Donna Highfill

Motherhood, Apple Pie and Manipulation

2013-05-09T19:07:10-04:00

Let me begin with my honest but necessary motherhood disclaimer -- I love my two children with my entire heart, even though my daughter told me when she was little that I only got a piece of her heart because she had to save the rest for others.

I think my children are miracles and will always be the best thing I've ever contributed to this crazy world. Like others, I believe that children are the future, etc.

I also believe that motherhood is a state falsely glorified by Hallmark and Mother's Day. The actual holiday was birthed in 1908 by a woman, Anna Jarvis, when she held a memorial for her deceased mother and then lobbied for recognition of all moms. Yes, her mother was already dead. Sometimes, the gifts we receive on Mother's Day might make the rest of us wish for the same.

The entire marketing push that comes with motherhood took me by surprise when I gave birth to my son.

It began with the La Leche league, a well-meaning group of women who let you know that if you don't breastfeed your baby, you might as well be Norma Bates. Actually, I bet Norma fed Norman Bates for an extraordinarily long time.

I agree that breastfeeding is good for your baby, but I don't appreciate the guilt that was piled on me in the hospital by woman who kept coming by my room and fondling my breasts. And I didn't even get a free dinner out of it. Instead, I was supposed to provide the meal.

Guilt grew as my son became a toddler. My then-husband's family was wonderful, but none of the sister-in-laws worked outside of the home. I kind of enjoyed working; I'd been doing it since I was 14 years old. I compromised by turning my current full-time job into a part-time job.

This action resulted in snide comments from other mothers who didn't work. Wow, I could never, EVER leave my baby with anybody. I'm so tremendously grateful that I can be at home with my children.

The working mothers resented me for another reason entirely. Wow, I can't believe you get to be with your son 2.5 days a week. You are SO lucky.

I was lost in this no man's land of complete guilt. Motherhood was a bitch.

Once I got pregnant with my daughter, I made the women who didn't work outside the home extremely happy by quitting my part-time job. For almost two years, I put all of my time into raising children, and most of the time it was wonderful. Other times, I wanted to slit my wrists.

My despair was driven by conversations with other mothers who could talk about their child's loose stools for hours or the fact that their sweet little angel only took a one-hour nap yesterday as opposed to the normal three-hour nap they took each afternoon.

Neither of my children napped. When I shared this information with other women, I was accused of not setting a regular schedule and was told that this would eventually really screw my kids up. I mistakenly thought being at home would give me some kind of motherhood judgment immunity, but it only made it worse.

I spent my days fixing meals and snacks, wiping down counters and bottoms, taking the kids out for a walk to 7-11 and reading Goodnight Moon and Hop On Pop until I would get them confused and end up saying goodnight to Pop and quietly whisper hush while hopping. Once all of this was done, I would try to figure out what I was going to do for the rest of the day, because it was only 10:00 am.

Grocery stores were the worst, because the kids would be tired and hungry and would develop a desperate need at the cash register for a pack of gum, a mini-flashlight or Triple A batteries.

And the cashier would inevitably say, I wish I could be home with my kids. Just as I was about to hand them over and congratulate the cashier on her new family, my kids would quit crying and we would wander out to the car to drive by the house that we drove by every day because it looked like a castle and it took five additional minutes off the clock.

So, forgive me if I'm not just wowed by the marketing of motherhood. Men have gotten more involved, but women still do most of the cooking and laundry and accept blame for everything that goes wrong with the kids while fathers get credit for their strength or sense of humor or success.

If Hallmark wrote honest cards for moms, they would read like this:

To Our Mother
Thank you for wiping counters and ass,
Thank you for releasing any semblance of class,
Thank you for staying awake without sleep,
Thank you for not calling my best friend a creep,
Thank you for hopping on pop once a week,
Thank you for ignoring the solace you seek,
Thank you for reading us story after story,
And accepting a job that takes guts without glory.

Yes, I love my children, but motherhood is not the same thing as being a mom. Motherhood is a state created by guilt and judgment and is reinforced once a year with bad breakfasts and corsages.

Women, if you love your kids, but aren't so crazy about the state of being a mother, don't feel guilty.

Because it's the toughest job you'll ever do, and it doesn't need to be as tough as it is. Others around you have arms and legs, and can pitch in. Other mothers don't get a right to judge what you do. Remember, they're secretly as miserable and tired as you are.

Stand tall and repeat after me:

I love my children, but if you insist that I love the 24-hour a day state of guilt and activity and exhaustion called motherhood, then I'm going to show you what a mother I can be.

There -- I feel much better.

Beauty And Biblical Plagues

2013-05-09T08:00:00-04:00

Click here to read an original op-ed from the TED speaker who inspired this post and watch the TEDTalk above.

There is nothing like a biblical plague landing on your face to make you question the importance of physical appearance. I was 24 years old when I noticed a massive knot on my face that caused my left eye to close slightly. I was sure that something horrible had bitten me and was equally sure that some topical cream and an antibiotic would cure it. But when my normally personality-less dermatologist sat down beside me, put his hand on my arm and said, "You are so young and pretty. I am so sorry," I knew I was wrong on both counts.

At the time the plague descended, I was a trainer for a mid-sized bank, which called for me to present in front of people on a regular basis. I was also getting married soon... that special time in a girl's life when you prepare for that walk down the runway that church folks call an aisle.

Sparing the more vivid details of cystic acne, I will tell you that it is a cruel skin disease that can ravage the skin with huge, painful cysts. See? Biblical plague stuff. Fortunately, mine hit only one place on my body. Unfortunately, that place was my face.

The doctor offered a round of Accutane, but he advised me to wait until my childbearing years were over because it was new to the market and could lead to serious birth defects. I opted out for the next five years, until both kids were born and my tubes were tied.

The result was a variety of deep, dark scars on my face that caused my young daughter, years later, to look at me and say, "Mom, why do you have cwaters on your face?" She was learning about the surface of the moon in kindergarten and, innocently, saw the similarities.

During those years when it took considerable deep breathing to gather the courage to stand in front of friends who remembered the "before" picture, I learned that I was a lot more than my looks. I found that leaders listened to my ideas during training even though my face made me feel a little Quasimodo-ish.

Before the acne:

After the acne:

My friends and family acclimated to the new look and soon overlooked it entirely. More importantly, my soul was still the same, my heart was still the same, and my compassion for others grew five times its normal size.

I learned that my outer body was a shell that was vulnerable, so I tied self-esteem to that potential pearl within. My acne acted as my irritant, and I began to spin a life around it.

I discovered that although we all love to look on things of beauty, there is a difference between authentic beauty and beauty based on trends and fads.

I would like to slap the photographer/marketer/promoter who created Twiggy. Her popularity led my generation of women to stay perpetually hungry. -- Donna Highfill

Fad beauty comes from fear and insecurity. It begins when a noteworthy person creates a look that others decide is beautiful. The gossip line begins, and we all whisper in one another's ears that to look like [fill in the blank] is cool. It's sweet. It's what will ensure that you are accepted.

Fad beauty can be everything from Rubenesque voluptuousness to elongated necks. It can include tattooed eyelids or lotus feet. What is overlooked is that fad beauty is often created by masochists who establish control over others by making them believe that they are never enough.

I would like to slap the photographer/marketer/promoter who created Twiggy. Her popularity led my generation of women to stay perpetually hungry.

I believe that fad beauty is more about blending in than standing out.

Frequent the halls of a middle school, and you will see the same young lady pass you 100 times. She has the same hair, the same clothes, and the same habit of eating lettuce for lunch. Why? Because some fashion guru prefers his clothing draped on a human hanger, and has declared that thin is in. And she wants to be "in" more than anything else in the world.

As a woman who grew up in the literary arms of Pippi Longstocking, I was never really worried about blending in. My parents couldn't afford to provide the accoutrements of cool -- designer bags and Polo shirts -- and my fang bicuspids and stringy hair dashed any other hopes for coolness. I was mocked like so many during my awkward stages, and I quickly learned that the worst thing that could happen to me would be to so fear standing out that I blended in.

My skin disease in my early twenties reminded me of the fact that real beauty is something different from fad beauty. Real beauty radiates from the soul, and its light can make others forget that you have big knots all over your face.

Ideas are not set in stone. When exposed to thoughtful people, they morph and adapt into their most potent form. TEDWeekends will highlight some of today's most intriguing ideas and allow them to develop in real time through your voice! Tweet #TEDWeekends to share your perspective or email tedweekends@hufﬁngtonpost.com to learn about future weekend's ideas to contribute as a writer.

