Confession: I like it better when it’s not legal

There is an evil law out there. Actually, it’s not even really a law; it’s more like a precedent. And, as any first year law student can tell you, once a precedent is set, it’s a real bitch to break.



Here’s the problem. In a shout-out to Natasha, Caryn and all of my other mathematically-inclined Hot Minivan Moms out there, I am going to present this in syllogistic format:



A. Men like to nail hot chicks.

B. Ergo: They marry one of the hot chicks they like nailing best.

C. Unfortunately Ergo: Eventually, those ‘hot chicks’ become hot minivan moms who have had 1+ kids and traded in their rockin’ stilettos for non-back-breaking tennis shoes (at least on a soccer-to-dance-to-birthday-party-caravan daily basis).

D. Sadly Ergo: Men are still legally required to tell the ‘formerly hot’ chicks they married that they are hot.

E. Ego Point: The formerly hot chicks are painfully aware of points A – D, therefore, the ‘you’re so hot’ compliments paid by one’s husband who swore vows to say such things are sullied with a ‘you are legally required to think so’ smear.

F. Therefore, a ‘you’re hot’ compliment from a man NOT one’s husband means about a million times more than a compliment from one’s husband who is just hoping to avoid a ‘you don’t like me anymore’ fight at 2 am.



We women don’t like to admit this. But, in fact, from about the age of 13 on, we each are painfully aware of two things: A. exactly how attractive we are and B. exactly how much others (i.e. MEN!) are lying to us about how attractive we are.



Because I have been informed by my various moral and/or lawyer-inclined friends that it is rude to use others as anecdotal evidence to my self-espoused truths, I will use myself to prove my syllogism.



I have known all my life that I am beautiful.



I have only recently become truly cognizant of beauty.



I am aware that it is a faux pax, of varying degrees, to admit awareness of one’s own beauty. I think that is a load of crap. All women know, to the most minute degree, exactly how beautiful they are in comparison to society’s standard and can evaluate, in a quick visual sweep of a room, how beautiful they are in comparison to every other woman present. This is an in-born female trait that can be witnessed even in young girls. We could argue (and many have, ad nauseum) that Society and the Media and Hollywood and our Mothers, Fathers, Sisters, Husbands, etc are to blame for this.



I say we just accept all of the above as fact and move on. Or, at least, move back to the point of the story: me. Like any woman, I know just how beautiful I am. Oh, and one more aside: any woman who claims she is ‘unaware’ of her beauty is either 1. unfortunate looking; 2. blind or 3. is most definitely lying through her Crest White Strips whitened teeth.



I know how beautiful I was. Not Jessica Alba or Giselle beautiful, but I looked OK. While I lack long legs, thick eyelashes or sex goddess hair, I learned early on from my mom and grandma how to play up my best assets, namely an athletic body shaped by several sports, a symmetrical face and big green eyes courtesy of some long-lost Cherokee woman who had the misfortune to cross paths with one of my Scottish male ancestors. I have always been thankful for the eyes and a bit peeved that that poor woman didn’t also pass down the long, thick, dark hair; my own is thin, baby-fine and stick-straight brown.



Still, like I said, I do OK. The right hair cut plays up my limp hair and, while I may long for long sex-goddess waves, the stick-straight swing of glossy locks fits my personality. Some have called it my Bitch Hair, but hey, when the shoe fits…



Turning 30 was rough on me. Suddenly I realized that, after two children and three decades, I could no longer hope to be one of the hottest girls in the room and instead should be pleased with looking great for my age group. And, seeing as my age group does not include co-eds and most of Young Hollywood—but DOES include things such as ‘mom jeans’ and ‘shaping tennis shoes’-- figuring out how to dress appropriately is a bit of a struggle. I still (thanks to 4 am workouts and vats of yogurt) can fit into my old 20-something clothes, but would look wrong escorting my children to a playdate in daisy dukes and a halter top. Afterall, I and the other moms talk smack about the women who do this.



