Tuesday, March 13, 2012


Remember when I found some gray hairs in my eyebrow and I wondered how many were on my head that I didn’t know about? Well, now I have my answer.

Three. I have three gray hairs on my head.

I have an awesome hair lady. Her name is Deb. Deb is a kick-ass colorist. At my appointment a few weeks ago, Deb and I were chatting away as usual while she applied precisely mixed highlights and lowlights and wrapped carefully chosen sections of my hair in tinfoil. (I look ridiculous while getting my hair done, but Deb makes sure the final result is marvelous.)

Suddenly, Deb stops in mid-sentence and gasps, “You have a gray hair!”

My heart sank a little. I knew it. “I’m not surprised,” I replied.

“Wait, make that three gray hairs,” Deb corrected herself. “You have three of them right here in a row.”

“Well, you know what to do,” I said.

“Oh yeah. Don’t worry, honey,” Deb assured me. “These suckers are going down!”

I love Deb.

So the answer to my question is three. Three gray hairs. I blame the child.

I suppose it’s fitting for me to have three gray hairs since today is my birthday.  I’m thirty-three today, the big three-three, and I don’t think “my cute” is ever coming back. Perhaps if I had had kids earlier I’d have a shot at regaining “my cute” after baby, but I’m afraid my age has made that unlikely at this point.

A few months ago, we had another couple over for dinner. The husband looked at a picture of Hubs and me on our refrigerator, and he looked at me and said, “Is that you?” The photo was taken back in 2007, when Hubs and I first started dating and possibly my last cute year.

I’m sure our friend didn’t mean for it to come out quite the way it sounded, but the message was clear. I ain’t as cute as I used to be. (Which is why that photo will stay on the fridge until I die.)

The sad thing is, I never felt cute even when I was. I never knew I was cute until I wasn’t anymore. So take that as a lesson, all you toned and perky twenty-somethings. You’re cute now. Enjoy it.

To make matters worse, I just bought a one-piece swimsuit for this summer. Yep, a new mom-suit for my new Mom Bod. I haven’t worn a one-piece since junior high school, possibly earlier. It’s depressing. I wouldn’t call Operation B4 unsuccessful necessarily, it’s just that my gym time is the first thing that gets sacrificed when something comes up. And something always comes up.

I had hoped to feel good in my own skin by now. Quinn’s a year old, for heaven’s sake. The number on the scale and the size of my pants are back to their pre-baby status, but I don’t look the same. Trust me, no one wants to see this tummy in a bikini. I’m now what I like to call “skinny with clothes on.”

“Skinny with clothes on” is an interesting phenomenon when a woman looks like she might have a decent body… until you see her without her clothes on, and then there’s a bit of disappointment. (It’s sort of the adult equivalent to bra-stuffing.) My family and friends are so sweet to pay me such nice compliments and tell me that I look good. I try to be polite and say thank you, but I just think “If you only knew.”

To keep up the “skinny with clothes on” illusion, this tummy cannot be seen in a bikini. Even in my one-piece, I’m going to have to suck it in, keep my abs as tight as possible (HA!) and try not to breathe too much. This might work as long as I remain standing up or lying flat. If I have to stay in a seated position for more 2.7 seconds, my less-than-toned tummy will be obvious. Then the jig is up.

Hubs has something wrapped up in a pretty box for me, and I’m sure it’s better than three gray hairs and a one-piece swimsuit. Although I’d be perfectly happy with a quiet night snuggling with him on the couch in front a movie with a glass of wine. That might be all I need to feel better about turning thirty-three.