Land of Ageless Beauty

Stephen wakes up wondering why he is in a malaise.  After traveling from east coast to west, we have landed in Old Town Pasadena to begin a long weekend of wedding festivities for my son.   This boy, errr, young man, is tall, lanky and fit.  His wife to be is a just-graduated dietician, tall, lanky and fit.  They appear to be a good match.  We are also a good match, short, squat, aging gracefully (or so we believe), trying to suck in tummies that have enjoyed a bit of too much good living in our lives.

We sit in the sparsely decorated room of our discount hotel (trying to save money to sleep in order to splurge on the great food and wine in this town) going through the list of why we are feeling a little blurry and disconnected.  The easy answer would be jet lag, since we were awake at 3 a.m. eastern daylight time in order to be on a 6:15 a.m. flight to arrive at LAX at 11 a.m. and being another day anew.  But I think it is more than that.

I grew up out here.  This is the land of Hollywood, the culture defining aura of “you are what you drive, how you look, where you dine.”  The women are beautiful, slender, manicured, muscular (but not too muscular, lest the definition of muscle overpower the softness of unblemished skin).  The men are buff, robust, solid.  Youth extends to infinity through the magic hands of plastic surgeons and personal trainers.  It is difficult to tell substance from image.  There are loads of Mercedes and BMWs on the streets connoting a sense of wealth and well-being, and I always wonder about the back-story.  Are they living in shared apartments on the western fringes of downtown (not quite West L.A.) in order to give the appearances that have come to define California culture and maintain a car payment that is more than the rent?  And why not, people spend a lot of time in their cars out here — probably more than they spend at home!

Over dinner, we talk about the State being bankrupt, issuing vouchers for future payments of goods and services.  Yet, the sky is blue and there is barely a layer of smog over the city today.  This is a “there will be a better day” atmosphere.  The cafes along Colorado Boulevard are filled with diners sipping good wine and nibbling at calamari appetizers before ordering the blackened grouper or rare steak.  The four hundred thousand dollar weddings are still being booked at the Huntington Gardens (though not the wedding I will attend which will be in the public park).

There is a thirty minute wait at 21 Flavors of Frozen Yogurt.  The queue along the sidewalk and around the corner is about thirty people long.  They are all young, ageless, eager, a melange of Asian and Latino and European and African mix of couples or representing the blending of a prior generation of intermarriage, all beautiful and ageless.  After our dinner of a delicious Japanese dinner on the sidewalk cafe at Kabuki, I glance longingly across the street for a frozen yogurt.  Stephen pats my rear and says honey, we don’t need it.  I know he is right, and I feel out of place, out of touch with the land of my beginnings.  I am no longer part of this.  I meander with a camera around my neck, silver hair prominent among those with copper highlights, flat and serviceable shoes juxtaposed against the click of stilettos on the sidewalk.  I am a tourist now and with this realization, some shame overcomes me.  I no longer belong in the land of my youth, the land of ageless beauty, and then realize that this may not be a bad thing.

Did You Fire the Cleaning Lady? or How To Save A Few $$

We are working professionals who feel poor.  Mostly because our retirement fund has tanked, the financial picture is gloomy, and it looks like we’re going to have to work another 10 years just to catch up to what we lost a month ago.  I’ve been taking my lunch to work, saving $5-$7 per day.  He’s been shopping the food sales at the grocery store. We’re bundling car trips. Trimmed eating out.  Last week we managed to have a meal at the local diner for $20 (plus tip).  He’s at the stove now preparing to cook burgers, and the electronic ignition for the gas burner is flickering but not igniting.  This is what it always does after the cleaning lady comes.  The rings don’t always get replaced to the exact position.  He looks up.  “Did you fire the cleaning lady?” he asks.  No, I nod, saying, “There wasn’t anybody else here who was going to clean the toilets and wash the floor.”  “Oh,” he says.  “I thought we agreed to fire her.”  “Well,” I say, “we’re feeling poor, but in reality we’re still making the same income, we’re at no risk for our jobs, and we’re helping out a Latino family who could use the work.”  “Yeah,” he says, “I can see that.  Well, okay.”