I really, really try to get it right. It’s tough, as ‘getting it right’ means balancing ‘formerly hot’ with ‘currently responsible’ yet with a stylish twist that still makes my husband want me on a Saturday night after the kids to go bed.



As a result, I sometimes look like a 23-year-old-wannabe, sometimes like a Martha Bush cast-off and, if all the stars have aligned, I look kinda good for a 30-something married mom of two.



Added to that, it now takes at least 3 hours to achieve what a shower and a five-minute face used to achieve. Sigh.



I find all of this exhausting. Still I refuse to let myself go and wear the loose yoga pants, running shoes and roomy tee-shirt that would be my outfit of choice. Well, OK, I refuse to wear that outfit out of the house. Unless I’m going to the gym. Or the grocery store when I’m only going out for milk. Or to my sister’s.



Well, damn it, at least I always have mascara on and it’s a good bet that the outfit is clean, seeing as I have an entire drawer-full of variations on it. And when I really want to work it, to prove that I may be ‘formerly hot’, but there the word ‘hot’ is still in the equation, I take off the yoga pants and put on a top that shows my rockin’ rack and jeans that show my ASSet.



And then I get thoroughly butt-hurt when no one notices. All HMMs know the feeling. Here we are, for once thinking we look pretty damn OK…or even pretty damn GOOD…and no one notices.



If we’re lucky, our husbands do. After all, a good HMM’s spouse has been well-trained in the primping time to compliment ratio: the longer we spend getting ready, the stronger the compliment must be.



For example, the typical 30 minute shower-make-up-outfit-hair routine requires only a preoccupied kiss on the cheek and a distracted, ‘you look nice’ response. An hour requires a momentary pause and a slightly more emphatic, ‘you look great’ comment. A full-blown trip-to-the-hairdresser, new-dress, 2 hour deal demands a raised brow, momentary loss of breath and smirking, ‘wow!”



This is expected. Scratch that: this is required. And it is lovely to hear. But it does not cause a blush. It does not create a tingle. It does not make us pull our shoulders back and strut around in our most sexy-fierce fashion.



Because we all knew he had to say it. No HMM would stay married to a man who does not understand the complex dynamics of the required compliment.



What we moms ‘of a certain age’ really crave is the unsolicited, un-required compliment from a man not our own. A casual, ‘nice dress!’ or even a sleezy, ‘great rack!’ will do more to raise our confidence in our sexual power than any number of store-bought dead flowers in a cheap glass vase handed to us by a husband really hoping to get laid sometime in the next month or so.



When we don’t receive an un-solicited or required compliment, we fall apart. Some get bitchy, some get slutty, some give up. And some, like me, sob uncontrollably in the bathroom during a dinner party and are discovered by their friends’ husband.



Yes, Caryn’s husband found me sobbing in the bathroom at Brook and John’s house. He and I were equally horrified. I because I really, REALLY hate crying in front of people (really, Readers, how many of you have actually witnessed me cry? Point made.) He because, well, what man wants to find a sobbing, incoherent woman? Especially when she’s not HIS woman yet insists upon clinging to him and wetting his tee-shirt with inconsolable sobs anyway.



The worst part is, he knew what was wrong. After somewhat-pathetically asking if he couldn’t fetch Brook, or Caryn, or Stu, or John, or ANYONE to deal with my leaking tear ducts (I sobbingly refused all), he patted my back in the way one might pacify an angry rattlesnake and reassured me, ‘Kate, you know you’re gorgeous.”



This is humiliating. I don’t know if he knew I was crying because he, my husband and John had all complimented every single woman present (and some who weren’t) except for me on their beauty, style, sexiness etc., or if he just assumed that I am so vain that that is what I was crying about. Either option is horrible.



Even more horrible, his uncomfortable, sheepish comment dried my tears and restored enough of my confidence that I could wipe the mascara out of my crow’s feet, straighten my stick-straight, graying hair, adjust the rack I had to pay an obscene amount of money for and march back out in the room. And I could do all of this because a man told me I was pretty.



And that man wasn’t required by law in 26 of 50 states to do so.