When a woman reaches a certain age, she realizes that she is no longer relevant. Her hair loses its luster, her ass gets larger, and her skin gets dry and crackly. Tight jeans are replaced by loose-fitting pajama pants. Men no longer whistle as she walks by. In fact, they don’t even look at her, probably because she is pushing a double stroller while carrying three large diaper bags on one arm, two sippy cups in one hand, and a container full of Cheerios in the other hand. And it’s not only her appearance that’s taken a hit; her lifestyle sure isn’t what it used to be. Sushi dinners are replaced by slightly burnt grilled cheese sandwiches. Dinner and drinks with friends becomes fast food in the car and a movie for one, because it’s the only darkened room where she can nurse her migraine. And her buzzing social life has been replaced by an equally busy schedule of toddler music classes, dance classes, story times at the library, and two hours of homework a night (and that’s just for the preschooler). It all sounds pretty depressing, but it isn’t. Because it’s at this stage in life that she realizes she is a full-fledged woman. She proudly juggles a job, a household, children, and countless other details. She’s gotten older but wiser. Or at least this is what she tells herself to make herself feel better.

My official entrance into womanhood occurred years ago, at a Dave Matthews Band concert, of all places. As I looked around at the concertgoers, I saw that I was the oldest female in a sea of sixteen-year-olds in tiny tank tops, tight shorts, and rubber-thong flip flops. The little light bulb above my head turned on, and I realized during this concert that I was yesterday’s news. My time as a “girl” had passed. I could no longer rock the tank tops and tight shorts with words stenciled on the behind and still be taken seriously. It was time to become a woman. (I never went to another Dave Matthews Band concert.)

After my moment of enlightenment, I figured that I could treat these younger, prettier, perkier girls in one of two ways. I could hate them out of sheer jealousy. Or I could love them, and be something like a big sister to them, counseling them as they made their own journeys into womanhood. Life is tough enough, I reasoned, and if I didn’t help other girls through it, then who would? I mean, we all end up at the same place anyway: the sweatpants rack at Target. So we might as well help one another get there, right?

Therefore, the time is right for me to impart my growing wisdom about this journey to other girls. Call it the official memo documenting the rites of passage of a woman’s life, such as:

• Thinking that you are hot shit, then realizing that you are no longer hot shit (what I like to call the “Dave Matthews Band moment”)
• Making fun of your parents’ boring lives until you realize your life has gotten just as boring, if not more so
• Loving your husband until the moment you begin to despise your husband (not you, honey!)
• Loving your children until the moment you begin lying about loving your children
• Mocking older women, then feeling pity for older women, and finally falling into the pit of despair when you realize that you are now an older woman
• Calling your best friends “bitches” as a term of endearment, then calling your best friends “bitches” because they really are bitches

Every so often, I’ll share with you, via this blog, my lessons learned on being a wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend, and woman. I know I’m not the first woman who has felt the need to discuss her light bulb moments with the world. But crossing this rough terrain called life can be difficult, especially for the ladies, so what’s one more know-it-all female in the mix?

Fortunately, I’m not going this road alone. Although I’d much rather discuss myself and my own drama, I will be taking my cue from other female role models and will be be sure to mention those who are paving the way. Sure, I could talk about Michelle Obama, Hillary Clinton, Ellen DeGeneres, J.K. Rowling, or a number of other present-day heroines. But I won’t. Rather, I’ll focus on a different set of important women, such as the pseudo-celebrities from one of my favorite programs, The Real Housewives of New York City, which officially wrapped its third season last night. This is a group of ladies from whom we can learn a great deal about being a woman. In one short season, we’ve learned how to have a proper bitch fight (Jill), how to handle to the oh-shit-I’m-pregnant moment (Bethenny), how to spin your nervous breakdown into a “breakthrough” (Kelly), why singing lessons are important (LuAnn), and how to walk the runway with an overactive thyroid (Ramona). If this is everything we’ve learned in one short season of a reality television show, I’m going to have a lot of memo writing to do.

Stay tuned.

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