Stephanie Dolgoff's Blog, page 12

I'll stand, thank you

I was on the bus today (which in NYC doesn't necessarily mean you're weird, a student, or impoverished as it does in, say, Los Angeles, although it might) and an elderly woman got on. She was clear-eyed with wiry gray hair, and wearing a black coat and Reebok running shoes. Like everyone else shuffling through the bus toward the back, she struggled with her stuff, a faux Coach purse and a Trader Joe's shopping bag. Eventually, with much effort, she plopped the shopping bag down at my feet and and grabbed the pole for stability.

I was about to offer her my seat, when the young woman directly across from me did. You'd have thought she offered to wrest power of attorney from the woman's children and then poison her in her sleep.

"NO!" the old woman snapped, and turned back around so she was facing me. "No thank YOU!" Unlike the young woman who had offered her seat, I could see her face, which was deeply perturbed. Her lashless eyes rolled upward and her mouth hung open in disgust. She let out an irritated New York City sigh.

OK, so clearly not a nice woman. But she didn't seem disturbed, either. She wasn't wearing an entire cake of blush and one false eyelash and a sparkly beret, like one woman in my neighborhood who likes to comment unfavorably on people's parenting skills. OK, my parenting skills.

I was too scared of the bus lady to ask, but I wonder if her reaction was similar to mine that time I was offered a seat on the subway. I assumed the man who offered it thought I was pregnant and I was briefly offended, because I wasn't and that meant I merely looked pregnant. Basically, the woman who offered her seat–obviously meant to be kind and perhaps as a sign of respect–was saying, "Take a load off, you obviously feeble creature with one foot in the grave."

I can see why the old woman got grumpy. I guess if you're in the wrong mood, inclined to take something in the worst possible way, you're not gonna take kindly to someone saying you look old, no matter how polite and well-intentioned a package it is.

Then again, I'm tired, and I'm just 43. If the current trajectory of tired continues until I'm as old as that woman, I'm taking the seat and saying thank you in a non-sarcastic way.  But that's just me.

Photo by TheeErin CC

Groucho Marx Syndrome

Holy crap! I just got my first direct mailing from the AARP! It contained two cards with my name embossed on them, personally authorized by one A. Barry Rand, the CEO. "To activate your membership and get your FREE Travel Bag, return this form with a check…" etc.

First of all, there's no reason that travel bag should be capitalized. Secondly, I'm forty-freakin'-three years old. I was going to say "only" 43, but what does that mean when one has written an entire book about the realization that she's no longer young? But 43 does seem on the young side for some things–grandchildren, low sodium Campbell's soups and receiving junk mail from the AARP. I still get the Delia's catalog, for crying out loud! At least I think it's for me and not my daughters, who are 7. Only 7!

I suppose I could decide to take the fact that the AARP is inviting me to join its ranks as a compliment. A. Barry Rand obviously thinks I'm successful enough to have retired at 43. Unfortunately I didn't invent Silly Bandz or those things that hold your bra straps together in the back so that it looks like you don't have saggy boobs. I'm not sure I'll ever be able to retire, although my boobs will surely sag. More.

Sigh. I'm tempted to join just to see if I get any other good offers. I don't need a Travel Bag right now, but if anyone markets old(er) age skillfully, it's the AARP. Blog fodder if nothing else. Any club that would have me a a member, etc.

You may have noticed the time between posts has gotten longer and longer. I've been busy with work and personal stuff, and I'll try to be better about it. Meanwhile, if you have a thought of stuff you'd like to read about, give me a shout.

OK, 43.5

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Me at the age my daughters are now

NOTE: THIS IS REPOST…APOLOGIES TO REGULAR READERS AND A PROMISE OF A NEW POST SOON.

It's my birthday today, and here's a secret: I'm 43.

OK, it's not much of a secret, because I am lucky enough to have tons of friends from childhood who know my  age, my birth date is up on my Facebook profile, and what's more, I have written here and elsewhere that I was 42 (when I was) and 41 (when I was that, until just over a year ago.) I am not above gilding the lily about many, many things, but to lie about something as irrefutable as the date you came busting out, covered with mucus and screaming bloody murder has always seemed to me rather pointless, not to mention futile.

Until now. 

