not ready for tacos

This morning, my children were playing catch in the yard when my daughter asked me to join her on the girls’ team, “Team Taco.”

After I picked my jaw up off the ground, I asked what the boys’ team was called: “Team Burrito.” And I followed with questions about where they’d learned these team names and if they knew what the names referenced…they did.

It’s natural for our children to lead the way, for parents to be caught off guard by an innocent phrase or question (that may not really be so innocent), for us to feel occasional discomfort at the maturity of topics we’re forced to address. But when my young son confirmed that the team names referenced parts of our anatomy, I was a bit aghast that children so young should already be exposed to what I might consider, if not vulgar, then at least a type of humor more appropriate for an older audience.

Let me just say that I am among the most urban, liberal, laid-back mothers I know. Sure, a part of me thought what I’d just heard was funny. But I am a feminist, and I want my daughter to own her body with confidence, to grow up stronger than those girls I’ve read about in Jodi Picoult novels. And I want my son to view his maleness as much more than his “burrito,” as well. I’d hate for my children to think I condoned identifying with a group based on the singular identifying characteristic of genitalia. Sex / gender is so much more than that.

Thus, I was compelled to call a huddle for a little chat about age-appropriate humor and about our being so much more than our anatomy. My daughter buried her face in a book and my son giggled while I explained why we probably shouldn’t use these team names anymore.

When they’re older and understand irony, my daughter is welcome to rejoin “Team Taco” or “Team Vajayjay” if it suits her post-feminist humor. But I’d better not ever hear that sort of thing out of my son’s mouth!

world gone mad

There’s a whole new level of crazy going on in my world, so pardon me if you don’t hear more for a few days. I’m happy to report that it is not me or my immediate life, but some wackness in my extended family…and we’re talking serious dysfunction. Like “should we have her committed and ask a judge for durable power of attorney?” messed-up-ness.

In other news, I’m actually delighted that none of you seemed to care about my boobs…no likes, no comments.

Let’s get back to talk of dating soon…

and now, a few words about boobs

It’s time for a frank discussion about my breasts. They are large. Larger than strictly necessary…and, in fact, larger than I find desirable. (Of course I am not a man…even my son loves them.) Don’t get me wrong. I think they are fabulous — but they were fabulous a few cup sizes ago. Now they are beginning to verge on ridiculous!

A few times in my life — and to my utter dismay — my mammaries have experienced sudden growth spurts that I can only attribute to hormones. At these times, even while nursing, I have turned toward the heavens and asked, “Were they not already large enough?!?” At this point, I would say they’ve gone beyond merely voluptuous to…I can barely bring myself to type it…matronly. Ugh.

You see, I have a bone to pick with my large breasts: They get in the way of certain activities, such as yoga or other forms of exercise. They make it difficult to find clothing that fits well. And they have the audacity to precede me — they practically announce themselves.

Women, it seems, tend to be dissatisfied with their breasts no matter their cup size. It’s like hair: just as straight-haired women wish they had more body while curly-haired women wish it were easier to grow their hair long and casually pull it up into a pony tail, small-breasted women wish they were better endowed, while large-breasted women would happily give up some of the frontal weight in favor of perkiness and, well, convenience.

Clearly, some people, men and women alike, prefer large breasts. Although it is beyond my own comprehension, some women actually pay to have breasts larger than a D-cup. I wonder if they know in advance how difficult it will be to find clothing that matches their new proportions? Even many of the cute lingerie lines only go up to a C-cup in size. And trying to find a cute bathing suit? Fuhgeddaboudit.

I am a practical woman: I’d like to pull something in my size off a clothing rack and have confidence that it will fit, even in front…or to exercise without feeling them in the way. And I am also self-conscious; I sometimes wonder whether people can take me seriously in professional settings. It’s as though these things require an explanation or apology. As Jessica Rabbit (Who Framed Roger Rabbit?) so eloquently put it:

“I’m not bad; I’m just drawn this way.”

Over the years, I’ve seen girlfriends lose weight from the top down, dropping cup sizes before melting an ounce from waist or hips. It’s not like that for me — I’ve managed to go up and down in weight, but I’ve never managed to drop a cup size; I’ve only grown. Even as I find myself more able to love and accept my body as it is — and I truly do appreciate my well-proportioned curves, I’m not yet ready to feel matronly…so I’m off to work out, hoping that — this time — I can reverse the trend.

special kind of sadness

No, I’m not in LA….

