Cashmere

Home from work on a Friday. I kick off my boots, take off my belt, pour a glass of wine. It's chilly in the house so I reach up in my closet for my 15-year-old shabby sweatshirt. . . but then I pause; my hand hovers--and I pull down my cashmere shawl. Or scarf. It works both ways. It's richly colored and feather-light and miraculously warm and threaded with the love of the friend who carried it all the way from India to England and across the Atlantic to me.

In the sweatshirt, I schlepp. In the shawl, I swan.

In the sweatshirt, I collapse on the couch in a heap, suck down my wine, and look around wildly for potato chips. In the shawl, I lounge elegantly on the sofa. I sip. I bite delicately into the occasional stuffed olive.

But then, swanning from living room back to kitchen (need more olives), I am suddenly overcome with ambition. I aspire not simply to swan  but to float regally and beneficently, to. . . to. . .to waft, dammit! I want to be one of those wafting women whose shoes always finish off their outfits, who remember everyone's names, who never burst out into shrieking laughter at inappropriate moments.

Oh hell.

I will never waft.

I see that. I accept that.

But for far too long I have squandered my days in schlepping. And I now possess a kick-ass, genuine-article, love-laden cashmere scarf. With said scarf artfully draped about me,  I will swan through my second half-century. It's a promise.

Zoe smiled at me!

Over two decades ago, shortly after I gave birth to Owen, a friend sent us a marvelous baby gift--what must have been the first book of collected Baby Blues comic strips (I believe there are dozens now). Nothing else quite captured the confusion, exhaustion, bewilderment, the sheer "what-the-fuck-have-we-gotten-ourselves-into" of those initial weeks of parenthood. In the strip, Darryl and Wanda's first month with colicky baby Zoe are just hellish (but hilarious), and then comes The Day: The first three frames show Darryl going through his normal routine but he's walking on air, he's floating, and he has this permanent goofy grin.The final frame includes the text balloon: "Zoe smiled at me!" 

I thought of that comic strip yesterday. I got my haircut in the morning and then had a hectic but totally unproductive and unsatisfying day. I came home feeling cranky and stupid, and then I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror with my short, short hair, and I thought, "Oh god, I've turned into one of those haggard academics with the what-the-hell hair." I turned around and there was Hugh. I'll be honest: despite my cheery "Hi honey! How are you?", inside I was cringing. Hugh is 17 and therefore brutal. "You're not wearing that, are you?" "Don't you think it's time you updated your shoes to at least the 1990s?" "No offense, but you look really fat in that." "No offense, but your gray roots are totally showing." "No offense, but those leggings are for someone wayyyyy younger, you know."

I waited for the put-down.

But then, well, Zoe smiled at me:

Hugh: "You got your hair cut!"
Me: "Ye-e-e-s."
Hugh: "You look really good!"
Stunned silence.
Hugh: "You look just like Anne!"

Anne. My fiercely fit, uber-urban, totally trendy, gobsmackingly gorgeous 30-something niece.

I walked on air, I floated, all evening long.

The New Rules

So at what point does one get to check out from, well, new stuff? When does one get to say, no more, sorry, enough already, brain's tired, spirit's sapped, just can't any longer?

I had a disastrous class on Friday with a lecture I'd given with great success a couple times before--but that's never a guarantee. The students change, the class time changes, I change. And technologies change. Part of this lecture involves a film clip (from Mary Poppins--never let it be said that I do not challenge my students) and my copy is on VHS. Yes, a videocassette. But we no longer have a VCR at home so I could not cue up the scene in advance and my effort to do so in class set into motion an entire series of technological mishaps, all with the students glaring at me in obvious contempt. Because of course the scene is on Youtube and of course one can embed the scene in one's Powerpoint--if one is not me, that is. Tired old me with Mary Poppins in its gargantuan plastic rectangle, a relic of my children's childhoods.

But you know, if the problem were confined to technology, I could cope. You 're mystified, you fail, you whine and moan, and then you go find someone young who shows you how. I get that. Plus it's every generation's right to immiserate the last with new technology. I get that too.

It's the new rules that are driving me nuts.

Take the Matchy-Matchy Rule. I went home in July for a wedding and accompanied my 14-year-old niece as she hunted for shoes to wear with her silver-and-black dress. I suggested a silver-and-black pair of heels and she shot me a look somewhere between sorrow and pity: "I don't want to be Matchy-Matchy," she explained. Oh. Right. I nod like I have a clue but inside I'm asking, "Wait, when did matching become a problem? Who changed the rules? Why wasn't I notified?" And now it's a Sunday morning in August and I am wearing a new black-and-white polka-dotted sundress and I have a pair of adorable black-and-white polka-dotted earrings. . .  but Hugh says no, too Matchy-Matchy. Well, dang.

