It's a Marvelous Night for a &*^%&* Moondance

It is 3am. I am lying in a crumpled heap on the concrete pad in front of our garage door. My palms burn. I can feel blood dripping down my left knee, absorbed by the shredded remains of my pajama pants and terry cloth robe.

It was really only a matter of time.

There are three sets of stairs into/out of my house. One inside and a choice of two to get to the driveway.

Five carpeted stairs from the main floor to the landing...where my heels got caught, bilaterally, in some invisible fiber sending me careening onto the carpet at my husbands feet while he stood watching in amazement. If he hadn't had the oak door open I would have died.

Six concrete stone stairs making a winding pathway through the ivy under the big pine tree lead to the driveway...where I slid on an invisible patch of ice, pitching into the air in the manner of Tara Lapinski, landing on my butt. It took an hour before the vibration up my spinal column turned to actual pain.

And finally the five traditional concrete steps to the concrete pad by the garage door.

You would think this would have been the safest way down the steps at 3am.

I mean really. In math terms I had a 1:3 chance right?

Why was I walking down the steps at 3am in my now ruined pajama pants and blood soaked terry cloth robe?

I wanted to see the Blood Moon.

The night, here on the Coast of Illinois was cold, crisp, clear. The moon was fabulous. Big and round and moon-like. A shimmery deep pink. To the lower right a bright twinkle, Venus, I believe. One more brightly twinkling star a little further to the right.

Mystical.

Awe-inspiring.

I would have taken a picture but my iPod was not spared injury,receiving cosmetic damage to its face. And although the iPod still works, the moon being eight gazillion-paradigm miles away, is really too far for my tiny iPod camera.

If you are interested it looked just like my scraped up left knee.

I would have posted a picture of that but there is just too much sensationalism in journalism today.

Crossing that line would be a slippery slope.

Like the stairs.

And This is How an Idea is Born

So I was sitting around with a group of co-workers the other day. We were pouring over the latest Vogue – critiquing the outfits, the models, the prices...

The conversation went something like this:

"Too short."

"Too young."

"Won't wear it. Won't wear it. Might wear it...no, won't wear it."

"Wow, she's scary..."

"He's cute."

"He's my son's age."

The median age of this group is early 50's.

But there was one outfit – The model is dashing across the white page, presumably to meet some exotic friend after a long hard day of international finance and shopping. She is wearing a thin black turtleneck and short white skirt, black knee socks and black chunky shoes. Totally do-able, if the skirt were a little longer and the knee socks were black boots.

"I could see myself in this." I said, optimistically, a vision of me dashing to the local cafe after a long hard day of shopping or museum wandering, in my mind.

My co-workers gave me that 'are you serious' look so I amended my previous statement with, "I mean, I couldn't pull off the knee highs. I don't think I even own knee highs anymore...."

And at that moment it dawned on us all. We simultaneously pulled up our pant legs to reveal BLACK KNEE HIGHS.

They were orthopedic knee highs, but still.

We had discovered the basis for Calvin Klein's newest line.

May I present to you, Calvin – The Menopause Collection.

A line of dresses and skirts in lengths somewhere between daytime hooker and Pentecostal Sister. Blouses in a variety of styles, including halters and thin straps but with BUILT IN BRAS. Real, adjustable banded bras. (Because honestly, those shelf bras are neither shelf nor bra.)

No 'empire' waistlines. (If we wanted to look pregnant we would just stop working out and eat all the Carbs after 5pm.)

And no 3inch or shorter crouch zippers.

No.

We mid-life women want to look put together, fashionable and even a little sexy sometimes. But we do not need to be draped in leopard print, or taupe three quarter sleeves or those ridiculous 'high-low' flowing blouses. Some of us live in the Midwest for Pete's Sake. It is HOT in the summer. Have you ever tried to wear three quarter sleeves in 90 degree, 100 percent humidity?

It is not pretty.

And way too fragrant.

And not to worry Mr Klein. I even have a name for your new line. It embodies the style, grace and experience of the over 50 woman while remaining youthful and en vogue.