Actually, I’ve brought the children on what, to some, might be the vacation of a lifetime. But it’s not our first time in Orlando…

Traveling with them, I want them to feel joyous and excited. I want to feel relaxed. I think they are content and happy here. We exist mostly according to their whim and schedule. One resort employee even remarked that, together, their conversations and negotiations resemble as much an old married couple as two grammar school-aged children.

But for me, there’s a sadness…a grieving for the vacations we used to have: two-bedroom suites on the beach, so many firsts, grandma or other extended family members on hand to share child-care, travel arrangements and stress that I now manage by myself. Mostly I miss giving them the experience of all this as an in-tact family unit. Somehow I feel as though I’m giving them a lesser vacation by asking them to wait until I finish reading a chapter before joining them in an icy pool.

I know my ex is grieving our vacations, too, by the wistful replies he sends to my emailed photos of the children and his voice on the phone when he calls to talk to them.

Someday, I will get beyond the belief that two parents equals twice the vacation. I’m working on that.

Two days in, I’ve started to relax and enjoy just being in my children’s sustained presence. By tomorrow, I’ll be rocking’ this. And, with any luck, we’ll all arrive at home feeling refreshed, relaxed and full of new, happy vacation memories with our little family.

where am I going with this?

I honestly don’t know.

I thought I had a good concept going with failedatforty.com — a good story and one with potential legs. For example, I could have been “fierce at forty-one,” or “failed to fierce” or “failed to fabulous.”

But, truth be told, I had started dating by the time I thought I’d be ready to do these things. And I’d started to begin thinking about my professional growth again, which meant I didn’t have as much time or energy to spend here. And I didn’t feel fierce at all. I felt…soft. Which was not only unexpected, but also without alliteration.

Unexpectedly soft. That’s how I felt in a relationship with a manly guy with manly man energy. And — I know it sounds crazy — I loved it! I’m sure my guy would have laughed and joked, “soft as nails!” But I know he enjoyed being man enough to match my strong-willed energy. Strong on the inside, soft and flexible on the outside…it was like that thing Joan Armatrading sings about in her song Willow: “strong, straight, willing…”

So, I’m not sure I feel all that soft anymore, really…neither do I feel fierce. Maybe sometimes. Occasionally fabulous. Perhaps I’m failed to fabulous? I guess time will tell…

In the meantime, I’m just going to keep dropping in, sharing some about thoughts about relationships, dating and being when the mood arises.

Let me know what you think.

let’s break up again

Hollywood has made a killing on romantic stories of first dates that happen over and over again.

And so, while lying in my hammock on the first lovely day of spring, remembering fondly its role in the courtship between me and my first boyfriend after becoming single again, I began musing on what I thought was a brilliant idea: We had broken up so lovingly, maturely, beautifully…why couldn’t we break up over and over again? Why not spend one more beautiful, perfect, last day together — knowing that maybe we aren’t quite right for the long haul together — but enjoying and celebrating the love and affection we still have for one another. What could be wrong with that? Perhaps I should start on the screenplay!

So as I was remembering and musing — you’d think I’d know better — I dialed his number. To my surprise, he answered. And I rambled on for a bit about all my girlfriends thinking I’m a damn fool and how much I missed him and that I’d brought my hammock out and I told him my idea. We chatted a bit and then, as we were about to end our conversation, he asked, “So, do you want me to come over?”

And he did. And we talked and snuggled in the hammock for a bit and he said, “I’m going to take you upstairs and [this part is really not fit for print] and then we’re going to dinner and then I’m going to bring you back home and we’re going to [do that part] all over again.”

Now, y’all know by now how much I like a man with a plan. And especially one who can execute on the plan. Well, we did exactly as planned. Except for the part where he paused and told me that the only thing that could make it better than it was already was if we were in a committed relationship. And when I told him that I still couldn’t say, “YES!” to that, I know he was disappointed.

As we said our good-byes that night, he looked me in the eyes and said, “Now don’t call me again.” And I haven’t, even though I still think he’s wonderful and will miss him.