Making Incontinence Cool

2013-05-03T06:37:58-04:00

I've got some advice for baby boomer marketers. While we use your products, we aren't thrilled that we have to use them. Marketers need to understand the difference between marketing to a generation and marketing products by using a generational spokesmodel.

Most marketers learned years ago that we prefer to see pretty young people using certain products. You rarely see an unattractive youth wearing ear buds on an iPod commercial. Brooke Shields wore her Calvins, not Ethel from I Love Lucy. In our society, it's survival of the youngest and prettiest.

Once you get into topics like incontinence, however, the Baby Boomer models finally get some work.

Incontinence starts at a young age, but it's cute then. We all smile when someone feels the bottom of a baby and says, Oh, I think we are wet! The toddler is allowed to run through the mall with wetness showing through his little sweat pants and nobody notices.

When I was in high school, one of my good friends wet her pants every time she laughed too hard. I remember one night when we decided to pull a Chinese Fire Drill at a fairly busy stoplight. Should you not know, a Chinese Fire Drill calls for you to stop at a light, jump out of the car, and run around it one time before getting back into the car. This is what we did before we had the internet to keep ourselves entertained.

As we were running around the car, I tripped and almost knocked my head into the headlight. I don't remember what I said, but I remember that it made Kathy start laughing uncontrollably. I looked back and she was doubled over, yelling, I'm wetting my pants! We all laughed, including other drivers, because it was darn cute.

So why isn't it still cute when you're over 50? Let's face it, if a person in their golden years doubles over in a public place and announces, I'm wetting my pants, most people vacate the area as quickly as possible. If we have wet marks on the back of our pants like that toddler, nobody smiles and says, Aw, bless his heart.

Society doesn't allow us to enjoy these silly little life realities. Therefore, marketing needs to make it more appealing. When advertising a pad that helps with leaking urine, marketers should not have baby boomer women dancing awkwardly in their "fashionable" pads. We know society is mocking us; this just makes us hate ourselves a little bit more.

Instead, have Heidi Klum dance around in skinny jeans. Just watching her will be hypnotic, and society will suddenly associate beauty with wearing what my mom calls a pee-pee pad. Once they've seen Heidi dance, maybe everybody will start wearing them and we will no longer be the gross old people who are leaking all over the dance floor.

Perhaps the denture commercials should use the same approach. Showing graying Americans at a picnic eating corn on the cob with their false teeth is not cool. The entire scene simply creates tension, as viewers wait to see those choppers hanging on the side of a fresh cob, grinning like "Heeeeere's Johnny" without the Johnny behind them.

Instead, advertising can show someone in their early twenties sporting a beautiful pair of false teeth. Show a cute college student dropping her teeth in a cool glass by her dorm bedside . . . and make it a glass that says something like "True Blood" on the side of it.

Suddenly, those teeth will look less pathetic and much cooler. Kids will be pulling their teeth out just so they, too, can wear dentures.

Some nights I sit in front of the television and wonder when Sally Field made the transition from "Smokey and the Bandit" cool to commercials about osteoporosis. Jamie Lee Curtis, who pleasured herself in one of the funniest movie scenes of all time, is now talking about our lower digestive tracks. I guess she's in the same physical region, she's just having less fun.

Dieting commercials could become cooler as well. Have a beautiful star promote diet products and suddenly you believe that you are going to look both thinner and younger when you lose that weight. Beyonce could even write a song along the lines of, If you like it then you should've put a gastric ring on it.

In the name of baby boomers everywhere, I beseech advertising agencies to represent us fairly. Maybe they could combine commercials and make them more positive. The people sitting in separate bathtubs could become one, and the tag-line could be, Hey! I haven't fallen and I can get it up!

If showing younger people in our commercials isn't realistic, then maybe we could at least be portrayed as we are. Commercials could depict us working in corporations and writing blogs and traveling. We could be shown using social media and creating new technology and supporting the kids who are tired of us. And whether or not we are leaking won't matter, because now, incontinence is cool.

Earlier on Huff/Post50:

Am I Menopausal or a Powerful Werewolf?

2013-04-23T12:57:43-04:00

Imagination is wondrous, but when my grocery clerk thinks she's a vampire, I get a little concerned. Her dyed black hair, pale make-up and the tattoo of a bite mark on her neck make me wonder why she is working in a grocery store. Maybe she has her eye on the meat department.

I've always believed that imagination is greater than knowledge, but facts do keep our feet on the ground so that when our imaginations soar over the rainbow, we can tap our ruby slippers and find our way home. Not everything can be yellow brick roads and green-faced witches. Sometimes, we need to pay the bills.

Recently, I've read about people who think they're vampires, or werewolves, or witches. I saw a young college student interviewed online who thinks he's a merman. On his day off, he pulls on his scaled lower-half and sits on a rock. I don't know how to tell him that if your fishtail is made out of polyester and glitter, you're probably not going to do well underwater.

Recent television shows such as The Vampire Diaries, Grimm and Once Upon A Time reflect our need to be something other than human. I must admit, after watching The Vampire Diaries, I am a little more attracted to vampires than I realized. They've come a long way from Barnabus Collins.

I wrote a blog about wanting a vampire for Christmas, and soon became the target for scathing feedback. Apparently, I didn't know what a "real" vampire is actually like. I was misrepresenting them by following televised models of vampires which are not, it seems, faithful to legend. This left me stumped. I didn't realize "real" vampires had such a following.

And for a woman who watches Ghost Hunters faithfully and totally believes in the Mothman, I'm not judging the vampire faithful. The difference is that I don't wear wings like Mothman or stand in a room believing that I'm invisible like a ghost. I tried that approach once when listening to a really bad PowerPoint presentation, and it didn't work. Everybody saw me trying to walk out that conference room door.

Granted, behind every great imaginative character is some element of truth. Like Count Dracula, whose human inspiration was Vlad III, Prince of Wallachia (1431-1476). His father was VladII Dracul.

Vlad III became known as Vlad the Impaler for the simple reason that he shish-kabobbed and tortured approximately 80,000 enemies. I mean stuck them on big sticks in his yard. I bet he was forced to build things out of Popsicle sticks in his Vacation Bible School when he was a kid. That can drive anybody to unhealthy fantasies.

His character helped ignite the imagination of Bram Stoker in his creation of Count Dracula. I love the fact that writers take real characters and turn them into fictional, memorable personalities. Can you imagine the future "monsters" that will be created hundreds of years from now based upon our political leaders?

We could have Sarah the Impalin, known to hunt and kill while flying on wings through the sky. Or The Gore-y Al, a large zombie-like character with vast intelligence but very little personality.

I think most of our fictional characters are a wonderful mash-up of real people with the intriguing possibilities of the unknown world. Real characters can become fictional characters. But I'm not sure that Bram Stoker, were he alive today, would walk into Kroger and believe that his bag girl was a vampire.

Maybe real life has gotten so boring for those constantly entertained by television that we're sure we must have magical powers, because checking in and out of a mind-numbing job is just a little too depressing to accept.

Motivational speakers might have finally gotten through to us. If you can't change your situation, then change your perspective, they say. Bagging groceries might not be the most exciting job in the world, but if you can bag groceries as a vampire and consider tearing the jugular out of the lady who waits for you to bag everything in plastic before telling you that she wants paper, the job becomes tolerable.

In this upside down world of weapons and unexpected attacks and constant coverage of everything horrible, maybe being a mermaid seems to be a safer position. Let's face it, who had it better than The Little Mermaid (Disney version)? She was adorable, and lived in this wonderful place where the fish sang "Under the Sea" and everyone danced and her father was the King.

Who, in this time of such tragedy, wouldn't rather live under the sea?

And I must admit that I'd prefer to believe that I'm becoming a werewolf rather than accept the fact that, in my menopausal years, I now have to shave my face. How much cooler would it be to know that as the facial hair comes in, it brings with it tremendous power? Plus, according to recent werewolf movies, the hair would fade away after the full moon and I would be left with six-pack abs.

So, maybe we forgive ourselves the need to be fantastical creatures. But, let's also keep our feet on the ground. Being human isn't that bad. Perhaps we feel vulnerable in an unpredictable world, but remember that vampires can be staked through the heart, werewolves can be killed with a silver bullet through their heart and mermaids probably just get menopausal and have their scales dry up.

