Sex and Suburbia, Green Eggs and Ham, reinterpreted by a kvetchy mommy

Sex and Suburbia, Green Eggs and Ham, reinterpreted by a kvetchy mommy
By Julie Stankowski

I do not like green eggs and ham. I do not like them Sam I am. I do not like the “aging” thing. I think it has turned me into a king. Oh, excuse me, not a king, a Buddha. But Buddha doesn’t rhyme with anything. Except, oh, woo-hoo-da, I am now a Buddha! And it’s kind of rude-ha. And it puts me in a bad mood-ha. And I don’t look so good in the nude-ha.

But, here’s the deal, Sam. I do not like nude bras with underwire. I might as well be wearing a rubber tire. But that’s a problem, Sam you see, for aging women like me, whose bellies are getting bigger and whose boobies are getting saggier. We do not like that Sam I am. Damn, damn, damn! Because, Sam, without the bra, the boobies are in a constant state of rest upon the belly. And it seems our bodies are turning into jelly. I looked at a tiny Buddha statue sitting on my desk and thought, “Oh, shit, that’s me!” And it’s not very pretty. In fact, I’m afraid if I don’t wear a bra one day, the boobies and the belly will simply meld together and become one. And that for sure would not be fun. Jesus, Sam! I do not like who I now am!

And how about those wrinkles, Sam? They show up every night with a big ‘ol wham! Do we go with the notion that wrinkles are good, part of who you are and what your life’s been so far; or with the notion that wrinkles are bad and while altering our face may be sad, we nevertheless seek a special disappearing potion, or the number of a great dermatologist or plastic surgeon? Out, out damn wrinkles. What do you think, Sam? Should I fix it, or stay who I am?

And Sam, what about those little pains and aches that magically appear when we awake? What the hell is that, Sam? I thought those were reserved for old people, man. And I didn’t think I was old yet. But you do, I bet. What happened to the theme: 40 is the new 30? Were you not told that by the little birdie?

And to be honest, Sam, I have a horrible neurosis. It’s called the Woody-Allen-I-think-I-am-dying-with-each-ache-or-pain psychosis. And Sam, this neurosis is not okay. It freaks me out every day. Can you please take it away? So I may live in peace today? And not think that a headache means a brain tumor, a backache means imminent death and a Buddha belly means some sort of serious ovarian problem. Sam, is that too much to ask? Too tough a task? If I didn’t think you could do it, I wouldn’t ask.

So, to summarize, Mr. Sam, I do not like green eggs and ham. I do not like them Sam I am. I do not like big bellies and fat. I do not like looking like Saturday Night Live’s Pat. I do not like when boobies sag. I do not like being on the rag. I do not like getting older. It makes me feel like I’m cheese getting moldier. I do not like the wrinkles on my face. It makes me think I’m losing the race. I do not like yucky cellulite. On my tush, it just doesn’t look right. I do not like stray hairs on my neck. What the heck? And I do not like thinning hair. It doesn’t look glamorous with what I wear. I do not like being on a diet. I’d rather be standing in the middle of a riot. I do not like to exercise. I’d rather be eating homemade pies. I do not like my hypochondriacitis. It needs to go away or I’ll get arthritis. Or meningitis. Or go-crazy-itis. Are you getting the picture, Sam? I am starting to forget who I really am.

So I am asking please, Sam I am, to help me embrace aging with grace. Can you help me, Sam? To enjoy who I now am? And not fret and have no regret? And love my body without holding a hot toddy? And to look in the mirror and see, what appears to be, an even more beautiful me. Despite my wrinkles and frequent tinkles? If you can do this, Sam I am, I will make you a special ham. It will not be green. It will not include eggs. Instead, my Sam, this ham will be made of canned spam. And for your taste bud pleasure, I will add strawberry jam. And sauté it with a little fat-free Pam. And I will make like Emeril and add a “bam!” And even throw in a candied yam. All to reward you with a new kind of ham. And to thank you, Mr. Sam I am, for helping this aging lady feel more like a baby and less like an old-maidy.