The Cost of Aging

This isn't about the high price of health care or the prospect of selecting a retirement facility (besides, won't that be Alex's job?). No, I'm talking about the cost of maintenance on my rapidly aging ass.

While a girl is still young, she can get by with $15 haircuts and discount fashion and really cute, dirt-cheap shoes. And even after spending barely $100 on her entire outfit and grooming, she'll look pretty hot.

A few years later? Not so much.

I'm not what anyone would consider old, but I'd be willing to bet that I'm older than you are. On my last birthday, the Mr., who is two years younger than I am, freaked out a little because my age was closer to 40 than 30. Not that 40 is Old, but it is definitely a different age bracket. And to keep the middle-aged (omahgod, I've turned into my mother) frump at bay, it helps to have graduated to a different tax bracket as well (we haven't, thanks.)

In my younger years, I kept my hair pretty long and simple. Every now and then I would cut some layers in, but my "haircuts" consisted of nothing more than taking a few inches off of the length every 9 months or so. Then, I went short, because I was craving something hip and edgy and free. Although I loved having short hair, I didn't really love the way those $15 haircuts were holding up. I finally broke down and got a real haircut from a real stylist last month. Of course I paid some real money for it, but when I walked out, I had the hair of a much younger, much more fashionable gal. That haircut still looks good a month later, in fact. I got a bit of a thrill the other day when I noticed a teenager sporting my same hairdo. Except she was probably all, "damn, look at that mom trying to pull off my cut. Poser." Or something like that. But nevertheless, if I had gone to the girl I'd been seeing for the last year, I would have already had to go for a trim and I would still be fighting the helmet-y, Sally Field a la Steel Magnolias-ish fluff. So, yeah.

Thankfully, I began moisturizing at a young age when my mom's Mary Kay consultant finally made me understand that all those drying toners and facial scrubs were actually exacerbating my teenage acne. She turned me on to an oil-free moisturizer, and daily moisturizer has been a habit ever since. But with age, I've earned different skin problems--chloasma and a few fine lines. I'm a devotee of the glycolic peel, and those aren't exactly cheap. The skin care regimen has become more complex and more costly, but at least I began moisturizing early, because things could have been worse at this point. But still, days of the $6 bottle of Olay are over.

Then just this week, my age gave me another little kick in the ass (and the bank account). It was the first week of school for students--the first week of real work for me. Every fall, I scold myself for having gone around in flip flops and bare feet all summer long, because my feet take a beating during the first week of having to wear honest-to-God shoes all day long. This year, though, it has been worse than ever. On Wednesday afternoon, even my knees were aching and I couldn't even look at a pair of heels without wincing in pain. So, I went online and ordered some sensible, yet somewhat stylish (I'm using that term veeeerrry loosely here), expensive (for my budget) shoes from Zappos' COMFORT section (Comfort shoes! My grandmother buys those.). That's right. I spent a hunk of dough for shoes that are not that cute. But they are comfortable. And life is too short to wear uncomfortable shoes all day.

And here's my favorite age-related expense: About six months after my 30th birthday, I noticed that it had become a little more difficult to keep weight off. I was already pretty thin, so the five or so pounds that I gained weren't too terribly burdensome. I stayed that weight for the next four+ years. Then, I got pregnant, and soon after, I rounded the corner on my way to the next decade. I'm blaming age for the difficulty that I'm having in shedding these last 7 "post-partum" pounds (Post-partum? Who am I kidding? The kid eats cheeseburgers and loves Lightning McQueen, for crying the hell out loud.). And now? I can't just grab any pair of size 2 pants off the rack and count on them to make my ass look good. Now, I've found that it takes a more mature (i.e. more expensive and in a larger size) cut and fabric to make this backside presentable. I'm seriously considering trying Alli and/or Weight Watchers. I'm actually thinking about spending good cash money to achieve what came naturally for my 20-something self who simply preferred vodka over food.

Wait a minute. I might very possibly be onto something right there.

Home Again, Home Again.

I've officially started back to work this week. And Alex has started his new daycare. It's OK. It's just not the old place. I'm sure I'll adjust. Alex already has.