There will always be people doing bad things fueled by fear and anger. But, we also get to have babies, and flowers, and dogs, and family, and laughter. Not such bad stuff.

Plus, I'm really concerned that some young person in black who doesn't floss regularly is going to bite me on the neck. And I'm just not up for that.

My Love/Hate Relationship With Lists

2013-04-14T07:22:05-04:00

My husband and I have the same interaction most mornings.

"Hey, honey, do you know where I put my list of things to do today?"

"I think you put it by the telephone."

"No, it's not there, but here's your cell phone charger."

"Excellent! I've been missing that for days. Did you find the thing you were looking for?"

"What thing?"

My short-term memory has taken some unapproved vacation time. As its boss, I am not pleased. However, I don't blame it for leaving. Maybe it's concluded there are some things going on during my menopausal 50s that should not be remembered.

The decision could have been made the day I walked into my office, used the restroom, and then wandered out to buy mascara, forgetting that I was there to send an important document to my CPA.

Or the day I was trying to book an airline ticket for my daughter and could not, for the life of me, remember her birthday. I even heard a "good gawd" from the agent as I stumbled over the date. Yes, I was there when she was born. Yes, it was painful. No, I can't remember the date.

My short-term memory may have shut off the day I put mascara on only one eye and looked all Clockwork Orange for the rest of the day. Or perhaps it was the day that I yelled "Are you effin' kidding me?" and burst into tears in the grocery store aisle because my favorite diet cookies had been replaced with their crappy generic version.

I think most of us are finding our memories smashed under the anvil of so much information. I turn on my computer at 9 a.m. and am suddenly inundated with information, including great blogs from intelligent people that are blended with threats of nuclear war and suggestions concerning the right fertilizer for my yard.

Oh, yeah, and Jessica Simpson is showing a baby bump and more district attorneys have been shot and Kim Kardashian got bangs and Margaret Thatcher died.

Every story seems to have equal value, so I'm suddenly tweeting about everything from shit to bangs to the possible big North Korean bang. Within an hour, I barely know where I am.

In light of this avalanche of information, I know why my short-term memory is in the islands. I also understand the new need for lists these days. Every blogger knows that viewership goes up if you distill your facts into a list.

In case you weren't aware, Margaret Thatcher did pass away. Unfortunately, a lot of people probably read more about Shania Twain's boots at the ACM Awards rather than the passing of one of the most powerful female leaders in our lifetime.

Maybe if the story on Thatcher had been written like this:

"Margaret Thatcher was:

1. The only female Prime Minister in the history of Britain.

2. Very controversial, mostly because she was the only female Prime Minister in the history of Britain.

3. The daughter of a grocer, who graduated from Oxford University as a research chemist.

4. Married to a wealthy businessman, which doesn't seem relevant but is always mentioned.

5. A strong leader, but was not wearing thigh-high boots or donning a new hair-do which means you might have missed it."

See? Lists simplify information. The problem is that lists also over-simplify things by removing the guts of an issue.

Want to know if your company is efficient? There's a checklist for that. Want to know how to satisfy your spouse? There are multiple lists for that. Want to know if your neighbor is a sociopath? There's a checklist for that, too. By the way, according to that checklist one out of 25 ordinary Americans are sociopaths. Look around, you could be having lunch with Hannibal Lecter.

Checklists are easy and often misleading but, hey, in a ridiculously brain-busy world I'll go with whatever works.

I even looked back 40 years to check out Jerry Lucas's The Memory Book, published in 1974. I told you my short-term memory was shot.

Jerry Lucas was a professional basketball player and genius, much like Bobby Knight. His passion was helping people learn how to remember things through association of objects. Here's an example:

Need to buy a lamp today?
Also need to buy typewriter paper? (Hey, it was 1974)
Imagine yourself putting a lighted lamp into your typewriter.
Need to also pick up a suit?
Imagine wearing typing paper instead of a suit.

I tried this approach the other day. I needed to take the dog to daycare, pick up some medicine at the drugstore, write three blogs and get groceries. So, I:

Imagined walking into doggie daycare while dressed as a pill bottle.
Imagined three blogs written on the prescription label.
Imagined blogs written about getting groceries.

Thanks to this genius approach, I walked into the doggie daycare and asked about my prescription, which totally confused the owner. I then wrote the shortest blogs in the history of the world about getting groceries, but then forgot to actually go to the grocery store. I'm still waiting for my prescription to be filled by Hanover Your Pets.

Association doesn't work for me. I need my lists.

Here are 5 reasons why I'm glad my short-term memory is on vacation:

1. People no longer expect me to remember their birthdays now that I've forgotten my own children's birthdays.

2. When I forget to put on make-up, I get sent home from work because everyone says I "look like death."

3. When kids ask for money, I really do forget to send it to them. They thank me for my tough love. I have no idea what they're talking about.

4. When that well-meaning young man tells me that I remind him of his grandmother, I can slap the hell out of him and then forget about it.

5. I've forgotten my fifth point.

But at least I have my list.

Earlier on Huff/Post50:

Sasquatch Declares Stiletto Heels the New Lotus Foot

2013-04-04T14:38:40-04:00

I'm not sure why shoes are so important to so many women -- especially those stiletto heels that jack you up, causing you to resemble a car having a back tire changed.

High heels used to be reserved for special occasions. Stiletto heels were worn mostly by those women frequenting street corners. Now I see stiletto heels on the feet of other professional women, and it makes me physically hurt to watch them walk.

The idea that women should wear uncomfortable shoes was created by -- get ready for it -- designers who design SHOES. They wanted us to believe that we aren't beautiful without the pointed, narrow, jacked up accessory that is used to walk on the grimy asphalt.

I ask but one question -- if stiletto heels or tiny pointed toes or wedges that give you the height of Lurch are so vitally important to an outfit, then why aren't men wearing them?

Why do they get the shoes that have very slight heels, shaped so that every toe can fit comfortably without lapping over the top of another little piggy? Why is it our piggys that have to cry "wee wee wee" all the way home?

Imagine Abraham Lincoln tottering up to the stage to give the Gettysburg address in a pair of kitten heels. I just don't think the line Four score and seven years ago ... would have the same power if he had been tottering like a newborn calf while delivering his address.

Think about Napoleon delivering one of his famous speeches to the troops, walking with his knees slightly bent as his stiletto heels sink into the earth:

Do not regret my fate; if I have consented to survive, it is to serve your glory. I intend to write the history of the great achievements we have performed together. Adieu, my friends. Would I could . . . . shit [falls off heels and can't catch himself because his hand is in his jacket] . . . press you all to my heart. [Calls for medic]

And, yet, we are asked to wear these contraptions every single day while walking to work, leading meetings, giving speeches, and pushing kids in strollers.

I read somewhere that the Chinese bound the feet of their women, creating "lotus feet," because it caused them to stick their buttocks out while walking, which the men found arousing. Yep, they had their feet broken and bent until their toes touched the bottom of their feet and suffered crippling pain the rest of their lives just because the men in their society wanted them to show a little junk in the trunk.

Extreme high heels, in my opinion, provide the same effect. Heels elongate the legs, shifting the center of gravity from the heel to the ball of the foot, forcing the butt and chest out for balance. Lotus.

Maybe my bias comes from jealousy, since I look a bit like Sasquatch when I walk in high heels. I don't stick out my chest and butt. Instead, I bend my knees to maintain balance, and hunch my shoulders from the tension of trying not to fall off my shoes. Inevitably, one of my wobbling ankles will fold and I will topple into some unsuspecting person on the sidewalk and yell, "Son of a bitch!'

I was born with flat feet, and as a little girl I had to wear something called "corrective shoes" that was code for "big, red, ugly, expensive shoes with metal toes and arches that will get you mocked in school."

I must say those red honkers gave me power on the playground. My sister and I were known as the "terror sisters," because any time a boy bullied one of our friends, the bully would be forcibly brought to us. My sister would lecture him and hold his arms while I kicked his shins with my metal-toed shoes. We were The Sopranos of elementary school, throwing little plastic stick horse heads in the beds of bullies, and my shoes were our brass knuckles.

I grew to love those shoes, and eventually graduated to saddle oxfords and tennis shoes with cookies in them. Yes, I too was bummed when I found out that cookies were actually arches and not edible. So, shoes and I have had a thing going on for years.

