With an amusing tagline ("Only a ball should bounce"), one might hope for something a little playful and less dismally ugly. One might hope, but one would be disappointed. Bitter experience has taught us that D-cup-wearers can't be choosers.



Appearance is one thing, style another. With such a clever tagline, one could reasonably hope for more from the product blurb:

An ideal bra for women
engaging in high impact activities
such as horseback riding, running,
soccer, volleyball, aerobics,
police officers...

On the other hand, one is greatly amused in speculating precisely what "high impact activities such as... police officer" could be.

This is not the post I was going to write.

I was going to write about something I overheard the other day while walking home through the park after an afternoon's Christmas shopping. A most exquisite and delightful piece of concrete irony. Two young women were chatting as they strolled toward me, and one, in all sincerity, said something to the other which was so totally at odds with their dress and demeanour as to cause a snort of appreciative laughter irony-loving me, and which gave me the seeds of a most excellent blog post. I had it all sketched out in my mind. Short and pithy, it was going to be, and in less than a hundred words I'd give any readers (I hoped) the same delightful jolt of laughter I'd just enjoyed.

I was going to write about that. I would still be writing about that ... if I could only remember what it was. But I can't. I've lost, completely and utterly, the kernel of the post. I cannot remember what the girl said.

I can remember where I was. I can remember the weather, what I was wearing, who I'd just gone shopping for, and even much of what I purchased. I know the young women's approximate ages. I can remember that what I overhead was very brief, one, perhaps two, sentences. I can remember it was totally at odds with something very obvious about them. I recall making a mental note and telling myself it would make a great blog post.

I can remember all that. I cannot remember what was said. I cannot remember what it conflicted with.

This happens all the time. It is utterly maddening.

Why, oh vagrant memory, do you torture me so? Why torment me with that sense of incompletion, why tantalize me with an almost-memory, the memory of an intention without its substance? A fusty nut with no kernel, indeed.

If my memory is going to drop the key element, why not just drop the entire damned thing?

With all the surrounding data, you'd think I'd be able to reconstruct the memory, but oh, how sadly rarely does this happen. I lay in bed in the very early morning, before I was quite awake -- the best time, I've discovered, for this sort of exercise -- and let the thoughts drift around this image, trying to hear their words again. I got close, once or twice. I had that "aha" feeling... and then, nothing.

Bah.

I suppose this is better than losing it entirely. A semi-recalled conversation can be brought to mind if the other party is there to fill in the gaps. They don't even need to know there were any gaps, because I can recall enough to fake it. A semi-recalled intention can often be accomplished anyway, if enough wisps of surrounding memory lead you to the point of action.

I am not going senile. I watched my lovely grandmother slip steadily away into a smiling, peaceful senility, senility which caused this woman who was my second mother, who lived next door and whom I saw every day of my childhood and adolescence, who taught me to sew and to cook (my mother being a little domestically challenged), to now welcome me with the kindly graciousness she bestowed on all strangers. I'm not going senile, but don't think the fear hasn't run through me once in a while.

No, I'm just middle-aged forgetful. And yes, that kind of retention is to memory and overall brain function what parrotting the times tables is to higher math -- a useful skill, but low-level, and usually pretty easy to live without. I can do all sorts of high-level brain stuff: I'm creative and analytical; I can think laterally. I've developed a decent supply of wisdom, I think, which will only increase as the years go by. I'm good in a crisis, I can retain my ability to reason clearly despite massive amounts of stressors. I can separate emotion from reason, and balance the interests of both sensibly. (Try doing that one as a teen or even as a twenty-something.)

So. The old brain is ticking along just fine, thanks.

But, damn, I wish I could recall what that girl had said.

You ever picked up a magazine in the doctor's office, only to find out someone has scribbled answers all over the "How Much Fibre Do You REALLY Need?" quiz? Or opened the newspaper in the coffee shop and found the "Top Ten Events in History" quiz all finished?

That was me.

I confess, I am a quiz addict. I love 'em. Can't leave a box unticked, an opinion unspoken. I fill out those consumer questionnaires from that Dianne woman, I answer the phone when Decima calls. I'm always willing to have some total stranger asking dopey questions tell me how well suited I am to my husband, how good my grammar is, whether I'm in the correct profession.

My favourite colour is green. That says significant things about my mothering skills, and also whether I should renovate the kitchen this year. I like chocolate, but my favourite junk food indulgences tend more to the salty and spicy; I drink beer more often than wine; I am left-handed... I am prone to criticism; I am all-forgiving; I'm a loyal friend; I'm a loner; I'm repressed; I'm a tigress in bed.

You just never know WHAT hidden truths about your psyche you could learn from these things!! Because it's all there!

Ah, quizzes. And now that we're all online, there is so much more to discover! So many more buttons to push, circles to tick, boxes to fill in!

Which is how I found out that I am an Audrey!



Who wouldn't want to be an Audrey? I even have the cheekbones!! Sure wish I had the lips...

Curious? Here's the explanation, based on TWO questions. (Only TWO! So easy!)

You are an Audrey -- "I am at peace"
(Yup. When I left my first marriage, what I wanted more than anything else was peace. I found it.)

Audreys are receptive, good-natured, and supportive. They seek union with others and the world around them.
(Mostly.)


How to Get Along with Me

- If you want me to do something, how you ask is important. I especially don't like expectations or pressure
(Expectations are just fine. Knowing the other guy's expectations is useful for healthy communication. Just don't pressure me with them!)

- I like to listen and to be of service, but don't take advantage of this.
(True.)

- Listen until I finish speaking, even though I meander a bit
(Me? Fail to get to the point???)

- Give me time to finish things and make decisions. It's OK to nudge me gently and nonjudgmentally
(Meh. I know how to meet a deadline. No nudging required.)

- Ask me questions to help me get clear
(Nope. I'm usually clear in my own mind.)

- Tell me when you like how I look. I'm not averse to flattery.
(I like compliments. I like playful flattery. I loathe obsequious, smarmy, or ham-fisted flattery. Make it clever, or just go away and stop humiliating yourself.)

- Hug me, show physical affection. It opens me up to my feelings.
(Nope. Unless I know you well, physical affection will only make me retreat. I do the social hug thing, but that's nothing to do with "opening me up to my feelings" -- feelings I'm generally pretty attuned to, thanks.)

