Aging

Hi All,

Recently, at the urging of my BFF, who sent me an email with six words: You need to submit to them — I dropped everything and submitted a short piece on my relationship with my tits, more specifically the contraptions that house them—bras. It was a fundraising event for a worthy cause, THE YWCA-GCR’s 7th ANNUAL BraVa! —an event held at The Arts Center of the Capital Region, located in Troy N.Y., that raises money and awareness for women in need. This event was bra/binder specific so they wanted stories, songs, and poems from women of all ages regarding our personal relationship with our bras. As you can imagine, I had a lot to say!

Three weeks later I was notified that my essay had been chosen to be read at their event. Hazzah! But since I had a scheduling conflict I couldn’t do it myself. F*#k! I mean…you know me so you know I died a thousand deaths over not being able to read this myself to a room full of rowdy women.

Anyhow, here it is, in all its glory, my essay on tits and their bras. If you’re a man, I’m sorry. But for extra cool points I think you should show this to your wife, girlfriend, or daughter—they’ll totally get it. 

Carry on,

xoxJ

Every woman has a relationship with her bra. 

Mine started as the pipe dream of a flat-chested seventh-grader who wanted more than anything to wear a bra. You see, Debbie had transferred to our school. And like some rare, exotic creature from a faraway land called The Bay Area, Debbie exposed me to the foreign notion that a girl my age could be “sophisticated”. 

That she could frost her lips with Yardley’s Slicker Lip, wear shoes other than Mary Janes with her uniform, and gosh darn it, she could wear a bra!

It was 1970. Every Catholic schoolgirl worth her salt couldn’t wait to hit seventh grade and shed the shackles of the bibbed uniform. Bibs were for babies and we were seasoned twelve-year-olds. Young ladies. Women. Who were able to overlook having to wear the same thing every day, because the promised land of seventh grade promised the long-awaited liberation of a white blouse and a plaid skirt. 

The wardrobe equivalent of the ‘adult’s table,’ at Thanksgiving, it carried with it all the cache you can imagine.

Enter Debbie, from the Bay Area. And her Brassier. 

No longer content with the hint of a camisole or tank top under my white blouse, I wanted a proper bra strap to show. A wide one with at least one, preferably two, hook and eye closures in the back. You know, like all the sophisticated twelve-year old’s were wearing. 

Unsurprisingly, I had a mother who pronounced Debbie “precocious”. She urged me to slow down. Enjoy being a kid. I was the oldest of three and she wasn’t ready to succumb to the realization that puberty was right around the corner. Nevertheless, after caving to the pressure of my constant begging, she took me bra shopping. Giddy with glee, I walked into the store imagining myself leaving with a bra, only to be told by the saleswoman that there was “one thing missing” — I had no breasts! Exchanging conspiratorial glances with my mother, she assured me that things would change and handed me a ‘training bra’. Similar in every way to a camisole, a training bra is a cotton consolation prize. A participation trophy for having the guts to walk in demanding a bra when you’ve got no tits. 

Now, before you start feeling sorry for me, rest assured—my boobs came in.

And when they did they were… gigantic. 

At a certain point in my mid-twenties, because my breasts had started to migrate out the top and sides of my Sears bra, I went to a fancy department store for a professional fitting by a retired ice skating judge from East Germany. Ulla, in front of my horrified BFF, pushed, pulled, moved, and measured my girls in ways I could have never imagined. Once she determined I’d been sufficiently mortified, she pronounced my cup size to be somewhere in the middle of the alphabet, charged me more than a fancy steak dinner for two brassieres—and sent me on my way. 

From that moment until I turned sixty, all I wanted was to ditch the ugly beige, underwire, old lady bras, with cups the size of pasta bowls, that can stand in the corner by themselves. All I dreamed of in my thirties, forties, and fifties, was going free-range. Wearing a teeny tiny tank top or a pale pink flowered camisole with spaghetti straps instead of the wide, steel cables that nestled into the pre-existing grooves in my shoulders that have been worn there by decades of heavy lifting. 

Now, at sixty-five, with my breasts at the mercy of gravity for decades, I’ve entered the realm of radical self-acceptance. I’m finally happy with my bra, size 38 DDD LONG.

I get it. Everyone wants bigger breasts, and while this may sound cliche, I caution you—be careful what you wish for and always, always be grateful for what you have. 

