365 Nights (7 page)

So in order for me to present well, I require a daily shower (sometimes two) and aggressive facial waxing. It's no longer “pretty is as pretty does.” It's now “pretty is as good as your Personal Grooming Budget.” (By the way, I am now on a payment plan with my hair colorist.) It's fascinating to look at any “A List” starlet in Hollywood today and realize that this starlet is probably no prettier than most of my girlfriends from college.

She has a lot of cash. She probably has a personal trainer, a personal chef, a personal stylist, a personal yoga instructor, a great plastic surgeon (oh, come on, haven't you noticed?), a personal colorist, a personal esthetician (today's starlets have
no
body hair, I tell you—when did this become mandatory?), a famous hairdresser, and fantastically stylish friends.

Now, based on all that, don't you think she should look slam damn fabulous? And I can name ten girls right now who are “wake up, roll outta bed” prettier than her any day. In fact, we can name a dozen other Hollywood gazillionaire starlets who, thanks to impeccable grooming, have gone from “just aw-right” to “who is that stunning creature?” Gone are the days when gorgeous, genetically gifted creatures like Liz Taylor, Marilyn Monroe, and Grace Kelly got by without personal trainers, all-over body waxing, and a cadre of personal assistants. They had natural beauty. Now such looks can be plucked, squeezed, and styled right into you, and thanks to PhotoShop and soft-focus lenses, even an average girl can be turned into the latest diva, if she gets lucky.

As a result, I have a dirty little secret. Actually, I have many, but this one I'm willing to share. I am a
People
magazine junkie—I actually get it
in the mail
. I can't even pretend it's an impulse purchase in the “10 items or less” lane. I subscribe and pay to receive a weekly fix of Hollywood crack. And many of my friends do, too. Except for my brilliant sister-in-law, the investment banker. She is hard-core, and has graduated from
People
magazine to
Us.
“I just want the dirt on celebs, I don't care about all those feel-good stories about people who lost 200 pounds or save seals for a living.”

People
comes on Saturday and it takes me only twenty minutes to scan my version of crack from cover to cover, but I can track the befores and afters, the breakups and the affairs, the rehabbers and the outright losers. And although the Hollywood lifestyle is not attainable to us plain folk, I am still hooked. Because in the golden days of Hollywood, we were infatuated with an idea of beauty and glamour that we could never have. But today, we are infatuated by the accessibility of that beauty and glamour. Because, if she can look that beautiful after a little waxing, exercising, implants, hair coloring, and teeth whitening, can't I?

So, yeah, sometimes I wonder how I would look in size 6 designer jeans (dare to dream, right?) or whether hair extensions could change my life (and I am most certain they would). But at the end of the day, every day, I am intimate with my husband, and that is most important to my body image. And who knew that would be such a boost? Not me, friends. Knowing that I can connect with my husband in an intimate and meaningful way makes me feel good . . . and him, too, I might add. Because having sexual confidence makes you feel more confident in the world. Who doesn't want to go out into the world knowing that somebody would like to get their groove on with you? So do people who have sex a lot feel sexier? For me, sometimes! Two months into this arrangement, I am happier and more content in my marriage than ever before, and that makes me feel pretty and great.

As I'm soon turning forty, I'm realizing that many things my mother has told me are—gasp—really true. These nuggets include the fact that Mother Nature marches on, and she doesn't slow down for anyone. Not that it matters all that much. Everyone can get plastic surgery—it's no longer for the rich and famous. You can go off to Costa Rica and “spa” with your girlfriends and arrive home looking years younger (after the bruising and swelling go down, of course), or take out a three-year finance plan—just like a car—to fund that Botox and face-lift.

Plastic surgery is
everywhere
—advertisements on TV, on billboards, on every magazine for women. I can't imagine I'll be immune to the pull of “a little work.” I don't need a new chin, or new boobs, or a weirdly stiff forehead. But I might need a little bit here and little nudge there, and who will know? I think that the working mom/stay-at-home debate of my generation is going to morph into the “to have a little work” or “not have a little work” debate as we age. You heard it here first, girls. We're going to have finally sorted through our stuff about how to best raise our kids and then, poof, we're old and wrinkled and we're going to war over plastic surgery—sin or savior? Like before, we'll devour each other until we get it right. There will come a day when plastic surgery is the norm and some poor soul (very possibly me) opts out, and is forever the odd gal out.

Brad claims he will never, ever support me having “a little work.” It's not because he's cheap. Apparently, he likes me just the way I am. On one level, that is very sweet. On the other, very naïve. “What if I look fifty and all my friends look forty because they had work done?” I wail. “Does it really matter how good I look if they've ruined the curve?”

“I don't care what everyone looks like. I married you because I think you're beautiful,” he responds. “Why would I endorse you changing that?”

“Well, because no one can tell the future and I could be quite unbeautiful in my later years. I wouldn't be changing who I am, I would only be doing some slight tweaking. What's so bad about that?”

But Brad can really shut down the debate when he references our daughter. “What will she think if she sees her mother conforming to these bizarre societal standards? What are you teaching her when you care about all that stuff?” I sigh heavily. He's right, I know. I do struggle with raising a daughter in a world that puts such a bizarre premium on outward looks. And I want her to be so bright and fantastically confident that she oozes pretty from the inside. So I do worry about that. But really, do I have to tell her anything, especially if Mommy went on a little spa trip to Costa Rica? After all, the key to “a little work” is that it's so good that no one really knows . . .