I’ve since told a few girlfriends about this, and they’ve all nodded and repeated, “mmm, breaking up again” knowingly, like it’s a thing. So apparently this is no novel idea. Apparently, for years, all around me and without my knowing it, people have been breaking up again and enjoying it! Like so many other things, I am a late bloomer when it comes to enjoying the benefits of break-up sex.

None of this brought up difficult emotions for me. I’d made my peace with where we were at — and I still think this guy is a terrific catch!

And then, earlier this weekend, I saw a little film (again) called 500 Days of Summer. Months after breaking up, main characters Tom and Summer find themselves at the same wedding / reception and she falls asleep on his shoulder on the way back to the city. She asks him to a party that weekend and, at some point that evening, he realizes that she’s engaged to a new guy…and he’s devastated.

That’s when I realized that I was Summer and he was Tom, and inviting my former man back into my life for a day may have given him false hope of reconciliation and was, probably, actually kind of cruel…and that hurting him was the furthest thing from my intent.

Toward the end, the two leads run into one another again and, in the course of their conversation (I may be paraphrasing here), Summer, now married, says, “One day I woke up and I just knew.”

Tom: “Knew what?”

Summer: “All those things I was never certain about with you.”

And I guess that articulates really well what so many of us are looking for: certainty, something to which we can say YES!

Oh well. Lesson learned. But I’m still toying with that screenplay idea, Hollywood.

p.s. If you haven’t seen the movie, do — it’s a tale wonderfully told. Besides, who can resist Joseph Gordon-Levitt and Zooey Deschanel?

proud of us

If there’s one thing I can say about my recently ended relationship, it’s that I am so proud of the way we conducted ourselves. I haven’t always been able to say so, and I’m just so glad to see how much I’d grown:

I stood up for myself when it was called for.
I broke down and allowed myself to cry and shared what I was feeling in the moment when it was the right time to do that (i.e. when it was authentic to what I was feeling).
I accepted and admitted where my baggage needed some tidying up, and was willing to see it, own it and make some changes in my own behavior. And I was willing to draw the line and say so when the baggage wasn’t mine.
I argued well and respectfully.
I was genuine and truthful.
I gave love a chance. I was present with an open heart and mind.
He was a gentleman and employed excellent manners.
He showed discipline and adherence to principles such as honesty, respect and justice.
He allowed me to be a bit of a princess, but let me know where the line was.

I’m not saying I don’t have room to improve. I certainly witnessed / experienced areas within myself that still require some healing or some work. And I’m going to nurture myself and take care of those things and go on with life and, some day, new relationships.

Right now, I’m just grateful and happy to have experienced a truly rewarding, respectful and fun relationship. I feel nothing but love and respect for my recent ex …which is more than I can say for my ex ex! I’m proud of us and the way we cared for and supported one another, and it’s a blessing to be able to look back and feel that way.

what’s wrong with you, girl?!

If there’s a single phrase I’ve heard more than any other in the past few weeks, it’s “What is wrong with you, girl?!” Insert the cuss word of your choice before “wrong” and you would likely sound just like any number of my girlfriends.

All of this in reference to my letting a perfectly decent man go because I wasn’t ready or something wasn’t right or whatever that feeling of unease I was having that was telling me that I needed more time to find balance within myself. It’s difficult to place just what it was anymore, in part because their shocked expressions have made me question it all. I’m a Libra; I weigh all input and feedback. Let’s summarize by saying my breakup has been unpopular amongst those who met my former beau.

Even the response to my recent guest post on The Plankton clearly demonstrated a bias toward hanging onto a good relationship, even if it’s one I was not, at present, fully capable of appreciating. The pendulum of public opinion, it seems, has clearly swung to the Mr. Good Enough camp.

The problem with this, of course, is that Mr. Good Enough wants to be prized — he doesn’t want to be just good enough or for so many of his gifts to go unnoticed or unappreciated by someone who is unable, at this moment, to fully embrace them. Surely Mr. Good Enough for me is Mr. Over-the-Moon Love-of-My-Life to some ecstatic woman. And he deserves that.

Unlike many of those vocal girlfriends with whom I’ve been spending time, I already have children. I’m not on the clock; I don’t feel a biological imperative to settle in to the first relationship I find after my divorce. In fact, I think something inside me was biased against doing just that. A part of me hopes to see a little more of what’s out there — even if the only purpose that serves is to show me how great I had it.

