Dressing for your age. The fashion rules.

A few years ago ('few' is used very loosely here), I was sitting under the dryer at a salon waiting for my golden brown highlights to process. To pass the time, I mindlessly flipped through a magazine half-heartily absorbing information on the latest make-up trends, celebrity news and a suggestions for traveling through Europe on a budget. Towards the end of the small-town-telephone-book-sized publication, there is a story about dressing for your age:

Outfits specifically designed for women in their 20s ooze youth and vitality. Outfits designed for women in their 30s are practical with hints of color. Outfits for women in their 40s feature monochromatic pieces that emphasize quality over trends. Outfits for women in their 50s...well, I guess women that age resign to recycling decades worth of fashion mishaps because there are no suggestions for this demographic.

My 20-something mind giggled at the thought of women actually using age as a factor when choosing clothes. "Who does that?" I thought. Fashion rules seemed so...suffocating. I continued to think that way until very recently. It wasn't a conscious transformation but at some point over the last few years, I've become someone who really should pay attention to what is age appropriate clothing. In your 20s, you can pretty much pull off fashion for any age. It's just a matter of personal preference. But, I've discovered that your 30s are a time of transition....like it or not. Those cheesy magazine articles suddenly become valuable tools. "OK...so I should NOT wear leggings as pants? Got it." Finding a body part to emphasize through clothing has become both crucial and more difficult. Perhaps it's because it's so easy to pick myself apart, or attempt comparisons with the 20-something version of myself. Big mistake!

There are rare moments when I actually have the occasion to present myself socially to people other than my kids (this used to be known as "going out"). In these rare occasions, I've often peaked in my full-length mirror and said, "Ok, I can pull this off." Then, a little voice in the back of my 30-something head says, "If you need to 'pull it off,' you probably shouldn't be wearing it.'" Duly noted, little voice.

So, the fashion rules officially apply to me. Resistance is futile. Even if I was the absolute most perfect physical version of myself, I am still 30-something and need to acknowledge the responsibility that comes with this third decade, both personally and fashionably. I'm not throwing in the towel, but I am recognizing that some things work and some things don't. And with that, I officially retire my mini-skirts and corset tops (just kidding....or am I?).

The Airport Without Kids...A New Experience

I am sitting in the airport waiting for a flight to LA. Alone. I have one bag and the contents are mine. No sippy cups. No diapers. No DVD players or Max and Ruby movies. As walked to my gate this morning, I expected to see a trail of cheerios marking my footsteps, but there were none. I'm not trying to figure out way to hold three little hands, when I have only two. I'm not worried about untied shoelaces getting caught in the escalator or favorite toys being left behind in the shuttle/train/security bins/bathroom. I did have an initial urge to as the policeman at security for a sticker, but resisted.

The ease of it all is overwhelming.

When I travel with my kids, simply using the restroom is an adventure. No matter how full my bladder, I have to wait for two little ones to find the potty (after much convincing that the violent whoosh of the auto-flushing airport models will NOT suck them into the ground) and change a diaper before I can even consider using the potty myself. And then, I must trust that the familiarity of the activity will allow my subconscious to take over, since I am consciously trying to keep my children off the bathroom floor while dissuading them from peeking beneath every stall. Why is this fun to them? Neither their precious dimples nor their mischievous grins can convince their peeping Tom victims of the humor.

As I write this, I'm sitting in the middle of a sea of black seats. I have strangers on both sides and across from me and I have no reason to apologize to them profusely. I didn't seek out an isolated group of empties, preferably close to a snack bar and next to a window. I can't even see the planes right now, and I'm not melting down.

The hardest part of my trip so far has been the "quiet talker" directly across from me. Nice guy, I'm sure. But, when I sat down he proceeded to have a 15 minute conversation with me. All I caught was that he is from someplace in California, something about the beach and 4-wheelers, a cabin in Williams, a stopped up sink, a cat smart enough to avoid coyotes and Governor Schwarzenegger's lack of cojones. Sounds like a conversation I'd love to participate in, but I could only hear every 6th word coming from his mouth. Had I been with kids, a chat would never be initiated and I wouldn't be left wondering about the fate of his cat.

I miss my kids already, but I do not miss experiencing the chaos of airport travel. A small part of me says I should feel guilty about enjoying this freedom so much. Fortunately, I was able to dig out a lollipop out of the bottom of my purse. That small part of me is now contently sucking on a sweet treat. Ahhh...silence.

Sleep evades me.

