But once in a while, as happened today, I have a good old fashioned Formerly moment I feel compelled to share.

So as my friends know, I have a bit of a clog problem. I have maybe eight or nine pairs, including two pairs of clog boots. It’s a problem mostly because there aren’t enough days of the week to wear them and I love them so much this causes me mild to moderate distress.

I think I’m attracted to them because they manage to be both cute and orthopedic at the same time. People like me, who can no longer wear heals without cursing our big, gnarled, 45-year-old feet, can be comfy in clogs. Meanwhile, cute young 20somethings doing the retro ’70s thing have made them cool again. I’m riding this wave as long as it lasts. It’s like a solar eclipse–a rare overlap between two apparent opposites that’s briefly beautiful.

I stopped by No. 6, one of my favorite clog sources, and I saw them (pictured here, except I lusted for the dark, rich, chocolately brown). It was love at first sight–like in the movies, the background fell away and it was like me and the clogs were alone in the room. I moved tentatively toward them. We were destined to be together. I was sure of it.

The groovy blonde saleswoman, 26 or 27 tops, explained that they didn’t have them in my enormous size (41 or 42) and brought me a few similar pairs to try. I tried them all on, but determined that I wasn’t ready to have her non-refundably order them for me without actually trying the precise ones I wanted, because I’ve been burned before by ill-fitting shoes I couldn’t resist. It’s heartbreaking to sell your perfect-but-for-the-fact-that-they-deforming-your-feet clogs on eBay.

“I’m confident that a 41 will be fine,” she said. I thanked her and said would just wait until she had them in to try. “I do this all day,” she said. “You’ll be fine in the 41.” I choose to believe she wasn’t pushing, but that she truly wanted me to be united with my true loves. But still, I held off, and asked her to call me when they came in again.

She shrugged, and there was something in her resignation–this middle-aged lady doesn’t know what’s good for her, fashion-wise and she chooses not to heed my excellent advice so I’m going to move on to someone in whose life I can make a real difference–that prompted what came next: I felt an uprising of older person’s Tourettes, words coming up out of my mouth seemingly without my control.

“I mean, my feet used to be a regular ten, until I had my children and now it’s like, a real problem to find shoes in my size….” I blathered on about how one foot is bigger than the other, how pregnancy screws with your feet and, like, the bones spread out, and yoga doesn’t help either, and on and on in this, honey, let me tell you kind of tone. I think a part of me wanted her to know that once, a long long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, I was just like her–someone who didn’t mind if my feet hurt, as long as they looked good. Someone who would put fashion before function. Someone who, well, wasn’t old. Or old-er. Or as old as I am. Which is to say, not that old!

When I finally stopped talking, I saw that my diatribe had the opposite effect. I went from potential clog buyer to weird lady who thinks fabulous, young, skinny fashionable people care about her podiatric problems!

“Wow,” she said. “That sucks.”

“Um, yeah, kinda,” I said, before showing myself out.

I told my friend Andie about this exchange and she likened it to talking to pregnant women about what it’s like to be a parent–they cannot fathom that anything will ever change. They will be exactly as they are forever, except with the adorable accessory of an infant, who will also never get older and pimply and difficult. This woman has no idea that she will ever be my age, no longer able to wear a trash bag with an obi and look fabulous, with feet issues that one earns after pounding the pavement for decades and all of that.

Well, I do hope for her sake she gets to be my age someday, because–footwear limitations notwithstanding–it beats the alternative.

Photo from No. 6, which really is an amazing store.

It has been an outrageously long time since I’ve posted. I have been crazy busy and digging out and just trying to enjoy my kiddies but if there’s anyone out there still checking in, I will be back at it at some point. Trying not to make myself nuts.

In any case, enjoy, this from LHJ’s October issue. Click HERE for the full monty.

Embarrass Your Kids, It’s Good for Them

By Stephanie Dolgoff

Recently I was walking one of my fourth-grade daughters to school. We were holding hands, swinging them as we strode, and I was quietly singing the Bangles’ “Manic Monday.” We’d sung it together loudly many times in the car. But apparently this was neither the time nor the place for a 1980s flashback. “Mom, stop it!” she hissed as we saw a cluster of her friends up ahead. In fairness to her, I have a terrible voice, and I was fully prepared to cease and desist, but I felt like it was my job as a mother to give her a hard time first.

“But why? I’m happy. I like to sing when I’m happy.” She rolled her long-lashed blue eyes and looked at me imploringly. I saw a touch of desperation behind her cool-kid facade, so I smiled and said okay. I stopped singing and we kept walking, hand in hand.

I remember my own mother singing in the street when I was young, and me begging her to please oh please just…don’t! When she wouldn’t stop, I’d fall back and walk way behind her, trying to disappear into my Flashdance-style cropped sweatshirt. We joke about it today. But my mom, who was single and struggling to raise me and my autistic brother, was under a lot of stress. I now know that I should have encouraged any expression of joy on her part.

Rest of the article is HERE and lotsa other good stuff.

Confessions of a Hobby Hobo

I’m a hobby hobo. Salsa dancing, painting, jewelry making, cookie baking, photography…I’ve done it all, briefly and not particularly well. The fact that I don’t have a hobby I’m passionate about, like scrapbooking, gardening, or collecting, like that guy who has a warehouse for everything Dolly Parton has ever breathed near, is something I’ve come to accept about myself.

It wasn’t always so. I went to a college where everyone seemed to have an expertise, something tangible, like swimming or acting, which they couldn’t wait to dig into when the work of the day was done. READ MORE HERE!

