42 and Hot (Any Other Age You're Not?): Thanks Feminism!

Perhaps you have heard of the recent pro-old lady article in Esquire, In Praise of 42 Year-Old Women.  If not go ahead and give it a read (and a look - there's lot of pictures!) and come on back.  I can wait a bit...oh back already?  Yes, I agree - it was very superficial.

Now, I don't know about the rest of you, but I did not look like those ladies when I was 42.  But there may have been some very logical reasons why.  For one thing, my second kid was 5 months old at the time I turned that awesome age so perhaps I was still reeling a bit from that trauma to my body and my beauty sleep.  Or, considering that was almost 6 years ago (holy shit - sorry - I just realized that I will be 50 in a little over two years) perhaps it was still in that long ago, awful time period when, to paraphrase this author, there was something tragic even about beautiful 42-year olds. Feminism had not yet come and rescued us from sinking into the swamp of old-age.  

This was 42 before plastic surgery...um, I mean feminism

But enough about me and back to his wonderful premise about the amazing awesomeness of 42 year-old women.  My, my that is a short window he's allowing there.  Not older women, not women in their 40's but *42 year-old* women.  Every single one of the average looking, representative of their age women profiled is exactly that - 42 years old.

Meanwhile, poor Melissa McCarthy and her bad luck at being 43.  Because I am totally sure had she been 42, she would have been included in this pro-feminist article praising 42 year-old women.  I mean, come on, he emphasizes the comic skills of his chosen ladies, so surely that is one of the main reasons for their being included.  She's smart, she's funny, she's pretty, she's successful - she's the whole package.  Well, everything but that pesky age.  It really is a shame that the shelf-life of awesomeness for a woman is so short.

43 is the new 42

And let's give thanks again to how far we have come thanks to feminism.  As the author points out, back in the day (the day being 1967) 42 year old women, unattractive sloths that they were without the yoga and pilates that feminism has thankfully brought to them to make them hot for a whole year, only had dowdy old Mrs. Robinson as their role model.

Remember, there was no feminism when this was
taken so she is definitely not a hot 42 year old.  

Yes, we've come a long way baby.  No one smokes in photos anymore.

So What if Big Brother is Watching?

Red light cameras, car speed signs, illegal parking technology - people are really getting riled up these days about the intrusion of Big Brother in their day-to-day lives.  Now, I'm all for liberty and a life free from prying eyes and unreasonable restrictions on personal choices.  Theoretically, I'd really like to be on board with all of this rah-rah individual freedom chanting.  But when it comes down to it, logically and practically - I can't be on your side if you're basically bitching about getting caught doing something you know is wrong.

"I got a red light ticket - friggin' Big Brother all up in my life.  It's not fair.  Leave me alone!"  "Did you go through the red light?"  "Well, yeah but that's not the point!"  "Um, okay."

I'm doing my best to understand people's point of view on this, but it seems as though the complaining is coming from those who have either gotten caught or are concerned about being caught.  That's like when my kids think if they do something they're not supposed to be doing where I can't see them, it should be okay. (“But Mom you weren’t even there when I ate the six cupcakes!” What's the big deal?).  People will raise the issue as though it is on par with something like denying freedom of speech, passionately declaring "aren't you worried about them taking your picture?  your rights as a person?"  Um, no to the former since I don't run red lights or speed in school zones so I don’t see any of these pictures in my future.  Yes to the latter - I'm worried about my right to be driving and not be broadsided by some schmuck zooming through a red light or my kids' right to walk safely by their school.  As for the parking technology, I really applaud that one.  Let the cops go catch dangerous bad guys in person and let some computer figure out when someone is too lazy or their time too important to walk from a block away to get a coffee so they leave their car where it is not supposed to be “just for a minute.” 

 I had a really good reason for parking right below that very visible "no parking any time" sign. 

The spots without the signs were very, very far away from where I wanted to be.

My other favorite anti-light camera argument is how it increases rear-end crashes.  Is that so?  Well maybe the person behind you shouldn't have been planning on running that red light too or just following you so closely in general.  The rear-end is the most avoidable accident on the planet and there is no way I'm letting it be a valid point for anything.

As for the "they're only doing it for the revenue" argument - I say go for it.  I am all for raising revenue from people running red lights, speeding and parking illegally – again, doing things they are not supposed to be doing.  They’re not walking up to random people just taking money.  That would be wrong.   Hell, they raise revenue from me by taxing me for simply living legally in my home in my town.  I’d like them to do less of that income through taxes on regular, law abiding things like owning a home, shopping and just existing and more from this law breaking.  Let it come from someone doing some shit they're not supposed to be doing. If you don’t want to pay for it, don’t do it.  I can't take a dress I like from the store as long as the salespeople aren't looking.  A little thing called an alarm will go off.  Are you against those too?  You really should be if you want to be consistent in your ideology. 

So let's just give all of this freedom loving, rights hugging, revenue is bad bullshit a rest when it comes to technology for traffic violations.  Just admit it - you're pissed your’re going to get caught doing some shit you’re not supposed to be doing.  I don't get it - but my kids probably do.  Of course, they still have time to grow up.