I just finished writing an article for SheKnows.com titled How to Look More Awake: Makeup to Wake up, which got me thinking...when was the last time I slept? I don't mean when was the last time I closed my eyes while lying prone in my bed for a short burst of time. I mean, real, snore-inducing, REM sleep. It's hard for me to nail down a date because I seriously cannot remember.

Each night, after PJs are donned and my face and teeth are scrubbed, I grab a hot mug of green tea with a drop of honey, the latest book I'm reading and settle into my insanely expensive Tempurpedic. An aside: promises of deep, rejuvenating sleep convinced us to plop down wayyy too much money for this mattress. And still, sleep evades me.

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On a typical day, I can fall asleep standing up at any given moment, so actually finding sleep is not a problem. But, it usually slithers away just as quickly as it came. Around 1am the first barrage of tiny little feet ascends the stairs to our room and I brace myself within a dream. Soon after, I hear Eden's parched mouth dryly slapping in my ear. She begs for water as if on her death bed. Never mind the fact that she passed a full bottle of water (which I always place next to her bed), the bathroom sink downstairs, the kitchen sink and our bathroom sink in order to find our bed. Apparently, only the water in the bottle next to me can sufficiently quench her thirst. And off she goes.

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Around 3am, it's Gioia's turn. "Maaaaama. Maaaaama," she whispers in my ear. The line between sleep and reality slowly fades as I open my eyes to see her millimeters away from my face. It used to freak me out, but now I know what's coming. "Is it good morning time?" she asks. I ask her to head back to bed and wait for the sun to come up. THEN, it's good morning time. She understands (just as she did the night before, and the night before that) and heads back down.

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Somewhere between 4:30 and 5a, Rocco stomps upstairs, falling once or twice along the way. His approach is much less subtle. Getting right to the point, he slaps my face and I snap up. "Move over please," he says matter-of-factly. Usually, I'm too exhausted to protest and with the sun on the horizon, why bother. I spend the next 15 minutes trying to wiggle a little knee out of my back, at which point I just decide to wake up and work or go to yoga. No sleep for me.

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I truly wrote this article from experience because if I even resemble a fully cognizant and awake person throughout the day, it's all smoke and mirrors. Truly.

Please, Mr. Banker. I'd like to borrow money to make payroll.

Earlier today, President Obama made a special appearance at the White House press briefing. Included in the topics covered were, of course, the economy and jobs. As a small business owner, one statement in particular caught my attention:
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Let me put it this way. Most small businesses right now, if they've got enough customers to make a profit and they can get the bank loans required to boost their payroll, boost their inventory and sell to those customers, they will do so.

I can imagine the conversation now. "Yes, Mr. Banker. I want a loan for my business. Can you make it quick, because I need to make payroll and my 20 employees are a bit impatient. Thanks."

Now, I was not a business major, but even I know that it doesn't make sense to borrow in order to make payroll. Having opened our doors almost 3 years ago, we've never had an "easy time" as small business owners. But, if it ever comes to needing a loan to pay our employees, I think that's a pretty good sign that the doors should just be closed.
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I understand it's tough to see people fail. Nobody wants to do it. But, in a capitalist society, failure not only exists, it's a cornerstone. In fact, this would be the only time I'd say that Darwin had it right. The fit businesses survive. The rest die off. Trying to keep them alive by artificial means (ex: TARP) puts an unnecessary burden on our society and creates a false sense of security.
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When a business provides a service that people want, it succeeds. When it doesn't, it fails. It's called consequences. Even my small children grasp this concept:

• If you finish your work, you can play. If you don't, you can't.

Somewhere between diapers and the Hill, this message has transformed into:

• If you work hard, do your best and still fail, you can get help to maintain the cycle.

Borrowing money to make payroll is an indication that something in the fabric of the model is flawed. A loan may be a temporary fix, but it won't get to the heart of the matter. As a small business owner, it would be more honest for me to fail, and I knew that from the start.

The beauty of the Facebook friend

Since Facebook is taking over the world, I'm wondering if we'll all lose our ability to make friends the old-fashioned way. Socially speaking, knowing that a new BFF is but a click away is beyond convenient. There's no awkward getting-to-know-you-stage or weird introductions. Even better, the emotional investment is minimal. Click: "I want to be your friend." It's like that George Strait song, "Check Yes or No." The ultimate in simplicity.

There is something refreshing about the lack of banter. Nobody gets to ask me questions or see how I'll react in a specific situation before they decide if they'll be my friend or not (and vice versa, of course). You get a picture, a few vague facts and some nondescript background information. That's it. No negotiating. No lunch dates. Just a 'yes' or a 'no.' If my feelings are hurt, I can mourn in the privacy of my own home (although, it is just Facebook, so I see no need). If my shoot-for-the-moon friend request was accepted, I can do the happy dance in my living room, ensuring minimal embarrassment (but, again, not really necessary). It's really a win-win situation.

Facebook has done wonders for my pseudo-social life. In fact, as of today, I have 250 friends! 250! Even though I've lived in 12 different states throughout my life (PA, NJ, IL, TX, CA, AZ, OR, ID, IN, TN, MO, CO), I would never be able to amass that many friends on my own. The crazy thing is, these friends represent so many different aspects of my life: my early nomadic years, high school, college, my friends from television reporting adventures, the corporate world, my bar tending days, our baseball friends, church friends, horse friends, writer friends, friends of friends, etc etc.

I can't say I've worked too hard to acquire 250, but I'm glad they're there creating a little army of cyber-support, allowing me to bounce ideas around, ask strange questions and share pointless thoughts. Isn't that what friends are for? Still, I wonder if my kids are going to actually learn to make friends or if they'll just expect to 'click' away at a social life...

A New Book Club...Join Me!

I am so excited to be asked to join the SheKnows.com Book Club movement as an official blogger! This is perfect for me because I have a true love affair with books! I love everything about them. The way they feel in my hand. The collective weight of paper and ink. The hushed "swoosh" of the pages turning. The smell of the library, bookstore or shelf that lingers in between the folds. I relish the moments just after the last page turns. When the characters lives meld with mine and I soak in the author's truth. Running a hand over the cover, I feel for a thumbprint left behind by the hand of the literary artist and realize it's on my heart, untouchable. So, yes, I love books.

Lately, I've been pouring over really great suggestions from many of my book-loving girlfriends. In the past, I've gravitated towards historical, war-era fiction (A Farewell to Arms, All Quiet on the Western Front) or historical non-fiction/biographies (Stephen Ambrose, Edmund Morris) with the occasional political non-fiction read. So, my experience with 'chick lit,' as the genre is affectionately known, has been limited. I have to say that I've been surprised by how much I've enjoyed these often light-hearted, yet genuine stories of women that I can truly relate to.

So, the first official pick of the SheKnows.com Book Club is...Pieces of Happily Ever After by Irene Zutell. Pick it up and join us...and then look for my Book Club blogs. Happy reading!

Read Five Things You Didn't Know About Irene Zutell at ChickLitIsNotDead.com.

How did this happen? Am I really an adult?

I knew I shouldn't have blinked. But, I did and here I am. As cliché as it may sound, it truly seems as if the past 15 years have flipped by on a slide projector, which currently seems to be glitching. And, now, I'm in the middle. With one hand, I can reach back and touch the pain and drama of high school, with the other, I'm wiping a nose or changing a diaper or reaching for a stack of bills that won't get paid unless I pay them! That concept is still hard for me to grasp, which is ridiculous.

Sometimes I walk up to a sink full of dishes and the first that that pops into my head is, "Where the heck is my mom?" Sorry, mom, but it's true. It's not that we didn't have to help out around the house as kids, but it's just where my mind goes. As quickly as the thought comes, it leaves like a spool of steam off a tea kettle. Poof. I roll up my sleeves and dig in.

I've celebrated my 21st birthday 13 times now, but still I don't feel old enough to enjoy a glass of wine without hiding. Every time I uncork a bottle, I almost expect a lurking authority figure to pop out from behind my refrigerator and reprimand me. Perhaps, on some sub-conscious level, this is me trying to hold on to a life that has been officially filed away in the Rolodex of existence. Or, this is me continually resisting the weight of responsibility that sinks deeper and deeper into my shoulders as the days pass. Or, this is me unable to repress Strawberry Hill-induced guilt from long ago.

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Don't worry. This isn't a breakdown. Just a reflection. I'm well aware of the fact that three little monkeys depend on me. I put my best mommy foot forward each day, but I'm still surprised that I arrived in 'the middle' so quickly. One poignant difference between the 'me' of then and the 'me' of now is that I at least know what I want to do with my life. That's something. Maybe that's what defines adulthood. ?

I don't know if you can ever actually prepare for adulthood, mainly because it sneaks up on you, transforming tiny pieces of your life, one little chip at a time. Then, one day, you realize that all the strings have been cut and you are, in fact, an adult. It doesn't happen when you turn 18. That's just a date on a calendar. Maybe I haven't officially recognized this transformation, and that's why it surprises me at times.

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Surprised or not, here I am. Trying not to blink again, but you know I can't stop myself.