It's Hip to Be Grey

A friend asked me the other day where I get the ideas for my blog posts. Like most people, they come out of life, but once in awhile, the perfect phrase or scenario drops down like brain manna from the gods. Case in point: Last week I attended a professional seminar on social media, and the young (ish) presenter told us that the user age for Facebook was steadily climbing upwards, into the 35-44 year-olds. He glibbly called this "greyification." Oh boy, I thought, there's a blog topic just waiting to be developed!

The fact that everyone in the room understood what he meant says something about how we Americans almost universally associate "greying" with aging. Which is strange considering the fact that I know men who are completely bald by thirty, and we don't use the word "balding" as a way of referring to states of degeneration, for instance, erectial dysfunction. I mean, you're not likely to hear this conversation in the doctor's office: Man: Gee, doc, I've been experiencing some balding in my bedroom performance lately. Doctor: I hear a lot of that from men your age, George.

Greyification is an interesting word, when you think about it. It can have positive connations, like the Hollywood trend towards featuring more and more women over forty in plum roles. You could also use greyification to describe the uptick in relationships between older women and younger men a la Jennifer Aniston-John Mayer or Demi Moore-Ashton Kutcher. If Americans had more of the European attitude towards older women, we wouldn't be so perplexed over these couplings.

On the downside, greyification could mean the adoption of what we view, none too happily, as "old people" habits. Like reading glasses. Despite years of squinting to read maps and prescription bottles, I finally overcame my own grey resistance and bought a pair at the dollar store. I figured I better, or else I'd be double-dosing on clonazapam and wake up a week later.

And then there's the hair thing. This is one of those areas where stylists must read from the same manual that says, "sexy hair dos are for young women; dowdy hair dos are for post-menopausal women." There was a time I dreaded going into a salon for fear of coming out with bowling ball head. Even though I would come in with loads of pictures from hair styling magazines, I'd inevitably end up with senior hair. Basic blah. So one day I decided to try a different tactic: I said to the stylist, "I want TV hair. I do alot of PR on camera stuff, so I need something, you know, like Vanna White or Katie Couric." That did the trick. I walked out with the cut of my dreams. It took me two hours to duplicate, but what the hell--it erased ten years from my face.

What I find personally vexing is the attitude that over-forty means it's time to let down our hems, throw on a ratty cardigan sweater, and tie our (grey) hair up in tight little spinster buns. If pictures of Ruth Buzzi doing her infamous grumpy old woman bit on Laugh In are coming to your mind, we're on the same page, sister. Who decides these things? Where is Project Runway's Tim Gunn with his elegant lilting voice saying: Sweetie, what are those sacks in your closet? Show off your curves!

I have a lot of personal experience with mature woman wardrobes, having been a creative director at one time for a retail department store client. At least three times a year, we'd have to shoot ensembles by Alfred Dunner, the mainstay of matrons everywhere. Inevitably, we'd be using twenty-something models, and would end up having to tape and clamp the excess material in order to make the clothes look presentable. I came to dread growing older, envisioning myself in calf length skirts, boxy jackets, and oversize, floral bow tie blouses, all in Pepto Bismal pink. Surgical scrubs started to seem like a reasonable alternative.

But that was twenty years ago. Thankfully, fashion is starting to wake up to the fact that women over forty want to show off cleavage, our hard-won slender legs that we've spent decades on treadmills achieving, and our generous--and apparently appealing--plush booties. But we also have to give a round of applause to our brave sisters who dare to stroll the beach in teeny tiny bikinis, cellulite be damned (Donatella Versace), as if you to say: "Yeah, it's old and flabby. I love me, and so do young European men. Deal with it."

Hmmm. Sounds like a slogan that belongs on a bumper sticker or coffee mug. Orders, anyone?

A Naptime Manifesto

I don't know about you, but Sunday is one of those days that calls to me to put down my weary head and catch some zzzzzzz's. Forget the "to do" list. Let the clogged drain go another day. Stop frenetically thinking about my work load.

It's especially started to be less of an urge and more of an inescapeable phenomenon since I passed the half century mark. It's finally starting to hit me that all this bruhaha about fifty being the new thirty was made up by someone with a line of vitamins to sell. My body tells me otherwise. No matter how many really, really important things I have to do--like clean the cat's litter box; take my recyclables out to the garbage--my inner clock tells me it's snooze time.

