My friend Laurie tells me that she used to knock herself out to provide the full Martha Stewart Christmas for her family, slaving away all day in the kitchen over the elaborate meal. When it came time to eat, she was not only exhausted, but she’d missed out on all the magical moments with her boys and her husband. When she hit fifty, she decided she was through—not with the family, but with the nonsense and the noise and the unrealistic expectations.
Now her ritual is to buy a bunch of HomeMade Pizza Co. unbaked pizzas and Three Tarts Bakery pies on Christmas Eve, so anything anyone has to do on the day itself is toss in the oven whatever type of pie they desire. Friends and extended family come over to play games and watch holiday movies, happy as can be in their ability to connect without all the pressure of what they “should” be doing. Laurie said that nothing’s been more freeing than letting go of the picture-perfect magazine holiday fantasy, instead forging a path that’s ultimately more satisfying.
I believe the pursuit of a Pinterest-perfect, ultimate-Martha Stewart-lifestyle can be dangerous. Online, I see these women in their thirties exhausting themselves to make sure everything they do is Instagram-worthy. Instead of, say, simply playing with their kids at the park, they have their spouses shooting virtual lifestyle magazine spreads, where each shot is staged for maximum impact.
“No, Trevor, wrong! You have to come down the slide smiling, not screaming!”
“Salinger, throw the maple leaves in the air again, but this time, with attitude!”
“Maya, step out of the sandbox right now! You’re going to get your Hanna Andersson play clothes dirty!”
For God’s sake, childhood doesn’t need to be art directed.
(Sidebar: As a friend, I’d humbly suggest that anyone who values their children’s privacy and safety might reconsider splashing the kids’ names, ranks, serial numbers, and difficulties with potty training all over the Internet.)
To me, the above is why so much of social media can ring false. Our lives are meant to be our lives, and not a facade presented for the consumption of others; or, WE ARE NOT A MAGAZINE.
I worry that younger women are striving so hard to present a compelling story via images that they’re ignoring the substance that makes the story true. Ultimately, they’re going to end up really bitter later in life (and not the good kind of bitter that sells books).
My message to these women is this—if you want to avoid regrets later, give yourselves a break now and just be real. Enjoy the mess. Revel in the imperfection.
So, if I’m being real, then I can definitely say I won’t be sad about not baking because I’m neither a mini-Martha-magazine-mogul nor a tree-dwelling, cookie-making elf.
(Sidebar: I feel like I just gave the previous Keebler joke more context. Yay for me!)
I immediately scrap the rest of my baking plans, instead opting to donate the massive amount of supplies I’ve amassed. I supplement my unopened ingredients with additional items at the grocery store. I’m not sure if the food bank sees a lot of donated chocolate chips, colored sprinkles, or powdered sugar, but just because a family’s hit a rough patch doesn’t mean they won’t appreciate being able to bake with their kids. If someone’s in a circumstance where they’re using a food bank, it’s likely not by choice. I’m sure regrets are involved and I empathize. Having once been close to the edge myself, I understand and I want to do what I can to make it better for others. And if providing the materials to make cookies gives a family a chance to feel normal and step outside of their regrets, even for one day, then I’m glad I could help.
After I swing by the grocery store and the food bank, I buy some pretty sugar cookies at Three Tarts, and then I come home to settle in with Holiday Inn, basking in the warm glow of my little artificial tree. Over subsequent free weekends, I spend my time decorating instead of baking, not because I’m determined to garner the most “pins,” but because I hope to make the house as welcoming as possible for those I love.
I feel I made the right choice.
• • •
By the end of the holiday season, I realize I’ve put back on every ounce of weight I lost riding my bike, which is currently trapped in the garage behind three feet of snow. I won’t be able to ride again for months, considering the hellacious winter we’re having. Even the most hard-core road warriors are currently in hibernation due to the bike paths being layered with six full inches of ice.