Doilies, White Chairs and the Table of Death: Visiting the In-Laws

Now, before I even get started explaining what it is like to venture out to Big Guy's Dad's house to visit him and his wife (heretofore to be known as the FIL and the FIL's wife - have I mentioned before I stink at nicknames), let me be clear they are nice people and great to the mini-me's.  However, I can't help but make some observations on the quirks of their personalities that always make it such an exciting trip to Queens.  Plus they are most definitely not anywhere on the internet reading anything so this will stay just between us chickens.

The visit always consists of three parts.  The first takes place in the house where we make small talk and the mini-me's open any gifts from the most recent holiday or birthday.  The gifts usually go fine (save one humiliating meltdown from the younger when confronted with clothes and not toys) and they move into a back room to play for a bit (there's a bunch of rocks back there that hold their attention for awhile as they've created a pretend restaurant game with them); the small talk is a little more challenging.  Big Guy talks to his Dad most of the time and I chat with the FIL's wife.  She is a lovely, lovely Peruvian woman who is incredibly sweet to me and the girls, but in all honesty, I really can't understand most of what she is saying.  I feel as though I am just one head nod and an "um hmm" away from unknowingly agreeing to go on a seniors' bus trip to the Poconos for outlet shopping and dinner theater.  In the midst of trying to use my useless years of high school and college Spanish (you'd think I would have retained something, anything) I am warding off offers of food while keeping an eye on the clock in preparation for Part Two of the evening:  going out to dinner.  This is not to be impolite but rather to maintain the delicate balance of just enough hunger to survive a restaurant visit with Mini-me the Younger.  Too hungry, and she melts down at the start of the meal; not hungry enough and she wants nothing to do with sitting at the table during the meal and keeping her occupied is a chore.

We go through restaurant phases.  For a while, we went Chinese (always the same place) while we heard raves about a local Peruvian place which we longed to try and which turned into a bit of a joke.  They were always talking about how great it was and then would take us to the Chinese Place.  Why couldn't we go to the Peruvian Restaurant?  Weren't we good enough?  Was a secret membership required?  Oh, Peruvian restaurant how we longed to visit you.  We finally made it (this took some delicate maneuvering on Big Guy's part) and it was really good.  Which was a good thing, because then that's what we got every time we visited, while we heard about a great Columbian Place.  We finally finagled our way to that one; sadly it is not so great and there are no other raves (I think they might just go to these three places) so we are trying to get back to Peruvian.  It is not easy.  We've been stuck in Columbia for a while now.

But the restaurant selection is the easy part of the restaurant adventure.  Each time we go, Big Guy drives, and being kind and considerate he drops us off in front of the restaurant so the five of us can get a table and sit while he finds the elusive Queens parking spot.  Bullshit he is being kind and considerate.  He is conveniently avoiding the chaos that each and every time is the first 15 minutes in the restaurant.  First the table.  No booth in the front - too noisy.  Not too far in the back either.  Preferably a table for eight even though we are only six to allow plenty of room.  Then the seating.  The mini-me's always want to sit by me (yes, yes it's very sweet, whatever).  But this needs to be accomplished within the confines of the FIL's seating requirements which come out as we try each iteration of the seating chart.  How about this?  No head of the table or middle seat.  Ok, mini-me the elder, move here.  No, he would be facing a giant TV. The wife moves a chair and we now have four chairs on one side and two on the other.  Too crowded for him and and just looks dumb to me.  How about if the younger moves here?  No, need to be next to the wife to share.  How about if I move over here?  Okay.  No wait - TV still in view.  Two more chairs moved.

Finally, we are all seated and the waiter (who has started to come over about 10 times and always backs away as we engage in our awkward dance around the table) comes over to take drink orders. This then entails a few minutes back and forth between me and the FIL as I assure him (as I always do) that we can indeed order a drink for Big Guy and some appetizers as he is hoping (expecting!) that they'll be there waiting for him when he arrives from the trials and tribulations of searching for parking.  Meanwhile I'm pretty sure he has found a parking space and is just biding his time, relaxing and listening to the radio to make sure everyone has settled in. No need to arrive too quickly.

We then return to the House for Part Three of the Evening:  Dessert, coffee and closing remarks n  Sometimes we bring something, sometimes they have something, but in any case it is sweet and filled with sugar.  At which point, let me introduce you to: The Doilies, the White Chairs and the Table of Death.  The children (aged 6 and 10) have now been in a Queens apartment, a restaurant and then back to a Queens apartment for a few hours. They have likely had soda or juice with dinner and now sugar for dessert.  They are searching for activities; making pretend soup with rocks has run its course. The apartment's couches are black leather which is very child friendly but draped over all of them are these delicate, white, hand crocheted lace doilies made and mailed with love from a relative in Peru.  The children like to play with them - pretend they are hats, veils, jackets, magic blankets - oh the creativity, which all involves endless touching and draping all over themselves while I twitch and try to get them to move on to something else (what?  I don't know.)   I'd tell them to come sit back down, but the dining room chairs are made of white fabric.  Yes, white *and* fabric.  Extra bonus points when dessert is chocolate cake with raspberry inside.  The wife keeps saying "eet's okay, eet's ok.  Eet will be fine."   Eet will not be fine.  The law of averages tells me the doilies' days are numbered  (stuffing a chocolate blotched doily into my purse is in my future) and the chairs aren't far behind.  I have nowhere to fit them.

