365 Nights (6 page)

And to think that just minutes before I had walked into the meet with a chair, my sunglasses, and a chilled bottle of Fiji Water, ready to relax and watch my talented offspring compete. Instead, I watched my seasoned swim meet friends sit in chairs, relax, and watch
their
children compete and look knowingly my way, tsk-tsking with sympathy. Poor Charla, she got the bullpen her first time out.

But what doesn't kill you (or cause you to kill others) does make you stronger. Being responsible for the bullpen made me realize some important things. For example, daily intimacy is way easier—and much less stressful—than working the bullpen at a swim meet. This is valuable on the occasional day when I could take or leave sex—days when either work or a long time outside in the heat by the pool causes me to crave sleep over sex. Then I can remind myself that at least I'm not working the bullpen.

I also learned I have severe personal space issues. The mob mentality of seven- and eight-year-old kids as they form a tight circle around you, pressing, pressing, pressing in on you to determine if they're swimming in the butterfly relay and then asking you again, again, and again . . . and yet again if it was lane 4 or 5 . . . well, it's cause for hyperventilation, I tell you. And all kids look alike when they have on a swim cap, goggles, and matching swimsuits. Telling them apart is like telling apart seagulls at the beach—you can't. You can only stay out of their way as they descend on you for food and hope that the poop doesn't land on you. And I learned that my keen sense of humor and sardonic optimism have strict time limits. After approximately two hours—poof!—they are gone and I become cranky and surly. And I am not remotely placated when the “mom in charge” flies by and gives me a squeeze, a smile, and tells me, “You're doing a
fantastic
job.” Which is also further testament to the fact that I did
not
miss my calling to be a second-grade teacher. Not that I ever felt a calling to be a second-grade teacher, but I can now retire for good any thoughts of the sort.

That afternoon I left the swimming pool sweaty, frazzled, and stressed out. Not the vision of my mother at the pool— relaxed, rested, and blissed out. In fact, I later saw photos from the swim meet and I was squinting at this vaguely familiar figure in the background of one . . . Wow, who is that poor woman, I thought. It couldn't possibly be me, now could it? But it was, it was sadly, really me and let me tell you that working the bullpen at a swim meet does not make for an attractive look.

What is it that turned the pool from a place of pleasure and respite into such a spectator sport (and I don't mean a swim meet). Fun, boredom, vanity perhaps? Men do it, too, but women have made an art of it. There is not a more vulnerable part of the poolside day—at least for me—than when my kids whine, “When are you getting in the pool, Mommy? Please get in the pool.” Then I sigh, slip off my cover-up, and plow into the water. At this point, it's good to remind myself that while I'm self-conscious in the water with my kids, my husband is attracted to me. Still.

I'm a bit of a realist about some things (not all, mind you, but some), including body image: You see, I'm a sturdy girl. There, I said it. I know it's true, so don't think I'm fishing for you to tell me I'm not. And I know it's not a good thing. And I could be healthier and I could exercise more, and blah, blah, blah. Weight has been an issue for me since . . . well, let's just say for a long time. I remember walking down a street in Manhattan in my twenties and passing two women discussing bathing suits, and which kind looked good on them. And one said to the other, “Honey, my bikini days are
over
!” And I thought to myself, “Me too, hon, me too.”

In fact, I haven't worn a bikini since the age of five. That was the one summer when my mother dressed us both in matching leopard-print bikinis (she does have fantastic style, remember). After that, I took control of my wardrobe and I knew that leopard -print bikini was my last. It remains a fond memory for my mother, though, perhaps because it was the last time she, too, wore a bikini. Just to test the bikini waters for the last time, I did purchase a bikini in high school—it had a little flouncy bottom and a floral top. I didn't look bad in it, I just didn't look
good
in it. Therefore, it never saw the light of day, or knew the smell of chlorine. I resolved that the one-piece suit was where it was at for me. So it was, so it shall be forever more.

Post-kids, body image gets even worse. Few women can pull off a bikini after pregnancy—our bodies have betrayed us in ways we never thought possible. This they should teach in sex ed class, and the teenagers with the super-fit physiques would run screaming for the woods. I'm talking wrecked belly buttons.

