In reality, even with 19 and a half hours, getting anything done on the boat other than eating, drinking, peeing, sleeping, is not easy. Maybe it's the rocking. Maybe it's the birds, the clouds, the soft crests of the sea. Maybe because it is so very easy to sit and look out at the ocean and completely space out.
My eyebrows need a good tweezing, my hair is a tangled mess of curls, and I haven't even thought about makeup. I've been wearing the same shorts for the past four days. I haven't been to the gym. Every morning I wake up in a big, overwhelming fog. And I haven't been reading. Sound like a case of depression? I understand if it does.
In front of us, piled on a highly glossed wooden table, was an assortment of keys, lipsticks, mascaras, and hand creams. There was one tube of foot cream, two bottles of Advil, one bottle of Excedrin, and assorted prescription drugs. There were tea bags, nail files, perfume, hair brushes, make up, one extra large bobby pin, a dozen hair elastics, pens, and several bottles of hand lotion.
At 50-something, my hair still seems to be the bane of my existence, and I know I am not alone. Hair seems is big topic of conversation amongst women of all races, ethnicity, and age. But at midlife, there is a big part of me that wants to look in the mirror and say to my hair, 'enough about you already!'
A really good friend of mine, a well-respected lawyer, in his late fifties, was late for his daughter's swim meet. Tense and a little bit lost, he realized he was heading in the wrong direction, so he pulled into a parking lot to turn the car around. As he drove out into traffic, he cut off another driver.
I think I have a problem with my husband. He is health conscious and fit and he has will power. Wouldn't that be enough to make you nuts when you don't? I am addicted to ice cream, chocolate and jelly beans. He can pass up dessert and skip dinner. With shoulder surgery this winter, he has been particularly conscientious about what he puts in his mouth.
I was getting dressed in the locker room at my gym last week when I overheard a conversation between two ladies about the tough cardio class we had all just barely survived. One lady was in her bra and panties, the other naked, but for a towel. I looked over at them, about to commiserate on the ass-kicking, when I realized the woman in the towel looked familiar.