Driving Me Crazy
I love to go for a drive.
But I don’t love being the driver. I like being the passenger. (In the front seat of course. I’m not that crazy about throwing up.)
I like when my husband drives and I can:
– File my nails
– Check my email
– Write a blog in my head
– Watch myself in the side-view mirror
– Look in the windows of houses (my favorite night-time activity)
I also don’t like to drive because I don’t want the inherent criticism. Not that I am a bad driver. I’m a good driver. (I’m a bad parker, but that’s different.) It’s just that if you sit in the passenger seat, I think you are compelled by God or History to state your opinion of the driver’s skills. And I would rather be the criticizer than the criticizee.
Case in point: One day last year I was driving to my mother’s with Guess Who in the passenger seat. My mother has lived in that house for forty-six years. I’m a little familiar with it. We come to the intersection about three blocks from the house when my husband (oops…the ‘nameless person’ in the passenger seat) says, “Take a right.”
I rest my case.
Anyhow, I love it when my husband drives.
And he’s a good driver AND a good parker.
Except for a few little things.
It takes him five minutes to leave the garage. Everything needs to be adjusted, even if he’s the one who drove last. Then we back out. Then we sit while the garage door comes down. (Because maybe it could go back up by itself. And that DOES happen. Once in every million times.) And although he may be able to multi-task while the door is coming down, it’s not likely that he will. So THEN, he takes off his glasses, and opens his glass case and puts them away, and THEN he takes out his sunglasses case and takes out his sunglasses. THEN he cleans his sunglasses. THEN he puts them on. THEN he puts both cases away. And THEN (practically instantaneously) OFF we go!
Except…the inability to multi-task also makes going somewhere new a little complicated. Because if we have to put an address in the GPS, then that comes next. THEN…yippee…OFF we go! And along the way, if traffic is heavy and we (that’s the “Royal We” here) are not sure of the exit, we have to turn the radio off, because ‘We’ cannot watch for an exit and listen to a tune at the same time.
And speaking of directions, he certainly doesn’t take any from me.
Like the other night. We are coming home from my mother’s, this time with him behind the wheel, and due to an accident, we have to take a detour. So after we take this detour, he pulls over. Because he needs to turn on the GPS so he can find his way. Let me reiterate that we are in my hometown. Where I grew up.
He also likes to drive a bit centered. Centered as in the middle of the road. He tells me (because of course it is my duty to tactfully point this out, by saying something like, “Jesus Christ, you are in the middle of the road!”) that this is just an optical illusion from the passenger side. And yet, yesterday on a nice September drive, we were on a country road that had reflectors in the center line for nighttime driving. And we went thumpety, thumpety, thumpety, as we hit the reflectors. Reflectors that are in the center line. It seemed like a pretty noisy optical illusion.
And we may just slightly disagree on music. We have Sirius, and he likes “The 50’s on 5” and I like “The 60’s on 6”. (To you younger folks, if you are thinking about marrying someone a bit older than you, you may want to give some consideration to music preferences before you commit. Just saying.) But in our twenty years of marriage, we have worked this out. We take turns. Which is fair. As long as I have more turns than him. (And he was around in the sixties. So he should LIKE it.)
But I have noticed a little something weird about the way he drives when the radio is on. When the music is fast and has a lot of drums… like when “Wipeout” was playing on “The 60’s on 6” (it was my turn), he drove a LOT faster. Doing my duty, I gently pointed this out. He glanced at me like I was crazy. But I saw him grin a few seconds later.
And excuse me, but I need to return to the non-multi-tasking, non-advice taking, GPS-needing traits one more time. Because there is a plus side too. When we took the exit off the highway yesterday to get onto our scenic reflector-imbedded road, the GPS (on its nice easy-to-read screen that pops out of the dash) shows us this big white arrow pointing to the right. And Guess Who gets into the left-turn lane.
And it felt really good to holler “TAKE A RIGHT!”
Renaissance Woman
For a little girl who thought culture came from the tin-foiled rabbit ears on the big Sylvania TV – after all, Ed Sullivan had ballet dancers as well as Topo Gigio – I somehow acquired fabulous Class.
