When I turned 40, everyone said that I would stop worrying about things that didn’t matter like how I looked or what people thought of me. I was supposed to feel completely safe and secure in my own skin. Self-acceptance and #grateful was in my bright beautiful future. What I got was the constant need for a nap and to pee. Was I turning 4 or 40?
I knew all that 40 and fabulous stuff was crap.
As 41, 42, and 43 rolled by, I just became more irritated with the everyone and everything around me. And I still need to nap and pee way more than normal. And that skin I was supposed to be secure in, was larger than it used to be. Where did these 12 pounds even come from?
I’ve always eaten what I want and have never been good at dieting. I’m more of a cut-back kind of gal. Like today, I limited myself to 15 Spicy Cheez-Its instead of the serving size of 25. But cutting back no longer works. I’m convinced that I could exercise for 6 hours and live on Triscuits and Tic Tacs and still not lose a pound. Trying to give myself some love was getting harder and harder.
Turing 44 wasn’t any better.
I had this awful feeling that I was too late. That I had missed my chance to do something with my life. Add in a those extra pounds, a bad knee, gray hair, and eye bags, and you’ve got a prescription for Lexapro.
All of this sounds very vain but aging gracefully is hard. Yes, I am grateful for my health, my family, and the life I have built with them but I can’t be alone when I say that I hit a plateau and thought that there wasn’t much more. My children had reached ages where they didn’t require much beyond clean underwear, a hot meal, and a ride somewhere. My husband and I were settling into 20 years of marriage and I felt like middle age was constantly slapping me across the face. Part of me started to surrender thinking, well, I had a good run. I certainly wasn’t old but for the first time in my life, I was feeling every year.
Well, then came 44’s meaner, uglier older sister, 45.
I was really getting sick of myself at this point and I’m sure my family was sick of me too but they still took me on vacation.
We were having a beautiful time on Michigan’s Mackinac Island and I booked myself a birthday massage at the hotel’s spa. I love massages and was really looking forward to someone rubbing out all the knots and angry places on my body for one solid, blissful hour. I practically skipped into the locker room to undress, put on my spa robe, and retreat into the lavender scented relaxation room. Once I settled myself onto a leather chaise I tried to turn off my brain so I could enjoy the soft tribal music and bird songs. For me, there’s always that panic where I wonder how I’ll react if a big hairy man comes out to introduces himself as my massuse. Or, what if it’s a sexy man with an exotic accent? Will I make a break for it or will I let unknown man hands explore my body while softly asking, “How does that feel? Harder? More pressure? Softer?” Oh God, please don’t be hairy or sexy. Luckily, a lovely small woman, probably ten years older than me, came out to greet me. Perfect.
Rub me down nice lady.
She had a very calm and motherly vibe. She didn’t want to make small talk, which I appreciated. I just wanted to completely zone out and melt into the experience. The only question she asked was if I had any areas that needed extra attention. I told her that my neck and shoulders were always sore so she started concentrating on those places, kneading and rubbing away the tension. It was heaven. (I probably could have fallen asleep if I didn’t have to pee). I was warm and cozy and feeling amazing. That is, until she gave me the worst news of my life.
She told me I was getting a hump.
She then lectured me on how I need to take care of myself and how important posture is and then showed me some exercises I could do to strengthen my back muscles which would help my hump.
My hump.
I was wishing that the big hairy guy would have come out instead of this mean lady.
Happy 45th freaking birthday.
After that disastrous experience I was certain that I was a hideous freak and everything that was good in the world had come to a screeching halt. Not only did I have a hump, I also had gray pubic hair growing from my head, love handles, a neck that was started to sag, wrinkles, and a zillion other little things that made me want to crawl in a hole and die. This is very dramatic I realize but 45 was merciless.
This was my rock bottom and the most pathetic, vanity soaked depression ever. People in the world are actually suffering and I can’t stop looking at myself in the mirror. Recognizing this makes me feel even worse. Ugh. I deserve a hump.
Shortly after my hump diagnosis, I decided enough was enough. If I was going to be a humpback lady, I would carry it with pride. Well, not really. I just decided I was sick of obsessing about stupid shit. And if I was going to obsess about stupid shit, then I would write it down and share my shallowness with the world.
And so, LivingTheFreakingDream.com was born.
I honestly do want to connect with people and see if anyone thinks and feels like I do because I have found that not many people like to be honest about the ugly things in life. There has to be someone else out there with a hump, right?
Most people that I’ve encountered in the last ten years are always grateful and always happy and always say nice, polite things. I’m so tired of being polite. I’m so tired of meaningless chatter about the weather and how busy we are. I’m actually not that busy.
Anyway, obsessing less about my age and weight and of course my hump, and focusing all that ridiculous energy into doing something I like, has been therapeutic. Kind of. That and Lexapro. But, the good news is that blog posts and possible story plots of future best sellers now occupy the space in my brain where I used to wallow.
And it feels good.
And what I finally figured out is that there is no age where you flip a switch and become something you weren’t before. Everyone who says that is full of crap. What I needed to happen at 40 was to regain some control over my future. Being a wife and a mom is great but in 5 years, my kids will be gone and I refuse to be that mom that can’t get out of bed because her life has no meaning without her children. And so I’m finding meaning and 5.5 years into my 40’s, things are starting to look up. I’m still vain and I still care what people think but there’s definitely a better view from this plateau.
And maybe I should thank my hump for reminding me to stop slouching in misery and start sitting up straighter and looking forward.