I Thought Being An Adult Would Be More Fun

I’ve been in another fit of what Anne Shirley would bemoan “The Depths of Despair”, not to be confused with The Princess Bride’s “The Pit of Despair”. They’re both dramatic places to be but one involves torture by albinos, and the other just involves moaning. And possibly hair dye.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I have a feeling it’s hormones. I mean, I’m not going through THE CHANGE or anything (that’s a reference to menopause and not lycanthropy), I’m just…moody. I just thought….I don’t know….I guess I thought that grown-up life would be different. I thought…I thought I’d have more fun. More friends. More potlucks.

I envisioned my life at forty as something like the Ya Ya Sisterhood or something. You know, hanging out with my girlfriends, wearing vintage swimsuits, drinking margaritas and stuff while our kids run around and our husbands try to feel us up in the kitchen.

Ya Ya


But, I don’t have a group of friends, nor do I own a vintage swimsuit, and my kids are at their bio dad’s half the time. Sometimes I get felt up in the kitchen, which is nice, but…it’s just not what I envisioned.

I’ve tried to make friends with different women lately, and I pretty much came off as drunk and desperate, mostly because I was drunk and desperate.

I’ve given up. I’ve given up on asking people over to play games and eat food, of trying to maintain friendships, and I’m realizing that life isn’t like the movies. THAT’S WHY THERE ARE MOVIES.

So there’s that.

Then there’s that I’ve sent out 50 query letters on “Popsicle Toes” and not one agent has asked to see the manuscript. I never heard back from the agent who asked for it back in April. And I’m telling you, this memoir is GOOD. It’s raw and vulnerable and awkward and real, because it’s pretty much me. On paper.

And then I was meeting with a nice writer fellow and having so much fun talking about writing again and critiquing and being critiqued, but he’s moving now, so I put up a somewhat sad and desperate personal ad on Facebook looking for a new writer group, and I got nothing on that too.

I’m like the reverse of Sally Field’s infamous acceptance speech. “No one likes me! No one really likes me!”


Sometimes I get really sick of living in my own head. I’m very glad that Kealoha likes me and likes hanging out with me. Maybe I can get him to put on a vintage bathing suit and I can pretend we’re girlfriends.

Actually, that’s a horrible idea. I’m now firmly creeped out, which I guess is better than being in the Depths of Despair.

I’m Pretty Sure I’m Turning Into A WereCougar

Mrs. Robinson, the original Cougar.

A strange thing has been happening to me. Stranger than the ever expanding/drifting size of my ass, and my vain attempt to lose weight even though I’m eating better and walking 12-15 miles a week. I’m starting to be okay with my shape and…dare I say it…I’m starting to flaunt it a little.


Maybe it’s that I turn 40 next month, and there has to be a time when you stop hating yourself and just say “Fuck it. THIS is who I am. THIS is my body, this is my hair and skin and breasts, THIS is what I’ve got, and I’m going to stop beating myself up for not being a size 6 anymore.”


It slowly dawned on me that every time I eat, I feel guilty. Not just guilty, but APOLOGETIC. And ASHAMED. And that’s awful. I feel guilty every time I look in the mirror and I see size 12 me, instead of size 8 me. The truth is, I was only a size 8 when I was 16, and then again when I was in a marriage that didn’t fit me. A relationship so constricting, that I lost weight to slip away from it. I stayed thin for a while afterwards, but it wasn’t a happy-thin. It was a I’m-desperately-trying-to-get-my-life-together thin, and that ain’t sexy.


So. I’ve got a butt now. And a rack. And I’ve started wearing pretty frilly little outfits to bed, and just in general. I mean, how can you feel sexy when you’re wearing huge cotton undies? You can’t! You can, however, feel that farting is okay in public while wearing enormous cotton panties, because, why not. You’ve already crossed a line. (I speak from experience.)


I bought new clothes that fit THIS body, and not the body I think I should have. I bought some cute swingy skirts, and fitted shirts. Some jeans that hug the curves I have. New bras that lift me up a little bit further. (This may be too much detail for some of the fellas that read my blog. Sorry, brother.)


At any rate…I’m trying to change my mindset and it’s just possible that I may have succeeded in transforming myself into a WereCougar. I’m not going to go after college boys or anything, I mean, I’m very happily married (nod to Kealoha)…but I may randomly start sashaying or purring or something. I’m just tired of being so hard on myself and feeling bad about enjoying good food and good company and good living. It’s just stupid.


Bring on the pretty clothes and soft fabrics and girly, sexy underthings. I figure that at almost-forty, I deserve to celebrate.