Stephanie Dolgoff's Blog, page 13

If a former supermodel feels this way…

[image error]just think about how us mere mortals feel about this pesky passage of time thing. This from yesterday's NY Post (which ran the above photo):

"Nothing ages as poorly as a beautiful woman's ego," says Paulina Porizkova, former Sports Illustrated swimsuit cover model, wife of rock star Ric Ocasek and one of the most recognizable faces of the 1980s.

"When you have used your beauty to get around, it's like having extra cash in your back pocket. I was so used to walking down the street and having the young guys passing by at least give me a flicker of a look. But once you're over 40, you become invisible. You're a brick in the building and it's sad. It just feels like the sun went down a little bit. It got a little cloudy outside."

I'm sure she's heard some version of, "Boo freakin' hoo! You still look fantastic and anyway, you had a great run. Get over yourself."

Yeah, OK, but I feel for her, having experienced just .000756% of what she's going through, and admire that she's talking about it. At no point in history would anyone have given me a cent to snap my picture, and even I'm feeling the loss. Her looks were her livelihood, her entire persona and the only thing (except for marrying a rock star) that she was known for and now, at 45, she feels they've gone the way of hair mousse and those God-awful high cut swimsuits. That's gotta hurt.

I had my 25th high school reunion the other week, and classmates who know about this blog and my book said some variation of, "What do you mean? You're still hot." For which I thanked them, of course, and reciprocated the compliment before launching into my spiel about how this Formerly Hot thing is really not about looks so much as being moved into a different category of human being–that of the "not young" woman–without notice or permission. No matter what you look or looked like, there's no escaping that things change.

Still, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't silently thrilled that the night of the reunion was one of those less and less frequent "on" days for me–the hair cooperated, I was on the thinner end of my 12 pound range and miraculously was not retaining Lake Michigan. In fact, everyone looked great–downright happy–so maybe the beauty gods shined their light-diffusing sparkle upon the entire Bronx Science class of 1985. My friend Julie remarked that the trick to feeling hot these days is to walk into a room of people in their 40s and simply never leave.

Maybe that would help Porizkova feel better? Hmmm…remind me not to be in that room when she shows up.

Photo by helayne seidman/Everett Collection (from the NY Post)

On Feminist.com

[image error]On the particular crappy spot women our age find ourselves in, vis-a-vis body image. As opposed to the crappy spot women of any age are in vis-a-vis body image. Sigh.

On the upside, I would say I devote but an eensy fraction of the time I used to thinking about what my body looks like, and oftentimes I come to the conclusion that it's pretty rockin', all things considered, and especially with the correct Lycra content in my jeans. Horrifying, of course, considering that clearly I think about it a fair amount. Still, nowadays, I bang out my beef on this blog, hit "publish" and then get on with my life.  I'll take that over being Miss Teen Bulimia 1983 any day.

Anyway, enjoy:

Of Two Minds, One Body

by Stephanie Dolgoff

Excerpted from My Formerly Hot Life: Dispatches from Just the Other Side of Young by Stephanie Dolgoff Copyright © 2010. Excerpted with permission by Ballantine Books.

Of Two Minds, One Body

As you might imagine, the realization I had in my late 30s–that I was no longer young–hardly made me want to go skipping through a wheat field, arms open wide and ready to embrace my future as an aging woman and all the joy and wisdom and reverence from society to which my new status entitled me.

Instead, coming to terms with the fact that I am in a new category of person, that of the not-young woman, was a herky-jerky, one-step-forward-two-steps-back trippy odyssey fraught with insecurity, hypocrisy (societal), hypocrisy (my own), contradictory messages and conflicting, shifting priorities. READ THE REST OF THE EXCERPT HERE.

Calling all Jersey girls

I'll be reading at Words in Maplewood next week, on the 21st at 7:30. It should be lots of fun, and these things usually degenerate into a big old chatfest, especially if there's wine involved. I hope to see you there!

What do you think?

Hi, all,

Below is a piece I was quoted in–I thought the writer made some interesting points. I remember watching the GenX movie Reality Bites back when it first came out. I was supposed to identify with Winona Ryder, who was appalled by, yet attracted to, Ethan Hawke's slacker character. She of course winds up with him at the end, nasty nicotine-stained fingers, joblessness and all. I, too, thought he was hot, but couldn't help thinking thinking how totally irritating it would be to actually be with him.  From there I couldn't relate to any of the characters, who were meant to be me and my friends. I didn't think the movie depicted "us," GenXers, accurately at all.

Anyhow, I'd love to hear your thoughts.

X at a Crossroads


No longer young, but far from old, Joanne Laucius explains where her generation is at and why it may yet change the world

By Joanne Laucius, The Ottawa Citizen October 8, 2010 Comments (7)




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Photograph by: Ottawa Citizen, Files

Come as you are, as you were, as I want you to be

— Nirvana (1991)

OTTAWA — In 1986, when I was in my third year of journalism school, we made a parody video of Tears Are Not Enough. We called it Careers There Aren't Enough. I played Joni Mitchell.