As it’s a shiny new year, I decide that it’s finally time to take care of some long-standing health concerns. I’m due for a well-woman exam and I’m worried that something may be amiss Down There. I’m not having any problems, per se, but with three contemporaries having had hysterectomies in the last year, I’m concerned it may be my turn, especially since I keep dodging bullets on my diagnostic mammograms. And at this age, it’s generally one or the other. I wonder if the husbands who opted for vasectomies in their thirties are all, “Man, I shoulda held out a little longer!” because this seems to be a thing now that Generation X is hitting our second act.
I’m definitely Team Take It All Out, I’m Not Using It if there’s any kind of problem with my reproductive system. I’m at peace with my decision to not procreate. Fortunately, I’ve finally arrived at an age when people have stopped bugging me about when I’m going to become a mommy. I haven’t heard a smug, “You’ll change your mind,” in at least three years. I don’t miss the invasive questions; on the other hand, the fact that I must look like the factory’s closed is a bit of a bummer.
(Sidebar: This feeling is similar to how every time I get carded, I wonder if it’s my last.)
Anyway, it’s my understanding that if you don’t eventually use your baby-brewing parts, all the pieces become an attractive nuisance, kind of like an abandoned building. Without the possibility of a paying tenant, the wrong element comes a-callin’. Squatters are imminent. Personally, I’d rather tear the whole thing down, you know? In this case, I couldn’t plant a public park in its place, but you get the idea.
And while we’re down here, a word, if I may, about perimenopause? Or, three words, actually—WHY, GOD, WHY? This hot flash business is utter and complete bullshit. I mean, I’m a fat girl; I sweat enough on my own without Mother Nature turning up the thermostat. According to my medical education (meaning, using WebMD, which in my head translates to having an honorary medical degree) this foolishness can last two to eight years. What? A president could serve two full terms in eight years. Whatever crooked governor Illinois elects next could complete a prison sentence for money laundering and be out in eight years. You could build a federal highway or take a rocket to Jupiter in eight years.
This is so wrong.
And after I’m done with the potential eight damn years of the sweating and the irritability and the weird estrogen surges, apparently I can look forward to bone loss, changes in my skin’s texture—I’m sure not for the better—and problems with my gums. You mean, I could have a beard and require dentures? Perfect. Sign me up.
I haven’t been hit with the night sweats yet, so I guess that’s a blessing. A while ago, Fletch and I were hanging out with another couple (whom I choose to not incriminate) and my friend was telling us how she’d had all kinds of tests run to determine why she was getting so hot in her sleep.
“Hate to break it to you, but those are night sweats,” I said, giving her the full benefit of my WebMD degree.
“How can I have night sweats? I’m only thirty,” Friend replied, to which I laughed. This particular pal has been lying about her age for so long that she’s actually begun to believe herself.
I fully support her pretense, but at the same time, facts are facts. We are middle-aged. This is what happens. All the same nonsense that comes with puberty occurs again during perimenopause—the hormone surges, the moodiness, and the hair appearing where there wasn’t hair before. Except instead of filling in under the arms and on nether regions, these coars
e follicles of hate are showing up on our freaking faces.
Every night before bed, I spend quality time over the bathroom sink with a handheld flashlight and some tweezers. I thought I’d been doing a fine job of Jenscaping until the last time I stayed in a hotel with a super-magnifying mirror. My God, I wanted to hurl myself out the window, except it was hermetically sealed, likely for this very reason. I suspect this is why we all lose our close-up vision by the time we’re in our forties. If women could actually see what was happening on their faces, there’d be nothing to stop us all from going on a twelve-state killing spree.
(Sidebar: I’m fighting the need for reading glasses with every ounce of my being. I have my computer display jacked up two hundred percent and I’ve transitioned almost solely to my e-reader because I can make the font massive. What really makes me mad, outside of the general indignity of beginning to deteriorate, even if ever so slightly, is that the print on every antiaging product is so damn small. Listen, skin-care manufacturers, do you have any idea who actually buys your products? Hint—it’s not the dewy twenty-year-olds with perfect skin who still pass out face-first wearing full makeup.)
