7 Things They Don’t Tell You About Being a Woman in Her 40′s

[Okay, I'm 29, not really, 39 43 and not waaaaaay into my 40's, so I may need to amend this list in a few years to add more data for you young'uns.]

This is my Public Service Announcement for women out there younger than I am.
See, I give back but no, you can’t have my old tea kettle. I might possibly need it.

Without further ramblings ado, I present to you, My 7 Things They Don’t Tell You About Being a Woman in Her 40′s, a.k.a, Cougars Still Get Hangnails:

1. Your libido went to Fiji without you. Sure, you were lusty in your 30′s, just like they said you would be, but if, like me, you married in the middle of that decade, things change. I mean, honey, if you offer me Super Fudge Chunk ice cream every night, even I’m going to be not so interested anymore. Maybe if I had to hunt for that dessert pint in bars, office parties and churches, then….

Corollary: you want your husband to go to Fiji, too, and leave you, in the words of Nancy Wilson, another old broad, A-LONE.

2. You may want to “friend” Clairol a little sooner than planned. I realize now (yes, now that my totally gray head stares me in the face in a menacing, no-way-out way) that hair coloring is a little like miscarriage among the female community she did not just say that, oh, but she did: it’s happening all the time, all around us, but no one is discussing it. Granted, miscarriage is a terrible, terrible loss to experience, I know first hand, but for some, the thought of letting their gray hair grow out is possibly more traumatic since it’s SO VISIBLE, like, to the Calvin Klein underwear boys you may meet world.

With my gray hair getting even longer, I now get “Oh, I’d stop coloring my hair, if it’d grow out like yours… To which, I cough out “A-*bullshit*-hem!”

3. Regardless of color, your thickest, most lush hair will be in your nose. Or, possibly, the bathroom drain.
Or, if you’re lucky to have a great spouse like mine to point out such things, both.

4. Your eggs joined a nunnery 8 years ago, and any of them left fraternizing with cute, horndog spermy guys are not exactly “upstanding community members.” Really, thanks so much, Mr. Dr. Gyno, for never annually warning me of my ovarian expiration date and always not discussing how a hearty sneeze or a toilet seat or both at once! could impregnate a girl.

But I’m not bitter. Bitterness totally is is not part of this list.

5. You might be able jog, if you haven’t yet blown out your knee, but “ripple effect” will have new meaning. Let’s just say, there’s a reason, thank the Lord, full-length mirrors are stuck on walls and doors on the INSIDE of homes. Moving on…

6. Your period goes to one of two extremes, the house guest who’ll never leave and blares Wildfire at 2am, or a tiny, timid mouse who surprises you each month by still coming around for a small slice of munster. I can’t really elaborate much more on that without expanding beyond the “family blog” category that the Hubs likes to imagine declares this blog fits.
Still, I’m not bitter.

7. You may start blogging. Over and over again. Hey, you’ve been warned.

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