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