Or then there's the Trim-Your-Bush Rule. Keith and I went to see Your Sister's Sister (a terrific film, by the way) and in one hilarious scene, Rosemarie DeWitt's character reveals that her half-sister (played by Emily Blunt) once came home from a date all embarrassed because the guy had laughed at the bulge in her underwear created by her pubic hair: "She didn't know she was supposed to trim her bush!" And the Emily Blunt character is cringing and everyone in the theater is roaring and I'm laughing too but I'm also thinking, "Well, damn, so you are supposed to do that." Was this always a rule that somehow Mom forgot to inculcate? Or is it a new rule and once again, I missed the memo?

Where does one pick up these memos? When are they delivered? And really, when is it ok just to chuck them in the trash and trip along unawares, earrings matchy-matching one's sundress, bush pooching out from one's underwear, videocassette of Mary Poppins firmly in hand?

Beautiful Boots

Hugh asked for, and received, cowboy boots for his 17th birthday. I've never spent so much on a single pair of footwear, but even if he lost the danged things tomorrow, I'd consider it a smart purchase. He's been so happy. I think he may wear the boots in bed. And I completely understand--I have a pair of black leather boots that I wear as often as I can. I put them on, and somehow, the day becomes better.

But it's not just that he's enjoying the boots so much. It's that I'm enjoying him in them. There's something about cowboy boots--I imagine it's the heels combined with the stiff uppers--that makes a fellow walk differently. The walk morphs into a swagger; all the random intensity and staccato energy of a teenaged boy somehow slows and smooths, takes liquid form. God, he is so beautiful.

The boots have also brought me intense enjoyment by catapulting back into memories of Hugh's last pair of cowboy boots.

We were living in England and Hugh had just turned 5. It wasn't an easy time for him;  turning 5 meant not only the rigors of school (far less play-focused than its American counterpart, English early  primary schools actually expect a five-year-old boy to sit in a desk for hours at a time) but also more intense peer pressure, the gradual coming to grips with the at least outward conformity required for a successful negotiation of the quagmire that is one's childhood. Hugh, like most little boys, loved to dress up--but he particularly loved wearing dresses and high heels, a preference that by the age of 5 was distinctly problematic in XY-chromosome circles. At this crucial point, a pair of black leather cowboy boots--proper riding boots with chunky heels--and a Scottish kilt in the Royal Stewart tartan came to the rescue.

The boot were a birthday gift from my sister-in-law, who joined us on holiday in Scotland.  The kilt? Well, we were in Scotland. Scotland has kilts. In short order, so did Hugh. That kilt and those cowboy boots became his standard uniform--a dress and heels he could wear in public, even at the ripe old age of 5. God, he was so beautiful.

Big Foot

I read once that the only two body parts that keep growing throughout one's entire life (apart from parts that grow due to weight gain, that is) are the nose and the feet. Could this be true? Surely not. Wouldn't all old people have humongous noses and gargantuan feet? And yet. . . I swear my nose is expanding at an exponential rate. And my feet. . . well, I used to be a 6 1/2 or a 7, depending on the style and brand. Then I moved into a 7 1/2. OK, I thought, sizes shift. I mean, I used to be a 6  in clothes but now I'm a 4, even tho' I'm almost 20 pounds heavier, so umm, maybe shoe sizes went the opposite direction. Could be. It's possible. But yesterday $500 worth of Zappo's boots arrived at my door. How I love Zappo's. You go click click click on your laptop, and a couple of days later, there it is, this enormous box filled with gorgeous boots. Except in this case, the box bore a bounty of absolutely gorgeous boots sized 7 1/2  that are all too damned small.

Maybe sizes shifted downward again.

Or maybe I'm suffering from some sort of menopausal or seasonal foot swelling disorder thing.

Or maybe it really is true. One's feet do keep growing. One will soon have to walk like a clown, flipping and flopping in one's boat-like feet.

Better order a bunch of size 8 boots and enjoy normal (ish)-sized feet while I can.

Binary Parenting

Son #1.

Owen came home from college with a suitcase full of unwashed clothes. It’s not that he expected me to do his laundry—my one Absolutely Right Parenting Act was to teach (and require) my boys to wash their own clothes once they entered middle school.