(Additional sidebar: I sorely regret having washed my face before bed only a handful of times in my twenties.)
Ignoring me, Friend said, “It’s not my thyroid, and it’s not hyperhidrosis or hypoglycemia. There’s no sign of infection and I’m not on any meds that might cause this reaction.”
“It’s perimenopause,” I insisted.
“Impossible.”
“Not impossible. Just because you say you’re thirty doesn’t mean you’re thirty.”
“Of course it does.”
Ah, denial’s deep in this one, I thought.
As she kept coming up with possible causes, I kept replying with my same diagnosis. I’m an imaginary doctor, damn it! Listen to me!
Finally, Friend’s Husband began to chuckle, saying, “I’ve been telling her for a month that she has night sweats because the bedroom is seventy-five degrees and she sleeps under three down comforters.”
Then we both ganged up on him, because, sisterhood.
Anyway, I go to my well-woman exam and my new GYN suggests I have an ultrasound to make sure all is well. (I didn’t like the gal I saw last year. Cold hands.)
“Have you ever had a full ultrasound?” she asks.
“Um, sort of?” I reply. “Once I had one scheduled, but somehow I didn’t drink enough water beforehand and they couldn’t see anything.”
She makes a note on my chart. “And how long ago was that?”
“1988.”
My doctor is incredulous. “You’ve needed an ultrasound for twenty-five years?”
I shrug. “I’ve been busy.”
This new doctor isn’t playing around, no matter how many pretend medical credentials I may hold, so she schedules me for a full workup tomorrow.
Because I don’t want to regret not tending to what’s deemed medically necessary, I comply. Actually, as much as I loathe having to take off my pants, I’m a little bit, dare I say, excited to find what might be lurking up there. I definitely don’t want to be sick and I’m terrified of surgery, having never been under general anesthesia, but what if they discover a really big fibroid? Like, super weighty. That happened to an acquaintance—her doctors removed something the size of a football.
A football!!
How much thinner would I be if I had a football-sized mass extracted from my midsection? What if I’m not fat because of cake and it’s all due to squatters? Granted, fibroids wouldn’t explain the ham on my upper arms, but still. This could resolve everything, so I gladly come back the next morning.
I drink an entire gallon of water before my appointment and I feel like I’m carrying a football’s worth of fluid when I sit on the tech’s exam table.
She asks, “Have you emptied your bladder?”
“No!” I gleefully reply. “It’s so full!”
“Then I need to have you use the restroom first.”
“Really? I thought I was supposed to drink a ton of fluids before,” I reply.
“No, we haven’t done it that way for years.”
Probably twenty-five.
I take care of business and then we begin. The tech squirts the jelly on me and I’m delighted that it’s not freezing. “We use a warmer,” she explains.
“Well done,” I reply. Five Yelp stars go to the office that understands that there are places you never want to be chilly.
She first surveys the external parts and then uses the trans-I-can’t-even-use-the-word-without-spelling-it-wand. “Hmm.”
“Hmm?” I ask. Hmm is never positive . . . unless she’s discovering something the size of a sporting good, which I can have removed and then finally wear a bikini again! “Do you see any footballs?”
“Footballs? No, no footballs, but I have a couple of areas I’d like the doctor to see. I’m going to go grab her.” She exits, leaving me to contemplate buying pants that don’t have elastic waists.
In the exam room next to me, I detect an odd sound. It’s like a mechanical whump-whump, whump-whump. The sound continues for a couple of seconds, followed by a quick murmur, then a cheer and then sobbing. I realize I’m witnessing a pregnant couple hearing their unborn child’s first heartbeat.
Whoa.
This is a rite of passage I never imagined experiencing, even secondhand. As the couple celebrates next door, I assess how I’m feeling. I always say I’m at peace with being childfree by choice, but am I?
