Things That Are True: Do It For The Boobies

This has been on my mind, as of late:

 

So even though I am dealing with The Cold That Will Not Die, there was a bright spot in my overall health picture revealed when I received this letter in the mail today. The mammogram I had two weeks ago came back normal. A bright spot, indeed: when I was 26, my doctor found two lumps in my right breast. The weeks between finding the lumps and getting the ultrasound/mammogram appointment were terrifying. I could think of nothing else; my hand would stray, unbidden, to my breast to try and feel if the lumps had somehow grown in the five minutes since I'd last checked. Ultrasound determined that they were nothing to worry about, and consistent monitoring has reassured me on a regular basis since.

Two of my aunts, one on either side of my family, have survived breast cancer. My cousin was recently diagnosed, has just had surgery, and now begins an exhausting course of chemo and radiation.

In BC, once you turn 40, you don't need to be referred for a screening mammogram. You can just call them up and make your own appointment.

Do it.

Things That Are True - Ruminations Upon Turning Forty

Warning: cringe-inducing earnestness ahead. If you're looking for cynicism, click away. You'll not find it here.

My 40th birthday party - photo by HWSNBN

A month ago today, I turned 40.

I had a half a dozen half-written posts in my head at the time, which have grown to a dozen since. Things I've wanted to say: an update on my Fit by Forty mission, discussions of celebrations, birthday cake for the non-dairy set, clever quips about passing life's milestones, and some Significant Ponderings Upon Reaching Adulthood. It's taken a month for all of that to simmer on the back burner of my mental landscape and bubble over into this:

I'm 40. And I don't care anymore.


Let me clarify: this is not "I don't care anymore, nothing matters and what if it did." I have not been tsunami'd by a rogue wave of apathy. The exact opposite, in fact. I am as passionate, as engaged, and possibly more driven than I've ever been. This is "I know what I know, I love what I love, and I no longer give a damn what other people think."

This, friends and relations, is what freedom feels like.

This is a huge deal for someone like me. I have expended a lot of energy - enough kW hours to make a serious dent in the global energy crisis - being consumed with anxiety about not fitting in, worrying about what to wear, what to say, how to act. I have, more than once, allowed my fear to sink me into utter paralysis. I've not done things I desperately, achingly wanted to do - talk to that guy, write that song, go to that event, try that new scary thing - because of my fear of Getting It Wrong. Sheer will pushed me forward on occasion, but more often than not, I feigned aloofness and pretended what I really wanted didn't matter. I opted out.

No more.

An actual photo I took today just before the scribbling began

As I write this, I'm sitting in a cafe that is much cooler than I am. I put my pen down periodically (yes, I still write with pen and paper occasionally - I like the tactile nature of it) and dip in and out of the stream of conversation around me, capturing vignettes of people's public and private lives. I'm surrounded by 20-something hipsters. I admire their easy confidence, their languid coolness, their uninhibited friendships. And I wonder what I looked like at their age to a 40 year old woman sitting scribbling in a notebook nearby. Did I seem so easy and comfortable in my own skin? Or could she tell I was afraid of looking foolish every waking moment of every day? And are these beautiful younger-than-me men and women plagued by the angst (existential and otherwise) that plagued me at their age?

It feels sudden, this I-don't-give-a-damn liberation, but I'm sure, like everything else, that it's not that simple, that it's been creeping up on me far longer than I've been aware. It's just the introspection of watching a major milestone approach and go past that's made it front-and-centre.

I spent my twenties figuring out who I was in the wake of a disastrous and abusive relationship. What other people thought of me was always top of mind. In my thirties, I had a better poker face, but I was still consumed with how I appeared to others. The things that made me happy - designer clothes, extravagant vacations, expensive restaurants - were still tied up in how other people saw me. If I deconstructed every choice I made in the ten years between 27 and 37, what other people thought was the single most important factor every time.

Motherhood - ah motherhood: paradoxically crisis-of-confidence inducing and magnificently empowering all at once. While the mere act of living my life, examining my mistakes, and choosing better the next time has contributed to this new, giddy sense of freedom, it's motherhood that has triggered a quiet revolution in the way I look at the world. I've always been someone who had to know how to do something perfectly before I would even try it - as a result I didn't try a lot of new things. But becoming a parent isn't something I could know how to do before I actually did it. No matter how many books I read or friends I talk to, every person's experience of parenthood is different, and I can't do anything but figure it out as I go.

And Get It Wrong. Boy, do I get it wrong. I angst. I worry. I fret. It's a struggle, and a challenge, and a different game every day - which would have stopped me in my tracks ten years ago. Even five years ago.

