I am SUCH a loser — sad, but true…

I met four lovely ladies from Generation Fabulous for lunch at Bellefleur in Carlsbad.

It’s located in the Carlsbad Premium Outlets with some of my fave shops like Barneys, Banana Republic, and BCBG.

This was my very first meet-up in the flesh with any of the smart and witty blogger/writers I’ve been reading since I started this blog last June. It was kinda like JDate, Jewish Mingle, Match.com, and EHarmony all-in-one.

What if they didn’t like me? What if I slopped food all over, got spinach in my teeth, or said something stupid? I’ve been known to do all of those things at one time or another…

Me, being me  — Princess Rosebud, that is — spent a long time contemplating, deliberating, and meditating — to conjure up the perfect emsemble for this momentous event.

It’s what I do, I say as I shrug my shoulders. It’s what I do.

Similar to building an outstanding five paragraph essay — only the body of the essay is the dress, skirt, skinny jeans along with a shirt or blouse, coordinated with a blazer, sweater or coat, bringing it all together in that final paragraph with shoes, jewelry, scarf, and handbag.(Always Chanel, or course)

Like thisgenfablunchoutfitwhiteskinny

Here’s a picture of the five of us

GenFabLunch1We’re having a lovely time, getting to know each other, and they were swapping stories about bloggy type conventions and gatherings, their multiple books written, sponsorships, advertising, public speaking engagements — and I’m listening intently but not sharing anything.

Why, you ask? Why?

Because I have nothing to share. Nada. Zip. Zippo.

I haven’t accomplished a single, solitary thing with my blog.

There was a lull in the conversation and I said in a small voice,

“I shop. I like to go shopping.”

I felt like such a LOSER wondering what the heck I’m doing with these talented and entrepreneurial women. Being color coordinated was the only skill I brought to the table (literally). Oh, and the genius ability to walk in five-inch heels and not fall down.

I don’t have an eBook — not even one — or an old school paper book, or affiliate advertising, or free tickets to movies and screenings — although I recently posted a review of “I Just Want to Pee Alone”.

Not only do I not know where to start, I don’t have the huge numbers of clicks or impressions or readers or followers. Sigh.

I think I came too late to the game of blogging to get a piece of the pie.

ICBL FINAL 2_2

Don’t get me wrong. The ladies were fun and lively and warm and friendly with great senses of humor.

No sour grapes here, I admire all that’s been achieved and I had a wonderful time — it’s just that I’m seriously not in the same league –or in the same time zone — we’re light years apart –in terms of blogging leading to a successful business venture.

Now I’m contemplating whether or not to continue.

Should I give up?

Geez Louise, I didn’t even have a business card with me.

What a LOSER!

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Beginnings and endings: 1966 and 2007

“Nature gives you the face you have at twenty; it is up to you to merit the face you have at fifty.”–Coco Chanel

Two special dates: July 1966 and April 2007

Beginnings and endings.

July 1966 – Detroit, Michigan

I’m in the bathroom, calling out to my mom.

“MomMomMOM MOMMEEE!! Where ARE you? Guess what?”

You know what they say, a mom always knows.

“Honey, I bet you just started menstruating, am I right?” (She was a nurse and always always used a medical term instead of slang. Like we always said “urinate” instead of pee; vagina and penis instead of -well– instead of anything else.)

After a hug and a lengthy (yawn) tutorial about personal hygiene, my mom took me out for lunch and a shopping spree to commemorate this milestone towards womanhood. She told me that when she first began to menstruate, all she got was a slap in the face from her mother, some kind of archaic ritualistic symbolism that had something to do with the fact that her father (my grandfather) was a rabbi. She told me that she was horrified and never forgot it, and if she ever had a little girl, she’d mark the occasion with a celebration, not a punishment.

At school it was called “Aunt Flo” or “Secret Sam” (don’t ask me why.)

Back then everyone used cumbersome huge Kotex pads attached by a hellish contraption known as a “Kotex belt.” Made up of white elastic encompassing your waist along with two plastic clips that attached to each end of the pad, it took some getting used to — and felt very much like my biking shorts do now. It was a great day when I graduated to tampons.

That started years of worry. Worry about waiting to “start”. Worry about what to wear to avoid an accident, and later, worry about NOT starting, waiting every month with a silent prayer to the Period Goddess — please oh please let me start; I’ll be more careful next time. And then getting married and wanting to start a family; holding my breath every month and willing my body to NOT– becoming compulsively scientific, taking temperatures and  stressing over ovulation days and counting. Worry, worry, worry.

Worry about the baby I did become pregnant with…will he be healthy, will I be a good mom, will I produce enough milk, can I protect him from all harm and sadness–the what ifs drove me crazy.

April 2007 was the date of my last menses, my last period. At the risk of alienating my peers, I have to be honest and admit that I had no symptoms of menopause — I experienced none of the common complaints. Oh, I had an occasional hot flash–which I actually enjoyed since I’m always cold — for a few brief moments, it felt like I had my own personal heater. And once in a while, I’d feel a bit tingly which brought back awesome memories of a similar feeling when I was breastfeeding and my milk “let down”. I told my doctor all this and she nodded her head and said she had experienced the same sensations.

I am so happy to be done with all that worry.  I don’t have to check the calendar every month and worry about when or if I’m going to need to carry tampons with me.

It’s not that I’m not still kinda crazy, but my level of worry is diferent. Not that I don’t worry constantly about my son, but he’s a grown up thirty-two- year-old Yale professor and my worry for him is a bit less intense.

I feel freer. Tranquil. Confident. Satisfied. I can take a deep breath now and exhale.

Don’t get me wrong; I do believe Coco Chanel. I still work out like a fiend every day to fit in my size two skinny jeans; I fight the good fight with Botox and color my gray hair, but I’m a very happy fifty-eight-year-old, and proud to say it. Bring on the next chapter of my life. I’m ready!

This post is written for a Generation Fabulous BlogHop. Generation Fabulous is a new website for and about women who are rocking middle-age and beyond. Please click here to see more.