The Agony of A Broken Hip

Only a few years seperate me from 40, and one of the ways I quell my anxiety about that, is to mentally catalogue all the ways in which I am still hip. I tell myself that I have not fallen prey to Mom syndrome. Why is it important for we women to feel this way? I think that not giving up our style is representative of not giving up ourselves. It's a means of establishing and maintaining an identity apart from Motherhood.

So I treasure this list and consult it regularly.

EXHIBIT A:

• I do not wear Mom jeans. (See Exhibit A)


• I have an iPod, and I know how to use it.


• I have a blog and I know how to use it.


• I have a laptop and I know how to use it.


• I listen to current music and I even like some of it.


• I resist the urge to ponytail and clip my hair just because it's faster.


• I am not afraid to experiment with hair color.


• I'm considering a hybrid.


• I know what my core muscle group is.


• I am up to date on current film and literary trends. I know who Borat is, for instance, though why behaving like a complete asshat is entertaining escapes me.


• I eschew sweatpants.


• When I heard PPO and his friends discussing Wii, I knew they were talking about the new Nintendo game system and not referring to themselves as a group.

This list varies from day to day, depending upon what's relevant in my life. But it's always there, always running. It's my internal security blanket. And most of the time, it does a pretty good job of deluding convincing me that I'm still me, and I'm still cool.

But every once in a while, something comes along to pull the metaphorical rug from beneath my feet. Ergo, something that demonstrates with embarassing clarity, that I am, in fact, a fossil.

Sometimes, its hearing something terse and autocratic such as "Because I said so!" issuing from my mouth in my Mother's voice.

Sometimes, its realizing that I've worn the same pajama bottoms and oversized team jersey every day this week to take Pre-Pubescent One to Intramurals...and not caring.

Sometimes, it's sitting home on Saturday night in my housecoat with a mudpack on my face and cotton balls between my toes, sipping wine and watching sappy movies with husband...and realizing, I'd rather be doing that than dancing the night away.

And sometimes, its my complete and utter mystification at things such as that in Exhibit B.

EXHIBIT B:



Don't get me wrong. I love this woman. I admire her individuality even if I don't always appreciate her sense of style. I like that she's a stong, confident career woman in charge of her own destiny. I like that she's making time to be a Mom, but not surrendering her identity. She has not enlarged her boobs or starved herself so I think she's a fairly acceptable role model, which is good since she's a pop culture icon.

But the artistry eludes me.

In fact, that is quite possibly the stupidest song I've ever heard. And I think she is selling herself way short by singing this crap.

There I go...channelling my Mother again. I swear to God she said the very same thing about Madonna when I was in high school.

I think I have some Mom jeans in the back of my closet somewhere. Perhaps they fit better than I thought they might. And really...I guess that's okay. Cause they don't make low rise jeans with an elastic waist and frankly, I'm growing weary of having my middle aging ass crack on display. So while I'm not quite ready to stop waxing my upper lip or let my roots grow out, I am starting to be okay with being uncool.

The great thing about approaching 40 is finally understanding that chasing fads has nothing to do with who I am.

And I've realized that I don't want to be young and hip forever. It's too damned exhausting.

Middle Age...here I come.