babybloomr

Ok, so I’m going to another blogging conference.

Some of you lucky new readers might have missed the breathless blow-by-blow of my last (ok, only) blogging conference experience, last summer’s BlogHer ’08 in San Francisco (aka “The one where I had some kind of weird crisis of confidence and ended up eating my lunch alone in my room every day which seriously?  IS. SO. NOT. ME.”), here’s a brief recap of that one to get you up to speed:

• I met some great people.
• I handed out some of my cute new blog cards.
• I attended a lot of things with conference-y names like ‘keynote addresses’ and ‘break-out sessions.’
• I learned a lot of interesting, useful stuff.
• I went to the cocktail parties, which were mostly awkward.
• I totally surprised myself by getting all first-day-of-school shy.

However I did manage to break out of my shell long enough to party in Suburban Turmoil’s room with a hamburger bag on my head and get busted by security. All in all, it was really good for me.

Which brings us to this weekend’s BlissDom ’09, sponsored by Blissfully Domestic (great site, check it out.) It is kind of like a smaller version of the BlogHer conference, only this time with a couple hundred women instead of 1000. It’s also being held right here in town at the Hotel Preston. I’m thinking this will be a different experience in a lot of ways, and I am really looking forward to a do-over from the BlogHer experience, at least in terms of actually behaving more like, oh I don’t know, MYSELF!! I’ve been psyching up for it, giving myself pep talks and I’m about one step away from doing that whole Stuart Smalley Affirmations thing into the mirror– “…and doggone it, people like me!” I’m ready, ya’ll!

So imagine my chagrin when I start going over the agenda for the conference and I notice that on Friday night, after the day’s meetings and yet another awkward cocktail party, they have something on the schedule slated for 8:00 p.m. that’s listed as a “PJ Movie Party”.  With exclamation points. Now, does the idea of 200 mommybloggers running around a hotel in pajamas conjure up images of pillow fights and doing each other’s hair or is that just me? The whole thing makes me a little uneasy since, hello, apparently I’m supposed to be one of them! But hey, I am nothing if not game, right? And I’m determined to shake off that uncharacteristically reserved version of myself and throw myself wholeheartedly into all aspects of this conference, right?

There’s one small problem, though– I do not own anything remotely resembling pajamas (or as our Carolyn from across the pond would call them, ‘pyjamas.’) I’m more of a nightgown girl. I don’t even like pajamas, it feels like sleeping in a business suit to me. But yesterday I bit the bullet and hit the lingerie sale rack at T.J. Maxx– what, you think I’m gonna pay full price for something I’ll never wear again? I think not! I doggedly started sifting through the selection of ‘jamas, and then with a sinking feeling I began to realize that there are about a MILLION different kinds out there to choose from. There are flannel ones with cutesy things on them like Hello Kitty or snowskiing bunnies. There are silky, Ralph Lauren-type elegant ones. There are utilitarian ones that look more like a t-shirt over sweat pants. There are flimsy, sexy, non-mommy-blogger ones. There are pastel floral ones that your geriatric granny would wear. There are tank top/short-short ones that Madi would wear. There are even ones with feet in them, for crying out loud! I was flummoxed. After trying on about 6 pairs I finally (grudgingly) settled on a kind of classic striped set, in a soft fabric of ivory and pale green with an embroidered insignia on the pocket. (Marked down to $13– I have mad shopping skillz.) I think they would look perfectly at home in an old black and white Hollywood romantic comedy… ok, the MAN would probably be wearing them, but still.

But you know that thing that happens sometimes when you bring something home and tell yourself, “There, that’s taken care of”, but… it just doesn’t feel right? I kept trying to talk myself into it, but every time I looked at those silky little striped pajamas I just couldn’t picture me in them. So today, being the team player I am, I headed off to the mall to try again. This time I went to Dillards and found about an acre of clearance racks sagging under the weight of about a frillion different kinds of pajamas. Apparently I am the only woman in the southern hemisphere who is not a fan of the PJ. I literally and figuratively rolled up my sleeves and plowed in. This time I didn’t limit myself to the classics– honey, I tried on about every variation of tops and pants you could think of! Some of them were lol funny, some were sorta cute and some were quite frankly, depressing– they looked like they should come with the nursing home included. Finally I settled on what I thought were a kind of exotic/sophisticated/striking pair in a beautiful deep amethyst color with some Asian embroidery on them.  OK, these could work. I didn’t exactly feel like breaking into a chorus of “I feel pretty” in them, but at least I didn’t look like a guy.

