Shopping in your late 30s – at Forever 21

Yesterday, I met a friend for lunch at the Ferry Building in San Francisco. After a well-balanced meal of salad and diet coke, I decided to walk down Market Street to the Union Square area to do some window shopping, maybe try on a few of the latest fashions for fall. You know, browse. I was in the mood for love – love of knee-high boots and a possible fun new dress, that is.

I went into the Gap, which of course had nothing new. It seems to always just be a rehashing of what they had last year, and the year before that. Everything seems so late 90s in the Gap, even though I know they have a hot new designer running the show now.

Now, I don’t know what was wrong with me. Maybe it was the sunny day, maybe it was the crisp edge of fall in the air, maybe it was my upbeat mood. I decided to cross the line waiting for the cable cars and go into the flagship of Forever 21. I know, the name is ironic and I’m surprised that there are not age-detectors at the entrance. If there were, I would have set them off.

Everyone in the store was wearing skinny jeans (so last year) and some type of plaid shirt (so college-in-1992). Also, there were only about three other women in the store over the age of 21, and I think they were chaperoning their daughters. One of the women working there – probably the manager, since she was about 40 – smiled at me and said: “Can I help you find something, Miss?” I could have kissed her for adding in the ‘Miss.’ As we exchanged a knowing glance, sympathetic in nature on her part, I could tell we both knew that the ‘Miss’ should have been “Ma’am”.

As I trolled around, looking at this shirt and pulling that pants suit off the rack, I wondered about what kind of fashion choices I should be making as I get older. We’ve all seen that women of a “certain age” that is wearing what looks to be an outfit stolen directly out of her teenage daughter’s closet and groaned inwardly to ourselves. We’ve all said to ourselves: “That will not be me.” So, as I padded around Forever 21, I kept thinking to myself: “Is that going to be me? Today?”

To tell you the truth, most of the clothes were objectively WAY too young for me to pull off. A black and red plaid mini-skirt? No. A black lace, ruffled, Madonna-in-Holiday-esque mini-skirt? Probably not. A shiny, spaghetti-strap, black unitard straight out of the “Let’s Get Physical” video or from Studio54? Definitely not.

But there were some things I tried on and liked. A black, purple-polka-dotted, slightly ruffle-edge trench coat with hot pink lining and just a touch of taffeta inside to poof it out? Stylish and cute. A hot-pink feather flower for my hair, circa 1920s? I actually bought that, and will need to muster up the courage to wear it outside. A strapless black jersey pants suit? I looked like Bianca Jagger in the dressing room and decided that even if I never had anywhere to wear it, I was absolutely willing to pay $27.80 to own it.

As I was trying these things on, I heard two of the teenagers who were working the dressing room talk about things they thought were “hot”. Standing inside in my pants suit, I half thought about asking them what they thought. But what do they know about being 37 and looking too old to wear something? They were eighteen if they were a day. Then I remembered all the insecurities that went along with that age. At eighteen, I wouldn’t have the balls to wear this. Now, I think I do.

I might shop at Forever 21, but that doesn’t mean I’m dying to be 21 again.

On Cougar Town – ABC’s new show

OK. I watched the debut of this show the other night, and I have to say that I, like Judith Warner at the NYTimes, disliked it. I thought the show itself was trying too hard and I found myself wondering if anyone who still looked as great as Courtney Cox over the age of 40 would really have as many insecurities and anxieties. I doubt it, but maybe I’m wrong.

Something the show did get right, I think, was the sense of loneliness that Cox’s character feels after she gets a divorce. That is all-too real for most women. There’s the sense of relief that you’re out of that dull or horrible marriage, to be sure, but then follows the crushing realization that you are no longer young and you are spending your nights alone with your book or the latest reality television show. Even a bad marriage insulates a woman from having to feel old and alone. So that hit the right note for me.

But, then, I just don’t believe that someone like Courtney would be alone for that long. Her odds are upped, aren’t they? What about the rest of us? With our sagging boobs and dimpled butts? If we have a scintillating personality or a fascinating life, then maybe we will do well on Match.com. But, if not? Ouch.