Hello loves,
Yesterday, the analytics informed me that the algorithms had decided, that this ranks as the MOST read post since 2020 when Covid hit—so I thought you may enjoy a reprise.

Carry on,
xoxJ

“I have been so mean to my body, outright hateful. I disparage her and call her names. I loathe parts of her and withhold care. I insist on physical standards she can never reach, for that is not how she is made, but I detest her weakness for not pulling it off. No matter what she accomplishes, I’m never happy with her.”

~Jen Hatmaker Fierce, Free and Full of Love

In the ‘before-times’, right before Covid rocked our reality, I was listening to Jen Hatmaker’s book while on my morning walks with Ruby, our six-year-old boxer who, ironically enough, has the body confidence of a super-model. Most of the book had me laughing. Other parts had me shaking my fist at Audible for the fact that I couldn’t dogear a particular page, or highlight every other paragraph with yellow marker. 

Like the one above. 

This one stopped me in my tracks. It had me fumbling to hit rewind while juggling a full bag of poop (Ruby’s) all while eliciting deep unexpected sobs of recognition—in public. Sort of. 

If you’d questioned me about my own body image a week earlier I’d have rated it as ‘pretty good’.  Then I heard Jen wrestle with her own emotions while reading her extremely vulnerable admissions without choking on her own snot. Seriously. She did a far better job at keeping the full-blown ugly crying at bay than I did. 

I too had been hateful. 

I’d set unattainable standards.

I’d done all of the shitty stuff you can do to a body and as I’ve aged, I may have even been guilty of cranking up the volume on the insults. 

Crepey skin, burgeoning neck waddle, old lady pillow tummy, ugh, HOW IS THIS MY BODY?  

The five stages of grief were quickly overtaking me.

Denial— (Catches own reflection in storefront window) That’s not me, it can’t be. That’s my mother! 

Anger— (Age spots appear as if by magic) Seriously? You’ve GOT to be kidding me!

Bargaining— If I drink the celery juice can I eat nothing but carbs on the weekends?

Depression— I feel bad about my boobs which are now a pair of 38 longs.

But I hadn’t quite gotten to the acceptance stage. Until I heard the words she wrote. THAT changed everything for me.

I apologized to my body. Profusely. Every morning and every night. 

I saw her for what she was, my ally, not my enemy. 

I looked at all the evidence and discovered she has ONLY EVER had my best interests at heart. 

So, I started to lavish her with praise, compliments, and love. After a while, it became a habit.

Then the pandemic hit and being over sixty, I was considered to be at higher risk of complications so I upped my little ritual to include extreme gratitude for my continued good health. 

Every morning when I woke up, I’d thank her for her stamina on the hikes, her cheerful disposition in the face of looming uncertainty, and her strong immune system. And as the Covid numbers in Los Angles rose, I assured her that even if she caught it, I wouldn’t hold it against her, on the contrary, we would fight it together and she would be fine. 

It reminded me of experiments researchers have done with water and plants, the ones where they verbally abuse them or shower them with praise —and then study the results—which are astounding.

https://yayyayskitchen.com/2017/02/02/30-days-of-love-hate-and-indifference-rice-and-water-experiment-1/

The ones that are praised, thrive, while the ones that are subjected to hateful speech/emotions, literally wither and die.

Which brings me to yesterday and my fall down the stairs. 

Well, I didn’t so much fall, as get pulled down the flight of concrete steps by Ruby. To be fair, she’d spotted a discarded half-eaten cheese sandwich at the bottom, and who among us hasn’t lost their mind and sprinted toward cheese? Nevertheless, it happened too fast to even let go of the leash so I was knocked on my ass and pulled down the entire flight of stairs on my back until I managed to get her to stop—by yelling STOP at the top of my lungs. I know it was loud because it echoed back up the stairs and out onto the street before waking the dead. 

Lying there in a heap, I assessed the damage. Ankle slightly twisted, elbows, ass, and back bruised and battered, but eventually, I was able to get up and walk —which I took as a good sign. Reflexively, I thanked my body for not breaking a hip or anything else for that matter and went on with my day. But as the hours passed, a deep soreness set in. At about seven in the evening I felt as if I’d been hit by a caravan of trucks carrying elephants. “Wait until tomorrow,” my husband warned, handing me the Motrin. “The next day is the worst.” Later, in bed, I tried not to move a muscle, lest I scream and wake the dog. 

