The Best Kept Secret Blog - Going South

I attended a bridal shower once where, after a few rounds of champagne cocktails, the hostess suggested we go around the room and identify the body part we were most proud of.

While the game was suggested in the name of positive affirmation and building self-esteem, I suspect her real agenda was to engineer a platform on which to brag about her not insignificant bosom.

As my turn drew closer, I panicked. Apart from liking my hair immediately after spending $200 for a cut, colour and blow-dry, nothing readily leapt to mind. I eventually mumbled something about my hands - politically correct enough to reassure the group I didn’t have a body-image disorder yet sufficiently dull to get them to move on in hopes of mining spicier declarations from more tipsy participants.

Over the years, that evening occasionally came to mind. Each time I’d do a mental check to see if things had changed and one day it did – the day I decided I liked my butt.

This revelation was precipitated by several events coming together at once.

First, it was mid-January and I was still under the misguided illusion that I’d be able to make my New Year’s resolutions come true. I was hitting the gym every day and feeling the burn.

Around the same time, the tabloid media became enthralled with J. Lo and her rear. Big butt girls were “in” - a very good omen for me.

Finally, there was the Saturday afternoon I spent shopping for jeans. A saleswoman referred to my build as curvy and voluptuous. Yes, I understand she was on commission and I’m not sure it counts when you’re only voluptuous from the waist down but it just sounded so darn good!

I took all of these things as a sign and so it was, that for a short while, I came to like my butt. Finally, I had something to be proud of.

Eventually however, all good things must come to an end (pardon the pun) and as I move further into my middle years, I began to suspect the glory days of my rump were over.

My first inkling came while walking up a flight of stairs in front of my children. I heard the little one proclaim, “Mommy’s butt is huge!” “Yeah,” replied her sister, “it kind of looks like a potato.”

Then there was the dress – the clingy, black jersey number I was considering for a wedding we were invited to. I wasn’t quite sure about the fit so I stepped out of the change room and asked the sales girl for her opinion.

A buxom woman herself who’s nametag read Chantal, she didn’t give me the standard retail rhetoric I was expecting when I asked if the dress made my butt look fat. Instead of “I think it really suits you” I got “Why don’t you go up a size and try it with some shape wear? We have a liberal return policy if that doesn’t do the trick.”

The final blow came when I recounted the story to my husband and turned to him for reassurance. Instead of his pat response, “Honey, you look great”, he offered up some vague platitude about how we’re all changing at this stage in the game. What the heck is that supposed to mean?

I had to see what was going on. I got undressed, stepped in front of the mirror and had a long, hard look.

What I saw reminded me a winter coat sagging and straining on a cheap, plastic hanger. From jowls to ankles, everything that wobbled or jiggled seemed to be heading south faster than a pair of Canadian “snowbirds” on their way to a Florida vacation.

My friends offered advice. “Stairs and squats,” C. told me. “Do them until you can’t walk.”

Well, that’s fine for her to say – C. being a member of that elite breed of housewives who fill their day shopping, lunching and making frequent forays to the gym where they work out with muscled, 20 year-old personal trainers named Tad and Robbie. I, on the other hand, have no Tad or Robbie in my life – just a 15 year old treadmill that no longer gets up past 1 km per hour.

R. suggested going online and researching ways to fix a sagging butt. I ran head-on into before and after shots of women who had undergone a butt lift. While the results were amazing, I had to wonder about the wisdom of removing six to ten pounds of fat from one’s bottom. I already found sitting in the bleachers at the kid’s skating practice uncomfortable enough. And then there was the cost. How could I get my husband to agree to that when I had a hard enough time convincing him to ante up for new curtains.

Currently I’m working on a hybrid solution involving part exercise, part judicious use of shape wear and part acceptance. I know I’ll never have the derriere of a 20 year-old again (though come to think of it, when I was 20 my tush probably looked more like that of a 40 year-old woman).

