Almost Famous
Days
Weeks
Months
Run together
Viscous coagulation
Nothing about me
Or my life
Feels special anymore
Even 15 minutes of fame
Was always too much to ask for
Fat Bottom Girl Said What
When my ass talks, people listen.
Archive for the tag “aging”
Mid-Life Crisis: Take 2
I’m on my second mid-life crisis. Yes, I’ve determined you can have more than one. My life, my rules.
Who knows where this particular tailspin has come from. It could be because my 47th year on this earth is quickly approaching. It could be because I might be losing my job in the near future. It could be because I’m still not sure how to behave since my son lives with his dad now.
Whatever the reason, I’m flailing once again.
The last time this happened I:
- Got my motorcycle license, but never got the bike.
- Made plans to jump off tall towers on zip lines (even though I’m deathly afraid of heights) and jump I did, along with my son (who is also scared of heights).
- Loaded up my son and took him to Colorado for a white water rafting trip that included both of us going over the side and taking a crisp dip in the river, for one of the most exhilarating adventures either one of us had ever had.
But this time the flailing is different.
This time I want a really big change.
This time I want to move.
Not just move, but sell my house and all my shit, and buy an RV and go some place totally different move.
I want out of Kansas. This will always be my home, but I want to experience something different. I have lived within 50 miles of my hometown, all my life, except for 3 years in Germany. Seriously, how fucking boring is that?
Problem is, I’m scared shitless. The fear is near paralyzing. I drag my heels about finishing the minor detail work on my house. I keep pushing back my listing date.
I don’t know where to find the courage to step out of this comfort zone I’ve constructed for myself. I have no idea where it might come from, but I have a sneaking suspicion I will have to discover it just like. . .
when I got on a motorcycle for the first time,
or when I got in that raft on that river,
or when I stepped off that zip line platform.
It will come to me exactly when I need it.
It’s the Little Things
Coffee cups stained from daily use
and the passage of time
minute cracks of the porcelain surface allowing the
infiltration of the smoky dark liquid
So much meaningless discourse meaning everything,
shared while clutching these cups
now warming arthritic fingers, tangled by tasks and touches
and years which have slipped by, often without notice
How many more times
will we fill the cups before one morning
One shall remain empty
*Posted originally on The Fat Bottom Bard.
Forever in Blue Jeans
Today I turn 46. I’m trying to make peace with it. I’m trying to wrap my head around this “aging gracefully” thing.
How does one attempt to age gracefully when time begins to kick your ass?
My eyelids look like Droopy Dog’s, I’ve got jowls, and laugh lines, and crow’s feet, and a bat cape–which is infinitely worse than bat wings, and boobs that require wires of steel to keep them up where they were 25 years ago, and a pooch from 2 babies and a C-section scar and curtains and mud flaps and spider veins and bunions from trying to wear those cute strappy high heels and hands and knees that ache allowing me to forecast the weather and numerous other issues. I take horse pills for maladies and lotion and lubricate and don’t eat carbs and attempt to exercise on a regular basis and I don’t smoke anymore and try to drink the right kind of wine and wear sensible shoes and bifocals. Seriously, all of it is a quite exhausting and a bit depressing.
But you know what really pisses me off about aging?
My inability to find a pair of jeans that fit, that don’t cost as much as a mortgage payment.
At least a couple times a year I drag my semi-sagging derriere to the mall, or some other shopping venue, in an attempt to hunt down a pair of pants. I walk in the door feeling optimistic, only to leave a couple hours later with my hopes dashed, my hair flat, and tears of shame running down my face. All of this the result of tugging and twisting and bending and pulling and zipping and buttoning and jumping up and down and hopping on one foot and when finally getting each of the 50 pairs on, to be met with flat ass or muffin top or camel toe or moose knuckle or too big in the waist and too tight in the knees or poopy diaper bottom or under my boobs high or crack of my ass baring low.
What, in the name of all that is holy, is so damn difficult about making a pair of jeans that will fit a woman?
Until they figure it out, I’ll be sitting over here in my mu-mu.
**This was originally a guest posting on Valley Girl Gone Country, but I thought some of you might have missed it, so I’m posting it again. 🙂
Guest Posting on Valley Girl Gone Country
I was graciously asked to guest post on Valley Girl Gone Country, and quickly agreed, as I had something on my mind as my 46th (gasp) birthday loomed. Those of you in your 40’s know aging is not for the faint-hearted, but there’s one particular thing which sticks in my craw about it. Head on over to Valley Girl Gone Country, and check out my post “Forever in Blue Jeans”, and you’ll find out what it is. Much thanks to Jolene for inviting this Fat Bottom Girl to guest post!!
Birthday Presents from the Heart
I think I was 8. The age doesn’t matter.
I ran downstairs, excited at the prospect of my birthday present.
