I just finished watching the movie "Julie and Julia" and for the first time in a long time (think 2008) actually remember why blogging is essential for my expression. What a great movie and a sweet reminder that for some of us, writing is what ensures we maintain a firm grip on our identity. Rather than wax too poetic, let it just be said that I've had words bottling up in me ever since moving to Vegas two years ago and the bottle has finally spilled over. So after tossing in bed for about an hour, I had to get up and post back on ye old blog. There's no way I can play catch up. Just imagine the same old me, except with rock hard callused fingers from sewing thousands of stuffed animals since January 2007. Oh, and I found some grey hair last year. On my head.
The grey hair thing was fun at first. I've worked hard, played hard, and been up way too many late nights with deadlines so I was proud of the grey. The badge of a good woman who has done her share of work. My three year old has repeatedly offered to pull out the new hairs but I can't let her. I just have worked too hard for them. I'd always thought the signs of age can be beautiful and admired the older women around me who don't try to hide their years. But that was before I began noticing the wrinkles around my mouth. The stringiness of my neck. The furrow that somehow isn't smoothing out of my brow. While aging can certainly be respected, it's hard when it's literally on your face.
We had some extra airline miles and got one of those offers to redeem your miles for magazines. The magazine choices were limited but I ticked off the Vogue box among many others. I got my first copy two weeks ago. I haven't looked at a fashion magazine since high school and 15 years gives me a whole new perspective on the genre. I was suddenly and ferociously interested in reading the anti-wrinkle cream ads. Of holding the magazine under bright lights so I could detect photo shopping on Cate Blanchette's up close photo shoot. One page was hastily ripped from the magazine and tucked in my purse to give me an idea of a younger looking hairstyle I could try to make me look "hip."
When I hadn't been able to walk by a mirror for a week without pulling my skin back to see what a facelift could do for me, I realized what had happened. The magazine went into the recycle bin (I'm sorry to the 1,000 trees that went into the making of that massive piece of crap) and I called to cancel the subscription. Any publication that makes me sad to be me can't live in my home.
Side Note - I also ordered Spike the ESPN magazine from the same offer. It arrived with a Godly muscled baseball player in a lunging stance on the cover. No sign of Spike wanting to take up pro sports or steroids yet. I'll keep my eye on him.
So back to my mid life crisis. For now, it is averted. My contact lens prescription is a bit out of date, so rather than get a new one, I'll just keep the face in the mirror fuzzy. Sort of like those old movies where every time the leading lady was on screen, they'd rub vasoline on the camera lens to give her a heavenly glow. I plan on carrying on as a modern Elizabeth Taylor (minus 7 of the husbands) and keeping my chin up, no matter how far down it stretches. I, Hollywood, am after all only 31 years old, and not a bit dramatic. Bring on the grey.