And for Your 21st Wedding Anniversary...

This is a soiled sordid tale of excess and a lack of control.

Chapter 1:
Once upon a time, God decided to punish those of the female variety because Eve tricked an impressionable dude. He (God) figured menstruation, pregnancy, and menopause were good places to start. Then, throughout history, a number of additional--albeit, optional--female burdens were added to the mix: high heels, pantyhose, and underwire bras, just to name a few.

Chapter 2:
Pregnancy and childbirth. Talk about excellent reasons women get bent out of shape about the crap we have to deal with. For one thing, we literally are bent out of shape over this nearly yearlong process. And because no one can see what's happened to us internally, we get external stretch marks as a badge of honor. And if we decide to breastfeed, we get a little something extra: saggy boobs. Then, as the years go by, we're rudely reminded that we should have followed doctor's orders. Perhaps those Kegel exercises would have been a good idea, because it seems these days our pelvic floor muscles only show up for work when they feel like it.

And with a drip and drop our sordid soiled tale begins.

Chapter 3:
Hold that thought and picture this: We're seated at the kitchen table scrolling through Facebook. There's a tissue stuffed in our underwear because we coughed and they're damp, but not uncomfortable enough to warrant a change. Lo and behold, we come upon an ad with attractive women in their 30s or 40s, hanging out in their undies, holding beautiful babies, or outside striking yoga poses so the folks in the apartment building next door can see just how flexible they are and how great they look. Just a typical day.

These women are young, fresh and vibrant. And, it turns out they know what it's like to "Leak when you laugh. And squeeze when you sneeze."

They assure me that I can ditch the disposables and feel fresh as a rosé (I appreciate the wine reference) if I purchase Icon pee-proof undies. Not only are they fast-wicking, leak-resistant, odor-eliminating, and ultra-thin in their absorbency, but they have all the style and comfort of regular undies.

Most importantly, they hold up to 5 teaspoons of piddle.

Chapter 4:

You've made this remarkable discovery just as your husband walks by. Thinking of the tissue wadded up in your granny panties, you casually suggest he get you a pair of these Icon undies for Christmas. But Christmas comes and goes. He never was very interested in your "suggestions." You've forgotten about the undies. Until early January when they arrive in the mail, just in time for your wedding anniversary.

Because nothing says romance like pee protection panties.

Chapter 5:

My husband has a tendency to go all out when he finds something he knows (or assumes) I will like. There was the "12 rolls of film" birthday. And the "eight bottles of body lotion" Christmas. Turns out 2016 is the year of the anniversary panty. Actually, make that panties. Ten pairs to be exact.

Chapter 6:

My first outing in my Icon panties was to a birthday dinner with friends. Just us girls. And given my proclivity toward sharing that which I know other women may be dealing with (in an effort to make us all feel better about ourselves), I decided to share the exciting news about my undies. After a margarita, I even unzipped and showed a little skin. "Aren't they flattering?" I asked. Alas, there was no sneeze, cough or laughter with which to test them, but I was feeling good just knowing I was covered. So to speak.

Chapter 7:

The Amex bill arrives in the mail. I see a line for NY-Icon. $220. Did Rob hit some dance club the last time he was in the city? What the hell is Icon? I prepare the attack, and then it hits me. Icon. Undies.

"Holy shit! You mean to tell me you spent $220 on underwear for me? Is there gold woven into the absorbent crotch? What the hell were you thinking? And why in the world would you buy me 10 pairs if they were so freakin' expensive?"

He replies, "They were less expensive if you bought in bulk."

He knows I appreciate a good deal, so I can't argue with that logic.

Chapter 8:

We're at the movies and I need to go to the restroom. Or do I?

I have 30 days in which to pee in these suckers test these babies out. I can return them if they don't live up to my expectations.

I'm trying to visualize what five teaspoons looks like...

Liquid Courage and the Dancing Queens

I returned from Italy last Tuesday evening, super crabby following the maddening inefficiency of the airport immigration experience. The dreary, gray skies and the general ugliness of Jamaica, NY did nothing to improve my mood, and the scary bus ride home only added to my misery. Within 24 hours I could add to my bitch list a canine chocolate overdose and an overwhelming to do list at work My full upcoming weekend should have lifted my spirits, but instead it all seemed like an ill-timed inconvenience given how much else I had to do. Given this piss poor attitude, the absolute blast I had this weekend came as a complete surprise.