So anyway, Owen came home with a bunch of dirty clothes because he’d run out of money for the washing machines in the dorm. Pleased to have him home, I scoop up a heap of utterly rank jeans and corduroys and say, “I’ll start these in the wash for you.” Owen leaps up. “Noooo! Not those jeans!” I pause.

“They have holes in the crotch,” he explains. “Washing makes the holes bigger. So I never wash them.”

“Owen,” say I. “It's time to buy new pants.”

“Why?” he asks, utterly perplexed.

Son #2.

I find a pile of clothes that Hugh plans to try to sell to Plato's Closet, a teen clothing resale shop. In the pile, right on top, sits a brand new flannel shirt, tags still on, that I'd given him for Christmas--that, in fact, he'd picked out for Christmas. I demand to know what he's thinking.

"Well, it's about to be summer so I'm not going to wear a flannel shirt," he says in one of those "like totally, duh" tones of voice.

"Hugh. We have closets. Save it for next year," I reply.

He stares at me, horrified. "Like I'm going to wear last season's clothes!"

Beatrice's Hat

Grace comes showering down in the strangest of ways, at the weirdest of times, in the most unexpected places. This week I've felt so world-weary and woebegone, beaten down and beaten up, tired out and stretched thin. And then along comes Beatrice's hat, and all is made new. How can I not love a world that produces such marvels, how can I not revel in a life that allows such delight? A curtsey to you, Princess Beatrice. You go, girl.

Thanksgiving

After all the whining, moaning, and bitching in my last post, I figure I'd better focus this one on something more positive. You wouldn't know it, but I genuinely am trying to cultivate an outlook of gratitude. No really, honestly. So here's proof: a list of Five Things For Which I Am Thankful:

1. Wimsey the Normal Kitty. She pees and poos in her litter box, and that's a fine and wondrous thing. (I'm scarred by the Peeing Kitty.) And she doesn't suddenly up and bite the nice neighbor lady, as Rowan the Neurotic Dog did just this afternoon, hence raising the specter of a huge lawsuit leading to the loss of our house and all our worldly possessions. Not that the nice neighbor lady is going to sue, she assures us she is not, but a pattern of erratic biting is emerging and sooner or later he's going to bite the wrong person and we'll end up in a trailer park having to hunt squirrel for supper. But I'm not going to talk about that. I'm being grateful and positive. Like Scarlett, "I'll think about that tomorrah." Meanwhile, I will appreciate my self-sufficient, supremely self-assured, angst-free kitty.

2. The fact that the Peeing Kitty has successfully made the transition from cossetted, clawless, indoor pet to vulnerable outdoor pet. I figured that without claws she'd be dead in a matter of days, but instead she's flourished, a poster cat for living life on the wild side. She is even beginning to look the part. Her long silky hair, designed for daily grooming and arrangement on a pillow, is shaping itself into dreadlocks: Reggae Kitty. Rastafarifeline. Marley-Miaow. (OK, I'll stop now.) I am grateful that she has lived this long because now when, as is inevitable, she is run over by a car or mauled by a stray dog, I'll feel less guilty. Life on the edge suits her. Some of us were just made for a short wild ride.

3. The iPhone. It has made Hugh happy. It's downright scary how happy he is with that thing. But he's happy. And happy Hugh means much less conflict in the household. Thank you, Apple people.

4. My Gap Body tee-shirt bras. Now, I hate bras. I hate the feel of a bra. I hate the damn straps that always drift down my upper arms and I despise that tight elastic around my chest. But several years ago I discovered Victoria's Secret simple cotton triangle bras. So light and comfy, with straps that stayed in place. And then VS stopped making my bra! Just like that! Without even thinking about my needs, absolutely no consideration whatsoever. After months of searching and much money squandered on various torture-inflicting boob-holders, then, I rejoice in the Gap Body no-wire tee-shirt bra. Not as effortlessly comfortable as the VS triangle, but close. . . and unlike the VS bra, this one contains enough fabric to hide the sight of an erect nipple. A good thing, actually, as I often do get excited when I teach--intellectually rather than sexually, mind you, but the nipple looks the same. And undergraduates are easily distracted. Gap, I am grateful--as, I am sure, are my students, who are no doubt nauseated by the thought of an aroused 50-year-old history professor.

5. My Dyson vacuum cleaner. It's difficult to admit, as I would very much like to be the sort of woman whose mood never depends on household appliances. . . but I am not that woman, not yet, so until I get there, thank you, Mr. Dyson. This vacuum cleaner rocks.

