The Needle and the Damage Done?

I had to go to the dermatologist last week.  No big deal. 

Now, let me say that this particular dermatologist is also known for her skills in the cosmetic surgery arena - you know, botox, laser peels and restalyne - and I've always figured that when I get ready to start nipping and tucking, she'll be my first stop. 

And I feel pretty good about this but still feel that I'm not quite there yet.  On the other hand, I also think that if you wait until you're 'there' you might be a little too late. 

Still - I've always thought to myself 'Well, maybe next year.'

Lately, though, I've been looking at the lines around my eyes and beginning to think that I may be tipping over into an area where I need to start doing more than thinking about it.  Maybe this is next year.   Maybe I need to schedule a consultation at least. 

So when I went bopping on over there to see about my little rash, I thought maybe it would be a good opportunity to dip my toe into the water. 

Well, darlings, I dipped my toe into an ocean of trepidation and ran out of there like a scalded chicken. 

Don't get me wrong, it wasn't bad.  But as I sat looking around the room at the other (mostly) ladies you could just tell the ones who were there for rashes and the ones who were there to have 20 years of sun damage blasted off of their faces.  And there was a lot of sun damage in that room. 

I felt so strange.  So vain.  So petty.  I'm a serious person, with a serious job.  I'm not one of these women who've spent my days playing tennis and laying by the pool and spending my husband's money (not that there's anything wrong with that... OK, I'm a judgmental bitch... I do have a problem with it). 

But I bought my own damn Louis Vuittons! 

Maybe Monday afternoons are not the time when the single, professional girls hit up the botox clinic.

Maybe they're there for early or late appointments.  Maybe I just need to hit it at a better time to get the unintentional support I crave.  Although what I really crave is dark glasses and the secret entrance.

It's not that I look down on these women - hell, I AM one of them.  This particular doctor is known for her subtle approach and none of these women looked 'overdone'.  But they just looked like they were trying so hard. 

Too much makeup.  Too much perfume.  Too much hairspray. 

And then I look at myself and wonder if I need more makeup and more hairspray. 

I guess what I'm trying to say is that I am struggling with getting older.  I knew - GOD how I knew - how to be 37.  I thought I'd be 37 forever.  I LOVED 37.  I would stay 37.

But I'm almost 45.  That's 5 years less than 50.  And I now know that I cannot be 37 forever.  I also KNOW I don't know how to be 50 (let alone what comes after that). 

I want to look like a good me but not a weirdo.  The problem is that the 'me' that I like is 37 and I have to let that go. 

I see famous women who won't do this.  I mean, I saw Courtney Cox on Anderson Cooper.  Her forehead was frozen and she did not have full control of her lower jaw.  She looked so plastic.  And I don't want to be like her.   I want to age gracefully while continuously looking 10 - 15 years younger than I really am! 

Is that so wrong?

So there it is.  I'm 44 and looking down the barrel of laser peels and restalyne injections and scared shitless. 

The only thing worse than looking old and tired and saggy and gray is looking weird and frozen and pathetic. 

I know this is a ridiculous problem.  There are people out there with real problems and I am not currently one of them.  But I know I can't be the only person out there feeling like this. 

And you know, we haven't had a single girl freakout in a long, long time.....

Etc., Etc.

So -  last Thursday was a day I knew would one day come.

It's a day that you say to yourself "I know it will happen, Lord.... but not today.  OK?"

Well, November 8, 2011 it happened to me.

I need *deep breath* bifocals.....

OK - I'm being a teensy bit dramatic.

I don't need bifocals yet.  But I now have multifocal contacts and the doctor said that if I didn't want them I'd have to pick up some +1.00 'readers' (the lowest available power).

But there's nowhere to go from here but down - ya know?

Now - I'm pretty much functionally blind and have been for a long time.  I've had some type of corrective lens since I was 12.  I'm used to it.

But BIFOCALS?

My doctor tells me that vision issues like this occur because the cornea doesn't stop growing as we age - so it's not a matter of 'degeneration'  - only a matter of reaching a certain age.

Somehow that makes me feel better and worse at the same time. 

So I've decided to buy some sexy glasses.

When the going gets tough, the aging go shopping....

Hi, I'm Tonya. I Ruminate.

So I think I've told y'all before that I am a reformed worrier. 

Seriously, there was a time when I could have won the Olympic Gold Medal for Giant Slalom Worrying.  I was good at it, y'all.

But I hated it.  It made me miserable.  I wanted to change. 

So I set about teaching myself not to worry.  I got some help with it.  Now I don't worry.  And I've gotten really good at not worrying.   

But sometimes - sometimes - I worry.  Although worry is not really the word.  I don't so much worry as I ruminate.  I think there is a difference. 

Last Saturday, Lola almost got hit by a car and killed. 

Scared. Me. To. Death.

We were walking along the sidewalk.  Me, Lola, Finn.  Busy Street - lots of speeding traffic.  The lady across the street was sweeping her front porch and her husband was in the yard. 

The next thing I knew, the lady was screaming bloody murder and I look over there and their Westie had made a break from the house and was coming at us like a speeding bullet.  Right into oncoming traffic - going both ways. 

She was screaming.  I was screaming. 

And the next thing I knew, a car was whizzing by, laying on his horn because Lola was halfway out in the road, making a bee line for the Westie.  I jerked her back just in time. 

