The Best Kept Secret Blog - You Say Breast Augmentation, I Say Krab - Part II

You say midlife-crisis. I say Thursday.

It has become impossible to attend a gathering (cocktail party, line-up at the bank machine, school PTA meeting) that includes 40 and 50 somethings and not have the conversation turn to a discussion of midlife-crisis.

Consider this exchange from a recent dinner party.

Host: "So, I'm still going through my midlife-crisis. On Friday I noticed my bald spot was getting bigger and I was depressed all day. Can I top up your wine?"

Me: "It takes a long time to get through this stage. You're luck you're just depressed - at least you're still functioning. I know a woman who had an affair with a younger man. It eventually fizzled but her husband found out and dumped her. Now the husband has a new, younger wife and my friend spends her evenings updating her profile on LavaLife.

"These beans are fabulous! I must get the recipe."

Hostess: "I'm glad you like them. Phew, I'm so glad I finished my midlife-crisis. I went through mine last June. That's just the way I am - fast and efficient."

(She's always been such a smug overachiever.)

You say effortless-style. I say liar.

There's nothing effortless about what it takes to get ready to leave the house these days.

From the moment I start hopping up and down as I wriggle into my shapewear, through the application of serum, moisturizer, primer and foundation all necessary to achieve a natural look, to the depressing moment I stand in front of my closet and realize I don't have a clue how to dress anymore (Does this make me look too young? Too old? Too hippy? Too saggy?), I'm working.

And I can't even call the final result "style". I'm happy if I can leave the house without my children rolling their eyes or laughing at me.

So to all the fashion magazines with the glossy spreads promising effortless style at any age, I just want to say "We're on to you Pinocchio."

You say vintage. I say my prom dress.

I was in a trendy store in Leslieville this spring, an upcoming shopping destination in Toronto. I had read about this store in the local paper as being a hot, new destination for fabulous vintage clothing.

With visions of demure Doris Day suits and sexy Marilyn Monroe dresses dancing in my head, I made the trek.

When I walked in, I was greeted by a young woman from her perch behind the cash register. As I looked at her to return the greeting, I had the uncanny feeling I had seen her before. Then I realized it wasn't her - it was her clothes.

She was wearing a skirt and top ensemble that I had worn when I got my first job after high school, circa 1979.

"Poor girl", I thought. "She must not make very much money in retail and she has to wear old clothes. It must be tough working around all of these gorgeous, vintage items and not being able to afford them."

Then I turned to peruse the vintage items. And they were all from the 1970s and 1980s. I even recognized some that I still had at home and occasionally wore.

I (and my clothes) had become the new vintage. And the young woman I had moments before pitied thought she was at the height of fashion.

You say progressives. I say bi-focals.

Kudos to the clever marketer that turned this phrase. While I'm obviously too young for bi-focals (that's what my parents needed), I'm definitely hip enough for progressives.

You Say Breast Augmentation, I Say Krab

Finally, as in last year's You Say Breast Augmentation, I Say Krab, the last word goes to a friend of mine, a divorced man in his mid 40's. When I asked him what his thoughts were on cosmetic enhancement, he immediately thought I was referring to breast implants. Go figure.

That aside, he used a restaurant analogy in his response. It seems to him that a woman who has her breasts enlarged so as you'd notice, is basically saying that she is a volume business (no pun intended); an 'all you can eat' buffet, rather than fine dining.

He admits that many men have gone through a time in their lives when 'all you can eat' was the way to go. Its great at first, but after a while you notice that you are getting 'Krab', instead of crab, and you wake up the morning after gravy-stained and feeling horrible.

The Best Kept Secret Blog - Just Say No

While sitting in the water, their hands firmly clutching my butt, an image of my mother came to mind.

Despite living in Vancouver, my mother hated the beach. But, she loved her children and knowing we loved seashore, once a summer she and my father dutifully made the drive to the ocean. Once there, my father was dispatched to purchase strong coffee for he and my mother and French fries (inexplicably laced with sand) for my brother and I.

Mom would arrange herself on a towel, light a cigarette and tell my brother and I to, “Go play.”

She only ventured into the water if she felt we were swimming too far from shore. Then, cigarette dangling from her lips and dress hiked between her legs, she’d wade into the surf and motion for my brother and I to come a little closer.

47 or 48 years-old at the time, it never crossed my mother’s mind to actually swim. She hated swimming and felt no compunction to be like the more athletic moms who donned black one-piece suits and white rubber bathing caps covered with matching rubber flowers so they could splash about with their young ones.

