“You have a hair!” he shrieked. From his tone of voice, one might have thought he’d seen a zombie from ‘Night of the Living Dead’ heading right for him. “You have a hair!” he repeated vehemently, as if I were hearing-aid dependent. “Growing out of your face. Right there!”
I was wounded by his obvious dislike of the hair so I paused before answering to give the moment a bit of drama. “Well thank you for informing me,” I uttered in a less-than-thankful tone “I’ll pluck it.” He nodded in a manner suggesting that sooner would be preferable to later.
While digging through my make-up bag in search of the tweezers, I began to ponder the conversation of a moment ago. Why was I so put out when my husband drew attention to the coarse, black, ugly hair that had sprouted forth, full grown, from my face? At least it wasn’t gray and curly too. But it was quite long and had mysteriously sprouted sometime between breakfast and the cocktail hour. (How is such a thing possible?)
I will never be thin enough to please my husband. He wants me to look like the bony, anorexic women who prance across the screen of our Plasma he watches, 8 hours a day. (It’s like he thinks it’s his second job.) When I point out that he’s comparing me — a real, three-dimensional-flesh-and-blood woman — to the impossible standard the media has brainwashed him with, he dismisses my idea completely.
Is he kidding or am I married to a man who’s really that stupid and shallow?
He devours hour upon hour of programming that features perfectly lit, digitally enhanced, starved, young bodies that have been painted, polished and coifed to within an inch of their lives and then when he looks at me he thinks, "What is wrong with this picture?" He can deny it all day long, but the shocked expression on his face is a dead giveaway and though he’d never admit it out loud, deep down I know he believes that if I were as thin and beautiful as his two-dimensional dream-dates, his life would be perfect.
Let's talk about weight, shall we? Yeah, yeah, we're all writing and commenting and visiting this wonderfully supportive site, and we're sharing our thoughts, fears, concerns, hopes and dreams. But what about our bodies?
What wonderful changes can you expect when you move beyond divorce? Hmmm, let's see. Depends, really. Some women who become depressed stop eating altogether. Some eat constantly. Some drink. Some go searching for random acts of sexual contact. I did a bit of drinking the first year, and that coupled with fast food, as I was sad and unwilling to cook (which I think is a happy act) allowed my body to find new mass.
Lovely. Weight gain. My favorite thing. Yours, too, I just bet.
But rather than dwelling on the negative right off the bat, let's start, instead, with the positive. As a 50-year-old woman, a little extra fat in the face makes Botox something completely unnecessary. So, think of it as a free face lift compliments of Ritz crackers, squirt cheese and Tabasco olives, French fries, and sweet tea by the gallons.
I have noticed that in reading the blogs, many times the words tired, depressed, not sleeping and other words describing our physical health are mentioned. So, I thought I would share a few thoughts about nutrition, and supplements.
I am not a nurse, doctor, or nutritionist. I am and have been aware of my health, and for years I have actively read and participated in a good diet, and nutritional supplements. I am gluten free because I have allergies and food allergies, I also am lactose intolerant, and have issues with chocolate, and most nuts, soy, and msg.
I live in N.J. where the winters are gloomy. I started taking vitaminD and it quickly helped to uplift my mood. I also added a B complex with a stress reliever. When we are under stress (like going through divorce) the body creates a cortisone that causes the body to hold onto fat. Exercise also helps to block this process.
I admit it. Some days, my life is a complete mess — and I mean literally.
My house is littered with toys. My home-cooked meals are usually warmed-up leftovers. My laundry baskets overflow. The cats are shedding like mad, and the floors need vacuuming. I'd mention the windows, but they're more like sun filters right now, what with all the residue the outside elements have left on them.
I need a babysitter, a break, and a drink.
Needs aside, my biggest priority has been keeping up appearances that I'm a Good Mother. I've had a few comments from people lately, jokes about how it's hard to walk across the floor or comments about it being 8 pm and how could I possibly just be sitting down to supper?
For all you people that believe single moms have to be Superwoman, read this: I don't care what you think any more.
Here I am, working like a devil to make ends meet so I can pay the bills and have some leftover. I'm coping with dealing with a teen and a toddler at the same time. I'm desperately trying to hang onto a relationship I actually left, and I'm working very hard not to regret having done so.
I freely admit that this is not my own story. It's my nanny's story, but it's so good that I couldn't help but pass it along.
Linda had been married for about 10 years, suffering from numerous health problems and their resulting fertility issues. She lived in a place where the services of a fertility specialist were not free like they are in Canada, so Linda and her husband had to save up for a long time to see a doctor. They both worked extra hours and picked up occasional second jobs to pay for the privilege of maybe getting pregnant.
After eight months of trying, they decided to give the whole thing a break for a while to give Linda's body the chance to recuperate. One day, Linda's fertility specialist called her in for an appointment on her own. Without a clue what could possibly require a solo visit, Linda dutifully went along.
When she arrived, she noticed the doctor was pregnant. When she congratulated her on her pregnancy, there was an awkward silence. It turned out the baby was Linda's husband's. The doctor didn't like being the bearer of bad news, but Linda's husband would be leaving her and marrying the doctor instead.
The decision to leave a marriage is always hard and in Amy's case, it was no different. Amy realized that she had stifled parts of her personality for so long that she didn't know who she was anymore.