My mom was sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee, smoking a Marlboro Light. She looked up and saw my grin and excitedly told me Happy Birthday!!
My gift was laying on the table and she told me to open it. I knew it was clothes just by the feel.
I ripped the paper off and unfolded a dream!
They were perfect!! Light blue, brushed denim bell bottoms with embroidered butterflies. They took my breath away. Every last stitch made with love by my mother.
It’s one of my best birthday present memories ever.
And now I have another best birthday present memory to add to it.
It also took my breath away.
My Man wrote me a poem. It’s not his normal style of writing, but he ventured there for me.
It was beautiful, constructed of his feelings in meter, and it made me cry. My Man said it wasn’t supposed to make me cry.
But they were happy tears. They were tears that said My Man knows my heart, and he speaks to my soul.
I think I was almost 45. The age doesn’t matter.
You Say It’s Your Birthday?
It’s my birthday too. So sayeth the Beatles.
I just realized this morning while putting makeup over laugh lines, and skin that’s not so taut anymore, that in about a week, I will be 45.
Throughout the day I contemplated. I didn’t contemplate my entire life up to this point, just this last year. It’s been a doozie.
What did Dickens say? They were the best of times. They were the worst of times. Or something similar. A year of extremes. A study in contrasts. That’s what my 44th year has been.
The worst of times because I found myself in a physically abusive relationship.
The best of times because I decided I was worth more than I thought and I deserved better than being someone’s punching bag.
The worst of times because my son decided he wanted to try living with his dad, after I’d had him with me for his first 12 years.
The best of times because my son returned home to me only a few shorts months after moving in with his dad, albeit with some painful lessons under his belt.
The worst of times because I found myself alone, and quite lonely, and thinking that possibly, I should come to terms with the fact I might spend the rest of my life that way. But, also figuring out that being alone, was better than being beat or emotionally abused.
The best of times because I met a wonderful man. I had sent wishes out to the universe for this man for years. I had hoped in vain for this man for years. But I now believe that it wasn’t until I decided, until I truly believed inside of me, that I deserved better for myself, that the universe sent him. Strange how that works, huh?
Life is yin and yang, and a whole lot of other shit in between. And as I stand poised, ready to slide into my 45th year, do I think it’s going to change? Do I think it’s going to get any easier? No. I’ve learned enough to know that anything worth having doesn’t usually come easy. Plus, I’m kind of one of those girls who has to learn things the hard way. Some lessons it took me 44 years to learn.
I know there are more grey hairs and more wrinkles and tears and frustration in store for me. But there’s also more laughter and love and adventure in store for me too. You need the dark and the light, both sides of the coin, the rain and the sun. You have to have one in order to truly appreciate the other. I’ve figured that out in my 44 years too.
So 45 is only a few days away I told him, and My Man reminded me it’s only a number.
And I in turn reminded myself I have a hot, younger man. 45 can kiss my fat bottom!
Photo Credit: deviantart.com
The Story of My Body
Photo Credit: absolutearts.com
My body tells a story.
Every scar, every wrinkle, every stretch mark, every tattoo, every gray hair,
Reminds me of who I am and where I have come from.
It tells me that once I was a daredevil on roller skates and a bike,
That I have laughed millions of times, and that my face has been salted by tears.
It shows the marks of a mother’s love;
one whom I have had the pleasure of loving intensely and close-up,
and another from far away who will never understand the limits of my love.
See my love for nature, and my birthplace, and one of the most beautiful flowers I know because of its wildness and simplicity?
And my longing for water because it soothes the turbulence in me?
See my desire for flight from all that binds my soul? My longing to cast off others’ ideas about me and my quest to be beautiful in my own right and to love freely?
My need to feel balance in my life which seems so off-kilter at times because of my intense passions?
Oh, and there’s that graying hair,
Peeking through the fiery red I have applied which represents my personality so well.
I will never let the world see my true age, at least in my hair, because I feel younger than my 43 years.
Do you see my story?
Look closely.
My body?
It sings my song. . . .
**I came across this while I was digging through files in my computer today in search of tax information. In another month I will be 45. I have more wrinkles. I have more scars. I have more gray hair; which I now attempt to cover with something besides the fiery red. My body still sings my song. Nothing will silence it, but in the end it’s just a house. A house for my soul, which is the most beautiful part of me.
Time Travel
where were you when I was 20
and reckless
my heart and soul
and legs
spread open wide
for all to see the depth of me
where were you when I was 30
and apprehensive
my mind and heart
and legs
closed to him
because he didn’t understand the depth of me
where were you when I was 40
and fearful
my soul and heart
and arms
padlocked to all
because I had been wounded to my very core
you are here when I am 44
and exhausted
my mind and heart
and soul
only wanting to
find that one man with the untarnished key
Fat Bottom Girl Said What 