Chronic Fatigue

When the "Something Old" at Your Wedding is...You.

I recently became something I never thought I’d be:                I became a bride.

To say I “married late” is an understatement.  I'd sooner tell you my Social Security number than admit my age.  But let’s just say the last time there was any estrogen floating around in my system, Mitt Romney was in favor of healthcare reform and Cher still had remnants of her original face.

According to the infamous 1986 Newsweek story about single women, I had a better chance of being hit by a meteor/struck by lightning/killed by a terrorist than of getting married after the age of 40 (I love defying statistics!).  How I met my husband (hint: it was nothing short of a miracle), and the ups and downs of our seven years together before marching down the aisle, is a story for another time.  So is the story of how I assiduously avoided marriage most of my life (hint: I had cornered the market on every unavailable/inappropriate/sociopath).  Or the story of how I panicked after the proposal and suffered a major case of commitment anxiety.

Those stories can wait.  The story I want to tell is what it was like to become a first-time bride at an age when most women are picking out their Mother of the Bride outfits. “Weird” doesn’t even begin to describe it.  “Surreal” comes closer.  And yes, sometimes, it’s also been quite wonderful. 

First came the proposal (it wasn’t a surprise…I’d already been ring shopping for months).  As a newly engaged Woman of a Certain Age, I often felt like a freak of nature.  News of our engagement was greeted with a mix of shock, awe, confusion and delight.  I suppose there’s something sweetly endearing and hopeful about older people finding each other late in life and tying the knot, against all odds.  But it’s definitely not the norm.  It’s kind of like seeing a bear riding a tricycle.      It’s a novelty, but slightly abnormal.

I’m sure every woman, regardless of her age, experiences a whole gamut of emotions when she gets engaged for the first time.  Some of those emotions are universal.  Wedding blogs are filled with comments from young women fretting about their ring/dress/caterer/invitations/flower arrangements, etc. etc. etc.         I shared many of those same concerns.

But as an older engaged woman, I also felt different.  It was hard to relate to 20-somethings bemoaning the fact that their Girls Nights Out drinking Cosmos with their BFFs might be coming to an end.  These girls clearly identified with Carrie Bradshaw.  I felt more like one of “The Golden Girls”.  Besides, I can hardly stay awake anymore past 9:00 PM, so I wasn’t terribly worried about losing my freedom or missing wild nights out with the girls.

On the other hand, many young brides worry about losing something more significant: their identities as independent, single women. In my case, that identity wasn’t something newfound; it had been a core part of my being for decades.  As wonderful as it is to find love, getting married late in life means letting go of one’s lifelong status as a single adult (and a certain perverse pride that goes with it).  At times after I got engaged, I almost felt like I was betraying my other single women friends — abandoning the “club”, as it were. I worried how my longtime single friends would react to my new status (the answer: most of my friends were very supportive and happy for me — but there were some mixed reactions.  After offering congratulations, one friend blurted out, “Oh NO…this means I’m the LAST one!”  I was taken aback.  But frankly, had it been me, I might have reacted the same way).  

Another dismaying discovery: wedding blogs are full of women confessing they “waited a really long time to get married".  From the sound of it, you’d think they'd barely escaped Old-Maidhood.  Then you realize these women are all in their late 20s and early-mid 30s!  There is nary a mention of anyone over 40.  OMG, what would they think of me??  It would be like their Great Aunt Tilly walking down the aisle…like, gross!

So while I was able to feel a certain degree of kinship with my bridal sisterhood,    I mostly felt completely alienated from their ilk.

Even more alienation awaited me in wedding magazines and on wedding blogs.  Naturally, they are all geared towards young women.  Of course, these womens’ perspective is completely different from mine; they are just starting out — their whole lives are stretched out in front of them.  They are planning families, sharing hopes and dreams of the future.  My new husband and I are looking forward to shared AARP memberships and discounts at the local multi-plex.  For us,“Will you still love me when I’m old and grey?” is not just a hypothetical question.