Regardless of the smooth transition, I'm still hoping that the Wonderful Daycare from whom I turned down a spot for Alex last spring like a stupid-ass idiot will call in the next few months. We're back where we were on the list, and well, if they called us before, that would mean we're at or at least near the top, right?

Like I said, I've officially returned to work, but really, I've been at the school almost every day for the last three weeks. We've finally moved in to a brand new school building. Our old building was about 100 years old. It was a beautiful building, but it was decrepit, and it didn't even come close to meeting the needs of our students. The available land in the area was so scarce that the district had to make the painful decision to demolish the old building and build the new school on the old site.

Fifteen months ago, we packed up everything in the building and moved into a temporary location, another old school building a few miles away from our school's neighborhood. Soon after that, a demolition crew leveled our old school. After teaching there for 13 years, it was hard to watch that old girl crumble.

Also difficult was having school away from our home neighborhood last year. Our students rode buses for the first time ever--our school is a "neighborhood school," and every student lives no more than two miles away from the campus. We weren't able to offer after-school tutorials or choir practice or team practices because many families could not provide transportation in the evenings. Performance suffered. Morale suffered. The children suffered.

But now, now we are home again. I've spent the last three weeks emptying crates, rearranging furniture, making name tags, and creating bulletin board displays. I often look out the window to enjoy the familiar view of the neighborhood. Although the view is the familiar, though, my immediate surroundings are not. Gone are the peeling walls, the mouse holes, the torn and stained carpet. Gone are the portable buildings and the aluminum walkway covers that never quite succeeded at keeping our students dry on rainy days. In their place stands a magnificent, spacious, state-of-the-art school.

Three large old oak trees stand where they have for the last hundred years. Several cast concrete embellishments from the old building adorn the new one. We're reminded that although the building is new, the spirit is the same. I know it's just a workplace. It's just a school. But for us, it is Home.

A Hair Story

For many years, aside from an occasional trim at SuperCuts, professional hands never touched my hair. OK, there was that stint from 2001-2002 when I had short blond hair, but I got lazy and decided to grow it out. By the time I birthed Alex, my hair was very long and thick and heavy.

I started going to one stylist who was very good. However, she was a little too careful for my taste. She would never cut quite as much as I wanted her to. So, on a whim one day when I accompanied the Mr. to his haircut appointment, I booked an appointment with his barber stylist. She wasn't afraid to lop the locks, and finally, I had the short cut I had envisioned. Well, almost.

I've watched enough of Nick Arrojo and Jenn MacDonald to know a few things about choppy cuts and texturing. I tried several times to explain to my hair girl that I wanted a messier style. Something choppier. She got very close once, but only once. I tried to convince myself that it was OK. That for a mere $14 per visit, I could use a little more product and spend a few more minutes to achieve the style I wanted.

After an entire year of being the expert in this hairstylist/client relationship, I knew it was time for a change. I got the number of the guy who does the hair of the coolest girl I know and made an appointment.

The day of my appointment, I was a ball of nerves. On the drive down to his "studio" downtown, I was thinking about how I could explain exactly what I wanted. I really didn't look like I needed a haircut, but I was really hoping he could make it more modern, hipper, and funkier.

When I walked into the salon, I didn't see any of the hunter green trim and wicker accents that so many hair establishments sport in our area. The space was typical of our downtown buildings--two-story with a basement, early 1900s construction. The salon occupied the entire ground floor. It was completely open, and the walls were very roughly finished. The black duct work was exposed, and several original modern paintings were spotlighted by vintage lamps. At the front in an open area stood a lone styling chair. Opposite the chair stood two rolling Craftsman chests. And there was My New Guy, wearing skater-inspired sneakers and Buddy Holly-ish glasses.

As I waited for him to finish up with his client, I took in my surroundings and thought, "I want hair that looks like it belongs here."

Soon, I was sitting in the chair, ready with my schpill about how I really like my short cut, but my hair's really thick, and I'm not sure the cut is modern enough and..

"This length is good, but it is way too blunt. You need a lot more texture," he said.

Right then and there, he became my new personal hero.

OK, so first of all? The shampoo was heaven. None of that lather-you-up-and-rinse-and-let's-go. Ohmahgod, y'all, there was massaging and well, massaging. I would pay just to get the shampoo. But then, he took almost an entire hour cutting and razoring and snipping. We talked about mutual friends, the dismal nightlife in this town, and where I could find some temporary color for the Prom-O-Rama. Then he styled my hair, snipped a little more, and finally, I was done.

