10 Awesome Ways Middle-Aged Women Can Relax

10 Awesome Ways Middle Aged Women Can Relax
Splish, splash, I’m just taking a bath by M at http://www.flickr.com

I don’t know about you but I find it impossible to relax these days. It’s a problem a lot of women face because we’re always on the go, so when that window of opportunity finally opens, we find it impossible to unwind.

 

I’ve had a crazy couple of months recently with our latest house move and work commitments but this week my work schedule is a bit less hectic. Suddenly, I don’t know what to do with myself.

 

I feel too guilty to do the things I REALLY want to do.

 

I could catch up on all the housework I’ve overlooked for the past few months, but that’s about as appealing as having my eyebrows threaded by a blind person and anyway I feel far too knackered at the moment to consider anything too physical. So I’ve decided instead to listen to what my body needs. To relax. For me that seems to engender a liberal dose of laughter, a good read, alcohol and titillation.

 

A ladies' Burberry handbag in the company's tr...
A ladies’ Burberry handbag in the company’s trademarked check pattern (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Let me know which ones you agree with:

 

  1. Pack the family off to McDonalds followed by a viewing of Terms of Endearment at the movies so that they remember how lucky they are to have you in their lives, pour yourself a hot bath, add essential oils, light some candles and consume a whole bottle of Moet et Chandon Champagne by yourself.

 

  1. Stand on the floor in the downward dog position with a water bottle full of wine by your side, close your eyes and imagine tantric sex with your dream shag. Exercise can be relaxing.

 

3.  Go for a healing power shop in David Jones but make sure that you start in the Food      Hall with the Oysters and Champagne, followed by a chocolate-dipped strawberry             binge.

 

  1. Pull out old family photo albums and stick imaginary pins in photos of your partner if he/she’s stressing you out.

 

  1. Go on Pinterest and laugh at all those amazing recipes that other women actually do with their free time while you’re drinking wine.

 

  1. Visit Designer shops such as Chanel and Burberry and have your Pretty Woman moment. Try on all those beautiful, sparkly ball dresses and Jimmy Choos that you’ll never be able to afford to wear and saunter around with all those Designer handbags that are far too big for anyone to seriously carry and then leave without buying anything.

 

  1. You could play it safe and buy a copy of every woman’s magazine but all you’ll discover is how fat Kim Kardashion is this week. So buy a copy of Playgirl instead and laugh at willies.

 

  1. Read back-to-back copies of Cosmo and be grateful you’re no longer judged by your looks, how well you give head or how good you are in the sack.

 

  1. Download every Heath Ledger movie and have a Tequila-thon with your girlfriends.

 

10. Then there’s sex. Apparently many of us still quite like it in middle age and the myth         about middle-aged women not having any libido is exactly that. More importantly,           it’s a great stress-buster, apparently – depending on who you’re with, I assume.              Personally, I’d still prioritize the David Jones Food Hall. Who wants to burn calories,          get all sweaty and clean up body fluids when you’re supposed to be relaxing?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Midlife Mayhem – Margaritas Should Carry A Health Warning

Was it the drinking goggles or age-related brain cell depletion that made me think that I could swill frozen Margaritas, served in glasses the size of goldfish bowls, without consequence?

I’m certain I only had two, but eyewitnesses swear it was three. All I remember is that by 11pm, time began to stand still and I stopped counting drinks and calorie. I then proceeded to gabble incoherently into whatever obliging ear would tolerate me.

An inebriated middle-aged woman, who thinks she can simultaneously slurp a Margarita and ingest a steaming plate of tacos, should never provide the entertainment for the evening. At the point where the melted cheese/salsa ‘combo’ began dribbling erroneously down one of my chins, I spotted the furtive ‘code red’ sign between my friends and husband, symbolising that it was time to ‘get her out of here’. The SWAT team duly arrived and I was extracted from the premises by 11.15pm, before further embarrassment.

In my previous life, I would have knocked back three cocktails getting ready, and another en route to the venue, but these days, two pitiful units of alcohol reduces me to a semi-vegetative state. Slurring words, spilling friends drinks and missing the toilet while trying to alleviate some of the excess fluid circulating my already bloated body, are all behaviors synonymous with my transition from party girl to drunken mess.

So in hindsight, the decision to paint the town red at a new and hip Mexican eatery should have triggered alarm bells. It is, after all, written in the Mexican book of folklore that Tequila takes no hostages. Where, in my excitement, did I forget my golden rule of  stopping at three units, possibly four if I remember to line my stomach with goats milk and hose it intermittently with tanks of water? That rule is there to protect me and was instigated around my fortieth birthday when my alcoholic tolerance first went AWOL. I obviously ignored it. Although I only indulged in two ‘buckets’ of Margarita, with the addition of the gin and tonic ‘pre’ and a couple of cheap and nasty white wine chasers, my head never really stood a chance.

My complete lack of disregard for my well-being is disappointing on a personal level. The discipline required to cut back on alcohol in my new approach towards living longer, has been far easier to achieve than curtailing my food cravings. I’m not some masochist who gets a thrill out of hangovers, (which are now tantamount to being hit over the head with a cricket bat, repeatedly); whereas I still get an orgasmic thrill from the first bite of a passion fruit macaroon for dessert.

I did search the web vainly for a cure for my ‘intolerance’ initially, which is, I’ve discovered, as bona-fide a medical condition as being allergic to bee stings and kiwi fruit. Begging the question of when exactly this condition is going to be taken seriously enough for the pharmaceutical companies to invest in an EpiPen to counteract the symptoms?

My initial research pointed to the tannins in Chardonnay as the possible culprit, so in my desperation to carry on drinking like a real adult (as opposed to ‘the designated driver’), I explored some alternative beverages. Unfortunately, alternative therapies often fail to deliver in terms of a solution, although the treatment is pleasant enough; sadly, my cure does not lie with over-priced white wines, spirits, or even Champagne.

So my decision on Saturday was a brave one, some might even say an impulsive, potentially fatal one that was borne out of a need to re-discover my party-girl roots. The old man says that I shouldn’t need alcohol to augment my personality, my outlook is immature, and that our days of new friendships evolving out of alcoholic consumption competitions are over. Meanwhile, the ‘inner circle’ have been vocal in congratulating me for not vomiting, on Facebook.

Red on Green photo courtesy of http://www.flickr.com (Bachpics)

Coctail photo courtesy of http://www.freedigitalphotos.net