inhibitions

There was an older guy in pajama pants walking down Vineland today. Not this guy. This is Daniel Day-Lewis. And…you’re welcome.

Anyway, my guy wasn’t just strolling, he was struttin’ those pajama pants with attitude.

And Vinland isn’t some small, insignificant suburban avenue. It’s a massive four-lane highway divided by a median whose landscaping is either meticulously tended or weed-choked depending on how far into North Hollywood you go.

He was strutting’ his pajama ass in the transitional section of Vineland—which made sense somehow.

This guy was edgy.

His pajama pants weren’t dandy—dark paisley and silk. Nor were they dirty cotton with frayed cuffs and a fly that doesn’t close anymore (I look for stuff like that).

They were simple, lightweight, hunter green plaid…ish.
In other words, pajama perfection.

On the top he was wearing an old concert t-shirt, that was so faded (and not in a bad, I don’t give a shit way. More like an I love this band so much I’ve worn this t-shirt out kind of way, which I think we can all agree is better) I couldn’t be sure, but I think it was The Police which makes me swoon a little—I’m not gonna lie.

He was also sporting a tanned bald head. And not your old man, bullet head kind of bald.
We’re talkin’ Bruce Willis bald.
Vin Diesel bald.
Sean Connery bald.
Ed Harris bald.
You get the picture.

So, now I’m intrigued (and a little bit smitten).

Here’s this dude struttin’ his pajama-clad self down Vinland in the middle of the day right where I’m slowing down to look for a meter. So what did I do?

I opened my window and “woo-hoo’d” him. I swear to God.

Like construction workers have done since time immemorial, I cat called the guy!

The minute I woo-hoo’d him I wanted to take it back and not for the reasons you think. I didn’t feel bad for objectifying him or guilty for being a hypocrite by exhibiting my own special brand of sexual harassment.

Nope. I wanted to die because he was so fucking cool that a woo-hoo was beneath him!

And no wonder. When he looked over to see what idiot was making a fool of herself, I recognized his quirky smile.

It was John Malkovich.

At least I think it was.

And I bet he thinks I did that because he’s a celebrity (and I would NEVER because…lame) I did it because he was hot and sometimes I’m the poster child for bad behavior.

Oh well.

Carry on,
xox

*Please tell me you’ve done something similar!

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

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 supersonic magnifying mirror made by NASA to apply anything besides Chapstick.

By the way, what happened to my lips?

Every morning I send out a search party to find my upper lip.  It disappeared around five years ago, and I miss it.  If you see it out on the town, wearing a wildly undefined coat of Chanel red lipstick, please tell it I’m looking for it and to come home.

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, really 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 see them crying.

As a younger woman I would have rather died, run over 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 ( yes there were requests), pee without closing the door, and walk across a beach or crowded pool party in a bikini without a cover up.

I know! I was oblivious. There are pictures.

Now just recalling that 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 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 is my health, my family, my husband and what my dogs 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, but what I DO know is that I’ve become infinitely more approachable.
And curious.   

I was so busy being 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,  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 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