- I like a good discussion but not a confrontation
(Absolutely! I fervently wish more people had the skill of lively, respectful discussion. Why, why, why, must we turn these things into attacks?)

- Let me know you like what I've done or said
(If you want to.)

- Laugh with me and share in my enjoyment of life.
(Who doesn't like laughing with friends? But I find lots of joy on my own.)

What I Like About Being an Audrey

- being nonjudgmental and accepting
(Mostly.)

- caring for and being concerned about others
(It's what I do for a living!)

- being able to relax and have a good time
(I'm good at relaxing. My "good times" are generally pretty low-key, but they suit me!)

- knowing that most people enjoy my company; I'm easy to be around
(Some days I agree with this, others, I feel inept and isolated. It's probably hormones...)

- my ability to see many different sides of an issue and to be a good mediator and facilitator
(Yes.)

- my heightened awareness of sensations, aesthetics, and the here and now
(Don't think so.)

- being able to go with the flow and feel one with the universe
(Go with the flow, yes. Or, quietly evade the flow with no one any the wiser... One with the
universe? Not often.)

What's Hard About Being an Audrey

- being judged and misunderstood for being placid and/or indecisive
I am passive, and this bothers me. Do people judge me for that? Oh, well!

- being critical of myself for lacking initiative and discipline
Yup. More lacking initiative than discipline, but yes.

- being too sensitive to criticism; taking every raised eyebrow and twitch of the mouth personally
When I was younger, absolutely. Now, not so much.

- being confused about what I really want
Nope. It can take me a while to reach a decision, but once I do, I don't second-guess myself.

- caring too much about what others will think of me
Nope.

- not being listened to or taken seriously
Depends on the circumstances. I don't always assume I have something worth hearing!

Audreys as Children Often

- feel ignored and that their wants, opinions, and feelings are unimportant
Hardly ever. My mother did a fabulous job, even while taking no shit. No mean feat, that.
- tune out a lot, especially when others argue
Never. I still have a terrible time tuning out conflict. I wish I could!
- are "good" children: deny anger or keep it to themselves
ABSOLUTELY, particularly the "denying anger" bit.

Audreys as Parents

- are supportive, kind, and warm
- are sometimes overly permissive or nondirective
Yes, on both counts, I think.

Curious to take the quiz? You can find it here. If you do (only TWO questions!), come back and let me know who YOU are!

Hormones.

They say that a woman's sexual peak is in her mid-thirties. And lord only knows, newly single after a dozen years in a dreary marriage, I was feeling my oats, as the phrase goes. (And a very weird one it is; must be related to sowing the wild ones, but has always conjured up images of greasy men in trench coats for me. However, we're all agreed on a definition, and what I was up to in my early- to mid-thirties involved men of a grease-free variety, and the only trench coat in sight was one -- a London Fog, I think.)

So, I was quite willing to believe that was my sexual peak. And I was standing at the mountain-top, pounding my chest a bit. She smiles in fond remembrance.

After the oats were fondled, there followed a few years of the standard girl-meets-guy, guy-moves-in-with-girl, guy-and-girl settle in to happy domesticity ... well, mostly. It was happy, but there was a respectably non-standard mutually agree-upon foray into non-monogamy in there, too. (Enthusiastically embraced, and, later, contentedly set aside.) All very good for confirming my sexual peaked-ness.

Then the forties began, and the hormones, they seemed to recede a bit. Clearly, I was sliding down off that peak, and though the mental interest in the subject has never waned, the physical was a little sluggish, prompting some degree of internal consternation: I like sex! I've always liked sex! Why don't I hardly want it no more???

I've accepted the effects of aging in lots of ways with barely a murmur. The wrinkles (which, so far, I genuinely like), the shifting body parts, the gray hairs (after one foray into the natural look, tastefully coloured) ... all of these, if not embraced, at least accepted. I yam what I yam.

But this receding of the libido? Much harder to take. This did not fit in with the woman I've always perceived myself to be. I like the energy of eros, I like the sexy me. I like that it's often hidden under an ostensibly demure front; the libido flaring out comes as a doubly-erotic jolt. But now, the demure front was becoming less of a front, and I did not like it. I was not about to go gentle into that drab night.

My worries were needless. The hormones, they've shifted yet again. Realizing that there were less of them overall, they seem to have taken a "united-we-stand" approach. If they can't populate my body in equal measure every day of the month, if they can't maintain their former levels of potency at all times, they'll all band together for maximum impact for the mid-cycle week.

Good lord.

If this is what men experience all the time, the wonder is not that some of them wander, but that any of them manage monogamy at all.

For a week a month, I eat, sleep, breathe sex. I ooze pheromones. I eye men on the street. My mind wanders, my eyes wander. That's all that wanders, mind you. We're monogamous now, Matthew and I, and I am a woman who keeps my word.

It's taken some conscious effort. I don't go out with my male friends, a decent percentage of whom are former lovers, that week. Me, in that state, imbibing alcohol with a man not my husband? That's dancing drunk on a highwire over hungry lions. Can't be done.

Matthew, he's certainly reaping the benefits of the randy week. He has no complaints.

But, my god. If I had this to deal with every day of the month, monogamy would assuredly founder. I am reeling. Reeling even as I enjoy the ride.

Sexual peak in the thirties? Pfft.

I stubbed the middle toe of my left foot a while back. Damned thing would ache. Oh, how it would ache. And hurt when I touched it. Then it got better. Then I stubbed it again. Then it got better. Then I stubbed it again ...

Not that I ever remembered stubbing it, mind you. But that often happens with me. I'll come up with a bruise, and have no idea where it came from. (No, I don't bruise particularly easily, I don't think; I just have a terrible memory. It takes a while for a bruise to emerge, see. Ample time -- AMPLE -- for me to forget the originating mishap.) But whether I remember or not, I must've banged myself, obviously, because I have a bruise.

So, the toe? I must have stubbed it, because it kept aching.

Gradually, however, it permeated even my oblivious consciousness that this toe had been "stubbed" an awful lot for an awfully long time. Perhaps I should take a look? Sadly, not as straightforward a proposition as one might think. Recalling the facts of the back (bad) and the age (fortyplus)... Not a combination that makes for easy access to the underside of one's toes.

Though I don't get as close as I might prefer (who ever thought I'd be nostalgic about the days when I was young and bendy (and disgusting) enough to be able to chew my own toenails?), I do manage to ascertain that this toe, when viewed from underneath, is quite evidently blue. As is a spot on the big toe, two doors down.