Are you ready for:

Haute Phlash

(Just to be safe, I googled 'Haute Phlash'. It seems it is MY ORGINAL IDEA in regards to a clothing line. The only true link to the words used together was to an Alpaca Farm which named one of its babies Haute Phlash. It's daddy being Jumping Jack Flash. And as most of we over 50 women can relate to Mick Jagger, Jumping Jack Flash and alpaca sweaters, and as there is no one on earth who doesn't love baby Alpacas, I am feeling the need to contact this farm for a picture to use as the symbol of Calvin's new line. I feel it will totally solidify our working relationship if I have all the basics ready.)

I'm Laura and I am a Magazine-a-holic

I admit it. I am a fifty one year old woman (I am NOT fifty two for a few more days. If anyone is interested) and I am addicted to MORE magazine. MORE magazine:for women of style and substance as their cover proclaims, is to my life now as SEVENTEEN magazine was during those angsty preteen years and COSMOPOLITAN was during those twenty-something days of dating and college. In other words – it is my guide for being fabulous...in my own mind.

I don't race to the mailbox anymore, probably because our mailman doesn't show up until well after 5pm and I get home from work at 7pm, thus allowing a nice leisurely stroll to the box on my way in the house. But once here, I do what I have always done. I pour over the cover, do a cursory sweep of the pages and finally, when I have the uninterrupted alone time, I read the magazine from cover to cover. If the mailman has done his job, the magazine arrives on a Friday before a Saturday that I have free. Then I can sit on the deck and read the magazine from cover to cover, with a rum drink or steaming cup of Starbucks Morning Joe at hand.

I suppose the fact that I can read the magazine from cover to cover in what amounts to about an hour might not be the best endorsement of the depth of the articles. Or, perhaps this is part of their marketing. They know their audience and their audience does not have hours to devote to articles with pretentiously huge words and very few pictures. ~cough cough~ VANITY FAIR ~cough cough~ Although the evil geniuses at Vanity Fair know that it is the photos on their cover that sucks me in while standing the check out at Target.

But I digress. (Take that, Vanity Fair.) I finished the June issue of MORE this past weekend. This issue was all about reinvention. How fortuitous. In the month of my birth, my guidebook for middle age has come out with the handbook of how to handle this new chapter of my life. There were articles addressing how to wake up rested (something about just going with those middle of the night wake ups), how to eat like a Frenchwoman (not nearly enough croissants in this one), how to get inspired (can't remember an example here but trust me, it was inspiring) and how to put some spark in how you dress (apparently it involves cute cardigans. Which, if worn on the Coast of Illinois would actually cause spontaneous human combustion). And there were liner notes. You know liner notes. Those tiny notes running vertically in the margins a la MAD magazine. But rather than offering up the antics of SPY vs SPY these offered suggestions on how to bump yourself out of the rut of middle age...or any age for that matter. Little hints like ~ stir your soul ~ and clear out your psyche. I have done neither of those. But I have ~binge viewed a series~ and ~planned an adventure~. I would love to give speed dating a try but I am not sure how my husband would feel about that.

Ladies of a certain 'I can't go sleeveless anymore and Wonder when I can retire' age, MORE is our magazine. Your middle-schoolers have SEVENTEEN with its cute clothes and One Direction updates. And your high school and college gals have COSMO with its 'I was so embarrassed' sex stories and 'how to dress trampy without actually looking like a tramp' pictorials. Don't get me wrong. I L-U-V-ed SEVENTEEN with its over-sized format (that's dating myself) and its beautiful prom dress issue. And I adored! COSMO, but eventually it became too much of an embarrassment to leave lying around the house with our own teenage kids and its orgasm laced covers And honestly, once you have done all the 69 Ways to Spice Up Your Sex Life it becomes a little, well, obsolete. Am I right ladies?

And so, enter MORE. It offers articles that are relevant to a woman my age: how to deal with boomerang children, how to dress and deal with additional gravitational pull, how to cope with a healthy crop of chin hairs. And it offers no apologies. It gets its spice, not from cinnamon like Better Homes and Gardens or Good Housekeeping, but from real talk with no punches pulled.

When I finished reading the June issue I felt like I did back in the days of SEVENTEEN and COSMO. I felt good about myself, ready to face a new day. But this time, rather than a new set of AB exercises and four new positions guaranteed to knock his socks off, I am tempted with ways to challenge myself to make the changes that only happen in my head on the commute to work.

