Pahhtying below my age..

I walked into the bar with my work colleagues, knowing that my first fatal mistake was being in a bar with work colleagues and my second fatal mistake was getting dressed this morning in clothing that could essentially make an easy transition from work to bowling to taking the T home. I had on a blue tent with khaki capri's and born flats, surrounded by mini skirts and 4 inch heels. Now, given that I haven't been in a bar in, well, lets say 8 years, I was taken aback by the noise, crowd and stench of stale beer. My ears were being continuously assaulted and I realized that with age, they weren't bouncing back.
Walking in, I was met with the harsh stares of twenty something's, I put my head down, continued forward, and tried not to think that I could probably be their mother. Of course, I had a big leather bag that carried my prized work possessions, awkward in comparison to their small coach and vuitton purses. I threw it on the floor in the center of our circle. I realized it was a good thing I sucked it up and colored my hair on Monday.
Talking was awkward and nearly impossible, so I decided to people watch. To my left, a group of 30 somethings, seemingly an after work outing similar to ours. "Sweet child of mine" blasted over the sound system, and the one girl climbed up on the chair and began to swing her hair around and thrust her body against the wall.
"What do you think she does for a living" I yelled to my colleague
"Stripper?" he asked.
I laughed, immediately thinking she was more likely an office manager.
I looked at her hand, noted a wedding band, and figured she probably needed a night out to reassure her she wasn't the stereotype of the old married lady.
She will get over that, I thought.
We stood around and drank. I was bumped into, and for some reason,people felt the need to stand directly behind my back so I was essentially back to back with them. Unaccustomed to the bar acrobatics, I kept trying to move away from strangers touching me. I looked around,and viewed the social scene from a different perspective, but couldnt decide if this was melancholy, or I was just plain bummed that I was well past the age I should be partying in a bar. My beer was kicking in, I was finally kicking back. Our crowd thinned out. I would have left also, but for the promise of a ride home.
Married office manager started dirty dancing again, not sure what song it was this time.
"Get that girl a stripper pole" I announced.
We talked about their dates.
"I thought he was really nice, maybe a second date, but I dont see the point of going out with him more than that"
"When I went on a date with my husband, I didnt want to date anyone else again" I shared.
"Really?" all three left in the bar looked at me.
We started talking relationships, dating, and I finally felt like I had something to offer. Some hindsight, something more than feeling oddly awkward and old.
I was partying again, in my 40's, with tall, thin, attractive people, holding my own. Maybe it was the beer, maybe it was that I didn't care, but it was different.
I understand recently single women and their fear of going out to bars, I know I wouldn't do it again.
But, I finally felt comfortable and I am not sure why.

Facebook

I recently joined Facebook. Last night to be exact, for no reason other than my husband joined. I must say, it invokes just the right amount of narcissim, thinking that peoople actually give a crap about what you have to say or think. Much like blogging, you can share your thoughts, feelings, whatever with anyone you choose, but in a less wordy way.
My new "friends' seem to be actually old friends, and some of my friends kids. I've noticed that I don't feel like so much of an "old lady" yet, welcomed on many levels. It's fun logging on to see who sent me a message or post, waiting for responses from some people I haven't actually spoken with in 10 years. I'm assuming, much like checking Perez, email, VM, it will become yet another job.

The W-Town

Back in the birthday party circuit, we all sat against the wall of the matted judo studio, watching the familiar birthday party routine.
Given the awkward configuration of the benches, we were essentially limited to chatting to the ones seated next to us.
"What school is your son going to?" it seemed to be St. Mary's all around, except for my and another woman's son.
"Oh, but we are going to St. Mary's in the W-Town" a newer mom said. Newer mom meaning that she hadn't often been subjected to this Birthday routine.
"Oooooh, really?" one mom asked.
"How come, do you belong to that church?" another chimed in.
"No, I am getting married and my fiance lives in the W town" she answered.
Orgasms seemingly all around.
"I would LOOOOOVVEE to live there, but who can afford it?" another mom expressed our sentiments exactly.
We all sat quiet for a moment.
I thought to myself, there always must be that one town over, that is seemingly more attractive, school system just a little bit better, and the zip code gives you just a little more respect. It's like your town is pergatury, and you are waiting to get into the gates of what you percieve as land-owners heaven.
I'm not going to lie, we looked there when we were house hunting, but what we could afford, needed so much work, we couldnt afford it.
So we thought, was the zip code really worth it?
It's all in how you look at it, I suppose.

Shoe Envy

On the first warm and sunny day, I decided to bust out of the basement and walk across the train tracks to JP Licks. It was practically Summer, I had no lunch, so a small ice cream seemed to be the right dietary decision.
Busting out of the hospital into the warm sun, I thought for a minute that I should have taken off my lab coat, given that it identified me as a dietitian, especially since I was up to no dietary good. I crossed the tracks, crossed the street, and made my way over to the corner and into the shop. I pondered for a minute, and got my small cone and realized that I had to head back to work. Maybe it was the sunshine, maybe it was the surge of vitamin D from the dual sun conversion and ice cream in my mouth, but I actually stopped when a homeless person started chatting with me.
"Hey, I Looooove those shoes!" She yelled.
I turned around, walked back and stopped.
"Do you know how old these are?" I laughed.
She smiled, "I saw you walkin in and I said, Them are my kinda shoes"
I laughed, looked at her feet fearing that I should give them to her, but realized she was easily a size 8, no match for my size 6.
"Well, Thanks!" I started back.
I didnt tell her that her shoe envy were my pride and joy, 10 year old Joan and David's, retailing for over 150$ at the time, but purchased at the outlet for 50.
God I miss that outlet.
I realized then that quality is quality, I suppose anyone can see that, right?

