The Invisible Woman

Monday is my birthday. I turn 41. Yawn. Nothing important or milestone-esque about it. Just another year under my ever-tightening belt. I am wondering if this means I am middle-aged now. If you get an average of 80 years or so, I am entering the second half, right?

I hear what you're saying, "it sure beats the alternative," and I agree. But it's on my mind just the same. Sure, some things are better now that I'm older, but none of them have to do with my body or appearance. My relationship with my mother is better, and this is no small thing. My level of confidence in myself to "get shit done" is better. I can always get shit done, and well, when I need to. I have a beautiful family, a devoted husband, lots of friends, a warm and safe home, blah blah blah. And I'm thankful, really. (I want to be sure that, if there is a G-d, he hears me say I'm thankful. Because it's widely accepted among Jews that if you are not appropriately thankful for your blessings in life, they will promptly disappear.)

Now comes the part where I start complaining. (It's also widely accepted among Jews that if you stop complaining for even one second, G-d will give you something new to complain about.) I am turning into an invisible woman, i.e. I am no longer hot. There was a time, long ago, when I would walk down the city streets and have all kinds of dudes check me out. All colors, ages, shapes, sizes. I know that some women don't like this, but I found it empowering. I would think, "that's right, *sshole, check out what you are never going to have." I will confess to you that my self-esteem got a little boost every time I heard a whistle or obscene proposition. (I used to live in NYC, and my female coworkers and I regularly had a contest for who heard the most creative lewdness on her way to work that day.) I ignored each and every come-on, but then went right ahead and tucked that energy boost into my back pocket. I'm sure this is shallow of me, and I admit it only under the shroud of blog secrecy, but I dug it. It gave me a little charge. And as my coworkers and I would frequently state: "Just because a man is filthy, homeless, schizophrenic, and a junkie doesn't mean he can't appreciate a good-looking woman."

Lately, however, these looks are fewer and farther between. I delivered two babies, after the age of 35, and I think we all know the kind of collateral damage that entails. I have no time for pedicures, facials, or any of the other maintenance that used to be a regular part of my routine. I rarely have time to exercise. Dinner usually consists of whatever does not get eaten by the shorties. If I am walking with my sons, there is the occasional look of "you're not bad for an old broad with two kids." But when I'm alone, on my way to work, nothin' doin.' I am now just another of the nameless, faceless schlub women strolling the streets.

Am I the only one out there mourning the death of her hotness? Is this what drives women to Botox or lipo or The Mommy Makeover? I know the Huz has no problem with the way I look, so it's not about that. It's the changing identity that I'm struggling with. Anybody else out there feeling the same way?

The same kimono
the top geishas are wearing:
got it at Loehmann's