It's come to Crocs

I am now in physical therapy for my foot. Alert readers will remember that I had foot surgery back in December. A bone spur, basically a problem with the left big toe, no big deal.

Sigh. I suppose I really should have known better. But. Well. I didn't. I thought, you go in, you get the operation, you lie around for a bit, you limp around for a bit, and then all is well. Because that's the point, right? The surgery fixes the problem; it makes all things well.

But foot surgery, it turns out, is like kitchen renovation. It never turns out ok. Every day now I meet someone new who regales me with yet another story of Foot Surgery Gone Bad, a story that always involves many subsequent surgeries to correct the problems caused by the first surgery. And you know what's really frustrating? Everyone seems to know all about all of this. When I tell various enquiring friends and family members that my surgery not only seems to have made the initial problem worse, but to have created new problems, they smile sadly, shake their heads, and say, "Weellll, I was afraid of that. . . "

Fine, fine, just fine. But: new rules, ok? If I am about to do something really self-destructive, you fucking tell me so.

So now I have a locked-solid big toe joint and plantar fasciitis (yes, that's really how it's spelled). Turns out if your toe can't bend, your foot can't roll. Feet must roll. If a foot does not roll, the foot's tendons go on strike. I think it's in their contract or something: no rolling, ok, well then, no stretching. Foot with tendons that don't stretch = foot in pain. And then you know what happens? You start walking funny to reduce the pain, and if you walk funny, you get hip problems, which lead to shoulder problems, which produce neck problems, which infect your brain and you die. Well, not quite, but awfully close because you're limping and you're limited and yes, you've become your grandma. Except she was 85 and you're 50. She was a gentle, gracious lady. And you're a pissed-off , kvetching, middle-aged cripple.

Yesterday I met a fellow foot surgery victim while having my nails shellacked. On my feet I sported these godawful ugly-but-let's-call-them-funky New Balance "flip-flops" (more like the offspring of flip-flops mated with those gargantuan orthopedic shoes that girls named Peggy always had to wear in grade school). Said flip-flop offspring don't bother the scar on the top of my foot. (Oh! right, haven't mentioned The Scar, have I? Turns out my princess-and-the-pea body won't tolerate the dissolving stitches; nope, won't let those vulgar things dissolve in my ultra-fine, oh-so-sensitive interior; so instead each of them is slowly creeping to the surface, accompanied by lots of dramatic inflammation and infection.) Anyhoo, my new foot friend expressed surprise at my footwear (in a kind way; most people just bust out laughing) and said, "I'm amazed you're not wearing Crocs. I don't know what I'd do without my Crocs. That's all I've worn for two years."

Crocs. For two years.

I'm a comfy, funky shoe person. But. Crocs. For two years. Really? It's come to this?

Winter Lust

It's that time of year. Nope, not almost Christmas, tho' I guess it is that, actually. But, like everyone else whose life is constrained and sustained by the academic calendar, I do not acknowledge Christmas until after the final exams are graded. Nope, by "that time of year" I mean: 'tis the season for porn. Oh, not that kind. I'm talking catalogue porn. Specifically winter clothing catalogue porn. Temperatures today here in balmy Baton Rouge are in the high 70s. Humidity hovers at 90%. My students came to class, as always, in shorts and flip-flops. And I, I sit on the sofa with my Eddie Bauer and my L.L. Bean and my J. Jill catalogues, and I linger lovingly, lustfully, longingly on the full-page, color photos of thigh-length chunky wool sweaters and thick velvet leggings, down parkas and polartec ski jackets, matching fluffy hat and mittens sets. It is not healthy for me, I know. But damn, it feels good.

Return to Heloiseland

I've posted before about my favorite newspaper column, "Hints from Heloise." I do love Heloiseland in all its order and enthusiasm and problem-solving spirit. This week, however, was truly a highpoint for Heloise lovers.

First came Cindy H. from Baytown, Texas. Cindy, weighed down with those "older bottles of spray perfume that [she] no longer liked or that, with age, had become too strong," has found a creative solution. "I now give a few squirts of spray to the inside of my cardboard toilet-paper rolls so that, with each use, a nice scent is released."

And just like that, we enter the threshold of an alternative universe: Heloiseland, where so little goes awry that its inhabitants have time and energy to fret over excess perfume spray bottles and where now, thanks to Cindy H. of Baytown, Heloiselanders can enjoy the fragrance of old perfume with every wipe.

But it got better.