And it is with that attitude that, rather than letting the alarm buzz me into a morning funk, I am setting my Ipod to lull me awake to the sound of Lebanese Blonde and my Morning Joe is taking a back seat to a real cup of Cuban coffee made in the stove top espresso pot I normally save for special occasions. I have high hopes to start that writing routine I keep putting off and finally master the yoga program I have been only attempting occasionally.

So...I started this over the weekend. I just finished it this morning before posting. And at this posting my new morning routine lasted exactly one morning. Turns out the Ipod alarm only really works if you set if for AM and not PM and lying awake half the night wondering if the pretty music will actually wake me up is not all that conducive to waking up rested. The cup of Cuban coffee was delish but being able to prepare one cup at a time really but a crimp in my already too short morning. And my writing and yoga routines?

Well, lets be honest, no matter how old you are some things never change...

*This is an unpaid endorsement of all the above mentioned magazines: MORE, Seventeen, Cosmo, Vanity Fair. And the unmentioned Vogue as well as our local mags Sauce, Feast and Alive. Face it. I love magazines. And as always, if any of these un-endorsed mentions have piqued the interest of editors I am available.

Fifty-one Year Old Woman vs the White Sweater Dress

****WARNING - this installment of CoastofIllinois contains references to female undergarments, and not in that sexy, Fredericks of Hollywood way but in more of a clinical, listen to your Mother way.*******

I bought a sweater dress. A white sweater dress. I am not sure why. I would like to think it was an act of optimism and not just a delusional disorder. I was probably high from that new dress smell and I had a handful of 'rewards' points and it was near the register...

Anyway...

I should probably give you a tiny bit of info. I am fifty one. I have a BMI somewhere between Salma Hayek and Melissa McCarthy. The dress is sweater knit and white. I spill things.

Last Saturday, I decided to wear the dress. Here is another little bit of info – anything you have on under a white sweater dress shows through the white sweater dress. Even when the dress is lined and you aren't wearing anything. (But this is not THAT sort of story.)

My plan was to wear the dress with black tights and boots and knowing how clingy sweater knit can be I opted for a staple in all over fifty underwear drawers: the Body Control Garment. This is the slip made of rubber band material and sent to all woman on return of their AARP membership. The dress hugged the slip which hugged me like a serial killer uncle at a family reunion. And the black tights gave the impression of my lower half being stuffed in a trash bag...sort of pre-murder.

Now here is an interesting fact about the Body Control Garment. It is quite serious about controlling the body. It reluctantly allows itself to be pulled up and over your head at which point the shelf bra grabs hold. I am quite sure that as the Lycra tried to suffocate me I heard the slip whisper, 'if I'm coming off, I'm taking these with me.' I halfheartedly called for my husband to come remove me but the thought of him seeing me tangled in a beige sausage casing and the resulting photos were much scarier than dying at the hands of an undergarment. I dug deep inside my self esteem and yanked.

The pop as the shelf bra cleared my boobs set off the car alarm.

With modern day undergarments clearly not working I tried the retro route – a vintage silk slip and thigh high nylons. (Don't even suggest a garter belt here. Again, this is not THAT sort of story and Hanes makes perfectly respectable thigh high stockings which are sold at Target. They are ten times more comfortable than panty hose. And the elastic bands leave an awesome imprint, perfect for startling unsuspecting medical personal who may be called upon to remove your Body Control Garment.) The stockings worked but even though I love my vintage slip, once under the clinging dress, the delicate silk embroidery became weird three dimensional flower tattoos on my chest.

In the end, because I was exhausted and my husband was now in the car checking the availability of his Alternates List (on which Salma Hayek is in the top five). I opted for the Girl Scout issue tan bra and gigantic underpants that stop just above the belly button. No slip. Black stockings.

Here is one more little bit of info: while the black stockings did not show through the dress lining nothing hides the two hand prints on my ass from the makeup still on my fingers when I readjusted the gigantic underpants.

Oh, and when you stand in the hallway trying to simultaneously brush the makeup off your ass and make sure your thigh bulges don't show above the elastic stockings, DO NOT assume the person you are asking, ''can you see ANYTHING through this stupid dress?" is your husband.

The shriek from our son set off the car alarm, again.

That's right, I own you Bea-atch!