“You’ve got this,” I told her, lying there together in the dark.  “Nothing is broken, which in itself is a miracle because YOU ARE A BEAST! You’re sixty-fucking-two and you fell down a flight of concrete stairs and barely missed a beat! You ROCK!” I tried to shift position and moaned. Everything hurt. Even my hair.

“I will take care of you,” I reassured her. “If you need bed rest, I will make sure you get it. If you need CBD rub or Motrin at regular intervals, you can count on me. We are in this together because I love you—now go to sleep!”

“How do you feel?” my husband asked through a grimace, expecting the worst, as I wandered out for coffee and a hug.  “Actually, I’m fine,” I responded by doing a deep lunge and a high kick, twisting and lifting both arms to prove my point. 

And I am. Fine. No aches, no pains, no bruises of any kind to speak of. I give all of the credit to my body and our recently renewed love affair. 

Not a big story, not life or death, just proof to me just the same that Love really does work miracles y’all. 

Carry on,
xox

Loves,

I came across this post today while searching for…don’t ask…and it’s become more relevant than ever as I traverse aging and what that even means for women over fifty in a program I co-lead with the intrepid Geraldine called Croneology. http://croneology.net

Middle age is a crossroads y’all.
You’ve either laid the track for where you’re headed in advance, or you’re about to——and there’s no alternative, because, as Brene Brown so eloquently puts it, “Midlife is when the universe gently places her hands upon your shoulders, pulls you close, and whispers in your ear: I’m not screwing around. All of this pretending and performing—these coping mechanisms that you’ve developed to protect yourself from feeling inadequate and getting hurt—has to go.”

So, what tracks are you laying right this minute for that thing you know will show up one day?

xox

“Signora, between Austria and Italy, there is a section of the Alps called the Semmering. … They built a train track over these Alps to connect Vienna and Venice. They built these tracks even before there was a train in existence that could make the trip. They built it because they knew someday, the train would come.”

When you read that story, about the train and the Alps, how does it make you feel?

Are you thinking, Why do I care about a train in Europe? I have three job interviews this week!

Or, are you more practical, like, How fiscally irresponsible is that to build something that no one can use?

Or… are you more like me?

As you’ve probably already guessed, that little anecdote gives ME goosebumps the size of Montana hail, a lump in my throat, and every time I read it my boobies tingle a little—because that’s just the kind of inspiring, real-life, stranger-than-fiction, magical nonsense that makes me excited to get up in the morning.

That passage is from a favorite movie of mine, Under the Tuscan Sun, which if you haven’t seen it or have read the book (which is marvelous) is about a woman going through a profound life change whose purpose, timeframe, and final destination are completely unknown to her. And yet, day after day, terrified and miserable as fuck, she just keeps putting one foot in front of the other.

Like we all do.
Even people who aren’t steeped in faith find a way to carry on.
Maybe they get it from stories about trains? Dunno.

Anyway, if you think about it from my very Pollyanna Perspective, every great work of art, creative endeavor, and scientific accomplishment started with some track building. I’ll take it a step further and insist that we all lay down tracks we can’t use until we flesh out our ideas from start to finish.

I do it every freaking day and so do you!

A dear friend of mine has gone back to school to get her degree. There’s no job lined up yet, no clientele or guarantee of employment waiting for her at the finish line. Nevertheless, I see her working her tail off—laying the tracks.

From the age of thirteen, Misty Copeland would practice up to eight hours a day, barely listening to the naysayers who insisted that her skin was too dark, her body too curvy, and she’d started dancing too late to have a real career in ballet. But Misty wasn’t screwing around, she was too busy laying tracks for a position that did not exist before her—the first African-American principal ballerina for the American Ballet Theatre.

She gave us something we never knew we needed—that now we can never imagine living without.

Like a train across the Alps.

What tracks are you laying right this minute for that thing you know will show up one day?

Carry on,
xox JB

I’ve spent a lot of time getting to know…me. 

Decades of self-exploration. Hundreds of hours of quiet introspection punctuated by an occasional primal scream.
Lab test out the hoo-ha. Some literally involving my hoo-ha. 
And don’t get me started on the thousands of dollars I’ve spent over the years getting in sync with my body—mind—and spirit.

Seeking, searching, asking, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.