One should not google these things. Did you know that there's a sydrome, caused, near as I can make out, by vascular detritus collecting in the tiny veins of the toes, which will make your toes go blue (and eventually, if left untreated) develop gangrene and fall right off?? Well, you do now. And so did I.

I made an appointment with a podiatrist that afternoon.

Three days later, I'm sitting in an enormous red leather reclining chair with my bare feet raised well up. After a mere, oh, 35 minutes, the doctor enters. Before she's even settled her butt onto her small beige stool she says,

"You've got frostbite."

Frostbite? When did that happen? Surely one would notice? Which is pretty much what she said to me when informed that I didn't know when it had happened.

After all, I live in Ottawa. It's cold here. From time to time, despite decent footwear, one's feet do get very, very cold, like when one is standing waiting for a bus that simply never comes. After the tingling comes the numbness. If one decides the damned bus is never coming and walks home, the toes don't much cooperate with the venture for the first half-block until they warm enough that you can feel them once again.

And then, perhaps, when one gets home and, removed from the cold air within the boot, they meet the warm air of the house, they might perhaps ache, sting, and burn like a bugger. This, however, has happened to me any number of times over my life -- not that often, all in all, but our winter are long and cold. There's lots of opportunity for this to happen.

Lots of opportunity, multiple occasions, yet never have I gotten frostbite from it. Well. Never before, at any rate.

Now, apparently, I have it, and will always have it, and the only solution is to avoid extremes of temperature, hot or cold -- no more revivifying, comforting, chill-banishing hot baths! damn!! -- and keep my feet warm. Lest I get it again (which is now more likely), and/or damage the toes further. Lesson learned.

I left her office $200 poorer (!!!) but laden with goodies. I've got creams (to soften and to warm), I've got lengths of natural wool in which to wrap my affected toes, I've got neoprine (sp?) insoles for my current boots, and I've got a shopping list: new, better boots, and new, better socks, and the catalogue from which to order them. Too bad she can't write prescriptions, because $18 for a pair of socks??? And those boots she suggests are twice as much as I usually spend.

Though, if you like hiking boots, they are very, very nice...

Frostbite.

Yeesh.

Six things about me. Meme from John.

1. I have claustrophobia. I have trained myself so that I can manage elevators, if the trip's not too long, and I can manage the toilets on trains and planes, but caves? Can't manage 'em for love nor money. (I've tried both: a bit of naughtiness completely scuppered by a panic attack; and if even that can't get me in there, bribery can't even begin to be effective.)

2. I used to play the piano with reasonable competance. I loved Chopin's waltzes in my teens, but now find them a bit lush and overblown. Bach's preludes and fugues were my adult favourites, but, sadly, life encroached and it's been years since I've played properly.

3. Every morning, I sit in front of a SAD light for 45 minutes. It keeps me from plunging the depths in the winter. I loathe winter. Loathe it. Unfortunate, that, given where I live.

4. I used to scoff at the idea of a soulmate. If such a thing existed, most of us managed just fine without one, but I had serious reservations as to the existance of such a thing. That was my stance on the matter for years. Until I met mine.

5. Although I've been happily monogamous for some years now, I am generally ambivalent about the practicality of monogamy. I certainly don't think it's neccesary or essential.

6. I am left-handed.

"And then one of the kids hollered, and I ran down the hall, totally forgetting I was just wearing the panties and the boots."

Yep, she really said that.

She'd been getting undressed, see, and was down to her fancy new knickers and her boots, and one of the children cried out in their sleep, and she just had to race down the hall, catching her husband's attention -- he was uploading pictures from his camper to his computer -- and then (imagine that!) he chased after her, this vision of near-nudity in high boots, with his camera.

But she didn't set that up. She didn't intend for him to take her pictures! Oh, no, no, it was completely unintentional.

Why do women say stuff like this?

Granted, she's about ten years younger than me, but that puts her in her mid-thirties, not her mid-teens when such sexual self-deception is excusable, or even her mid-twenties, when it might still be lingering. In my mid-thirties I wasn't playing those kinds of games with my own head. I might play them deliberately with a willing partner, but neither of us believed the pretence. It was for play.

But she seems to expect that I believe it was unintentional. A child cries out in their sleep, and she MUST race to them. Immediately. Wearing nothing but a pair of silky panties and high boots? What will THAT do to the psyche of a nine-year-old boy?

Honest to Pete.

Silliest thing I'd heard in a long while. And while this is a strong example, I hear this sort of thing a lot. Women who just can't allow themselves to take ownership of their sexuality. Women who pretend they're not courting male attention, women who just don't know how they managed to end up having sex. Come now. Unless you were unconscious, you have to have cooperated a little. (If you weren't cooperating, you were raped, and no, you were not complicit. At all.)

But I'm not talking about rape. I'm talking about women like my friend who set up sexual exchanges, but pretend they're not doing so. Women who manage to have articles of clothing removed "without realizing" they were being peeled off their body. Women who stare at a fellow across the bar and then react with outrage and disdain when he approaches.

I don't get it. I'd far rather be party to what happens to my body, far rather play together with the man, than be played with.

But no. She races around the house 2/3 naked, but it has nothing to do with flaunting her gorgeous ass and long, lean flanks to her husband. Not at all.

"He chased me down the hall with the camera! Can you believe it?"

Well, yeah, I can. What I find harder to believe is your wish to pretend you had nothing to do with it.

Sigh...

"You're only as old as you feel," says my mother. She's 67.

"True enough, until you catch sight of yourself unexpectedly."

We cackle down the phone. We've both done it, of course. Walking down a street, you look into a display, and instead of the items inside the store, you see yourself mirrored in the glass. Unexpected, your response is as to a stranger. For a split second, you're not seeing yourself through the filter of your consciousness, your self-perception.

This can be a rude jolt. A bakery has a large mirror on the wall behind the till. A quick glance up, "my GOD, that woman looks severe." My God, it's me. How mortifying. Paste a smile on that face, you forbidding harridan.

In from the cold, glance towards the window, encounter a mirror I didn't know was there. My SKIN. What's happened to my skin? Isn't the cold supposed to shrink things? Shouldn't it make my face smoother? Another ten years, I'll have jowels, so help me. Gawd.