But as I walked through New York City this weekend and watched young women hoofing it on concrete in jacked up heels, I just didn't get it. I was even worried for that drag queen trying to balance all 6' 2" of himself on stilettos.

Studies have shown that the knees, hips and back take a real beating in high heels. The changed positioning of the body forces joints into unnatural positions. The cartilage between bones can wear down over time, which causes joint pain and is a precursor to arthritis.

They're starting to see joint changes in women as young as 25-years-old.

I am sure that somebody can give me examples of women in power who wore super high heels or wedges or both, but I'm not sure that I can come up with anyone right now.

Perhaps Susan B. Anthony rocked some spiked heels; maybe Indira Ghandi sat around discussing her latest pair of Jimmy Choo's. I don't know.

Today, we're all supposed to be stick thin and jacked up. I can tell you this, if I wear a shoe that tilts me forward and I gain momentum while walking, then somebody in front of me is going down.

If you insist on wearing heels on a daily basis, try these tips:

• Only wear high heels on the days when you have little walking to do. If you go dancing in them, take them off immediately. This becomes quickly acceptable when everybody else is wasted.

• Wear soft insoles in your shoes to at least cushion the foot and heel. I would blow in cushion like insulation. The more, the better.

• Wear high heels only for special occasions rather than on a daily basis, and you will reduce the long term effects on your body. Make sure the special occasion is really special. Going to mail a letter five blocks away? Not special.

• Step heel to toe as you would when walking in any shoe. Don't let the toe and heel hit at the same time. You will need to practice this so that people on the street don't point and laugh.

Or, try my method. Just don't wear them at all and celebrate your shortness. My body is getting sucked into the ground daily thanks to age and gravity. Rather than fighting it, I've just changed my role models. I'm looking for greater wisdom and shortness in stature.

The picture on my desk of my new model is lovely and green. It's Yoda.

Beautiful in flat shoes, I am.

What A Jock Strap Taught Me About Leadership

2013-03-28T05:51:14-04:00

One of my first attempts at promoting women's rights involved organizing a jock raid. Granted, it wasn't a Million Woman March, but I had a point to make.

I was a freshman in college, trying to cram every college experience into my first month on campus. One night in particular, we had our first panty-raid. I remember opening my dorm room window as a group of my hall mates giggled while the guys yelled, "Drop-Your-Panties!".

I watched incredulously as my friend proceeded to slingshot her lacy, black bikini underwear out the window. I held onto my pair, since my comfortable panties were less Victoria Secret model and more Alice from The Brady Bunch.

A guy I knew sat in the tree outside my window, waiting patiently. The girls were furious that I wouldn't slingshot him a pair. I didn't know how to tell them that the elastic on my underwear was such that my panties, once released, would drop to the ground like a dying quail.

Eventually a few of the guys were let in by their girlfriends, and went running down our hallway. A couple of us proceeded to put soap and water on the floors, resulting in a few cracked bones.

Once the raid ended, I began to formulate a plan of retaliation. I spent all of 35 seconds on my meticulous tactical plan. I refused to be a sitting duck waiting for the next attack. I was woman, hear me roar. I would lead a campus offensive. I would turn this whole college tradition on its ear.

I gathered some of the girls in the hallway to discuss the raid, and prepared to motivate my unwitting troop.

"Okay, ladies, why should the boys be allowed to be on the attack while we cower in our rooms, unsure of when they might show up again?" I asked.

"Come on -- why has it always been panty raids led by the guys? Why not a JOCK RAID led by the women?"

I could tell that my passion for women's rights was falling flat, so I switched to something they might be more interested in -- the jock raid outfit.

I suggested sweatpants and tennis shoes, but some of the girls overrode me. They wanted an outfit that would allow nimbleness but still exude a hint of something sexy. We ended up dressing in leggings of any color, one-piece bathing/body suits, and the coup d'état -- panties bobby pinned to the top of our heads as a sign of defiance.

No matter what happened, we were not to lose our panties.

I prepared my troop with some quick instructions.

"Ladies," I said, "I want men to realize that they don't get to call the shots. We are going across campus to their dorm, so no talking on the way. Once we get positioned outside of their windows, we are going to yell, 'DROP THAT JOCK!!' It is currently 1:00 a.m.

Are you ready to be involved in this school's very first jock raid?"

There was a murmuring of sorts as girls adjusted the bobby pins holding their panties in place, but overall they were ready to go on the offensive and make a statement for college women everywhere.

We started out with quiet enthusiasm, but forgot how far away our destination was. We began to breathe hard and lost a couple of girls when we crossed the street that went to a late-night pub.

After what seemed like an hour, we stood and surveyed the one, steep, grassy hill that stood between the men's dorm and us.

I whispered "walk this way" and led them, hunched over, across the vast expanse of wet grass.
We looked a bit like Marty Feldman as Igor in "Young Frankenstein." Just as we reached the middle of the hill, we heard the trees around us moving. Then, a quiet, deep rumbling sounded, growing into a testosterone-filled roar. We saw our destiny as a circle of about 50 guys emerged from the trees -- in their underwear.

We would later find out that there was a traitor in our midst. A girl on our hall who was offended by both our outfits and our plan had called her boyfriend to let him know that we were coming.

As the guys roared and ran towards us, I yelled out "RETREAT!" Amidst screams, our troop turned to run.

Many of our boxer-clad attackers were on the football team, so they had pretty good moves. I was almost in the clear when I saw a large man in white boxers crouched and waiting for me. I tried to cut to the left and lost my footing. I slid right under him.

He grabbed me under the arms and yelled, "I got one!!' At that call, the guys let the rest of the girls go. I found it all too appropriate. This was my idea, I was the Captain, and I had to go down with the ship.

At the men's dorm, I had to walk down a hallway lined by guys who I knew from campus, also in their underwear. I was thrown into a shower and a jock was placed around my neck. Neither the shower nor the jock were clean, and in my disgust I momentarily forgot the stand I was taking for women everywhere.

On the way out of the dorm, one of the guys yelled out, "Can I have the panties on your head?"

In that moment, I became Joan of Arc.

"Nobody gets my panties!" I yelled. "I have your jock, but you guys get nothing. My mission is accomplished. This win belongs to us. And I will NOT be back!" With those words I ran back to my dorm.

I kept that jock around my bedpost for the rest of the year (after washing it with bleach). For me, it represented some important lessons.

First, being willing to take a stand empowers you.

Second, taking a stand without a good plan embarrasses you.

And, finally, just because you're a woman doesn't mean other women will support you. Especially if they hate your outfit.

How Baby Boomers Can Survive Zombie Attacks

2013-03-20T15:49:39-04:00

Last night, my son asked me if I had seen the news on the draft. "The draft?" I asked, incredulously. "They've reinstated the draft?"

I looked at my son with a glazed stare. He looked back at me, not knowing if he should be terrified or amused.

"Um, I'm talking about the NFL draft, mom. The one we've been discussing all week?"

I moaned out loud, and stumbled across the kitchen.

I might be a zombie.

A zombie, according to Wikipedia, is a term often figuratively applied to a hypnotized person bereft of consciousness and self-awareness, yet ambulant and able to respond to surrounding stimuli.

I believe that zombiism is more of a state of mind than an actual being. For example, it is said that in South African cultures some communities believe that a person can be turned into a zombie by a small child. Well, as a mother of two kids I'd like to say, "duh."

Have you ever had a small child? I can barely remember the years from 1990 to 1994. While most of my memories of those four years are balled up into one big memory called "Oh My God I'm not going to survive this shit," I do recall one particular zombie moment.

I was in bed, unconscious, as a result of my daughter awakening every hour on the hour throughout the night. My peppy son, a morning person, showed up in my doorway at 5:30 a.m. requesting a pop-tart. I stumbled, zombie-like, into the kitchen to get him one.

We went downstairs and watched cartoons, I think. I'm pretty sure I fell asleep, so he could have been watching Dawn of the Dead for all I know. At that point, I'm sure he would have thought it was a movie about mommies anyway.

My daughter awoke an hour later, and my zombie day began. I fixed breakfast for my son, bottle-fed my daughter, changed their clothes just in time for my daughter to spit-up and for my son to have a bout of diarrhea. I'm pretty sure I spit-up, myself, at this point.