By this stage of the game I was confident in the fact that I knew myself quite well.
If asked on a game show, I could have easily identified my top three favorite foods:
Pasta.
Chocolate.
Truffles.
And for the bonus points in the lightning round—Truffle pasta with a hint of chocolate.

Ding,ding,ding!

“And what foods are you allergic to?” Bob might ask, in an attempt to stump me.

“None. Oh, wait, maybe strawberries. Sometimes they make my mouth itch. Ok, strawberries for the win!”

Ding, ding, ding!!

Confetti would fall, spokesmodels would weep, and I’d drive away in a BRAND. NEW. CAR!

“Thank you, Bob. And thank you, self, for being so figureoutable. 

But not anymore. All that has changed.

In the past month I’ve had a severe allergic reaction THREE TIMES to something unknown. Something I ingested. And it’s not like I’ve been eating street food in Vietnam, I’ve been at home all three times, eating lunch, which, if you must know, is boring as fuck.

Or is it? I suppose if it kills you, that makes it a bit more interesting…

Anyway, the reaction was the same. A fiery, red rash on my face, chest and arms, and the third time it happened I had trouble breathing. I ran for the Benadryl. That’s what the pharmacist had recommended when I’d called him breathlessly the first time this occurred.
“Take a Benadryl,” he said; his voice free of even the slightest hint of concern as I wheezed and sputtered on the other end of the phone.
I applaud his ability to remain detached. I really do. It has been my observation that is the case with most pharmacists. I’m sure it’s an act of self-preservation. God forbid his epinephrine spikes from identifying too closely with a panicky, hypersensitive, substance sufferer like me.

So I dd. I took the Benadryl.
And then I waited…and eventually…it helped.

My face went back to normal and my arms looked like arms again and not spotted, red clumps of itchy, hot meat.
But it had a side effect. It made me loopy. Loopier than normal. You all know I’m a high-functioning loop.
But apparently, if you add Benadryl into the mix, I bump into walls, drool, and can’t operate the blender. So, my day is over! Shot! And I pretty much end up asleep at my desk.

Which I’m told is a severe reaction. Groggy is normal. Unconsious—not so much.

So, what do you take if you’re allergic to Benadryl?

Thank you, Janet 2.0, for this ever evolving, surprisingly delicate, constitution you’ve saddled me with. And for developing a weird allergy to something random and boring that lurks in the pantry waiting to kill me/us. 

“Eat each thing separately and see which one triggers the reaction.” My pharmacist suggested, like it was a parlor game.  “But have a Benadryl in your hand when you do—you don’t want to stop breathing, and if you do—don’t call here—call 911.”

“Yeah—good advice, you heartless sadist. That’s not gonna happen.”

I’m thinking of switching to food trucks for lunch because if food’s gonna kill me—I’m going with Sriracha sauce all down my shirt and a smile on my face!

Carry on,
xox

When I was younger, sixty seemed ancient to me.
Women who were sixty complained about their feet. They sweat profusely, bitched about their husbands, wore sensible shoes and shopped at Lane Bryant. I knew I didn’t want that to be my narrative!
How did I want to be at sixty? I wanted to be curious, and vibrant and full of the joy of life! Well, you know what? Now that I’m here, what I know for sure is that you have to put in the effort to look and feel good. And unless they figure out a way to reverse the aging process and put us back into the body that matches how old we feel inside, I intend to continue to make that effort. 

In the meantime, here are some things I know about sixty.

My neck looks like an uncircumcised penis. Underneath all of the loose skin lies the long, firm, neck of my youth. Sometimes I have to pull all the extra skin back just to wear a necklace.  Why don’t they have a Spanx for that? 

I love differently. Bigger. Deeper. And although their numbers may have dwindled, the ones I love now as opposed to back-in-the-day have embedded themselves under my skin. Some days I wear them like a cozy blanket or a cape. I know, it’s creepy for them—but I’m telling you—that’s what happens over time. 

I feel so good. I think it’s because I’m in better shape all the way around than I was at twenty. I eat better, I sleep better and I definitely exercise more than I did back then which isn’t hard. Nobody went to the “gym” until Jane Fonda and Olivia Newton-John shamed us into it. I certainly didn’t. I was too busy being a self-absorbed little bitch to walk a mere fifty steps a day. I floated instead. Over a sea of other girls like me in my desperate climb to the middle. 

