Silk Pillow Case

I read and article that women should sleep on their back and always on a silk pillow case.  The silk keeps your hair from tangling and breaking and you sleep on your back so you don’t mush your face into the pillow and cause wrinkles. Yeah, I sleep on my stomach, face full on mashed into the pillow, and I could never sleep on a silk pillow case.  Too slippery. Figures. I often read these articles and wonder if there’s a woman somewhere running around and really putting all these “tips” into practice.  She must be really tired and, I think, kind of bitchy.

This time next week I will be 40.

Sigh…I’ve taken the last year to prepare myself, looked at my life, my journey so far and, albeit not as often as I should, I have stopped to be grateful for the things that I have worked for and the things that have worked out in my life.  One week away, here’s what I’ve observed.

My face is older, but thanks to some really fantastic creams and potions I must say I look pretty good.  The goal over the next 20 years is to keep the skin on the skull. I will say, as my face gets older I notice my features more.  My eye color, my lips…I have this weird tendency to look at individual parts, appreciate them, rather than taking in the whole.  My face is more interesting than it used to be.  Or maybe I’m just telling myself that.

My outlook, spirit if you will, is older.  I have been knocked around a bit by life and I’m harder because of it.  This part bothers me some, but this year has taught me there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.  Life is not easy and the best I can do, and I’ve just learned this in my 39th year, is be kind to myself.  Pick myself up, give myself a little kiss and a soft blankie and then get right back out there.  My darling, not always too nurturing, husband once told me, “No one is coming to save you.”  That statement is one of my mantras and helps me kick my ass when I get too whiney.

My body is…fine.  Here’s a tough one for me.  I’m in the best shape of my life. Truly. I exercise, I eat well and I feel great.  Most of my life I was…let’s call it fluffy. I never had any clue about core or the importance of exercise.  In my twenties I’m sure I would have had a great, tiny shorts wearing body, but it was just never a priority, it was all about the mind.  As long as I was smart, my body didn’t matter. Ironic how stupid I was. So, I was pregnant at 21 and I really thought it was a license to eat.  Pregnancy was not as cool and not nearly as sexy as it is now, so I ate sherbet, lots of sherbet.  To make a very long and neglectful story short, I’ve worked really hard to restore my body.  Cardio and Pillates and my body is…fine.

The body of my twenties is not going to appear to me at 40.  I have to deal with that and work with what I have.  I suppose all women have this issue as they get older, but I can’t even look back on my cute little twenty or thirty year old bodies. They don’t exist, but I can move forward and my 40 year old ass is really quite cute, so that’s something.  I’m working on body acceptance.  I have a feeling I’ll be floating up to heaven on a cloud and still wonder why my legs couldn’t have been longer.  Superficial?  Yes.  Should I just be thankful to be alive and healthy? Yes.  Is it realistic to think I’m going to walk around every day telling myself I’m perfect in every way and just happy to be alive?  Hell No.

My brain is older.  I still believe in filling my mind with information and challenging myself to learn new things.  I read a lot more now than I ever did when I was younger.  I read to educate myself, but mostly to get lost in a great story.  I’m a little more selective with my mental hard drive these days.  I no longer feel the need to just “know” things that will impress people or make me “feel” smart.  I’m more secure and my mind is my own space.  I fill it with things I love and memories I cherish, everything else is just a waste and no one cares anyway.

This will be my last week as a 39 year old.  I’m going to chronicle it so I can look back when I’m turning 50 and realize just how little I’d figured out.  That’s all from the laundry room.  Nighty Night.

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