Sometimes being a woman is the worst.
I’ve had all sorts of crazy symptoms and complaints over the past few years. First from pregnancy: flabby, streaky skin on my tummy; an unfortunate and uncalled for reduction in my breasts (as if my chest wasn’t already small enough!); huge, lumbering saddle bags; stretch marks everywhere; thinning hair, hair loss, and frizzy frizz; severe dry skin on my hands—we’re talking peeling and cracking to the point of pain; the first signs of crows’ feet and horrid luggage bags beneath my eyes; back pain and flashes of the sciatica brought on by my second pregnancy; and don’t even get me started on what the hell is happening with my rippled neck and double chins!
Then there’s the awesomeness that comes with menopause: the worst, extreme fatigue imaginable (the mental strain is far worse than the physical); the raging, never-ending rage; the ocean-deep hopelessness; the flaming hot flashes that pounce out of nowhere and pitch you into some sort of panic attack; the insufferable insomnia. I’m sure right now you’re thinking this is all an exaggeration and that I’m copying an article from The New England Journal of Medicine. Oh, how I wish that were true.
These “issues” are all bad enough, but the worst part is the overall haggardness of the way I look and feel at this point in my life. I don’t know if it’s because I’m “over the hill” now or what, but it’s infuriating and depressing as hell. And it has nothing to do with lack of exercise or my eating habits—I work out on the elliptical every day and load up on fruits and veggies at every meal. I’ve even backed off on a lot of the sugar and alcohol I was consuming throughout this stupid pandemic, although not completely because I don’t trust parents who don’t drink alcohol and generally engage in unhealthy habits to manage their stress (LOL!!).
In any event, I’m writing about this now because of something that happened last night (geez, it took me a long time to get to my point here, but I’ve been up since around 3 a.m. [see aforementioned insomnia] so please excuse my ramblings). My family and I were bored and messing around taking pictures of each other (really, we were working on a special project). OK, fine. The last thing I wanted to do was pose for a picture after a long day of working, writing, cooking, and mothering, but c’est la vie. So, I snapped super cute pics of my kids and a very handsome one of my husband. Then it was my turn. Oh, dear God, people!!!
Now, first let me explain something. Given that we’ve been living under quarantine and my (extremely long) days are spent playing housemaid, kitchen wench, and referee to my loud and rambunctious children, I ain’t walkin’ around looking classy and glamorous, if you know what I’m saying. I’m usually braless, barefoot, and with no makeup; my hair’s always up in a ponytail or bun; and my attire consists of tank tops and mesh shorts. I know, I know, but don’t worry, I plan on sprucing myself up a bit once the cold weather hits—you know, to yoga pants and sweatshirts.
Anyhoo, back to my Glamour photo shoot. My husband took the first shot au naturel (meaning as I had looked all day, not in the nude you naughty reader!). And … GAH. I had flyaway hairs coming out both sides of my head (I guess I was being cleared for takeoff, WTF?!), my skin looked pasty white with splotchy freckles and other imperfections littering the field (this even with a lovely—albeit fading—tan!), my triple chins were living it up for the camera, and then there was my smile. I looked like Chandler in that episode of Friends where he’s struggling to smile nicely for his engagement photos. You know it can’t be good when you’re comparing yourself to Chanandler Bong!!!
The worst part was my hair, though, and the glaring immensity of my forehead. I immediately deleted the picture, pulled my hair down, and asked my husband to retake the photo. He did, of course, and O.M.G. you should have seen the size of my forehead. It was huge and broad and horrifying. What is going?! I immediately started panicking because I’ve read stories about women who wear their hair back all the time and eventually begin to develop a receding hairline. Is that what’s happening to me?!?! Is this going to be the next symptom, the next travesty, that I will be forced to deal with? A receding hairline that leads to baldness?! I realize and appreciate there are way worse problems in this world, but I can’t think of any right now, dammit!
Of course, by this time I was legit freaking out. OMG, I’m going bald. My hairline is receding because it’s always back in a bun and now my forehead is ginormous and I’m going to lose all my hair. So, I tried fixing my mop, moving it over to the side, fluffing it out to give it more body, brushing it toward the front of my face (maybe Cousin It style is the way to go here?!), pulling it back loosely, you name it. Nothing helped. We took the picture two more times before I finally said, “eff it” and threw it back up in a messy bun. Thankfully, this last shot looked somewhat presentable. But oh man did this bother me for the rest of the night … and it’s still tweaking my nerves this morning (obviously).
I know it’s just par for the course but, honestly, aren’t we women—we moms—dealing with enough without having to stress over our looks?! I would never be mistaken for a high-maintenance chick. I don’t get my hair and nails done regularly, I go days in between shaves (my legs, anyways), I rarely wear makeup or contacts anymore, and forget about dressing up. I can’t even remember what it feels like to be “put together.” Do you feel sorry for my husband right now? Yeah, me too.
But you know what? It won’t be like this forever (you can’t see it, but I’m crossing my fingers and toes sooooo tightly). Right now, I’m just a momma trying to make it through another day with her sanity intact. And if that means saving my will and my strength for something other than vanity, then so be it. I clean up pretty well, even at the ripe old age of 42, and when I’m ready to venture out into the “real” world again (clutching a front-row ticket to see Josh, perhaps!), I’ll make the effort. For now, what you see is what you get, like it or not. And I’m OK with that (I think).
I will be wearing my hair a little looser now, though. You know, just in case.