"I feel like my body has gotten totally out of shape, so I got my
doctor's
permission to join a fitness club and start exercising.
I decided to take an
aerobics class for seniors. I bent, twisted, gyrated, jumped up and down, and
perspired for an hour but, by the time I got my leotards on, the class was over."
(Found in an email)
I can totally relate to the above. I lived through the Jane Fonda era where we were all supposed to wear leotards (in horizontal stripes, no less), tights, and leg warmers. Jane carried the outfit off with panache. I looked like a Glamour don't.
Leotards are not made for women who have hips. Or breasts. In fact, they are not made for anyone who weighs more than one hundred and two pounds. If they aren't pulling at the neck, they're giving you the wedgie from hell. And who can exercise when you're constantly pulling spandex out of your butt?
Give me sloppy sweats, an oversize t-shirt, and I'm good to go. (To Baskin-Robbins, that is.)
Sunday, September 30, 2012
Saturday, September 29, 2012
Day 129, September 29
"Even doctors can make mistakes. Mine asked me to undress."--Maxine
As always, Maxine hits the nail on the head. What's with doctors wanting you to undress? Can't they tell just from looking that I'm overweight, overstressed, and overwhelmed? A blind pig could see that. Surely someone with a degree in medicine ought to be able to discern such things. And really, all I want, is my prescription for Prozac. For that, they need to see me naked?
But doctors, whether forced by ethics or some perverse need to see middle-aged naked women, insist upon us disrobing. Quite frankly, any modesty I once had went by the way side after delivering four children. But still ... My body, even pregnant, was in a lot better shape back then.
You know the drill at the doctor's office: you strip down to your birthday suit. The doctor leaves a paper half gown to cover your upper part and a cocktail napkin to cover everything else. Let me tell you, that cocktail napkin isn't cutting it.
Ah, well ... we do what we must.
As always, Maxine hits the nail on the head. What's with doctors wanting you to undress? Can't they tell just from looking that I'm overweight, overstressed, and overwhelmed? A blind pig could see that. Surely someone with a degree in medicine ought to be able to discern such things. And really, all I want, is my prescription for Prozac. For that, they need to see me naked?
But doctors, whether forced by ethics or some perverse need to see middle-aged naked women, insist upon us disrobing. Quite frankly, any modesty I once had went by the way side after delivering four children. But still ... My body, even pregnant, was in a lot better shape back then.
You know the drill at the doctor's office: you strip down to your birthday suit. The doctor leaves a paper half gown to cover your upper part and a cocktail napkin to cover everything else. Let me tell you, that cocktail napkin isn't cutting it.
Ah, well ... we do what we must.
Friday, September 28, 2012
Day 128, September 28
Have you ever gone to a salon to have your hair cut or styled and had the stylist tell you, "You really ought to use a better product on your hair."
"Better product?" I echo.
She nods vigorously. "Your cheating your hair by using cheap products."
Cheating my hair? Really? My hair wouldn't know what to do with "better products." It's accustomed to the cheapest products on the market. In fact, I don't use "product." Product implies fancy creams and shampoos in fancy containers.
"It's okay," I tell her. "My hair's menopausal. It's been cheated on for years."
"Better product?" I echo.
She nods vigorously. "Your cheating your hair by using cheap products."
Cheating my hair? Really? My hair wouldn't know what to do with "better products." It's accustomed to the cheapest products on the market. In fact, I don't use "product." Product implies fancy creams and shampoos in fancy containers.
"It's okay," I tell her. "My hair's menopausal. It's been cheated on for years."
Thursday, September 27, 2012
Day 127, September 27
Just when I think I have life pretty much figured out, I'm thrown a curve. My youngest son, Hyrum, is bringing a (serious) girlfriend to meet the family next weekend. In preparation, he gave me a list of do's and don't's. (He is obviously embarrassed by his old mother.)
I took umbrage at his lack of faith in me. After all, am I so terrible? Well, there was the time when I told people that I had nursed him until he was eighteen years old (hence, my sagging breasts). Then there was the time that I showed up at school to pick him up for an appointment and had my shirt on inside out. And there was the time ...
Well, you get the picture.
The problem is, I was much younger and sharper back then, my brain was still functioning--sort of, and I still was in control of my tongue. Now, years later, I'm not nearly as young or as sharp; my brain has taken a permanent sabbatical; and my tongue gets away from me more often than not.
