my face, enjoying the treat, not understanding what was about to take place. That made me bawl even harder. He’s so innocent. I don’t care if he bites the kids when he’s excited. So what if he likes to demonstrate his dominance by hugging your leg. He’s a good dog!
By the time his new owner arrived, I was a blubbering, red-faced, swollen, snotty mess. I could not pull myself together. It didn’t matter that Black Jack’s new owner was my best friend, who just lived down the street. All I knew was that my feet were going to freeze at night without my fur blanket to keep them warm.
Black Jack’s leaving was a long time in coming. I knew back in May that he would have to go. On Mother’s Day, my sweet boy, Ian, was hospitalized for a massive asthma attack.
Following this trauma, I took Ian to see his asthma doctor.
“Do you still have the dog?” Dr. Gourley asked.
“Yes,” I admitted sheepishly. “But this one is hypoallergenic and Ian seems to be fine…”
Dr. Gourley was shaking his head. “He’s not fine. There is no such thing as a hypoallergenic dog to an asthmatic.”
I love dogs. I grew up with them and cannot remember a time when my youthful feet weren’t tripping over metal food dishes on the floor. My first pooch was Penny the Toy Poodle, and then came Kachoock, our Siberian Husky with different colored eyes, and finally Mindy, the stray Collie my mother rescued on a stormy afternoon.
Having grown up with dogs, it was only fitting that I would want them to be part of my own family. When my oldest daughter was about two, she developed a mild discomfort for all things canine. My husband and I decided the best way to combat this unnaturalness was to welcome a tiny ball of fluff into our home. Tank joined our family and for the next 13 years; he worshipped my husband and pretty much hated everyone else.
At least he cured my daughter of her fear. And while he tolerated four children, I would never recommend a
Pomeranian as a good family dog. In spite of his propensity to bite and his inappropriateness with stuffed animals, I loved him and cared for him when age claimed his hearing and bladder control. Three months after his passing, my husband, Scott, surprised me with an American Bulldog.
Once in a while, an animal comes along who is different from all other animals. There is something special and unique that draws you to this creature. My bow-legged, barrel-chested, Tinkerbell, was such an animal. She had a magnetic soul. Weighing in at 50 pounds, she was the largest puppy I’d ever owned.
Caring for a dog means that you are willing to make certain sacrifices. You understand that poop will be tracked into the house on the bottom of a sneaker, you learn that library books shouldn’t—but do make good chew toys, and you decide that the short white hairs in your food really aren’t that big of a deal. You make these sacrifices because the rewards of having someone in your life, who loves you unconditionally, are worth it.
For me, dogs are the best medication, the best therapy, the best cure-all for whatever ails you. They fill a need in me that I can’t get from anyone or anything else. With a dog in my life, my soul feels complete.
After two months with Tinkerbell, I knew it wasn’t going to work. Ian’s allergies intensified around her so much, that with one lick of her tongue, he’d break out in hives. After giving her away, I came home and climbed into my bed. I didn’t leave it for three days. And when I did, I refused to wear anything but black. I wasn’t in a good place.
Along with my appearance, my thoughts and mood were dark. I admit that during that time I had some very un-motherly feelings toward my son. It wasn’t rational and it wasn’t fair, but part of me thought, If it weren’t for you, I could have a dog. I’m ashamed that those thoughts and feelings once had a
place in my mind and heart. Ian couldn’t help his allergies and asthma. He was born with those ailments.
What I failed to realize at the time, was that he was losing something special too. Like me, Ian loves dogs and is happier when he’s around them.
But as with dogs, raising children requires certain sacrifices. We know that sleeping through the night is a rare treat, and the ruins at Mesa Verde will wait, but a kidney infection will not. We understand that a dinosaur diorama is a family project, and we know that teenagers—when unsupervised—will break a brand new La-Z-boy. Our children’s needs always come before our own, even if we don’t want them to.
Black Jack was my last attempt to have a dog. Being a Schnoodle, he was considered a hypoallergenic breed. I lived in denial for two years, but eventually came to realize that it was Ian or the dog. The canine season of my life had come to a close, and it was time to put my child’s needs before my own.
The night Black Jack left I knew I needed to stop looking at my losses and start counting my blessings. I have many of them and the best ones are my children: Tawni, Rebeka, Zackary and Ian. No pet is better than them.
So with eyes that tear up occasionally — but remain clear — I am choosing to look for the good, and I’m finding it.