But sometimes the jolt is a good one. Just having had my hair done, I glance to one side to speak to the friend beside me, and see myself in the mirrored pillar behind her. "Wow. What a gorgeous woman." And it's ME. Ha!

Which has me wondering: what is the face I expect to see? If I'm only as old as I feel, what age is that? My self-perception and reality are obviously a few years out of synch. How many?

I suspect about ten years. I think were I to see my 35-year-old face smiling (or, as the case may be, glowering) back at me, I wouldn't be at all startled. Which, were I suddenly blessed with my 35-year-old face, would be rather startling.

Would people react differently to me? And if they did, would it be an improvement or a diminishment? Would people see the younger woman as more vibrant, more vital, more "with-it" and thus more worthy of attention? Perhaps, but I have my doubts.

The younger woman certainly got more sexual attention, more global, universal awareness, but the 40-something me gets her fair share. Just from a different, more specific audience.

My perception is that I get more respect now than I did ten years ago, but perhaps that's a function of my increased self-confidence and greater depth of wisdom. (Yes, I think I have some small store of wisdom, accumulated through the years.)

In which case, I am as old as I feel. Which is my real, my chronological age. My well-earned, well-lived, well-considered age, with its gray hair (diligently covered), its wrinkles (signs of the life lived within this skin), its occasional hot flashes (power surges?). And its very rich interior: the experiences, the memories, the time spent thinking, evaluating, reading, learning, considering, the richness of perspective, gleaned in bits down the decades. The interior. Which, in the end, is far more significant than the exterior.

Wendy has tagged me for a meme:

"List one fact, word or tidbit that is somehow relevant to your life for each letter of your first or middle name. You can theme it to your blog or make it general. Then tag one person for each letter of your name."

Since I've "come out", more or less, I'll use my real name.

I - Irreverent, of course. I chose this word as my blog name because I've never quite taken the status quo as my guide; I've never quite meshed with common expectations. As I mature, I've increasingly stood outside the norms -- motherhood, marriage, ambition, aspirations, morality -- with a slightly crooked grin on my face. Not that you would necessarily be aware of that at first glance. I'm a quiet type in real life. Several of my favourite memories revolve around the astonishment on someone's face when they've discovered that I've done or said or thought something that they had considered far outside my supposedly conventional, even demure, character. Heh.

L - Loyal? Probably not ... though not precisely disloyal, either. Loveable? To a select few, but not widely. Likeable? To a larger few, but I'm not awash in friends. Luscious? Sometimes I manage this spectacularly. Other times, not so much. Limpid pools, my brown eyes? Depends on who you ask. L, L, L ... I'm stuck.

O - Ontario. Though I love to travel, I've always lived in the one province. And yes, you can fit the entire UK into it five times over, supposing such a thing were possible, but still. One part of one country, my whole life long.

N -Naughty. Distinct thread in me, in which I take great pleasure. A bit of an iconoclast (could've used that for "I", couldn't I?) Occasionally biting, often mischievous, deliciously bawdy bytimes. An aspect of myself that has gained me friends and lovers, and, I suspect, lost me a friend or two. (Not, I hasten to clarify, because I mess around with friends' lovers, but because there are an astonishing number of easily-shocked people out there.)

As a young mother, I once cleared a sandbox of fluttering mummies who were complaining about their husbands' lack of sexual sensitivity, by making clear (and, I thought, relevant) reference to cunnilingus. Within moments, it was me and my toddler, alone at one end of the sandbox, and all the other mummies and their tots at the other. Pfft. Squeamish bunch. If this can send them scurrying away, no wonder their husbands are "insensitive". I roll my eyes at them ...

A - Ambitious? Nope. Avaricious? Not so's you'd notice. Amiable? I suppose, but it's being damned by faint praise, I think. NOT American: Canadian, thank you. There's a difference. Artistic? I'm a competent pianist, have played about with other instruments in my time, have a pleasant enough voice ... Auditory!

That's it. I'm auditory. Sound is important to me. Pleasant sound -- music, melody, wind, birdsong, rain, running water, the steady tap of my keyboard -- bring me pleasure; unpleasant sounds -- angry voices, excessive volume, certain electronic noises, the tick of a clock late at night -- cause me distress beyond what is reasonable. I use music to mold my mood: calming music for times of tension; powerful music for times of uncertainty; driving, rhythm-intense music to see me through a boring but necessary task.

Wendy! This was far more difficult that I thought it would be when I started. But there, it's done, and I hope I haven't bored you all to death...

I look at my reflection in the mirror. And sigh.

"It's a nice shirt, otherwise, but I just don't like the neckline," I tell Bekah, who stands at my side, considering the image before us. "I hate it when the 'v' ends way up here. It should come down to..." I loop my finger at the nadir of the 'v' and give a vigorous tug, "... at least here."

She nods. "Yeah, because otherwise it looks like 'My boobs should be up here'..." She waves her hands roughly in the area of her clavical. Which, as it happens, is right where her 14-year-old breasts hang out. If such a word as "hang" can be used of their perky perfection.

"'...but I'm old, so they're way down here." The hands flicker somewhere slightly north of her elbows.

Ouch.

Thing is, she's nailed it. That's exactly what's wrong with the shirt. And, while not exactly a National Geographic woman, I am 46, and these reasonably substantial breasts have seen three pregnancies and a little over three years of nursing. Perky they ain't.

"Hey, missie. Enjoy those while you can, because you're built just like me." We are. Sometimes she borrows my bras.

She grins. "I am! But I just mean that shirt makes your boobs look old and saggy, not that they are."

And again, she's absolutely right.

The shirt is now in the going-to-Goodwill bag. My long-suffering, well-served and still-noteworthy breasts do not deserve to be so maligned.

You scored as Hot, You are Hot, you scream and are wild, people love doing anything sexual with you. Hot 94% Soft 88% Exciting 75% Violent 44% Sweet 25% Wet 25% Awkward 6% Shy 0% What is your sexual style? created with QuizFarm.com

Aw, gee. I'm blushing. (Because I'm just so shy...)

(44% Violent? Okay, so I'm not averse to a few friendly swats between lovers, but 44% seems a bit, er, enthusiastic.)

I have a confession. Few people know this of me - Matthew, my kids, Sophie. That's about it. Nothing I'm ashamed of, but I fear the reaction. But now I'm about to tell you all...

I joined Weight Watchers.