I was in a car service the other day and got stuck in traffic. I was on my way to have my photo taken for my book jacket by my friend Kely (who is an amazing photog), so I was painted like the store-bought hussy that I am, or used to be before I got married. The driver and I got to chatting (Him: laid off engineer for IBM. Me: would-be supermodel but for an unfortunate genetic twist of fate). He was a doll, not least of all because when the subject rolled around to how long each of us had been living in NYC and I said 43 years on Tuesday, he said, "No way you're 43! I thought you were my age!" Which was 31.

Obviously I was chuffed (U.K.ism for psyched, which I love because it sounds just like what it means–all goofy pleased) and walked around for the rest of the day about six inches off the ground. All because I was honest about my age, which I already am.

BUT!

Then it occurred to me: What would happen if I lied about my age, but upward, to intimate that I am older than 43, rather than shaving off a few years, as is the usual way? The driver (who I will be requesting from now on whenever I call that car service) was pleasantly surprised at the discrepancy between my real age and his conjecture. What if I simply widened that differential by a couple of years? Wouldn't the happy miscalculation elicit even more of a disbelieving reaction? What if I claimed to be 45? 47? 50, even? How good would people think I looked for someone born in 1960? They'd wonder what fabulous skincare product I use, who my high-end dermatologist is, if I'd had work done, and marvel at the mad skillz of my nonexistent plastic surgeon!

Dude, I'm so on it! From now on, I'm going to say I'm 46, and if people believe that, I'm going to scootch it up it a few years and see if that flies. I'm 48 and I smear outrageously expensive elephant toe jam imported from East Asia on my crows feet morning and evening! I'm 49 and detox every six months by using a top secret infusion of toddler toenails to wash down thousands of dollars worth of Suzanne Somers' bioidentical hormones! I'm 50 and…well, no, nothing special. I just use sunscreen and do yoga and eschew processed foods like Hollywood celebrities of a certain age always claim to do in People magazine to look as good as they do.

Or maybe I'll just say I'm 43, but say it in a way that sounds like I'm lying, to infuse the whole conversation with an air of doubt and mystery. "I'm, um…" (twirls her hair, shifts her eyes, turns her wedding ring nervously around on her finger) "…43!" Think of the speculation! Future hopefully bestselling author on the subject of aging out of young who by some miracle gets to appear on Oprah is discovered to have LIED about her age! Hypocrite! James Frey-like buzz! Sells even more books!!

Or maybe I'll just say I'm 43, like I mean it, because who really gives a shit? OK. I do, a little, obviously enough to write about it, anyway. But I shouldn't. And neither should anyone.

Yo mama's a what?

Urban Formerlies might remember "snaps," those one-liners about one's mother that were popular around the 7th grade.

One kid would insult another kid's mother in a way that was so corny and over the top that he couldn't possibly take offense; instead, he'd say, "Oh, SNAP!" Then he would snap something more potentially insulting back, and on until one of one of them got tired of the game or it was clear that both of their mamas were so ugly that when she tried to take a bath the water jumped out of the tub, or so ugly that you'd have to tie a steak around her neck to get the dog to play with her. "Yo mama wears combat boots!" was one I remember was tossed out frequently, and I could never quite put my finger on what was insulting about that. I was like, so? Maybe they offer good arch support.

Anyway, I thought of snapping when I read Judith Warner's piece in the New York Times about politicians playing the mom card this election day. "Yo mama's a politician!" Seems to me that given what many people think about politics and politicians of all parties–that they're often phony, untrustworthy and easily compromised–that could be the ultimate snap.

The article points out that women candidates are embracing and using their momness (momitude? momnificience? momniscience?) to convey that they will govern according to the gingham-printed homespun wisdom, practicality and ability to shoot from the childbearing hip that was automatically conferred unto them when the baby passed through their vaginal canal (or was taken out with latex gloved hands by C-section, as the case often is.)

I dunno…like all moms, I've had to make snap decisions, weigh risk and perform shuttle diplomacy (I have twins). I've had to smile when I felt like tearing my hair out and come up with polite, yet effective on-message answers when what I wanted to say was, "Because I'm the MOM and you're not, so there!"

But lord knows I don't think I'm qualified for public office because I manage to negotiate compromise between two seven-year-olds, both of whom are screaming that it's their turn on Club Penguin.