Although my feet are cold.
— Polly Bringhurst
Polly Bringhurst of Sandy, Utah, is a stay-at-home mom who is returning to school after a 22-year hiatus. She’s spent the last two decades raising four children in a house with a revolving door. Foster children, homeless siblings, neighbor kids and rowdy teenagers all contribute to the loving chaos called “home.” She blogs at The Fourth Gift.
I have a holiday suggestion that, once enough states ratify the change to the Constitution, will profoundly affect the happiness and well being of all Americans. Let’s forget New Year’s resolutions and go for Groundhog’s Day resolutions. To establish why this makes sense, let’s look at weight loss, the #1 goal of all Americans who have mirrors in their bathrooms.
On Dec. 31, I sit around eating leftover turkey sandwiches and ponder goals to set for the New Year, which starts the next day. I resolve to lose 15 pounds. I write it down on a sticky note on the fridge. I underline the 15. Then off I go to eat chips and dip, shrimp cocktails, mixed nuts, dipped vegetable sticks, buffalo wings, cheese, little hotdog things in barbecue sauce, beef stick slices on crackers, cheesecake, pie and baklava at the New Year’s Party down the street. I also consume flagons of sugary drinks as I say goodbye to the old year and bring in the new.
New Year’s Day has arrived, but I’ve quite forgotten my goal. I’m still at the party, and I keep eating and drinking as though there’s no tomorrow. I sit around with family and friends rejoicing that it’s not my house that’s trashed with confetti and cake crumbs. I idly pick cashews out of the mixed nut bowl on the coffee table. I eat one more piece of baklava.
New Year’s Day dawns. I drag myself out of bed to lie on the sofa to watch the Rose Bowl Parade hosted by people entirely too perky. I nibble on some caramel popcorn for breakfast.
In the afternoon I have several invitations to watch bowl games where I cheer, yell and consume chips and dip, shrimp cocktails, mixed nuts, dipped vegetable sticks, buffalo wings, cheese, little hotdog things in barbecue sauce, beef stick slices on crackers, cheesecake, pie and baklava.
Late at night I return home and look at the fridge as I grope for the milk. Oh! My resolution. Hmmm. Technically, I’ve already failed. But I am filled with resolve, primarily because the thought of food is revolting. It’s up to my gills. I give myself a day of slack. It’s a holiday.
The next day I go to work. I pack a lunch of carrot sticks and celery. I add an apple, probably because apples contain sugar. I bring some cheese and crackers along just in case.
After work I arrive at the gym. But there’s a problem. It’s packed with highly resolved people, and it will remain packed for about 10 days. So I opt instead to run a mile. After 30 feet I opt to walk a mile.
Back at home I realize that there’s some leftover ham, potato and cheese casserole and half a mincemeat pie in the refrigerator. There’s also a can of root beer. I behave like Pavlov’s dog. The casserole and pie are history. The root beer washes it down. Somehow, in the commotion, the sticky note falls off the fridge and slides underneath.
It’s a yearly cycle of failure, but it doesn’t have to be.
I’m adopting Groundhog’s Day as a day of resolution, and I recommend it to one and all. It’s a day that outside of western Pennsylvania has no importance, so I’ll make of it a day that will change my life. There are no Cadbury chocolate caramel groundhogs to tempt me at the supermarket. There are no high-calorie parties on Groundhog’s Day, except I always like to eat sausage — just a couple of patties. I can always steam some broccoli and eat an apple with my meal. It will work well. The gyms in February are practically empty, so I can spend time on the Stairmaster and rowing machine, maybe swim a few laps. I can be a new me. In the evening I‘ll write my annual Groundhog’s Day letter to friends and family.
I’m confident that it will last. I’ll mark it on the calendar. Feb. 2 — my diet and exercise program begins! Let’s see. Feb. 3 — Super Bowl Sunday. Chips and dip, shrimp cocktails, mixed nuts, dipped vegetable sticks, buffalo wings, cheese, little hotdog things in barbecue sauce, beef stick slices on crackers, cheesecake, pie and baklava.
Feb. 4 should be made a national day of resolution.