Almost three months ago.

I'm self-conscious about it because I am not fat. Never have been. I fear the ridicule. In fact, I got it, indirectly, when a neighbour heard from one of my kids (thanks, kiddo) that I'd joined. Then the neighbour told a friend. The friend, apparently, said,

"WHAT? She's a STICK!"

Which, given that I was, at 154 pounds on my 5'5" frame, juuust barely into the 'overweight' category, is simply not true. That I carry my weight well is not in question: I know how to dress and I have decent posture. But "stick"? When I'm a 34D (lately, 36D), and hips to match? Um, no...

(Said friend is gay. Perhaps he doesn't look at women overmuch?)

But I've never been heavily overweight. Most of my life I've been slim.

And that's just it. Most of my life I've been slim. Most of my life, without any effort at all, I have maintained an easy 120 - 123 pounds. Most of my life, I have had a body mass index of 20-ish. Without any effort, without any thought.

When, about 10 years ago, I noticed a few pounds sliding on, I didn't worry overmuch. I was in my late thirties, a little weight gain is to be expected, and I was far from overweight. Except that the weight just kept slipping on. And on. And on some more.

Until I kinda wanted it to stop, you know?

I may have mentioned my family before, but every last one of'em is fat. Not just fat, obese. Most of them are not just obese, they're morbidly obese.

Morbidly. As in, so overweight it's a serious threat to their health. My sister cannot walk across a room without wheezing, and, at only 45, has arthritis in her poor overburdened knees. My brother has to sleep with a CPAP machine lest he stop breathing entirely in the night, entirely due to excessive weight pressing on airways. My mother has had two heart attacks, my uncle has had one. My grandmother suffered high blood pressure for years before her death.

It's not pretty, this kind of obesity.

And the pounds kept sliding on to me, despite my efforts to prevent it. Until, at 154 pounds, a mere 3 or so pounds into the official 'overweight', I had to do something.

And just as I'd reached that decision, a neighbour told me she'd begun attending Weight Watchers - and that the meetings were held only three or four blocks from my house.

I recognize Destiny when it hits me on the head with a brick.

Off I went. In three months, I have lost close to 15 pounds. I want to lose another 10 or so. I'll be heavier than I was at 24, but that's okay. Because I'm not 24 any more. But neither will I be following the rest of my gene pool, submerged at the bottom of the deep end and wondering why they're having trouble breathing...

What this program has done is give me a liveable framework by which to evaluate and structure my eating. I want that glass of wine? Sure - but not those cookies, too. I don't wonder, I know how much is too much. It takes a little more thought than in my thoughtless youth, but not a whole lot. It takes a little self-discipline, and I'm discovering I had more than I thought.

I am, once again, just about the size and shape I like to be. And I know that in another couple of months, I'll be there. And I'll stay there.

Phew.

My best friend.

I have two. Matthew is my first and foremost best friend. I don't say that just because he's my husband (finally), and I have this misguided notion that just because he's my husband he is obliged to be my best friend.

I say it because he is. Matthew has loved me for longer than I've loved him. He's supported me through stuff that would send most men skittering for the hills faster than you can say "tampon". Which he also buys for me, without a second's squeamishness. (While he does the weekly grocery shopping. From the weekly menus he's created. Yes, indeed.)

Matthew listens. Really listens. Matthew shares. Really shares. We talk for hours. HOURS. Every summer weekend, we go for an hour's walk, have a coffee, walk an hour home. And we talk the.whole.way.

He is kind, but he's also honest. He's courageous, but not macho. He doesn't confuse manliness with vulgarity. Burps and farts are unfortunate physical realities, no more, not great accomplishments warranting admiration and attention.

There is nothing I can't tell him. I am never afraid of his response. He has a brilliant mind. A brilliant mind of great integrity. He doesn't shy from realities just because they're uncomfortable or put him in a bad light.

He thinks I'm beautiful, smart, kind, creative, sexy, a phenomenal mother, a terrific writer; he thinks that my mind is much quicker than his, and that any man of sense is jealous of him when we walk down the street hand-in-hand.

With all that wonderfulness, who needs a second best friend? But I have one. Because I'm lucky that way.

My other best friend is Sophie.

On the surface, you'd wonder why we work so well together. Sophie's idea of heavy reading is Cosmo. I read voraciously 10 or 20 books a month. Sophie's kids are...well... Her son is into vandalism and petty theft; her daughter seems to have "tart" as a life-goal. (And Sophie's response is to cover up for the son. I heartily disapprove.) My kids are decent citizens, all in all. Sophie's love life is a mess: she specializes in unattainable men. She's bounced from an alcoholic (a man whose first love is the booze) to a gay guy, (how's that for unattainable?), and a string of others along the way. Much of her men woes stem from the fact that 'brains' take a distant second place to 'buff' (and 'young') in Sophie's list of attractive male features. Me, I like men with a bit of gray at the temples and some physical and mental substance. Unlike Sophie, I would not see it as a compliment were my teens to invite me clubbing with them, "because you're so much like the rest of us!!"

So, with all those differences, why do we enjoy each other's company so? Well, for starters, I give Sophie the dignity of her own life and choices. I'll give input if she wants, but never unsolicited. I feel no need to burden her with my advice and opinions. She's a grown woman, been heading her own life for two or three decades now, and is largely happy with her life. I accept her for who she is, and I don't judge her for having different choices/attitudes/values from me.

What we share is a sense of mischief. We've listened to each other's woes about the various men in our lives (Sophie dates from pre-Matthew days), and suggest often savage retaliation for insults suffered. We never do them: the imagining is enough fun.

We empathize with each other. She's cried on my shoulder about her kids; I've cried on hers about my ex.

We both know what it's like to worry about money. We love being with someone who never complains of being 'broke', while somehow managing a family trip to the Carribbean in March.

We are both annoyed by prudery. We love being with someone with whom we can chat about anything without pulling our punches: vibrators, oral sex, good sex, bad sex, group sex. Sex, sex, sex.

Sophie is spontaneous. Sophie's a party girl. Sophie's a bit wicked. Sophie is a bit of a bitch, frankly, though never with me. She's not squeamish - about sex, about morality, about her own foibles.

Sophie brings some much-needed frivolity into my life.

Between the two of them, I get just about everything I need in the way of human interaction: deep, mind-stretching conversations; shrieking, wine-fuelled gigglefests, and with both I share reciprocal, unconditional acceptance.