That being said, self-care at sixty has become a full-time job. Between appointments to get the barnacles that have accumulated burned off my body, slathering Crepe Erase all over my neck, my arms and my everywhere, and the tweezing of stray, black chin hairs, I barely have time to fit in the hormone replacement appointments. 

Babies don’t come to me. They have a finely tuned sixth-sense and can smell the fact that I never had children and that I’ll probably get distracted and put them down and forget where I left them. 

My feet are still pretty but they’re loud and scream in protest. A lot!

The veins in my hands are so big they could carry crude oil to Alaska.

As far as fashion goes, black is a color. 

I love my gray hair.  While it took awhile to grow out the blonde, the lack of monthly maintenance has left me feeling so much lighter—and my wallet fuller. I highly recommend it.

People call me ma’am. They just do. I used to get annoyed, now I just smile and flip them off when they’re not looking. 

Men hold doors for me. I’ve become invisible to the opposite sex so I don’t expect it. Maybe I look frail? It surprises me every time, especially when I have to run because it’s clear they’re getting annoyed with me for taking too long. Just so you know, there is an expiration date on random acts of kindness. It’s three minutes. Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention, Kenneth!

I haven’t had to renew my driver’s license in ages. Longer than I can remember…huh.

I love my alone time. Being an extrovert and a people person, I used to hate being alone. If I was in a room by myself for one minute, I had to either turn on the TV or crank up the stereo. Filling every second with music gave me an awesome soundtrack for my life but it never allowed me to think. I’m guessing that was the point. 

I love texting. It’s quick and nasty and where has it been all my life? 

I waited a long time for true love. People discouraged me. They said I was too picky. I spent many a Saturday night feeling profoundly lonely instead of settling for a schmo.  But I held out hope kissing a lot of frogs along the way to forty-three. I’m happy to report that in the end—it was worth it. 

I’ve made some questionable decisions in my life. I’ve fucked up. I’ve gotten my heart-broken. I’ve hurt people. And now, when all the dust has settled, I’m not sure, looking back, if any of it really mattered… 

In stark contrast, I’ve made some great decisions in my life and there by the grace of god I’ve created this life I’m living now. I’m certain both the terrible and the inspired played a role. But would I have ended up here no matter what? I ask myself that question all the time and I’m not even stoned.  

Speaking of stoned, every vice imaginable has been pried from my white-knuckled grasp as I’ve aged. Call it allergies, call it hormonal, call it sulfites, the latest casualty is red wine—and I call bullshit.

But what do I know about sixty? I just got here. 

Carry on,
xox

A written invitation?

“Yes. Yes, I am. That would be lovely. Except can you also make sure you send me an email reminder because—brain farts.”

I don’t think I’m any different from you guys. I see your Insta accounts!

I too have a virtual factory full of creative ideas inside my head that are clamoring to get out. A real David Copperfield meets Industrial Light and Magic warehouse of the mystical, odd and wonderful. The only trouble with my idea factory is that it really didn’t show up until I was close to fifty.

Hey, has yours shown up yet?

I have an excuse. In my early years, I was too busy to entertain a creative thought. 
I liked to eat, so I had a job. 
It was a real slog. 

I spent twenty years slaving like a diamond miner.  *sniff. Who am I kidding, I bought and sold gorgeous diamond jewelry in the land of swimming pools and movie stars. To be honest, my job was more like the life of a protected baby seal, basking on a warm rock while being fed tiny chocolate covered squid—by hand.      

Anyway… after I turned fifty the creative juices ratcheted up a notch (while all of my other juices took a hiatus—if you catch my drift) until now, at sixty, they’re in full, maximum, overdrive!

What the fuck? I have the best ideas of my life while I struggle to keep my tits from sliding over my knees?

How is that fair?
That seems like a huge mistake. 
A cruel joke. 
A cosmic fuck-up of epic proportions! 
Someone screwed up, right?

In the meantime, it appears that the Amy Pohlers, Amy Schumers, and Tina Feys of the world have figured this out.

God bless them.

Meanwhile, it took me FIVE years to collaborate on the first act of a musical and put it up on stage so I could listen to actors say our words and singers sing our songs (which, btw was sublime and surreal I’ve gotta tell ya). 

But all I kept thinking the entire time was: Why aren’t I thirty?  Why is this happening NOW? You don’t start stuff like this at my age, besides…
FIVE YEARS! 
A lot of things can go down before Act Two ever sees the light of day? 