This afternoon when I got home, after I carefully hung up my new ‘jamas, I checked my email and found one that had actually been sent 5 days ago from the BlissDom people. It was just some basic conference information for all of the attendees, but as I scrolled down through the email, I found this one little innocuous sentence tucked in between the parking instructions and check-in times. It was in reference to the infamous PJ Party, and it said, and I quote: “Oh and don’t worry you don’t really have to wear PJs– but a fun pair of slippers might be more like it!”

*sigh* (And also? CRAP!)

Both pairs of pajamas are going to be returned first thing tomorrow. And since I don’t own any ‘fun’ slippers, either, I think I am going to quit trying so hard to fit in and just be myself– Tori the Non-Conformist Mommy Blogger! Maybe I’ll wear a nightgown after all. Over my trusty yoga pants. With a hamburger bag on my head…

(I’ll take pictures.)

Ah, Tori’s waist, we hardly knew ye…

(NOT me.)

Let me start by saying that, yes, I realize I’m not a big hulking behemoth, and I am not writing this so everyone will feel compelled to leave a comment saying, “What are you talking about, you look fine!” I’m not delusional, I am so not one of those little eensy women that sit around and go, “Oh dear, my size zero pants are feeling a little tight, I”M SO FAT, YA’LL!!!” I realize I am normal sized for my age, I’m not obsessed with my weight, I don’t go on crazy diets. I don’t even own a set of scales because I only weigh myself when I’m pregnant. I’m not going to have lipo or a tummy tuck, or start running marathons or hire a personal trainer. I don’t sit around and lament my lost youth, or try to look like a teenager by dressing all age-inappropriately… (Well, ok, you’ve got me there.)

But having said all that… holy hell on a biscuit, what happened to my waist???!!!

(Again? NOT me.)

Don’t judge me harshly, anyone with half an ovary knows exactly what I’m talking about. I swear, I was minding my own business and then one day I looked down and the muffin-top, it runneth over! I don’t know what happened. The only word to describe it (and this is not a word I am fond of) is ‘pooch’. I have a ‘pooch’ where my waist used to be. I am poochy, I have poochitude, there is poochiness in my pants.

It’s very disturbing.

Now don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I have been a flat-belly at any time in my life since I was about 13 these last few years, but dang, this is different. This is like I am suddenly sporting a pre-menopausal flesh-colored fanny pack in front of me– yet I can’t seem to find the zipper so I can’t even put my lipstick, wallet and a couple of spare kleenexes in it! It seems to serve no useful purpose at all, since apparently there’s not a lovely baby hiding in there. Or a hamster. Or a million dollars. It just sits there, jiggling slightly when I move, silent mocking me as I pull on my yoga pants to go to my third Zumba class of the week as if to say, “Oh hi. Yep, still here!”

(Can’t even begin to tell you how much this is NOT ME.)

I think the culprit here is gravity. Well, that and the fact that I’m over 50. OK, barely, but still. And of course there’s the ever-popular genetics to blame it on, too. My mom and my sisters are all healthy and active, but I have heard them complain of The Pooch over the years. Mom would call it “my middle”, as in “My weight is OK, it’s just my middle.” Yeah, I get that now. I guess I will have to learn to graciously accept the fact that I will never again TUCK A SHIRT into low rider jeans and then actually ADD A BELT–just like I am learning to accept the fact that I seem to gain one chin every decade, kind of like rings on a tree.

(BTW, in spite of my protests about not being all vain and shallow, I’m serving notice here and now that if I ever do have any kind of cosmetic surgery it will definitely be chin-related! Oh yeah, I could probably lose like, two or three of them before anyone would even notice. Hold up, idea forming, here’s a thought– maybe I can get some plastic surgeon to offer his services for free and I could live-blog it! And put big ol’ Before and After pictures on my sidebar, right next to the Google ads! Any of you readers out there handy with a scalpel? Or a Flowbee?)

But I digress. Meanwhile, back at my pooch.

In conclusion, this post doesn’t have any big point to it (do they ever?) except to use my small public forum to officially announce that as A Woman Of A Certain Age, I feel I have earned the right to say that though yes, God looks at the inside and though yes, I am eternally grateful to be healthy and happy and living in a democracy, the bald-faced truth of it all is that certain aspects of the aging process just… suck.

That is all. **bows deeply**

“I got yer six-pack right here, baby!)

(Still NOT ME. Yet.)