Barbie's Feet

This morning I woke up early, got out of bed, had a shower, made coffee, washed a few dishes and now I’m sitting here comfortable in a nightgown, thick socks and housecoat while my hair dries. Barbie can’t do most of that. Why, you may wonder. We all know about her figure problems. But, have you considered her feet?

I wrote this for the Feminist’s in Make up community at BackWash. I’m not sure if anyone read it. So I’m sticking it here, cause I kind of liked it. Nothing fancy, just one of those ideas you get as you’re doing something else.

My old Barbie clone, the Barbie’s I see at the stores and the really old Barbie I used to have, spend their lives on tip toes. The feet are made to fit high heels. How does the woman ever feel comfortable in snuggly socks? How does she ever play sports?

I know they make a horse for her to ride, how does she do that in heels? Driving in heels isn’t as easy as driving in flat shoes either. Is it ok for Barbie to be a dangerous driver just for fashion or whatever reason women wear shoes that wreck their feet?

Mostly though, Barbie can’t just get out of bed and walk around barefoot until she finds her comfy socks. She can’t wander around her home, half awake, in the dark. You try doing that on tip toes! Stub a toe and you won’t get too far. She can’t enjoy feeling comfortable. It’s not fair. The poor girl will never get to first base if she can’t wear the right shoes for running around the bases.

That much closer to 'over the hill'

Soon I’ll be 39. How does stuff like this keep happening to a nice girl like me? Isn’t 38 old enough? Someone should really put their foot down and stop this whole getting old thing. It’s a really bad habit.

Ok, back to reality. Thought I couldn’t find it, eh? Fooled you.

It still hurts to laugh. Have you ever puked so hard and so deeply that your rib area is sore two days later? I was not drinking and having a hangover. I woke up with what I’ve been calling asthma headaches and soon after I was puking over the bathroom sink. Couldn’t even keep the Tylenol I’d taken for the headache. After trying to distract myself with mindless cartoons on television I finally went back to bed. Donating the last of my stomach lining to the kitchen sink first. I’m sparing you more details but I had a shower to clean myself up after the first round. Aren’t you so glad you’re reading this now? Doesn’t this sound like some old lady talking about her hairy toes, her gout and her arthritis?

I don’t want to be old. People still say I look like I’m in my 20’s. I laugh. Then I laugh some more. Well, not today cause it hurts too much to laugh.

On December 19th, 2003, I’ll become 39. I’m trying to let it sink in a bit at a time now. Like getting tiny amounts of whatever you’re allergic to in order to become immune to it. Like poison. I’m not ready to be old. I’m not ready to be looking 40 in the eyeballs. How can I be this close to 40 already?!! I haven’t done even half the things a woman my age is supposed to have done. Instead I was lolly gagging around. I wasted time being afraid and intimidated, roiling in self doubt. I’m still roiling in self doubt, it keeps me imprisoned inside myself. Everything comes out in the words as I type them. Nothing comes from my eyes, my hands, or my mouth. People see me everyday and know nothing about me. People think they know me when they read what I write but they only know the bare minimalist details. How could they know more? I don’t even know it all yet. I never will, there’s just too much inside to sort it all out and find out where it came from, how it works and what the heck it wants from me.

Do you ever think there are aliens directing you? When I’m writing I sometimes feel like it’s someone else’s brain dictating to my fingers. My fingers just keep typing without caring what my eyes think as they see it all appear on the page in front of me. Kind of like a horror story where you lost all control and can only watch while strange and sometimes dreadful things happen.

Is that bloggish enough? Blogs are so full of dramatic poetry. It’s one of their attractions. To see someone else spin away on some tangent and maybe never quite make sense or even really care to.

So, I’m still here. Still going to turn 39 in just mere weeks. Life isn’t fair. I’m not ready to be one of those older women I used to watch when I was 16.

Cradle Robber Baroness

Age is just a number… ever hear that one? Sure you have. But, when a 17 year old boy becomes interested in you (yes in THAT way) age is a lot more than a number.

I’m only the smallest bit flattered. I don’t think he likes me cause I’m especially hot I think he likes me cause I’m not some awkward 16 year old girl and too self involved to chat with an awkward, sort of shy 17 year old boy. The only way that flatters me is that I’m chatty, in a nice way.

I can’t date this boy. Yes, I admit I allowed myself a fantasy or two, just for fun. But the reality is that I’m more than 20 years older than he is. That’s a lot of life lived. When you’re that young you think you know everything, can understand everything. But, baby, I’ve lived it and it’s a lot different 20 years later.

So, I won’t date the 17 year old boy. I’m not sure going out for a coffee after work is ok. But, I’ve done that with other people from work.

The funny thing is that I wouldn’t have thought twice about should I or shouldn’t I except for a 21 year old woman at work who thinks the boy and I would be really good for each other and we look really cute together. That doesn’t make a relationship. I have a feeling also, that a 17 year old boy can’t even imagine the kind of relationship that I’m looking for. It’s out of his scope. Just like me.