Wednesday, March 21, 2012

Oh, Please

Take a look at this photo:

That’s Jennifer Lopez, aka JLo.  This picture appeared on on Friday, along with the following quote:
“I’m not a size 0 or 2. I’m not 6-feet-tall like a lot of the models that come around, and I’m like, ‘Wow, I’m really short compared to models!’,” the "American Idol" host, 42, said in an interview in the new digital edition of Vogue magazine. “I’m just a regular woman. I wear a size 6. You know, when I eat a little too much over the holidays, maybe a size 8. When I’m in shape, maybe a size 4.”
I was all ready to call bullshit on this until I went to this website.  She’s one inch shorter than I am, and weighs almost ten pounds less.  No, I’m not bitter.  I mean, depending on the brand of jeans I buy the designer, I’m either a size 6 or 8, too.  No harm, no foul there.  But then the website also gave JLo’s pre- and post-baby measurements:  34C-26-40 (pre-babies) and 34C-26-38 (post-babies).  Seriously?  She loses two inches in her hips while I lose TWO CUP SIZES IN MY BREASTS?  There is no justice.

Oh, come on now.  This woman probably has her own personal trainer, nutritionist, chef, hair and makeup team, personal assistants, and a nanny or thirteen at her disposal.  You’ve got a family membership to the Y and your parents to occasionally babysit the boys.  Of course she’s going to be in amazing shape after having twins.  And you know that the camera really does add ten pounds.

So now I’m supposed to feel better about myself because JLo isn’t a size zero?  A woman who has, from the dawn of her career, been known for – and celebrated for – her curves isn’t a size zero and this is news

And then the article shares with us that JLo wears a diamond ring that reads “I Love Me.”  You know, to remind her that if you don’t love and take care of yourself, nobody else will, either.  That is actually an incredibly important message that every female of any age should internalize and never forget.  However, I don’t think too many of us can afford to wear it on our hands as bling, as JLo does.

Uh, no.  But... your point?

Oh yeah.  Right.  My point.

Look, I do appreciate that there are celebrities like JLo who do look slightly more like "regular" women than those skeletal size 0 models.  But... and this is a big but (not to be confused with a big butt...  ha ha) can these celebrities please be just a teeny bit more realistic about how different their lives are from just about everyone else's?  You know, admit that you have a cadre of assistants who help you, and you are aware that pretty much every other mother in the world can't afford that.  And that maybe, just maybe, you realize that your life is pretty damn good, and you are grateful for it.

Because otherwise, I'm just not going to have any sympathy that JLo is "really short compared to models" at her curvy size 6.

Friday, March 9, 2012

OMG I'm Not Twenty Any More!

Last night at yoga I realized that I am getting old.  Well, yeah, we’re all getting older all the time, but I have lived in this little fantasy bubble of mine where I think – despite being married for ten years and having carried and borne three kids – that I’m still in my twenties and have this cute, tight little body (please ignore the slightly stretched out, flabby belly and shrunken boobs), and can totally hang with the likes of Kristen Stewart, Emma Stone, and Mila Kunis.

Yeah, right.

Last night it hit home that I am so beyond all that.

Over the past couple of weeks I started to notice that I was getting a little bit of a spare tire.  I know!  I do yoga and Pilates as well as cardio every week.  Okay, maybe I’m sneaking one too many chocolate covered almonds, or scarfing pretzels and chips (and Trader Joe’s dark chocolate pistachio toffee) too often, too late at night.  But still, isn’t that why I’m working out?  So I can eat those things whenever I want?

And then, last night while doing a pose during yoga, I held my arm out and looked at my hand.  Really looked at my hand.  And I noticed that my hand no longer looks like the hand of a twenty something.  No, it looks like the hand of a middle-aged woman.  I guess it’s a good thing that I was in a yoga-induced calm when I realized this, because just typing “middle-aged woman” gave me palpitations.  Me.  Middle aged?  No.  That’s just preposterous!  It’s impossible!  It just. cannot. be.

Except it is.

Let’s face it.  I’m forty.  I am going to be forty-one in a month.  Those little starlets who I like to pretend I could hang with?  I could be their mothers, for God’s sake!  (I also could have starred on Teen Mom when they were babies, but that’s another topic altogether)

No, given the chance, I will never turn Rob Pattinson’s head.  *le sigh*  And to be honest, even if the impossible actually became possible and I found myself, erm, in a position to get intimate with the  twenty-five year old Hollywood hottie, I would be so freaking neurotic that he would be horrified by the changes that motherhood have bestowed upon my body.  TMI alert, kinda – while I am proud to say that I can still fit into size 6/8 jeans, carrying three babies to term has not only left my belly soft and mushy despite the weekly Pilates classes, it has also, um, affected my other less visible lady parts.

I can’t stop the forward march of time.  I can’t magically make myself forever twenty-five.  At times (like at yoga this week), it totally sucks.  But I remind myself that everyone else is getting older, too, so while that’s not ideal, it certainly lessens the sting.  

As does $10 and a box of permanent hair color.