Bad Bikini Planning

A few weeks ago I was listening to NPR and they were saying that 30 years ago the mini-series Roots had aired. And I was thinking to myself, wow that is really weird that I remember having watched that when I was just six!

Later that day I realized I wasn’t six when Roots aired. I was nine. But in my mind I’m apparently still 36, despite the reality of my 40th birthday approaching just next week.

It’s funny to think of the things that you thought you would be doing at this age when you were younger. I remember being not even that young–just new to SF and about 25. And I was thinking of the situation that I’d be in when the new millennium came–like what I’d be doing for that New Year’s Eve. And even then–just 15 years ago–I was totally off base. Since I’d be 33 I figured I’d be married and have not one, but somehow I envisioned possibly even being pregnant with a second child–for that big New Year. I thought that my concept of NYE (though I’ve never been a huge fan) would be totally altered by my probable state of soccer-momness.

It turned out I spent that New Year’s Eve at a party at Mike and Lorin’s loft in Brooklyn. I was unmarried and single, wearing a blonde wig and had “tattooed” 2000 on my bicep in black Sharpie. And I spent the evening discoing into the new millennium in a sea of gay men, many who were also similarly clad in wigs. Let’s just say if a soccer mom was there she woulda called the cops (and definitely not sat directly on the toilet seat).

I guess it’s somewhat comforting knowing that time marches on and I’m still my same self. I guess at the age of 40 I am somehow different, in that I am married and I’m a mom. And those concepts that were so unfamiliar to me at one point even when I was living them, don’t seem so weird now. So I guess change does happen.

My Aunt Mary, whose not really an Aunt, is a remarkable woman. She is turning 88 the day before my birthday and the woman is a pistol. She takes care of her 93-year-old sister, she goes out to breakfast and lunch every day with her posse the self-named Morning Glories. She cooks like a homestyle Italian gourmet and is funny and charming and energetic and wonderful with babies and children. She knows dozens of kids songs and little games the words of which I try to remember for even a day after seeing her and I never seem to.

At any rate, I’d called her once for a recipe a few years ago from the car. Mark was driving and I remember thinking that I shouldn’t really get into a long conversation with her, but she started talking to me and I got reeled in. She said she’d been somewhere that day–a restaurant or store–and the guy who worked there must have taken one look at “this little old lady” and starting talking to her like she was deaf and/or retarded. I mean, the woman is sharp as a tack, and her hearing is perfect. She said it was so sad to her, because in her mind she is nowhere near as old as her age belies. She feels the same as she did decades ago–but she’s in this old lady body now–and it’s frustrating making people understand when they get her all wrong.

I’m hopeful that once I’m 40 people at the movie theater won’t be offering me senior citizen discounts. And nothing I’ve felt has come close to the story she told me that day which was so honest and heartfelt. But on some levels I’ve already surprised myself by thinking, “Wow. This is what 40 is like? Who knew?”

When I was working at an agency back in the Internet boom, I was out at a celebratory dinner with a team after launching a website. We were at Buca di Beppo drinking cheap wine and acting like we owned the place. At one point in the revelry some junior HTML developer type asked me how old I was, and when I said 32 he looked at me all boozy and amazed and said, “Wow. What’s that like?” It cracked me up because I knew when he got there he’d realize it wasn’t much different from being 26, or whatever he was. You just live with less roommates and hopefully own a car and can spend money more freely at Target.

On Sunday Mark went for a bike ride and I took Kate to Macy’s so I could find a bathing suit for our upcoming trip to Belize. Upcoming as in, we leave Saturday.

When I was in the dressing room I realized that I haven’t exercised at all in preparation for this trip–as in, in preparation for taking my body out of winter hibernation and into a small piece of nylon. And let’s just say the wrap-around mirrors made it plan to me that that was a tactical error.

There was a time when I didn’t have to think twice about putting on a bathing suit, but it seems I’m at a point where that luxury has passed me by. Ah well. I guess it’s one way to mark the years that have passed. Anyway, back when I didn’t have to worry about these things I wouldn’t be going on a fabulous South American adventure with my incredible husband and child. For what these years have given me, I’m willing to put up with some saddle bags.

Welcome to the Lab

Tonight when I gave Kate a bath I held out the mesh bag o’ bath toys for her to pick a few, and then was overcome by some force of kookiness beyond my control and decided to dump all the bath toys in there at once.