I’ve now been to the ballet. (It was just like The Ed Sullivan Show, although no one spinned any plates.)
I’ve been to the Opera. Why, I even have opera glasses. And they are really cute.
In college, I not only wrote poetry, I went to poetry readings, and listened attentively while someone else besides myself was self-indulgent. To be fair to poets (because I would like to be one again someday), I went to good poetry readings too; Anne Sexton even.
I went to foreign films. Hint: When they have subtitles, it is always called a film and not a movie. I will confess to a dislike for Bergman, but I love Truffaut.
And classical music. When I’m not listening to James Taylor, or Zumba Cumbia, I tend towards Schubert and Debussy. When I first got married, I played beautiful adagios during Sunday breakfast. Somewhere along the years, though, we abandoned Albinoni for my husband’s favorite Sunday radio program, “The Swap Shop.”
Early in our relationship, I was more persistent in my attempts to add culture to our lives. And since my husband was trying to impress me as much I was trying to impress him, we did classy stuff. We went to museums. He naively accompanied me to the Robert Mapplethorpe exhibit at the Wadsworth Atheneum. I give him loads of credit for self-control. He said, “Very Intriguing” – instead of running screaming from the building.
Two years ago I took him to Boston for the Edward Hopper restrospective. He was very relieved.
I think the peak of my cultural success though, was enticing my husband to come with me to the Met, for “Tosca.” And he liked it. Well, in his own way. His comment: “I’m so glad we went. I won’t do it again, but now I can say I’ve been to the opera.”
So last week it was his turn.
He took me to a cultural event. An event that I didn’t even know still existed.
So I wore my skinny cargos in khaki green, with a powder blue long-sleeved tee – just slightly off the shoulder. With bronze ballet flats. I was adorable, classy, and ready for a thrill.
And I had a swell time!
At the Demolition Derby!
Fountain Leaks
My Fountain of Youth has sprung a few leaks.
Since I decided that I would be forty-six instead of sixty-one, most everything has been going pretty well.
My hair is blonder and longer. I’m slimmer and fitter – what with zumba-ing my ass off, and yoga-ing off those flabby wings that my upper arms used to be. And I have an above-the-knee sundress and skinny jeans.
But I’ve got a few areas that are not cooperating.
Like my neck.
My idol, Nora Ephron, wrote a whole book about this problem, “I Feel Bad About My Neck.” And I sure do.
I never had much neck anyway (I blame it on my French-Canadian genes), but what little I had is now sliding down into my shoulders. And although my extra chin has shrunk some with my weight loss, what I have left is oddly – and oldly – loose.
Like my knuckles.
I’ve taken to using my expensive face cream on my hands. But no amount of miracle cream can hide the fact that my knuckles look like they belong to some ancient guy who chopped wood for a living. Gnarly. (And I’m talking to YOU too, TOES!)
Like my underpants.
When I bought skinny jeans (in bright teal blue, no less), I also bought sexy panties. Well, actually, I bought six pairs of my comfy big girl underpants (one size smaller) and one pair of sexy, skimpy bikini panties. Back when I was disco-ing the night away, I always wore bikinis – or even thongs. How did I wear those things? They are friggin’ uncomfortable!
Needless to say, I wear my six pairs of big girl underpants and then do a load of wash. My bikinis sit in the drawer. Right next to the strapless friggin’ uncomfortable bra.
Like my bedtime.
Back in my nightlife heyday, I could dance until 1:00 AM, and be in the office on time at eight the next morning. (almost fully functional, too). But no matter how young I think I’m looking right now. If I go to bed one minute after 10:00 PM, I might as well bring a pillow to work the next day.
Like socks.
I now have three pairs of skinny ankle jeans (black, faded wash, and the teal). And they look absolutely adorable with either my ballet flats or, if I need to be taller on any certain day, my platform wedge sandals.