On Saturday Rob and I went with friends Dave and Karen to Atlantic City. Dave and Karen are "those" friends. The bad influence kind with whom you always have a good time. Since our friendship began I've gone to more concerts and drank more beer than at any other point in my life.

The purpose of our trip to AC was not gambling-related. We were in town to see Jerry Seinfeld. You'll appreciate this tidbit: Karen originally proposed this idea to Rob because she knew I'd say "Hell no!" when I saw the price. But it was worth the gouging expense. Not only were Jerry and his opening act hysterical, but I had an absolutely awesome time post show, which translates into post 10 p.m. at which point in the evening I generally bow out and hit the sack. Not only did I not hit the sack after Seinfeld, but I actually hit the dance floor! This is BIG. I do not often dance in public. If you've seen me dance you know why. But we were at the Gypsy Bar where they serve beers not in 16 ounce pints, but in 22 ounce glasses. This liquid courage explains the dancing. And a good band playing today's popular hits also helped spur us on.

The wall-to-wall crowd offered a good deal of visual stimulation to go with the musical vibrations. I saw a woman with Life Savers strategically attached to her t-shirt, allowing various men to sample her wares. I gawked noted another woman whose dress ended where her thigh-high stockings began. I was surprised at the range of ages co-mingling. I'd guess 21-60, though I'm notoriously bad at guessing age. I still think I'm younger than everyone I meet, when in fact that rarely holds true anymore, which is depressing as hell, but that's a blog post for another time. Anyway, I was feeling pretty good about myself out there. Had on my favorite dress. My ass wasn't hanging out. I wasn't stumbling about in 4" heels. Wasn't spilling my beer while I danced. It was all good. Until my dancing and jumping caused a small leak and I was rudely reminded that I am not young and that I still need to do kegel exercises. But I didn't let that stop me! In fact, it was not boring old Kim who called it a night, but rather her usually gung-ho husband. We made our way to the hotel room where we promptly crashed and slept soundly until the next morning. (Note: Moderation is important if a romantic night is on your agenda.)

Sunday was a continuation of the good times that began with our AC adventures. I played with my pup and played in the dirt, readying the gardens for spring flowers. My pup also played in the dirt--if you need a hole dug, she's your girl. The evening ended on a more age-appropriate, but equally awesome note: Indigo Girls with the Philadelphia Youth Orchestra. Loved, loved, loved it! Even my aching hip, the result of the previous night's dancing, couldn't diminish my enthusiasm.

I figure if I get 10-hours of sleep each night this week I'll be good to go again next weekend!

Who's in?

Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night

I have a doctor's appointment this morning. This is not one of those that you schedule months in advance for your regular checkup. This is one of those where you call and tell them you really need to see the doctor now. 

I'm not ill, exactly, I just get the sense that something's not right (no smart ass comments, please). For weeks I've been going to bed around 9 p.m. (occasionally earlier), and even though I sleep between 9-10 hours a night, there are still days where I honestly don't know how I'm going to keep my head from hitting the desk in the middle of the afternoon. Then there are my aches and pains. Everyday, even if it's been a week since my last workout, I find there's always something that hurts.

The impetus for today's appointment, however, is my memory loss. While I've had plenty of those "walk into a room and have no idea why" experiences, lately I find myself forgetting something in a matter of seconds. Usually it's harmless enough: Did I put on deodorant just five seconds ago? A sniff solves that mystery. But two nights ago I took my daily medication, which I keep in an old-person daily pill case, and literally seconds later I couldn't remember if I had already taken it. I looked at the day on the pill case and for some reason I was completely befuddled. Without much thought, I took my daily medication. Again. As a result, I woke up at 3:30 a.m., developed a serious case of sweating and trembling hands, and cried. Obviously anti-depressants do NOT make you happier if you take more of them than prescribed. 

So yes, I'm seeing the doctor today and while my self-diagnosis is Lyme's disease (based on the fatigue and aches and pains, plus the weird red spot on my stomach, and the fact that I've found ticks in the house courtesy of the cat), I can almost guarantee that the doctor will put fatigue, aches and pains, and forgetfulness together and diagnosis me with "growing old." He's said it before. Sometimes I think he doesn't take me seriously. I know one of you is going to tell me to find a new doctor, but this appears to be a common problem (hmm...the doctor's being nonchalant or the growing old thing?). 