Evil Girl Scouts

Today starts my new plan for weight loss and getting in shape-ness. Unfortunately, the evil, evil girl scouts vexed my plan. I thought, when I avoided the "free samples" from the pint size marketing geniuses at the mall, I had the last taste of the scout-goodness for roughly another year. I pondered the delicious thought that my friends kids may actually out grow the scouts or find another less calorie dense interest.
Yesterday, at the family party, those cookies I ordered at Christmas so neatly packaged, showed up, ready to be brought home. Now, my nieces had the decency to EAT everyone's cookies so that my sister had none to give. Thank God for those kids, thats for sure. Home I came with 5 boxes, all involving peanutbutter, all involving at least 150 cals per two cookies. No, I didnt order the 100 cal pack cookies they were offering, because frankly, they sucked.
I sit here, eating my fruit bowl knowing those evil freakin pb cookies and carmel dlites (the now PC renamed samoas) would taste much better with my coffee than my strawberries.
I have decided that the girl scouts should have a donation system, where you can buy the cookies, and donate them to some sort of homeless shelter.
This would make much more sense on all levels.

Portable dogs

I have noted a rather alarming trend lately. Every where I go, I seem to see a portable dog. I am sure you are thinking my head must have been under a rock, since images of Paris Hilton with tinkerbell (or a less obese chihuahua) have been gracing the Perez Hilton website for years. But no, these aren't dogs MEANT to be portable, these are dogs that have specific appliances that make them portable.
I was in JC Penney the other day, still looking for that freakin Vitabath, and noted an older woman, lets say early 70's with a Stroller. Now, I knew she was in her early 70's because she had those sweat shirts with the embroidered birds on them, jeans that loosely fit like pants, and Reebok walking sneakers. I think the clothing was this year's Alfred Dunner casual line. The stroller looked oddly shaped so I paused from my vitabath seeking frenzy and peaked in.
It was a dog inside, a cute, white, mop looking dog. She had a DOG Stroller. Now, I am a dog person. I love my dog dearly despite her mischeviousness, but I believe I would not purchase a dog stroller so my dog can shop. I thought, it is what it is and didnt say anything to the woman despite my obvious intrusion so as not to reinforce the behavior. I thought this was just a one time occurrence until I went on a basement cleaning frenzy yesterday and opened the back door.
I saw a couple walking one dog and the husband had a back pack on that looked like it had a child in it. Curiously, I peered over to see the child. It wasnt a child but their other dog, who apparently wasn't walking.
Apparently, if you arent comfortable buying and wheeling a dog carriage, you can just put them in a dog back pack.
I wondered what this young couple will do when they have kids.

The Bishop

Most recently, I was honored to serve as a "sponsor" for confirmation for my friend's son. Being a former catholic, a red flag was raised initially, but the church being the church, made an exception for me because "I was raised catholic and occasionally attend my parent's church". Translated,this really means Baptisms, weddings, First communions and funerals,but I think that is in line with a large percentage of "catholics". The reality is that my friend was formerly protestant and I was formerly catholic and it was essentially an even trade.
"The bishop does NOT shake hands, so please please please, do not try to shake his hand" the peppy confirmational cheerleader said from the stage while we were waiting.Just to remind me of why I left the catholic church, a large, pot belled bishop, appearing somewhat demented presided over the ceremonies. It warmed me to learn that he was also a germophobe.
We filed in, and I had to remember a seemingly extinct confirmational name and try to figure out how I would get my hand up to the 6'3 sponsee's shoulder during the ceremony. Oddly enough responses and gestures flowed from my lips and hands like a pavolovian exercise.
The bishop began his sermon. He was upset about graffiti on a church about an hour away. "Now, these kids were bored so they decided to deface the church. Look at these flowers, they are not bored"
They are not animate, no heart beat. I thought.
"these flowers are joyous" he droned on. I thought about two weeks from now when the joyously un-bored flowers sat on the curb waiting for the garbage truck, all dried out. What will be joyous about them at that point? We looked at each other and laughed a bit.
Now, my sponsee is a pretty cool kid. He is tall, thin and has long-ish hair. Quiet, somewhat an individual. He goes to a catholic school and will openly talk with me about alcohol and drugs, neither which he indulges in, thankfully.
It was our turn and we filed up toward the alter. We stood in front of the Bishop awaiting his blessing.
Unfortunately, the germophobic, demented, pot belled bishop was also Old School.
"Move your hair" he said.
A nervous laugh muffled through the church.
He moved his hair. We walked back to the pew and my friend smiled at me.
The rest of the ceremony, about an hour of it, went on uneventfully. I nudged my sponsee and said,
"You know your mother will want a picture with the bishop"
"Noooo"
"Yeah, now move fast" I said.
We went ahead and got in a somewhat long line.
Finally, it was our turn. I stood on one side of the bishop, careful not to touch him or emulate a handshake, and he stood on the other.
The bishop turned to me and said
"Arent there any decent hair salons in your town"
I thought for a minute and answered, "There are, but he wanted to look like Jesus"
Not thinking twice about why I left the catholic church.