New Age

The kids left the television on earlier today and an infomercial started. Something to make me look better.  Younger. Cindy Crawford was selling it with Valerie Bertinelli.  I wasn't watching it.  Wasn't listening, really.  Until I heard someone say, "Who wants to look older?  Who wants crows feet and laugh lines?"

I know I may regret saying this one day, when I'm really old and my skin is sagging and full of soft, paper-like wrinkles, but I like looking older.  I like my crows feet.  When I look back at pictures of me from college, or even from my wedding, I have a baby face.  Smooth, yes, but there's something lacking.  Life is lacking.

I don't recognize myself in those pictures.  My face today shows a little wear and tear.  There are lines around my eyes and mouth.  My lips aren't as plump as they used to be.  My skin is blotchy, though nothing that a little foundation won't cover up.  But I'm not complaining.  When I see a picture of myself from last year, or last month, I like what I see (except my thighs, I would definitely change my thighs). I like that there's a glimmer of wisdom in my eyes, and that my mouth has learned to hold it's tongue.  I like that my skin has survived the acne of, not only my teenage years, but three pregnancies. 

A friend posted some pictures of me on Facebook a while back.  He had taken them when we were in college.  They were black and white shots of me looking off in the distance.  When I saw them all I could think was that my face looked round.  I don't ever remember having a round face.  I've been told me whole life that my face is oval.  But in those pictures it was round.  Maybe smooth equals round.  Now my face is thin.  And I like it thin.  I like the indents along my cheek bones when I take the time to put on some blush. I'm okay with the fact that my nose looks pointier now then it did fifteen years ago.  I'm not afraid of looking my age.  Like I said, I may regret saying this someday. 

I'm not saying I don't want to take care of myself or my skin.  I want to look healthy.  I want to look attractive.  But I don't want to look twenty-two.  Because I'm not.  I'm a mid-thirties mother of three.  And I am quite happy looking like just that.

But seriously, Valerie Bertanelli looks as young now as she did thirty years ago. Maybe that stuff really works!  

A Model Dentist

Dentists should not be good looking.  I have had male dentists before, but they were old.  Not that old men can't be good looking, but my dentist wasn't.  Plus, I was 16, so old was probably 40, which doesn't sound so old anymore.  Anyway, since college I have had a female dentist.  She is good looking, so I should refine my statement to read: Male dentists should not be good looking.

I suppose there's a bit more to it than that.  Until this morning I was able to brag about the fact that I have never had a cavity.  Fine, I had one in a baby tooth when I was a kid, but baby teeth don't count.  At my last cleaning, at the end of August, the hygienist informed me that my dentist was out of town.  Would it be okay if one of the other dentists at the practice checked my teeth?  Checking my teeth has always meant my dentist took her little pointy metal thing and poked at my teeth for a second, then sat back and said "You have beautiful teeth."  Any dentist could do that, right? 

In walks Dr. Peterson.  Dreamy, tall, perfectly coiffed bed-head hair Dr. Peterson.  Only he didn't say I  have beautiful teeth.  He said "You have a break in one of your teeth.  We need to get that filled."  He didn't even say "a break in one of your beautiful teeth." 

This morning I was in to have it filled.  Having never really experienced this before, here's what I thought would happen: I sit down in the chair and make a joke about not having my coffee yet this morning.  Dr. Peterson, chuckling, says, "We'll get you outta here and having a cup of coffee in no time."  He has me open up and then gently fills the break with whatever they use for that type of thing.  Then he says, "That's it.  Wait 20 minutes for that coffee, okay?  Oh, and you have beautiful teeth." 

That's not what happened. 

I sat down in the chair and made a joke about not having had my coffee yet this morning.  Dr. Peterson said "We'll get you outta here and having that coffee in no time."  He laid my chair back, I opened up and he sticks a needle in my gum.  A few minutes later he has both of his hands, a cheek shield and the hygienists fingers all crammed in my mouth.  Then he starts drilling.  DRILLING!  I've heard the sounds of drills in dentists offices and often thought how awful that must be.  And now I know, for an absolute fact, how awful it is.  I get that this is a normal, every day occurrence for a dentist.  But not for me.  For me this was scary and sad and a little bit humiliating, now that I don't have perfect teeth anymore. 

But as I lay there with my mouth stretched open and the horrible sound of drilling in my head, I suddenly realized I was much more concerned about the fact that I'm due for my lip wax, but haven't gotten it done yet.  I started regretting my decision to just throw on sweats.  I could have at least put on decent shoes. What if I have a booger in my nose?!  None of this would have mattered to me if it had been my normal dentist.    But because Dr. Peterson is soap-opera-star handsome, not only was I depressed that I now have a filling (I refuse to use the word cavity), but I had to feel self-conscious as well.

The whole thing seemed to last forever, but couldn't have been more than fifteen minutes.  My tooth feels funny and now that the Novocain is wearing off it's starting to hurt just a bit.  He told me not to eat anything hard for a while and not to drink my coffee on that side of my mouth.  He said he'd seen me at my next cleaning.  He didn't say that I have beautiful teeth. 

Simply Sophisticated

You know, I'm a pretty sophisticated person. I went to an art gallery last night. Sure, most days I wear sweatpants and sometimes completely forget to put makeup on before leaving my house, but when need be, I can step it up and look the part. At least according to that woman in the ladies' room at that hole-in-the-wall bar last night in Hudson.

I don't get dressed up very often. So when I have occasion to do so, I'm never sure if I look like I have it all together, or if I look like I'm trying to look like I have it all together. I don't buy myself clothes very often. And when I do, I have a hard time rationalizing spending money on something I won't wear too often (ie. dress pants or skirts) versus something that I know I will (ie. more sweatpants). I watch What Not To Wear and lately, as I've been getting in my car to drive to Target (quite possibly to buy more sweats) I think about Stacy and Clinton forcing me to sit and watch a video of me shopping with no makeup, baggy pants and flip flops. And then the 360° mirror. It would be torturous!

