365 Nights Page 5

  Squishy bellies. Stretch marks. And boobs? Ugh, don’t get me started. Sure, there are those who defy the laws of nature and manage to have a taut belly after baby number three, or have boobs that are still perky, and of them I am in awe. I want to know their secret. Good genetics? Great personal trainer? Flawless plastic surgeon? Good genes is the one that gets me, because that is just plain unfair. It’s like they’re getting it for free. Discipline and money? Well, that doesn’t seem so bad, because at least they’re working for it somehow.

  As much as I’d like to think we outgrow this insecurity, not to mention curiosity and competition among ourselves, we don’t. My mom, who still looks great in her early sixties, and is living a dream as a snowbird in Florida, aspires to look good during her water aerobics class. And I can assure you, she’s got tabs on who’s got the goods in the bathing suit department.

  I know that men aren’t immune to this either; Brad has some body hang-ups, too. He’s in fairly decent shape but contends he still spends his pool time sucking in his gut, and wants to scream when a good-looking woman can’t take her eyes off his man boobs. “Hey? My eyes are up here!” he’s shared with me, only halfway kidding (I think). But he’s a sport and he’s always splashing in the pool and swimming with the kids—man boobs and all.

  Everybody, it seems, has body issues. One girlfriend with curly hair wants straight hair. Girls with curves want to be skinny, and skinny girls want bigger boobs. Hair, lips, eyes, ears, nose, body—we hold ourselves up to that mirror, mirror on the wall waiting to hear that we’re the loveliest of all, but every affirmation in the world can’t get that nagging voice out of our head that we just don’t measure up. This can spill over to relationships, of course, when we get hung up on those issues to the detriment of ourselves, our marriage, and our intimacy. If we feel like we should have sex only in complete darkness because we’re hung up about our butt, we’re likely to turn down a lot of opportunities to connect with our spouses (and they probably think our tush is just fine anyway).

  After all, how many times have you looked at a picture of yourself from ten years ago and thought, “Wow, I looked really good!” and you can’t believe you were beating yourself up at the time feeling like a dumpy reject because of some perceived flaw? Does anyone really think, “When I lose ten pounds or get rid of this pooch, I’ll want to have sex with my husband”? Let me save you some time, sit-ups and Weight Watchers points, girls, you won’t. And here is the thing about turning forty or forty-five or even fifty, I’ve concluded: In some ways my best days of looking good are behind me, but my best days of feeling good are ahead of me. I am more comfortable with how my life is turning out and I’m happy with most of the decisions I’ve made, including having daily intimacy with Brad. And this allows me to be more confident in who I am.

  Attraction is a mysterious thing—what draws one person to another enough to decide to date or to take the plunge and marry? I think there’s something in our genetic wiring that makes us find one person desirable over another. One Friday night, Brad and I went out to dinner and were seated next to another couple. As you do, you notice people and we noticed them. He was very handsome, but she was only marginally pretty. Brad claimed they contradicted the “Law of Twos.” Brad developed the “Law of Twos” many years ago, before we dated, when he was out in the world, surveying the bar scene with his friends. It is based on the premise that everyone rates on an attractiveness scale from one to ten, and that you cannot date or marry someone greater or lesser than two points. If you do? Hello heartache, angst, and disappointment. So a seven can date a nine or a five, but not a four.

  True, variables can impact ratings—so an average guy with money might rank higher as might a cute gal with an outstanding sense of humor. Likewise a pretty girl with a horrible attitude might rank a point or two lower than expected, and a vapid stud could fall off the scale completely. Either way, it all balances out—we are attracted to and should pursue folks who fall into our general parameters of attractiveness. So I would say that the guy next to us was an eight, but she was just a five. And Brad and I speculated, and placed tacky odds and assumed that she must have one heck of a personality or that he must be a real dud.

  There are plenty of men that I find attractive, but there are few that I’m attracted to—a fact for which my husband is thankful, I’m sure. I bring this up because as I age—getting both older and wiser, I hope—it’s an important distinction. I saw this amazing documentary on PBS regarding the human face and the fact that there is a universal definition of outward beauty, which is symmetry. Apparently, people with symmetrical features are unanimously attractive, no matter what ethnicity. Certain specifications apply—the nose has a certain breadth and the chin has a certain shape and so on. Symmetry is harder to come by than you might think.