Perhaps one of the most disturbing things about the show was Christa Miller’s face. Is she in the running to become the new Joan Rivers? She used to be so cute on the Drew Carey show, back before all that face-saving surgery. Yikes.

This is the photoshopped version.

Her smile here reminds me of the Joker.

If you watch the show, you’ll see what I mean. Her face barely moves and her lips are ridiculous.

This is exactly what I hope NOT to be like when I’m over 40. To my friends out there, if I go overboard someday on the silicone and botox, please set up an intervention and show me a tape of Christa Miller on Cougar Town. I’ll understand.

A new look and outlook

OK. I’m back.

And this time, I’m going to use this blog as an open journal to talk about the process and experience of aging.

Before you think it, I’m not “old” yet. But, I’m also not young.

The other day I was looking at grant applications for the arts and one of them was for “young adults” only. The age cut-off was 35. I am 37 and ticking upwards. Looking at the requirements, I suddenly realized that I’m no longer considered a “young” adult. I guess that means I’m just an “adult”.

At any rate, I don’t know many people around my age who are entirely comfortable with the fact that we are all getting older. Nostalgic is starting to creep into all of our conversations and I’m afraid that we’re only a few years away from entering into our anecdotage. To stave off my general anxiety about turning the big four-oh, I decided that I would focus my attention on exploring my feelings and thoughts, instead of running away from them and trying to pretend I’m still 29. (I know people who really do hold onto the number 29 or 30, long past the point where it isn’t ridiculous.)

We cannot avoid getting older, after all. We can learn to accept it, though, and maybe even begin to appreciate it. Though I have to admit I am a long, long way off from being able to say that I am looking forward to my forties and fifties.

So, in other words, this is my electronic record of my journey into my 40s. Along the way, I want to talk about cosmetics, fashion, marriage, divorce, sex, kids, creaking body parts and any other miscellaneous signs that middle age is fast approaching. My aging reports should – fingers crossed – be sometimes poignant, but mostly funny examinations at our American culture. A place where, the last time I checked, getting older was definitely not cool or acceptable. Especially in the youth-meccas of the cities.

Things I would most definitely say #1

Yes, I would tell you that your baby was ugly.

I’m not going to lie to you about an ugly baby. Really, I’m not.

Putting my t-shirts where my mouth is.

OK, so I’ve created a line of snarky, satirical t-shirts for sale at CafePress. Just click the link below or to the side of the site page below the search button.

For now, it’s just one design. But later, I’ll add more.

And, honestly, I’m not really an Obama hater. I’m just dismayed at how quickly people started to turn away from Obama after things got rough. Change takes a lot of actual work, no matter what type we’re talking about. 

Meaningful work isn’t supposed to be fun. Or easy.

http://www.cafepress.com/SunnyState

Awful Things People Have Said to Me This Week

I’m not sure if Facebook, blogging, and digital social networking in general are all making people less socially savvy than ever before, or if the generation just a bit younger than me (say 4-10 years) never learned social etiquette at all. Or maybe they just don’t give a damn. Either way, people have said some fairly suspect things to me this week, and I’d like to share them with the digital world for fun. It’s me getting them off my chest without having to blow up or get in someone’s face.

First, I should start with some background. This has been a personal “best week ever”. I passed my oral exam – the first one to do so in my class – and I advanced to ABD (all-but-dissertation) status. Then, I found out that I have been accepted into the Norman Mailer Writers Colony for the new journalism course. All scholarship and based on merit alone.

Here are the various responses – taken out of context in our conversations, but still as bad as they sound – to my good news:

“You should be so proud of yourself, since no one thought that you could ever do this!” (What kind of compliment is this?)

“Why would you want to go to a writing program anyway? What’s the point?”

“You’re not a journalist anymore, right? What does any of that have to do with anthropology?” (Um, good writing?? Readability? Ability to sell copies of your book?)

“That’s great. (short pause) I got a huge grant!”

