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GIFT OF GAB
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Dear Grumpy Aging Boomer,
I’ve been struggling with body image issues my whole life – even now as a middle-aged woman when I should know better - and I’ve noticed that all the admired female shapes are not to be found anywhere in nature. I’m thinking of the runway model’s inverted triangle and that classic feminine ideal, the hour glass. On the other hand, the least desirable female forms are the natural organic ones, like the bottom-heavy pear, the round apple and the shapeless banana. How does a woman ever get to love and accept the body nature gave her?
Signed,
A Natural Woman
Dear Natural,
Many an hour of my own youth was spent poring over magazines that preached acceptance and self-love while devoting most of their pages to glossy images of unnaturally shaped models, with tips about how to look more like them (more-or-less inanimate objects) and less like ourselves (more-or-less fruit). It took me all of my childhood and adolescence and a good portion of my adult years to adjust to my own pear silhouette and to finally acknowledge the pluses as well as the minuses of this particular design. And while I never ceased to lament the thighs that stretched outwards towards each coast, eventually I became proud of my relatively narrow waist and flat stomach. By “eventually” I mean right about the time my waist started to widen and my stomach began to protrude and I evolved into a new shape altogether, part apple and part pear, a bulbous freak of nature which for lack of imagination I’ll call a “papple”. Turns out, the real challenge for women of our vintage is not learning to accept the figure we were born with but, rather, the strange body we’re morphing into.
You see, as the body matures fat is increasingly distributed around the waist and upper abdomen. One of the cruel ironies of growing old is that we gain fat in undesirable places and lose fat in critical areas where we would prefer to keep it, such as the sockets of our eyes and those nice comfy cushy pads at the bottom of our toes and feet. Yes, our toes and feet! Not only does this seem grossly unfair, it also appears to defy the laws of gravity. You may well wonder how fat can move upwards from our hips and thighs to our waists instead of gravitating down to the balls of our feet. (Maybe Mother Nature figured we wouldn’t need padding on the bottom of our feet since she had expected that, by now, we’d be buried flat on our backs with our toes curled up.)
Fundamental scientific principles like gravity are not the only laws turned upside down by the aging process. There’s also those well established canons of fashion which we’ve carefully observed over the last 50 years, rules I’ve personally adhered to with far greater care and dedication than I ever paid to the tenets of judaism. Thus, being a pear, I dutifully added volume and detail to my upper body to balance my profile and draw attention away from my broader hips and thighs. Horizontal stripes were recommended and liberally applied. But as a kind of an evolving apple I would be advised to add heft and width to my hips to balance a larger upper body. What’s a girl to do – there are no fashion rules for papples!
But maybe that’s a good thing. The reality is that at this point, whether I add volume to the top or the bottom, I’ll never get a construction worker to even look up from his sandwich, let alone bother to whistle. Which is fine - in fact, it’s rather exhilarating. I am beginning to understand the attraction of organizations like the Red Hat Society, whose members (middle-aged/elderly women) gather in groups wearing bright red hats and purple dresses. The society was originally inspired by the poem “Warning” by Jenny Joseph, which included this stirring line: “When I am an old woman I shall wear purple, with a red hat which doesn’t go and doesn’t suit me...” It’s all about exploiting one of the perks of aging (there had to be one, right?) - the independence to violate every rule of fashion. Pears can dress in loud patterns with pleats strategically placed to spread just at the hips; apples can wear brightly colored thick belts and loose fitting pants and skirts. And us papples – we can just run around naked. Who cares? Who will even notice?
So remember Natural, no rules means freedom and, as Janis Joplin told us a while back: “Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose”. Except, maybe, just a little around the middle but, please god, no more from the balls of our feet.
Signed,
G.A.B. |
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Dear G.A.B,
I don’t get it. We all know that men make up the largest percentage of buyers of new cars and drivers of trucks. We also know that men don’t like to take directions, especially from women, and especially about driving. So, given all of that, why do manufacturers always seem to choose a female voice as the default feature for their GPS navigation systems? Do they think men are too proud to use a GPS and that women will prefer taking advice from other women? How do you feel about this?
Signed,
Puzzled,
Dear Puzzled,
Here’s my theory: Some male drivers out there want a female GPS voice telling them what to do for the sole purpose of enjoying the rare luxury of ignoring her, something far more difficult to do in “real life”. (Further to this point, I wonder how many men name their GPSs after their wives, mothers-in-law….) Anyway, here’s the scenario:
GPS Lady to Bob: “Turn left in one quarter mile”.
Bob: “Hah! That’s all you know lady.” (Proceeds to turn right.)
Unflappable GPS Lady : “Recalculating route.” Pause. “ Turn right at the next stoplight. “
Bob: “Wrong again! Can’t you read a map? Oh yeah, I forgot, you’re female.” (Gleefully turns left heading, of course, in the absolute wrong direction.)
