Hot Older Women

As a 15-year-old, I remember being hesitant to wear eyeliner because I heard it would give me more wrinkles in my thirties. I still have trouble using heat styling tools on my hair because of the damage I fear they will do long term. Essentially, I'm willing to sacrifice quite a bit of looking good and hip now, in the hopes that I'll be a hot older woman, and here is why: I'm slightly obsessed with being a cougar. Always have been, always will be. When I hear people say phrases like, I'm in better shape at 40 than I was at 20, I get a little buzz of excitement. I think, hell ya, my future. My mind is taken over by visions of my all organic kitchen, green tea addiction, and the six pack I got from trying to keep up with my kids, just like Sarah Jessica Parker. Hey, you can't choose your fantasies. This is mine. All I can do is enjoy it.

I was blessed with a cougar filled day out on the slopes, that started with four moms on the shuttle from the parking lot talking alternately about their kids classes and the runs they were going to do that day. These woman were classic moms, except for one thing. They spend their weekends down-hill skiing at one of the most challenging mountains possible. Well, that, and for post pregnancy bodies, they were all bodacious. To say how bodacious, I must say that they looked bodacious in ski attire, which means they are not only cute, but can find ski pants that accentuates their butts. These are hot woman in ever sense. Not, Los Angeles, I will do anything to look like I am 20 hot, but like, I'm still super active, loving life, and an expert shopper hot. These woman spurred me to pay more attention through out the day to all the woman 40 plus on the slopes. It seemed everywhere I looked some silver fox was swishing around me, and I was happy to have it happen. If you're in your sixties and wanna fly past me, spraying me in the face with your snow, I ain't gonna hate. Celebrate! The death of aging like a wimp. I want to age like these badass'. In honor, at the end of the day, when my badass boyfriend led me over to the half pipe I gave it a go. Not, because I wasn't freaked out, but because there was a woman ahead of me encouraging her six-year-old son to try it. Not just try it, but to "see how big you can go." He did. She was laughing, saying, "God, I hope this doesn't make me a bad mother."

My reply: "No way. This makes you a badass mother. At least, he isn't going to live life filled with fear." With that, the woman said, "Yeah!" Turned to her husband with a huge grin and said, "Hope I'm not to old to try this!" She took off down the half-pipe, shrieking with delight. I followed. No big air was had, but I did laugh like a three-year-old who was just thrown into a foam pit at Chuck-E-Cheese for the first time. That type of joy is elusive and can only be found by trying new things, something that is harder to do as you get older and are doing fewer things for the first time. The harder it is to accomplish, the more badass it is though. I've known that since birth. So, at 15, I could have been a little sexier with eye liner and flat-ironed hair, but I'm saving that sexiness for later. When it will be really impressive. A weekend that could have been devoted to botox will now be devoted to skiing. Maybe I'm alone in my thinking, but to me, that's hot.



warning: skiing is very damaging to the skin and sunscreen must be applied. do not get all crazy "I don't care how I look." you will have missed the point entirely.

Before We Go Any Further

I must mention a story I heard at my recent job orientation. Working for an ski resort that has a reputation for extreme terrain, I should expect to be asked, "Would you please share your most adventurous experience with the group?" Didn't. Flabbergasted that I am now such an adventurous person that people would ask me to share adventure stories as part of my job, I started to search my mind.

Oh, yes! The story about taking a 4 person plane packed with 5 people off the island in Honduras. That could be good. Jumping off the 40 foot waterfall? Could work. Yeah. Maybe. Not that great. Poking the lava with a stick. I could touch on the bus ride over the mountain pass with the open door. Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeehhh...

"Ok, Todd. How bout if you start?"

"Sure. Uhhh, well? I guess it would be about 5 years ago. I was mountain biking with a couple of my friends and of course I was way ahead of the two of them, and, I was attacked by a grizzly bear."

The group waits. Eyes begin tentatively shifting ever so slightly. The search for confirmation of that being the entirety of the story is discreetly underway. Todd looks to his right and tries to pass the torch. The cardigan wearing snow bunny to his right is horrified. Luckily, this time, that snow bunny wasn't me. I would have tried to follow this story. The actual snow bunny knew better. She just stared at Todd, until, some dude asked, "What? Dude? Where? How?" Simple questions, but apparently the right ones.