Getting engaged, however, was only the beginning. Then there was the whole question of The Wedding.  Neither my fiancé nor I could even imagine having a wedding.  We were much too old to make a fuss.  We didn’t want all the stress and expense.  We seriously considered running away and eloping.  Either that or just have a really small wedding (a non-wedding).  But…what if it escalated and turned into a much bigger wedding?  My fiancé and I debated all of this for weeks.  The eloping option was looking better by the minute.  But we finally agreed on a very small family wedding at my parents’ home.

Now it was time to plan the wedding.  I would have preferred to have had a root canal. I know a lot of women  dream about walking down the aisle their whole lives.  Some of them fantasize about their Wedding Day from the time they are little girls.  That was never me.  I wasn’t anti-wedding. I was just indifferent.  Ambivalent about marriage in general, and even more ambivalent about weddings.  One thing was for certain: I was not one of those wedding-crazed women obsessed with color schemes, bridesmaids dresses and themed bachelorette parties – ick!!  I was paralyzed over the thought of calling caterers, getting estimates, renting tables and chairs, sending invites, editing the invitation list…ALL of it.

I refused to become yet another victim of the Wedding Industrial Complex.            I scoffed at all those brides and their ridiculous color schemes.  I laughed at all those brides who obsess over flower and seating arrangements.  I ridiculed all those brides who fret about finding the perfect shoes.

And then a funny thing happened:  I became one of those brides.  Seriously.          A month or so before the wedding, something snapped in my brain and I became BRIDEZILLA.  A living, breathing stereotype.  A walking, talking cliché.                The dormant Bride gene had been activated.  There was no hope.

For the first time in my life, I suddenly gained entry into a rarefied world previously off-limits to me.  The sparkly, pastel gates opened and I entered the kingdom known as…ta da! — Wedding World!

Nothing could have prepared me for this strange, new land.  If I had landed on Mars, I could not have found the terrain more foreign.  And yet, I was here.  I was now a member of the elite group known as “brides”.  I had a wedding to plan.  And there was work to be done.

Suddenly, I was spending hours online, pouring over photos, searching for the Perfect Bouquet.  I looked at more bouquets in one evening than I had looked at in my entire life.  I knew I’d hit rock bottom when I discovered Martha Stewart Weddings and it became my new bible.  Martha Stewart Weddings??  Me?              It couldn’t be possible.

It got worse.  For the first time in my life, I picked up a copy of Brides Magazine at the nail salon, and leafed through its glossy pages, staring at photos of dewy skinned, lithe young women in their Size 2 Vera Wang wedding dresses.                   I devoured the stories about hairstyles and honeymoons.  Poured over the photos of floral arrangements and wedding arbors.  And took copious notes on creative ways to fold napkins.  That’s when I knew I was gone.

When the dressmaker told me my wedding shoes were not the exact right shade of ivory, I raced to the shoemaker to have them dyed.  Then, just to be on the safe side, I ordered a backup pair of shoes from an obscure online retailer in Beijing.  (I bought a beribboned, lace-trimmed pair called “Pretty Pretty Lady Wedding Shoes”.  They were pretty pretty, but they hurt hurt).

I went to food tastings.  Agonized over table cloth colors.  Edited and re-edited the guest list.  And hand-picked every song I wanted our pianist to play.  I also dieted like a fiend, in hopes of squeezing my ample Midlife midriff into my wedding dress (ladies, this is why it really helps to get married at 20).

I was completely out of control.  So was my spending.  I knew the security code on my VISA card by heart.  The whole time I was planning my wedding, I felt like I had a neon sign on my forehead flashing, “Go ahead, rip me off — I’m a BRIDE!”.  There were the outrageously expensive catering estimates, the outrageously expensive flower estimates, the outrageously expensive photographer estimates, etc. etc. (in fairness, some vendors were quite nice and very reasonable, but many were clearly rip-off artists).

Overnight, I went from being the woman who didn’t want ANY wedding to the woman who was micro-managing every last detail of a tiny wedding.

And guess what?  It paid off.  The wedding was absolutely perfect.  Sweet.  Lovely.  Really small…relaxed…wonderful.  We are still savoring the memories.

