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.
