I’m 42. My birth certificate says I’m 42, my license says I’m 42 – my body says I’m 42. And I don’t like it one bit. Because inside my head I’m still 22. I see a yummy guy with smoldering eyes and the physique of Adonis and it still turns my head. I might even flirt a little. As a matter of fact, when my brother came to visit from Germany, I took him out on a night of the town. Considering he had never been in the US before I thought it only appropriate to take him to a country and western bar/dance club and make him ride the mechanical bull. He thought I was nuts, I suppose it insulted his German sensibility to do something so foolish. But he humored me and did it anyway. I think he enjoyed it. Well, maybe not so much the fact he banged his head against the bull while being ejected. Still. I digress.

We took our seats as closely as possible to the dance floor and people-watched for a bit. It was almost comical to watch the Cowboys and girls two-stepping on the dance floor while my brother seemed to uncomfortably move around in his seat. He wasn’t too impressed with it. We sipped our beers and people-watched some more. Then I had the brilliant idea to see if we could muster up some hotties for ourselves. Keep in mind that I am 13 years old than my brother, so he’s only 28 and much more equipped for the hotties. But since I am still 22 in my head I thought nothing of it. I pointed to a younger guy standing around by the bar with his buddy and told my brother to go get him for me. Yup, I did that. I had no shame. Plus, I was a little tipsy by that time. Dutifully he walks over and chats with the guy, pointing to me while I unsuccessfully attempted to feign disinterest like I had no clue what was going on. He comes back and says, “He’s not interested.” What?? Not interested?? Impossible. How can that even be true? I looked at my brother incredulously since he had mysteriously grown a third eye and was obviously speaking in tongues. It floored me for a moment. In my twenties (the real twenties not the imaginary ones in my current state of mind) I was a man-magnet. Couldn’t keep them off of me. I tend to forget that this was before I had my three sons and before I added about 40 pounds to my once svelte bod. I also tend to forget that was 20 years ago. Hell, even in my thirties I was still a magnet and rather young looking. Got carded all the time.

I don’t know what happened in the last 10 years that suddenly catapulted me to the status of a 22 year old trapped in the body of a 40something. Maybe it’s the fact that I am more concerned with making it to work on time, finishing papers for my MBA (I took on grad school a year ago) or lecturing my 14 year old son on how NOT to talk/eat/behave. Or the fact that I spent way too much time watching movies, TV or reading on the Internet. My butt seems to be permanently planted somewhere and it’s obvious now that this might have something to do with my loss of babe-magnet factor. It’s really quite depressing.

Which reminds me, when I met my brother at the airport, I had not seen him since he was 10 or so. So it was tough for us to recognize each other at the airport at first. Then, I recognized my step-father’s gait in his and he walked up to me smiling and said, “You look like mom when she was your age.” I was stunned. Me? Look like my mother at my age? I remember her sort of pudgy, always bleary eyed and hungover (I will not expound on that right now) and really not all that attractive. It really hurt and even now, months after he left and went back home, that comment resonates in my head and every time I hear it, it hurts again. I most certainly do not want to be my mother, nor do I want to look like her – EVER. Perhaps genetics cannot be avoided but the rest should be avoidable. Come to think of it, my mother used to be a babe-magnet as well. Since she is only 17 years older than me (again, I will not expound on that right now) we spent many a night together bar and club hopping together. She delighted in the fact we were mistaken for sisters and often used me to help her pick up beau du jour. I recall sometimes feeling a bit put off by her obvious ways in which she tried to attract the younger guys. Sometimes she got lucky, sometimes not. Do I want to be like that? A middle aged woman pathetically trying to cling on to her youth? I think not. So what’s a girl to do?

After a recent physical my doctor advised me that my cholesterol needs to come down. Again, I was shocked. I have always been healthy as a horse considering I smoke like a chimney and don’t mind a few drinks now and then (ok, a lot of drinks when the mood hits me). I never had any health problems and now I was faced with the dreaded cholesterol ominously threatening to clog my arteries and forcing me to succumb to an early grave from heart disease. It was depressing. Stepping on the scale, I almost fainted. I put on 30 pounds since my last physical! (Mind you, that was three years or so ago) How did that happen?? Come to think of it, see above mentioned planting of posterior on various office chairs, couches and the like.