Squishy bellies. Stretch marks. And boobs? Ugh, don't get me started. Sure, there are those who defy the laws of nature and manage to have a taut belly after baby number three, or have boobs that are still perky, and of them I am in awe. I want to
know
their secret. Good genetics? Great personal trainer? Flawless plastic surgeon? Good genes is the one that gets me, because that is just plain unfair. It's like they're getting it for free. Discipline and money? Well, that doesn't seem so bad, because at least they're working for it somehow.

As much as I'd like to think we outgrow this insecurity, not to mention curiosity and competition among ourselves, we don't. My mom, who still looks great in her early sixties, and is living a dream as a snowbird in Florida, aspires to look good during her water aerobics class. And I can assure you, she's got tabs on who's got the goods in the bathing suit department.

I know that men aren't immune to this either; Brad has some body hang-ups, too. He's in fairly decent shape but contends he still spends his pool time sucking in his gut, and wants to scream when a good-looking woman can't take her eyes off his man boobs. “Hey? My eyes are up here!” he's shared with me, only halfway kidding (I think). But he's a sport and he's always splashing in the pool and swimming with the kids—man boobs and all.

Everybody, it seems, has body issues. One girlfriend with curly hair wants straight hair. Girls with curves want to be skinny, and skinny girls want bigger boobs. Hair, lips, eyes, ears, nose, body—we hold ourselves up to that mirror, mirror on the wall waiting to hear that we're the loveliest of all, but every affirmation in the world can't get that nagging voice out of our head that we just don't measure up. This can spill over to relationships, of course, when we get hung up on those issues to the detriment of ourselves, our marriage, and our intimacy. If we feel like we should have sex only in complete darkness because we're hung up about our butt, we're likely to turn down a lot of opportunities to connect with our spouses (and they probably think our tush is just fine anyway).

After all, how many times have you looked at a picture of yourself from ten years ago and thought, “Wow, I looked really good!” and you can't believe you were beating yourself up at the time feeling like a dumpy reject because of some perceived flaw? Does anyone really think, “When I lose ten pounds or get rid of this pooch, I'll want to have sex with my husband”? Let me save you some time, sit-ups and Weight Watchers points, girls,
you won't
. And here is the thing about turning forty or forty-five or even fifty, I've concluded: In some ways my best days of
looking good
are behind me, but my best days of
feeling good
are ahead of me. I am more comfortable with how my life is turning out and I'm happy with most of the decisions I've made, including having daily intimacy with Brad. And this allows me to be more confident in who I am.

Attraction is a mysterious thing—what draws one person to another enough to decide to date or to take the plunge and marry? I think there's something in our genetic wiring that makes us find one person desirable over another. One Friday night, Brad and I went out to dinner and were seated next to another couple. As you do, you notice people and we noticed them. He was very handsome, but she was only marginally pretty. Brad claimed they contradicted the “Law of Twos.” Brad developed the “Law of Twos” many years ago, before we dated, when he was out in the world, surveying the bar scene with his friends. It is based on the premise that everyone rates on an attractiveness scale from one to ten, and that you cannot date or marry someone greater or lesser than two points. If you do? Hello heartache, angst, and disappointment. So a seven can date a nine or a five, but not a four.

True, variables can impact ratings—so an average guy with money might rank higher as might a cute gal with an outstanding sense of humor. Likewise a pretty girl with a horrible attitude might rank a point or two lower than expected, and a vapid stud could fall off the scale completely. Either way, it all balances out—we are attracted to and should pursue folks who fall into our general parameters of attractiveness. So I would say that the guy next to us was an eight, but she was just a five. And Brad and I speculated, and placed tacky odds and assumed that she must have one heck of a personality or that he must be a real dud.