This past summer, my father fell off the dock in the marina next to his boat. He seriously bruised one side of his torso and thought he had broken a finger. A visit to his physician resulted in an exchange that went something like this:

Doc: What happened?
Dad: Well, I fell stepping onto the dock. I think...
Doc: (cutting him off) You fell because you're getting older. You think you can still do all the things you used to do and the reality is that you can't. You need to slow down.

My father told me later that what he was about to tell the doctor, before he was rudely interrupted, was that he'd had a dizzy spell, which obviously contributed to the fall. Was the dizzy spell the result of age or an entirely separate issue that the doctor took no time to diagnose?

My father and I are alike in many ways, including our refusal to "go gentle into that good night." My dad is 73-years old and hasn't given up a single thing that I've always known him to do. I guarantee that if I could get my hands on a set of water skis and a boat to tow him, he'd happily give it a go. About the only thing he's saying no to these days is amusement park rides, and that happens to most of us when we hit our 40s and spinning things make us want to puke.

Riding roller coasters and boogie boarding are my two main "I am not too old" holdouts. The roller coasters usually leave me needing a chiropractor, and the boogie board may plant me face down in the sand (if I actually manage to catch a wave), but I refuse to say no to what have been sources of great pleasure since I was a kid. My greatest fear is that if I skip just one summer at the amusement park or decline one afternoon in the ocean, I may never return to them again. 

The more seniors I meet, the more I believe that, while growing older is inevitable, there's nothing to say that we have to "get old." We can't control the years, but we do have a say in how we live them. The topic of our aging parents came up in a recent conversation with friends, and the general consensus was that attitude has almost as much to do with the quality of life in our later years as our physical health. I shared about my parents, and my friend told me about his mom, who recently passed away, but whose zest for life had made her such a joy to spend time with. Conversely, his father, who is in fine health, has relegated himself to old man status. 

Some folks seemingly decide overnight that they can no longer do what they did before, and they stop living in the fullest sense of the word. I'm not saying that those who truly can't should fake it, or put themselves or others in harm's way by doing what they should no longer do, but when it's fear that shuts us down, it's sad. 

I often find myself wondering, when I'm old (what age is that exactly?) will I still...

• Put my feet up on the dashboard of the car or stick them out the window?
• Dance around the kitchen to make my kids laugh (at me, not with me)?
• Eat raw cookie dough and lick the spoon when Abby makes cake or icing?
• Sing along at full volume with every song on the radio?
• Laugh with complete abandon at funny movies, even in a theater full of people?
• Hoot and holler at my grandkids' sporting events (if my mom is any indication, that would be "yes")?
• Act in church skits, or maybe I'll have advanced to community theater by then?
• Want to prove myself on water skis?

Well, it's about time for that doctor's appointment. I'm tempted to secretly tape the conversation. How much do you want to bet that he tells me I'm fine and that my symptoms are all part of getting old growing older? 

I'll be sure to let you know.

Just a Cliche and a Decade Away from Being the It Girl

I am officially too old to ever again be an "It Girl." This painful realization hit me a couple of weeks ago when I learned of a much younger colleague's designation as the cat's meow, the cream of the crop, and the best thing since sliced bread. Okay, no one used those exact words, but the sentiment was communicated clearly enough.

While I will agree that this colleague is a terrific person and a hard working, competent and mature professional, I am not happy about all the chatter. My reasons for being envious concerned are completely rational:

1. If this individual were to learn that she is so highly regarded, the ego boost could make her very difficult to work with.
2. Those who think this individual is all that and a bag of chips may become blind to her weaknesses and willing to overlook her flaws.
3. For leadership to heap the majority of praise on one employee can have disastrous affects on the self-esteem of others who may feel the need to retaliate.

While, none of this applies to me personally because I don't compete work that closely with this individual, I have become aware that older women like myself are clearly being discriminated against when it comes to being the bees knees. Simply put, It Girl status can only be bestowed upon those under the age of 30. This is evidenced by the fact that business journals publish lists of the "Top Professionals Under Age 30," or "40 to Watch Under Age 40," but you never see anything for "Fantastic in their Fifties" or "Successful in their Sixties." The reality is that, once you turn 41, you're expected to be a performer. There's no special recognition. No talk in the break room about the new superstar. No grumbling about the girl who thinks she's "all that."

