Tale Tues: Midlife Crisis With Breast Cups

Midlife crisis?

Well let’s see. I know this much: something happens when this perimenopausal, possibly already meno, mother goes away.

Rather, when I abandon the house to all the family testosterones, both big and small, for a weekend.

Even when I leave copious stickies for Daddy stuck to kitchen counter; about meals, lunch, usually mac n cheese (he can sweat at the idea of grilling an actual cheese sandwich, let alone following directions on a box); notes clipped to clothes for what to where what day. Matched balled socks.

Still, no matter how many stickies are stuck, I am plagued by text messages. When I was away for the BlogHer Voices of the Year Conference, they were texts like: “Boys finished the mac n cheese. Big Bro is still hungry. What can I give him?”

I was another person getting off that plane in Chicago. Rather, the person I was before birthing adorable babies that are growing into adorable little young men who run to Daddy to play football, and to me when they think they have diarea and need me to inspect the toilet. When Little Bro can’t find his magic wand because magical Mommy magically is supposed to know where every damn little lost item is.

Back to being on a plane to somewhere which could have been nowhere and I still would have been happy: When I turned back on my cell on landing, to Daddy’s mac n cheese text, I didn’t text back the obvious of opening fridge and finding more food to feed still-hungry children.

I didn’t text because I was wearing a brand new outfit I’d actually bought in the junior section; all right, not quite the juniors’, when I’d then have to buy matching friendship bracelets, but not quite the Women’s section either. Point is, sandwich-mom stress makes you lose 20 pounds, and, in slim pants, slimmer sandals, a rather shear cami, I was looking a good ten years younger at least – I looked hot and good and I knew it. Hot-looking women don’t text about mac n cheese.

And hot women are as annoyed as I was, that out of 100-plus seats on the whole damn plane, I had to be seated next to an actual mother, with a high-pitched preschooler in a spiderman mask.

And I behaved just as those non-mac-n-cheese-texting hot ladies do, who just want to read their Kindle or play Bejewels – openly irritated by the kid’s repetitive nonsensical questions at 50,000 feet, such as “Why can’t I open the plane window?” and his mother’s sickeningly reasonable answer of “Because there’s no oxygen in the clouds.”

“There is oxygen. We’re in the air.”

Amazing how moms can be so simply made to sound so stupid. Wearily she asked her spiderman son to draw her a flower on the back of a vomit bag.

Where was I. Oh yes, about the woman I was, getting off that plane in another world away from mine, Chicago! To go to this BlogHer conference. To lose myself in a sea of 4000-plus women who were nothing like me, but I could pretend I was like them, because I’d actually blown-dried my hair. Where I pretended to be as excited as the other women by  this BlogHer gift:

breasts
Yes!  A package of plastic breast cups so you can perfectly measure your cup size. Brilliant! (I actually thought they’d be more brilliant as serving dishes, the smallest for olives, next largest for cocktail shrimp. The largest would fit more than one wedge of cheese.)

Speaking of BlogHer loot, the post I never got to, we also got this:

fakenails

Fake nails! I’m sure I would glue them on crooked and upside down and not even know it.

And this:

breath

I don’t think much about my breath as most days there’s no one around  except the dog and his own breath stinks. But I wonder: would I like even the dog smelling like pink grapefruit mint?

I  kind of miss that someone else I got to be for a weekend. The one who didn’t have to have all the answers as to why the front lawn was sinking above the cesspool. How the hell should I know? I miss not having to bark at my kids to get off the computer, and bark at the barking dog to stop barking. I miss not having to notice front porch cobwebs so embedded now with desiccated victims, they are mass insect graves.

Because when I come home from being away,  I come home to this:

pots

as if these pots and pans have no home in cabinets.

… And to what was, on my departurea clean kitchen counter except for sticky notes:

tablemess

Now what do we have here. Rotting fruit; Little Bro’s egg-in-bag trick that later he will ask where is my egg-in bag trick; an unopened mac-n-cheese box; the rest you can decipher, or undecipher, for yourself.

Which leaves me feeling a whole lot less “hot” than hot-headed, and more like this:

hair

Yes, something else from the boys’ week of robotic’s science camp. And my hair when not blown-dried.