Which brings me to the much-anticipated wedding photos.  Seeing them moves me to tears.  Sure, they bring back beautiful memories.  But mostly, they make me think, “Why the hell didn’t I get married when I was still relatively photogenic?!”  Now I wish I’d saved some money for a much-needed facelift and tummy tuck.      I get it now.  There’s a reason why people get married young.  It’s not because you are naïve and full of hope.  It’s because you look good in your wedding photos and you don’t need hours of Photoshopping.

So that’s my story.  We’ve been married for nearly two months (and they said it would never last).  I can already anticipate the comments to this post.  I’m sure many of you will congratulate me and wish me well (thank you!).  Some of you may remind me how lucky I am to have found true love late in life (better late than never, right?).  I agree.  Honestly, no one is more grateful than me.  Not a day goes by when I don’t marvel that it happened at all.  I still can hardly     believe it.  Sometimes, I just have to pinch myself.  And believe me, these days, there is plenty to pinch.

The Good Ship Lollipop Has Sailed

One of the hallmarks of growing older is the sad and alarming realization that younger people don't relate to your cultural touchstones.

For me, that has never been more true than this week. Because this week, Shirley Temple died.

When the headline crawled across the bottom of my            TV screen, I was stunned.  Although I had been anticipating this news for a while, I still couldn't believe it.  Shirley Temple gone?  You might as well have told me that the earth had spun off its axis.  It simply wasn't possible.

I never met Shirley, but somehow, this loss feels profoundly personal.  It's as if it marks the official end of my own childhood.  Even though it ended decades ago.

It's hard to describe what Shirley Temple meant to me.  Although I wasn't alive in the 1930s when she made her movies, her films were a huge part of my childhood. Growing up, Shirley Temple movies played on TV all the time.  And from the moment I saw my first Shirley Temple film, I was smitten.  I loved everything about Shirley; her smile, her dimples, her hair, her clothes.  I knew every line of every film by heart, every word of the songs, and most of the dance routines.          I still do.

Even as a child, I knew the storylines were silly.  The films were pure fantasy and beyond saccharine.  But it didn't matter.  I was transported by Shirley's charm, by the music, by the dance numbers.  I also loved Shirley's co-stars, from Jack Haley and Alice Faye to James Dunn, Buddy Ebsen and Frank Morgan.

Shirley Temple movies were my entree into Hollywood Musicals.  They were the gateway drug that opened the door to the classic movie musicals of the 1930s, introducing me to the delights of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, Busby Berkeley, Eleanor Powell, The Nicholas Brothers and countless others.  And once I walked through that door, there was no going back.  I began a love affair with films, music, and dance from Hollywood's Golden Age that endures to this day.  And it was Shirley who inspired me to learn to tap dance and who helped turn dancing into a lifelong passion.

Shirley had such a profound impact on my life, I just assumed that everyone else must feel the same way.  And so I eagerly awaited an outpouring of reaction to news of her death.

On my way to work last Tuesday, I anticipated my office would be buzzing with talk about Shirley.  But it quickly became apparent that what for me had been an earth shattering event was for my peers, clearly, a non-event.  It was just business as usual.  I glanced at my young colleagues, staring at their computer monitors.  Were they posting thoughts about Shirley Temple on their Facebook pages?   Hardly.  I would guess the vast majority of them had never even heard of her.  If I inquired, I was told,  "Oh yeah, my mom — or grandmother — used to love her movies."  Were I to ask them, "What's your favorite Shirley Temple film?", I'm sure I'd be met with  blank stares.  I might just as well ask, "Which of William Howard Taft's speeches was your favorite?" (Just for the record, my favorite Shirley Temple movie is "Poor Little Rich Girl", followed closely by "Curly Top" and "Captain January").

Suddenly, the world was sharply divided into two distinct camps: people who know and care about Shirley Temple, and people who don't.

Later that day, I hurried home, eagerly awaiting what I imagined would be a tsunami of tributes to Shirley.  But on the news, it was also just business as usual. On CNN, Piers Morgan's lead story was about Tom Brokaw's health problems, followed by some rehashed Clinton scandals.  Later in the show, during an interview with Bruce Dern, Piers Morgan briefly mentioned Shirley's passing.  That was it.