The trick, I believe, is staying healthy and trying to find a new part of me to love and be proud of. Currently I’m leaning towards my penchant for a good bottle of Merlot.

The Best Kept Secret Blog - And What Do You Do?

Age: 46

Occupation: Housewife/ Homemaker/ Merlot drinking stay-at-home middle aged mother with nasty shopping habit/ Homemaker

I should be enjoying my holidays at the cottage but a recent run-in with a popcorn kernel has sent me to the emergency dental clinic in a nearby town. As I sit in the waiting room, hopped up on Advil and finding myself vaguely entertained by my tongue as it gets intimate with the hole that used to house my tooth, I work on completing the New Patient Information form the receptionist has handed me.

Address: and Phone Number: are straightforward enough but I can’t help but stumble when I get to Age: and Occupation:.

“Well, yes, technically I am a 46 year-old homemaker,” I want to explain to the chipper, young receptionist, “but I’m so much smarter, funnier and more fashionable than that.”

I glance at my cottage attire – brown rubber flip-flops the dog cut her puppy teeth on, baggy black bathing suit with elastic fraying around the left leg opening and faded terry-cloth shorts and t-shirt that I generously describe as my “cover-up”. Well, I’m smarter and funnier.

I toy with the idea of putting down “Home wrecker” as my occupation. It carries way more cachet and if I’m ever called on it, I can always claim it was a Freudian slip.

Neither the age nor the occupation question would bother me all that much if the form demanded I answer just one or the other. I can happily imagine myself as a pert, young housewife a la Mary Tyler Moore in her Laura Petrie days. And I’d have no problem introducing myself as Dr. Karen Hamilton, 46 year-old brain surgeon or 46 year-old Nobel Prize recipient, Karen Hamilton.

But put them together - 46 year-old (read, middle-aged) homemaker - and the image that comes to mind ranks up there with dirty dishwasher or gravy congealing on a plate after unwisely responding in the affirmative to the question, “Do you want gravy with those fries?” We know these entities are among us but we’d rather not spend too much time dwelling on them.

Ironically, in our not so distant history, it was a fine and noble thing to describe oneself as a homemaker. My 1960’s youth was spent watching many a game show with contestants who proudly declared themselves to be homemakers. (“Well Monty, I’m a homemaker from California and I’ll take Door Number Three!!!”)

Of course, considering that most of those women either became addicted to tranquilizers or flew the coop in favour of burning their bras or campaigning for local office as soon as they had their consciousness raised, it does cast some doubt on just how fine and noble a calling theirs really was.

But today’s middle-aged homemakers are different than that.

For one thing, many of us don’t actually do housework. There is a segment of the homemaker population that is not only fortunate enough to have the money to stay home, but can also afford to have, well, homemakers. This elite group busy themselves instead with such engaging pursuits as Xtreme wine decanting, attending fund raising events and brightening the day of less fortunate women by regaling the minimum-wage workers at the mani/pedi salons with stories from the aforementioned fund raisers.

Then there are the “traditionals".

No tossing a Betty Crocker bundt into the oven for these gals. This breed of homemakers would make the Galloping Gourmet giddy ‘up right out of town in embarrassment with the delectable fare they serve their families every night. That their homes are spotless goes without saying. For that matter, so are their husbands, their children and their SUV’s and mini-vans. These are confident women who are successful regardless what they set their hand to. Currently, it’s homemaking.

Finally, there are the rest of us who do our best despite our lack of money and talent. We know the wisdom attached to the phrase, “Good enough!” when it comes to cleaning our homes. Our cooking skills may not be on par with the likes of Martha Stewart but at least we haven’t served time in a federal prison. And is it such a bad thing when Friday afternoon finds us chatting in the backyard hot tub with our fellow homemakers, deftly tossing rubber ducks at the kitchen window to summon our children to bring us another bottle of wine? At least we’re home with the kids.

No, 46 year-old homemaker just doesn’t convey who and what I really am.