“You have proved everyone who said you couldn’t do this wrong!” (Again, WHAT????)

“Did you write these field statements yourself?” (What is wrong with these people?)

That, trust me, is just a sample of the whole. I would bore you by repeating comments that were all-too similar to the ones above. If these were said in malice, then they would have made more sense. Instead, they were all said in a faux accent of “I’m so happy for you!” mixed with a smidgeon of “you bitch”. 

Honestly, it stresses me out. I don’t like fake people. I also don’t always love the level of competition that comes along with being in this program.

Graffiti in our shared graduate teaching room:

Cal Anthro: home of the smartest people in the world

That’s a bit much, don’t you think? (Especially when Livermore Labs is under a mile away from us. Or adding in U Chicago or Harvard. Those people aren’t exactly dummies, no?)

Youth, inexperience and insecurity – what a powerful combination.

 

 

I just advanced to candidacy.

Today was my oral exam. Four professors asked me questions based on three research papers on three different fields for about two hours. All that added up to one more PhD candidate at Berkeley. 

Bye-bye being a student, hello to being a professional. Or, at least a professional-in-training.

Here’s the kicker . . . I don’t really remember anything from my exam –  except for the criticism. 

I, like a vast number of people, have a serious hearing problem. . . . I only listen to the bad things that people say. Apparently, I am deaf only to compliments. I have been like this since birth (or at least as far back as I can remember).

Someday, I will drive myself insane trying to attain perfection.

Logically, I know that it’s impossible to be perfect. Emotionally, it’s a different story. Other people are addicted to alcohol or drugs; I am addicted to achievement. And just like a drug addiction, each high that I get from achieving is shorter in duration and requires more oomph for me to feel it. 

Cyril Connelly once wrote that: “Those whom the gods wish to destroy, they first call promising.”

My so-called potential has always felt like more of a burden than a gift. In the Greek sense, I suppose that gifts themselves are always burdensome. Otherwise, they wouldn’t be worth having, right?

If I’m ever lucky enough to become a full-fledged professor, I know one thing for certain – I will always be honest about what it takes to become a scholar. Eating a large portion of humble pie is a prerequisite. So is self-doubt. But if everyone feels some sense of doubt about their abilities, then those who really acheive anything in this world all have one trait in common — perseverence.

It takes patience to become great at anything. I have to remind myself of this at least once a week. No one knows how to do anything intuitively; they learn a skill slowly, by degrees, until it appears like effortless skill.

How many layups does a professional basketball player have to do in order to make the NBA?

How many prototypes of the iPod did they throw out before they developed the right combination of function and design and programming?

How many failed experiments did Marie Curie have to perform to develop a working theory of radioactivity?

How many pages did Tolstoy write that he crumpled up in disgust?

No one was counting, but my guess is countless. 

The reason promise can be so damning is that it isn’t easy to fulfill. A very wise – and successful – person once told me that talent alone is not enough. It takes a mixture of ability and audacity to succeed. I think that he’s probably right. In order to be successful, we have to learn how to take our hits. Into the mix of ability and audacity, I think that I would add patience.

It will take time for me to learn the new language of my discipline. But, then, that is what being a novice is all about, right? Knowing what you don’t know, and seeking patches to fill in the gaps in your thinking.

Top signs that our friendship might not work out.

In the days of Facebook, Twitter, MySpace, and all the other social networking sites, I feel like I have more “friends” than I’ve ever had in real life. That being said, the Dunbar number would suggest that we can only keep track of so many people. That number goes up and down, depending on who you are, but there is a limit to how many people you can actually befriend in real life. For instance, if I saw you a minimum of one time per year to maintain our friendship and I didn’t double up with a group event, I could only have 365 ‘friends’, right? 

Look, I don’t know about you, but I’d be pretty pissed off if I only saw my friends once a year. The local ones that is.

The truth is, most of us are forced into being ‘friends’ with people for the sake of convenience.

That woman in your mommy group who is always bragging about her life – but who is also the mother of the only boy your own son doesn’t throw rocks at during playgroup. 

