It’s Saturday late afternoon. My daughter, Peanut, the makeup artist, has skillfully applied foundation to even out my complexion,  dark eyeliner and a sweep of black mascara to “pop my eyes.” Tonight is the Art Auction, an event that Eric and I attend every two years, and all I need now is the outfit.

And of course, this is where trouble makes an entrance.

I try on three pair of pants (more than once), five shirts, and a long skirt that makes me look witchy. I try a myriad of clothing combinations. Nothing works, nothing transforms me into a 49-year-old woman you might see in the pages of O Magazine

I do, however, have a great bra.

***

I am a short curvy woman who consistently tries on clothes made for a more willowy type. When I’m in a dressing room, the mirror never fails to call me out.

Okay, it’s not the mirror’s fault. There are a couple of things going on–one, I am not a tall, long-legged creature made for the flowy clothes that such women can wear, and two, the lighting in those hellholes is awful. A few weeks ago, I found myself (did I wander in there drugged?) in a dressing room with a pile of ill-fitting but beautiful clothes.

Here’s what happened.

I go to Dillard’s and try on about 700 different items and not one of them transforms me into a beautiful lithe hippie with long flowing tresses and kick-ass legs. By the time I pull the last unflattering lacy poet top over my head and toss it on the mound of clothes I’ve discarded, I’m just done–no more shirts, no more pants, no more skirts. They look beautiful, so damned beautiful, on the hangers. But what happens to those clothes between the hanger and my body is a fucking horror show.

This is how I end up in the basement looking at bras.

I need new bras. And I need them in the right size. The last five years have added another D to my 34D, and I’ve been bulging from the sides of my bras for a couple of months now. Imagine it, it’s not pretty. At my sister’s insistence, I ordered a Wacoal bra in a 34DD, and it fit like a dream, so while I’m in Dillard’s I decide to pick up two more.

I’m contemplating the advantages of a t-shirt bra with slight padding when a beautiful young woman with long dark hair and a tape measure draped casually around her neck approaches me. I try to avoid eye contact. I have taken note of the signs advertising today’s promotional bra fitting, and I’d prefer a flea bath to a bra fitting. But the young bra-fitter isn’t dissuaded by my lack of interest in her hovering.

She’s quite sweet when she asks that god-awful question, “Can I help you?”

And I’m sweet too when I tell her that I don’t  need any help, I’m just here to pick out a couple of bras. I already know my size, thank you very much.

She’s persistent though, and reminds me that even though I know my bra size, often bras are different and while one bra may fit me perfectly, I could need a different size in another.

I find myself nodding and before I know it, I have agreed to the bra fitting.

She shows me to the spacious dressing room, and let me tell you, it’s lovely in there. Walls in varying shades of gold and cream, lighting warm and soft–the whole place exudes comfort. I sit on the small but comfortable settee in front of the first decent mirror I’ve seen all day, and I wait.

It’s only a minute or two before my own attendant swishes in. Her name is Nancy. She appears to be a couple of years older than I am. She wears a dark skirt, a nice crisp purple blouse, and a measuring tape around her neck.

“Just take your shirt off,” Nancy says, “and I’ll get a measurement.”

Now, I’m not super modest. Even with all my body image hangups–and they are legion–I’m not overly concerned about getting naked, and still it’s awkward taking my shirt off in front of Nancy. I’m beginning to think the only thing that would make this dressing room a lovelier place would be a nice glass of red wine even if it is only 10:30 AM. But Nancy neglects to offer up a glass of wine though she does look away as I pull the yellow sweatshirt over my head.

I stand there, topless and without wine, and raise my arms up while she flourishes the tape measure around my back and then up between my breasts in a couple of practiced moves. Before I know it, she has taken notes and is out the door in search of the right bras for me.

Again, I sit on that nice comfy couch looking at myself, but this time I am sans shirt. And while the shirtless part is not quite as pleasant, it’s not horrible. What is this place?

And before I begin bemoaning my reflection, Nancy is back with four bras. And let me tell you, she is one slick fitter.

Ever so gently and in a mild and lulling tone, she asks me to turn around so that my back faces her. She explains, “I’m going to bring the bra around in front of you, and you just put your arms through the straps.”

So I turn and Nancy swings the first bra around me and I morph into an octopus, flinging my eight arms around in extreme effort.  But she is one deft bra maven, and soon I have calmed down enough to maneuver my arms through the straps while twittering maniacally. Cool as a cucumber, that Nancy pretends not to notice my strange giggles while hooking the bra around my rib cage. In that same lulling voice, she instructs me, “Now scoop the breast and position the nipple in the center of the cup.”