But it’s September now, and I can already feel the nights cooling off. It’s Connecticut, for God’s sake. I’ve always suffered from popsicle toes. Now I know something very chilly is going to happen very soon in that four inches between the top of my ballet flats and the hem of my just-above-the-ankle jeans?
So I asked the girls at work. “Can I wear socks with these jeans?”
Their answer:
“NO!”
I think their answer may just indicate that they are a bit younger than I am trying to be.
After all, Michael Jackson was super cool with his socks in 1983. These girls can’t help it if they weren’t born yet.
I’m Younger Than That Now
When I first decided to get healthy – exercising more and eating right – my husband was a bit perturbed. He wasn’t too happy about how much time I spent at the gym, and he was even less enthused about the amount of snacks in the pantry.
“You trying to be forty is going to make me crazy,” he said.
“Just be glad I’m not trying to be twenty,” I said.
But he had the right idea.
I decided to go for forty-six. That way I might not drive him completely insane and I could still be dramatically younger.
And it worked. After seventeen pounds and lots of zumba-ing – I am forty-six again.
And when I got to about fifty-three, my husband joined me.
Not at the gym – I didn’t make him that nuts – but on the eating healthy side.
He actually went to a nutritionist and started eating only healthy foods.
And he got younger too.
I may have shed fifteen years. He shed forty pounds and twenty years.
Now he likes that I am forty-six, since he is now forty-seven.
He thinks we should shoot for thirty.
As I reported a few weeks ago, my husband sweetly suggested that I could wear a bikini. (Okay, he may not have had the purest of motives, but he certainly got a good deal of mileage out of that compliment.) (And I got new pearls.)
And yesterday, he surprised me again.
We went for a ride to Kent, Connecticut. Kent is a quaint little town with a remarkable chocolatier, Belgique. In keeping with our new healthy lifestyle, we each had two very tiny truffles and some excellent coffee.
As we sat in the sun with our small treat, he said he liked my hair. This is extraordinary. Over the last twenty years, he has learned not to mention my hair, in true fear of making me cry. But I have gone blonder in my rediscovered youth and added about three inches of length, so my hair now skims my shoulders for the first time in my life.
My husband likes blondes. He likes platinum blondes as a matter of fact. But he hates visible roots. So I never went blonde. However, now that my roots are gray, I can go much lighter without that detested root line. (See? There IS a benefit to being old.)
I thanked him for the compliment, and promised him a nice reward, of course. “I’m liking it too,” I said. “But I can’t go any longer at my age.” (I want to be a youthful forty-six; I don’t particularly want to look like Dolly Parton’s flat-chested, albeit younger, sister.)
“Yes you can,” my husband said. “You can go a little longer.”
And here was the surprise.
He said, “If your hair was a little longer you could put it in a cute ponytail.”
A PONYTAIL?
He’s going for TWENTY!
Is There A Pattern Here?
I love patterns.
I don’t mean patterns as in stripes and polka dots. Although come to think of it, there’s nothing that can cheer me up like a pretty floral cardigan.
No, in this case I mean patterns as in pleasing structured compositions.
Relationship. Order.
I feel great when kids walk in pairs. Even better when they are in school uniforms. Holding hands.
My favorite parking space is between two cars the same silver color as mine. But still better if I can park next to the same model car. Separated at birth, they can catch up while I shop.
I like an interesting balance. If I wear a nice big watch on my left wrist, I like three bracelets on my right wrist. And I certainly want to sit next to the person whose clothes complement my color scheme. No clashing for me.
I enjoy finding patterns in what I see. Numbers in order. (which is fortunately helpful in Accounting, which is unsurprisingly how I make a living.)
Words within words. Names that go together. When Grace talks to Kelly it makes my whole day. My husband has friends named Roy and Dale. I could listen to him talk about his friends for hours (when usually I hardly listen to him at all).
I also like a deal. Give me a sale, a gift with purchase, a tag sale find.
So I hit the jackpot this week.
LivingSocial has sent me some great offers that display that satisfying cohesion. (They were even in these neat Mondrian rectangles. How soothing is that!)
