Proceed With No Caution

Forty five is weird, yo.

I’m working really hard on embracing getting older. On accepting myself, just exactly as I am.

Ever have one of those days when you look at yourself in the mirror, and I mean you really look…you sit up on the bathroom vanity, with your feet in the sink,  you lean in a little closer, pull at your skin, examine each eyebrow, your teeth, each new line, every sun kissed freckle, scrunch your face, unscrunch your face…
And then you spot a hair.
A grey hair.
No big deal, right?
I’ve actually stopped dyeing my hair, and I’m all kinds of good with a few sprigs of grey on my head. But this bad boy is sprouting from what was once an adorable Cindy Crawford-esque mole on my cheek!
Yes, it’s a mole hair. And it’s about an inch long.
SARAH JESSICA PARKER!
How in the name of all things holy did I not notice that mother effer before? Every day I stand in front of this huge bathroom mirror to do my hair, brush my teeth, put on my eyebrows, moisturize my eyes, face, neck (because forty five, bitches, forty five). Did it just appear overnight? What kind of evil sorcery is that? I initially hoped it was unattached, perhaps actually belonging to the dog. Possibly stuck to my face with last night’s French Mint Laura Secord chocolate bar remnants. Surely, I could just flick it away.
But, no.
What the actual f*ck?
It brought back a memory of the time I was pregnant with my oldest child; I couldn’t see the bottom of my belly anymore, and the (ex)husband panic whisper-yelled to me after my doctor finished her exam: *Cough, cough* “You have a BIG DARK HAIR GROWING ON THE BOTTOM OF YOUR BELLY!” He was horrified. At the time I thought, jeez man, couldn’t you just ignore it? Maybe discreetly yank it out while lovingly caressing my ginormous belly, which houses YOUR CHILD, and an obscene number of Hershey’s Chocolate Hugs? Tell me I have never looked so glowingly beautiful, even with a new gross hair, and my belly button freakishly sticking out (it went back in, don’t worry). I am very busy and important, growing your child up in here, doncha know? I don’t have time to worry about the underside of my belly! Pffft.
But, now, to the ex husband I say, thank you. Thank you for telling me. Because who knows how long I have been walking around thinking that I was the bees knees, with my grey mole hair, just hanging off my cheek, flapping in the wind. And no one said, “hey, Moley H. McMoleyton, you better check yourself. And what really gets me is that I didn’t see it! I’m like those men with spidery leg nose hairs peeking out from their nostrils. The ones they seem completely oblivious to (okay, that gave me the heebie jeebies just typing it). I’m now sorry for judging you, fellas. I will still completely judge you, but with much more empathy. Because, now I know, hair happens.
I’ve actually been working really hard on embracing getting older. On accepting myself, just exactly as I am. With the exception of facial hair, that is. That bastard is long gone. But the rest. I’ll take it. The grey hair (on my head). My not twenty five year old boobs. Stretch marks on my hips from growing two perfect babies. The paunch above my c-section scar. All the new wrinkles. Yes, please. They’re from a life lived full of laughter, after all. And I’ve even come to accept the fact that my underwear keep sliding down inside my jeans. Because perhaps I’ve laughed my ass right off. Or my ass has morphed to a front bum and explains the paunch? I’m unsure if this is actually related to being in my mid forties, but it’s a new development, and I am blaming it on aging. Or poor underwear manufacturing.
Forty five is a little weird, yo.
Thankfully though, most days, I feel younger than I am. I’ve finally reached that stage where I’m more content in my own skin. Every scar, every stretch mark, every wrinkle, everything that is this vessel that I’m lucky enough to exist in, it tells a story. And each year that passes is a chance to add more to that story. To deepen the lines around my mouth from smiling, because I’m lucky to have the life that I do. And I’m hopeful that the best is yet to come. I’m hanging my hat on it.
Or on my mole hair.
“Aging is an incredible process, where you become the person you always should have been” – David Bowie

Take a Ride With Me

Join my gang of self-loving bad asses. There will be pastries!

Welcome to Finding Nicole.

My goal for this blog is to take you along with me on a journey of self discovery. At forty-five, I am still trying to figure out who I am; still learning to accept myself, just exactly as I am. I will write about my life, divorce, grief, parenting, the world of dating, and everything in between, and mostly – – I’ll be writing about love. The most important kind of love: self-love. Look out Oprah! I’m gonna fall in love with life, and madly in love with myself, with a little help from this blog.

Over the last few years, I have spent a lot of time feeling as if I’ve gotten off track in my life, but I’m realizing that Plan B is sometimes even better than Plan A. Okay, so, I’m actually on about Plan T, but there is beauty in getting there if you look hard enough. Squint. Put on your glasses. Get a new prescription if you have to. There is beauty there, in the struggles, and the pain, and the sadness. I haven’t gotten off track. I am exactly where I am supposed to be.

Those who know me, or who read my previous blog, know that I use humor to handle most of life’s challenges, and for a while I thought that may not be enough, so I stopped writing. I thought that I wasn’t enough. But I am starting to see that in just being who I really am, sometimes ridiculous, sensitive, and pretty freaking funny, there is tremendous strength. So, I’m just letting it happen. I may write about serious topics here, or I may not. What I know for certain, is that I hope to always make you laugh. Because it heals me. And I hope it heals you, too.

My wish for you in reading Finding Nicole is that my cup of self love gets so full that it spills right over onto you, as you come along with me on this bumpy road to self acceptance. We can all get matching bikes with streamers on the handle bars, and a basket for flowers, and we’ll stop at cute cafés to sip coffee and share buttery croissants. Hair blowing in the breeze. Feet off the pedals. We’ll be one big gang of self-loving bad asses. On cute bikes!

I may watch too many Meg Ryan movies. But stick with me, it’ll be worth the trip.