I’m not looking for perfection — I would have been willing to fully embrace the relationship if I had been absolutely certain that it was right. But I wasn’t 100% in it. And it would have been wrong to try to feign otherwise.

the fear

Having gone to bed the other night blissing out as love, abundance and sweetness, it was super weird to wake the next morning feeling abject fear; a fear that took a long time to shake; fear for no immediate or apparent reason.

When one wakes feeling something like that, one has to wonder:

What was I dreaming, just prior to having woken, to feel this way, so incredibly different from how I’d fallen asleep feeling? And, if that’s the case, I’m glad I don’t remember my dream.
Is it possible that, in digesting meat I’d eaten the night before, the chemicals of their fear were what I was experiencing? Not kidding, I’ve wondered about this before and it makes me contemplate eating a more vegetarian-based diet.
Was it my body releasing some of my own deeply buried and previously unprocessed fear, peeling back yet another layer of the proverbial onion?
A counselor once told me that it’s natural for us to relive the moment of our birth when we wake — could that have been it? Was I really in such terror as I exited the birth canal? Seems reasonable that I might have been.
Or is fear just that healthy sign, as I read in some email or blog recently (I’d link if I could find it), that I’m moving the right direction? Am I? I think so.

Whatever the case, it seemed like aeons before I was able to pull myself together emotionally. Luckily, life, children, work and even the laundry forces me to keep going, even when I’m more inclined to cower in the corner.

At some point, the feeling dissipated…but the weirdness of it all — waking up feeling so 180 from where I was just hours before — stayed with me long enough to inspire me to write about it. Do you ever feel that way?

hurdles and sweetness

I recall a year ago when every single baby step along the way to dating seemed like a colossal hurdle: there was simply getting a date, and then going on a first date enjoyable enough to be asked on a second and — with the low barriers to entry in online dating — actually experiencing the follow-through of a second date and so on and so forth, every new hurdle higher and more effortful and seemingly impossible.

For a long time, I wondered if any of it would ever seem natural again. And then suddenly it did and was, and a first kiss and third date no longer seemed like milestones of sorts and, before I knew it, I had a lover and boyfriend and relationship.

When I look back on these hurdles that once seemed so impossible, so beyond my ability to leap over them, they are faded and shrunken and have no particular significance to me any longer. And then I realized when it all changed:

At some point, late last summer, I decided to stop looking for love and to stop looking for abundance and decided, instead, to fill myself from within and be love and be abundance. No longer was I seeking. Rather, I was enjoying and sharing. And, of course, that’s when love and abundance seemed to happen in my life. If and when masculine energy appeared in my life, I simply enjoyed it and the way it allowed me to feel feminine. I recognized it, appreciated it, expected nothing more of it — and then attracted more of it. It wasn’t about effort or ability. It was about being. And, with this simple shift in energy, things changed.

I suspect that might explain why a man who had clearly told me on more than one occasion that he didn’t view me as a potential romantic interest kissed me one night. And then asked me out again. And kissed me some more.

For some of my long-time readers, you’ll recall my epic vision board endeavor of early last year. I had no husband, partner or job, and all the time in the world to dream and meditate about all the ways in which I wanted to change my life. I packed that damned board full of so many hopes and dreams and desires that there was no way I could ever have implemented or embraced it all at once…at least not without having gotten a lobotomy.

Somewhere along the way, I was able to distill it all down to two fundamental concepts: love and abundance, two simple words / concepts that represented the greater whole of a full, rich and joyful life that I wished to create. And I’m proud to say that I feel I’ve embraced these states of being pretty well, for the most part.

I haven’t created a vision board for this year. Meant to. Allowed myself to let it slide. And I’ve decided to try to add just one thing for the coming year. You see, I’m happy with being love and being abundance. They still fit and feel good to me. Yet, if there’s just one other thing I’d like to add, it’s sweetness — I want to bring more sweetness into my everyday existence, recognizing those stop-and-smell-the-flowers moments all along the way.

So, three months belated in sharing with you all, that’s my vision for 2012:

Be love.
Be abundance.
Be sweetness.

And I know, in so being, I will also draw these things to me.