First: I can get two treatments for toe fungus. I’m not sure whether that is two treatments on both my feet, one treatment on each foot, or whether I have to choose two toes. I don’t want to play favorites or anything, but my big toes are campaigning hard.
Next: A Paintball Getaway. Six friends; all day. I would rather not shoot paint at my friends. Can I invite some enemies? Maybe my old boss? Can I ensure that I am the only one armed? Can I shoot instead at cars that pass me on the right? What about the little asshole who answers her phone in the middle of Zumba class?
Then: There’s a fabulous offer for a two-day colonic cleanse. I am sure this refreshing and enjoyable. I am sure it is very different from the colonoscopy I had in April. For one thing, the cleanse process includes a chocolate mousse.
And: I can buy some horseback riding lessons. The program is called “Train To Trot.” This meshes nicely with the cleanse. I went horseback riding once on a business retreat in Arizona. My horse was what they call ‘spirited’. My ass was not.
Oh, LivingSocial has created a pleasing symmetry in its offers.
And to unite these offers into one amazing, perfect pattern of a package, I also get $20 to buy a Wall Word. This is a wonderful graphic to express my deepest emotions.
And I know just what word to buy:
Closing The Gap
When I began blogging a year ago, I decided that I would never be political.
Not that I don’t have political opinions. Like most people who take an active interest in government, I am very self-righteous and opinionated. (Of course, not as self-righteous as I was in college when I knew everything.)
But Politics can be extremely frustrating. You are either talking to folks who feel the same way you do (so why bother?)or you are talking to people who are Just Plain Wrong – but you will never be able to change their minds.
So I figured it would be a lot more pleasant to talk about silly unimportant things like knee-high pantyhose and self-tanners.
Until now.
It is time for a Call To Action.
It is time to put a stop to The Big Gap.
You know the one I mean.
Now that I have shed fifteen pounds and fifteen years (yes, with the weight loss, I have decided to be forty-six), I went shopping for new pants. I was hopeful that being a size or two smaller would mean an end to my GAP issues.
But no.
It’s still there.
Waist-Gap
(photo: alterationsneeded.com)
I don’t know why I thought Waist-Gap would disappear now that I’m smaller. I had it when I was younger and thinner too.
Is this just a phenomenon of my phenomenal body?
I believe in scientific research, so I went to that microcosm of human bodies – the local country fair.
And there it was. If you are a woman older than … um … four – you’ve got a Gap. There are skinny girls in skinny pants with a Gap. There are chubby ladies with muffins tops – and a Gap. There are women cinching their Gap with a belt, giving their pants a weird gathered look in the back. And there are teenagers who appear to be using their Gap as a nifty slot for their iphone.
The GAP is universal.
And it’s time to end it!
Let’s close the Gap.
Women are NOT built with a gap. So why are pants designed that way?
So I am going to ORGANIZE!
This is the kind of activism I was born for – Fashion Activist.
I am going to use all my “clicks” on this blog as signatures on my
Petition To End The Gap.
And I will forward it to retail and ready-to-wear clothing designers everywhere.
Are you with me?
Women of the world – Unite!
Demand better!
Demand a little tuck at the top of your tuche!
Icon Anguish
You may think that Fashionistas live a carefree and superficial existence, breezing through their days thinking of nothing but the next pair of skinny jeans.
But now that I have chosen Fashion Icon as my vocation, I have found that it can be a difficult and stressful life.
I don’t wish to frighten anyone who is choosing the Fashion Icon career path – you certainly must pursue your dream, as I did mine.
But know that it is not all sequins and stilettos.
Here are some of the profound, complex dilemmas I face daily:
If I lose an earring, and have one beautiful earring left, does it really have to match the one on the other side? Should I get another piercing (somewhere) so I can wear my collection of singles?
If I break a fingernail just when all my other fingernails are nice and long, do I go with one short and nine long nails, or do I have to cut my other nails so they at least match? If I cut them halfway, so they are semi-balanced, would that be a good compromise?