It would be like me having a baby a sixty. How will my body ever recover, who will raise it AND will I be around to see it graduate?

Question: In this chapter of my life how many of these deep-divey projects should I take on?

Don’t answer that! It was rhetorical because the answer is: ALL of them! Seriously, what the fuck am I waiting for? 

Here’s what I’ve come to know for sure that the Amy’s and Tina already knew:

If you wait until your ready — forget it—You’ll never be ready!
If you wait until you’re good—forget it—you won’t get good until you try!
If you wait until you have the time or the money—forget that too—there will always be something that will gobble that shit up!

So this is my cautionary tale. A Special Public Service Announcement from me to you. 

If you’re filled with creativity, no matter what age you find yourself at, DO IT!  Don’t wait another minute!

Carry on,
xox

(This photo —I can’t even!)

For about six months back in the 1970’s I left my armpits unshaved.

For me, it was a bold and calculated act.

I wanted to fit in with the California hippy subculture whom I held up as the greatest examples of what was current in the world around me. They were the touchstone for all things necessary to fit in as a young, budding feminist in the post-patriarchal zeitgeist at the time.

Plus I saw pictures of Joan Baez and Grace Slick with long black hairy armpits. And besides that, the twin’s older sister Martha, who listened to Frank Zappa, and was so naturally organic and liberated, made it look pretty. Almost sexy.

Then I decided to let the hair on my legs grow out.
Mostly because no one noticed my radical armpit statement on account of the fact that the hair was blonde…and relatively sparse… and also because I wore a short-sleeved white cotton blouse as part of my uniform in Catholic High School so my pits were perpetually covered.

So, just as a watched pot never boils, my leg-hair took forever to grow long. But when it did, it shone in the sun like a pair of corn silk knee socks beneath my minuscule pleated plaid skirt.
I loved it.
Everyone loved it.
Even Martha, whose opinion meant the world to me, thought it was “rad.”

There was about a year or so in 1974-75 that the hair on my legs was longer than the hair on my head.
My dad actually pointed that out at Thanksgiving dinner with all of our relatives present—and not in a “proud father” kind of way.

Everyone I knew had long, straight hair, parted in the middle that fell to the middle of their backs. I wanted to be different so I cut mine to barely 1/4 inch all around. Think Jean Sebring or Twiggy.

This rendered Martha speechless the first time she saw me. She actually dropped her cigarette and missed a few lyrics to Ziggy Stardust. I had not received a higher compliment before—or since.

When Martha daned to drive the gaggle of her twin sister’s young friends to the movies or the mall or somewhere else fabulous, I caught her, several times from the back seat, staring at my hair in the rearview mirror.

If we had all perished that night in a fiery crash I would have died happy, completely satisfied—with a smile on my face.

I’m not exactly sure why I’m telling you this. I suppose it has to do with finding my way in the world. Maybe you’ve had similar experiences. Figuring out who you are is hard. And hairy. There are a lot of options out there to embrace.

Perhaps you’re like me and others of a “certain age” who are in the process of a mid-life re-invention.

Standing here at fifty-nine, there is not a single thing about me that is the same as when I was sixteen.
My hair blonde hair is course and gray, my stomach, once taught and tight is now soft and squishy, and black hair grows in places I’d rather not discuss.

But I can feel those teenage emotions like it was yesterday. How new and invigorating each act felt. Like I was both the sculpture and the sculptor with my hands the clay. Creating myself as I went along.

I want to feel that again, don’t you?

Without apology, I am a culmination of all of those decisions. Good, bad and ugly. And so are you!

You can’t tell me you didn’t absolutely LOVE your mullet when you first got it.

Or that ghastly tattoo on your ankle that you had removed on your thirtieth birthday.

What about the multiple self-inflicted ear piercings?

Or the bust developer you ordered from the back of The Enquirer.

Mohawk? Nice.
Purple eyebrows? Even better.
Lambchop sideburns for the guys? Meow.
Pierced tongue? Ouch, but okay.

What we did to define ourselves along the way helped make us who we are today you guys. Some are mic-drops. Most are not. I can only hope I do as well this time around.

When I look back I really have no regrets. Except…

I will have to live with my disco era over-plucked eyebrows until the day I die.

What are the best fads you followed from the past? And what would you rather not remember?

Carry on,
xox

I am not proud of what I’m about to say next but I need to vent…so here goes.

