Every so often something will happen that reminds me of how grateful I am not to be out there in the dating pool. Marriage is hard work, but dating was exhausting. I wasn’t very good at it. I could give you a list of reasons why, but frankly I’d rather not rehash it.

Just know that it wasn’t my specialty.

Yesterday before Zumba class, I was standing off to the side of the room minding my own business when an older woman approached and said, “I thought of you today when I got dressed.” I had never spoken to her before, but she was delightfully engaging/borderline rowdy/possibly crazy, which is exactly what I love in a geriatric.

She showed me her cute workout outfit (complete with large hoop earrings — I high-fived her for that one) and I stood there mouth agape as she rattled on about how she has a son who is single. It took me a few minutes to catch on that she meant she has a son who is single and she wanted me to meet him.

“He’s very tall — like 6’5 — and SO handsome. Honey, he’s a catch. Recently divorced, two kids, makes a lot of money. A lot. You should see his home, it’s gorgeous. Let’s see … he’s a very good cook. Almost too good, really. Sometimes you just want to tell him to get out of the kitchen.”

She then grabbed my left hand and said, “You aren’t married, are y— OH, DAMMIT.” She threw her hands up in the air in what I can only describe as disgust, as I assured her that her son won’t have any trouble finding love.

“It sounds like he won’t have a problem finding someone,” I offered.

That is when she looked straight at me and said, “He won’t find anyone, honey. HE’S A MAJOR WOMANIZER.”

Oh … I see. That IS a problem. But thank you anyway for trying to set me up with your whore of a son.

This is my husband.

Robbie has long said that there is no way he could handle more than one woman in his life. The emotional outbursts, the need for discussion, the complicated bodies, the feelings … my husband is not cut out for philandering. This is why I have surrounded him with light.

Real Pants.

Located at www.someecards.com. Because I don't want to get sued.

Located at http://www.someecards.com. Because I don’t want to get sued.

Yesterday, I invited some people over and I thought, you know, maybe I should put on some real pants.

A lady at the gym asked me today what I mean when I say “real” pants. “Aren’t all pants real?” she asked.

Um … no.

“Real pants” are pants that do not contain any stretchy ingredient such as lycra. They don’t have any give. They must be worn a minimum of 6 hours before they fit comfortably, and you fear washing them because they might shrink.

The final and most important characteristic of real pants is that they contain a button closure and a zipper. That is the part that can really just make life suck. I think you know what I mean.

Pajama pants, yoga pants, leggings, tights and adult-sized onesies: these all qualify as not-real pants. They also happen to be what I have been wearing as pants for the past 2 months as I ate my way through the holidays, so you can imagine my disdain today when I pulled out a pair of real pants today and couldn’t button them.

I sadly pulled my tired, old, not-real pants back on until further notice and resolved to eat less and bitch more. Because hungry people are bitchy, yes?

We’ll try the real-pants thing again in a month.

It’s Tuesday.

My husband and I crawled into bed last night like a couple of geriatrics. I’m so sore, I groaned. Me too, he whined. My shins are killing me.

I knew I was sore from a tough exercise class, but what was HE sore from?

Bowling. That’s what. And this is how I looked at him.


I tried to stop the nagging from happening, I really did. But as I laid there in bed thinking about his sore shins, I had a sudden flash-forward of what life will look like when I’m 64 and he is 62, and … it scared the crap out of me.

I jerked my earplugs out and I began to tell him all the reasons why he needs to exercise. I’m sure he was riveted by my tirade, which is why he didn’t respond. Finally, I demanded to know WHY HE REFUSES TO EXERCISE. That is when Robbie Hobbs made the following speech:

“I don’t exercise because it makes me miserable.

It does not make me feel ‘elated.’

It does not make me feel ‘happy.’

All of the things it makes you? It does the opposite for me.

It makes me feel tired, hungry, and sore.

It makes me miserable. THAT IS WHY I DON’T DO IT.”