Last night I went to an art gallery with two friends. We had kidded that we're obviously pretty darn sophisticated if we're the kind of people who go to art showings at art galleries. While we were joking around, I kept thinking about what I would wear, really. I have a pair of jeans that I finally fit into and with little heels they look pretty good. But my tops are all still a bit snug. I decided to wear a big-necked sweater and a little jacket. Oh, and I remembered to put on makeup.

They picked me up and my friends looked hip and truly sophisticated. I hoped that I didn't look like I was trying too hard, especially next to the two of them, who make it look effortless. We got to the gallery and fit right in. That's because there were people there dressed in everything from fancy dresses with leggings (that's for you, Shawnessy!) to jeans and flannel shirts. I think, even if I'd worn my sweatpants I wouldn't have felt out of place.

Someone once said to me, "Sara, you portray confidence, no matter what you're wearing." What's that supposed to mean? I thought. First off, what does that say about what I'm wearing? And second, I do tend to forget what I look like. For instance, Lily will be crying before I've had a chance to take a shower, and before I know it we're heading out the door to get to the bus stop and then I'm usually off to run errands. I'll catch a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror and cringe. But by the time I get to Target (I spend a lot of time at Target) I have usually forgotten to be embarrassed about my hair or lack or mascara or the stain on my shirt. Is that confidence?

After the art gallery (and hob-nobbing with one of the artists, I might add), we went to a nearby dive bar. We had a couple of drinks and on our way out we stopped in the ladies room (which is putting it nicely). My friends struck up a conversation with a couple of other women waiting and as I came out of the stall one of them asked me, "Are you with them?" Before I could answer she said, "You look like you're with them." I know how junior high this sounds, and it really really shouldn't matter at all, but that one little drunken comment, just outside of a nasty bathroom stall, totally made my night. "Yea, I'm with them."

Bad Hair Day

Lately I have been quite self conscious about my appearance! I know that everyone is staring at me, wondering why I would allow myself to walk around looking this way. It's not completely my fault, and I am doing something about it. I have an appointment at the end of the week that will fix everything, but that's days away. So, I must, we all must deal with it until then. In the mean time, please, don't stare at the hair on my upper lip.

Because of my short locks I have a haircut every 5 weeks or so. I have a routine. Sheena (Hi Sheena!) cuts it a bit shorter than I actually want it cut. So for the first week after the cut I curse her a little bit for listening to me when I told her to take more off (I ALWAYS tell her to take more off). But the next week my hair is perfect. The perfect-ness lasts for about two or three weeks. Eventually I start noticing little things, like it won't lay right or there's a random chunk that points in the wrong direction. It's at this point that I start thinking about contacting Sheena for my next appointment. However, I don't actually do that until the day that I can no longer stand it. So, I send her frantic text messages asking if she can fit me in, or if she'll be home that afternoon for me to stop by with all three of my children to rampage her house while she does my cut and color. That's my very strict routine.

Unfortunately, the hair on my upper lip is on a different schedule. It needs "tending to" more often. Every three to four weeks, maybe. The tricky thing is that by that point I figure I might as well wait until I'm going to see Sheena for my hair. But that leaves a week, now for instance, when I feel like I'm walking around with a handle bar mustache.

But in one visit Sheena will make me feel beautiful. For over six years she has been cutting, coloring and waxing my hair. It started when I walked into Regis Salon in Southdale looking for someone new to cut my hair. Short hair is tricky and not just anyone can cut it. I don't want my dad's haircut (Love you, Dad!) but I do like it short. Very short. The stylist I had been going to previously was moving to California. I seriously considered following her out there so she could continue cutting my hair. Enter Sheena (after I entered Regis, that is). I was pregnant with Sophie and wearing a horrid pink shirt. I don't remember what Sheena was wearing, but I do remember that I liked and trusted her right away. I followed her when she moved to Total Image of Edina (this was a much easier decision then deciding if I should pack up and move to CA). And now I usually just go to her house where she has a salon and our kids can play and stay out of our hair (well, my hair. Ha.).

I see Sheena about once a month, so of course we are more then stylist/client now. I consider her a good friend. We started as young marrieds and now, between us, we have five kids. As a matter of fact, both times Sheena told me she was pregnant, it was while she was leaning over me waxing my lip! She knew I was pregnant with Max before Wade did. We talk about our husbands, houses, jobs and kids. Other than Wade, Sheena was the only person who knew I planned to get a tattoo on my last trip to New York City.

Sheena gives me a fantastic deal. I won't tell you what it is because you would be angry and jealous and I don't want to foster those emotions. But I do have a bit of a dilemma. Obviously, when I started having Sheena cut my hair, I tipped her. Generously, I hope. Like I said, it's difficult for me to find someone who does a good job (tried Great Clips once and literally left in tears) so I'm happy to pay well when I find someone who cuts it the way I like. But over the years, as our friendship has formed, tipping has started to feel strange. It's not about the money, I'm happy to pay. But I feel like tipping has become patronizing. Especially now that I'm usually at her house. On the other hand, I would hate (HATE) for her to think that I don't appreciate her time, effort and talent. We've come to an agreement (although I don't think we've ever actually talked about it) where I write the check out for the amount she tells me. But I still feel a little badly every time.

I am excited to see Sheena at the end of this week. My kids love seeing her boys and we always have lots to talk about. I'm not looking forward to the waxing, but it'll be an easy 5 pounds, gone. And of course, my hair is in desperate need of a trim. In all honestly if Sheena ever moves to California, the decision would be easy. We'd pack up and move in a heartbeat!