— Lowell T. Christensen
Lowell T. Christensen is the author of The One-Minute Zillionaire — Achieve Wealth, Fame, and Success in an Instant, Give or Take a Hundred Years. He has kept himself busily occupied as a writer, engineer, rocket scientist, musician, backhoe operator, outdoorsman, chef, rancher and international traveler. His previous books include Coping with Texas and Other Staggering Feets and Beginning Farming and What Makes a Sheep Tick, and he has written magazine articles that feature presidential elections through the theme of Shakespearean plays. He also writes articles for his local newspaper about public education, cheesy television shows, Scout camp misadventures and the county library’s resemblance to a dead rhinoceros. With a degree in chemical engineering, he has worked for DuPont and the University of California.
(Laura Rafaty’s humorous essay originally appeared in the St. Helena Star. Reposted by permission of the author.)
I am reliably informed that serious journalists, as opposed to we humor columnists, are distinguished by a deep knowledge of their subject matter and exhaustive verification of their facts. And while I never let a lack of knowledge stand in the way of my opinions, I try to harvest as many low-hanging facts as 20 minutes spent randomly surfing the Internet can produce.
Enter Wikipedia, a collaborative online encyclopedia apparently founded on the principle that if millions of volunteers toss in information they read elsewhere, and this information is consumed and regurgitated to suggest a consensus, then Truth might accidentally emerge. I always assume that the bulk of any Wikipedia entry was lifted from the term-paper of the grad student who sat next to the contributor 30 years ago, that contributor now being a 50-year-old flabby former barista living with his parents and writing under the pseudonym Cindy4u. Still, Wikipedia’s definitions are much pithier than those of the fuddy-duddy dictionaries and far less likely to include the sort of complexity and nuance that might cloud the subject and cause my articles to exceed their 750-word limit.
To further bolster my journalistic bonafides, I attended (the) annual Symposium for Professional Wine Writers at Meadowood. This confluence of world-class wine journalists, bloggers, website floggers, magazine editors, former magazine editors, cookbook authors, book publishers, writing coaches and new media gurus is co-sponsored by Meadowood Napa Valley and the Napa Valley Vintners. The best local events often involve the NVV, which is to wine enthusiasts what Steve Rubell and Studio 54 were to disco queens, although passage past their velvet rope must be based more upon pocketbook and palate than glamour, judging from some of its scruffy-whiskered winemaker members.
Far from highfalutin, our hosts created an atmosphere of conviviality in which even the biggest stars were accessible and forthcoming, if occasionally formidable. Picture baseball camp for wine scribes, except that instead of practice pitching a curve ball with Goose Gossage, you practiced pitching a feature story to Decanter, Wine & Spirits and Uncorked.
Like most events where strangers gather, it resembled high school. The cool people immediately congealed, separating themselves from the rest of us like gourmet balsamic from off-brand olive oil. The usual types emerged: the ultra-driven strivers shoehorning themselves into conversations with editors, the popular darlings flitting about swapping business cards, the true believers burying their noses deep in spit cups to avoid eye contact, and the starstruck who couldn’t believe they were in the same room with both Eric Asimov and the Shafer 2003 Hillside Select Cabernet (and other rarities).
Overall the group was enthusiastic, friendly and kind, and we soon relaxed into an easy camaraderie, remaining hopeful even as symposium founder and nurturer-in-chief Toni Allegra reminded us that the average writer earns $9K per year.
It made me wonder: who becomes a wine writer, anyway? Were they born picky, their first words being: “Mother, I find this chocolate milk smooth on the palate, soft, full-bodied and rich, yet lacking maturity”? Were they finicky in high school, attending keg parties wearing smoking jackets and swilling Champagne?
It appears they were always articulate observers, a tad on the sensitive side. These were not the bullies who shoved you into your locker and stole your lunch money — those guys became venture capitalists and bought wineries. These were good kids, super-smart achievers, with a bit of rebellion at the finish. They edited the yearbook or ran student government, but also drummed in rock bands or smoked pot behind the gym — until they discovered wine.
One writer admitted that she had been in the color guard: “you know … not quite a cheerleader.” And while many had grown up to become respected and widely published, few were able to support themselves through writing alone. Does this mean they are: “you know … not quite wine writers”?
According to Wikipedia: “a semi-professional athlete is one who is paid to play and thus is not an amateur, but for whom sport is not a full-time occupation, generally because the level of pay is too low to make a reasonable living based solely upon that source.” Broadly applying that definition, many of us would be considered semi-pro nowadays. Still the wine writers maintain a high level of professionalism, even if they seem a bit obsessive, fretting about botrytis and blithering on about tannins and acids and bouquets when any normal person would just say “yum.” Some don’t actually drink the wine, yet all are compelled to taste, evaluate and report, even if they can’t be entirely certain anyone is reading.