I bathed them both, then jumped in the shower. My son was playing on the floor, my infant daughter was clean and, finally, asleep in her infant seat. As I was washing the shampoo out of my hair and talking non-stop to my son, I heard something plastic hit the floor of the tub. I looked down and my zombie heart stopped -- my son had tossed the blow dryer into the tub.

Not sure if it were plugged in or not, I jumped out of the tub, taking the shower curtain and rod with me. I landed on my sleeping daughter who immediately began to scream. My son quit speaking for the rest of the day, traumatized by his naked mother trying to get off of her daughter like a horse off its rider.

Zombies don't cry, by the way. We just make these awful, animal-like noises. That's how my husband found me later when he got home.

Some cultures believe that after a time God will take the soul back, so the zombie is just a temporary spiritual entity. I have found that to be true.

I finally emerged from my zombie state when my youngest turned two-years-old, and the next 20 years were zombie free.

Then menopause came along, and my zombie state returned. My husband says that isn't menopause, but age. Perhaps that's true, since we just had a conversation in the car that sounded like this:

"We should watch the movie 'American Graffiti' again, just for fun. Who directed that?
"Ron Howard?"

"No, he was in it, wasn't he? Wasn't he too young to direct it?"

"I guess. Who was the blonde in the convertible?"

"You mean the T-Bird?"

"Wasn't it a convertible?"

"I don't remember. Was it Cheryl Tiegs?"

"No, another blonde. She didn't talk. And Cheryl Tiegs was the one in 'Vacation' with Chevy Chase."

"No, that was Christie Brinkley. The one who married Billy Joel."

"Maybe that's why he wrote 'Born to Run.'"

"No, that was Bruce Springsteen."

"Really? Was he in 'American Graffiti'?"

Our conversation ended with us staring out of the car window at nothing, our mouths slightly agape. Add menopause to the equation, and you have a full-out zombie attack.

Luckily, the Internet is filled with zombie survival guides. I have written my own version to accommodate both the person dealing with the zombiism as well as those impacted by him or her. Here are my tips, based loosely on information found in the Zombie and Survival Defense Wiki:

Just Breathe: If you're approached by a zombie, or if you are the zombie, just breathe. Otherwise, according to the guide, you could actually die from panic. Just ask the Brooklyn man who was driving a black SUV a few weeks ago. Sometime after midnight, my husband and I stumbled our way into the street, exhausted from a day of walking with the kids through New York City.

Since his was the only car on the road with his rear lights on, we assumed it was our cab and tried to get into his car. My husband stood at his window, pale and confused, mouthing, "Are you our driver?" Meanwhile, I was at the backdoor, drooling slightly, jerking on the door handle.

The poor man threw up his hands and yelled, "No! No!"

We were the zombies, pale and threatening. He hit the gas, and we stood there in total silence, our heads slightly tilted to the left, making noises like, "huh." Our cab drove up one minute later.

Don't panic. Whether you're the zombie or the person being attacked, just breathe.

Try Bugging-In: This part of zombie survival encourages survivors to gather together, riding out the worst part of the attacks until the situation is under their control. I've been using this technique to get through my own zombie phase, reaching out to other women who understand why, sometimes, we are found in our closets screaming about how we're going to burn all of our clothes and go to Chicos to replace every piece of tight clothing

For those who are around us, I encourage you to find support groups as well. These are places where you can complain about our outbursts or lack of energy without losing a pound of flesh.

Stay Away from Wal-Mart: According to the zombie guide, Wal-Mart buildings are perfect for zombie attacks. All survivors are encouraged to stay away from them since they provide easy access from a multitude of locations.

I would recommend that menopausal zombies avoid Wal-Mart as well. It seems to be a place that spurs on our own attacks, starting with the greeter who looks like he or she would rather shoot you than greet you, and grows with every single child who screams in the aisle, every display that blocks your cart, and every person who is in desperate need of deodorant.

Try Bugging-Out: "Bug-out" is a military term that means everything in camp must be packed up to move immediately. This is a term my husband and I now use when I feel a rant coming on. Perhaps I've forgotten the one client appointment I had scheduled for the day. Or I put on my make-up just in time for a massive hot flash that melted my face.

My husband comes in for a hug, and I yell, "Bug-out!" He grabs his briefcase and races out the front door, jumps in his car and peels out of the driveway.

Zombies aren't just the walking dead, they are a state of mind. Check the mirror and your hormones. You might be closer to zombie status than you think.

Why 'Leaning In' Beats Wrapping Up

2013-03-15T12:05:57-04:00

I have watched multiple interviews and read numerous reviews about Sheryl Sandberg's book, Lean In. What interests me are the responses by women.

Personally, I'm glad it's not another book that teaches us how to be thinner or prettier or younger. And I'm thrilled that it doesn't involve some kind of food wrap.

Remember Marabel Morgan's book, The Total Woman? Suddenly, across America, women were meeting their husbands at the door dressed in nothing but Saran Wrap®.

I am not judging those women, although the thought of meeting my husband in Saran Wrap® during these years of hot flashes is frightening. That plastic would be melded to my skin.

To be a total woman, you were asked to put on a servant's hat. And apron. And whatever else might keep a man interested.

An actual line from The Total Woman read, "It's only when a woman surrenders her life to her husband, reveres and worships him and is willing to serve him, that she becomes really beautiful to him."

Sounds like an ad for Henry VIII's next wife.

But that's just my opinion. For hundreds of thousands of women, it was an epiphany. They bought the book and attended the seminars. Feminists tried to raise an angry fist, but it was wrapped up neatly in plastic and declared leftovers.

Today, we have Lean In, written by a woman who is unapologetically successful, aggressive and wealthy. She is attractive, confident and everything so many women accept in a man but won't forgive in another female.

The woman who moves up the corporate ladder is often seen as a traitor, someone who steps on other women to get there. And, sometimes, that is absolutely true.

When there is a bottle-neck at the top, those who are oppressed fight each other for the few spots that might be available. I have seen throw-downs over corporate positions, where every woman took out another woman until there were no women left.

The corporation was created by men, for men. There is gamesmanship involved, and we haven't always known exactly what the game entails.

Sheryl Sandberg encourages women to speak up, have confidence and be aggressive enough to shine in this environment. That makes sense to me.

Quite frankly, I'm just thrilled to have literature for women that doesn't have the name Nicholas Sparks attached to it.

I'm also confused as to why this book has offended so many, when our language and movies and television shows have been knocking women down for years.

I just watched a trailer for the upcoming Kick Ass 2 movie, where the young female star kicks the ass of one of the males she is training. Her comment to him as he lay writhing on the floor?

"Oh, take your tampon out, Dave."

Hopefully, that's a retort to an earlier slam. But, too often, the feminine equals wussy, pathetic and weak. Maybe it's time to turn that around, not by acting male, but by winning at the game they've created.

Yes, I've been in meetings where women have had more knowledge on a particular topic than the men, yet failed to make their point because they kept raising their hands for permission to speak.

I've listened to female executives start sentences with, "I know this probably isn't a great point, but..." or "This might sound silly, but..." Way to sell it, Indira.

I've watched a female COO run around stapling PowerPoint decks rather than join in on a critical conversation about processes within the company. When I advised her to sit at the table, she said, "As soon as I get the lunches." Then she raced the woman in charge of lunches to the cafeteria.

I've watched intelligent women giggle like geishas in a meeting in which they needed to be taken seriously. When they would share their thoughts, it was with so many disclaimers and apologies that the thoughts were forgotten before they began.

I've heard women make important declarations in a voice that only dogs can hear.

On the flip side, I've also worked with amazing, strong, secure female leaders who rocked their companies and made my job as a consultant much easier.

I don't think Sheryl Sandberg is telling women to be men, unless by men, you mean successful leaders. I think she is facing a difficult truth, determined to prevail. When only 4.2 percent of Fortune 500 CEO positions are female, we need to do something differently.

Will we become men if we adhere to their militaristic, corporate rules? No. I thoroughly enjoyed most of my corporate years and was fairly successful. Of course I also hate to cook, and love football, and hate to shop, and love to play sports. Uh-oh.

But here's the bottom line: If you want to change a culture, you must first adhere to the rules in place. That doesn't mean you become someone you aren't. That means you become a leader who can change things from an inside position of power.

I say thanks to Sheryl Sandberg for allowing us to discuss our potential power rather than weight-loss or face-lifts.

Thank you for having the courage to be unpopular. That is the sign of a true change warrior.

Most of all, thank you for leaving Saran Wrap® out of the equation.