But I keep doing it anyway. Aloofness isn't possible. Opting out simply isn't an option.

The getting it wrong and doing it anyway is a monumental change for me. Learning to be a parent has given me the permission to fail, and the courage to try to fail better next time. To just get over myself, to challenge my own assumptions, to reach out, to share my hopes and dreams in this space, and most importantly to believe that my hopes and dreams do matter. Pretty heady stuff.

Web cam photo taken right this minute

Hi. I'm Alexis.

My hair gets frizzy. My teeth are crooked. I make mistakes. I know what I know, I love what I love, and I stand up for what I believe in. I'm 40. And I don't give a damn.

Can I get a booyah?

Things That Are True - And Now We Are Two

Mere seconds after The Imp first graced us with his presence

The Imp turns one, and there is much rejoicing

Celebrating The Imp's second birthday

How did that little tiny boy who taught me how to be a mom become this big boisterous two year old? 

Oh, the milestones; they are so bittersweet.

What I'm Doing - Fit by Forty: Background

In August I will turn forty.

I'm not freaked out about the number. Forty. Four-tee. 40. Four-oh. Whatever. Doesn't faze me.

Thirty was much harder. Somehow leaving my twenties behind had far more emotional impact on me - in terms of the milestones by which we measure our lives, it was a much bigger deal. There was a lot more taking stock, comparing where I was with where I thought I'd be, thinking about what I'd accomplished and what I'd let slip by. But my thirties have been great. Better than great: I got married, I had a baby, I started writing again. (I have a half-completed BFA in Creative Writing I really must finish one of these days.) In the last year, I started my own business.

As I creep up on forty, I have a much stronger identification of who I am, and what I am about than I ever have before. I am much stronger in my convictions. I feel more confident that the life experiences that have shaped me - the difficult: overcoming alcoholism, recovering from a abusive relationship, and the wonderful: meeting my soulmate, becoming a parent - have made me who I am, and that what I've learned, what I have to share is of value to others. After the insecurities of my twenties and the whirlwind of my thirties, this is a good way to feel. So forty, in and of itself, is not scary; it's just what comes next.

What IS freaking me out, however, is the physical aspect of being firmly ensconced in the land of middle age. (The first person who says the word "cougar" gets a punch to the throat. Just sayin'.) I am 5' 5". When I was thirty, soaking wet I weighed 120 pounds. When I got married, I weighed 115. I looked like this:

And now, well now I don't. Let's just leave it at that.

Let me be clear: this is not just about how I look, although it certainly plays a big role. I haven't been in very good shape for quite a while now. I get winded going up a simple flight of stairs. I don't like that I struggle with the physical demands of parenting a very busy little boy, that my back hurts after carrying him any real distance, and that other minor aches and pains prevent me from being the kind of parent I want to be.

Granted, I'm ten years older. Granted, I had a baby. And my work now is nowhere near as physically demanding as being on my feet on a film set for 90 hours a week. Still, I'm not pleased with my physical condition. I've crept up from a size 2-4, to a 4-6, then an 8. And then into the double digits: a 10. And I can't blame it all on having a baby. I started to gain weight long before The Imp was born. Just a few pounds a year, but it added up. By the time I got pregnant at 37, I was hovering around 135-140. I was the cliche - get married, gain weight. I was literally the person sitting in front of the tv watching The Biggest Loser with a bowl of ice cream on my lap.

The weight I gained during the pregnancy was right in the middle of the healthy range. I stopped looking at the scale the week my weight was higher than the winning female contestant on The Biggest Loser (I was eight months along), but my doctor assured me she would let me know if there was any cause for concern. I struggled a bit with gestational diabetes toward the end of my pregnancy, but easily controlled it with careful eating. And when I was breastfeeding, the weight melted away pretty quickly. My husband said, "Wow, that little boy is LITERALLY sucking the fat right out of you!" By the time The Imp weaned at 13 months, I was down to 140 pounds, right around my pre-pregnancy weight.

But I wasn't very physically active, and I kept eating as if I was still breastfeeding, and slowly over the next eight months I started to put on weight. Five weeks ago, I stepped on the scale and was 149 pounds.

That was just a little too close to 150 for me. I know numbers are supposed to mean nothing, but let's be honest. We all have an ideal number in our heads, and a number that horrifies us. Or spurs us into action. And 150, combined with the upcoming 40, is that number for me.

So Fit by Forty (or for those of you who'd like to follow along on twitter, #fitbyforty) was born.

That's some of the background. Tomorrow I'll post more about the process so far.