Tears was one in a run of We Are The World-type songs recorded by "supergroups" for worthy causes. Today's young people would probably invite Craig Kielburger to deliver an inspirational speech and then collect loonies. Back in 1986, our response was to skewer the earnest effort, which went on to raise $3.2 million for the hungry.

READ THE REST OF THE ARTICLE HERE

The return of the replacements

I still shop at Urban Outfitters sometimes. Not for my main wardrobe–the grunge heroin '80s waif thing isn't really working for me now that I'm 43 and not underweight, not that I ever was. But for t shirts and thermals, and once in awhile a belt that I know will be out of style soon so I don't want to spend too much on, it can be perfect. Everything there has a little frisson of groovy, so that worn in moderation by a relatively old person such as myself, I wind up looking like I kind of know what I'm doing.

That's what I'm going for these days with fashion: I wouldn't presume to make a statement, I'm not trying to attract attention. I just want to look like I meant to put on what I'm wearing, no body part that should be covered is showing, that I didn't make a huge mistake or get dressed under duress. The fashion bar is just low enough for me right now that I can surpass it, and for that I'm grateful.

The store was packed and staffed by NYU students, and as I waited on line to pay for the little teal beret I was buying, I eavesdropped on the two women in front of me. They were having a conversation about a guy–it involved the plaid mini-kilt woman expressing her outrage at how he just, like, showed up, after not having texted for, like, four days, which was fine, but whatever, he can't just, like, do that. Her friend, big-tunic-over-leggings and nose-pierce, matched mini-kilt's outrage with exactly the same amount of disbelief: "I cannot believe he did that. No. F$cking. Way."

I felt a familiar wave of thought and feeling wash over me–it happens every so often–that there is no conversation I'm likely to overhear on line at Urban Outfitters that hasn't been had, if not by me 20 years ago, then by a million other college students, every year since the dawn of time. I had that exact exchange, I felt sure of it, back when I wore plaid mini-kilts, although there was no texting then. I had variously been the complainer and the comforter, probably dozens of times.

It was a weird mix of depressing and comforting that at least I had moved on to trite conversations about much more important things, such as marriage or my children ("She missed getting into the Gifted & Talented program by a few points, but I mean, really, how can you test a four-year-old?" "Oh, I know, it's ridiculous.") I'm sure women in their 60s eavesdrop on me and my friends and remember when they were concerned with such trivialities and have the same mix of nostalgia and relief that I felt hearing those two.

I paid for my hat and handed the cashier my ID with my credit card. The photo on my license was taken some years before, and she did a double take.  My face was fuller, my hair curlier and my smile more tentative and self-conscious. "That you?" she asked.

"Yep–15 years ago. I wasn't long out of college. Are you a student?"

"Uh-huh. What did you major in?" she asked. I'm guessing she was a junior and had to pick her major.

"American Studies. Real useful," I answered. I was being facetious, but it actually has been useful. I write about all kinds of American things. "What about you?"

"Pre-law. I want to go to law school."

"You know, it really doesn't matter what you major in. You can do whatever you want, and you can always change your mind." I was hyper aware that I was having the cliched older-person-talking-to-younger-person conversation, which I'd had when I was her age and working as a cashier at the Athlete's Foot and considering law school (It's happening again! Must. Leave. Urban Outfitters. Stat!)

"Thanks and have a nice day," she said.

It might be time for me to star ordering online.

No longer the youngest

MARI WROTE: I used to get, "You're too young to be a doctor," all the time, to the point that I would wear glasses to look more respected and older. Now we have residents 10 years younger than me and instead, I have to wear glasses to see the computer and the patients ask ME how old those young doctors are. Respect, I like, not having to apologize for my age, I don't miss, but it still leaves me grieving that "too young to be a doctor" comment just a little…

Photo by Kitty27 CC

24 with a bullet

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SARAH WROTE: On the brink of the recently coined "quarter-life crisis" at 24, I came to the conclusion that my burgeoning comfort in my own skin much more satisfying and interesting than where to find the best deal on Coach anything. I don't yet know what on Earth I'm going to do with my skills and new found power, but I'm gonna be fabulous all the way!

Guest post: Karen Catalan

Hi, folks,

People ask about dating as a Formerly, and I can't speak to that from personal experience. So when Karen offered her perspective on love and sex as a Formerly, I was grateful. (Karen actually used to babysit me when I was around 6 and she was 12…remember when that few years was like a generational divide? Now it's nothing.) Here's here piece. Enjoy!

Sometime after dreading the inevitable 40th birthday, I felt the onset of a strange optimism, a renewed confidence. It was just after 9/11. I remember the feeling of helplessness as I watched the tragic events of that day unfold like millions of others from a TV screen. I was living in DC, but as an ex-New Yorker, it was especially painful to not be there to help.