Okay, it’s a little weird sounding. I am at first taken aback. But each time she tries another perfectly fitting bra on me, each time I twirl around and look in that mirror that flatters even my half-naked self, each time she instructs me again to scoop the breast and position the nipple in the center of the cup, I am gently reassured that all is right in this one little corner of Dillard’s.

I buy four, count them, four expensive bras. And I am as delighted as if I’d purchased a new wardrobe.

And this brings me back to Saturday evening pre-art auction. I call Peanut back to my room and ask her help in picking out an outfit, and you know what–I end up looking and feeling pretty great.

Why is asking for help so fucking hard?

I suppose it’s that damned vulnerability stuff again. One has to be vulnerable in order to ask for help. I need a reminder, and thanks to Nancy and that warm comfy dressing room at Dillard’s, I will be wearing a 34DD reminder on my chest for a long time to come.

“Scoop the breast and position the nipple in the center of the cup.”

Thanks Nancy.

I spend a good three days to two weeks dreading any activity that promises to take me away from the safe hub of my home for more than two or three hours. And while agoraphobia is not one of my many mental illnesses, I am rather attached to the old hearth. A few months ago, I agreed to sub for the preschool aide at the school where Sheldon–my 14 year old–attends and where my sister is principal. I have no problem agreeing to something months in advance, and if I forget to write it on my calendar, and I always do, it’s as if I never agreed to begin with.

My sister, the principal, is a pretty smart cookie, so she waited to remind me of my upcoming sub duties until they were a week away, limiting the amount of time I could spend dreading. Even so, I didn’t waste a single moment, and still after a week of mild-level angst–checking the weather forecasts hourly in the hopes of a snow day, analyzing my shallow cough for possible worsening, my shoulders for that achy feeling that signals a fever, monitoring my own children’s health in case I would be needed for their care–Tuesday came uneventfully, and I was on my way to the preschool classroom.

I love preschoolers, I do, so it makes no sense for me to dread spending time with them. The thing is, I suppose, that I have a rather small comfort zone, and when I start breaching its borders, the committee chimes in. What if you aren’t good at this? What if you make a mistake? What if they smell your fear? Wouldn’t you rather stay home and write your life story, make lunch for Peanut (who is 17, for God’s sake), be there to greet UPS when your Sephora order comes in, read your new book?

I told the committee that I just finished  Year of Yes by Shonda Rimes, and by God, I was going to dance it out with a bunch of little ones, so the committee could just shut up. (Read this book, please!)

Let me tell you something about the pre-k set–they are cool cats. They are both present and flinging themselves headlong into the future. They are not separate from or ashamed of their bodies. They sneeze and fart and when snot seeps from their noses they wipe it away with their shirt sleeves. They pick their boogers and their butts with equal abandon, to hell with good choices!  They say what they are thinking:

Ms. Bridgett, are you a boy or a girl?

I’m a girl.

So why that short hair, then?

or

Ms. Bridgett, how old are you?

I’m 49 years old.

Oh, Ms. Bridgett, you are old. (This was said with so much awe and admiration that I actually felt pretty damned good about my advanced age.)

Preschoolers like to run windmilling their flexible little arms. They pitch so far forward that they nearly kiss the concrete, and sometimes they do, but more often than not their legs somehow catch up to their bodies and they are off again.

Preschoolers like to be held. They reach their little hands straight up towards your chest and there is nothing you can do, nothing you want to do more than to lift up that little body and hold it close. They say things like, Hold you, please, and your wee heart grows ten sizes.

And they weep. Oh God, they weep uncontrollably. They weep if someone swipes their seat. They weep when their friends knock over their magnetic tiles. They weep when they have to wait one minute to go to the bathroom. They weep and weep and weep and they don’t care if weeping is unacceptable or too dramatic for the situation at hand. They rub their little fists into their weepy little eyes and wail like their toes have been cut off. Oh to weep that way, at the first hint of sorrow or disappointment, to shriek and let the whole world in on your unhappiness.

Thursday was my last day in the preschool classroom, and when I went home that afternoon, I knew I would miss their little voices. I would miss rubbing their little backs while they tried to nap. I would miss the tattling and the running and phonercizing with Dr. Jean  which is way way better than aerobics.