Certainly there is something to be said for self-improvement— where do you think this crazy idea of having sex with my husband every day for a year came from? But I am at a place where, paunchy tummy and crow's feet aside, I'm okay with me. This may be a gift of age and experience and being in a great and supportive relationship. Because my husband likes me, too, apparently. While my figure was never my strongest suit, I have a great smile and good hair. And over time I have come to accept my flaws and embrace my strengths. It helps to have a spouse who does the same on my behalf.

So I am Every Gal. And in some ways being Every Gal has been great—I'm an average woman having daily intimacy with the man I have vowed to try to like forever. Sometimes I don't shave my legs; sometimes I have stinky breath. But I'm still hanging in there. So, if this is not a destination, but a journey— there is no time like the present for intimacy. I suspect those unbelievably sexy Victoria's Secret models don't have more sex than the rest of us, so score one for the girls who can't sashay down a runway in front of thirty million people in their underwear and be happy about it. The great thing about sexual intimacy is that it's egalitarian—it transcends class, race, and certainly the high-fashion definition of beauty and attractiveness. There are only two people who have to agree on sexy—in this case, Brad and his wife.

Most of my friends are now off the market and happily married and the rest pretend they're happily married, at least for a few hours on a Friday night. And while there are plenty of attractive people in the bunch, there's no one for whom I'd swap Brad. To some that might sound obsequious, but in reality, it's a bit selfish. Here is a guy who does it for me in the looks department . . . and the brains department, and the integrity department, and the dad department, and so on. And most important, he knows how to be married to me. Is he perfect? Absolutely not. But neither are all the other guys out there that fit my bill of tall, dark, and handsome (all things Brad is, in my book).

I asked Brad about it and hoped he felt the same way about me: “I know plenty of women who are attractive, but none of them offer me anything that I don't already have.”

I'll thank my hair stylist tomorrow for that.

SEPTEMBER

It's Hard to Feel Sexy in a Suburban (But It's Way Better than a Minivan)

I don't even know where to begin with this one.

It's Friday night and we're scheduled to go out. I have strategically placed the kids upstairs to watch a video. Here I am trying, really
trying
, to create some moments that stand out from our standard sex-every-day moments and this is all I get? The disappointment is exacerbated by the fact that we have the most awesome garden tub in our master bathroom. In fact, when we first looked at this house, we were blown away by the indulgent bathroom—double vanity, tiled shower, and a tub
à deux
that sits in the corner. It was a far cry from our teeny master bathroom in our old house (which didn't really qualify as a master bath because it was attached to another bedroom).

This tub is like a small swimming pool, and when we first moved in, we took baths whenever we could and our kids bathed nightly. It was like Spa Muller. While we had visited lots of places with nice bathtubs, we had never
owned
such a spectacular bathing experience. Then we got our first water bill and it was like four hundred bucks! Our waterlogged eyes couldn't believe it when we read the bill, but I guess it makes sense. We were filling a tub the size of a plastic pool from Wal-Mart—and nearly every day. From then on, we went on a tub rationing program. Our kids learned to take showers and we doled out tub time for special occasions and as a reward for good behavior.

So when I was inviting Brad to join me, it was a twofer—we were going out (a regular and always welcome occurence) and I was rewarding myself for a job well done in the domestic goddess department (still kind of a new thing even after two months). After all, I thought I was doing a darn admirable job on our intimacy arrangement by getting the kids all happy and situated upstairs, while I was ready and waiting inside this glorious tub. All this, and some friskiness, too, was lost on Brad.

Later I told him. “You know, I was trying to mix things up a bit with the bath and beer thing. I'm talking two kinds of suds involved. I can't believe you weren't even interested. I mean, can you throw me a bone?”

“Whoops—I totally missed the signals, sweetie.” He grimaced, embarrassed. “I'm sorry. If I had known this was a planned rec activity, I would have been more involved. I guess I'm kinda used to our routine.”

Routines. They're a curse and a blessing.

We had gotten into a lovin' groove—occasionally in the A.M., but nearly always in the P.M. On the weekend, we would mix it into our “getting ready to go out” repertoire. This caused Brad to be a completely charming dinner guest because he was so darned slap happy, and I could grossly overeat and overdrink and nose-dive into a catatonic sleep at the end of the evening, because our little intimacy engagement was behind us. But the bathtub? Clearly, I had thrown him off with a change of venue.

It's September and the early-morning routine is back in high gear: Wake up at dawn, shower, wake up the children, get lunches made, backpacks found, children dressed, teeth brushed, and off to school. As I see my own children hustle off to school and I walk to the end of the driveway to grab the paper, it hits me that I'm the
mom
here. It's not
me
skipping off to school with nary a trouble in the world. Instead, I realize that I have ahead of me years and years of this routine.
Years and years.

It's a whirlwind, but by 7:45, the house is quiet again; I'm frazzled and popping open my second Diet Coke of the morning. I'm taking comfort in that soft fizzing noise and thinking about the old days, when I was a young and single marketing executive, living in the big city. On the weekend, I could sleep in until eleven, eat lunch at three in the afternoon, take
hours
to get dressed for the evening, and then cap it all off by watching cheesy Lifetime movies until the wee hours of the morning. Fast-forward five years . . .