Thoughts On Being A Kempt Woman

To be a kept woman or to be unkempt – that was the question

What the hell is a “kept woman,” anyway? I pondered this for hours as I got lost in Skyline Park and had to walk an extra FIVE miles. The exhaustion, thirst, and hunger I experienced during my unintentional 11-mile hike made super clear the advantage of having a companion when you head out into the wilderness. A metaphor for my life, perhaps.

Please don’t throw me to the wolves, friends, on account of my being a kept woman. I’m well aware that my brand is defined by my tough, direct, and independent nature. I am also well aware of the hypocrisy of having a blog called “Men On Pause,” when at this moment in time, I have hit the “play” button and am thus no longer on “pause” when it comes to men. Or should I say, man? There is only one, and damn, that is enough.

Rest assured, girlfriends – my snark is still alive and kicking and ready to serve your needs on all important topics related to women, though the snark is now admittedly subsidized a wee bit. Wink, wink, nudge, nudge. And there are some aspects of what I’m going to call “domestic subsidies” I can’t bring myself to say out loud. Wink, wink, nudge, nudge.

Two weeks ago, a good friend asked, “Chris, are you now a kept woman?” I was kind of horrified to hear her use that expression (yes, you Liz), yet it piqued my interest. It sounded kind of scandalous, and well, you know, I’m not afraid of that shit. In fact, I felt a bit flattered imagining someone might consider me worthy of being subsidized for anything… my brains, my beauty, my sexual prowess (ha, ha, ha), my talents, my sense of humor, my big tits, my ability to beat up bullies (literally or figuratively).

Huh. Being a kept woman. A concept worth considering.

Let’s stop right here and now and take a moment to explore some definitions so it’s clear where I’m heading on this issue, as the topic of being a “kept woman” is an obvious minefield for any self-proclaimed feminist such as myself.

I decided to leave off the full definition (holy mother of god), and to ignore altogether the other completely offensive and misogynist definitions I found in other dictionaries, the worst being from the Oxford Learner’s Dictionary: “a woman who is given money and a home by a man who visits her regularly to have sex.” 😳 Is that me? YIKES. Just yikes. But then again, I kind of like that concept, twisted as that may sound. Does that make me a bad person? Yes, it does. I can hear you saying that over your morning coffee. My response: fuck you.

As I mentioned previously, I set to thinking about this expression, “kept woman,” while out hiking. I also thought about how unkempt I had become before Doug—okay, let’s just start using his real name—JOHN, asked me to lunch. That word, unkempt, it’s sort of old-fashioned, but it really does describe how I had become before dating John. John. John. John. Not DOUG. Got it?

Me…

That bottom line of “similar” words pretty much sums up my appearance before that fated lunch date after my SEVEN-year hiatus from men. Am I really saying this out loud - admitting I went that long without, well, you know.

Having sworn off men completely and forever, I had really let things go. And why not?! It wasn’t as if I was going to be seeing any men, so why worry about my wardrobe, getting my hair cut and colored, or shaving my legs? Why put on makeup or change out of my pajamas just to walk the dog? And then there was the weight thing. OMG. Not going to dive into the deep end on that subject – I think we’re all pretty clear on how that weight shit comes about (read “Taking Back Your Body” if you’ve forgotten). Let’s just say this: I was pretty much resigned to looking “natural” in a feral, older woman sort of way. I think a lot of women relegate themselves to this. It comes in super handy for all those situations in which you want to be invisible. Of course, I can’t think of any wanting-to-be-invisible situations off the top of my head, but I’m sure there must be some.

This is me at a very low point. I had just returned home from a full hip replacement surgery. The date: 1/17/23. It took all the courage I could muster to share this with you. But this is the real me, after many years of hip pain, overworking, and non-stop worry. And what the fuck am I wearing? Even the local thrift store wouldn’t take this stuff when I finally went to chuck it.

Then along came John. He asked me to lunch, which sounded like a date to me, probably because somewhere, subconsciously, I really wanted a man. And John was a Man (an uppercase Man, to be clear), so just like that, I said, “Yes!”

In one hot second, I chucked all that men-on-pause bravado and agreed to go out with him. Why?! Because he was very kind (and very handsome 😍) and he was a Man. And I had a little epiphany - I’d always had a little spark for him. I’d run into him many times over the years in my previous incarnation as a wedding planner (can you believe I did that shit?!) and each time, his smile gave me butterflies. Yeah, like in my tummy. Then as suddenly as I accepted the lunch date, I no longer wanted to be invisible. I wanted to be irresistible – from the bad “ible” to a good “ible.”

So I spastically shot off a “yes” email to John, then panicked. What the hell was I doing?! I’d not been out socially for nearly seven years. “Deferred maintenance” does not even begin to describe how far I had let things go. “Unkempt,” however, summed things up quite precisely. So, I put off our lunch for a week and a half, imagining that would give me time to lose 20 lbs., get some beautiful designer clothes (what? for free?), and learn how to expertly apply makeup and do my hair like a professional stylist. Jeez Louise (yes, you Lulu), I really thought I could pull that off. Could not, as it turns out. So, I did my best, lame as it was, and I turned up for my date, and then, wham! I had what I’m going to call stage fright. The “stage?” A popular small-town restaurant filled with familiar faces, and across the table - a handsome man I’d unconsciously crushed on for over a decade. The food arrived. I could not eat.