And so we come to the table of death.  It's actually been there lurking the whole visit but as they get more cabin fever, it looms larger.  The table of death consists of two giant triangular slabs of marble on top of each other.

Think two of these, 5 feet long each, on top of each other

But wait, as they say, there's more.   They rotate.  That's right - two slabs of marble with three pointy ends each sitting on top of each other, ready to spin at the touch of a little hand.  Or knee. Or head.  If you spin the top one just right, you have six points of death ready to take out an eye or crush a skull.  Keep in mind, this is in the middle of a small living room in an apartment.  Where two kids are beginning to get cabin fever.

That bus trip to the Poconos is starting to look pretty good. Can we leave now?

Swimsuit Tips for Men

Ah, summer.  The time of year when the days grow longer, the sun shines brighter and the pool and the beach are beckoning.  And we all know what that means - time to don a swimsuit!  I happened to be wearing one upon a lounge chair poolside when I came upon an article in a little local magazine, which sounded like a million other articles I have read, providing me with tips on how to conquer my fear and anxiety and purchase a bathing suit that will flatter my body type and suit my personality.

As I skimmed this article chock full of information on how to look my best as I pranced nearly naked in public, I realized something.  Not once have I seen an article advising men on how to select a swimsuit that will best suit their physique and deepest self.  Since I am sure that anyone with a y chromosome is desperate for this type of information as they surely must be drowning in self-doubt and oozing self-consciousness thanks to the years of people judging them by their looks, I decided to perform a selfless public service and provide some tips on bathing suit shopping for men.

Know your body type.  The law of averages and my eyes on the beach tell me this is probably not yours.  Too harsh?  Try looking at the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue every year.

First of all, let’s just agree off the bat that unless you’re a competitive swimmer or are stepping onstage for a bodybuilding contest, you need to avoid the banana hammock.  Don’t tell me they wear them in Europe.  If you want to bring the banana hammock over the pond, you need to bring paid maternity leave to the table as well.  Then we can talk about what they do in Europe.  The same goes for the boy shorts sported by the man we have chosen to be our sample for what all men should look like.  Here, let me show you a picture of him again.

·         Have a large chest?  No, not like our friend Daniel up above –I’m talking a full-on set of man boobies.  A large t-shirt will work best.  It’s like they tell us women, don’t for a second be ashamed of your body – but in the meantime here’s a cover-up.

·         Love handles bringing you down?  First of all be thankful you have love handles and not a muffin top.  It’s sort of romantic, as opposed to referencing your sex parts or the food you overindulged in or both.  As for your suit, no spandex and no tight fitting or tightly tied Board shorts. Leave those to the professional surfers of the world. Elastic and other loose fitting materials are your friends.  Take it from us ladies – spillover just makes things worse.

·         Big belly swelling you out?  First of all, thank your lucky stars you don’t need maternity swimwear.  For some reason they only make them with giant flowers and ruffles on the lower half and extremely low cut on the top half.    As for slimming tips, you’ll also want to go with loose fitting, elastic waists but you should also add a tank top to the mix.  This will draw the eye to your bulging bicep muscles.

·         Just a little thick through the middle?  For women this means no tankinis so for men I’ll say no belly shirts, tee or tank.  Make sure that bad boy comes a good few inches down from the top of the suit.  You don’t want to be reaching up for something and expose your less than perfect belly.

·         Pear-shaped?   I don’t think this is even a thing for dudes.  I’m going to skip it.  But I will just randomly pop in another picture of some dudes in bathing suits because I would hate for you to forget just what the ladies are looking for.  We want you to get that same pressing sense of motivation we do when we are inundated with bevies of beauties in bikinis. 



·         All-around plus sized?  Women are advised to keep it simple and I would suggest the same for you.  Just say no to flowered shirts and shorts (and most definitely not together).  Women who feel they are on the large side (you know, above a size 4) tend to go with all black.  It’s a little hot in the summer but on the plus side, you may sweat off some water weight and there is no downside to that (well, other than dehydration and the accompanying dangers to your health).

·         Find a suit that suits you perfectly?  Buy several of them in as many colors as possible.  This may not happen again in your lifetime and you should take advantage of this tiny miracle.  Feel free to celebrate with food and drink, but not too much because you want the suit to still fit when you get home.

Remember boys, do not for one second let your concerns about your body stop you from having fun this summer.   Once you have taken my advice to find that perfect swimsuit that hides all of your imperfections, and the cover-up that you can wear whenever you need to leave the blanket for a nano-second, you will feel really, really confident.  Until this walks by you at the beach…

Good luck.