I don't want to be a part of a world where women have to wrap themselves like meat for any reason, but I support those of you who choose to do so.

Women won't move up until they believe they deserve it. And, as women, I think we undervalue our intelligence and our power.

I believe we can agree to disagree on certain topics, but still lean in and become total leaders... without the wrap.

The Menopausal Shining

2013-03-12T06:32:10-04:00

When I was 15 years old, I saw the movie Rocky 12 times because I felt that I WAS Rocky Balboa.

I was often the smallest in my class or the newest student in school or the consultant in a predominantly male environment. I've always been Rocky, taking on the biggest opponent and thriving for yet another day.

Yes, I even considered becoming a boxer but decided I couldn't take the repeated blows to the head, mostly due to the fact that I'd already had five concussions on my own. Plus, I could never drink a glass filled with raw eggs.

Now that I'm in my 50s and experiencing menopause, I'm going to have to leave Rocky for the movie which best describes who I am today -- The Shining.

My late 40s were filled with hope and plans for my next decade. I was ready to be Gloria Steinem, holding my arms out and saying, "This is what 50 looks like." Instead, I became Jack Torrance, the writer, sitting in front of my computer at the Overlook Hotel.

My youth stood like those two creepy girls at the end of the hallway, mocking me. And every time I tried to reach out to them with new make-up, a new hairstyle or a pair of Spanx, the hallway grew longer and longer and longer. My youth was now unreachable, the only option being plastic surgery that would only provide the look of youth. Not the real thing.

I remember the day I realized that I actually couldn't turn back time and that I would have to accept myself as I was. It was a good day. My mood was positive, my future seemed bright, and I looked in the mirror and smiled.

The next night was a sleepless one. I would fall asleep for 30 minutes only to be awakened by a hot flash. Then I would fall asleep again only to be awakened by another hot flash. I got up and stumbled into the bathroom around 4 a.m. and noticed my lipstick was on the counter. I looked into the mirror and saw it. Redrum.

The next morning I told my husband to jump on the Halloran and try to escape the house just like the mother and son did in The Shining. He mentioned that we didn't have a Halloran and that maybe I should just try to take a nap. My mood improved for a while.

I sat in a meeting a week later and prepared for my presentation. Right in the middle of the essence of my pitch, I completely lost my point. Like the ghosts in the Overlook Hotel, the idea faded away and left me with an eerie feeling.

The point finally returned to me five hours later while I was on the phone with my mother. As she told me about her day, I suddenly yelled out, "We need to capitalize on human behavior! That was my point!" My mother grew silent, and I suspect a little afraid.

Redrum.

The haunting followed me into a variety of conversations. The other day I met a friend for breakfast and completely lost it. The interaction sounded something like this:

"Good morning, Donna, how are you?"

"I am doing great. What about you?"

"I'm doing great as well."

"Well, then we're both awesome. Let's order breakfast!"

[Laughter ensues as Donna tries to pull her phone out of her purse and knocks it off the chair. Her lipstick rolls under a table.]

"Oh my God, are you kidding me? I can't do ANYTHING right anymore!!"

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Donna, let me get it for you."

"NO! Just leave it there. I hate it anyway. The color makes me look like Elvira. Plus the end of it is smashed because I wrote on my bathroom mirror with it the other night. Screw it."

Redrum.

I went home that afternoon and sat at my keyboard, in my office, all alone. I typed furiously, and then read my words. Over and over and over again I had typed, "All menopause and no energy makes Donna a dull girl."

And, yes, my house is built in an area where the Pamunkey Indians were slaughtered. Seriously.

Redrum.

I have my good days, when everything feels new and fresh again. But then something catastrophic happens like I drop my pen, or there are no paper towels, or someone pulls in front of me in traffic and goes really, really slow. And I feel it happening.

Redrum.

I hope I don't leave this earth while still menopausal. If so, I can envision me approaching heaven's door with a fire ax, poking my head through the splintered wood and declaring, "Heeeeere's Donna!"

Little by little I'm feeling my Redrum moments diminishing. Moods are more often light than dark, and I am liking the way I look. I can feel Jack Torrance losing out to Rocky Balboa. Give me a little time, and before I know it I will be standing with a fire ax held high over my head, jumping up and down.

I will let the world know that I took on the Overlook Hotel called menopause and came out victorious.

Then I will stop jumping and wonder why in the heck I was at the top of the stairs. I will turn down the thermostat and carry on. Because that's how life goes.

Earlier on Huff/Post50:

Nip Slips And Other World Concerns

2013-03-04T07:36:47-05:00

I don't understand America's obsession with nipples. Anne Hathaway, winner of the Oscar for Actress in a Supporting Role, gave the performance of a lifetime in Les Misérables. You would think the next day's headline would be about her incredible talent. Instead, the headline is about how her nipples showed in her dress. Seriously.

She wore a dress whose darts came in to the point of her nipples. Yes, it made her nipples seem more pronounced. Yes, they stuck out a little more. But, what are we, 8-years-old? They are NIPPLES. Every human being is born with them, and women's actually serve a purpose. My best friend in 3rd grade said that women's nipples gave milk while men's gave Coca-Cola. I thought that was nifty, and we talked about nipples quite often. But we were in elementary school.

If we're not talking about nipples, then we're talking about side boobs or nip-slips. The Internet is filled with graphic porn, we are reading "Fifty Shades of Grey," and tops made of leather and metal that make Madonna look like Heidi are sold in a wide majority of dress shops. And yet, the sight of J Lo's nip-slip sends everybody into conniptions.

Yes, as polar bears are trying to swim to Canada so they can cool off, and the threat of nuclear war looms over us, I am most concerned about the performer who is showing her nipple.

Actresses who have starved and learned and sacrificed everything to follow their passion are relegated to comments that my friend in elementary school, Patrick McDonald, made about girls. I remember the day I got my pin for reading 25 books when he yelled out, "Hey, Donna, do you have on a training bra?" The class laughed, and my moment of victory was over.

The same thing happened to me in middle school after a teacher had acknowledged me for having the best grade on a test. That's when another guy named Patrick snapped my AA bra strap in class. As the pop rang through the tiled room, he said, "What size bra do you wear?" The whole class looked at me. I turned around and said, "I don't know Patrick, what size jock strap do YOU wear?"

The intent of exposing the exposed nipple has not varied. The Patricks wanted all eyes on them, and they wanted to embarrass the girl who was getting too much attention for her accomplishments.

Breast-watching is a way to throw a bone away from the dogs and say, "You think Anne Hathaway is talented? Look over there. Look at her nipples. Talk about those instead of her talent and power."

I don't blame men for this, by the way. We are all a party to it when we study pictures of powerful women to see if we can see the hint of a nipple. I've done it.

Maybe we can turn this nipple thing around. First, why the obsession? I believe that it's because nipples are one of the few body parts not exposed on a regular basis. It's like girls panties when you're a kid -- boys couldn't see them, so they had one goal in life... to see a pair of those panties.

Perhaps all women should start covering up their wrists. We will all start wearing thick black wrist bands so nobody can see the seductive little bone that sticks out at the base of our hands.

After a while headlines would read, "Anne Hathaway has Wrist-Slip!" And there would be an accompanying, close-up picture of a tiny piece of that wrist bone slipping out from below her wrist band.

Perhaps we film a woman using a breast pump and put it on YouTube. That visual should cure most people.

Or we could just take the Amazon approach and use it to our advantage. There are several stories about the Amazon women warriors. One says they exposed one breast while fighting as a diversion so, while the male soldier was staring at their breast, they could drive a knife through his heart. Other stories say that they cut off their right breast because it got in the way of their archery.

Whatever the case, they used the breast as a source of power.

The next time Congress decides it's going to play the usual political games and block everything that will help we, the people, let's send in some beautiful women who have one breast exposed. On that breast will be the words, "Pass the bill if you want to see the other one." I promise there would be a record number of bills passed.

The breast sustains life. It feeds babies, attracts lovers and is used to sell everything from bras to automobiles. We just need to regain power over how it is used. I, personally, would like to write the following note:

Dear Anne Hathaway:

I think your performance in Les Misérables was incredibly powerful. You have immense talent, and it is an honor to watch you on the screen. It is obvious that you work incredibly hard on your craft, and I could care less about your nipples poking out of your dress. Respectfully, Donna

Personally, I loved Seth MacFarlane's piece on "I Saw Your Boobs." It was satire, addressing this very topic. Some people took it seriously. I thought it was brilliant.

