Age Ain’t Nothing but a Number? Well…

A couple months ago we went to a gala for the YoungArts Foundation, which supports young artists. My girl Esther wanted me to meet one kid – a dancer from Sarasota. She said, “there he is”. I realize I must’ve blacked out for a moment, because the next thing I knew my husband was shaking me so I’d stop doing the Running Man. This high-topped fade, decorated denim wearer literally looked like he just walked out of 1990. Chubb Rock Jumped upon the scene.

So hi-top fades are back in. But I, am not. I am old. Not OLD old where I’m walking down the Depends aisle instead of tampons, but old enough where getting carded is just patronizing. Old enough where little nymph bitches mistake me for my kid’s grandmother (ok that only happened once but still). Old enough to remember the first time the fade was in (though actually I guess that was the second or third).

I have a cousin. He’s a phenomenal DJ, still does parties on the regular. He told me to save the date for his 50th birthday party. 5-0!!! And he’s still djing, still the hottest. So while I’m old, I’m not old enough to not be cool, and I’m not old enough for homeless men not to hit on me before asking for money. It just takes a little more work, and by work I mean giving all and none of the fucks.

Giving ATF (All THE FUCKS)
I had a physical recently. My overall cholesterol number was high, but my good-to-bad ratio is phenomenal (the fact that I even know this shows I’m old). Still it needs to be lower. I’m too much of a hypochondriac to have anything that gives me “legitimate” reason to believe every arm pain is a heart attack. My blood sugar was also slightly out of range. This definitely needs to come down because I’m not playing with The Sugar.

I also drink. We go out so frequently, and there’s a magical thing that happens at dinners – you’re wine glass never empties. I mean never. And the food matches the wine. Too much, too rich. Just too too.

Here’s an exercise plan I found for women over 45: 30 minutes moderate cardio 5 days a week, 20 minutes strength training 2 days a week, HIIT workout 15 minutes 2 days a week, 30 minutes yoga 4 days a week. So basically you can’t do anything but workout and not eat anything that has a grain of flour in it. I’m working on this. Tennis, gym, trying to get more yoga in because tennis and the gym now leave me stiff as a (grand)mutha’.

Food. The Joan to my Bette, the Fredo to my Michael. I want all the pasta, all the cheese. All the time. And the wine. But, in order to lose weight, keep inflammation down (another thing you know when you’re old) you pretty much can only eat things that grow and swim, and not a lot of those. So, I’m making snacks that are laden with veg and low carb fiber. I freeze and eat, so I don’t dip into the abyss. I’m also eating with the kid by 6, 6:30, instead of after 8. The only issue with this is that I then want to eat every damn thing at 10. So I’m working on late night snacks that won’t wreck me. I’ve also had to decide before going out what I’m having. I can have the hors d’ouerves, the carbs at dinner or the dessert, but not all. I’m only allowing one repour during dinner, and not having a glass at home the day after a night out.

Vitamins. I take a gang. My doctor told me extra Vitamin D is helpful if your alcohol intake is not low (I know I’ve mentioned this a few times. I’m not an alcoholic, but I am honest), so I take 4000mg. I take a probiotic and magnesium every morning right after I wake up. I still take prenatal vitamins for the folic acid. An omega (a million benefits) black currant oil (hair loss), calcium, and vitamin c. I split the dosage so I take half after breakfast and half after dinner. I literally split the vitamins in half. I may add lycopene.

There. That’s me giving all the Fucks. And who knows, maybe, like Nas and Jay-Z we’ll one day figure out how to be cool.

Giving NOTF (NONE OF THE FUCKS)
Stress and anxiety are my constant companions. I nurture them, feed them, watch them grow. In return, they make me paranoid that there is something alarmingly wrong with me and my kid. All the time.

Three years ago when I went through one of the toughest times of my adult life (still getting over it), my therapist talked at length about the benefits of meditation. I’d already been trying to make it a regular practice, but with her push I started doing it daily. And magically, I was able to cope. Not just cope but grow and become a better version of myself. One that didn’t give as many fucks about what was out of my control.

I’m also working on giving NOTFs to women I obsess over being prettier, wealthier, smarter, thinner, etc. There is no time for that bullshit, for real. I am here; I am educated; I have worked hard and had relative success throughout my adult life; I have a great kid, and a great husband (as far as those go); We have a home, we travel, we have friends. That ain’t bad.

Any extra fucks I have really need to be reserved for coping with the mess our country is in, my kid and family and those listed above. At this point I am not in competition with anyone. No one.

So I may be old. I may be stiffer, more tired, more forgetful, thicker in the middle and in the throws of perimenopause (of which there’s not autocorrect for, no one cares about old women), but I’m some great things too, and I’m cool with that as long as I do me as best I can. Later this week I’ll post some of the recipes I’m working on but for now I’ll leave you with the words of Gloria Gaynor:

I am, I am, good
I am, I am, strong
I am, I am somebody
I am I do belong
I am, I am, good
I am, I am, strong
I am, I am somebody
I am I do belong
I am, I am, useful
I am, I am true
I am, I am worthy
I am as good as you
I am, I am, useful
I am, I am true
I am, I am worthy
I am as good as you

 

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