***

When my daughter, Peanut, was diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes, three years ago, I was forced to accept that I had no control over anything. All those years, raising kids, I thought I could keep them safe. I wanted to crawl back into my children’s childhoods through a hidden portal in the closet wall. Not to do things differently. I knew I would probably do everything the same way. I just wanted to forget that I didn’t have forever.

You see, I was uncomfortable with this new knowledge that every moment counted. I liked it better when the future seemed immense and long, when I could spend hours worrying about new shoes and diarrhea and Howard Dean’s campaign shattering howl on national TV.   But there is no portal to crawl through. There is only today, and that long future I once saw is very likely shorter than the time I have left behind.

It’s a sobering thought. And sometimes it grabs me in the gut and twists me around until I too could weep, and I do. But I’m pretty sure this is how it’s supposed to be. At 20 or 30, I could have been paralyzed by this knowledge. I needed the future to unfurl ahead of me farther than I could see. And now in middle age (yes, middle age because I plan to live to at least 100), this knowledge is appropriate. It will help me to make good choices–like spending as much time as I can with the coolest cats.

This week, Eric and I celebrated our 26th anniversary. I’ve been married to this guy over half my life. And believe you me, this has been no small feat. No one, except me maybe, thought we’d make to to the one year mark.

Our love affair has romance written all over it.

We met December 1, 1989 at the water treatment plant where Eric worked the second shift. The whole world was covered in ice and snow. I was buzzed on Miller Lite (I could drink a bunch of them back then) and smoking Virginia Slims Menthol 120s. They were some long cigarettes. I loved the way the smoldering ash looked as I talked with my hands, and you could still smoke inside–everywhere.

I remember what he had on–Osh Kosh painter pants, a red Calvin Klein sweatshirt–the sort with three buttons at the neck, and blue deck shoes. He was as thin as anyone I knew. I can still see him as if it were yesterday, but I have no idea what I wore although I suspect it was a fashionable ensemble of tight Calvin Klein jeans, high top tennis shoes, and a long sweater that covered my ass and a good part of my thighs. It was the 80s, after all.

We were introduced by a mutual friend who thought Eric might have a little weed, and he did. He kindly rolled us a small joint and promised to hook up with us later. I’ve never been much of a pot smoker. Truth be told, the pot was an excuse for the introduction, and it worked.

Eric showed up at my friend’s house at 11:30. He whisked a cheap bottle of vodka out from under the front seat of his blue Honda Accord–oh the magic–and he and I proceeded to drink ourselves silly on my friend’s couch. My memory of this lovely first date is understandably a little blurry, but I do remember this. He left around 4:00 AM. I walked him out to the car. He slipped on the ice, fell into his car, and with admirable flourish, pulled me close, kissed me hard, and said, “Don’t forget about me.”

A little over two months later, we were married.

It would be easier to explain or understand if I could say it was a whirlwind romance with trips to Paris and loads of money, if I believed in fate and love at first sight, but I don’t. The truth is a whole lot simpler. We were two flailing people, and we made some kick-ass snow angels that winter.

Later, we would create a story of inevitability based on some glittering sparks we glued together. A few months before I met Eric, I went on a date with a fellow named Jeff. Before the date, Jeff, who knew Eric, went to Eric’s house and said to him, “I’m going out with Bridgett tonight,” as if that was something.

Eric said, “Who the fuck is Bridgett?”

And once, when Eric was 28, in the hospital, and still passed out from having his tonsils removed, he sleepily mumbled to his then-wife,  “Brigitte, please get me my skates.”

When he woke up his wife asked him, “Who the fuck is Brigitte?”

“You are Bridgett,” he says to me. “No, I am Brigitte,” I answer.

In February, we crossed state lines into Kentucky where we were married at The Executive Inn in Owensboro. My parents were there and so were my friend and her husband. The ceremony was held in my parents’ room because of the murphy bed and the way it folded into the wall creating just enough space for a lovely wedding.

A drunken justice of the peace, whose car broke down on the way to the Inn and called for a ride, presided over our nuptials. He slurred through the entire 5 minute service. “Eeeeeerick, do you take Brid-i-get to be your wife?” he asked. Eric said yes, while the rest of us tried not to laugh. “Brid-i-get, do you take Eeeeeerick to be your husband?” by this time we were all laughing, but again, I said yes, and it was a done deal. We were married.

After a lovely dinner in the Executive Dining Room where we spotted the country music star Janie Fricke eating supper, Eric and I retired to our room to watch Buster Douglas surprise everyone by beating Mike Tyson out of his heavy weight title. It was all downhill for Tyson after that fight, but our marriage had begun.