I am a lucky woman.

My kids gave me this Wise Woman Starter Kit for Mother's Day. It contains a tub of "Regenerating Day Cream", one of "Regenerating Night Cream", and a spray bottle of "Vitality Serum".

Pretty, no?

Now, I've not been the type of woman to fuss much with my face. I like feeling pretty as much as the next woman, I shave my legs (and other bits), I love flowy skirts, plunging necklines, moderate amounts of perfume, and I keep my hair a burnished auburn, despite the steady encroachment of gray.

But a "beauty regime"? Seems an oxymoron, really. Anything that calls itself a 'regime' lacks a certain, oh, gaity, joie de vivre, spontenaeity. More to do with drill sergeants, drudgery and drab than beauty.

But you know what? Time is pretty regimental. It marches inexorably on, taking pity on no woman.

So, though I didn't request this particular gift (are the kids trying to tell me something?), I was pleased enough with it. (And of course, I made out I was deee-lighted! Because, wrinkled crone though I may be, I am a Good Mother.) Besides, I've always been little Polly Perfect when it came to assignments. I actively enjoyed worksheets in school, liked lining up my facts in neat columns, liked ticking items off a list. There is a part of the discipline of a 'regime' that does appeal, I confess.

So I opened the package with interest, seeking the Instruction Sheet. (Because that's what we Polly Perfects do, you know: we RTFM*s. Religiously. Because we like to.)

And boy, did I hit paydirt with this one. A very long, accordian-folded leaflet on flimsy paper - in fourteen different languages! Fourteen! But all I learned as I scanned it was how wonderful this product was, and what wholesome ingredients were contained within its creamy essence.

So much for the insert. Where were the directions for use? Not on the tubs, not on the spray bottle, not on the box. There were no more bits of paper hiding within the box. Mystified, I returned to the leaflet.

Because the day and night cream I could pretty much figure. But "Vitality Serum"? What, exactly, does one do with a "Vitality Serum"? It was housed in a pump bottle, so I'm guessing it's not to be ingested. Undoubtedly it's to be smeared on the skin, but when? How? (Why?)

And a second, more thorough read of the insert, and there they are! Directions for Use!! (Not that they were identified as such, but they are there!)



See them? Two short sentences at the end of each paragraph of promotional sludge. Oh, come on. Surely you can find them! After all Wise Woman does want you to actually use its product.

Doesn't it?

I'm not entirely sure. That picture is life-size. That is how big the pages were, that is how big the font is. Teeny, isn't it? My real-life version is probably a little clearer than this scanned version, but the font is no bigger.

Now, I am 46 - probably smack in the middle of the target audience for this product. Like most people my age - that is, like most people in the product's TARGET AUDIENCE - my eyesight isn't what it once was. Nor, what with all this perimenopausal hormonal shit I have going on, am I as patient as I once was. Not with the flim-flam-flummery of self-congratulational sales puffing, certainly. And then to place useful information at the tale end of all that crap verbiage? In micro-font?

How much awareness of (and respect for) their TARGET AUDIENCE does this show?

And then? When you finally unearth the information? You get these little nuggets:

For the Day Cream: "Apply to face and neck. Use with Regenerating Night Cream."
For the Night Cream: "Apply to face and neck. Use with Regenerating Day Cream."
For the Vitality Serum: "Use AM and PM before applying your Wise Woman day and night moisturisers."

Useful, no?

No?

Not particularly, huh...

So many questions left unanswered... Does one use Day and Night cream together, both products applied morning and evening? It sure seems to say as much! And, now that I've found the "instructions", how do I apply the Vitality Serum? Direct to my skin? To my hands, and then rub in? To a cotton ball? Do I cleanse my face first, or do the products do it all?

Okay, so I know better than to apply moisturizer without first cleaning - oops, I mean cleansing - my skin. I also know that Day Cream is for the daytime and Night Cream is for the nighttime. Not too tricky, that. An adherent of a Beauty Regime I may not be, but a complete feminine-culture idiot I am not. However, I didn't get any of this awareness from the insert, where one might reasonably expect to find it.

All is not lost! Being of that Certain Age, I am a resourceful woman. I now know how to use my Products, most notably the mysterious Vitality Serum. How, you ask? How, given the company clearly has no interest in giving me the goods once I own them?

Because I googled it. No kidding. I ended up googling, and found a very useful instructional video at Wise Woman dot net! Wise Woman dot net - imagine that!! There is one! But I had to hunt it out! The insert didn't include information about their very informative website, either. Imagine that...

So, I now have these Beauty Products, which I am using, oh, four times a week. (Not quite Perfect, but I'm trying!) And I'm enjoying them. I'm not sure if it's the feeling that I've joined the Woman Club at long last, or if it's because they're making a difference. I do like how they smell...

But if it were up to Wise Woman and the Beauty Shoppe, I'd still be squinting at the labels.

*RTFM: Read the Fucking Manual. What you should do before you call tech. support**.

**Not, I admit, that the manuals are generally any use to anyone who isn't technically inclined, which is to say, anyone who isn't tech. support...

*** Oooo, look! Footnotes in teeny, tiny font!!! Feel free to sneer at the inconsistency.****

**** But not this pre-menstrual, perimenopausal week. Could be bad for your health.

There is a curtain in my mind. It didn't used to be there. For years, I was curtain-free, but of latter years, the curtain has become more and more an unwelcome reality in my life.

When the curtain is lowered, all experience is muted; I trudge through a viscous slough all day long. Activities as simple as making a soup-and-sandwich meal are arduous

Other days, miraculously, it lifts, and I have energy, enthusiasm. Tasks are easy. Laughter comes readily. I flow through my day on a wave of eager expectation.

When the curtain is lowered, I often don't notice initially. Some days, I don't really notice until it lifts, and I feel the difference between the effort everything took the day before. A matter of hours can clear the fog. It's quite striking.

It's largely hormonal. A quick glance at the calendar suffices to explain most of the murkiness.

Any wonder I'm looking forward to menopause?

Bold the ones you've done..

