Oh, how I used to love weekends. Especially Saturday. When I was younger I would look forward to Friday, to go out with my friends and sleep late the next day. Come afternoon I'd be on the phone, eagerly planning Saturday night and all its diversions. Sigh.
Now it seems weekends have become an extension of my work week, a time to play catch up for all the things I didn't have time to finish. As the oldest of four, I remember looking at my parents and thinking what a waste it was to spend the weekend running errands and kids around town, then watch in disgust as they parked themselves in front of the television after dinner like a couple of slugs. I promised myself that would never be me.
Fast forward a couple of decades and here I am. Slug city.
I have to admit sometimes it gets to me, but when I look around I realize I'm not missing anything. There was a time and a place in my life for all that "fun", and the nostalgia I sometimes feel is nothing more than glory days popping in to play head games.
I used to think it was just guys who had glory day withdrawals. The thrill of carousing with their friends, the all night parties and the stories that would rival the movie, The Hangover, but women have them too, they just take a different form.
We browse through the racks with our teenage daughters in stores with names like Forever 21 and Hot Topic and we sigh, remembering with fondness our own miniskirts and midriffs. We shop for bathing suits and wonder just when it was we inherited our mother's thighs and all the jiggly bits that go along with them. We sigh again and stoically reach for the age appropriate rack.
So, in our youth obsessed culture, what's a mature woman to do? Raid our daughters' closets in a pathetic attempt to hang on to our youthful self image or head straight for polyester pantsuits and boxy shirts that scream our descent into middle age?
Truth is, the choice doesn't have to be either. Smart, savvy women learn to work it at any age. And by working it I'm not talking about doing the shimmy without the benefit of underwire. No, what I mean is owning your own self worth. To accept who you are, that you're seasoned not sagging and that life experience is a currency no twenty-something can spend.
We need to remind ourselves that women are glorious at any age: in our perky, yet naive twenties, our ambitious thirties, our confident and successful forties or our fabulously finessed fifties, and so on and so forth.
As we head into our jam-packed weekends full of lacrosse games and hockey tournaments, dry cleaners and supermarkets, make sure to take the time to look around. Smile, and realize you're still you, regardless of pant size.
Originally posted on my blog Madcap Moms...What's Wrong with this Picture May 27 2011