The fact that the older I get, the more I need some mid-day downtime, came home to me after one of the rare Saturdays I had to work. It was an especially long day that started at 8:30 a.m. when I left the house and ended when I crashed on the sofa at around 3:30. I remember my daughter coming home around that time with a Tim Horton's bag, and the next thing I know, the same daughter was asking me what was in the plate in the refrigerator (left over chicken from my work-related function), and if she could eat it. I said, "Didn't you just come home with food?" And she answered me in that "duh, mom" voice that young people have, "Yeah, that was like four hours ago." Apparently it was nearly 7:00, and I had been conked out all that time.

I bring this up because I don't normally come home and crash for four hours at the end of the day, but by the time the weekend rolls around, all systems seem to want to go into a "pause" mode. I don't think that's an accident. Even God, the diligent designer of the universe, rested on the seventh day. I think there's a good reason for it. I believe the Great Allness was simply pooped and needed a guilt-free, unapologetic excuse to give in to physical, emotional, and spiritual fatique. Take a day off. Nap.

I'm coming to realize that we aren't a culture that allows for embracing our natural life rhythms, and that includes the need to curl up and shut down. Instead of appreciating the benefits of decreased capacity and the inevitable slowing of our functions, we chastise ourselves for sitting around on our doopas (a favorite word uttered frequently by my Lithuanian grandmother), and staring off into space. We associate "not doing" with being slackers, and that's a bad thing. Our little Baby Boomer brains are hardwired to our parents' immigrant work ethics. No slacking allowed.

Except our hard-working parents are now into full-fledged seniorhood and have something valuable to teach us about giving in to our body's inner wisdom. My mother, who's in her 70s, is a perfect example. On Christmas Day, I had the family over to my place. After everyone else went home, I popped in the DVD Wall-E. About midway through the movie, I noticed she had nodded off. She missed most of the movie, which, truthfully, I didn't get at all, but sat through, nonetheless; and when she woke up said, "that was pretty good." It made me think, maybe life is just as enjoyable if you snooze through some of it.

Sunday is a good day to reflect on this coming-of-age aspect of life, I think. We all need to make room for silence, for musing, for "not doing," for naps. If I'm snoring away on the couch, just leave me there. If it's that important, it can wait until I'm fully conscious.

Just Call Me Goddess

It seems to have become a new trend of the entertainment media to showcase women who are "still sexy after 50!" AOL is doing that today. Some expected choices--Michelle Pfeiffer, Diane Keaton, Marg Helgenberger; and some classic faces we just don't see enough of like Julie Christie, Susan Sarandon and Annette Bening.

What I truly love about these photos is that they're obviously not retouched by any of the software technology that can instantly remove crow's feet, fill in those "marionette lines" around the mouth; remove a couple of inches from the jawline, and smooth out the skin to a healthy, pre-teen glow. The lines are there. The sagging of the skin is there. Most of all, age is there.

I just wish it was out there more. On magazine covers (besides AARP), on the small screen and the big screen. I wish stylists and graphic artists would simply leave the crow's feet alone so that the rest of us who can't afford to surgerically de-age see faces we can relate to, and be able to say, "damn, I look good!"

I have to admit, though, that these "mature years" are a conundrum for all of us when trying to describe who we are when we stop revealing ages. For instance, I was walking into my health club one day, and overheard a woman say to her friend, "she's not old, old and not young, young." Oh, I know that lady, I thought--she's me! Somewhere past "peak of freshness" and "prune-faced." Between being mistaken for 35, and presumed to be 80. What are we when we're in that place? Aging gracefully? Well preserved? Youthful in spirit (if not in face)? Do we exude joie de vivre more than mysterious allure?

In our label-mad culture, we tend to fall on words that better describe architecture: we say she's dignified, mature, elegant, composed, pulled-together, has good bone structure, holding up nicely. When we want to skirt the age issue, we hear (and use) euphemisms like "she's getting on," "not a young chicken," "at that age," "not as young as she used to be." We just don't have words in the English language to describe between the pupa stage of our child-bearing years and the full grown butterfly of elderhood. What we get sounds like molting, when what we feel is more like our wisdom coming to the surface. Richness being revealed. Self-knowledge recontouring the landscape of our faces.