For the rest of you, if you want to stay focused on the nipple, then go ahead. But watch out for the sword that might pierce your chest while you drool.

Earlier on Huff/Post50:

A Theme Park For Baby Boomers

2013-02-23T07:29:27-05:00

I remember my grandmother taking us to the local carnival when I was 6-years-old.

The rides were typical - - a children's Ferris wheel, the Scrambler, and a tiny roller coaster. The shopping center parking lot smelled like grease, sweat and cotton candy. The people running the rides were the only people in America with tattoos.

As we passed by the tent housing the bearded lady, a carnival barker would urge us to come inside and take a look. Now I realize that without the miracle of threading and laser hair-removal, I could be that bearded lady.

Carnivals have matured into theme parks and water parks and zombie parks. The need for entertainment and escape is on the rise. And since baby boomers make up 25 percent of the population, I think it's about time we had our own Baby Boomer Adventure Park.

Instead of the sign "You have to be this tall to ride," the sign would read, "You must be 50 or older to enter." The rides would be fast but gentle enough not to send our backs into spasms. And if our knees started to wear off we would stop by the Hot Rod Scooter Tent where we could pick up a scooter with the body of a T-Bird for the rest of the day.

Bathrooms would be available every 100-200 feet, and women would have three times the number of stalls. The mirrors in the bathroom would have soft lighting, and we would be allowed to write messages on the walls such as, "For a good time call . . . " and then write the name of a lifelong antagonist.

Everyone would be required to get leg tattoos to help those of us with broken veins to feel at home in the park. The bluer the leg, the higher the tattoo rating.

As we walk through the park, music would play that speaks to our generation. We'd enter the park to "Walk this Way" by Aerosmith, and roller coasters would play Iron Butterfly's "In-a-Gadda-da-Vida." The 4-D show would be a Beatles concert, and we would be able to feel Paul's breath on our faces and the heat off our Bic as we held it in the air for an encore. Most importantly, we would be allowed to scream like maniacs.

Included in the adventure would be the Hot Flash Water Park. While the women visited this part of the theme park, husbands would be taken to a Spousal Survival Workshop on how to handle menopausal women.

They would sit in massage chairs and be given Xanax at the start of the seminar, and the small tables beside them would offer magnifying glasses and headphones.

In the meantime, the wives would enter the Cool-Down Condo, a place where cold spritzes of water spray their faces and small fans are available at every table. They would be provided dri-weave shirts, and dryer hoods that provide air conditioning instead of heat.

The next stop would be Makeover Haven, where hair would be washed by a young man who would say things like, "I am so attracted to women with thinning hair." Sweat-proof make-up would be applied, and the young make-up artist would constantly repeat, "You don't even need this -- you are a natural beauty."

Next, the women would enter the Mood Hut, where every single menopausal mood would be matched by a virtual spouse who knew exactly what to say. In the hut, you wouldn't hear a conversation such as:

Wife: Why is the traffic at a dead stop? We're never going to get to lunch on time.

Husband: Of course we are, just take a deep breath and enjoy our time today.

Wife: [Having a hot flash] Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize this was Norman Vincent Peale day. I guess I should be happy and positive all the time. I'm sure this makes you better than me.

Husband: No, honey, I just thought you might need to calm down.

Wife: Really? Calm down and be a good little girl? You going to send me to time out? How condescending.

Husband: You told me not to speak when this happens, so I'm going to be quiet.

Wife: When THIS happens? And what exactly is THIS? --- Hey, traffic is moving again. We'll make lunch. [Wife smiles] This is great! I'm so glad you're coming with me today.

Husband: [Total Silence]

In the Mood Hut, women could learn how to turn their conversational scars into stars with a replacement spouse. The improved conversation would sound something like this:

Wife: Why is the traffic at a dead stop? We're never going to get to lunch on time.

Husband: I know it! This is ridiculous. What the hell?

Wife: [Having a hot flash] Unbelievable. [Flips off the person behind them who honks]

Husband: Well, he totally deserved that. Let me turn on the air-conditioning for you. I don't know how you get through this. You are amazing.

Wife: Menopause. Hot flashes. Weight gain. It's all so unfair.

Husband: Yes it is. You're more beautiful than ever, but after all of your sacrifices, you deserve more.

Wife: Hey, traffic is moving again. We'll make lunch. [Wife smiles] This is great! I'm so glad you're coming with me today.

Husband: Me too!

After leaving the Mood Hut, women would be able to go to the Menopausal Massage Tent where Sven, a tall drink of water, would work out menopausal kinks. The husbands, on the other hand, would be in their own steam room that would be turned up extra high so they could appreciate what a hot flash feels like.

Men might have their own theme park suggestions, but the fact is that baby boomers make up approximately 25 percent of the population, and fund a vast majority of all purchases. So, if we want our own theme park, I think we can make it happen.

And the employees would all be 35 and under. In this park, our children can serve us for a change.

Earlier on Huff/Post50:

What I Learned From Mean Girls And Tulip Pants

2013-02-19T13:47:12-05:00

I'll never forget the year my family moved from Southern to Northern California. My dad was a preacher and we didn't have much money, but my parents made sure we attended the best schools.

My first day at the new school, I wore my coolest pair of pants. They were white Levi's with bright yellow, orange and green tulips. Looking back, I don't think I had a good handle on what was cool, even then.

I desired a quiet entrance, so my mother dropped me off at the front door. As she drove away our Hornet AMC wagon backfired, causing a dozen people to turn and stare at me. Add a few more cool points.

I walked up the stairs with my heart pounding. I tried to remember the combination to my locker as I ran my teeth over metal braces that invaded my mouth, giving me an industrial look.

One of the wires had come loose, digging into the side of my cheek. I wadded up some wax the orthodontist had provided.

As I pressed the white wax over the offending wire, I felt the sharp tip of my bicuspid. Both of them were hanging halfway out of my gums, causing me to resemble a vampire. Today, I would have been that mysterious new vampire chick, but not in 1972.

As I walked down the hallway in my tulip pants, I tried to swing my hips a little, in that awkward way 13-year-old girls do the first time they realize boys are watching them. A boy in the hall stopped me.

"Are you hurt or something?" he asked.

"No!" I giggled, sure that he was flirting.

"Oh, it looked like you were limping," he said with a shrug, passing me by without another word.

So much for sashaying.

My homeroom was located in the science class, which meant we sat at tall counters in front of Bunsen burners. I couldn't hide there. The smell of formaldehyde hit my nostrils, and I grew ill as I walked slowly to the one seat that was available near a group of really pretty girls.

One of the girls in a cheerleader uniform said, "Nice blush!" and they all burst out laughing. I realized when I looked in the mirror after class that I had used my mom's blush that morning and had over-applied. That's the last time I would use Raggedy Ann as a make-up model.

At lunchtime I stood with my tray in hand, trying to find a place to sit. I noticed the girls from homeroom, and they seemed to be calling me over. As I approached their table, I asked if I could sit next to them.

"No, we're saving these seats," they replied. I had a sudden desire to use one of those Bunsen burners.

I noticed the plethora of open seats at the table and wanted to ask if they were saving all twenty-seven. Instead, I kept my cool and my cookie and threw the rest of my lunch out. A cookie allowed me to walk around the hallway without having to sit. I believe this started my love of all things sweet.

I walked to my English class following lunch, and noticed a young girl with a tremendous Afro holding an accordion. She looked at my pants and said, "Tulips? Really?"

My face got red and she smiled, saying, "Hey, I'm kidding. I'm standing here with an accordion. Do you really think I'm popular?"

We both laughed and started a friendship that lasted until my family moved a few years later. Our circle of friends soon included James, a gay young man who endured constant bullying, and Flavia, who was mocked because her bushy eyebrows rivaled Khrushchev.

For a brief time in our lives we came together in an awkward, gangly intersection of support. We were still teased, but it hurt a lot less because we could walk away and laugh together.

Maybe we weren't sure why we were laughing then, but I know now.

Now I know that those girls were cruel because they were afraid that gawkiness was contagious. They were afraid of being judged by the same girls who were afraid of being judged by somebody else.

I know now that most of those girls probably peaked in junior high school. While that's nothing to delight in, I think we might have appreciated that knowledge -- just a little -- on the days they knocked James' books out of his hands.