I flipped through the channels, expecting there would be more coverage of what to me was clearly a world shattering event.  But I never found it.  If Kim Kardashian breaks a nail, it's front page news.  If Miley Cyrus buys a new thong, it's the lead story on "Entertainment Tonite".  Shirley Temple was once the most famous person in the world.  She was one of the last surviving stars of Hollywood's Golden Age.  Why wasn't this the biggest story of the day?  Was it because there was no scandal or drug overdose involved?

When I bemoaned this disappointing lack of media coverage to my husband, he said, "Well, don't forget, Shirley Temple was famous two or three generations ago...young people don't know her anymore.  Neither does most of the media." 

I know he's right, but I have a hard time accepting it.  In my eyes, a world where Shirley Temple is no longer relevant is a diminished world.  A less sparkly world.  A less beautiful world.  Certainly a far less charming world.

Shirley Temple may not matter much to the new generation.  But she matters        to me.  And she always will.

As the 20th century, and especially the early 20th century, recedes further and further into the distance, fewer and fewer of that era's cultural icons are still remembered or appreciated.  And that's tragic.

Which is why this week, I have a bad case of the 21st Century Blues.

 

 

It's Like, So Amazing

Q: What do the following words have in common?

"awesome", "fascinating", "incredible", "marvelous", "prodigious", "shocking", "stunning", "surprising", "unbelievable", "wonderful"

A: They are all synonyms for "amazing".

However...you don't hear any of those other words used much anymore.       Because the only adjective that gets used to describe anything these days seems to be "amazing".

Have you noticed that right now, absolutely everything is "amazing"?  It is the adjective du jour.  Every time I overhear a cell phone conversation on the bus  (which is a lot more often than I'd like), it's pretty much guaranteed I will hear the phrase, "It was amazing".  If it's a twenty-something who is having the conversation, then it was "...like, SO amazing."  They might be describing last night's pizza, a new brand of lip gloss or the latest episode of "Lost"...makes no difference.  Whatever it was, it was amazing!

Remember when everything was described with that other A-word, "awesome"?  Mercifully, "awesome" gave way to "amazing".  Which would have been just fine, except now there is only "amazing".  Apparently, we as a people are only capable of using one adjective at a time.

Earlier this year, Larry King hosted a pre-Oscars show featuring the cast of the musical, Nine.  His celebrity panel included everyone from Kate Hudson, Penelope Cruz and Fergie to Daniel Day-Lewis, Sophia Loren and Dame Judi Dench.  At one point, Larry asked each person on the panel to describe what it was like to make this movie.   Every one of them - including the esteemed Dame Judi - answered exactly the same way: "Oh, it was just amazing."  I waited to hear Sophia Loren's answer.  Surely, the legendary Ms. Loren would never say, "It was amazing" - but sure enough, she added her "amazing" to the chorus.  Then Larry asked the director, Rob Marshall, what it was like to work with such an amazing cast.  His answer?  "What can I say, Larry?  It was just amazing."

I have to admit, I am not immune from using the A-word.  In fact, I use it way too often.  It's become so automatic, I have stop mid-sentence and force myself to describe something as "incredible" or "wonderful" (I still refuse to say "awesome"...and if I ever did, there would be gales of laughter).

There was a time when "amazing" was reserved for people and things that were truly amazing - usually circus acts, magicians, comic book characters or natural wonders.  The Flying Wallendas?  Now, they were amazing.  The Amazing Houdini?  He definitely earned the "Amazing" part.  The Amazing Spider-Man?  Hey, anyone who can scale a 30-story skyscraper and look good in Lycra is amazing in my book.  Niagra Falls...The Grand Canyon...Mt. Everest?   All pretty darned amazing.

But today, everything from a goat cheese salad to Taylor Swift's latest CD qualifies as "amazing" (the fact that Taylor Swift is even a recording star...well, that's what is truly amazing.  But I digress).

I never cease to be amazed at how one word can catch on and suddenly, it's the only word anyone ever uses.  You know, it's just like, so, um, unbelievable.