01. Bought everyone in the bar a drink (all six of them...)
02. Swam with wild dolphins
03. Climbed a mountain
04. Taken a Ferrari for a test drive
05. Been inside the Great Pyramid
06. Held a tarantula
07. Taken a candlelit bath with someone
08. Said 'I love you' and meant it
09. Hugged a tree
10. Bungee jumped
11. Visited Paris
12. Watched a lightning storm at sea
13. Stayed up all night long and saw the sun rise
14. Seen the Northern Lights
15. Gone to a huge sports game
16. Walked the stairs to the top of the leaning Tower of Pisa
17. Grown and eaten your own vegetables
18. Touched an iceberg
19. Slept under the stars
20. Changed a baby's diaper (hundreds, I'm sure. It's not very exotic.)
21. Taken a trip in a hot air balloon
22. Watched a meteor shower
23. Gotten drunk on champagne (Ugh. I hate champagne.)
24. Given more than you can afford to charity
25. Looked up at the night sky through a telescope
26. Had an uncontrollable giggling fit at the worst possible moment (does a job interview count as "worst possible"? I didn't get the job...)
27. Had a food fight (ah, university...)
28. Bet on a winning horse
29. Asked out a stranger (Hey, Ian A. Colquhoun of Toronto. Remember me??)
30. Had a snowball fight (dozens)
31. Screamed as loudly as you possibly can
32. Held a lamb
33. Seen a total eclipse
34. Ridden a roller coaster (barf)
35. Hit a home run (in grade two)
36. Danced like a fool and not cared who was looking
37. Adopted an accent for an entire day
38. Actually felt happy about your life, even for just a moment
39. Had two hard drives for your computer (My ex and my son are geeks...)
40. Visited all 50 states
41. Taken care of someone who was shit faced (ugh. it was not noble.)
42. Had amazing friends
43. Danced with a stranger in a foreign country
44. Watched wild whales
45. Stolen a sign
46. Backpacked in Europe
47. Taken a road-trip
48. Gone rock climbing
49. Midnight walk on the beach (Naked. Heh)
50. Gone sky diving
51. Visited Ireland (No, but I'd like to.)
52. Been heartbroken longer than you were actually in love
53. In a restaurant, sat at a stranger's table and had a meal with them
54. Visited Japan (No, but I'd like to.)
55. Milked a cow - well, if expressing my own milk counts. Lord knows I FELT like a cow then...
56. Alphabetized your cds (yes, and my spices, too. Should I be embarrassed?)
57. Pretended to be a superhero
58. Sung karaoke
59. Lounged around in bed all day
60. Posed nude in front of strangers
61. Gone scuba diving
62. Kissed in the rain. (Made love in the rain.)
63. Played in the mud
64. Played in the rain
65. Gone to a drive-in theater
66. Visited the Great Wall of China
67. Started a business
68. Fallen in love and not had your heart broken
69. Toured ancient sites
70. Taken a martial arts class
71. Played D&D for more than 6 hours straight
72. Gotten married
73. Been in a movie
74. Crashed a party
75. Gotten divorced
76. Gone without food for 5 days
77. Made cookies from scratch
78. Won first prize in a costume contest
79. Ridden a gondola in Venice
80. Gotten a tattoo
81. Rafted the Snake River (Where the hell is the Snake River??)
82. Been on television news programs as an "expert"
83. Got flowers for no reason
84. Performed on stage
85. Been to Las Vegas
86. Recorded music
87. Eaten shark
88. Had a one-night stand
89. Gone to Thailand
90. Bought a house
91. Been in a combat zone
92. Buried one/both of your parents
93. Been on a cruise ship
94. Spoken more than one language fluently
95. Performed in Rocky Horror.
96. Raised children.
97. Followed your favorite band/singer on tour
98. Created and named your own constellation of stars
99. Taken an exotic bicycle tour in a foreign country
100. Picked up and moved to another city to just start over
101. Walked the Golden Gate Bridge
102. Sang loudly in the car, and didn't stop when you knew someone was looking
103. Had plastic surgery
104. Survived an accident that you shouldn't have survived.
105. Wrote articles for a large publication
106. Lost over 100 pounds
107. Held someone while they were having a flashback
108. Piloted an airplane
109. Petted a stingray
110. Broken someone's heart (Apparently. I think he was exaggerating, since he was head over heels with in love with his "soulmate" two months later!)
111. Helped an animal give birth
112. Won money on a T.V. game show
113. Broken a bone
114. Gone on an African photo safari
115. Had a body part of yours below the neck pierced
116. Fired a rifle, shotgun, or pistol
117. Eaten mushrooms that were gathered in the wild
118. Ridden a horse
119. Had major surgery
120. Had a snake as a pet
121. Hiked to the bottom of the Grand Canyon
122. Slept for more than 30 hours over the course of 48 hours
123. Visited more foreign countries than U.S. states (If this means I've visited more foreign countries than I have US states. Which is easy, because US states are in a foreign country, for me. This thing must've been written by an American...)
124. Visited all 7 continents
125. Taken a canoe trip that lasted more than 2 days
126. Eaten kangaroo meat
127. Eaten sushi
128. Had your picture in the newspaper
129. Changed someone's mind about something you care deeply about
130. Gone back to school
131. Parasailed
132. Petted a cockroach
133. Eaten fried green tomatoes (Saw the movie. Does that count?)
134. Read The Iliad - and the Odyssey
135. Selected one "important" author who you missed in school, and read
136. Killed and prepared an animal for eating
137. Skipped all your school reunions
138. Communicated with someone without sharing a common spoken language
139. Been elected to public office
140. Written your own computer language
141. Thought to yourself that you're living your dream
142. Had to put someone you love into hospice care
143. Built your own PC from parts
144. Sold your own artwork to someone who didn't know you
145. Had a booth at a street fair
146: Dyed your hair
147: Been a DJ
148: Shaved your head
149: Caused a car accident
150: Saved someone's life

"Old age is no place for sissies." - Bette Davis

The indignities of aging. Last January I damaged a disk in my back. Had it happened when I was 24, I would now be fine. Sadly, it happened when I was 44. Thus, despite weeks of physiotherapy and semi-rigourous exercising, it still causes me discomfort. It stiffens in the night - I have to be careful how I roll over in bed, and in the first hour or so after I get up I'm positively creaky. I move like someone a couple of decades older in the first hour upon waking. Thereafter I'm fine, but that first hour?

This is all leading to a story, bear with me! Further background to the story is that ever since Daniel shot out of my body in less than an hour and a half, weighing in at close to ten pounds, I've had some, er, urinary incontinence at moments of particular stress. Charming, no?