Of course, most moms are highly qualified to do many things besides dole out tater tots. Managing a household with children–a complex mini-corporation, complete with budget and expectations of productivity and shareholders that need to be satisfied–is the hardest job I ever tried to do, and I had a husband who did more than his share. I lasted three months on my maternity leave and was dying to get back to the office.

But it doesn't follow, I don't think, that all moms would be better at governing because they are moms, and I agree with the article, which seemed to say that playing the mom card was a wee bit cynical.

So I have three questions (no pressure–answer any or none!):

1. Do you think moms, or parents, for that matter, are any more qualified to hold public office than the child-free?

2. If you had to pick a party based on your parenting style, what would it be? I'm a lefty Democrat type in the voting booth, but I think if we took my mom-style of governing to the national level, I'd have to be a Republican. As often as not, I resolve sibling squabbles by saying, "Can you not see that I'm eating! Leave me alone and go work it out for yourselves." That's like kicking it back to the states, no? Small government in my house. Yesiree.

3. Do you remember any good snaps? I just saw, "Yo mama's so ugly she scared Freddie Kruger!" Har.

Image by Quasic CC

Rebel whisper

Like many young adults, once I was out of my mom's house and on my own, I went through a loooong phase of doing things I wasn't allowed to do when I was under her roof.

These weren't many–my mom was (is!) extremely cool and of the "I'd rather you have sex with birth control in the house than without in the backseat of some dude's car" school of progressive upbringing. And it worked. No way was I going to have sex in my  mother's house. Eewww! OK, I did a couple of times, but only when she was away and I absolutely used birth control. She had a similar attitude about most other things ("Go where you want but use your head, stay with your friends and take a cab home and call me anytime.") I don't know if it was because I had a lot of common sense or because of what she said, but I never even had a close call.

Maybe because I had such a long leash, I had tiny, mostly food-related rebellions, and to this day, there are still things I eat not because I truly want them most of the time, but because we didn't have them in the house back in the day. These include Froot Loops and Apple Jacks, pre-packaged snack cakes, candy of any variety, and halvah, we we did have, but only when guests were expected, so I would stealthily shave off slivers that I thought would go unnoticed but never did.

Sugar cereal is hardly crack cocaine, I realize, but the compulsion to eat these mostly icky, processed, disgusting "foods" has remained strong over the years. And yesterday, one of these came into my possession: My daughter had made a Froot Loops necklace in Girl Scouts. I was cleaning out her backpack and there it was, little pieces of lint stuck to the neon-bright mini donuts strung on a piece of yellow yarn.

Instinct took over. I looked around to make sure I was alone. Then I watched in horror, a bit outside myself, as I lifted the vile, crumbling piece of food art that had been in there at least two days to my mouth and…

Something stopped me! I don't know what it was, exactly. I doubt it was how gross it was. I've eaten worse in a pinch. And it's not because my sweet tooth has faded any. My best guess? That I'm over it, finally, the idea that I am prevented from doing or having anything simply because those were the rules when I was a kid. I am mom now, and no way do I buy Froot Loops to have in the house. But you know what? I could! I'm the grownup. Nyah! If I thought Froot Loops were indeed part of a balanced breakfast, I could just go to the damn store and buy them and serve them to my girls until their teeth fell out. But I don't, because they're not. Yes, as an adult I can choose to rot my teeth and I often do. But Froot Loops? Gross. Really. And they always were.

So I'm kind of psyched. I feel a teeny bit freer, in the one of those ways–you can stay up as late as you want, and watch horror movies that may well give you nightmares–that it's kind of cool to be an adult. I'm 43. You'd think I'd have hit this mark before, but I'm glad I'm here now.

Do you guys have any parallel experiences? Things that you no longer feel you need to do to assert your right to do them?

Photo by szlea CC

Soul searching

Totally procrastinating today. I have actual money work to do and am instead noodling around here, so this'll be a shorty.

According to People, newly single actor Jim Carrey has been using the following pickup line: "I want to run my fingers through your soul."

I posted that on Facebook as an example of the kind of guy I'm not impressed by. I've never met the man, but I have met guys who say things like this, clearly so in love with their own cleverness and/or desperate to make a woman laugh (not to see her happy, mind you, but to get the rush of of validation and affirmation of their own adorableness they believe the laughter signifies) that the pickup line is not about the particular woman at all.