In a world where everyone’s a critic, there is nothing amateur about them. And that’s a fact.
— Laura Rafaty
Laura Rafaty writes the bi-weekly humor column “Up the Valley” for the St. Helena Star and Napa Valley Register newspapers. Her column won first place from the 2012 National Society of Newspaper Columnists for humor, as well as the 2012 California Newspaper Publishers Association Better Newspapers Award for best column in its division. Laura also is a Tony-nominated theatrical producer, author and attorney.
Ever notice how all the hair products these days are going natural? I thought, “I can do that.” Here are my results:
I washed my hair in okra, and that was one slick hairdo.
I washed my hair in corn, and it was so starchy that it stood straight above my ears.
I washed my hair in carrots, and now I can see better.
I washed my hair with the beautiful lavender flower of the thistle and now it’s all prickly.
I washed my hair with rose petals and now the bees are trying to pollinate me.
I washed my hair with apple juice and it kept the doctor away.
I washed my hair in jalapenos and it was one hot style.
I washed my hair in big bertha pepper, but it didn’t ring my bell.
I washed my hair in oatmeal, and it lowered my cholesterol by 8 points.
I washed my hair with cucumbers and I looked like a wart hog.
I washed my hair with lemons and it puckered.
I washed my hair in zucchini and I couldn’t give it away.
I washed my hair in green beans and it was stringy.
In case you want to try any of these, you have the results from my personal test grounds.
— Kay Gibson describes herself as a wife, mother, grandmother, great grandmother — and writer. She has written pieces for numerous publications, including Bird Watcher’s Digest, Guidepost for Kids and Humpty Dumpty. She writes a weekly humor column for two newspapers.
He strides into the gym like the king of beasts — bold, muscular, lion’s mane of thick, silver hair and big, strong hands. He is the fearsome Titan, the dominant male, and all the other men suddenly look like mewing cubs. The sight of him makes me melt on the treadmill. Sweat starts seeping through in dark spots on my already damp tank top. I see him survey his surroundings with a dismissive glance. He looks like a man who has everything under control. He looks like a man who has everything he needs. He looks like a man who gets everything he wants. And, I don’t even know his name.
I daydream about those large hands kneading my neck, my back and … fade to black. I imagine holding them and looking up while slow dancing because, being a tall woman, size does matter. He takes the masterly lead with no instruction from me, but we move to the rhythm of balanced beats and equal footing. I wonder what it would be like to stare into those sky-lit eyes and have them stare back into mine. He is blessed with sculpted cheekbones and a strong jawline. They’re included every night in my prayers. I cry like a silly school girl, frustrated tears, cursing fate’s loathsome folly. That old rascal lust has found me again after all these years, and I am lost in confusion. Why now, when I’ve finally accepted my aloneness; when menopause is standing at the front door, ready to send my Aunt Rose and Cousin Cramp packing?
I’m comfortable with myself and no longer feel obligated to touch up my hair and makeup. I can spent a Friday night and Saturday morning in pajama pants with Cat curled at my feet. I can eat a banana, write a little poetry, switch on the old movie channel and watch Bogart and Bacall deal with the dicey game of love, all under the protective cover of quilts. I don’t want cupid’s tender trap and foolish romantic fiction.
What’s a grown-up girl to do? The Titan never makes a move. He never gives me the eye. He never even leans his well-built body towards my treadmill-trekking tush. I try my hardest to look like a leaping gazelle or at the very least, a darting doe. But no amount of running in place is going to make the sexual connection with this almighty man.
Our relationship evolves in my own fevered brain. I feel all the same yearning and burning desire as if we were actually together. I feel all the same crazy, mixed-up emotions I did when I was 17 and in lust with my first boyfriend. Only now I’m middle-aged and been around the track a few times. I feel vulnerable and frightened by these alien impulses.
I’d settle for one night of carnal knowledge with the Gym God. This mere mortal would cast a magical sex spell over him. He’d swiftly sweep me off my size nine feet and onto his mountain of heavenly delight. Heart strings stay intact and feelings of love stay in the closet. Our tryst is playful, uncomplicated because I no longer want to own or be owned.