Maybe I'm being dramatic.  Maybe it wasn't that bad.  But it scared me.  It happened SO fast - as I suppose tragedies often do. 

But there was no tragedy.  The upshot of this story is that no dogs were injured.  The Bean is fine.  The wayward Westie was snatched up and got swatted on the butt with the broom on his way back into the house.  Finn barely looked up. 

But it's four days later and I'm still ruminating on what might have happened. Every time I look at her all I can think is of how quickly she could have been taken from me. 

This really bothers me. 

I mean, GOD BLESSED ME.  I reacted swiftly, I snatched her back to safety.  I should be rejoicing.  I should be on cloud nine. 

But I'm not.  I'm ruminating and feeling bad because something could have happened. 

Now in my defense, Finn and Lola are my weak spots.  I live in constant, unreasonable and ridiculous fear that something will happen to them. 

Once, in an effort to just stop it, I tried to imagine every ridiculous thing that might happen to them - just to jog myself out of it.  But there was nothing, not even alien invasion or stampeding zebras in Charlotte that I was willing to rule out.  That's how ridiculous I am.  If I'm willing to consider that aliens may invade and kill my corgis, you can imagine how frightening speeding cars can be.

So that's where I am.  Ruminating.  Focused in the wrong place, on the wrong things.  I feel like a failure.  I feel like a sinner.  I feel like God may think I'm ungrateful.  I have prayed about it, but somehow, I still find myself replaying the whole thing and feeling bad about it.  

Perhaps we can never really not worry about those we love most.  I don't have children, I have Finn and Lola and their health and well-being is my responsibility.  I just want them to be safe and well. 

Still, I don't want to ruminate like this.  It serves no purpose. 

So I keep trying to do better - even though I sometimes fall short.   

Please keep your fingers crossed for us.
Image from here.

Procrastinators Anonymous

One of the things that I really dislike about myself is my tendency to procrastinate. 

I know that I do it.  I know that I get stressed out when I do it.  Then I get stressed out.  And I procrastinate.  And the more stressed out I get, the more I procrastinate.  And the more I procrastinate the more stressed out I get.  And that stresses me out even more. 

Damn it.  

*heavy sigh while blowing my bangs out of my face*

It's really bad when you're annoyed with your own self, isn't it? 

I'm trying to cut myself a little break because I really have PMS and I look and feel like I would imagine a three months pregnant water buffalo looks and feels.  

Only with cuter shoes.


I'm just gonna go to bed and start again in the morning....
Image:  Industrial Throwback by Ardent Photography.

Nesting - And Other Coping Mechanisms

I had a morning yesterday.

And I wonder if sometimes I sound smug on this blog - like I know anything or have any insight or have figured anything out. 

Well, if anyone has ever gotten that impression, I'm sorry.  I haven't figured everything out.  Sometimes I think I don't really know anything. 

I mean, I have learned a few things along the way and I try to use them to help me and if possible to help others.

But yesterday I was reminded that my bullshit is still with me.  It's still there, just below the surface waiting to rear it's ugly little head and cause a weight in my chest and a feeling of dread for no good reason.  It will always be there.  Sometimes (maybe even most of the time now) I can make it lie down and be still.  But it's still with me. 

I wanted to draw the shades and snuggle down in my bed and hide from the world.  Of course, this desire was not compatible with my job responsibilities.

*heavy sigh*

So I put my lawyer clothes on and I took deep breaths and I went to my office and I practiced sitting with the uncomfortable.  And eventually, my bullshit did lie down and was still.

But man, while I was getting dressed (at the height of it), I thought "you still just don't know a thing". 

So I hope you've never gone away with the impression that I have some smug belief that my life has arrived anywhere.  I'm still very much on a journey. 

And sometimes the journey is more than a little bumpy.
Image:  Empty Nest by Integrity Studio.

It's the Heat and the Work and the Hullaballoo

Hi.

It's me.

I'm tired, y'all.  So, so tired.

The heat and the house and the house guests and the mountains of work at work have collided and I feel like a wrung out washrag this week.

I'm sorry that the blog has been so sparse.  If it makes any of you feel better, I have all kinds of ideas for blogs, I just have no energy to actually, you know, blog them.

I promise I'll do better next week.

In the meantime, thanks for hanging in here with me. 
Image:  Orange Wish by Abby Blaine.

Close Encounters of the Amphibian Kind

A frog touched my bare foot last night!

Oh!  Ick!  Ugh!

I took Finn and Lola out for their evening stroll at around 9:30.  We go that late for two reasons: It's cool enough that I've got half a shot of getting Finn to at least walk around the block and it's dark enough that I don't have to wear a bra....

As we were walking by some new townhouses that are currently under construction, I saw what I thought was a clod of dirt or something on the side walk.  As I walked by, it jumped at about the same time as my foot moved and it landed on my toes!  Only then did I realize that it was alive!  A frog!  On my toes!!!!  Let this be a cautionary tale of the consequences of choosing flip flops....very little frog protection. 

I did a full body heeby jeeby meltdown right there on the sidewalk, in the dark, in front of God, the Beans and all my (also strolling with hot dogs and perhaps no bra) neighbors!

Eewwwwhhh...

I don't care if it was a cute little frog (or even a prince in disguise) I get full body shivers just thinking about it.
Image:  From Frog to Prince by Malinda Ballesteros Photography.