Like most of my friends, I feel the same way inside as I did twenty odd years ago. In many ways, my friends and I are better than we were back then. We’re sexier, more savvy and in better shape than ever. We have way more confidence and are finally starting to embrace life with a “take no prisoners” kind of flare.

I ponder all of this as I wait my turn. Maybe it’s the Advil kicking in but after a while I start to feel proud and defiant. Let the world see us as homemakers, middle-aged, and invisible but we know who we really are and we’re not going to let some out-dated stereotypes stand in our way.

I complete the New Patient Information form with a flourish, just as the dentist calls me in. As I get settled in the chair, he peruses the form. “So Mrs. Hamilton, I see here that you’re 46 and a . . . stripper?”

The Best Kept Secret Blog - Fear Factor

Of all the things that scare me or mildly freak me out - middle-aged men in Speedos, shopping for bras and the other-worldly way Dick Clark never seems to age - I'd have to say that highway driving fills me with more fear and trepidation than anything else.

The sense of dread that engulfs me as I hit the on-ramp is a relatively new phenomenon in my life.

As a freshly minted business grad, I happily drove the Trans Canada Highway solo from Vancouver to Toronto. And prior to that, I rode shotgun on the back of my then boyfriend's motorcycle with nary a concern save for whether or not my shoes matched my outfit.

It leads me to wonder whether this creeping fear of driving might be particular to middle-age. A quick survey of my pals of a certain age appears to confirm this.

Rather than set tire on the highway, N. insists on taking the winding back roads as she makes her way to the cottage each weekend, turning what could be a two-hour drive into a five-hour adventure.

L. will only drive in the city and S. has given up driving altogether, relying instead on her husband or public transit to get around. (Luckily for her, it's currently "in" to be green and she milks that one for all it's worth, waving her bus pass around like a badge of honour.)

In my case, my heart races and I begin to sweat whenever I get within a hundred feet of the on-ramp. True to form, that's how my drive started this past Saturday when I set out to retrieve my daughter from camp.

At first, as I merged the "mom van" with the other death machines hurtling along the asphalt at breakneck speeds, I was convinced I wouldn't survive the two and half-hour trip. But as I reached my cruising speed of 100 km/h, I felt I had a fighting chance if I maintained a state of hyper-vigilance and summoned every fragment of knowledge on defensive driving I had ever garnered.

One of my techniques is to find what I call a pace car - a vehicle driven by a like-minded driver that travels at a speed I'm comfortable with - and follow behind or nearby. This Saturday morning I found two - a moving van being operated by an overweight guy with man boobs and a rusting Toyota Corolla driven by an elderly Chinese man with a hat.

Feeling a little like a wallflower at the high-school dance, I hung back in the slow lane with my new BFF's - the vehicular equivalent of the fat girl and the skinny kid with asthma. I watched enviously as the cool cars - the BMW's, SUV's and Volvos - rolled by.

Another technique I use to calm myself on the roads is to mentally go to to my "happy place". For me, that's the mall and as I made my way up north, I allowed my mind wander to summer sales and calculations of how many days until the new fall fashions would arrive in the stores.

At some point I stirred from my reverie to find myself doing 20 km/h over the speed limit and passing everything in sight. (I've noticed this before - when I don't actually think about driving, I tend to relax and do a better job. But this just begs the question, which is better: To commandeer a 4,000 pound chrome, rubber and steel lethal weapon without giving it a moment's thought or arrive alive, albeit a hyperventilating, white knuckled, slow-lane driving mess?)

I fell back in with the moving van and the rusting Corolla.

At one point we pass a Porsche pulled over to the side of the road, the driver receiving a ticket from a bored looking cop. I exchange a knowing glance with man boob guy - a visual high-five. "He got what he deserved" our eyes seem to say.

Three cups of coffee, two bathroom breaks, and ten minutes lost to accidentally arriving at a stranger's cottage instead of the entrance to the camp (curse you GPS!), I pull into the parking lot at my daughter's camp.