Am I really?
Or, in this completely unexpected moment, am I finding myself suddenly devastated to have completely avoided this track in life? Do I yearn, even for a second, to be on the opposite side of the wall? Do I want to Instagram the hell out of a mini-me? Am I sorry that the miracle of life isn’t occurring in the portion of my body specifically designed for the propagation of our species?
I look deeply within to gauge my feelings, and . . .
No.
I’m not.
While I’m elated for the couple next door, as their joy is profound and contagious, more than anything, I feel a comprehensive swell of relief that it’s not me.
Motherhood was not a path I ever wanted to follow. Of course, it’s wonderful for others, and I grieve for those who’ve tried and failed. It’s heartbreaking and it’s not fair. And yet sometimes, things work themselves out, like when we received the call out of the blue on Christmas night that after six failed rounds of IVF, four full years on an adoption waiting list they were rapidly aging out of, and a million false starts, Kathleen and her husband Chris had just brought their new baby boy home from the hospital.
(Sidebar: While we were in Savannah, Trenna prayed for a profoundly frustrated Kathleen. With great confidence, she assured Kathleen she’d have her baby soon. The more cynical members of Team Butter may or may not have rolled their eyes at this moment. Yet, who could have guessed that Trenna was right and a brave young woman was already carrying Kathleen’s baby? Trenna kept telling us that miracles exist and now? Now I believe her.)
In terms of being a mother myself, I’m actually really proud for never having buckled, for never giving in and doing what was expected, for having the strength of character to understand that as a woman, my world can be complete and my life can have meaning without children of my own.
That doesn’t mean I won’t spoil the hell out of Kathleen’s baby, though.
Now, if my doctor’s about to come in, examine my ultrasound, and tell me I need to have a hysterectomy, that my time is up and I’m about to lose the option of ever reproducing?
Then I’m good.
For I have no regrets.
13.
What’s My Rule?
“They want to put a camera where?” Fletch asks, glancing up from his workbench. He removes his respirator
and protective eyewear to better see and hear me. Not surprised at the overkill with the safety equipment here—this is a man who insists on donning a fully loaded tool belt and leather gloves to hammer a single nail in the wall. When I’m in my workshop area, it’s a bonus if I remember to wear shoes.
(Sidebar: One would imagine I’d have learned about the importance of footwear after the time Fletch needed pliers to remove a carpet tack from the ball of my foot, but one would be wrong.)
Fletch is all hazmatted-up here in the basement, in the throes of stripping a magnificent oak dresser I found at a secondhand shop. The grain is so beautiful that I don’t want to obscure it with paint, but the stain is that awful honey-colored nonsense from the eighties, so, good-bye.
Once the dresser’s down to bare wood, I plan to lime the piece, meaning I’ll rub in a little bit of white paint, just enough to bring out the grain before wiping off the excess. The look should be that of a very subtle whitewash. If my process proves successful, I’ll have a Restoration Hardware–type item on hand, only truly antique and at one-tenth the price. I inspect his handiwork and, as usual, it’s impeccable.
I reply, “I know, right? I’ve lived forty-six years without ever being the subject of a single compromising shot, not a nip-slip or an upskirt. I’m talking no tongue kisses, no inappropriate hugs, and not a single image that could in any way keep me from being elected to public office. But now? Now they want to photograph my holiest of holies. It’s like going straight from Highlights to Hustler.”
(Sidebar: My gynecologist found evidence of squatters and she requires a closer look inside, which can be accomplished only by running a camera up my . . . blowhole.)
“Yikes.”
I lean across the workbench, resting my head in my hands. “The great irony here is that when I was young and firm, I kind of wish I’d taken a few risqué shots. Never nude, because, Congress, but scantily clad would have been acceptable. I wish I knew what I looked like in my underwear circa 1987. I suspect I was hot.”
I Regret Nothing: A Memoir Page 13