This kind of thing is one of my pet peeves–and I get more peevish about it with each passing year–because it makes of a lopsided one-way interaction, all about the performer and the performance, and not about the woman he supposedly wants to connect with.

One woman posted on FB, though, that she might have fallen for such a line 20 years ago, which got me thinking that I might have, too (depending, of course, on much I'd had to drink, how badly I needed male attention at that moment and/or if the comedian was well-groomed and not visibly insane.) Nowadays, that kind of a line (by itself) would be a bright red flag that the guy was a narcissist and would need a lot more unidirectional and exhausting ego upkeep from the woman who went in for it.

What do you think about this? I remember being vaguely charmed by, "Was your daddy a thief? Because he stole the stars from the sky and put them in your eyes." It was years ago from a teenager with gold teeth, droopy jeans and a group of friends watching to see how he did. Had it been from an adult, however, not so much.

Any memorable lines you would have gone in for back in the day, as opposed to now?

Photo by greginhollywood CC

Playing doctor

ANON WROTE: The worst was the time I took my son to the pediatrician, he must have been 7 so this was only last year, and this young woman comes in and introduces herself as the doctor, (she looked like she was 18).  She asked if we would mind if a medical student came in to observe, we said no problem, that woman looked all of 12!! Definitely felt old that day (I am 42).

Photo by Christiano Betta CC

Fun to be 40

ROBIN WROTE: I was married by age 23, and had my daughter when I was 27. Those were my years of dragging around diape rbags and wearing formula stains on  my clothes. I love my husband and daughter!! I wouldn't trade them for all the bar-hoping and toad-kissing in the world!

I like being in my 40's! Yes, we are getting older, but why worry about the past? Find a hobby, enjoy your family, and do something for your community. It's fun to be 40!

Wake up call

LYNNE WROTE: As hot as I became in my 40's (best shape, looks, hair, muscles, body, confidence)….there was nothing like this wake-up call.  Just walk down the street with your 20 year old daughter - who has no idea of her sex appeal — and learn what really turns heads.  Fortunately, I checked my ego and enjoyed the scene ….on her behalf..

Photo by Alan Cleaver CC

First vanity sizing. Now vanity aging.

Did you guys see that article in the New York Times about how middle-aged women aren't allowed to have long hair? Really? Who knew? I didn't get the memo, and neither apparently did those women you see at state fairs all over the country whose hair is below their butts.

But anyway, the thing that jumped out at me was not the writer's perception of the judgments and assumptions people make about older women with long hair–they're walking anachronisms who persist on playing a romantic game they've clearly aged out of–but the fact that the writer is 55 and calls herself middle-aged.

Now, I'm not going to be the one who tells her she's not, but I will point out that the average lifespan of a woman in this country is almost 81, which means dead center middle-aged would be something like 40. Pad either side by five years (assuming most of us die and so stop caring about our hair somewhere between 70 and 90) and that means you're middle aged between 35 and 45. What are you at 55? Since almost no one lives to be 110, the answer is…I have no earthly idea, but not middle-aged.

Just sayin'.

Look, I get it. I'm 43, and statistically speaking middle-aged, but I'm not in a huge hurry to embrace that term, associated as it is with stultifyingly cliched concerns like which dishwasher detergent will leave you with streak-free glasses, or whether one's husband's recent purchase of a two-seater sports car is but the first in a series of crisis moves that will end in hair plugs and most likely divorce.

So I can understand why someone who is 55 might not want to call herself whatever term might be a bit more accurate. Maybe the thinking is, As long as no one is using the term middle aged–because those of us who are middle-aged are pretending it doesn't apply in the same way we pretend we don't need reading glasses–in the spirit of 50 is the new 35, why shouldn't the 50-plus crowd adopt it as its own?

More likely, though, I suspect the phenom is more analogous to vanity sizing–the way no matter how many chocolate covered macadamias you eat, and no matter how many new pairs of pants you have to buy because you Just. Can't. Get. The Button. To meet. The hole! you'll always be a size 12 at Banana Republic.

Right. Vanity aging. And you know what? I think I might be OK with that. Thoughts?

Photo by Ed Yourdon CC