Guilty Admissions

I’m not talking about the false essays we wrote to get into college.  I’m referring to the fact that we all have little addictions that we delight in; yet do not want to admit for fear of judgment from family and friends.  Sometimes we have thoughts that are embarrassing and probably shouldn’t be shared with others.  In the spirit of friendship, commiseration, and free therapy, here are mine.  Judge away…

I love shopping.  In the department store, small boutique, online – it doesn’t matter.  Not so much in Salt Lake, but oh well – probably divine intervention that I moved here?!  I feel at ease and comfortable in the surrounds of a store.  Sometimes I can even stand in the entry of an establishment, perform a quick overview and be able to depart within ten seconds knowing that I will not find anything there.  I’m proud to say that my shopping radar is well-tuned and astute.  When I’m having a bad day, the sparkly cosmetic counters at Nordstrom or Bloomingdales bring a grin to my face and my shoulders drop down to their pre-stress position.  It is the perfect dreamscape for me.  As I waltz down the aisles taking in the stylish ensembles featured on the perfectly posed mannequins, I feel like I’m at my own personal fashion show.  I envision myself in that shiny pair of burgundy booties, with the newest skinny jean, a creamy silk blouse casually drapes my torso and some dangly gold earrings complete the costume.  Then I drift to the make up counter for a makeover.  Armani foundation that makes my skin look like Audrey Hepburn, a blush that restores the rosy luster to my ruddy cheeks, eye makeup that makes my eyes pop and the wrinkles recede.  Armed with new face and attire, I head for the handbag sector.  The array of colors and sizes looks like an east coast hillside in the height of fall.  Only better because you can select one and stuff it with personal belongings and carry it with you every day.  I choose the Prada doctor bag even though it cost as much as a ski camp for my kids – I say “what the hell” and throw it on the Amex card.   I am the quintessential 21^st century white suburban gatherer after all.   Of course, I do not buy any of these things, and I depart looking as drab as when I entered the shopping complex.  But I did picture myself in a new way, if just for a few moments and I feel a lurch in my step.  I even feel a little prettier, although the overly made-up MAC representative never touched my skin.

I love Botox.  Those little eleven lines between my eyes that I spoke about earlier this year make me feel old, tired, and unhappy.  When I am able to go for the shots (I literally rolled change to go most recently) I can feel my face getting lighter.  It isn’t possible for me to frown and so I feel happy.  My eyes look wider, my forehead looks clearer.  I feel 5 years younger.  What about the Frownie you inquire?  I use that at night to supplement the botulism that I have injected into my five-head.  Am I crazy?  Overzealous?  Yes, but can you really put a price on a smooth five-head?

I love More Magazine.  Usually at the gym I reach for the always entertaining People, or the fashion forward Bazaar.  However, on this dreary overcrowded day at the gym– none of these mags were available.  Forced to choose between Bicycling and More, I chose the mid-life publication.  I know this might seem shocking given the previous paragraph but I don’t consider myself to be middle aged.  I think that Julia Roberts and I are still 28, and so when I see her on the cover of More – I stop in my tracks and say, “shit Julia – when did we get so old?”  Contemplating reading a magazine that is intended for the over 40 year old reader is depressing to say the least.   However, I figure if Julia and I had things in common when she was on the cover of Vogue, then her wisdom might prove helpful now.  To my astonishment, I read every article and stayed on the stepper for 45 minutes.  Totally enthralled was I with the pertinent articles:  helpful tips on applying foundation to aging skin, products and clothing that are actually age appropriate, how to deal with a rocky female friendship – I forgot that I was huffing and puffing away.   The tag line (which could be taken a number of ways) even made me feel good about myself, “For Women of Style and Substance.”  I hope that is me.

I love the gym.  Wow, this is a doozy.  When you live in Park City with the mountains at your whim, saying you love the gym is almost like saying you hate chocolate.  What in the hell is wrong with me?  I love the orderliness of the gym.  The equipment is lined up neatly, follow it along and work every muscle.  I appreciate the efficiency of being able to knock out cardio and weight training in one session.  I enjoy listening to the music and watching what others are doing for fitness routines.  The gym, large concrete building that it is, is made for suffering and sweating.  I go, I suffer and sweat, and I emerge a stronger, happier person ready to eat ice cream and chocolate with less guilt.   When I’m hiking or biking, I want to take in the scenery, talk to my girlfriends, and sing like Julie Andrews.

I ate a whole bag of Heath bar Crunch that was supposed to go in my kids’ cookies for school.  Sometimes I used a spoon; sometimes I just poured the bag into my mouth.  It took me three days, but I’m proud and embarrassed to admit that the bag is gone.  No cookies for you, kids!

I had my first successful gravy making experience last week.  I guess that is somewhat embarrassing given my middle age, but I always thought that gravy was only something that grandmas were capable of making.  My daughter has been begging me to make it with mashed potatoes for weeks. Usually we have it twice a year – on Thanksgiving and Christmas.  With the chilly onset of fall, I thought Why not?  I searched through recipes from my go-to chef, Barefoot Contessa, and found a wonderful gravy recipe.  I probably only had about ¼ cup of chicken droppings and the rest I made with canned chicken stock.  The brandy or cognac adds a surprising depth of flavor.  We were all full and content; I didn’t even want to raid the bag of chocolate chips that I have hidden in the freezer.  I think perhaps the reason that gravy is so satisfying is that it is comprised of solid fat (butter), liquid fat (chicken grease), flour and salt. 

I colored my hair darker and I hate it.  In an effort to be more frugal, I asked my hairdresser to use more of my natural color so I will only have to highlight every 2-3 months instead of every 6 weeks.  I look like a mouse. My hair is flat.  My face is ruddy.  I like to be blonde.  I need to be blonde.  I am a shallow, terrible person.

I made myself cry thinking of my son going off to college.  Mind you, I have another four years before this becomes a reality.  The thought of him not coming and going, putting his arm around me, yelling “Mom” in his funny voice literally brought tears to my eyes and a small panic to my heart.

The backside of my body has completely gone to hell.  I suppose this makes sense and is why our creator only gave us eyes in the front of our head. How am I supposed to see that my flabby back fat is bulging over my bra, my muffin tops are leaping out over my pants and my saddle bags are one with my butt when I have to use two mirrors in an awkward position to examine these problems?  If I did have eyes in the back of my head they would pop out in disbelief and a complete lack of recognition.  It looks like someone took a meat mallet to the rear side of my thighs, while a poor tattoo artist drew bluish-green lines like a curvy highway going up my legs. I could start a massive workout routine solely focused on my rear silhouette at the concrete, sweaty, suffering, gymnasium or I could choose to look ahead for something More.