True, I’ve been penny-inching.  Three weeks ago I opened my first savings account in more than 20 years.  I’ve managed to squirrel away a few dollars, paying attention to depositing checks that come in from the sale of my art that I normally would have put into my checking account and spent.  It’s an interesting feeling being so aware of debt, credit, savings, and what constitutes poverty.  Bob Herbert wrote in the NY Times this morning that people are losing their homes and more will be destitute and homeless than ever before.  Our president to be will have one of the greatest leadership challenges in 75 years. The banks who have been given the bailout (oh, excuse me, rescue) on the backs of U.S. taxpayers are not releasing any of these funds to provide credit to homeowners who need to refinance mortgages.  I am sleepless worrying about who the next leader of my country will be.  I cry at the prospect of McCain beating Obama and worry about election fraud.  I feel helpless and at the same time both hopeless and hopeful.  I have not felt so much energy in an election since I was a youth and John Kennedy moved into the Oval Office.  Yet, I also feel despair at what we have wrought as a nation.  There is no trickle down for me.

So, as my hair grays and my bottom sags, and I yearn for retirement when I can play at doing the things I love best, I despair and lament my own financial recklessness as a baby-boomer with her head in the sand, and the frivolity of my expenditures.  Who is to blame?  Certainly not the cleaning lady.  Perhaps I will have a yard sale or sell another pair of shoes on e-Bay instead.

My NYT Addiction

True confessions!  I’m addicted to reading the New York Times.  Fascinated with the Sarah Palin Effect.  The indignity of designer clothing persona au courant vs. the frumpy pre-candidate as governatrix image is visual eye candy.  I just love that photo of Sarah sauntering across the tarmac in go-go boots and tight red skirt.  Vogue-ing.  I also confess that I’m a little jealous as I turn out of bed in the morning with more than an ache in my lower back.  The age of arthritis onset is upon me.  Perhaps it is from staying up too late reading every kernel of news and op-ed published by the New York Times in this frenzy election year.

Some years back I bumped into Tipper Gore as she was exiting and I was entering a dressing room at Needless Mark-ups (Nieman Marcus) in Tysons Corner.  I was a svelte Washington, DC gal then.  I would sometimes cruise the Last Call rack in hopes of discovering something special on the 75 percent mark-down rack before it got shipped out to Marshalls or TJ Maxx.  This dream rarely converted.  I remember Tipper as warm, cozy and somewhat out of character at N-M, just like me.

Now, I’m living a more practical and rural life.  As my hair turns to it’s natural color and my hips spread and my eyes lose sharp focus and my retirement fund is laid waste at the altar of consumer spending, I can’t wait for this election to be over so I can get some rest.  If I skip back and forth between the Times and the Huffington Post and Politico.com then perhaps the cybergods of election day will hear my mantra and Barack will win.  There is energy out there on the Internet.  On-line giving is an endorsement of that.

As a 60-something, I am astounded by my own behavior.  I probably spend more time online than my 30-something son.  I am connected to Facebook, Linked-In, and am writing several blogs.  I’ve published Google ads and am continually updating my web site.  My life is online.  I live an online life.  I wonder why I don’t see my friends who live down the road, but can carry on constant virtual conversations.  I have teased my husband that he brings his BlackBerry to bed, but I’m much more imbedded in e-culture than he is.  At this very moment, there are seven tabs open on my computer.

Yesterday, while reading an op-ed piece in the NYTimes, I came across the name of a friend who had written a comment (among the 165 I head read that morning).  The friend is now living in Germany and I hadn’t been in touch for at least five years.  Perhaps this was the best serendipity for being a NYT Addict — we are now Linked-In and have a plan to meet up in Mexico next year.  It’s time for the eye drops.

This just in from folks in the know:

The public radio fund drive folks seem to have it right.  Perhaps we could offer this script suggestion to the McCain phone volunteers?