When I see her smiling, bug bitten and bursting with happy stories from her week away, I know beyond a doubt that my pain was worth it. I hug her close and with false bravado say, "Let's get your stuff and hit the road." Two and a half more hours, yippy!

"Mom, the camp bus is about to leave and I'd really like to ride back to the city with my friends - I won't see them again until next summer! I know you drove all this way and everything but do you think it would be okay if I took the bus and just met you in the city?"

I toy with the idea of letting her and her friends drive my car back while I take the bus but instead tell her to go ahead.

A few minutes later, I ease back out onto the highway and look around for a pace car for my journey home. I had thought I could follow the camp bus but they've already zoomed out of sight - who'd have thought a large, yellow school bus would be part of the "in group".

Then I spot it - a Honda accord with a load of groceries in the back and a middle-aged woman at the wheel. We acknowledge each other with a grim smile and slight nod of the head. We know we'll get through this if we stick together and think of the mall.

The Best Kept Secret Blog - June Cleaver Meets Elvira, Mistress of the Dark

I don't know - maybe it's wacked out middle-age hormones, or maybe it was David Hasselhoff and the Baywatch rerun I'd watched while eating my lunch but whatever the reason, Wednesday afternoon found this housewife in the mood, if you know what I mean.

On the down side, I had hours to go until the husband was due home from work. On the upside, both kids were away at camp and I had the house to myself. There was only one thing to do. I rifled through my closet and from its special spot between my winter boots and the "skinny" clothes which I hope to wear again one day, I brought out "Mr. Happy".

Mr. Happy is reserved for those times when a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do, if you know what I mean.

Now typically Mr. Happy and I would retire to the bedroom but today the dog was sleeping there and I didn't have the heart to kick her out. (Despite my husband's assertions that that's what dogs do, lay around, I think she's been showing signs of depression since the kids left for camp and I didn't think it wise to move her.)

Mr. Happy and I made our way down the hall. Obviously the children's rooms were out of the question - that was just sick.

I briefly considered the living room but seeing how I had recently cleaned the windows, I was concerned about giving the neighbours too much of a view.

That left the basement. Yes, that would be good. It not only afforded me privacy, it's also where the spare batteries are stored - the electronic equivalent of Viagra. Off I went.

I settled myself in the spare room and spent an enjoyable few minutes thinking about neither the Queen nor the ironing. Then, feeling like Mrs. Happy herself, I emerged. I was making my way upstairs when I noticed how dirty the laundry room floor was.

Deciding to deal with it right then and there, I grabbed the vacuum and plugged it in. But what to do with Mr. Happy? I was afraid to put him down. What if I forgot and one of the children eventually found him? Then I'd be forced to think fast and lie like my good friend K. who told her daughter that her Mr. Happy was a tool for cleaning the radiators. I couldn't do that. We have a forced air furnace.

I opted to tuck Mr. Happy into my pocket. Looking a little like a cross between June Cleaver and Elvira, Mistress of the Dark, I set about my quest of annihilating the dust bunny nation. On a roll, I also cleaned the downstairs bathroom and threw in a load of laundry.

Then the doorbell rang.

By this time, I'd forgotten all about Mr. Happy who was poking his head (pardon the pun) out like a contented joey from its mother's pouch.

I answered the door and there was the Fed Ex delivery guy. He gave me my parcel then handed me a receipt to sign. Instinctively my hand went to my pocket in search of a pen. And there was Mr. Happy.

"If I make a sudden move and jerk my hand away", I thought, "I'll certainly call attention to Mr. Happy or worse, dislodge him from his hiding place and send him hurtling like a projectile at the delivery man."

I decided to leave my hand where it was.

"Do you have a pen?" I asked the Fed Ex guy.

He handed me a Bic and I scrawled my name with my left hand.

I watched through my clean windows as the Fed Ex guy got in his truck and drove off. Noting the uncanny resemblance he bore to David Hasselhoff, Mr. Happy and I set off in search of more dust bunnies.