I find that the older I get, the more my eyes are drawn to the person inside. Yes, my friends are all going grey. Our skin is losing its dew and taking on the texture of a river bed during a draught season. We're rarely mistaken for our daughter's sibling; in fact, in many ways we feel we've become completely invisible. Except to each other. We look past the bags to see the woman inside. Even the men who love us are capable of doing this, sometimes better than we do, as we stock up on wrinkle creams, skin tigheners, and spot faders, hoping to stall the coming decomposition.

If someone--maybe those who create the phenomenon of Wikis--were to create language for this precarious age of inside out beauty, where would they start? It's a little tricky to jump off from "hot mama" without offending a woman's sense of herself as still exuberant, sexy, passionate, and alive. (That's right, not one foot in the grave quite yet.)

I once had the pleasure of meeting a woman in her mid-80s who had taken up the hobby of writing humorous poems about senior-hood, and was publishing them. When I worked for Barnes & Noble, we hosted several book readings, and she always drew a huge crowd. Between she and I, there was a gap of more than 40 years, and those years in between yawned with a lacky of identity.

I'm open to suggestions. Personally, I like writer Gail Sheehy's term "seasoned woman," although it's not an easy term to use in introductions ( "This is my seasoned friend, Betty."). Too much of a food analogy. But it's on the right track. I would like to see terminology that reflects a blossoming of our integrity, creativity, and wisdom. Words that would complete the sentence, "Now that she's over 50, she's ______________. " I would choose colorful words: mellow yellow, blazing orange, spicey red, cool blue. Or words that reflected more on dynamism, and less on the ability to attract sexual partners: aware, global, centered, a force to be reckoned with, stable, spirited, joyful. Or, as Jane Austen put in the mouth of her character, Elizabeth Bennett in Pride & Prejudice, Goddess Divine. That works for me.

The Frugality Dilemma: Ask A Virgo

This past week of economic chaos around the globe hasn't been one to laugh at. With the stock market plunging deeper than Pam Anderson's neckline, people are finally getting that the whole frozen credit thing impacts them right in the wallet. Yesterday, in fact, I was in the check out line at T. J. Maxx--which was eerily stripped bare of its low price merchandise--and overheard a clerk apologizing to a shopper that her credit card was declined. The woman standing in front of me turned to her friend and said, "They say that kind of thing is going to happen more and more because of the banks." Do you hear that Senator McCain? Our economic foundation is indeed shaking right under the feet of middle America. We get it. Ouch!

What all this has led to is a new found, and long time coming, appreciation for penny-pinching, trumpeted on the cover of Business Week magazine which declared on its cover last week: The New Age of Frugality. Frugality new? Don't make me laugh. Well, okay, you made me laugh. Out loud. Right there at the magazine rack at Barnes & Noble. You mean my dinner-out-once-a-year, never shop full price, bargain sniffing lifestyle is suddenly IN? Whoo hoo for me!

I guess everyone in America didn't have the benefit of growing up with two Virgo parents. Even people who roll their eyes at the word "astrology" know that Virgo is the tight-fisted sign of the zodiac. To Virgos, practicality is a religion, and every purchase needs intense mulling over. Virgos are the champions of mulling. Ironically, Virgos love new fangled stuff that makes drudge work go faster. Modern washing machines were a must-have because, gosh darn it, you can do twice as much laundry! Dust buster? Gotta have it so we can vacuum up what the full size vacuum left behind.

It was pretty clear to me, their luxury-loving Libra child, that what Virgos really are are neurotic. Libras adore material consumption, not for the sake of flaunting wealth, but to make themselves and their space pretty. We're the interior decorators of the world. Frugality puts a choke-hold on our inner Martha Stewart. To retaliate against what I considered to be my parents unreasonable attempts to mete out goodies, I became a hoarder. While my three brothers polished off their chocolate bunnies and Peeps in fits of sugar-induced ravaging, I kept my stash safely hidden, taking bites a day at a time. I could nearly make it to the next Easter on one giant size coconut egg. So frugality to me is nothing new—it’s simply become fashionable.