So this weekend, I get to go away again. This time, to my mother’s, to face a flea-infested house that needs to be flea bombed, and to catch her uncatchable cats for flea baths. I won’t be wearing my  hot little junior-like outfits.

And when I think about how much I want to get back on that plane (considering how much flying scares the scariest scarecrows out of me, the sound of the landing gear like the engine dropping out) I wonder if I’m in midlife crisis.

I wonder if getting new clothes, looking “hot” (yes now, downgraded to quotation marks) was the worst thing I could have done as a 50ish mother.  A mom who just as well could have been that mom on the plane (who thankfully finally plugged in her spiderman seat-kicking preschooler into an iPad).

Because ever since, my favorite pastime has become walking the dog, plugged into Pandora, listening to George Michael’s “I Want Your Sex,” feeling 20-something again.

But not wanting to feel as young again as in the 70s,  junior high, to crave the once-craved Farrah Fawcett hair-cut that was always perfectly blown-dried. Because please, Elton John. Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on Me.

 

P.S.  Want to learn about sonic blasting defense moth genitals? Don’t miss it in my latest issue of The Woven Tale Press, an eclectic culling of the best of the blogging web:

woventalwcover#5a

 

 

 

 


About Sandra

Author;editor of The Woven Tale Press at thewoventalepress.net; mother; weaver
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16 Responses to Tale Tues: Midlife Crisis With Breast Cups

  1. You certainly have your plate and hands full, Sandra! But, you write about it with such humor and grace.
    Enjoyed this so much!
    Blessings!

  2. This entire piece was priceless – But this line was laugh out loud: “Hot-looking women don’t text about mac n cheese.” Loved!

  3. steph says:

    I’m with Kelly – that line about texting mac n cheese – the very best of the best! Great, great post! What about “hot” flashes? In your capable hands I bet that future post will be every bit as entertaining and insightful.

  4. Glen says:

    Sandra, I just love you. I find myself feeling guilty about laughing so much at your expense. And, of course, it isn’t personal at all, but your approach just hits the right laughing nerves. I bet you looked hot too.

    Glen

    • Sandra says:

      Don’t feel guilty about laughing; I laugh at myself it keeps me sane. And I DID look hot; sadly in front of 4000 plus women. Too bad I’m not gay I guess….

  5. Amy Morgan says:

    An unopened box of mac and cheese? I am wondering what he fed the kids that he “thought” was mac and cheese? 🙂 thanks for laugh.

  6. Hilary says:

    Hi Sandy .. all I can say is .. men! Just hope the weekend away made up for the mess on your return .. and that the BlogHer was great fun ..

    Excellent that you were able to get some new clothes though .. smaller size even ..

    Enjoy the memories and the laughter .. cheers Hilary

  7. Anna says:

    Sandra,
    I love your writing! And I totally agree that the line “Hot-looking women don’t text about mac n cheese” was laugh out loud funny!

  8. Linda says:

    Great post, Sandra!

    What is so hard about keeping the kitchen counter clean! Ugh!

    Yes, I am the “queen of finding all” in this house. I know exactly where everything is. Exactly.

    Thanks for the laughs. 😀

  9. (I actually thought they’d be more brilliant as serving dishes, the smallest for olives, next largest for cocktail shrimp. The largest would fit more than one wedge of cheese.)

    Yep. I pretty much lost it. 🙂

    • Sandra says:

      I actually lost the cups, Gary. Well, not lost but left most behind in the hotel room since I had no room to pack them. I kept the three smallest that might, well, possibly fit. You know, the one that would fit olives. or shrimp. raisins.

  10. BlogHer just wasn’t long enough. I’d like to get back on that plane… er, train… myself.

  11. Brenda says:

    You do have your hand full. I’m wondering how you managed to go home and not board a slow boat to China and work on your novel. I’m glad you had a good time, be it short, it’s good for our hearts to leave the boys to fend for themselves. The bit about the fleas had me scratching my head. Ick! 🙁

    • Sandra says:

      You’re such a terrific writer. Just read your facebook post. Lol. I would spend half my day whining in that group. But interested in the short story gigs; do you really have five stories coming out? Where? good for you!

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