The guy in your office who is a serious douche-bag – but who is also the project manager and the key to your promotion.

Oh, hell, most people in your office – no?

For the sake of clarity, I’d like to lay out the signs that our ‘friendship’ is more of an ‘acquaintence’. Or, alternatively, that I just can’t be your real and true friend. Because these are signs that we have fundamentally different value systems. You aren’t ‘wrong’ if you fit any of these, I just don’t agree with you. So, here we go.

1. You are a vegan. Vegetarian? No problem. Vegan? That lifestyle is too high maintence for me. And you are probably too optimistic about changing the world for me, too.
2. You are an infallible optimist. My cynical self – who is, by the way, sometimes also optimistic – just cannot get behind always ‘looking on the bright side’. I’m very, very glad that people like that exist, I just don’t want to grab a coffee with them.
3. You love Joni Mitchell, Joan Baez, the Rolling Stones or Bob Dylan’s music. If you just ‘like’ it, then I can simply ask you not to play it within my earshot. If you LOVE it, I wouldn’t do that to either one of us.
4. You deny that whatever age you are over 30 is “old”, or maintain vehemently that you are still vibrantly “young” or “cool”. Ugh. Do you have Flo Rida playing in the background now, too?
5. You talk about how amazing your children are for a disproportionate amount of the conversation. I think this should be based on age. If your child is under 5, I want under 5 minutes of conversation about how much they love cheerios or how great they are doing in pre-K. If they are 16 and sneaking out or already thinking about joining the Peace Corps, then we can discuss them for up to 45 minutes. That shit is at least interesting.
6. You thought the last 30 minutes of Battlestar Galactica was uplifting, or you actually shed tears watching it. See sign #2.
7. You consider yourself a “green” person and you want to talk about it or, God forbid, tell me how I could improve my own choices. I don’t care if you just bought a hybrid, wear organic or recycled clothes, or are in other myriad ways reducing your “carbon footprint” (one of the most overused phrases of all time). I know you think it makes me a bad person, but I just don’t think that it’s going to do much. See “rest of world minus Europe” for examples.
8. You hate Republicans. Or China. Or anything else that is supposed to be “all bad” and “ruining it” for the rest of us. I’d rather talk about the ways in which all political parties are self-serving and the U.S. is “ruining it” for everybody. Don’t we know more about ourselves than other people anyway?
9. You namedrop. Does this need an explanation? Oh, and I include philosophers that you’ve read.
10. You placedrop. I don’t need to know how long you lived or stayed in Paris or Guam or Istanbul.
11. You believe that vaccination causes autism. This just tells me that you have your own religion-like belief system, and aren’t that happy about not getting polio or measles anymore. 
12. You believe in God, but in a crazy way. In the way that suggests all other religions are going to ‘hell’, or make you stand out on street corners with placards. 
13. Your favorite book is On the Road. Or Ulysses. 
14. You get all snobby about reality shows or gossip sites or glossy mags.
15. You haven’t read at least three books this year. I’d prefer that it wasn’t Twilight, but I can’t be too picky these days, now can I?
16. You actually use the terms “hella” and “for real” in your sentences.
17. You speed (over 10 miles over the limit) or drive aggressively. My entire family died in cars, I’m not befriending anyone else destined to go out that way.
18. You smoke pot everyday or every weekend. Not that I’m judging you. I couldn’t care less if you toke. I just don’t like to be around people when they are high. It weirds me out.
19. You drink alcohol every single day. It also weirds me out. And yes, I count beer and wine.
20. You use botox, have had plastic surgery, or own a bag or shoes worth more than $400. You are too vain for me, and I’m pretty vain myself.

OK, that’s it. I could try to come up with more, but I think that these hit upon most topics. What are your own signs? And don’t kid yourself, you have them. You just haven’t articulated them.

40 is definitely NOT the new 30.

And I should know, since I’m turning 37 in two weeks.