This makes me suddenly feel like a mega expert in reduced living and a “green” proponent to boot! My secrets for living well with less come from a lifetime of self-denial and, of course, the fate of my birth to two astrologically cheap parents. If a Libra can do it, so can the millions of Americans who now find themselves having to “slum” it. It does occur to me that for those who didn’t grow up with the benefit of one bathroom for six people, the idea of cutting back is blood-curdling. Me, shop at a Goodwill store? Unplug the TiVo? Buy generic toilet paper for god’s sake?!? I can sense the fear and apprehension.

Here’s what I can say to ease the terror rising up in the throats of those who shot right past middle class status and went straight for the Fifth Avenue hi-rise: take it slow. Frugality isn’t something you just jump into like a new pair of Nike’s—if you “Just do it,” you could give yourself mental whiplash. Try weaning yourself off of nonessentials that don’t have emotional repercussions. Cleaning products, for instance. Who really cares what you clean the toilet with? Then work your way up to the big nail-biting items: one bottle of off-price shampoo, or fifteen different hair styling products? Two-ply or single-ply? Coor’s or Bud? These are the take a big gulp decisions, I know, but they have to be made. Sooner or later you’re going to have to graduate to really insufferable losses like no more QVC sprees and wearing last season’s oh-so-chic boots another two, three or—god forbid—four years.

Going without, for many, is a new concept. I know a lot of kids who have been raised only in an atmosphere of unrestrained plenty who are probably going to suffer irreparable mental damage when mommy and daddy put spending limits on their charge cards. Or take them away, altogether. I predict the emergence of a new psychological trauma called Thrift-Induced Psychosis. Just remember: if you feel yourself slipping into an apoplectic numbness at the idea of going frugal, find yourself a Virgo. They’ve got it down to a science.

Death by Pantyhose

One of the things I love most about weekends is not having to wear pantyhose. Really, I don't know who thought the concept of an elasticized corset with legs would be comfortable. Maybe it works for sausage, but around a middle age waist, it's just plain torture.

After years of tolerating tight waistbands and the inevitable "overflow bulge" that happens when your abdominal fat is squashed upwards (where else is it going to go?), I'd finally had it. I had been avoiding taking drastic measures up until now, but my sanity was at stake.

So last week while I was getting ready for work, I took out a pair of scissors and gave the waistband a snip. One, two, three, four times. I slipped the pantyhose on. Ahhhh....It felt like I had found pantyhose nirvana.

I doubt I'm the only middle age woman with hacked up hosiery in her lingerie drawer. But why is this even necessary? You'd think with all the zillions of dollars spent on R&D in this country, someone would come up with a non-life threatening waistband on a pair of pantyhose. It's not like we asked for middle age spread. It comes with the DNA--hormones plus gravity equals love handles. Twenty-four inch waists are something we only blissfully remember and even
try our damnest to return to, but for most of us, it's a losing battle. Width will win out.

The women in my family are particularly prone to mid-section drift coupled with what is endearingly known as the "pooch." This is not a cute little designer dog you tuck in a handbag that I'm talking about; this is a cushy belly where fat tends to get comfortable and, over time, gives you the appearance of a first trimester pregnancy. My grandmother passed on great legs and also stuck us with the pooch. I'll admit, it makes a handy shelf for resting snacks or propping up a magazine when your eyesight goes, but it makes pantyhose about as comfortable as a blood pressure cuff around your middle.

It could be the fashion industry is simply clueless. The pantyhose dilemma is one women tend to endure in silence. It's kind of like feminine hygeine products--we all use them but we don't sit around talking about what brand of tampons has the best absorption.

You don't see men putting up with waistband strangulation. No! They just switch from their tighty whities of youth to boxer shorts and they're good to go. All I'm asking for is a little equal treatment in the underwear department--a Michael Jordan of lycra and spandex--who can promise me good-looking legs without cutting off my circulation.

Is there any hope for us women brandishing sharp objects in the name of comfort? Not any time soon, is what I'm guessing. Here's to the weekend and letting it all hang out.