It should be said, Todd is older. A ski patroller of middle age. No visible scarring on the face.

"Yeah, so I was headed up (name of trail omitted cause I forgot) and I was pretty far ahead of my two buddies. This griz comes at me from the side. All I heard was gnarly thumping, something I don't usually hear. So, I see the bear and it's already charging me. Man, it got me really good."

"Dude, how'd you get it off you?"

"My friends finally caught up and unloaded two cans of bear spray."

There is more to the story, but I'm already doing Todd an injustice with the shotty telling, so I'll let the gist of it speak for itself. The real gem of the story, though, came later when we were discussing the merits of helmets while skiing. Todd, piped up, "I'm sure psyched that I wear a helmet when I mountain bike. That bear busted one gnawing on my head."

I told the story of poking lava with a stick. Becoming a badass is a constant education in humility.

The Splits

My friend, Anna, can do the splits in the way I could when I was 15. Legs fully apart. Arms up in the air. Big Smile. I am so jealous. So very, very, very, very jealous. Five minutes ago, I was working on my splits. Thank you for the true life inspiration, Anna.

Bitch.

No. I'm kidding. Thank you.

The Best Plan Ever

I've decided that for my 40th birthday I'm going to get certified as a yoga instructor. This is a distant plan.

1) Being a yogi is always badass. A 40-year-old taking on a big physical challenge is super-badass.

2) I'll be healthier, hotter, and more flexible in mind, body, and spirit.

3) If I get left by a man going through a mid-life crisis I'll start an all male yoga class. If I'm still in love and not being left, I'll give private lessons.

What's your best plan ever?

Blood, Guts, and a Nice Scarf

A few days ago, Jackson had the first snow fall of the season.  Since I'm a southern girl at heart, when I see snow I automatically think, "Snow Day!"  All impulses turn to the couch and stillness.  The day was spent reading magazines, lolling about, and pouting that I no longer have anywhere to wear adorable heels, skirt, blazer combos.  Ohhh, new plum nail polish for fall!  Wait, that will just be chipped off in my mittens as I claw the damn ice off my windshield.  I was really getting on a roll, considering moving to a place where pedicures are considered a requirement, not frivolity, when I received a call.  

"Jes, I think I have a plan that might really excite you.  Really get you going on becoming a badass."

Interest peaked.  If I can't be well accessorized, I would like to be a badass.

"Chase just killed an elk and we can hike into the woods and help him pack it out."

"I'm in."

"Ok, just wear warm clothing that you can get bloody."

"Um, ok.  Yeah.  Sure." 

One minute, I'm wishing for new over the knee boots.  The next minute, I'm wondering why I don't have more warm clothing I can get bloody.  I wore all black, but it turns out, you're supposed to wear orange so that you don't get shot by another hunter.  I looked like a bear.   Definitely need to get in on the hot neon trend happening right now.  If anyone has access to an H&M, please send a nice neon scarf.  Orange would be nice, but pink will do.  Thanks.  I'm saving for a rifle or I would buy my own scarf.

Proof that I went:

Elks stomachs are large enough to fit a small female adult in the fetal position.

The meat is hauled out, but the intestines are left in the woods for coyotes or something to eat. 

Steam rises out of the animals insides as the cold air meets the warm body.

You don't want to shoot the spine because there is a lot of good meat in that area.

 

Scraped Knees Ain't Just for Kiddies

The entire time I was growing up I had scraped knees. I'd trip on my skip-it, slide wrong coming out of a tree, miss my landing jumping off the swings, and lose a layer of skin. There was always pain but it was a sacrifice I was willing to make for having so much fun. Sadly, it's been years since I've had a scraped knee and I can't help but think that it's a sign that I haven't been having enough fun. All that's in the past though, cause I scraped the crap out of my knee and had to get stitches on my hand! The badass is back and ready to play.

