I'm going to share some stories of my embrace, or struggles to embrace, this stage of life. We will find a way together to be happy and more fulfilled. Or at least to realize that there's not a damn thing we can do about it, so we might as well get happy and more fulfilled!
My husband may not whisk me off to another country where he wants to scale the side of a mountain and then slowly repel down so we can bond over our fear of heights, but he does work hard, remember to give the dog her pills and calls me on his way home from work.
When I was younger, I used to love ripping off my shirt for a new lover. My torso has always been my best feature, and my breasts were near-perfect. Insecure about who I was, and sure I wasn't good enough, I put far too high a premium on the response my body, and especially my breasts, elicited.
"Tell me about your girlfriends," I ask the man I've been seeing for the last few months, my bare leg sprawled over his, my fingers grazing the graying hair of his chest. He holds me closer and begins to talk.
I am 45 days away from my 45th birthday party, and I weigh more than I have in my entire life. This is a heavy subject for me, and I know I need to fight the battle of the bulge -- but winning this fight means losing, and losing -- as we know -- is not so easy to do.
Although the novel is perfect for women 40 and over in the dating pool, The Last Place She'd Look is filled with humor, insight, pain, defeat and sex that will be familiar and appealing to anyone who is in, has ever been in, or would like to be in the world of dating.
If you're lucky enough to live long enough, here's what happens. You lose ten pounds. Nobody notices. You get a new outfit or a new hairstyle, you switch from caramel highlights to deep russet. Nobody says a word.
I didn't get this way overnight you know. Turning into a late-40s goddess takes time and dedication. A willingness to forgo exercise for vanilla scones and a Venti mocha. The guts to leave the lip gloss at home when grocery shopping.
I have recently discovered that I am not the only post-50-year-old woman who recently began to embark on a new level of professional success once I focused primarily on my own needs, rather than the needs of others.
I want to be that person for whom this looming event has no meaning. I met someone like that yesterday, but instead of absorbing her wisdom, all I could think was that she was a big, fat (tall, skinny) liar in very high-end gym clothes. I almost hissed.
As she chokes down a sip of her drink, she notices that a man sitting at a table catty-corner from the bar is gazing at her. Intently. She smiles, then looks away, pretending to enjoy her swill. When she next glances in his direction, his eyes are still fixed upon her.
I get confused on Mother's Day. My first instinct is to be there for my Mom. A close second, if not a full tie, is that I want to be with my kids. Do I want to be the mother or the motheree? Whose day is it really?