I’m not being ‘age-ist’ exactly, but I do think that people should stop deluding themselves that 4o is no longer middle age. (That is, unless you plan on living to be 100, but even then you cannot stretch the definition further than 50.) Or that 40 is “young”.

If you are 40, you are not “young”. You may be “young at heart”, “young-thinking”, or “youthful” for your age, but “young” you are not. Why keep kidding yourself?

Here’s the latest news, hot off the presses:

Mental powers start to dwindle at 27 after peaking at 22, marking the start of old age, US research suggests.

Professor Timothy Salthouse of Virginia University found reasoning, speed of thought and spatial visualisation all decline in our late 20s.

Therapies designed to stall or reverse the ageing process may need to start much earlier, he said.

His seven-year study of 2,000 healthy people aged 18-60 is published in the journal Neurobiology of Aging.

Now, before you freak out, there is ancillary evidence that not ALL mental powers fade after their peak at age 22. (Yes, your old eyes read that last sentence correctly. Fading begins at the ripe old age of 22.) But, have no fear. The old adage “with age comes experience” is still very much supported by the evidence. 

Things like memory stayed intact until the age of 37, on average, while abilities based on accumulated knowledge, such as performance on tests of vocabulary or general information, increased until the age of 60.

So, as someone about to turn 37, I guess I’m going to have to accept that my memory is going to start fading, too. I should have known that my new fetish for brightly colored PostIt notes did not appear out of nowhere, people. Lately, I’ve been forgetting to do at least 10% of the things I said I would do. For me, that’s a marked increase. (Note: I don’t have kids, so I think that you can give yourself a break here if you have them and have already been forgetting things for several years.)

I am just not the same chick I was at 17 or 27. Hell, I’m not even the same hot mama I was a mere five years ago.

At 37, my ankles crack, my shoulder sometimes aches for no knowable reason, and I often find myself wondering what it is that I am doing after I have stopped one task to do something else (especially if I have to change rooms). My hair is graying at the temples and I have begun to question my own personal ban on Botox or other facial injections. My thighs and my butt – which were never robust – have begun to sag so low that I now completely understand the term “saddlebags”. (Side note: Again, no kids. I can’t imagine what I would look like naked if I had ever given birth. But, then again, at least there would be a valid excuse for the devastation.) 

So, I’m here to attest to the fact that 40 is not the new 30. That’s bullshit.

That being said, at 37 I feel more like myself than I ever did at 27. 

But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to go back sometimes, to 27.

I’d also be lying if I said I didn’t sometimes relish the fact that I’m long past all the nonsense that so often comes along with “youth”. 

Bette Davis once said that there are some days that the only thing that makes a woman feel better is a glass of champagne. I think we all know what I’ll be doing on my birthday this year. If I can still remember what day of the week that is. . . .

Why Twitter?

I deleted my Twitter account this morning. I just don’t get it.

Am I too old?

Too out of it?

Less narcisstic than I thought I was?

I simply don’t understand its functional use. But maybe it’s not about being functional at all. Maybe it’s about feeling connected in a disconnected way. Those tweets read like hopeful thoughts to me, like the people who write them are wishing for people to hear them in an ever-growing cacophony of voices. 

Monologuing. 

Somehow, being a part of Twitter made me feel like a machine, emitting meaningless radio broadcast signals into space and listening for a return. Trying to make contact, but without knowing why exactly. Is it just me?

I’m not exactly a technophobe. I love Facebook, and I don’t mind the status updates. Somehow, it feels more intimate – perhaps because in order to be connected, you actually have to know the other person. It’s less random. Or maybe it just feels like it.

I also like blogging – whenever I actually sit down to do it. 

It’s like journaling, only not for some future unknown reader. It’s for some present unknown reader, and I don’t have to wait until I die for someone to ‘discover’ me. Maybe that is the reason for Twitter – we all want someone to ‘discover’ us. Lost as we all are in the mulititude of humanity. It’s a way to feel important, special, heard. And since most of us don’t get that in ‘real’ life, I guess I understand the need for a ’second’ life.

Twitter, however, is just not for me.