I HATE to be carded.

Above is a picture of me with my beloved tribe taken on our trip to Nashy (Nashville) last week. That face is the default annoyance setting that my face naturally morphs into…when you card me…and then take my freaking picture.

My face can’t help it and neither can I.

This “carding everyone” has apparently become a “thing”; a regular practice in hipster bars across the country. Never one to pass on a ridiculous fad I expect as much in LA, but Nashville, you? You definitely surprised me.

Being carded at thirty, or even forty is squeal worthy. Trust me. Although it happened infrequently (which is just a kinder way of saying almost never), I’ve squealed the flattered squeal with the best of ‘um.

But now, three days shy of my fifty-ninth birthday I am by no means flattered by this charade.

I wear my gray hair with the purple fringe with pride.
I exercise and take pretty good care of myself.
Genetics, (for which I can take absolutely NO credit) has been kind to me.

But there are no circumstances, no amount of great lighting or make-up, of farsightedness under which I can be mistaken for under twenty-one. I know it. You know it. And if we stopped a random person on the street and asked them, they’d know it.

So cut the crap.

Here’s the thing, I’m totally okay with it. I earned this head of gray. Every. Single. One. So don’t condescend to me by telling me you’re “required to card everyone”, or smirk as I fumble for my license while you hold my overpriced artisan cocktail for ransom. Show me the respect I’ve earned.

I have handbags older than you. And books. And memories. In bars.

There. I said it. I’m finished. But be forewarned. I may slug the smug off of the next millennial who asks me for I.D.

Carry on,
xox

When the state of my world seems turvy topsy and I find myself feeling blue, I like to go to the movies in the middle of the day, BY MYSELF. There, in the dark, from my seat in the very middle of the back row—I find solace. I can weep openly at the sad parts, the not so sad parts, and the previews while shamelessly appreciating my shriveled movie house hot dog drowning in mustard as if were an overpriced piece of wagyu beef.

I feel free to be the only one to laugh out loud at innuendo or irony like I’m privy to some inside joke the screenwriter wrote just for the two of us to enjoy.

Most of the time I go to the movies with a long face and come out with a broad, Cheshire grin. Today was no exception.

I had a skip in my step as I left the theater, and it wasn’t because the movie was a musical.
The thing that cheered me up more than words can express is the fact that the actress in this particular film is exactly my age and looks a good ten years older. I’m not being catty, it was impossible not to notice. It was all I could do not to squeal with delight at every close-up. I even overheard a couple of women in their sixties commenting about it after the show. What they said was, Wow, she looks like us!

It was so surprising I almost walked into a pole Google-ing her age. We are both fifty-eight.

Now, living in LA I have seen this actress around town and I have figured out why she has aged, let’s say, not as elegantly as say, Dame Helen Mirren.
I usually see her over my giant plate of french fries and whatever is accompanying them. Sometimes a salad, sometimes mussels, most times ranch dip. There she is, alone in a booth, in her black on black on gray with big dark glasses, quietly sipping her clear broth. Every time I see her. Me the fries—her, the clear broth.

I also spot her occasionally on my killer hike. She usually goes early, early, when only the trainers with their chubby clients are boot-camping it up the hill. She blasts past me with her big sheep-dog looking dog barely out of breath. She is remarkably fit and trim. Skinny really, and therein lies the rub!

Gaunt does not age well. Everybody knows THAT! A little extra weight plumps up, well, everything, most especially the face. She may have my long-lost flat stomach and slim hips but holy cow, it looked as if she had loosely draped layers of flesh-colored fabric around her neck. I can say that since I feel bad about my own flesh-colored scarf most of the time.

I have to say, I was shocked.

The next thing I have to say is good for her! She IS one of us!
You have to admire the fact that she has had absolutely NO work done on her face, eyes, neck or hands. Maybe she is a giant chicken shit like me, but it’s more likely that she just doesn’t give a fuck what we think. The fact that her contemporaries are shot so full of Botox that every emotion registers as surprise makes it refreshing. Her courageous choice to allow her self-realization, self-possession, or self-worth override her vanity makes her believable and authentic and I have to commend her.

I also have to thank her for lifting my spirits more than any plate of fries ever could have.

There are just some days when you want to feel like you’re doing something better than anyone else. Today she helped me, for an hour and thirty minutes, feel like without the benefit of anything other than good genetics—I was killing it at being fifty-eight.