Here’s the thing. We weren’t supposed to make it. But I knew we would. I am as stubborn as a bull ox (that’s what my dad says, anyway), and no one thought we should get married, so I was determined to show them.

It’s a love story, yes, but it’s not crazy with passion and romance and sultry nights and days spent in bed with roses scattered all over the room. It’s a story of two people who helped each other grow up amidst the chaos of kids, dogs, a bunch of different rodents, basketball games, low-brow television, mental illness, diabetes, sports injuries, and a healthy amount of vomit swirled in.

We both like to talk, and thank God, we like to talk to each other. If I didn’t like to talk to Eric, it never would have worked. He’s smart, and I’m smart and we agree on Hillary and God–the other stuff we let go. We have four great kids and two great grandkids. Each year we stumble through the turmoil that is married life and celebrate with a sigh and a glass of Pinot Noir for me and a beer for him. We can afford much better beer and wine these days.

There were years, YEARS, when I looked at the guy snoring next to me and thought–oh hell, what the fuck did I do? I’m sure he thought the same thing, and for the record, I snore once in a while, but it’s not nearly as loud. In 26 years, we never stopped talking. Talking–who would’ve thought?

I have to tell you, though, these last ten years have been wicked good. Yes, ups and downs, but mostly wicked good. I believe in love, I do. And I love my husband, but I’m sure as hell glad that I like him because 26 years is a long damn time.

**Note about folks described in this and subsequent blogs. My husband’s name is Eric, and I’m going to call him Eric in the blog. He married me, and this is his reward. Eric and I have four kids, and I’m going to give them blog names partly because I think it will afford them some semblance of privacy but mostly because I think it’s fun to give them new names. Son #1 is 25-yr-old Lefty. Daughter #1 is Isky. She is 23 and has a 1 year old son I call Wonder and a 5 year old daughter named Joy. Daughter #2 is Peanut, and she is, as of today, 17 (happy birthday, Peanut!). Son #2 is 14-year-old Sheldon.**

Peanut is my daughter. Peanut wants a tattoo for her 17th birthday. She’s got it all planned out–Roman numerals to commemorate the day she was diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes. I figure she thinks it will be difficult to say NO to this birthday request; after all, she does poke herself with needles all the time. She rarely pulls the diabetes card, but when she does, she usually gets her way. She’s a smart kid.

The thing is, even though she knows it’s a done deal and I know it’s a done deal, it’s hard to say yes. It’s not the actual ink-on-skin that has my stomach in knots: Peanut already has a tattoo on her foot (like I said, she rarely pulls the diabetes card, but when she does…). No, I’m worried about what people will think because I’m like that.

Here come the shoulds. I should make her wait until she doesn’t need my signature on the tattoo papers. I should remind her how beautiful and unmarred her skin is at this very moment. I should stay home and drink a large glass of pinot noir, but instead I am going to drive 45 miles to a slightly larger town where I will buy my daughter an $80 tattoo for her 17th birthday.

**

The problem isn’t the tattoo; it’s the committee in my head. They start in the minute I contemplate doing anything different like having a raspberry/yogurt shake instead of an egg for breakfast or allowing my 17-year-old daughter to get a tattoo.

The committee gets a kick out of this. They start in all nasally and coy with a simple little Are you sure this is the right thing? and when I answer honestly that I don’t know, they try another route with What will people think? After many years of arguing with these folks I’m ready for their questions, but they always get me with What’s your dad going to say? I’m going to be honest here; the committee members all sound a lot like my dad. I have a feeling he installed the committee in my head before I could talk. What if she regrets it later? they chide. What if there is a complication because of the diabetes? They warn and scold and wring their tiny little hands.

I tell the committee what I plan to tell my dad when he asks me what the hell I was thinking letting beautiful little Peanut get a tattoo:  Peanut sticks herself with needles every single day, Dad. If she wants a tattoo to commemorate the date she was diagnosed with diabetes, who am I to say NO? I say this as if it’s not my decision. As if I too think it is sort of a bad idea for her to get a tattoo, but the truth is I don’t think it’s a good idea, and I don’t think it’s a bad idea. It’s just a tattoo. I trust that whether Peanut loves or hates the tattoo, she will also know that it’s just a tattoo.