I know now that bullying is not a reflection of strength but of cowardice. Whether a person bullies in the school hallway or by leaving anonymous comments on the Internet, it doesn't matter. Tearing others down is the only way they can feel tall.

If I could meet those junior high school bullies today, I would let them know that Tracy became a neurosurgeon who still plays the accordion. And Flavia plucked her eyebrows and became a spectacularly beautiful woman. The last thing I remember James doing was tumbling down the stairs at school, but I have no doubt he turned his ability to make our group laugh into a career.

Finally, I would share the best news of all -- that no matter how cruel people can be, their behavior is ultimately their burden to bear. Like the Wizard to the Lion, I would want to give them courage so they could stop bullying others.

I would gently put their medal around their necks, and hand them a bouquet of brightly colored tulips.

Earlier on Huff/Post50:

5 Reasons I Am Not Waiting To Godot On A Diet

2013-02-13T06:33:24-05:00

If I ever meet Twiggy on the street I will smile and then slap the hell out of her. Until she came along women like Marilyn Monroe rocked size 12 pants, and voluptuousness was a virtue, not a sin.

Granted, the roll around my stomach might not be particularly voluptuous, but it has been nobly earned. I carried two additional human beings in there and am now in active menopause. Loss of estrogen causes the magnificent middle.

Or maybe my body thinks I'm drowning from the sweat created by hot flashes and has instinctively built an inner tube so I can survive.

Like Vladimir and Estragon in Beckett's play, "Waiting for Godot," I have waited endlessly for the arrival of the perfect body. Like Godot, it has never shown up.

The irony is that when I look at pictures of me in my 20s and 30s, I realize that I had an excellent figure. The thing that kept me from seeing it was the barrage of messages that told women we were never pretty enough, never thin enough and never ripped enough.

I observe so many women in my age group who are mostly muscle and bone and apparently don't eat for weeks at a time. I have a desperate need to take them out for a burger and fries.

The wisdom that comes with being in my 50s, as well as my menopausal, maniacal impatience, have come together in the form of acceptance. Finally, I admit that I'm tired of waiting for my perfect body. Why? Because:

• I've spent 35 years waiting to buy that new wardrobe as soon as I lose 10 lbs. I'm down to four shirts and three pairs of pants. It's time to buy.

• I believe my body is fine just the way it is. It gets me around. It can do hot yoga for 90 minutes. It can fall down deck stairs without breaking a bone. And two humans exist because of the cells this body gave them.

• My husband says most men like to have a little weight on their women. Of course they want 80 percent of the weight to be located in the boobs, but I believe him. I choose not to have breast implants, but if I pull my back fat forward I can create some tremendous cleavage.

• Fashion designers who want to save money on material and be supplied with human hangers for the runway have promulgated the goal of being ridiculously skinny. They will not be allowed to impact my self-esteem so their lives can be easier.

• Too many women I know are terrified that they won't attract a man if they gain a few pounds. If I have to choose between eating popcorn or having a man give me a once-over, I'm going for the popcorn every time. A glance takes two seconds, but popcorn can last through an entire movie.

In the second act of "Waiting for Godot," Vladmir and Estragon have a series of scenes in which they try on articles of clothing that do not seem to fit, causing them to be frustrated as they wait for the mysterious Godot.

I've had the same experience in dressing rooms across this nation. I leave the house determined to buy a new outfit, but once I enter the silent, dingy dressing room my heart begins to pound. I step into the stall, trying to forget that fact that it's called a stall, and avoid the full-length mirror, which suddenly becomes the bully on the playground as I refuse to make eye contact.

I take off the least amount of clothing possible, but inevitably lose my balance and have to look up. The cruel fluorescent lights expose every flaw on my body, including the appendix scar remaining from my third grade appendectomy. My appendix burst, and they had to cut a much wider scar than normal. At 8 years old, that was cool. At 52 years old, it looks a little like a deep cut on a rotting grapefruit.

My dressing room experience inevitably causes me to slam the clothes down and find the closest Cinnabon. Like Vladmir and Estragon, I leave the dressing room without a new direction. Instead, I sit on a bench and wonder when that perfect body will arrive.

The last scene in "Waiting for Godot," shows Vladmir and Estragon still waiting. Finally, they agree to leave but neither of them makes any move to go.

I'm not waiting for the Godot body any longer, because it is here and it has housed me beautifully for 52 years.

In fact, I am taking this body out on a date, and I will buy it an entire wardrobe, at its perfect, 52-year-old size. While trying on clothes, we are going to make eye-contact with mirrors and celebrate the appendectomy scar that evidences a battle won.

I'll celebrate this amazing machine that survived five concussions and two babies and several bouts with mononucleosis and more flu than any one body should ever have to handle.

And then I will treat it to a Cinnabon dessert. And we will journey on together, until death do us part.

Earlier on Huff/Post50:

Why Your Sex Life Should Not Be on the Lunch Menu

2013-02-08T06:38:22-05:00

I have always craved an Algonquin table of my own, a place where a group of people can get together and be freaking hilarious. I want to be Dorothy Parker without the bad ending. However, I would have one rule about my table once food is delivered -- my guests can't talk about sex.

It's not that I have an issue with sex, I think it's the best carnival ride provided in our physical amusement park. However, I do find it to be an awkward topic for table discussions.

Growing up, our dinner table was the forum for sharing stories. It was a place where we came together and had one another's full attention. We started each meal by holding hands and praying. Sometimes we sang the Doxology, but mom would frequently start laughing in the middle of it and that was that. Once we had spoken to God, it was time to take turns sharing the funniest, most captivating stories we could recall.

During my adult years, I've continued to value the conversations and stories shared over breakfast, lunch and dinner. But recently, the meal topics seem to be shifting in a direction that impacts my ability to eat.

I'm not sure if 50 Shades of Gray is responsible for blowing open the doors of sexual conversation, but lately I have either been a part of or overheard other women talking in restaurants about very specific, sexual moments.

I'm sorry, but when I'm trying to eat my bowl of clam chowder I don't want to hear about the killer orgasm that you experienced right before coming to meet me.

As I'm buttering my bread, I don't want to know about your Brazilian wax job.

And as my phone vibrates with a call, I don't want to hear a list of the best vibrators on the market or exactly how each is best used. And, no, I never attended one of those banana parties. I find the physical components of sex to be pretty simple; it's not rocket science.

I guess I simply don't want sex to be discussed during a meal. I only want to talk about one orifice at lunch, and that is the mouth because it plays an important role while eating.

If you are compelled to share your sexual stories, then at least make it humorous so I can get beyond the visuals in my head. Tell me about the time you hit the horn while having sex in the car, or the time your husband rolled out of bed, or the time a mother-in-law walked in on you.

I'm sure women's ability to talk about sex in the open is liberating, offering us a way to say, "See, we can be as obsessed about this as men." So, kudos to all of you who are discovering your sexuality in new, descriptive ways. Just don't be surprised if your conversation with me is a little awkward.

"So, how are you doing today?"

"Well, Donna, I used my new vibrator this morning and had the best orgasm of my life."

"Really? OK. Could you pass the salt?"

I don't know how to respond to a declaration like this. Am I supposed to applaud? Provide a wolf whistle? Ask if you are now seriously dating your vibrator? Congratulate you? Say, "You go, girl?" Purchase the same vibrator and follow-up at the next meal with my experience?

What I usually do is look around the room to see who is listening. Because, quite frankly, I don't remember ever hearing a man in a restaurant say, "Hey, guess what? I masturbated this morning in the shower and it was awesome."

So, my Algonquin table group wouldn't be allowed to talk about intimate moments because I find it to be a little awkward and unappetizing.

If I were Dorothy Parker, here is the poem I would write about providing sexual details:

Ode to an Orgasm
I would love to hear how you're doing,
To meet you for a meal,
Just know that when I'm chewing,
Exclude what makes you squeal.

That's it. I simply can't carry on a conversation at lunch that involves the mention of private parts. I realize that animals do it. Birds and bees do it. But I bet that they don't talk about it at mealtime.

I love sex. I love the entire experience, but I'm a highly visual person. If you're talking about your husband's penis, my hot dog will lose its appeal. If you begin talking about your dry vagina, I'll find myself adding extra calories and dressing to my salad.

So, if you come to my Algonquin table, please table the sex talk and all discussions about anything below the waist. That includes foot fungus.

Thank you.

Earlier on Huff/Post50: