Swimming to My 50s – “I like Big B— (Goudas) and I Cannot Lie”

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Have you checked your tail lights lately?    It was time to inspect mine to make sure they were not out and that I didn’t get a ticket.  I know they are not perfect or new or shiny or firm or bright but they are mine nevertheless, and I am attached to them – literally!

As you may remember, I am ‘traveling’ throughout my body in preparation for the day I turn 50.  Just making sure all is in check and in no need of a tune up.  I have found a few (well ok, a lot) of parts that are in need of replacing, but after comparing prices at different shops, it is way too costly.  I am stuck in my clunker of a body for 50 more years.

So I dove right into checking out my backside to make sure it’s ok.   You know, my tail lights.  But (note, only one t), it occurred to me that I have used the word, butt on several occasions throughout my blog.  Like when I blogged about telling butt jokes while in the middle of surgery or when I described my beautiful butt chin.  

Well, I decided that I don’t like that word and that you have had more than enough of having to see it.  From this day forward, If I find myself having to discuss the word butt, I vow to replace it with another word with the same meaning.

Ay, Dios Mio!

Ay, Dios Mio!

Let’s take a look at my options:

Rear or rear end, ass, booty, trunk, bottom, tookus, derriere, bum-bum, buns, fanny, behind, seat, hind end, tush or tushi or tushy, glutes, hiney, tail lights, buttox, backside, buttocks, rump, arse, caboose, pooper, posterior, buttcheecks, dupa, bumper, biscuit, cheeks, skids, butter beans, suitcase, shelf and my new fav, gouda!

I’m sure I have missed some other names and welcome your suggestions.  In the meantime, gouda is today’s choice!  I love it!  Not my gouda, but just the word.  

My gouda, it turns out, is just fine.  Not too sharp, or mild or….aged.  I am happy to report that it will definitely take me through another 50 years, providing me with continued padding and comfort.  

imagesConsequently, I will sit my big gouda down and have myself a glass of wine.

The Swim to My 50s – Only One Latina Allowed

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Salma HayekMark HarmonKeanu Reeves,  Ernest Bromley.  Who cares, you say?  I do, because they all share my birthday  [September 2nd}.  What?  You don’t recognize the name, Ernest Bromley?  Everyone should know the famed, Ernest Bromley!

I am certain that you know who Salma {or as my husband calls her, Oh, Salma Baby…}, is (now, Andy from http://ourlifein3d.com/ please try to control yourself) Ok, she is gorgeous, voluptuous, latina {Oh wait, so am I} and although she has not gotten rid of her Spanish accent, is a great actress.  This September, she will be turning 47 {the Be-atch}.

Mark – Oh Baby– Harmon will be turning 62.  He is most definitely invited to my big 5-0 bash.  

Keanu, whose first name means, ‘cool breeze over the mountains’ in Hawaiian, will be 49.  Thinking about him is making me feel a cool breeze over my…precisely why he is first on the invite list.

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My old friend Ernest Bromley, is actually just a random person I chose from the list of people I googled who share my birthday.  He was born in 1912 and was quite the Australian Cricketer!  Who Knew?  He will be at my party – in spirit.

I have also made a list of CELEBRITIES who will be turning 50 this year, that I am cordially inviting.  I better get those invitations out ASAP.

Here is the list so far.  Mike Myers and Rob Schneider are booked to do stand-up at the event.  Jennifer Beals, who will be in her leg warmers, is in charge of the dancing.  John Stamos is bringing 20 boxes of Oikos yogurt.  Brad Pitt can just be, Brad Pitt, sans Angelina and their 20 kids.  Quentin Tarantino said he would rub my feet all night long {wink,wink}.  

I will make sure to give Kathy Ireland the wrong date and time of the party.  Larry the Cable Guy is in charge of the electronics.  Seal said he was available, but as we all know, ‘one day you’re in and the next day you’re out’, so we shall see if he shows up.

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 Coolio, will be rapping throughout the night and I have asked GeorgeMichael to wake me up before he goes goes.

So as you can see, my party is shaping up quite nicely!

Sorry Salma, I’m at full capacity.

 

The Swim To My 50s – I Prefer to Belly Laugh

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When was the last time you belly laughed?  I mean, really laughed?  The kind of laughter that results in peculiar noises coming out of your mouth, nose or any other orifice, that you can’t believe can come from your body.

It had been a while since I had one of those times, that is, until last Thursday.  I will spare you the long details but let’s just say that my girlfriend and I could not look at each other without bursting into a hysterical seizure-like fit consisting of coughing, wheezing, snorting, choking, passing gas (not me, my friend) and crying.  It came over us like a tsunami and there was no stopping it.
 
Let me tell you, my abs were aching for the next couple of days.  That’s when it came to me.  Who needs sit ups {I wasn’t going to do them anyway} or swimming when you can laugh hysterically 3-4 times a week?  Yes!  What better way to welcome my 50s in September, than with tight-ass abs!!
 
As I continued inspecting my body in preparation for the big day, I had to address my mid-section.  It’s definitely been through hell and can be called a war zone  The first battle occurred at the age of 10. 
We had just moved to Amherst, MA from Puerto Rico, after my father had gotten a position at Umass.  We understood some English but were not even close to being able to form intelligible sentences.
 
My siblings were all playing inside and I wanted to play outside.  I went outside and saw that my next door neighbor whom I will call Steven {because that was his name} was also playing.  I believe he was a year or two older than me.  I decided to approach him and for some incredibly bizarre reason I’ve yet to understand, ask him if he wanted to fight me.  In my broken English, I dared him to hit me first.
 
Now, before you go judging me, I was very much a girly girl growing up.  I loved my Barbies,  my Easy-bake oven and everything pink.  I have no idea where this tough tomboy-ish persona of mine had been hiding and why it decided to come out on that day.
 
Steven was terrified.  Probably because he knew of his demise once his very strict German father heard that his son had hit a girl or equally terrified by the realization that my two very protective brothers and strict Puerto Rican father, were nearby.  But, I continued to egg him on.  Com-on, es-Steven, ju no hit me?  He kept shaking his head no, but after a while, I could see that he was considering it.
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Finally, after my relentless harassing, he took a strong (and may I say quite painful) swing with his fist and punched me right in the stomach.  I stood there in paralyzing pain, wanting to double over, but did everything in my 10-year-old power NOT to show that I was hurt.  I simply smiled at him and told him that I had to get something in my house but that I would be right back.  I walked calmly towards my front door, opened it, stepped in, closed the door and gave out a screeching earth-shattering wail, from the intense pain I felt.  Needless to say, I never went back out.
As predicted, poor Steven got quite the talking to by his German father and my brothers and strict Puerto Rican father, did run out to yell at him after seeing me so distraught.  Even after admitting to everyone that it was my fault and that I had started it, he was punished for hitting a girl.  Oops.
My other mid-section battles were not brought on by any tomboy-ish tendencies.  One battle in particular was brought on by the complete opposite.  It was inspired by a strong maternal, womanly desire to make babies. After three pregnancies and two beautiful children, the scars speak for themselves.  These are not scars from a C-section since I did not have one, but scars from the dreaded stretch marks! Just so you know, I am first on the list at my cousin’s plastic surgery practice, to go under the knife when they figure out a way to get rid of them!  
To add to my diverse looking stomach, I have since had gall-bladder surgery and a splenectomy (removal of your spleen).  Yes, you can still live without these two organs.  But, can you live with the scars?  🙂  The splenectomy scar is a doozy and takes over my entire abdomen.  Not a pretty sight and the main reason I do not have a belly button ring!  I feel so deprived of this right to bear rings!
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Above is a picture of me during a Halloween party sporting my one and only, ‘belly button ring’ (nice bikini, huh?).
I have come to accept the looks and shape of my mid-section and will continue to belly laugh all the way to my grave.
 
 
 
 

The Swim To My 50s – Just Lettin’ It All Hang Out

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She’s mighty mighty, just lettin’ it all hang out.  

That’s me, at least the letting it all hang out part. I didn’t necessarily choose to let it all hang out, it just – happened.  Particularly, around my mid section.  But in defense of my mid section, it’s been through hell!  I think the next 1/2 century of my life will be kinder to my body which is something to look forward to {yay!}.  

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I used to think that being called a Brick House was the ultimate compliment.  After all, one of my all time favorite songs by The Commodores, claims that she, The Brick House, is a ’36 (Bust), ’24 (Waist), ’36 (Hips) = a winning hand!  And, that she makes an ‘older man, wish for younger days’.   Who wouldn’t want to be called a Brick House?  But now, at the tender age of 49.7, if someone were to refer to me as a Brick House {not that they’re lining up or anything }, I would still consider it a compliment – but for different reasons.  None of which have anything to do with my winning bust, waist or hips but rather, because of what a Brick House signifies.  

A Brick House is a strong, stable, sturdy and structurally solid building.  It can withstand the harshest of conditions including hurricanes, tornadoes and blizzards.  Most importantly, it is resistant to any ‘big-bad wolf’huffing and puffing and trying to blow the house down.

I think many of us women (and men) fit this description of a Brick House.  We are often called upon to shield our loved ones in this way.  We stand strong and firm against anything or anyone who puts our families in danger.  We try to block the stormy outside forces from penetrating inside our walls.  And we protect our families against the packs of ‘big-bad wolves’ that linger outside our homes waiting to attack.  

Not to say that we don’t have days when we feel more like we are made out of cobwebs!  When we feel flimsy, vulnerable, exposed, confused and tangled up in the web of life.  But in the end,  this just makes us stronger bricks and more ‘like an amazon’.

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So, go ahead.  Click on my About link above my blog and listen to the song, dance ’till you drop and keep your head up high knowing that you are mighty mighty and a definite winning hand!