This is probably 15 times the number of toys Kate usually bathes with. I decided to conduct a small experiment. Would this many more toys make the bath that much more fun?

I’m sure you’re at the edge of your seat. It turns out that it was somewhat more fun than our usual bath time, but not because Kate was creating some uber-complex pretend scenario in the tub that involved the integration of all 71 toys. (I counted them while putting them away.) Instead the fun factor seemed upped simply by the fact that Kate reconnected with some toys that apparently were wedged at the bottom of the toy sack and weren’t getting a lot of play. Why knew those plastic turltes held such allure for her? Why, I wondered, had I been denying her them and only selecting the toys each night that I deemed play-with-able.

The bath did seem a good deal more fun for me. Just was kinda funny seeing her sitting amidst a bobbing mass of plastic crap.

But as we all know, an experiment is hardly statistically valid if it’s just conducted once on such a small population as one (even if she is of world-class cuteness and brilliance caliber). Perhaps I can start a trend where parents everywhere throw caution to the wind and dump all the bath toys into the tub at once, then feverishly record their findings and report back to me. I’m not sure what the ultimate result would be, but I’ve no doubt it would be quite powerful.

Please Claim Your Bra

A few weeks ago I was in my car and reached across the seat for something and realized that I’d made a dent in my shirt. In my bra in particular. Further investigation revealed that the bra was clearly huge on me. It was one of those padded-type ones that holds its shape even with no boobies in it, so it was kind of resting there, but you could poke at it and leave an impression. (And people attribute car accidents to cell phones. How many women are out there driving distractedly due to surprisingly large undergarments they discover they’re wearing?)

I knew that my breastfeeding buxomness wasn’t going to last forever—especially since it’s been four months now since I’ve weaned Kate—but this was ridiculous. Had I recently experienced a sudden, dramatic shrinkage that made a bra that fit me perfectly yesterday seem immense today? At this rate I’d be convex by summer.

Later that night while getting ready for bed I looked at the size on the bra and realized why it was so big, or rather, why I seemed so small in it. It wasn’t anywhere near my size. This bra was an imposter! This was not my bra!

So whose was it?

Although I was (thankfully) confident there was no foul play, I couldn’t resist teasing Mark about it. “Your girlfriend is clearly irresponsible—leaving her bra here. What a tramp!”

Mark played along with the concept of an imaginary girlfriend. “Oh yeah,” he said casually. “She’s always leaving that thing everywhere.”

Then I did a mental checklist of the many houseguests we recently had. My father. No, this black lace bra clearly wasn’t his style. My mother-in-law. Didn’t seem likely it was hers, and I don’t even thing she did laundry when she was here. My friend—or frienda, as I like to say—Brenda. “Aha!” I thought, utilizing all my Nancy Drew sleuthiness. Brenda had to be the rightful owner. She fit the bill in terms of bra size, and she’d done laundry while visiting.

I called her. “I’ve got your bra, I think. But if it’s not yours, don’t tell me. I’d rather not have to figure out how it got into my house.”

Of course, the bra sat on my bureau for a couple weeks. The mailroom at my office is in the building across the street and I never seem to muster the energy to make the trek there. And on my days off, jaunts to the post office didn’t seem like a good use of my free time. So one day as Mark was heading out to the office I handed him the bra. “Could you please mail this to Brenda? I’ll email you her address.” I could trust Mark to not be the kind of guy who would wear it on his head through his office.

A few days later I got a voicemail from Brenda who had gotten Mark’s package. “It’s a very pretty bra, but I’m sorry to say it’s not mine. Too small.” (Show off.)

I called her back. “I told you to lie if it wasn’t yours, remember?”

“Maybe it was yours from before you had Kate?” she offered. “You know, before you moved onto nursing bras.”

Huh, I thought. She’s got a point there. Maybe that was the bra that I was so proud to have bought in such a large size towards the end of my pregnancy. Walking home from the store I left about four voicemail messages for friends showing off my new cup size.

Brenda promises to bring the bra back the next time we see each other. In the meantime, a woman’s brown and black reversible jacket has now appeared on our coat rack. Mark’s Mom says it’s not hers, so I’ll have to call Bren again to check in on whether it’s hers. If it’s not, I hope she remembers to lie this time.