“Hi, I’m ___________, your neighbor, calling to ask your support for the McCain campaign.  Today, at the $50 level, you can contribute to Sarah Palin’s Marc Jacobs satchel in blue-violet ostrich with kiss-lock closure and padded chain shoulder strap.At the $100 level, you may contribute to her belted Oscar de la Renta handknit cashmere cardigan with horn buttons in either ice or sapphire. And at the $150 level, with a matching contribution from Neiman Marcus, you may contribute to Ms. Palin’s cropped swing jacket and draped bias shift dress by Vera Wang.
What can we count on you for?”

http://www.newsobserver.com/nation_world/story/1265379.html

Gray Expectations

Perhaps there is something Dickensian about aging. There are no illusions. About six weeks ago I had an epiphany. I was no longer going to color my hair. Considering that I have been blonde since age 38 and it has been some years — more than I am willing to state publicly — since I have seen the actual real color of my hair, this was going to be an adventure in self-discovery.  The operative word for me here is REAL.  I decided to become REAL.  I also came to the conclusion, rightly or not, that the thinning of my hair at the top of my forehead was the cause of chemical dyes.  This was something I could believe in, true or false.  I had done enough research on the health risks of breathing chemical dyes to convince myself that I was playing roulette with the BIG C if I continued to douse my scalp with every six week treatments of L’Oreal Lightest Natural Blonde.  I paid attention to who dyed their hair and who didn’t, who’s roots were beyond their time, who were spending hundreds of dollars in the salons of my town to streak and paint strands and tendrils of keratin filaments.

One haircut later and I’d say I’m about half-and-half.  I now sport this kinda dirty blonde sexy look that is more than a bit out of character for someone my age. (I try to pretend I’m not a dowager but I could easily be a grandmother several times over.  Something tugs at my ambivalence — yearning for my progeny to deliver and wanting to relive The Last Waltz.)  Underneath the two inches of blonde there is an equal amount of an unidentified color that I can’t put my finger on.  It’s still too soon to tell.  It is questionable as to whether I will like it or not — although I stay open to the possibilities.  Do I detect a hint of stunning silver or dingy drab brown?  It fascinates me.

This is transition time.  The presidential candidates have assembled their teams to take over the White House and the reigns of government.  The American south is turning light blue.  My neighbors are planting winter vegetable gardens to cut down on trips to the supermarket.  I’m putting little dribs and drabs of cash into my savings account since my retirement fund has tanked. And, think of how much I’ll save as we enter this economic crisis by refusing to continue to dye my hair.

There is a feeling of empowerment as I watch my hair grow.  Soon I will be converted. The blonde brassy sassy me will be toned down by the shades of gray underneath.  There is nothing left that I have to prove to the world.  I do not have to pretend I am younger than I am.  I have reached my career trajectory — perhaps not as high or as far as I would have liked, but I am satisfied.  I now mentor the young and ambitious ones and support them in their professional and personal goals.  So, my hair can now be a reflection of this place in my life where I can say, here I am, I have earned it, and I’m not afraid to let you see me for who I really am.  My expectations have been fulfilled.

The Phone Call

I’ve been joking around, poking around the edges of waning sex, imagining the passion of my youth and the not so long ago time of yearning and desire, before vaginal fluids evaporated and the frustration of lost erections. This week, I wondered if I would need to start using the term “sex” with the same Bill Clinton definition. Oh, and by the way, I didn’t inhale, either. I was talking to myself, that inner dialog that goes on when the questions are too startling to ask aloud for fear of hearing the truth or expressing blame: Will he ever enter my body again? Was that time last month the last time in my life? Do we need to honor or mark the last time as a moment of profundity in our lives? I am mourning my aging and my self as a sexual being.

Every day husband and I have phone chat time, catch up time, how’s your day going time. It’s never predictable about when we’ll talk. Yesterday, he called just before noon and after the usual updates — me reporting how my phone interview went with the prospective job, he telling me about who said what at his office and the routine transactions of life, he announces rather quietly and nonchalantly that the doctor’s office just called with the elevated PSA test results. It’s showing cancer, he tells me, so I’m going to need to go in for a biopsy.

Since this news, the hours of the last day have been a blur. I am stunned. I have a physical explanation now for why we have had to work so hard to sustain an erection. I am feeling sad, disconnected, wanting to support him and feeling this sense of impending loss and fear. Not knowing for several more weeks whether this is an aggressive or slow growing version of prostate cancer, or maybe, it’s a misdiagnosis. Hah. And, I think, this is not about me. This is about supporting him and us, and being in life together living full out for whatever time we have here. Unpredictable as life is.

It is time for me to challenge the traditional definitions of sex, love, intimacy, and find new ways of expression through physical touch and tenderness that will keep us close. That’s all we have together — reinventing our future, mourning our past and letting go.