It’s a funny thing. I thought I had put my mojo on hold a long time ago. In fact, mojo mold was spreading rapidly. Good riddance, I was done with wanting anything from a man. But while treading, I’m salivating up a storm, and filming all sorts of hot takes in my own personal porno flick. It’s only a movie, a fantasy. I crash, head first, down to Earth. I’ve never learned the intricate art of flirting. And, I’m not as liberated as I should be. The ’70s taught women how to get out of the kitchen but not how to ask for what they need in the bedroom. I’m not one of the new feline class of cats that assertively hunts to satisfy their hunger. These predatory goddesses are made to conquer and topple timid males. I’m shy, short on feminine wiles and oddly off balance in my New Balance shoes.
My fear and fancy are mixed together in a big bowl of mush. I suppose I’ll never know the feel of him next to me — what’s it’s like to have his arm draped across my bare body. I’ll never know the salty scent of the man before he jumps into the shower. (He emerges with hair carelessly tousled, just a hint of aftershave and wrapped in a fresh white towel.) I’ll never know the ache of smoldering passion as he spots me in a crowded room, nodding recognition, then taking my hand and whispering, “You look incredible tonight.”
But what if he did ask? What if he approached me and said, “You and yes?” Would I remember how to respond? It’s been 20 years of marriage and martyrdom, and I still feel like I’m hanging on the cross waiting for my divorce lawyer to pry the nails out.
The no-risk consolation prize is that this man will always be perfectly mine. He will never stray or disappoint. He will never grow tired of me and ask for a newer model. He will never say the wrong thing or give me a bum birthday present. He will hold me in those massive arms and tell me I’m beautiful and funny and smart and that I should never, ever change because I’m just exactly what the gods ordered.
The king is close. I feel his divine warmth as he passes. Pheromones are at a fever pitch, and I nearly slip off the treadmill. Is that a smile on his lips? Is he appraising my doe-like darts and dodges? But no, he has sought out the young blonde lounging on the chest press machine. Taut body, no laugh lines, perfect tendrils spilling down her back, and she is what all the men want. He says, “Hey, honey. How’s my girl?” I bite my tongue, taken aback by this corny line, so unworthy of the God of Mount Elliptical. She says, “Hey dad. Thanks for coming to get me.”
And, I’m off again, sprinting at the sound of a long shot. Daydreams, it seems, have definite advantages. No gain but no pain either, and a girl can always hope. Hope is a powerful aphrodisiac. Especially on those nights when King Titan is fantasy fodder and Prince Rabbit is just a hair’s breadth away, ready and waiting in the nearby nightstand.
— Wendy Schmidt
Wendy Schmidt, a native of Wisconsin, has written short stories and poetry for the last 10 years. Her pieces have been published in Strange, Weird and Wonderful, Daily Flash 2012, Three Line Poetry, Tainted Tea, Fear and Trembling,Verse Wisconsin, One Million Stories and Twisted Dreams, Taste Like Pennies Anthology and Haunted Object Anthology.
Award-winning poet, novelist and author of the famed How To Do It Frugally series of books for writers Carolyn Howard-Johnson and award-winning playwright and actor Lance Johnson have been married far longer than the average couple and are still doing things together — in this case, joining with Amazon’s Kindle Select program to give away e-copies of their books, starting Jan. 13.
Ta-da! Two books for your Kindle (or your computer if you don’t have a Kindle) with only a couple clicks. Writers will benefit from The Great First Impression Book Proposal, while international friends might appreciate What Foreigners Need to Know About America From A to Z: How to Understand Crazy American Culture People, Government, Business, Language and More.
You can also send the books free to others for a thoughtful — and fast — gift. Send Lance’s book to an international student, an immigrant — or anyone who cut more high school civics (or English!) classes than they should have. Send Carolyn’s book to fellow writers. Every nonfiction author and even most fiction writers can use it as it is becoming common for publishers to ask for proposals from writers of genre fiction.
“It’s thoughtfulness with the click of a mouse,” she said.
Lance Johnson is an actor with national commercials, plays and movies to his credit. He also has visited more than 90 countries and taught English and American culture abroad. His book has been endorsed by ambassadors to the U.S. and ambassadors from the U.S. to other countries.
Carolyn Howard-Johnson‘s How To Do It Frugally series for writers has won multiple awards. She has studied writing at universities in the Czech Republic, Russia and UK, UCLA and USC. And she has been an instructor for the world-renowned UCLA Extension Writers’ Program for nearly a decade. She served on the EBWW faculty in 2006 and 2008.