I woke up feeling spunky this morning. It happens from time to time. I have
dreams where I'm a butt-kicking femme fatale. I envision myself in form-fitting
leather, with seriously good hair and one-liners that become part of the pop
culture lexicon. My boots never get scuffed, and bad guys flee before me. Then I
wake up and catch a glimpse at my 30-something face, and it shocks me. I just
don't feel the way I look. It's not that I feel unattractive, or disappointed
when my bleary-eyed reflection peers back at me. I'm just not the dynamo that
lives in my dreams. I look like a mom. A few days ago, I had a juicy
conversation with a dear friend. We have always turned to each other for honest
and sometimes whiny commentary on topics that I don't like to discuss with most
people. All the 'impolite' topics: weight, exercise, fashion mistakes,
accountings of how cool we used to be in days gone by. "I want to go to a
professional makeup artist and get lessons, " I said. "I think I'm using the
wrong colors, because I always look old and tired." "Maybe you're just old and
tired," she deadpanned. We laughed and laughed, because it's so true. But I
still want the makeup lesson. My sister holds a black belt in Tae Kwon Do. She
really does kick butt, and she tells me that Charlie's Angels and Jennifer
Garner are great at theatrical butt-kicking. It's all smoke and mirrors. They
train for months to look like they could, and are filmed with special effects
and great music. This sounds like what a lot of celebrity moms have going on.
I've read several articles recently that detail the rigorous schedule that moms
in the public eye must adhere to in order to regain their figure and not damage
their working reputation. They enlist a whole compliment of nannies, personal
trainers, chefs, personal assistants to keep them on track. I am certain that
they work hard, for hours and hours a day. I wouldn't trade my life for that,
even if I did look like a robo-babe. I require a certain amount of sloth in my
day. I loved the first few months at home with my babies. If I had to entrust
them to a caregiver so that I could get into the gym for 4 hours a day, it would
have violated that sacred time. Besides, genetics being what they are, I'm never
going to be Catherine Zeta-Jones. I'm not even sure Catherine is herself. I do
like to fantasize about my life through the camera lens: Electronica music
begins as soon as my eyes open, creating intrigue while I make my way down the
lego strewn hall to the coffee maker. The lighting is flattering. I execute a
sexy karate kick in my silk nightie with matching robe to close the fridge. In
the background, I hear a primal scream. The music shifts to a pulsing techno as
I race to investigate. It's a diaper disaster. Out come the gloves and the
evidence bags. Cut, cut, cut. Mommy has to make breakfast.