The Bloom Project is still on

My Grandma Marge always said, “Getting old is Hell.” Thanks, Grandma!  Something to look forward to!  It made me sad and scared to become an adult, since it was clearly something hateful and horrible.

I am not at the “getting old is hell” point, but I am starting to become bitter about aging, and if I don’t nip it in the bud, I will become like Grandma Marge.

I find myself spitting contemptuous remarks about young celebrity women, especially the ones my husband admires (read: all of them).  There is a line in the movie “Love and Sex” starring Famke Jansen and Jon Favreau where he tells her she’s afraid of becoming invisible because men her age are starting to look at younger women.  It really is shockingly uncomfortable to me that I have passed the age where men look at me.  Especially with a daughter on my hip.  The best I can aspire to is to be a MILF.  An expression which is, frankly, insulting and vulgar.

So I go back to The Bloom Project idea and think of my friend “Jane” who is recently divorced and being asked out by 24 year olds.  Not that she wants to date 24 year olds who work in video stores, but it has to be somewhat flattering, since she is in her mid thirties and has a 5 year old.

The truth is, it’s not because I’m 38 that men don’t look at me.  It’s because I don’t dress nice, I don’t wear make up most of the time, and I’m 35 pounds overweight.  All of this I can change.  I can lose the weight, I can fix myself up, I can buy new clothes.

This woman is the same age as me, so....

Here is where I feel I must defend myself, because it sounds like I want men to look at me and ask me out.  And I do.  Not because I want to go out with them, but because I want to be beautiful and desirable to my husband.  The most desirable woman to a man is a woman other men want.  That’s true for women’s desire for men as well.  When I was in college, I helped some guy friends get into conversations with women at bars by hanging all over them with some other girlfriends and acting interested in the guys.  The guy friends were instructed to play it cool and sort of blow us off.  That way, other women are like, “What’s he got going on that those girls are so into him?”  It works.

I’ve used food to help stuff down unpleasant feelings since I was very young.  I used to walk to the neighborhood convenience store when I was 8 and buy “Chunky” (a large block of chocolate), sit on my back porch steps and eat it slowly and deliberately (and secretly, knowing my mom would freak out and punish me for eating candy). I still get the urge to eat when I’m angry or upset, or to rebel.  Even against myself.

When I was in Overeaters Anonymous back in 2000, I lost 40 pounds in about a month and a half.  I started getting lots of attention from men and I found it a little uncomfortable.  I think that is part of my struggle.  Even though I want to be admired and desired, I also find that attention scary and threatening.  But hey, I think I can handle a little scary and threatened, because I’m tired of old and fat.  I think it will be good for my marriage for me to feel great about how I look.  And I think my husband needs to go back to feeling like his wife is “a catch.”

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How Much to Tell You?

It’s hard to know how much to reveal about my life, especially where Odie’s privacy is concerned.  Sometimes I’d like to write about subjects like my marriage in depth, but I know Odie wouldn’t want that out there.  I suppose if the tables were on the other foot, I wouldn’t like him revealing private things about me either.  We’ve been going through a rough patch.  All marriages have them, I hear.  Back when our relationship was new, I could not imagine our marriage having rough patches.  I believed us to be so uniquely suited to one another, so in love in an unprecedented way, that the rules didn’t apply to us. Silly, naive beliefs of someone deeply infatuated.  All of our problems have been textbook new parent problems. Nothing unique there. 

Happier Times

 

I want to blog all about it.  Tell you every detail of our painful arguments and cold silences. It would be cathartic for me, and perhaps helpful to you in some way.  A cautionary tale of marriage and parenthood.  But I think I have to settle for telling it to the marriage counselor we will soon be seeing.  That’s another thing I couldn’t imagine back in those heady days of early infatuation: going to a marriage counselor.  I thought it was a sure sign of a marriage heading for divorce, the last futile attempt to fix something irreparably broken.  Or a half-hearted concession on the part of one partner to appease the other before leaving, so they could tell their friends they tried everything.  The truth is, Odie and I don’t communicate well since we had Baby V.  Each of us makes assumptions about the thoughts and motivations of the other and then reacts to them.  It’s a negative and damaging pattern.  For example, Odie loves sexytimes.  He’s SUCH a boy that way.  To him, sexytimes are the ultimate expression of love and devotion.  Nothing says “I love you” like a romp in the sack.  Conversely, if I don’t romp in the sack with him, it means I no longer love him.  It means I hate him.  It means I think he’s a disgusting, horrible person.  Assumptions are very dangerous.  So we are going to marriage counseling to get someone objective to tell Odie that I am right and he is wrong.

No, to teach us to communicate better and compromise more.

Right now, Odie is talking to me about the teams in today’s World Cup Soccer game, and I am trying to listen with one ear while I type.  He is using Baby V’s toy saxophone to make an improvised vuvuzela (yeah, lucky me).  He got up early to wash his one orange shirt so that he could help the Netherlands win by wearing orange.  We also have Baby V dressed in orange, because this will make all the difference in whether or not the Dutch beat Uruguay.  The game is about to start.  We never watch tv together.  TV is a passion of mine, and he couldn’t care less about it.  It’s actually nice to have something we are both watching.  He is on the verge of feeling like I do not care what he is saying because I am writing instead of responding to him, so off I go for now.  Oranje!

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