I see you sizing me up in the grocery store, you sweet young thing.

You may not be able to place this feeling quite yet, but I’ll give it a name for you.


I didn’t get this way overnight you know. Turning into a late-40’s goddess takes time and dedication.

A willingness to forgo exercise for vanilla scones and a Venti mocha.

To leave the lip gloss at home when grocery shopping.

To skip the nail salon/spa facial/tooth whitening in favor of buying a yearbook for your kid.

Time to accept reality and finally be comfortable in my own skin.

Skin that’s not only soft, but supple. Actually the dimply fat accumulating underneath is what’s supple. I feel soft and squishy when you hug me. And this nice little curve of belly that the lady hormones have created is going to be the next big thing.

An accessory coveted by the younger crowd. Not available in stores.

And while my legs and butt may be somewhat thin, there’s a certain softness that descends upon middle-aged women that you might not see when you look at me in the grocery store checkout line.

But it allows me to sit for hours on end without pain. To double-check algebra homework, play Monopoly on a rainy day, comfort a sick child, drive the carpool, or just be plain old lazy do some writing.

You pay big money every month for those highlights to accent the colors in your hair. Or bring in new colors not found in nature.

My highlights are silver and shiny, quite possibly the color of angel’s wings. They grow in a neatly-organized rows at my roots without fail every four to six weeks.

Little soldiers in the war that age is waging on my scalp.

When I’m not too lazy (or too cheap), I call in the troops and temporarily render my natural highlights a brownish-red.

But I see you eyeing them now, wishing they were yours.

Someday, young one.

And these wrinkles? Each and every one earned with a laugh or a funny story; countless sleepless nights with a sick baby; crying over a loved one lost.

You may want them, but they’re mine. You will earn your own in time.

I may not be on Gossip Girl or the cover of People Style Watch, but when I walk through my own front door?

I’m a Super Model.

People fall at my feet, begging for autographs. Or maybe they’re begging for a home-cooked meal and a signature on their homework packet.

No matter; I am beautiful as I glide effortlessly through my home tending to the masses and changing lives as I adjust my tiara.

Hubs treats me like I’m Cindy Crawford. He can’t see the spider veins, wrinkles, gray hair, or floppy arms. So I soak up the attention and give it right back.

Because it’s like I’m the star in my own reality show.

I’m finally comfortable in my own skin.

Sure, it doesn’t stretch quite the way it used to. It dimples, sags, and puckers.

But I’ve found that my life’s purpose goes way beyond skin deep. Beyond the clothes I wear or the flash of my whiter-than-white teeth.

Deeper still, inside my heart, where maybe only my family can see the real me.

And I’m beautiful.

Forward My Mail

We just got back from our end-of-the-summer family camping trip, which was PERFECT. There are so many things about camping that are awesome, but many things don’t always go as planned. If you camp, you know what I mean.

So the fact that this trip was absolutely perfect has made me decide to move.

Why I am Moving to the Campground
  • Makeup is totally optional when you are camping. Not only is it optional, but it would be just plain silly. Dirt is a perfect alternative to foundation, and with your sunglasses on all day nobody would care if you used mascara or not.
  • You don’t have to clean the toilet. Yeah, outhouses are a bit stinky, but I can hold my breath for a minute or two if it means I don’t have to clean it.
  • Mopping and dusting would be a thing of the past.
  • The dog is dirty? Doesn’t matter. Go swim in the lake; problem solved.
  • Kids are dirty? See comment about the dog; problem solved.
  • Bedtime becomes a welcome thing for the kids, who are exhausted from hiking and being outside 24/7.  The campfire dies down, and so do the kids. Before 11pm.
  • It just doesn’t matter what time it is when you are camping. If you are hungry, it must be lunch time. Tired? Time to sleep.
  • Food has to be pretty simple when you are camping, so I don’t have to worry about emulating Martha or Rachel Ray. In fact, I think research has proven that any food prepared and consumed at a campground just tastes better. Even if I made it.
  • Clothing is not expected to be stylish. In fact, I think if you are too stylishly dressed at the campground, the others may swarm around you in disgust, forcing you to change into that faded yellow sweatshirt you stole from your aunt and the thick socks that look like you stole them from a dead lumberjack.
  • The absolute lack of technology. We had no phone service, no Wi-Fi, no cable, nothing. We actually had conversations and laughs, some good Facetime instead of Facebook.
  • Manicures and pedicures are not required at the campground. It would actually be a bad idea to even arrive with nice nails, since within an hour your feet will resemble something from prehistoric times.
  • No more making beds in the morning!
  • True, there are dishes to be washed, but burning the paper dinner plates is cathartic. Really.

So forward my mail, hold my calls, and sorry if I miss a few blog posts.

I’ll be back when I run out of clean undies.