I've always prided myself on not being the type of woman who refuses to kiss a man cause it will ruin my make-up or won't get my hair wet in a pool. I try to prioritize a good time before a good look, but if I'm going to be a badass, I'm going to have to take things a step further. It's time for a confession. Ever since moving to Jackson, I've seen women with mangled skin. Anyone who mountain bikes gets some nasty road rash (cuts and scrapes). I've always thought, secretly, to myself, gross. I never wanted my pretty legs to be cut and gnarly. I thought scars were ok for men, but these women should really be more careful. They were really detracting from their summer dress beauty and men weren't going to think they were attractive. Turns out, somewhere around fourteen, I started sacrificing fun in order to be what I thought was pretty. I've just learned what these women must know: Why be pretty when you can be having the time of your life? And really? What's better looking then someone having an incredible time? Nothing, you fools.

And now it's time for a story: I Fell Off My Bike and I Liked It.

I fell off my bike. Riding back from the river, a short trip, in nothing but a bathing suit, I turned off a paved path onto a gravel road too quickly and skidded over. A rookie mistake. Apparently, a lot of people know about this whole pavement to gravel thing. I didn't. Now, I do.

I was with Shaun and I really didn't want to cry in front of him. The second I hit the ground I prayed, please don't let him do that thing where he babies me and then I turn into a sniveling infant. Luckily, I needn't worry. Shaun is a man of little compassion and much joy. He's made this apparent to me on a number of occasions. This is the same man who after seeing me leave work miserable because I was going through a break up texted me, "hold on to the night. hold on to the memories." I looked up at him from the gravel and said, "I'm fine. Don't freak out." The second my eyes fully focused I realized his face was frozen in a look of awe and excitement.

He said, "That was amazing!" Laughter. More laughter. Big laughter. I nervously giggled as I stood and contemplated wiping the gravel off my leg. What was clinging and what was embedded?

"I totally saw that coming. I watched the whole thing! Don't you feel great?"

"I guess it doesn't hurt that bad."

"Isn't it exhilarating? Aren't you happy you can still do that?"

Blood dripped off my hands. Standing there, in my bathing suit, the pain started to emerge. At first there had been nothing. Now, though, as I stared at an open wound, not scrap, not cut, but gash, a true wound on my hand, it started to burn. It burned until it stung and then stung until it ached. I believe Shaun was now shouting, "You're a badass!" Suddenly, a mini-van is beside me. A bleeding girl in a red bikini with scraped knees stands next to a fallen bicycle and a minivan. That sentence could be used to describe everyone of my k-5th summers. There I was fifteen years later and nothing had changed. As I talked to the dad in the mini-van, I started to feel good. Don't worry about me, sir. I'm fine. Just fell off my bike. Not the first time it's happened and you know what? I hope it's not the last. Shaun's point was sinking in. I can get hurt and it can be worth it. The moments leading up to the crash were definitely worth a scraped knee. I had just floated down a river on my back for the first time ever. I had danced around on the beach. I had raced along laughing hysterically on a bike, something I haven't done in way too long and trust me, the laugh was an incredible one.

If you're pushing yourself to do things you haven't done or do something better then you've ever done it, you're going to fail. You're going to fall. Failing and falling both hurt, but they are things that happen on the way to awesomeness. So what if my pretty little knee is a little less pretty? It's a little less scared and that's worth it being a little more scarred.

Plus, I got five stitches in my hand. I've never had stitches before. I'm a badass.

definition

Who's a badass?  

Someone who tries it.

Someone who goes further than they thought they were comfortable with.

Lot's of people in Jackson want to act like being in being the ultimate (skier, climber, etc) is what makes someone a badass, and that competing for that title is the only way to achieve badassness.  I've talked about my first attempt mountain biking and been scoffed at.  Incredible hair, driving stick shift, and making an incredible sandwich have all be seen as givens, not accomplishments.  Let's take a moment to remember, if you can do it and others can't then you will look like a badass.  

This adventure is about physical challenges, extreme sports, and manning off against nature but it's also about hair that gets free drinks, being able to drive a strangers porche, and sandwiches good enough to create a life long love.  

In conclusion, to all the haters, I would like to say:  Sorry for partying.  And partying in more ways than you even knew were possible.       