I explained my fear that a motorized shopping cart is in his future, something I know I am not equipped to handle (because my bedside manner sucks), and he said not to worry because I’m going to end up with Alzheimer’s and I won’t have a clue what’s going on anyway.

And so I put my earplugs back in, and silently worried about that instead.

All About That Bass.

I am so over the self-hate. SO OVER IT.

My body is not perfect. It will never be perfect. I’ve had three children, and I wasn’t exactly bikini-ready before I starting having them. Honestly it’s surprising to me that I can fit into some of the outdated fashions of my pre-pregnancy years, but the clothes don’t look the same. I have to stuff my muffin top down and hoist the girls up and some things don’t zip. Which is fine, because if I wore that thing from 2005 I would look like a mom who just managed to squeeze herself back into her favorite pair of wide-legged jeans, and is that really a good look? I submit no.

I’m active. I can chase kids down. I can pick them up. I can load and unload children, laundry, and groceries. In ways I’m fairly certain that I’m stronger now than I have ever been.

I exercise because it makes me feel better — because when I don’t do it, I start feeling like I need to be medicated. I can drop my kids off for two hours at the gym nursery and be alone with my thoughts in a brightly-lit gym with clanking weights and sweaty strangers, and for now, that’s enough.

Recently I stripped down and informed Robbie to take a good long look, because short of spending a large portion of my day consumed with diet and exercise (unwilling) or getting plastic surgery (unable), it’s not going to get any better than THIS RIGHT HERE. 

I was half-drunk when I made this proclamation and also half-kidding, but it was so empowering that I’ve been telling all my girlfriends they should do it. Like, today. Not when they lose 5 more pounds. Not when their period is over and they aren’t so bloated.


To my surprise (Which kind of makes me sad, because why is it so surprising?) my husband is more than happy with THIS. And then I had this thought: Maybe if I strip down every single day from now until we’re 65, he won’t notice the subtle changes. Maybe he will think I look exactly the same as I did in my early twenties.

Maybe I, along with every musician who ever sang about big butts, am an effing genius.


source: amazon.com

Shouting From The Internet (instead of rooftops).

Today is an important day because I zipped myself into my favorite old pair of jeans without feeling nauseous because they were so tight. They are snug but wearable, and when I realized I got into them without sucking in I ran into the living room and demanded that Robbie take a picture so I could document this blessed event … which I am shouting from the internet because running around my neighborhood yelling, “OH MY GOD MY PANTS FIT!!” in these jeans would be difficult.

I’m self-conscious just like any other woman, and this is a big, exciting milestone.


As soon as I looked in the mirror, I noticed that my stomach still pokes out a lot more than it used to (before I had three children), and instantly thought ahead to the next goal (clothes from forever ago when I first got married). And then I got MAD. Why is it that I’m never completely happy with myself? There is always something else to work on, and I feel like I’ve spent my whole adult life working on something. I need a respite.

Today I just want to revel in the fact that I put on these pants, wore them to Target, and didn’t pass out.


I decided it’s time to let myself be proud of how far I’ve come, and just enjoy it. Tomorrow I can go back to worrying about how I look in a bathing suit when skin tight denim isn’t holding everything in. But as my friend Elizabeth said, and I quote:

“I think this stage of our lives calls for a more forgiving view of ourselves. You have three small children, you manage the majority of your household duties, you take good care of your husband. You need food to fuel you. Exercise is great, too, to help you be strong enough to fulfill your responsibilities and to feel good. But I think the idea that we need to be chiseled and toned at this point in our lives is just silly. Your body is beautiful and it is nurturing people all day, every day.”

Elizabeth is one of my internet friends. I’ve never met her, but I think we might be kindred spirits. She has a way of bringing us all back down to what matters. I wish we could all remember and internalize exactly what she said, because she’s so, so right.

So YES, Elizabeth, I will be forgiving of myself. Today. Next weekend when I’m at the beach, I may need another pep talk.