F*ck Me: A Memoir

Do you remember the term ‘aging gracefully’? Of course you don’t. It doesn’t exist anymore. Once Botox, fillers, plastic surgeries and other procedures became widely accessible and acceptable, the term ‘aging gracefully’ died a quiet, but, er, graceful death. In today's world of nips and tucks and magic creams and injectable parties, I'd say we should rename the concept "pretending aging doesn't exist". There's no longer any sense of dignity, respect or grace associated with the process of getting older; there's only shame and discomfort. As I settle into middle age, I’m constantly reminded of what it would truly mean to 'age gracefully'. I think about it when I’m getting my roots done, when I’m staring at a shelf of new miracle serums, when I notice the changes to my skin tone, menstrual cycle and sleep patterns, and when I see photos of gorgeous, glamorous celebrity moms who look better at 60 than most women would hope to look at 30. I imagin...

When I finished writing my  memoir , I shared chapters with friends and family. One friend read the first fifty pages and then asked to meet for dinner to discuss it. As soon as we were seated and nibbling our appetizers, she blurted out, “Arielle, I know we DO these things… but when you become a mother, you don’t TALK about them!” I wasn’t surprised by my friend’s reaction. It wasn’t the first time I’d heard it. The majority of women I’d spoken to over the last few years - modern, educated, independent women – still subscribed to the archaic notion that women fell into one of two categories: Madonna or Whore. I couldn’t blame them, I subscribed to the same outdated concept when I was married. I believed that as a middle-aged mother I was supposed to embody wholesomeness, loyalty and modesty – and ignore that tiny nuisance of a fact that sex was what made me a mother to begin with.  Even after my divorce, I clung to the idea that my entire identity revolved around...