Now, put those two together. You have a woman, fresh out of bed (which is probably an appealing image to some of you, but it will get less so very shortly). A woman, as I say, fresh out of bed. Her hair is tousled, her back is stiff, her bladder full. She eases off the bed and stands carefully, then walks toward the bathroom at the end of the hall. All seems well for our heroine, until, Oh, God, she feels a sneeze coming on.

Sneezes while upright are always bad news. She has long since learned the technique to avoid embarrassment: stand still, cross the ankles, and squeeze thighs together while leaning forward very slightly. If in public, omit the crossed ankles, but instead lean against a wall or a store front, oh, so casually. Just checking out the display. Casual, inconspicuous, natural, and immobile. She does not want to deal with the result should she be so foolhardy as to try to continue walking while sneezing. Not at all.

Thing is, first thing in the morning, her back is very sensitive, and sneezes hurt. Happily, her physiotherapist has taught her a technique which protects the back from the sudden knife-stab of a sneeze. What you do, see, when a sneeze threatens that tender back is to stand upright, feet hip-width apart, push your hands against the small of your back, bend your knees slightly and arch backwards, looking skyward.

But, oh, what do you do when you need to sneeze when your bladder is full AND your back hurts? Legs together or apart? Lean forward or back? Look up or down? Pee or pain?

I will go no further in my sad tale. I will simply sum up by saying that old age - even middle age - does not allow for the squeamishness of youth. A good percentage of maturity, I think, is brought about by the very pragmatic process of losing the physical prowess that even the most physically inept have in our youth. This steady and unavoidable loss brings humility, pragmatism, emotional sturdiness, creativity, and overall character strength in its wake, I think. Oh, and a sense of humour. Definitely with the humour.

Out for a pint with Bob. Or two. Or three. Pints, not Bobs.

Talking about his latest trip back to the UK, then of his favourite "bad bars" in Copenhagen. Forget the name. Started with an "M", a dockside bar. All bad bars are dockside, I think. Or at least Bob's are, since he was a tall ship sailor for twenty-five-ish years.

A friend of mine passed our table. A friend, her husband, their seven-year-old daughter.

"Hello! How are you? What have you been up to lately?" she coos. Friend is scanning Bob up and down. If her glance had weight, he'd be naked and hairless by now.

Friend's husband, however, has a black eye (sports injury, as it happens) and it is that which commands our conversational attention for the three or four minutes of their visit until their small daughter demands their immediate departure. I have not yet had a chance to introduce Bob.

"This is Bob, my friend," I would say.

But would they have believed me, anyway? I was alone, in a pub, with a Man, and with Alcoholic Beverages on the table in front of us. Surely naughtiness was in the air??

'Course, once upon a time it would have been. Once, Bob and I were lovers. I am on good terms with all my exes bar two. (One of them being my ex-husband, and the other being a fellow who lied to me when he told me he was single. When I discovered he wasn't and stopped seeing him, this somehow became something nasty I'd done to him. Go figure. Ego is such a pointless thing.) But Bob and I are no longer lovers. We are friends, friends with a history that sometimes makes us share a naughty grin. But nothing more.

My friend and her husband left the pub. A glance was cast back through the window of the snug.

Bob grinned. "I have contributed to your notoriety." He's so cute when he's proud.

"So you have. Are they still looking? Shall I kiss you?"

He glances over my shoulder. "No. No, they've moved on." And sighs. "Damn!"

We share a naughty grin.

A single friend was telling me about a frivolous, flirty exchange she'd recently had, and I replied with one of my own.

"Why are you flirting?" she says, trying but failing to hide her disapproval. "You're with someone!"

I gave her a long, quizzical look. A little gray at the roots, a few light wrinkles showing at her eyes, distinct lack of cherry-scented lip gloss. No, not a teenager. Surely no one past the age of, oh, twenty-three (at the outside) thinks that way? Really?

It led us to a very interesting discussion of the reasons and agenda for flirting. Yes, I'm with someone. The person I was flirting with knew that, because the man I'm with was with me. He, my man, is perfectly comfortable with my flirting (as I am with his), because we are both sure of the other's loyalty, and we both understand flirting in the same way. Neither of us sees is solely as foreplay, nor even primarily.

Me, I like the 18th-century model, when flirting was a social grace. Frivolous chat was expected. Clever banter, light-handed and tastefully suggestive, was admired. A man who couldn't flatter, a woman who couldn't tease, in oblique and quick-minded ways, were a detriment to a dinner party. It did not mean that these people would shortly be steaming up the conservatory, (though, as ever with humans, it existed as a possibility); it's just that sex wasn't the sole point. And flirting wasn't exclusive. A man and woman banter; a third person of either gender could join in, and the game just expanded. It was about social skill, not mere bedding.

Flirting is a safe way to express attraction and appreciation. Depending on the parties involved, they can certainly choose to act on that attraction, but it needn't. In and of itself, it's just talk. Play. Verbal cleverness. It adds a sparkle to a conversation, a liveliness to a gathering.

The younger a person is, the less likely they are to understand this. There is little subtlety to the sexuality of a twenty-something. You flirt with someone, you're indicating a desire to be getting naked with them in fairly short order. This is why I rarely flirt with anyone younger than myself. No sense in confusing the poor things. The older a person gets, however, the more nuanced sex and sexuality becomes. Thank God.

This is why I love fifty-something men. They "get" this. Their wives (usually) get it, too, so the fun is all-inclusive. (No fair flirting with someone if you can see it is sending their partner into a seething fury.) That gleam of appreciation, that welcoming smile, that twinkle of mischief in the eye; they add flair to the evening, life to the conversation. At the end of the evening? Everyone goes home with the person they came with.

And, if all goes as it should, puts all that positive energy to good use. :-)

Schott's Miscellany Strikes Again!

Yuppie Acronyms:

BOBO: Burnt Out But Opulent
DINKIE: Dual Income, no kids
GOLDIE: Golden Oldie, Lives Dangerously
LOMBARD: Lots Of Money, But A Right Dickhead
OINK: One Income, No Kids
SCUM: Self-Centred Urban Male
WOOPIE: Well-Off Older Person
YAPPIE: Young Affluent Parent

Me, I'm rather hoping to be a Woopie when my time comes, but even as I draw inexorably closer to the goal chronologically, I seem to get no nearer fiscally. Damn.