That night I lay in my bed and replayed the club fiasco with my brother, the phone call from my doctor and the fact that I looked like my mother at her age. If it had not been for my son, I may have just offed myself right then and there. It was THAT depressing. A year or two goes by so quickly these days and before you know it, you end up a middle aged lady who gets a “can I help you ma’am?” at the store. Well, I refuse to go there. I’m just not ready yet!

So for the past month I’ve taken to watching what I eat and exercising at least 30 minutes a day (most days). I am so Capricornian anal about it, I even got a software program that lets me record everything going into my mouth in minute detail. Some days I forget, most I don’t. I’m increasing my fiber to the recommended 25 g a day but seem to have trouble with that. It just seems that you have to consume onGodly amounts of produce to get it. Mind you, I hardly got any before that – it’s a wonder I am still breathing! I never ate fruits anymore, hardly any veggies, certainly never breakfast. It was all very irratic.

I think the USA did it to me. Growing up in Germany did not lend itself to much weight gain or laziness. I never owned a car and walked everywhere. Hence, I was a lithe 140 pounds until I moved over here 20 years ago. Hey, I am 6'2 in heels so 140 is waif-like. My nicknames in high school included: "Beanpole", BMW (Brett mit Warzen) which is just a mean way of saying you are flat as a board and various other choice cuddly (NOT) names. Even after my third child, who is now 14, I was still fairly lean. Then I experienced 4 miscarriages and the whole pot went to hell. Can't think of a better analogy at the moment...will edit later. Jeez, digression....

It’s just not possible to walk everywhere over here; you have to have a car to get around. Especially in Charlotte where the public transportation system leaves much to be desired. I have no intention of getting up at 5 am to catch a bus that will get me to the office by 9 am. So I just don’t walk anymore. Haven’t for years. That’s what did me in in my opinion. I still don’t like to walk. Can you unlearn something that was so ingrained in you in childhood and early adulthood? I suppose I am living proof dear Watson, yes you can. Can I relearn all of that? I doubt it. I can certainly try though.

My recumbent bike was dusted off as was my 12 year old Tony Little stair stepper. Amazingly enough, the thing still works albeit a little squeaky. Replacement parts certainly won’t be found anywhere on this planet so once it dies, it’s dead for good. I digress again. Thus far I’ve lost a couple of inches but only five pounds in one month. My body is fiercely hanging on to every extra pound. I suppose it feels its life depends on it. I eat all day, little snacks here and there, weigh everything before it goes on my plate but still fall short and some days only consume about 1200 calories (after deducting the worked off calories from exercise). I should be melting away! Instead, my weight will not budge and I get frustrated and depressed and there I go, planting my behind on the couch commandeering the remote again. If I wasn’t such a loner, I’d be heading out to find me a workout buddy. Alas, I am a loner and I don’t like gyms with their meat market feel. I ordered a Pilates DVD, maybe that will help. I even went out and purchased the entire line of Olay Regenerist beauty products. The jury is still out on the results on using that but I am patient. Rome was not built in a day and recapturing my babe-magnet factor might take a few months. I am however determined to do so, since looking like my mother at her age is simply unacceptable. That and the fact that I am refusing to get rid of my size 8 wardrobe in favor of the more current size 12 I’ve had to wear.

Which leads me to another dismal thought. When, and more importantly WHY, did I accept my expanding waist line and simply go out and buy larger clothes? The L label in some of my shirts should have been a clue, as should the jeans I tried on the other week and could barely get above my knees – let alone anywhere near my waist. I took a picture of my unflattering self with a digital camera and have locked it away. I can’t say for sure why I did that, taking the photo that is. Perhaps to wallow in self-pity and confirm to myself that yes, I am bigger than I should be. But maybe if I look at it long enough, it will disappear again and I can go back to doing nothing and passing the produce section at Food Lion without another thought.

Then again, there is that comment from the hottie at the club, “Not interested.” I might be able to bear a few more pounds but I never want to hear that again. Hence, I will be working my butt off, figuratively and literally, to regain my status as the hottest mom on the block. Hey, maybe I’ll even get a part on Desperate Housewives. Nah. I’ll just be happy to have a 30 year old lusting after me.