Since I’ve lost enough weight to go down a size, how many of my big clothes should I keep as insurance for fat days? Is one pair of fat jeans enough, or do I keep them all? Is it dangerous to keep fat clothes?
If I buy something, and wear it once, and then decide I don’t like it, how long do I have to keep it in my closet so that I don’t feel guilty? I’ve had a green silk blouse for three years. Do you think shopper’s remorse has an expiration date?
If I have some pretty and comfortable shoes, but I also have some stunning but uncomfortable shoes, I know which ones I would wear to a class reunion. But how about a family wedding?
On the other hand, if I look really spectacular on the outside, can I wear old comfy underpants?
Can I wear yesterday’s Yoga clothes to Zumba tomorrow? They were all sweaty yesterday, but they are my cutest pants and they’re dry now, and they are just going to get sweaty again. If yes, how many times can I re-wear previously sweaty yoga pants? (Note: They don’t yet stand up by themselves.)
And finally –
If I get impatient with my hair, and trim it a little myself, do I tell my hairdresser the next time I see her, or do I let her think that she was the one who screwed it up?
Someone’s Getting Older (and it’s not me)
My sister Christine at four. Now on Medicare.
Today is my oldest sister’s birthday. She’s now the magical Medicare number.
She seems to be taking it pretty well. I, on the other hand, am taking it rather poorly.
It’s unnerving to have a sister on Medicare. It’s okay for my Mom to be on Medicare. But my sister?
Medicare has always been my euphemism for OLD.
I tell myself that my sister is so much older than I. When I was born Christine was three-and-a-half going on forty.
She was always so grown-up to me.
My mother says she can hardly remember Christine as a baby. When Claudia was born, Mom called Christine from the hospital, and Chris, then fifteen months old, carried on a conversation and sang – “Somebody’s Coming To Our House” – a song my grandmother taught her about the new baby.
In a family of smart people, my sister is brilliant.
I don’t remember a report card that wasn’t all As, or a class ranking less than first. And unfortunately for Claudia and me, a teacher who didn’t wish we were a bit more Christine and a bit less “us”.
I envied her brains. Still do. (And her cheekbones.)
For all her brilliance, she was always modest about it. If I were that smart, I’d be bragging to strangers every day….(Oh wait, I have a blog. I brag to strangers every day as a hobby.)
Chris was a serious kid. She read constantly. I coveted the books she read, but she was adamant that her books were too ‘mature’ for me. That was all I needed to hear. I surreptitiously read whatever she left lying around. Paragraph by paragraph, I ‘snuck-read’ every book she had – whether I understood it or not. I read ‘The Member Of The Wedding” and “Catcher In The Rye'” five minutes at a time.
Chris had a strict sense of Fairness, which included a list of privileges based on age. She relished the power of being the oldest. She especially demanded adherence to a hierarchy of bedtimes.
She was the boss of us all, including, sometimes, my parents.
Whereas Claudia devoted herself to making me laugh, Christine was more apt to make me cry. And I cried easily. And often. I don’t think I was much of a challenge for Christine.
I don’t remember playing with her too much. Not without me running off in tears anyway.
But I remember one day. We were playing with our paper dolls. We used to make paper dolls ourselves by cutting up the fashion photographs from an old Montgomery Ward catalog.
Claudia had a paper doll that had a very serious expression.
“I don’t like to smile,” Claudia said, speaking for the doll, “because I am afraid bugs will fly into my mouth.”
I howled with laughter.
“Hi,” said Christine’s doll to mine. “What’s your name?”
“Mary,” I answered. “I was named for Mother Mary, so I am full of grace.”
“My name is Cynthia,” Christine said, “so I am full of sin.”
And I wet my pants.
**
Happy Birthday, Chris. Thanks for making me laugh instead of cry.
They Obviously Asked The Wrong People
The response to my bikini dilemma was overwhelming.
Just about everyone encouraged me to go for it.
But as enthusiastic as you were, I figured I should seek a professional opinion too.
So I did a search – “How old is too old for a bikini?”
And I found an article that puts age limits on all kinds of apparel. According to a survey by the Daily Mail of the UK, the maximum bikini age is 47.