Today will be life as usual. We will meet at the end of the day for our usual Friday night date. It will be at the Art Museum, and we’ll see what happens next.

Marketplace: An Unconsciously Conscious Experience

My mother would be appalled. Today at age 92, she still shops at the top of the food chain on her dwindling retirement income. It’s only Whole Foods and Good Earth for her. So be it. Look at all the money she’s saving on gas by not driving a car (my sister took it away from her at age 88 when she did a slow roll into the rear bumper of the car in front of her at a red light). Me, it’s the double whammy — high gas prices and over $4 for a 1/2 gallon of milk (okay, so it’s organic). Poverty row for the middle class is how I see it. I’m earning not much under $100K per year and I feel poor. My car is 13 years old, still kickin’ A, 192K miles on the ODO, getting 27.8 mpg and I intend to drive it until it disintegrates. But, recently, I’m usually eyeing my gas gauge and odometer, making decisions about driving 55 mph instead of flooring it to 65 or 70, to save a few vapors. I am not making random trips to out of the way places, and I’m trying to combine trips to be more conscious. But, today at the food store I had a really unconsciously conscious experience. After paying $12 to get my hair cut at Great Clips, I walked into the market and grabbed one of those mini-carts, the kind you see that have a small shallow upper shelf and another one below it. They kind of look like go-carts for supermarkets. I unconsciously thought, I later surmised, that if I had the smaller cart I wouldn’t be so inclined to fill it up. I also decided not to stroll the aisles window shopping for what I might need (oops, want), and made a bee-line to the the 6-8 things on my mental list. I didn’t buy the honeydew melon; it wasn’t on sale, but I picked up two cantaloupes for the price of one. Then, as is my custom of late, I beat a path to the section where the butcher puts the soon-to-be-outdated meat, reduced 50% from the original sticker price. I can’t ever remember my mother doing that! She never “skimped” in the kitchen. If food was on sale, she thought, there was something wrong with it. So, there I am, picking through the packages, picking up chicken breasts, a roast, turkey scallopini, and putting them into that little cart. Next, I made a pass by the rack at the back of the store where they shelve the discontinued, dented, outdated and poor sellers. When I do this, I feel a combined sense of shame, horror and pride. People do not flock to the bargain bins in the supermarket, they stroll up nonchalantly, secretively, make their choices quickly and move on. There is a reckoning of sorts I believe that comes with knowing that many of us are living on the edge of barely making it, even though by appearances it might seem otherwise. I am far from being a bag lady, but I can certainly understand the feeling that comes with making ends meet. A few weeks ago, before $4 a gallon gas and $4 a 1/2 gallon milk, I was not in this frame of mind. And my pride is not so important as to be able to save a few dollars at the check-out line. Final bill: $51.85. Better than last week. I’m also wondering if this desire to be thrifty in these difficult economic times is also a function of my 60-something age. I’ve never been that careful, carefree is more like it. The stock market rallies and drops unpredictably. NPR Marketplace reports that the big box discount stores are making 20% profits because people want one-stop bargain shopping to save on gas and food. I know that unlimited supply, low fuel prices, abundance and prosperity are dreamland. As I’ve watched my retirement fund tank, then sputter, then topple, then climb some and the net result is loss, I am feeling a sense of loss. And, perhaps this new habit of food shopping for bargains is one way I can exert control over my life that has been impacted by the economic follies of this nation’s inept leadership and my own failure to recognize that some day I would be old.

My latest worry at 60-something.