“GPS Lady, without even a trace of scorn in her voice: “Recalculating route….”
“Recalculating Route”. I love it when she says that. There’s so much maternal restraint, even absolution, in those words - a form of unconditional love. Translated, it means: “Cleaning up your mess now. Let’s try this again.” The message is she won’t give up on Bob no matter how much he deserves it. At the same time, she’s taking matters in hand, acknowledging the need to regroup and change strategy.
In the end, who prevails –Bob or the GPS lady? Eventually, the GPS lady will get Bob back on track with her plodding determination but, alas, it will be a wasted victory. You see, she’s not really a woman, i.e., not programmed to punctuate her win with a deliciously triumphant “I told you so, dufus!” Though I sometimes fantasize that she’s not just a disembodied voice, that I can see her rolling her eyes and throwing up her hands as Bob disregards her directions, yet again. In fact, I imagine a giant bustling talk center filled with GPS Ladies that put their devices on mute as they gossip, complain and hoot about their stubborn, clueless male drivers: “Can you believe what that bozo did? I’d love to recalculate his route with my bare hands!”
But of course, that’s just a fantasy. The real GPS Lady never lets anything get to her. No matter how often her advice is ignored or she’s left out of the conversation she remains calm and self-possessed. (What kind of drugs is she on anyway?)
But what I really love about her is how well she knows me and how well she takes care of me. Whenever I get lost I just shout at my steering wheel, “Take Me Home!” and, like Dorothy clicking her heels three times, GPS Lady takes me home. But it won’t work if you say it. She only recognizes my voice. Just mine, because she’s my personal GPS Lady. And, of course, because she understands me so well she never, ever makes sarcastic remarks when I fail to properly follow her prompts. She knows that sooner or later, with patience and sound route guidance, she’ll get me to my destination.
And then there’s that forever hopeful, forgiving mantra “recalculating route”. What a world of wisdom is imbedded in those two words, epitomizing the need for all of us to be flexible and reflect upon and, if necessary, readjust our tactics and strategies as we make our way through life.
At this moment my husband is approaching, ominously waving a small piece of cardboard that has the unfortunate words Neiman Marcus printed on it.
Him: “Hey, look what I found in the garbage - the real price tag for that purse you said you bought for $30 at the flea market.”
Me: Desperately recalculating route.
So you see, Puzzled, we should be grateful to the GPS Lady - there’s so much we can learn from her.
Signed,
G.A.B. |
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Dear G.A.B.,
I confess I joined Facebook solely to keep tabs on my teenage son. Though I feel bad about that, I feel worse about the fact that he just defriended me after I posted a message on his “wall” congratulating him for getting an “A” on his Chem test. Apparently “Dude that was so dope!” is not acceptable language coming from a parent. But now I don’t know what to do. Any thoughts?
Signed,
Friendless,
Dear Friendless,
I too joined Facebook for the sole purpose of spying on my teenager. Any reader who is horrified by this either (a) does not now have, and has never had, a teenaged child or (b) thinks he is the possessor of that rare breed - a virtual oxymoron - the “trustworthy teen”. Parents who believe they have these are either (a) engaged in wishful thinking or (b) simply deluded. After all, teenagers aren’t golden retreivers – they don’t look up at you with guilt in their eyes and their tails between their legs so you know to look for a deposit on the living room carpet. It’s their job to hide their mischief. They are frighteningly good at their jobs. Password protected social networking sites like Facebook create ingenious opportunities for kids to conspire outside of parental jurisdiction. (It makes one nostalgic for simpler times when you could just pick up the phone extension and listen.)
Now if you’re like me, this has nothing to do with morbid curiosity. I don’t really want to know this information; in fact I fear this information. But I think I need to know. My daughter is terrific – she’s “all in all” to me and I adore her, but I don’t necessarily trust her. Though she’s no worse than most, sometimes she’s trustworthy and sometimes she’s not. My problem is knowing which is which. As one of the hundreds of FB friends, parents can follow what’s going on without reading confidential emails or text messages. But having your parents friend you on FB is as appealing to a teenager as an offer to double date. In fact there’s a whole website, called “Oh Crap. My Parents Joined Facebook”, devoted to displaying cringeworthy posts parents put on their kids FB walls. (You might want to check to see if your message is posted there.) If it makes you feel better, here’s a recent post by one mother: “Hello everyone, I’m on Facebook at long last. Looking forward to hooking up with you all!” (The website’s comment: “Care to rephrase that, mom?”)