So we go–Peanut, her two friends, and me–and we wait for an hour on a black faux leather couch in the main room of the tattoo parlor (yes, I know that tattoo parlor is an antiquated term, but I love it for its slightly edgy 80s feel). This is a busy joint. The walls are papered with brightly colored images–dragons and unicorns and hearts and roses– but most of the folks here are waiting for piercings–tongue webs, conches, septums, bridges, daiths and rooks. The little gal at the desk has a tiny silver arrow-thingy in each cheek. Everyone in this place is talking about bars and rings and gauging, plugs and anchors. I wiggle around on the couch, trying to find a comfortable spot. There isn’t one. I have three tattoos, but those piercings, well, I just don’t understand it. Why would people want to put metal bars and discs and arrow-thingies on their faces let alone places I cannot see?

We are eventually called in. And Peanut sits still while a man with the gigantic rose on his neck evenhandedly inks a date on her arm. At first she looks beautiful and serene and then pained. Her little face scrunches up and her eyes get all watery, and every once in a while, she breathes in deep as if she’s been pierced by something very sharp. Her mouth takes the shape of a perfect “O” every time she gasps in surprise.

From across the room, I quit watching. I can’t do it. The pasta I had for dinner moils in my stomach. I look down at my hands and then down at the dirty floor and then I count the empty beverage containers on the counters. Peanut’s friends don’t know it, but I have handed off this watching part to them. I am thinking about Walgreen’s next door and how I’m going to get some double-sided tape to finish Sheldon’s science fair project along with some water because I am fucking thirsty and some Aquaphor because that is what Roseneck will tell us this tattoo needs for at least four days.

The whole thing takes about 20 minutes, and then we are off.

And guess what I do all the way home? I work on a little committee installation project of my own. Why would anyone want a ring in her septum? I just don’t get it. And those arrow-thingies coming out of that woman’s cheeks. What is that?

Peanut is mesmerized by her tattoo. She turns her arm this way and that. Her eyes spark in the dark car. She turns the music up and and all three girls’ phones flash as they take selfies and send snapchats to other friends. We are in the same car and worlds apart, but I know through all the static they hear me. And it occurs to me that I don’t want to be someone’s committee.

So I shut the hell up.

Most days I walk with a friend. Because we do not live in the same town, we text each other when we set out in the morning. “Let’s begin.” I might type. To which she replies, “Again.”

“Let’s begin, again” is what I say to myself as I sit down to write this first post. I have started about 421 blogs in the past five years, so why in the Sam Hell would I give this another shot?

On New Year’s Day I did something I never do–I made a couple of resolutions: to read only books written by women (shoot me fellas), to hand copy one poem written by a woman every day, to cut back on sugar, to drink less wine and more tea (I really need to start this one).

I turn 49 today, and I’m adding one more “to do” to my list–blogging.  I’ve been thinking about it for a while–obviously as I have started 421 blogs in the past; however, this time I am in it for the long haul or a year. I am taking this wonderful Brené Brown class over at courage works.com and I’m determined to get good at this vulnerability gig–and writing a small thing at least three times a week and shoving it out into the world seems like a good way to begin, again.

So here goes.

Funny story–the name of this blog is The 49th Year because I turn 49 today. What a great name, right. So great that I bought the domain and the added privacy protection in the unlikely event that reading this blog might turn someone into a stalker. I am going for it this time–writing, vulnerability, blog–in real time, in my real 49th year.

So last night, I lie down next to my gently snoring husband, and read a few pages from The Witches: Salem, 1692  before turning off the light. And the minute I close my eyes, my stomach starts roiling, like there’s a hand deep in my core pulling all my organs into a sweaty fist-sized ball.

Why all the angst?

Because I’m starting a blog, and I’ll have to post it on FB because there is no vulnerability involved if I don’t ask people to read the damned thing, and suddenly, in the dark of night, it occurs to me that this is the worst idea ever! In fact, it’s appalling, and I think the whole thing may have given me a flu-like illness. My mouth is all watery and I’m coughing little hiccupy coughs and my hips ache, and I know I’ll never sleep now unless I leap out of bed and take half a Xanax, pronto.

So I get the Xanax and pee because I never get out of bed without peeing, and I’m once again lying next to the same husband whose snoring is slightly less gentle to my fevered ears, when I realize that I’m turning 49. And if I’m turning 49, that means I have already lived my 49th year. People are going to laugh, and sneer, and joke around about how I turned one the day I was born. The whole thing is ruined before it ever begins.

Ruined.

And maybe because my husband stops snoring and silence pierces the frenzy of self doubt, I am able to hear her–the me who isn’t afraid, the crone me. And she’s laughing and then I’m laughing because

No one is going to give a shit what I name my blog.

and

Ruined might be a pretty good place to begin.