This is a hard reality for me to face because in my 20s and 30s, I was an It Girl. I worked hard to make sure I was bringing the very best to whatever position I held so that the bar would forever be set at "Kim level" and my replacements would always have very big shoes to fill. Gave everything 110%, never content with the merely the old college try. Raised my hand for every new job responsibility. Kissed butt ad nauseum. And for what? The same Wawa gift card everyone else received. And more responsibility at the same salary. It Girl status doesn't really pay off in the non-profit sector. Ah, hindsight. The point is that I enjoyed the heady feeling of knowing I was appreciated and recognized, and now I'm being forced to rely on my self-confidence to get me through the day. This is why middle-aged people turn to drinking and prescription drugs. They're much more accessible than self-esteem. 

In retrospect, I should have seen this coming several years ago when I noticed that I was no longer the youngest employee in my department or organization. I remember being truly shocked to discover that not only was Susie Q not older than me, but in fact, she was a good decade younger. Clearly I was am in denial of my advancing age, and this new performance-based "reality" is adding insult to injury.

In trying to decide how to handle this delicate situation, I can think of only a few options:

• Sabotage my colleague's work so her performance is of concern versus congratulations.
• Find ways to highlight my own work in such a way that it overshadows hers.
• Encourage her to find employment elsewhere and then recommend a clearly inferior individual to take her place.
• Find a new job in which I likely am the youngest employee. Maybe the library or the school cafeteria?
• Put on my big girl panties and deal with it.

I welcome your advice, really. I especially look forward to hearing from you if you've personally managed to maintain It Girl status into your 40s or 50s. I probably won't talk to you again, but I'm still eager to know how you did it. 

But, I'm Barely Old Enough to Be Your Big Sister!

Recently, "getting old" was a topic of conversation with friends. My husband remarked that, in reading his alumni magazine, he found class notes from the year he graduated are no longer toward the back of the publication. They have notably moved toward the middle and he knows they will just keep inching forward as new classes of youngsters graduate. During this same conversation, our friend Lee confessed unhappily that she turns the big 5-0 this year. She's not handling it well despite the fact that she looks irritatingly amazing with the body of 30 year-old and the style of a well-off college student.

As for me, well, aside from a few thousand gray hairs and increasing discomfort on amusement park rides, there is absolutely no indication that I am getting older. Even though everyone around me is aging, I am every bit as amazing as I was 20 years ago. Or at least that's what I thought until yesterday, when I had to speak with a couple of teenagers with whom I was not previously acquainted.

There's nothing like talking with teens to make you feel old. It's not because I couldn't relate to what they were saying. It's not the fact that we don't share the same wrinkle-free skin and strong, young bodies. It's because they clearly didn't think I was awesome. Hip. Cool. All that and a bag of chips.

This is upsetting to me. See, I only recently graduated from college. In my mind, anyway. And even though I may no longer be a cute and utterly fascinating co-ed, I certainly fall into the young wife/mom, "I wanna be her / marry someone like her someday" category. Right?

I was not getting that vibe from the young-uns.

I was witty and charming. I referenced Facebook. I mentioned I have a blog. In return I got obligatory chuckles which translated into "This lady is so lame, making a pathetic attempt to connect with us."

I believe I was spoiled by previous teenagers in my life. The Scott boys, the Powell girls, Kevin and Laura Jean. They all treated me like the uniquely terrific young woman I am. Or was. Although, now that I think about it, I was paying them (to watch my children). I also know their parents and could theoretically have told on them if they weren't nice to me. See, there's further evidence of how not-old I am. "Telling" on someone is something children do. I'm even younger than I thought!

I shudder when I think about having almost invested several years in attaining my PhD so that I could teach these haughty and all-knowing teens and 20-somethings. I can't imagine spending my days looking into their disgust-filled or completely vacant eyes as I attempted to impart my genuius with my usual humor and grace.

The only comfort I can find in this remarkably disturbing teen interaction is that my son isn't there yet. He's almost completed his first year as a teenager and miraculously still loves me. Just a few weeks ago he remarked how "normal" or "good" our family is (at which I nearly choked on my chewing gum). He explained that all of his friends complain about their families and can't stand their parents, but that he actually enjoys spending time with his. He likes me, he really likes me!

I can bear the disdain of surly youth as long as my son remains my biggest fan. Wonder how long that will last...