Maybe, instead of preparing me, Hyrum should be preparing his girlfriend!
I took umbrage at his lack of faith in me. After all, am I so terrible? Well, there was the time when I told people that I had nursed him until he was eighteen years old (hence, my sagging breasts). Then there was the time that I showed up at school to pick him up for an appointment and had my shirt on inside out. And there was the time ...
Well, you get the picture.
The problem is, I was much younger and sharper back then, my brain was still functioning--sort of, and I still was in control of my tongue. Now, years later, I'm not nearly as young or as sharp; my brain has taken a permanent sabbatical; and my tongue gets away from me more often than not.
Maybe, instead of preparing me, Hyrum should be preparing his girlfriend!
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
Day 126, September 26
When in the throes of menopause, I ask myself "Why?" as in "Why did this happen to me?" When I voiced the question to my sometimes loving husband, he said, in the tone of the quintessential Jewish mother, "You would prefer the alternative?" (The alternative being death, of course.)
The man just doesn't know when to leave well enough alone.
Have you noticed that about husbands? They don't know when to shut up. At other times, they don't know when to open their mouths. For example, you're wearing a new dress in preparation for going out to dinner. Your hair, for once, is behaving. Your makeup is flawless. You look drop-dead gorgeous. And the man in your life says, "So, surf or turf tonight?"
A simple compliment or word of praise would have gone a long way at that moment. But he has his mind on his stomach and not even Angelina Jolie in a thong is going to get it moving in another direction.
Then he acts surprised when you bonk him on the head with your purse. (Just make sure it's not your designer purse. You don't want to waste a designer purse for a good bonk.)
The man just doesn't know when to leave well enough alone.
Have you noticed that about husbands? They don't know when to shut up. At other times, they don't know when to open their mouths. For example, you're wearing a new dress in preparation for going out to dinner. Your hair, for once, is behaving. Your makeup is flawless. You look drop-dead gorgeous. And the man in your life says, "So, surf or turf tonight?"
A simple compliment or word of praise would have gone a long way at that moment. But he has his mind on his stomach and not even Angelina Jolie in a thong is going to get it moving in another direction.
Then he acts surprised when you bonk him on the head with your purse. (Just make sure it's not your designer purse. You don't want to waste a designer purse for a good bonk.)
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
Day 125. September 25
Warning PMS: Personality Mutating Strangely
I found this in a book about women. I love it, not just for the play on the familiar acronym, but for the kick-butt humor in it. Now I'm wondering what else MMW (Menopausal Mormon Women) could stand for:
Here are a few of my ideas:
MMW: Mean Mommas Winning (I don't know what we're winning, but we're definitely winning.)
MMW: Mormon Mother Wolverines (forget the grizzlies)
MMW: Mutant Mothers Willing (to eat chocolate, that is)
Well, we're getting a little silly now. I've gone too long without my Prozac!
I found this in a book about women. I love it, not just for the play on the familiar acronym, but for the kick-butt humor in it. Now I'm wondering what else MMW (Menopausal Mormon Women) could stand for:
Here are a few of my ideas:
MMW: Mean Mommas Winning (I don't know what we're winning, but we're definitely winning.)
MMW: Mormon Mother Wolverines (forget the grizzlies)
MMW: Mutant Mothers Willing (to eat chocolate, that is)
Well, we're getting a little silly now. I've gone too long without my Prozac!
Monday, September 24, 2012
Day 124, September 24
In case you haven't noticed, I'm big on friendship. Women need girlfriends. Husbands and significant others are fine, but they don't GET things like another woman does.
For example, have you noticed that men are completely oblivious to when you wear a new outfit? My friends always notice when I am wearing something new (new by way of garage sales, of course). And then there's the whole shaving hair disposal thing. Men don't see (or care) when they leave nasty little hairs in the sink.
I figure the man/woman difference thing can be explained by asking yourself one simple question. Can you really trust the advice of someone who uses the same soap for both his hands and face?
For example, have you noticed that men are completely oblivious to when you wear a new outfit? My friends always notice when I am wearing something new (new by way of garage sales, of course). And then there's the whole shaving hair disposal thing. Men don't see (or care) when they leave nasty little hairs in the sink.
I figure the man/woman difference thing can be explained by asking yourself one simple question. Can you really trust the advice of someone who uses the same soap for both his hands and face?
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