I’ll take it.

Carry on,
xox

You guys!
Just yesterday I was talking with my sister about aging, botox, frown lines and that damn upper lip of mine! Some things never change! Cheers!
Happy Friday!
xox

“Youth is wasted on the young” ~ George Bernard Shaw

Fuck. I was just thinking about that today.

About youth and aging.

About perky tits and chicken neck waddle.

About going from looking in the mirror and worrying if you have enough concealer to hide the zits, to being completely helpless without the assistance of a mega-powerful magnifying mirror developed by some sadistic scientists at NASA to apply anything besides Chapstick.

By the way, news flash, what in holy hell happened to my lips?

Every morning I send out a search party out to find my upper lip.  It disappeared around five years ago, leaving only a butt pucker looking facsimile which my bottom lip lacks the volume to compensate for. I miss it.  If you see it out on the town, wearing a bleeding-into-the-creases, wildly undefined coat of Chanel red lipstick—please tell it I’m looking for it.

What I was really pondering, was my ability as a young woman to fluctuate between being utterly fearless—to riddled with insecurity, indecision and doubt.

It was quite a swing, the speedball of emotional cocktails – and I know I’m not the only one.  You can’t hide.  I can sense you there.

Things that used to terrify me, sending me into a cold sweat, have now become second nature. And vice versa.

These days I have no problem letting someone know if they’re out of line. I have mastered the art of confrontation (which when done well is an art) to the point where it doesn’t even feel like a disagreement and often we all end up laughing, hugging, singing Kumbaya and taking a selfie.

I also spontaneously hug people – in public.  Complete strangers. It can be triggered by the most random of things, a great haircut, a cool tattoo, an interesting laugh, what they’re eating, a cute dog or if I happen to catch them crying.

As a younger woman I would have rather been killed by a clown car full of disapproving authority figures.

Back then what I lacked in-depth I made up for in reckless abandon.
I was born with very little modesty.  I’d show my boobs to anyone who’d ask (there may have been requests), pee without closing the door and walk across a beach or crowded pool party in a bikini (gasp) without a cover up.

I know! I was oblivious. There is photographic proof.

Now just recalling those things makes me sick to my stomach.

I’d also sing at the drop of a hat.  At the top of my lungs.  That is until I turned thirty and developed crippling stage fright which only released its grip on me after fifty when I no longer gave a fuck.

I care less and less about making a fool of myself, which is one of the HUGE side benefits of getting older. I cannot overstate that.

 If only I’d felt that way back then. I’d be Lady Gaga by now.

As I established earlier this month, the older I get, the less fucks I give.  I have a limited amount left and I don’t want to waste one.

I’m a Nazi about only spending time with the people I want to see, doing the things I want to do.

I no longer give a fuck about chipped nail polish, carrying the “right bag”, who the latest, greatest anything/anyone is, how big your diamond is, how much grey hair I have, the ebb and flow of the stock market, keeping up with the Kardashians, or who wore it better.

I have bigger fish to fry.

All I give a fuck about these days is my health, the people I love, and what my dog think of me.

A friend complained to me recently, “Oh God, I don’t need any more friends, I have forty years worth, and I don’t see enough of the ones I have!”

Not me! It seems I make new friends faster and more easily as I’ve gotten older.

Either people have become less discerning or I’ve suddenly become much more interesting and engaging. (I’m not sure which one bodes better for me.)

Maybe it’s true that like a fine wine, I have improved with age. The jury’s still out on that but what I DO know is that I’ve become infinitely more approachable.
And curious.

I was so self involved when I was young, (if it had been an Olympic sport, I would have medaled), that I really didn’t give a rat’s ass about anyone else.  I also thought I knew it all.  Now I’m certain of ONE thing only:  I don’t know shit about shit.

Here’s the thing,  these days other people seem SO frickin’ interesting to me. Everyone’s doing something fabulous that I need to hear about right now! Their lives are complex, multi-faceted nuggets of wonder and goodness. When did that happen?

In my opinion, youth is wasted on the young simply because of their lack of appreciation. Also, because in not knowing any better, too many fucks are wasted on frivolous shit that doesn’t matter a day, let alone a year or ten years later.

And by the fact that in the moment, being young seems like it will last forever.   Doesn’t it?

Curious to hear what you think.
Big love,
Xox