An Office Where Funny Business Is Encouraged

Why workplace teams that share laughs do better and more profitable work. (Yup, office yuks have been studied!)

One morning around a dozen years ago, I walked into the bullpen of the magazine at which I worked, and sitting in my boss’s chair was a cheap, inflatable sex doll, one of those latex ladies in a garter and panties with a startled, round-mouth expression. We all knew who put it there: the office stinker, a truly hilarious and much-loved senior person. He was one of the few who dared to joke with my boss—a notoriously talented but formidable woman who could reduce junior editors to tears—let alone in such a blatantly inappropriate way. What was particularly funny about this was that she’d recently cut her hair, and the doll’s stylized, Betty Boop bob made her and the doll look like twins.

Everyone sat there, tittering nervously, waiting for her to walk in and splash her double nonfat latté all over her Prada pencil skirt and pointy pumps. My office was in the back, but I loitered nearby—there was no way I was going to miss this. The tension was thick as Jell-o. The culprit sat coolly at his desk near hers, typing away as if nothing was amiss.

Check out the whole story at SUCCESS.com

I am a Formerly Hot blonde..always the ‘pretty one’ in the family, never lacking for attention or dates. Fast forward…I’m now 42, mother of four blonde blessings, and yes….going through a totally-typical divorce. The funny thing is…during a fifteen-yr abusive marriage, I was brought so low that I had completely ‘let myself go’ (and I despise that saying!)   Now that I’m free, I’m finally strong enough to take the time and effort to take care of ME…haircuts, highlights, tanning, whitening my teeth…and eating healthfully and exercising, of course. I had become so accustomed to being virtually invisible during my thirties that the scant attention I now still receive from men just absolutely floors me! Ah, it’s good to find that girl again. Yes, the men paying attention are my age or older, but that’s as it should be, and fine with me!

Ladies, you’re still hot…just hot now to a different demographic. Embrace it: it’s not gone! 

I didn’t take the cruise’s towel origami workshop, but I thought this little guy was cute

I’m not a bikini person.

I’ve never had a flat belly in my life, and after my twins, my norm is a not-flat belly with loose, puckered skin that flops a little over whatever waistband I wear. Even at my thinnest (see: Divorce Diet) I have always felt that my abs are better suited for a one-piece or one of those tankinis with a flap of fabric hung like a little dog door  from a bikini top.

But I just went on my first-ever cruise (the silver lining from that horrible shipwreck in Italy is that prices dropped and everyone is extra careful now) and as I was packing, I threw my bikini in. Ef it, I thought. I can’t believe I will be the only one with a postpartum belly on board, and if I am, then let it be known what we women go through for our children, damn it!

I also threw in a tankini top, fully expecting to have lost my body image bravado when faced with actually exposing my midsection.

But I didn’t! It helped that there were all body sizes and shapes on board, many in bikinis, but I also had a distinct shift in mindset. The last time I tried to wear one, back in my 20s, my attitude was, “I don’t look as good as I should in this bikini.” Looking down at my belly now that I’m almost 45, my first thought was, “I don’t look as bad as I could in this bikini,” which morphed into, “In fact, I look downright fine, and who’s looking anyway?”

Best vacation I’ve ever had. More proof of what I apparently have to learn again and again over the years: That actual looks don’t matter nearly as much as how you feel about how you look. In my experience, changing how you feel about how you look is a lot harder than slapping on some makeup or even doing 700 crunches a day, if you were so inclined. Still, I think the latter is a better investment of emotional energy.

Thoughts?

The End of the Comparathon

Posted By Stephanie Dolgoff on March 18, 2012

Reason number 963 I’m officially glad I’m not young anymore: The comparathon is officially over.

Here’s what I mean. I had a major girl crush on a woman in college I barely knew. She seemed so at ease at the keg parties and protest meetings, emanating a cool aloofness that gave her a command of the room. When I saw her, I instantly felt like a big, cloying clown trying to make people like me through laughter. Her way seemed so much, well, better.

This obsession was but one example of the terrible habit I had when I was in my 20s—I constantly compared myself to other women, reflexively, like breathing.

The willowy woman at the next table, snarfing down a burger and fries? The mere fact of her whippet-thin body and lightening quick metabolism made me a big fat slug. That happy couple sitting across from me on the subway, gazing lovingly at each other—clearly they had a wonderful, enviable, perfect relationship, which only highlighted how mine were often hopelessly complicated. FULL ARTICLE HERE.

Posted By Stephanie Dolgoff on February 19, 2012

I’m going through a divorce, which is hideous, as anyone who has been through one knows. Not only are you mourning the death of the family you dreamed about and worked so hard to build, but if you speak or write about it in public, as I have, you deal with people who (believe it or not) truly think that you represent all that is wrong with society: a failure to live up to commitments.

I have no Earthly idea how, if all of us in marriages that make us feel terrible about ourselves were to stay put, the world would be a better place. In some magical way, there would be no nuclear threat, everyone would have enough to eat, cancer would be as rare as leprosy and cartoon sparrows and butterflies would flutter and chirp around us like Snow White pre-apple. Oh, and weight loss would be a breeze.

Yeah, no. With the possible exception of Kim Kardashian and her ilk, most people who divorce do so only after exhausting all other means of keeping the commitment alive, and after long and painful introspection about what it means to break a commitment. This process has taught me that some commitments—ones that interfere with other, more important ones you’ve made to yourself and to others—should be broken.

READ THE WHOLE POST HERE AT BESTLIFE.COM