It was the very best haircut ever. Of course, it cost more than three times the amount of the old haircut, but I got every penny's worth.

So, to all y'all who have been preaching the virtues of a real stylist? You were totally right.

Not-So-Fashionably Late

Last week, MotherBumper emptied her bag and showed us all what was inside. Then, Her Bad Mother did it. The next thing you know, girls all over the 'sphere were dumping their purses bags onto their beds and couches and dining room tables and baring their innards for all the world to see.

"I am going to do this TODAY!" I exclaimed. "Blog fodder! Fodder that requires no thinking on my part. This, I can do."

That was August 9, y'all.

What can I say--I'm a joiner. A late joiner.

This is my bag:

This is the first bag I've ever carried that wasn't black, except for an occasional brown or tan. It's last season's Nine West procured at one of those close-out dress-for-less stores. Because I'm cheap.

Here are the contents of my bag:



1. Two pairs of sunglasses, almost identical.
2. Take-along cosmetics bag--lipgloss, moisturizer, tweezers, spare mascara.
3. Stray tube of moisturizer. Was promptly returned to appropriate bag.
4. Wallet. I've carried a red wallet for many years. It's easy to find in the black depths of whatever bag it's hiding in.
5. Checkbook in tattered checkbook holder. Yes, we still write checks, but mostly just for Al's daycare tuition.
6. Photos of Al that I need to mail to my dad.
7. 2 ballpoint pens and 1 mechanical pencil.
8. A buck-fiddy.
9. Chocolate.
10. Clorox wipe. You never know.
11. Work ID.
12. Phone. Also red. I guess I like red.
13. Emergency paci.

So, what's hiding in your bag? Let's see it! And shoot my friend a comment so she can add yours to her list.

Party Like It's 1989

Today is my friend Mary's (I was totally going to use a pseudonym for her, but c'mon--is that really necessary?) birthday, and last night, a group of eleven 30-something women went out for her birthday.

It turned out to be a most memorable evening, especially considering that several weeks ago, Mary declared that what she wanted more than anything for her 35th birthday was for all of us to dress up in our 80s prom attire and hit the local dance floors. And because Mary is fun and beautiful and sweet and an all-around wonderful girl, we agreed, that yes, we would participate in the Prom-o-Rama and don our tea-length prom dresses.

We climbed into our attics, drove hours to our parents' homes to explore forgotten closets, and hit every thrift store within a 50-mile radius seeking the perfect Prom-o-Rama ensembles. We borrowed, bought and stole ($8 for my fuchsia taffeta frock was a steal, in my book) dresses, accessories, and many cans of Rave hairspray.

Yesterday afternoon, we gathered at Mary's house to begin our flashback transformations. We couldn't resist adding a few current touches to the outfits, and many of us ended up rocking a punk-glam 80s style--something that we didn't have the courage to try in high school. I channeled the style of a particular girl from my high school--a girl who, despite her sweet temperament, always intimidated the hell out of me because she was so alternative and edgy and well, cool.

And then, we loaded up into vehicles and headed to one of the town's most popular night spots, where we danced our asses off to every 80s and not-so-80s tune that the band played. Some of the people who saw us got it. Many did not. We didn't care either way.

Apologies to Isabel for my use of the Black Bar™.

BTW, The hair stylist post is still in draft purgatory, and I suspect that it's a story that would make most of you go, "Well, duh. You get what you pay for, sister." I'm certain that you're on pins and needles waiting for that one, so I'll get to it soon.

How do you all find the time to keep this up?

And here, I thought I was on the verge of Total Blog Failure, and I'm really only teetering somewhere between #2 and #3. Truth be known, neither of those accurately describe my experience. I'm not really driven to get "...attention amid the multitude of other blogs."

Might I suggest a #2.5--Daily grind leaves little time to blow nose, much less write coherent sentences? Because that's right where I am.

Do you see yourself in any of the Five Stages of Blogging Fatigue?



I had a magnificent hair salon experience today that I'm eager to share with you. And I will, right after I find time to blow my nose. Damned allergies.