Life with Kids

I read magazines like 'More', which are geared towards women of a certain age. They show lovely women over 50- well-preserved women- on the cover and push high-end anti-wrinkle creams or pricey fashion for the over 50 set. I don't look like the women on the cover. My idea of a fun day out on the town involves Target, so I certainly can't afford the clothes that the magazines for mature  women recommend. $200 for a pair of pants? Really? Do the editors ever leave NYC and  mingle with the peasants? If I could spend $200 on a pair of pants, then I wouldn't be clipping coupons in my down time. Nor would I be in the community service field. I'd be taking meetings at Morton's Steak House  and not asking about the daily specials at Applebee's.

Once I used to read magazines like 'Cosmo'. I used to be interested in the best sexual positions and it was a big deal to know what turned my man on. Then I met Frankenstein's Monster. After a while, I didn't want to turn anyone one, because he became with time repulsive,  but like mold, hard to get rid of. He became like Herpes. You don't believe that you picked it up somewhere, maybe you're not even sure how it happened, but there you are stuck with it, for life. Until death do you part, or until you can scrape  enough dough together for a good lawyer.  Good lawyers dress as if they stepped out of the pages of 'More' magazine. They know their value and they don't come cheaply. Just their highlights look expensive, as if what I spent for an entire month splurging at Target went right onto  their roots.

Kids. They are a pricey investment. I love them, of course. They are my universe, and they are my raison d'être .  My world changed from the first time that I took my oldest's little finger into mine. Fancy clothes suddenly weren't as important. I stopped putting as much time into my make-up and I stopped putting in my contacts. My world revolved around this helpless yet beautiful treasure that I had nurtured for 9 months inside of myself. Frankenstein had no such sentiments and though he stuck around, like Herpes, and though he refused to leave,  he also refused to do anything substantial to help raise this treasure. He had Herpes himself. He had no financial restraints  like putting the baby's needs first. I started to feel hate slowly enter my heart, twisting and wringing it like a used-up rag.

Maybe the women who buy into the world envisioned in 'Vogue'  or any other high end magazine have something in common. Maybe they know their value, and they were clever enough to run from men like Frankenstein's Monster.  They knew that they deserved better.  I certainly didn't see my own value. No one should supersede yourself and your needs. Not a husband. Not a child. Not a job. And that in the end is the underlying message in these magazines. Invest in yourself, the most precious commodity.