It’s not that I haven’t thought of this before, but it’s been seven years since I have actively looked for a job, and in that intervening time it occurred to me that lack of youthful vigor (translate that to mean hair colored straw blonde, age spots on my hands, a few extra pounds around the middle and flat dress shoes) would surely be a deterrent should I ever want to make a career move.  Career, you say?  Gee, she should be thinking about retirement.  So, now, as I edge toward the time when I should be cashing in on Social Security, I’m competing for a position across town.  The first phase phone interview is next week.  My voice sounds like 32.  I can easily cross this hurdle.  Why on earth would I want to change jobs when I like what I’m doing, I’m pretty comfortable, have adequate vacation time, and do meaningful work?  I ask myself, Is there a correlation between the 7 year blahs of being married and the 7 year blahs of working in the same place?   I am looking for excitement and adventure and a new challenge?  YES.  So how many years do I have left in me.  Everything I read says that the workforce is aging, that talent is scarce, that people with seasoned experience (that’s what they call it now … Not Old) can garner those coveted jobs.  So, that’s what I’m shooting for … a longer commute, a bigger title, a salary commensurate with my experience, and one more great job before I really decide to call it quits.  So, I’m a little scared because I wonder if my roots (hair, not family) will show when I show up for the face-to-face.  They said they are looking for someone to stay for the long-term.  For me, that would mean five to seven years, and that will take me to closer to 70.  I think, my goodness, do I have it in me to create another entrepreneurial venture, muster another sustainable surge of energy, and woo the interview committee?  Am I still an attractive hire?  Or am I too old, and that’s the scary thing, because I don’t feel old, haven’t lost my creativity, but it’s hard to tell what others will perceive.  I think of the face off between John McCain Aging Statesman and Barack Obama Man of Vigor and know that there are doubts about McCain’s health, energy, and goodness knows what else associated with his age.  Youth is much more attractive, no?   Of course, Ronald Reagan snowed us all (not me, I knew he was senile) with his well-hidden Alzheimer’s.  Will my memory remain in tact?  So, as I write this, I think Go For It because that is what will keep me young.  After all, I think I could pass for 54 and I took the college graduation dates off my resume   Then, again, men do this all the time.  Why not me?  Funny thing is, I wouldn’t really want to BE any younger unless I knew everything I know now.

Land of illusion, imagination and impression.

Clothes punk is bountiful along LaBrea and Melrose where consignment shops are packed with the closet discards of generations. Travel east and south of Beverly Hills to where pink and purple hair, decorations of silver skulls and crossbones, and giant plastic earlobe studs define the personal fashion style of Hollywood hipsters. The vintage shop, JetRag, at 825 N. LaBrea, must have 250 women’s leather jackets in all sizes and colors, razzle dazzle aprons from the 60’s, 70’s, and 80’s, more belts than you could shake a stick at, and a motley array of real and fake fur, not to mention racks upon racks of dresses, in a warehouse atmosphere at better than bargain prices. There’s even a back room filled with children’s clothing, too. Here, we found a very stylish and orginally very pricey 100% cashmere man’s coat in very good condition for $48 — and snapped it up. I passed on a 60’s Jackie Kennedy style long tweed coat only because I didn’t need it — as stunning as it was — complete with rolled collar, raglan sleeves and original buttons. The other find is the American Cancer Society thrift shop at 9300 Pico Blvd. between Beverly and Doheny. It is much more selective, full of Ferragamo shoes and designer clothing at a fraction of their original price, plus some home furnishings, too, and a comfy sofa for a companion to rest on. This is the L.A. I love.

Moving east of the West Side toward Hollywood and downtown, is Little Armenia and Thai Town, where little corner shopping arcades are filled with great restaurants that might seat 30 people, and the array of ethnic culture pulsates, contributing to what makes this a great city. There’s revitalization and regentrification going on in these neighborhoods that were, until recently, considered undesireable by the trendy elite and are now considered chic. The renters are being displaced as apartment buildings are bought up, fixed up, and converted to condos. The ramshackle stucco bungalows are infused with new life: fresh paint in every imaginable color of citrus, elaborate cactus landscaping, refinished wood-carved front doors. I noticed a strange phenomenon punctuating neighborhoods…a stand-alone door at the intersection of the public sidewalk and the walkway leading up to the house…just a door fitting into a door jam, as if the entry to the house began at the sidewalk…no fence, perhaps a few bushes giving the illusion of a boundary between public and private space.

In the land of illusion, imagination, and impression….why not?

A stroll among the starstruck.