But I think these parents have it all wrong. Instead of calling attention to themselves, they should be silently blending in so their kids forget they’re there. That’s the lesson I learned too late. When my daughter defriended me (following my comments about some inappropriate messages on her page), I deployed the usual arsenal of trustworthy parenting tools (black mail and extortion) until she was coerced into refriending me. But after I was returned to friendly status I noticed the tone of her FB wall had become distinctly homogenized. I had unwittingly sent her underground. I’m not sure where she went. I realize now that I should have just stayed defriended - let her think she wasn’t observed so I could view her in her natural habitat, so to speak. I won the battle but lost the war. Not only am I seeing an edited page, every time I latch on to a tantalizing snippet of information, e.g., a cryptic message from one of her guy friends (each and all potential corrupters of my daughter’s innocence), I’m thwarted by this message when I track the rascal to his own page: “[Potential Corrupter of Young Girls’ Innocence] only shares information with his friends.”
But now that your son thinks you’re off the site he’ll be footloose and fancy free. In other words, he will not censor his FB page for parental viewing which allows you to execute a truly effective espionage strategy. The next step is to outsource the job to the experts. And who are the experts? Other kids, of course. They know how to penetrate those inscrutable layers upon layers of secret passageways to get to the inner sanctum where other teenagers converse freely and share their most disgusting secrets. Your adolescent agent could befriend friends of his friends and follow the clues to their ultimate source. Any one of his hundreds of FB friends will do, so long as he or she is willing to report back what’s really going on. I have even come up with a snappy name for these double agent kids: PEErs (Parental Eyes ’n Ears).
It occurs to me there’s a lucrative summer job here for some enterprising highschooler. I, for one, would pay a decent amount for reliable information, at least as much as I used to pay babysitters. And the job is “scalable” - A really smart kid could “represent” maybe a dozen or more concerned parents at a time. It could amount to quite a respectable wage. You might consider advertising for qualified applicants: “Work from home. Good pay. Make your own hours. Only requirement: must be one of my son’s ___ Facebook friends and be of unsound character. References required.”
Of course, if your son finds out he will retaliate boldly – e.g., plant misinformation, spy on the spy (reporting back to his or her parents). Before you know it you could have a virtual network of double and triple agents worthy of Robert Ludlum. But then there’s this more likely outcome – the following message posted one day on your FB page: “I’m on to you - cut it out.” And that would be that. Still, worth a try.
Signed,
G.A.B. |
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Dear Grumpy Aging Boomer,
I’ve always considered myself a fashionable lady, but now it seems that nobody cares about the average middle-aged woman. I’m feeling more and more irrelevant to the fashion scene. Is there anything to be done?
Signed,
Hopelessly Out of Style
Dear Hopelessly Out of Style,
As an aging female baby boomer myself, I have to agree the situation is looking pretty grim. Overall, 1 out of every 4 adults in the country is obese, and among older boomers that number goes up, in fact way up; a significantly larger percentage of us are just plain overweight. Ok, so we’re generally a bit plump and, despite our best efforts, rather old. (The first boomers turn 64 this year.) And then, as we cling precariously to the edge of the fashion runway, Michelle Obama becomes our new first lady and we find ourselves spiraling into the abyss of fashion obsolescence.
Well, it’s certainly not news that older women have been increasingly marginalized and excluded from any meaningful place in the fashion world. Our star’s been waning for a while, but ever since Lady Bird Johnson, whatever else was happening on the pages of Vogue and Bazaar, we generally could rely on our first ladies.
Admittedly, the bar was set pretty low by the age-appropriate dressing matrons that headed the first household over the past four decades. Not to be mean, but think about it – Lady Bird, Pat Nixon, Betty Ford, Barbara Bush … The former screen actress Nancy Reagan certainly was a fashionista of sorts but, after all, she was turning the reassuring age of 60 when she assumed her place in the mansion. Following her fashion lead wasn’t all that daunting – wear red and look imperious. Even Laura Bush’s pleasing appearance had an everywoman kind of librarian appeal. But Michelle, well – what can I say –we would at least have had a shot with Hillary.
Of course, there is so much more to Michelle Obama than her striking looks. But regrettable as it may be, an inevitable facet of the role of FLOTUS is her influence on fashions of the day. Which is, of course, all well and good, but not so much for us aging baby boomers. Maybe sometime in 2018 a woman that looks more like us will again toddle onto the stage, but by then we’ll be past caring, having long since graduated from our mom jeans to elastic waist pants and, as we all know, there’s no way back from there.
Oh, of course, nobody will feel very sorry for us. We’ve had our moments, in fact decades of them, but still it’s painful to realize our time has come and gone. Just summon up the image of the average 50/60-something woman in mid-thigh shorts, a pencil skirt or a sleeveless lemon yellow fitted sheath and I think you’ll get the message pretty clearly – “No we can’t.”
Here’s my advice: Start one of those annoying email petitions and get thousands of middle-aged women to beg Michelle to bring back the pillbox hat– we could work with that - or better yet, the flowing kaftan.
If all else fails, we’ll just have to be satisfied relishing the hopeless discomfort of all those paunchy middle-aged men, aka our husbands. After all, consider what they’ve got to deal with - that unforgettable, awe inspiring image – Barack Obama in swimming trunks.
Signed,
G.A.B. |
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