Fickle Finger of Fate

A picture is worth a thousand words...

And right now, I'm lucky if I can peck out even a hundred words with..."The Claw".

If you've been wondering why I haven't written anything for over a month, this is my excuse.  Yes, it's my RIGHT hand...I broke my finger...had surgery...no, I'm not sure how long I'll be in the cast.  And yes, it's a colossal pain in the butt.

I've also discovered it can be a learning experience. I have learned that when one's hand is in a giant cast/sling contraption, one gets a lot of attention. People are mostly sympathetic and incredibly helpful, and naturally, I milk that that for all it's worth ("it's my pity party and I'll cry if I want to...") Others just ignore you, don't hold the door, or walk right into you (when you're trying to protect your injured limb, walking down a busy city street is like a giant game of Chicken... almost everyone will try their best to bump into you). Homeless people still ask for handouts - I guess they think I'm faking it.

I've also learned that virtually everyone will ask, "How did you do it?", even if they don't really want to know the answer. That's ok. By now, even I'm bored with the story.

So the bad news is, I can't blog much.  But that's also the good news.  At least for now, you get a break from my ranting.   Enjoy it.

Crimes and Moisturizers

I spend a lot of time in Walgreens.  You might even say I pretty much live there. 
So I'm highly attuned to even the slightest changes at the stores.

Lately, I've noticed a disturbing new trend.  The store is locking up certain merchandise behind glass (or rather, Plexiglass).  If you wish to purchase an item, you must find a sales clerk (always easier said than done), and have them unlock the case to give you access to said item.  It's annoying, to say the least. 

At first, the only items that were being "guarded" in this fashion were disposable razors.  I had to ponder the reasoning behind this; had 6-packs of plastic Bic razors become a new favorite among shoplifters?  I suppose there was some logic at work here; shoplifters care about personal grooming... they need to shave...and those disposable razors really are a bit pricey.  Or was it something even more sinister?  Maybe knives had become too expensive, and now Bic razors were being wielded as weapons. It was all a bit odd, but I was willing to give Walgreens the benefit of the doubt.  Drugstore crime must be worse than I thought.

But it didn't stop there.  Next, I noticed that selected skincare products were also now under lock and key.  These tended to be the higher priced items - usually in the $15-20 range.  Apparently, thieves suffering from dry skin, under eye bags or crow's feet don't waste time with  Pond's Cold  Creme or Noxema. They're after the hard stuff; L'Oreal Skin Genesis with Pro-Retinol A is a favorite, as is the popular Olay Regenerist line.  I picture a team of shoplifters scoping out the joint; "Hey, I'll grab the Olay Age-Defying Anti-Wrinkle Eye Cream and when no one's looking, you go for the Regenerating Serum...it's proven to visibly minimize pores."  

Great.  So now my Firming Serum is also under lock and key.  Maybe it's for the best - the stuff's getting too expensive anyway (as an unintended consequence of their overzealous efforts to deter criminals, Walgreens is probably losing a lot of legitimate sales).

What's next?  Is Walgreens going to lock up every item in the store?  Is my favorite pharmacy turning into a veritable Fort Knox?  Just about.  This week, to my horror, I discovered an entire shelf of stomach remedies and antacids had joined the forbidden items.  What?  Is there a black market in Maalox?  Are there huge stockpiles of Mylanta and Maximum Strength Zantac stashed away in dingy warehouses around the city?  Are corner drug dealers now trafficking in Pepto Bismol? ("Pssst...over here...I've got some really good stuff this week...you know, the pink stuff...it soothes and coats...").

I know shoplifting is a legitimate problem.  But this is getting ridiculous.  On the few occasions when I asked a hapless Walgreens clerk to please unlock the case so I could buy something, I quickly regretted it.  Inevitably, the key to the case is nowhere to be found, so the clerk must wander off in search of it - a quest that can take upwards of 15 minutes...if you're lucky.  Sorry, but I don't have the time or patience to wait that long to buy a box of Pepcid AC.  Maybe next time, I'll just buy it from that suspicious looking character on the corner.