Learning to Ride a Bike: This Time For Realsy

I know how to ride a bike.   Or so I thought.  Turns out, I only kinda knew.  If you can balance and pedal, you can ride a bike, scoot about town and maybe even teach a child how to some day.  But if you're really gonna bike, on trails or paths for long distances here's some crap to know:

1)  Gears are your new best friend.

      a) the low numbers are for uphill, high numbers for downhill, and middle for flat.

      b)  save yourself some ickyness and try to change gears at a point where you are pushing the peddles and moving yourself forward.  AKA:  Only make changes while fully engaged.  May apply to other life actions.

      c) the chain loops around the spiky.  If things go all shades of horrible and the chain falls off the round spiky (possibly due to ignoring advice b), put the gears in 1st and put the chain around the littlest round spiky.  Actually, not that hard but you will get dirty.

      BONUS TIP:  Don't wear white.  Biking is surprisingly messy.

2)  Wear sunglasses*

*to be expounded on in inspirational story

That's actually pretty much it for biking.  And now for an INSPIRATIONAL STORY...

To further along my Becoming of a Badass, I've taken up biking, as in, gone on two bike rides.  This has immediate benefits because I haven't biked in the pas, so I'm adding a whole new activity to my roster, automatically giving me huge badass points.  More auto points are gained from the maneuvering of the bike out of a tiny storage space and scraping up my legs, which sucks, but does make it look like I'm into mountain biking.  I get on the bike (this is day two of biking), slouch over the handle bars, a tip from my friends who said my good posture was making me look like a wimpy cruiser.  I'm coasting down big hills, not breaking cause I ain't afraid of speed.  I'm arm signaling my turns cause I love sharing the road.  A not:  One armed biking takes some skill.  Shake off that lapse in balances, slouch over handle bars, and keep on going.  

I've gone about 1/4 a mile when I notice my chain is making bad, clinking, dragging sounds.  I pull over, only catching my toe momentarily as I dismount, and start solving problems.  Hmmm.  Chain.  Rubbing against metal.  Flashback to my youth... Wasn't the chain always around the round poky thing?  Yes!  I put it on the poky thing.  Which is easy!  Swift remount with extra toe lift and I'm off.

Cruising over an unpaved road (elk refugee in Jackson), blow past a man walking his dog and can fully appreciate the speed a bike supplies.  Shifting gears up and down hills, I'm getting cocky and having a great time.  I experiment with weaving around tiny pot holes and even imitated the nine year old I saw yesterday jerking his handle bars up to hop a curb.  Sure, I'm only jumping dents in the read but it's fun.  I'm feeling the flush of enthusiasm that's so present in youth and so much harder to find as we age.

Around mile five, she appears.  Her tiny body is all sinewy muscle and spandex.  Her gait is steady, sure, and well, really f-ing fast.  How can she be running this fast five miles in?  Surely, she came from one of the turn offs.  This has to be her three mile sprint pace over a rushed lunch break.  Maybe her child is in need of medicine at home and her car is broken.  She is headed toward the hospital.  Only those desperate mother endorphins could explain her speed.  I nearly fall off my bike as I search for her behind me, looking to see if she turns off.  She must have cause I can't spot her, and then, suddenly, I see her neon pink body streaking down the road.  She's already so far away I can barely see her.  

I turn around, having come to the end of the path and, now, fear is in my heart.  She's out of eye sight.  Does this mean... Is she running faster then I'm biking?  That seems physically impossible, but I've been out skied by three year olds on leashes and don't doubt anything.  

I'm pumping my hear out for two miles before I catch up to this woman.  I fly past her, not out of a sense of pride, but because I can't stand her getting a good look at how obviously overheated and sweaty I am.  Just as my confidence is about to plummet to the pathetic depths of self pity, and while my mind is repeating, How slow of a biker do you have to be to almost be out run?  Just then, God sends a mercenary angel.  Or a kamikaze angel rather in the body of a big juicy bug, that hits my forehead and splatters.  

Now, I don't know the exact mathematic equation, although I imagine it's something like:  (biker's speed) times (bug's speed) divided by (juiciness of bug), that equates to smashing a bug on your face, but gosh darn it, it's never happened to me jogging.  I must have been going pretty fast.  If I hadn't been wearing sunglasses and the thing hit my eye, I definitely would have required medical assistance.  Just one of the risks us badasses have to take.  I wiped the goo off my forehead and smugly pedaled back home.  I love being extreme.  The risk is always worth the story.