Those few hours would change everything for me; specifically my perspective on what really mattered in life. Time was suddenly precious. I felt as if my new life was just starting and this new outlook affected how I thought about dating. I no longer needed those barriers I had put up that suggested cynicism and insecurity. It was about approaching dating again with the same innocence and excitement of youth, and discarding as a load of crap that notion that your 40's were considered middle age and all downhill.

What I didn't anticipate was becoming a mother at 41–a single-mother. Finding myself pregnant with a less than ecstatic prospective father, I resigned myself to parenting alone. I took a deep breath and was thankful that age and maturity would be my guide. Somehow, I would survive as I always had, but never would I have imagined that becoming a single-mom late in life would fill a void—one that apparently eliminated my need for sex and intimacy…for seven years!

Last year, my son ordered me back into circulation with a thumbs-up. The sense of freedom to have a sexual existence again was exhilarating and empowering, as well as a bit foreign. I was 48 by then and had briefly entertained the notion that I might not be as alluring as I had once been as a Formerly Hot twenty-something. These doubts were very soon dispelled. Shortly after posting a profile on a popular online dating site, along with a few of my best photos, I was floored by the barrage of male attention and the extent to which I was pursued (much more so than in my 'hot' youth.)

Dating at this age was a revelation. I loved the attention, but didn't worry about where each date would lead. I learned, among other things, that sex without love could be still be loving and passionate. I knew what I didn't want and didn't waste my time with those that fell short. I had always been no-nonsense (clearly my New York upbringing), but something about getting older and the realization that your prime years are limited, force you to say what you mean and what you feel, skipping the mind games altogether. Clearly that aura of confidence showed.

One of the best suprises: Sex had become infinitely better than ever before, because of experience, independence, and frankly, just not giving a damn.

Thank you, Teri

Ms. Hatcher, 45, posted these images (along with a couple more illustrating her transformation (with the help of a pit crew of magician makeup artists) into the sleek and smiling character we see on Desperate Housewives.

Here's what she told Oprah: "I don't want to stop taking glamorous pictures — they're fun — but I just want people to know the truth. I think if we can accept the truth and reveal the mystery, we can enjoy both things."

Love.

Makes me feel sorry for guys, actually, who unless they want to make an entirely different kind of statement don't really have the recourse of makeup on a bad face day.

Photos from the video diary she showed on Oprah. Click on the link for the whole thing, including the "after" shots.

My Daughters' Jeans

Flipping through the Boston Proper catalog this morning, I saw that they're featuring Not Your Daughter's Jeans (little trademark symbol I don't know how to make).

The above are my daughters' actual jeans. They are seven years old. I would not want to try and wear their jeans, considering I can barely get my arm into one of the legs to turn them right side out when I need to wash them.

Of course I get what the brand is trying to do–appeal to Formerlies who, if they wore their teenage daughters' jeans, would see their floppy postpartum belly skin splooge out over the top, their butts flattened into nothingness, and enjoy that oh-so-flattering piano leg thing that happens when women with actual thighs and hips wear pegged jeans. (See much-loved post on jeans.)

I went to their website, and there are videos from women talking about why they like the jeans. "These look fabulous. They hide my little belly; I can walk out with pride now…You know those moms, I don't mean this in a mean way, but you know who you are, you look perfect and skinny no matter what you wear, like you never gave birth? Well, now I can go out to the park and look like one of you guys," testified a woman named Anna R.

And this is where I have one of those Grrr/Sigh/AARRG! moments, where I'm pissed, then sympathetic, then frustrated about the Formerly Condition, all in the space of 11 seconds.

Grrr: Why does a smart, self-aware, confident and successful 43-year-old woman buy into the idea that I have to look like I haven't given birth when I have–to twins, no less? The Hot Mom prize is the one who least looks like she's a mom. It's unfair, I abhor it, and I won't participate, dammit! Where are those cargo pants with the drawstring??

Sigh: Let's face it, those drawstring pants make me look like a beanbag chair. I don't want to look like something blobby and squishy that could be ordered monogrammed from the Pottery Barn Teens catalog whose sole purpose is for kids to climb all over. Yeah, no, not sexy.

AARGG!: I'm stuck in the middle again. Might Not Your Daughters Jeans (trademark!), with their promise to lift and tuck, be just the ticket? Perhaps. But there's something about a brand that positions itself so specifically against something else–something that I'm not 100 percent ready to cede to the past tense–that makes me want to avoid it. Formerly as I am, complete with the postpartum mom bod, disappearing ass syndrome and an enduring love of high Lycra content in my denim, I am not ready to wear jeans called Not Your Daughter's Jeans until my daughters are at least 15.

Yet another example of how Formerlies are in a rotten position, pitting our standards for our appearance against our life experiences and the choices we have made, choices (such has having kids and or that amazing pumpkin cheesecake last night) that we wouldn't trade for anything, let alone the chance to look awesome in our teenage daughters' actual jeans!

Thoughts about this weird adult tween thing? Awkward, isn't it? Anyone try Not Your Daughters' Jeans? Anyone have teenage daughters that are coming into the whole young-hot thing, just as you're easing into the whole Formerly Hot but still hot in your own way thing?