  But what I’m talking about is the total package: Beyond looks, personality of course comes into play in the attraction game. Sometimes attraction comes from an amazing sense of confidence that one is attractive, despite whatever rank on a scale. Back in college, there was a girl named Jenna, who always had guys knocking at her door, mooning over her. My friends and I were flummoxed. How was Jenna getting these guys to fall for her? Don’t get me wrong, she was pretty all right . . . and smart . . . and athletic . . . and (gasp) really quite nice. But she wasn’t prettier than some of my friends who ended up alone in their dorm room in a pair of sweats with a bag of Cheetos, watching Knots Landing. There was not a fraternity cocktail or formal to which Jenna didn’t receive at least one invitation (and sometimes two). She was The Perfect Date and was revered by boys and adored by girls.

  What was her secret? The Cheetos-eaters were demanding to know. Why her and not us? After many impassioned discussions, we decided it was because she had self-confidence in spades, along with a touch of authentic nonchalance. The fact that she didn’t necessarily care that boys were falling all over her made them do just that. She didn’t obsess about boys, talk about boys, or seem to think about boys all that much. Better yet, she didn’t obsess about herself, talk about herself, or overly focus on herself. She was just as happy to go to the movies with the girls as to go to her third cocktail party that month. Regardless of the company, she was comfortable in her own flawless Ivory Girl skin and it showed. If she could bottle that and sell it, she would be a rich, rich woman.

  It seems like just yesterday I was in those college sweats, but alas, there comes a time for us all when we have to acknowledge that the days of pulling our hair into a ponytail, throwing on jeans and a T-shirt, and running out the door without a trace of foundation are over. If that is still all it takes for you, well, then I’m happy not to know you, thanks, but your day will come, too. Now I have to take the time to look presentable . . . my mother would be so pleased. I’m nearly forty and she is still making helpful suggestions on clothes, hair, shoes, and overall presentation like “Remember, jeans aren’t for everyone, dear.” Clearly I didn’t get the memo.

  Standards of beauty have changed. When I was an adolescent, we reveled in new technology to make us prettier—like braces, contact lenses, and home perms. And fashion-wise, we all adored our Laura Ashley and Gunne Sax prairie dresses (which were long and billowy and very forgiving). But a whole new world has opened up in what is required for standard grooming, including facial waxing, self-tanners, and hair colorists. In this brave new world, grooming is king (or queen, depending on whom you ask). As my colorist recently asked me: “When are you going to love yourself enough to realize you need your hair colored every six weeks?” I guess I love myself enough to spend as much on my hair as I do on medical premiums . . .

  I look at photos of my girlfriends and me from the late eighties and early nineties, and you know what sticks out the most to me? Our eyebrows—literally, they stick out! Nearly every one of us had big, bushy, overgrown eyebrows. This was before waxing and eyebrow grooming became essentials, and we knew no better than the accidental Brooke Shields look. Even my girlfriends who don�
�t have excessive hair still had untamed brows and it showed. So there is a new norm and that norm is not unibrow or spiky brows or brows that leak into your eyeballs. I’m sorry, you can’t change that. The new paradigm is well-groomed brows. Even for men.

  I can’t ignore these new standards. I know that my gray is growing in faster than the speed of light. I know that my eyebrows really do need to be combed, if you can believe it. And as my mother says, I “have to work hard to make my clothes look nice,” which is code for I have to work hard to avoid the forty-year -old frumpy look. It’s a huge challenge to have laundered, freshly pressed clothes that look nice and hang well when you’re rushing kids off to school, swinging by the store on your way to work, and hoping that folks in your client meeting won’t notice you haven’t washed your hair since Tuesday. Sometimes I tire of having to take the time (which is still much less time than I spent coiffing during my high school days), but when I’m paying attention, it seems to pay off . . . at least when my mother visits.

  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 intima
cy. 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)

  The back door opened and I heard Brad come in. His footsteps echoed down the hall.

  “Hey, honey, I’m back here!” I called out. “Come on back. How was your day?”

  He entered the bedroom and I heard him rustling around in his closet, hanging up his belt, and tossing his shoes into the back of the closet. “It was fine. Where are you anyway?” he asked.