Yikes.
I am so over that threshold.
And that’s not all.
Here’s how fashion ages out:
- 33 Tube Top
- 34 Leather Pants
- 35 Mini-Skirt
- 35 Belly Button Piercing
- 40 See-Through Blouse
- 44 Sneakers
- 45 Leggings
- 47 Bikini
- 47 Knee-High Boots
- 51 Stilettos
- 53 Long Hair
- 61 Swimsuit
According to the Daily Mail, the first thing to go is the tube top. Age 33, and you’re out of there. I have to say I agree. Actually, I would agree if the Daily Mail suggested that you could only use a tube top for a beer cozy – at any age.
Please note that this was a survey of women.
Obviously.
No man would eliminate Leather Pants and Mini-Skirts quite so early on.
By which I mean:
Jennifer Lopez, 43.
.
And sneakers? Now I’m not much of a sneaker person, but forty-four? My mother is twice that age, and loves her velcro tennis shoes. And hers are metallic, by the way.
I’ve never been able to walk in stilettos, but don’t you dare tell me I should have given up my knee-high boots fourteen years ago. We are talking to the knee – not Pretty Woman Hooker Boots.
But my main question was whether I should wear a bikini.
Not only I am fourteen years too late, but this is MY LAST YEAR TO EVEN WEAR A BATHING SUIT!
HUH???
Is my sixty-one year old body THAT unsightly? Will someone puke if they see my legs?
This was a British study. Did they not see the photo from 2008 of their own Helen Mirren? – at 62!:
Hubba Hubba.
(Photo credit: Brenna/Jason Fraser)
I’ve decided.
The only opinion that counts is MINE. (And Helen Mirren’s.)
I’m not going to age gracefully.
If you are offended by my body, you may avert your eyes.
Maybe Next Year
I told my husband about my dream – the one where he tells me I should buy a bikini.
He said, “Of course you would look great in a bikini.”
Which was
1. Sweet.
2. Required.
And last week we took a micro-vacation – two days and one night in Newport, Rhode Island. The first day was devoted to sightseeing, looking for a parking space, eating, looking for a parking space, kite-flying, looking for a parking space, shopping, looking for a parking space, eating, and looking for a parking space.
Day Two was our beach day.
After finding a parking space, we settled in with our umbrella, blanket, towels, beach chairs, cooler, and book. Book is singular. My husband sleeps and I read.
I was deep into my book and my husband spoke. (He seemed to have uncharacteristically woken up.)
“You know,” he said, “You really could wear a bikini.”
I reminded him that although I now have a better body than I have had in a long time, it is still a sixty-one-year-old body.
“But look at that woman in the black bikini,” he said. “She looks okay, and you have a much nicer body than her.”
That got me out of my book. I looked around. But I didn’t see who he meant.
“Who?” I said.
“She walked off to the left,” he said.
So I got up and walked to the water, and looked to my left. No one in a black bikini. Or navy, or purple. (Color can be tricky with a man.) I scanned the people to my right. (Direction can be tricky with a woman.) I could not find the woman my husband had compared me to.
I walked back to the blanket, and my husband took my picture.
Me. Not fabulous, but not horrible either. That’s about as good as photography gets at 61.
**
But for rest of the day, I was consumed with searching the beach for a black-bikini-ed woman.
We have been home for four days now, and I can’t get that woman out of my mind. Who is it that I look better than?
Certainly not Megan Fox.
Megan Fox. (I admit I am not sure who she is, but she seems famous.)
**
Or Cameron Diaz.
Cameron Diaz.
**
Maybe Hilary Duff.
Hilary Duff.
**
Maybe Jennifer Love Hewitt. People criticized how fat she was in this photo, but she looks pretty good to me.
Jennifer Love Hewitt.
**
I can’t help thinking that it was probably Keely Shaye Smith.
Keely Shaye Smith
**
But hey. Pierce Brosnan loves her. That’s okay in my book!
**
Maybe next year.
Me at sixty-two?
notquiteold 