It was the 1960s and if a middle-aged woman didn’t feel like going in the water, it was perfectly acceptable to just say no.

I, on the other hand, am a middle-aged woman living in 2008 and not only is it not cool to say no to opportunities and experiences, I face tremendous societal pressure to seek them out.

Reinvent or die!

So, on this summer day at the cottage, with husband, children and assorted weekend guests egging me on, I find myself in the water with two boards strapped to my feet reinventing myself as a water skiier.

This is no small feat considering a) I can barely swim; b) after more than 20 years dedicated to winter snow skiing I have only recently mastered the beginner hill and; c) I am scared to death.

My husband, who has an annoying habit of having more confidence in me than I deserve ("There's no reason you can't learn to re-shingle the roof/simultaneously run the PTA, do your MBA and train for a marathon in your spare time/hook up and initialize the new PVR") is driving the boat.

Our guests, a husband and wife duo who are avid water skiiers themselves, are holding on to various body parts in an attempt to keep me from sinking while we wait to start. And my children are on the dock, alternately shouting encouragement and asking if they can have a snack.

My husband turns, smiles and gives me a thumbs-up as he prepares to gun it. Here we go. . .

I'm dragged along the top of the water for three feet before I let go and fall unceremoniously backwards.

Though terribly embarassed, I try to cheer myself with positive self-talk. "Well, that's that. Time for cocktails!" I suggest as much to my guests as I flail about trying to return to the dock.

"Oh, no" reassures M. "Why I couldn't water ski at all when R. and I started dating. I rember the first time he took me to his family's cottage. All the relatives were there and they wouldn't let me get out of the water until I had gotten up on skis. It seemed like everyone had their hands on my ass, trying to help me get up. Even R.'s grandma had a turn. It took 47 tries but I did it."

And so on it goes - they push, the boat pulls and I fall. And after about 10 minutes of this humiliating exercise, I crack. I just say, "No". Or, more accurately, "Get your *#$*ing hands off of me. And you - Captain Stubing up there on the boat - get over it. I don't care if I can do this. I DON'T WANT TO. I am a 46 year-old, slightly out of shape woman who enjoys reading, shopping and drinking wine with my friends. And even if it makes me seem boring, I have absolutely no desire to learn to water ski. "

And with that, I dog paddled to shore, made my way to the Chardonnay bottle and toasted my mother.

The Best Kept Secret Blog - My Meno-Oirs

Dear Diary

I can’t decide if it’s due to menopause induced mood swings or the children and their friends playing Guitar Hero at ear splitting volumes, but I’ve noticed I’ve been a little testy lately.

..........

Oh, Hello. You’ve caught me working on my latest hobby, my memoirs - or, as I prefer to call them, my Meno-oirs.

It’s my own spin on a trend that’s gaining momentum amongst younger moms – writing their Momoirs. Apparently it’s all the rage for young mothers to record their thoughts and feelings on motherhood in order to a) pass on these memories as a keepsake to their children and/or b) sell them to a top-ranked publishing house in hopes of becoming a top-selling Chick-lit author.

Unfortunately for me, it’s been well over a decade since I was a new mom and my memory is a little foggy on the details of life with baby. If pressed, the best I could come up with for my daughter would be:

It was the middle of the night. As I held your tiny body and crooned the one lullabye I knew all the words to, there was only one thought in my mind. . . “Thank goodness I didn’t have twins”

Since I missed the boat on recording that particular womanly right on passage, I’m trying my hand at recording the details of the one I’m currently struggling with – peri-menopause.

Since I’m in the early stages of this particular game, I’m often confused about the signs and symptoms. I’m never quite sure if it’s live, or if it’s Meno-rex. Consequently, I’ve decided to start my Meno-oirs by discussing the confusion I so often experience.

I call my first chapter, Are You There MenoPause? It’s me, Karen. Here’s a little sample. . .

I don’t understand what’s happening to my body.

Is it menopause that’s causing my periods to be so messed up or do I have some horrible disease that requires immediate medical attention? Are these night-sweats happening because of “the change” or did I simply drink too many glasses of cheap Chardonnay before bed? And why is my brain in such a fog? Why do I keep . . . . Uh, I forgot what I was going to say. . . “

So there you have it – the beginning of what I hope will one day stand as a testament for my loved ones, explaining this often confusing phase of my life.

Okay, you caught me – my real motivation is to sell it in hopes of raking in the big bucks. Between you and me, I see this going big – maybe even snagging me some movie rights. I can see it now. I’m hoping they’ll be able to get Angelina Jolie to play the lead role. . .