Happily, more dates would follow, all of them wonderful, and as we got to know and “know” each other, I started eating again. I quit being so nervous, because I was having so damn much fun. As things progressed, and my situation was revealed to John, the embarrassing, shameful whole of it (and let me tell you - that was a scary turning point)… by some fucking miracle, I was with someone who understood, cared, wanted to help and wasn’t going to run for the hills. And let me be really clear on this point: I had never intended to date, ever again. Just ask my friends (yes, you - Ann, Penny, Ed, Tom, Debbie, etc.). So all of this was super confusing and felt a bit like a miracle, something I don’t believe in as I’m an atheist.

"You've always had the power my dear, you just had to learn it for yourself,” said Glinda the Good Witch

So yes, I have floated into a new realm of believing in and doing some things that, in the past, I would not have been proud of. And I most certainly would not have bragged about this recent “thing,” as I have taken great pride in my role as a single mother who was raising two kids, mostly on my own. Add to that the fact that I was treading water with a ball and chain shackled to my ankle – i.e. an ex that was taking me to court every other week. It was fucking exhausting. And unbelievably expensive. I know that many of you have had experiences similar to mine – and I feel your pain. It is excruciating, I know, and perhaps like me, the pain slipped into the background as you were dulled by exhaustion. But even in the background, the pain continued to cause a steady stream of damage to your body and mind.

Yet, in my infinite pride (and in order to survive), I kept to my routine, which I am going to call the “Death March.” Left, right, left-right-left. The Death March involved working, taking care of my kids, working some more, going to court, taking care of my kids, working again until midnight, paying my bills at 2:00 a.m., responding to court briefs, working on the weekends, doing yard work until dark, taking care of my kids, getting up at 4:00 a.m. to do laundry and housekeeping, oh yeah, and cooking. Three meals a day. And snacks.

Rinse and repeat until your hair starts falling out. Which it did. My hair stylist took a picture of it with her phone and texted it to me. I looked at that picture for hours, and I cried. There it was: evidence of my body’s unhappiness. A big chunk of my beautiful hair, fucking gone, replaced by a 3” circle of bald skin. At one time in my life, I had actually been a hair model for Vidal Sassoon, that’s how nice my hair had been.

The good old days. A full head of hair, properly cut and styled .

My dermatologist informed me there was no guarantee the hair would grow back, so she prescribed men’s strength Rogain and said, “Perhaps this will help.” Perhaps. FUCK. The difference between my alopecia and Jada Pinkett Smith’s is that I did not have a husband who got up on stage and punched the man who made fun of it.

It felt like nothing was going well for me, the mom/workaholic, minus my winning against my ex in court every single time and my keeping the kids healthy, happy, and doing well in school. And my business was going gangbusters. I know… all of that is something. It’s quite a lot, in fact. And I was proud of it, though I was not one bit proud of what I saw when I looked in the mirror. The Death March was killing me.

During those last seven years, I rarely spent money on myself, except for industrial strength work clogs and the black polyester outfits I needed in my role as an event planner. And what about food? Ha! What a joke. Yes, the kids ate well. Really well: organic meats, multi-grain everything, lots of berries and green stuff. Me…? I grabbed whatever was free on the job or pre-made at the grocery store. I should have eaten what I fed the kids, but I didn’t have that much time to chew, because I was busy packing bags for baseball, swim team, biking, day camp, etc., and after that, throwing in a load of laundry and walking the dog. The only time I had to chew was in the car and oatmeal and over-easy eggs were impossible to eat while driving.

Between the lack of a decent wardrobe or haircut, weight gain from cortisol overload and lack of exercise, and bags under my eyes from sheer exhaustion, the only path, in my mind was to retreat to my hovel. I was in no condition to socialize, nor had I the money or energy to do so. I had very little to talk about except work, kids and court and I looked like shit. I really did. I removed all the mirrors – seeing myself made me incredibly sad. And I needed to stay focused on kids and work, not my appearance. There was no room for me. I was in survival mode on steroids. And I have to give credit where credit is due on that – to my ex. He seemed to struggle with taking care of living things generally.

Where did things start to take a turn for the better? After my hip surgery. Which I must add was done PERFECTLY by Dr. Theodore Yee. Thank you dude! Like hugely! I know it was probably just a normal day in the office for you, sawing out my hip and half a femur and then hammering in that shiny titanium prosthetic, but for me - it was a fucking miracle. Pain gone, able to move like a normal human being, skinny little 14” purple scar that’s actually kind of pretty, can actually have sex again. Truly a miracle Dr. Yee. (Yikes, not that “miracle” word again)

And then I switched careers and became a writer, something I had wanted to do my entire life and I mean, like since first grade. The clincher – both kids – moved out, into adulthood and doing just great. The next chapter in my life has begun.

Yep, feeling a whole lot better about everything at the age of 62. FYI my daughter was embarrassed that I was showing way too much cleavage.

So back to John, Mr. Wonderful, and that “kept woman” thing. I have graciously accepted help from John and it has made a huge difference in my life. Stress down. Happiness up. Hair looking thick and shiny. Hiking and swimming again and losing weight. Getting more productive with work and not wigging out about money. Playing my flute. And having a damn good time with John. Like more fun than ever. Ever.

So, if you don’t mind, refer to me as a “kempt woman” not a “kept woman.” It’s a tad less humiliating. And yes, I am really “well cared for” per the definition below - THANK YOU JOHN.

Time to dance.