There are plenty of men that I find attractive, but there are few that I'm attracted to—a fact for which my husband is thankful, I'm sure. I bring this up because as I age—getting both older and wiser, I hope—it's an important distinction. I saw this amazing documentary on PBS regarding the human face and the fact that there is a universal definition of outward beauty, which is symmetry. Apparently, people with symmetrical features are unanimously attractive, no matter what ethnicity. Certain specifications apply—the nose has a certain breadth and the chin has a certain shape and so on. Symmetry is harder to come by than you might think.

But what I'm talking about is the total package: Beyond looks, personality of course comes into play in the attraction game. Sometimes attraction comes from an amazing sense of confidence that one is attractive, despite whatever rank on a scale. Back in college, there was a girl named Jenna, who always had guys knocking at her door, mooning over her. My friends and I were flummoxed. How was Jenna getting these guys to fall for her? Don't get me wrong, she was pretty all right . . . and smart . . . and athletic . . . and (gasp) really quite nice. But she wasn't prettier than some of my friends who ended up alone in their dorm room in a pair of sweats with a bag of Cheetos, watching
Knots Landing
. There was not a fraternity cocktail or formal to which Jenna didn't receive at least one invitation (and sometimes two). She was The Perfect Date and was revered by boys and adored by girls.

What was her secret? The Cheetos-eaters were demanding to know. Why her and not us? After many impassioned discussions, we decided it was because she had self-confidence in spades, along with a touch of authentic nonchalance. The fact that she didn't necessarily care that boys were falling all over her made them do just that. She didn't obsess about boys, talk about boys, or seem to think about boys all that much. Better yet, she didn't obsess about herself, talk about herself, or overly focus on herself. She was just as happy to go to the movies with the girls as to go to her third cocktail party that month. Regardless of the company, she was comfortable in her own flawless Ivory Girl skin and it showed. If she could bottle that and sell it, she would be a rich, rich woman.

It seems like just yesterday I was in those college sweats, but alas, there comes a time for us all when we have to acknowledge that the days of pulling our hair into a ponytail, throwing on jeans and a T-shirt, and running out the door without a trace of foundation are over. If that is still all it takes for you, well, then I'm happy not to know you, thanks, but your day will come, too. Now I have to take the time to look presentable . . . my mother would be so pleased. I'm nearly forty and she is
still
making helpful suggestions on clothes, hair, shoes, and overall presentation like “Remember, jeans aren't for everyone, dear.” Clearly I didn't get the memo.

Standards of beauty have changed. When I was an adolescent, we reveled in new technology to make us prettier—like braces, contact lenses, and home perms. And fashion-wise, we all adored our Laura Ashley and Gunne Sax prairie dresses (which were long and billowy and very forgiving). But a whole new world has opened up in what is required for standard grooming, including facial waxing, self-tanners, and hair colorists. In this brave new world, grooming is king (or queen, depending on whom you ask). As my colorist recently asked me: “When are you going to love yourself enough to realize you need your hair colored every six weeks?” I guess I love myself enough to spend as much on my hair as I do on medical premiums . . .

I look at photos of my girlfriends and me from the late eighties and early nineties, and you know what sticks out the most to me? Our eyebrows—literally, they stick out! Nearly every one of us had big, bushy, overgrown eyebrows. This was before waxing and eyebrow grooming became essentials, and we knew no better than the accidental Brooke Shields look. Even my girlfriends who don't have excessive hair still had untamed brows and it showed. So there is a new norm and that norm is not unibrow or spiky brows or brows that leak into your eyeballs. I'm sorry, you can't change that. The new paradigm is well-groomed brows. Even for men.

I can't ignore these new standards. I know that my gray is growing in faster than the speed of light. I know that my eyebrows really do need to be combed, if you can believe it. And as my mother says, I “have to work hard to make my clothes look nice,” which is code for I have to work hard to avoid the forty-year -old frumpy look. It's a huge challenge to have laundered, freshly pressed clothes that look nice and hang well when you're rushing kids off to school, swinging by the store on your way to work, and hoping that folks in your client meeting won't notice you haven't washed your hair since Tuesday. Sometimes I tire of having to take the time (which is still much less time than I spent coiffing during my high school days), but when I'm paying attention, it seems to pay off . . . at least when my mother visits.