Today I landed in Beverly Hills via Super Shuttle from LAX to meet up with the son who moved some years ago to the mythic land of my youth. He makes his living in the back office of a high rise on a corner of Wilshire Boulevard, smack in the Upper Kingdom of Opulence. He then goes home at night to the real world neighborhood of Koreatown, an ethnic mix of Latinos, Asians, and young professionals trying to put it together in a high cost city world. Waiting for his work day to end, I took to the streets retracing the steps I used to walk when I worked in BH at my first job out of college. The iconographic geography of power, glitz, tan, casual chic and svelte was even more pronounced than what I remembered. I followed a razor thin young woman in tights, knee high boots and short pleated skirt toting shopping bags emblazoned with Gucci, Prada and Versace, long streaked-blonde hair artfully arranged so as to blow perfectly in the afternoon breeze. Along Rodeo Drive, natty Japanese tourists were seriously shopping in Harry Winston and Van Cleef and Arpels examining the oversize diamonds, emeralds and rubies, while a family of oversize midwesterners took turns taking photos of each other in front of Tiffany’s. An impeccably attired power woman, clicking along in 3 inch heels in the opposite direction, cell phone to her ear, red lips pursed in purposefulness, exclaimed into the receiver, “they’re just perfect to do the deal.” At the sidewalk cafes, the Italian-suited men armoured for success, huddled in conferences so serious as if they were in final Middle East peace negotiations. Young women (or were they molded by a recent face lift?) driving the latest model Range Rover, BMW convertible, or Mercedes coupe — cars that don’t exist where I live. I was struck by the starstruck visitors, the ogglers, lookie-loo’s, and lollygaggers craning necks to see if they recgnized anyone famous. The immense display of wealth, the taunting of wealth, the ultimate adoration of materialism was so over the top that I found it humorous that anyone could take themselves so seriously in all this splendor. And, the walk reminded me of why I was so uneasy living in Los Angeles so many years ago, the lifestyle of the entertainment creators permeating the very skin of the city, promoting the values of all that is superficial and transitory (for entertainment magnates come and go). This magnet city for the seekers of fame and fortune gauges identity by what is worn, where it is purchased, the steering wheel emblem, who is the object of love and affection, where one is seen and by whom. At the western edge of BH, just beyond where Wilshire crosses Little Santa Monica, is the medical triangle. The little streets are filled with the offices of restorative dentists, cosmetic surgeons, aestheticians, laser treatment specialists, stylish salons. Through the window at the latte cafe, I see two blonde women tete a tete, deep in conversation. As they rise to leave, they lean on each other, stepping slow and carefully, and I see that despite good grooming, they are well into their eighties. I wonder what it is like to grow old in this youthfully idealized environment. On the windowsill is a magazine touting the simple life.

When the alabaster bowl resonates.

We entered a large candlelit room, a dusky twilight of shadow, faces barely distinguishable. Those already gathered were reverential, creating sacred space as they encircled a large alabaster bowl positioned on the floor in the center. The bowl was a powerful presence standing about two feet tall and with equal circumference. It reflected the candlelight, both absorbing and giving off a translucent aura that complemented its resonance. A young man sat before it, son of Russian immigrants, one a Jew, the other Russian Orthodox. He struck the bowl with a hide covered stick and drew the stick around the circumference of the bowl repeatedly to tease the vibrations from its source. As the sound waves intensified and the vibrations penetrated body, soul, and every porous molecule of that room, he began to chant a low, gutteral sound in the style of a Native American shaman. Others picked up musical instruments or added their own vocal sounds to his.  Soon, there were soft drum beats, hand claps, a tambourine and maracas adding to the rhythm.

I listened, closed my eyes, leaned back, felt at peace. I wondered where was the boundary and the overlap between spirituality and organized religion? Is there some immutable universal force that was beyond what defined me in the traditions of my parents, their parents, my ancestry? Were the voices of the others next to me authentic or contrived, attempting to fit into being what this culture was promising that they could not find satisfaction in from the culture into which they were born?  This group is a mixture, raised in the traditions of western religion:  Catholic, Quaker, Southern Baptist, Methodist, Episcopalian, Presbyterian, Jewish.

At the close, participants were invited to light candles and offer a prayer. Their wishes are universal: harmony, peace, sustainability, prosperity, joy, stewardship of the earth. Some asked for strength to find their own voice, to speak up, to take a stand, to communicate clearly and respectfully, to make a difference in the world, to walk softly and honor the earth. Some expressed wishes in silence.

The ceremony closed with a circle, each of us holding hands in harmony and hopefulness for creating something better in the world. None of the spoken prayers were offered to an almighty or to any religious deity, named or not. I felt this experience to be compatible with my own history, beliefs and traditions, a complement to my existence and identity.