Betty Hill, of Grove City, Iowa, wrote in to tell us, "After washing and drying sweaters, blue jeans, hooded sweats, etc., remove lint from the inside of all pockets by turning wrong-side out and rubbing briskly with an emery board. This works like a charm."

Gosh. I didn't even know about the problem of pocket lint! I will confess, that in a shocking reversion to traditional gender roles, I am the household laundress--ok, actually, I only do Keith's and my laundry; as soon as the boys entered middle school, I introduced them to the wonders of the washer & dryer, and insisted they take charge of their dirty clothes--which means that to get into bed every night, Hugh has to wade through a knee-high "clothesdrift" (it truly does resemble a snowdrift, except it's a lot more colorful and it smells much, much worse, but hey, that's his problem)--and I admit I'm a laundry "lay-about," as the British would say: the journey from dirty clothes hamper through washer/dryer onto the folding table (aka the dining room table) and into drawers and closets can take weeks, yea, even months. Occasionally, Keith will casually inquire, in his best "I'm a feminist and I am in no way implying you should be delivering clean clothes to my wardrobe" tone, "Umm, have you by any chance seen my khakis?" I ponder and then reply, "Oh right. They're in the dryer"--where they've been for six days.

All of which may help explain my reaction to Betty Hill of Grove City, Iowa.

Betty Hill, I am in awe. I mean, I'm scrambling through the dirty clothes hamper to find my no-line panty that I wore three days ago but haven't washed yet and now need because I'm going to wear my tight skirt, and you, you, oh amazing Betty Hill, you are filing--or perhaps buffing is the correct word-- the inside-out pockets of blue jeans and hooded sweats with your emery board.

Betty Hill of Grove City, Iowa: Can I come live with you? Will you buff away my pocket lint? And maybe squirt aged perfume on my toilet rolls so that when I poop, all I smell is ancient Charlie or Estee Lauder White Linen? And I know you keep Heloise's Always-Ready Basic Muffin Mix on hand, so that when unexpected guests drop in, you can quickly blend in an egg and a half-cup of milk, and voila! produce home-baked muffins in ten minutes. Betty, I could use a muffin. Please, can I come stay with you in Heloiseland?

It's really ok

The summer after my first year in graduate school I worked as a nanny for my brother and his wife. Nancy was a stay-at-home mom, heavily pregnant with Baby #5, and heavily weighed down with doctors' appointments and medical tests for Toddler 4, a charming, curly-haired, chubby little charmer born with a host of "issues," as we say when we can't figure out what's going on. (Like when the specialist told me I had what the experts call "sore arm syndrome." Seriously. That's what they call it. It means, as the specialist went on to explain, "we see there's a real problem and we haven't a clue how to help you." I liked this guy.)

Anyway, back to my shortlived nanny career: in the course of that summer, my sister-in-law Nancy said something really important: "I love all my children all of the time, but I don't always like all of them all of the time. Sometimes, you know, you just don't like a kid for awhile."

She said it casually, as we were scraping a concoction of melted Legos mixed with Skittles off the just-refinished wooden floor. But this casual comment has helped me immensely.

In the short term, it helped me see that no, I was not crazy, my mom really didn't like me, but that was ok, she loved me, which is all one can really expect, and hey, I didn't like her too much at that point either. And that was ok too.

[OK, Transparency Moment: it took me many exhausting hour-long sessions and many shredded Kleenexes in neutral-toned offices with neutral-faced therapists to be able to type "that was ok". ]

In the long term, damn, absolutely, you love your kid but holy cow, sometimes, you just don't like him (or her--but I never had a her, sadly) very much. Or at all.

Take the last two days, for example. I love Hugh absolutely and unconditionally. But over the last two days, I haven't liked him at all. Because he's been a colossal shit.

(I know, I know, he's 15 3/4; he's supposed to be a colossal shit. And I'm supposed to be colossally [is that a word? doesn't look like a word, does it?] annoyed. We're both playing our parts. But it's just that he's sooooo good at his part.)

Hugh was furious with me because I came home tired from work and wouldn't immediately jump in the car and drive him to the library (a 20-minute drive, btw). For the last few months, he's met once a week or so with some friends at the library to "study biology." And I've driven him there and Keith has picked him up. But Keith was out of town and I was tired and I wanted a glass of wine (ok, yes, several glasses of wine) and I didn't want to drive for 80 minutes back and forth, back and forth. So I said no. Am I a Bad Mom?

Personally, I think it's a structural/societal problem rather than a parental issue. Why do I have to drive this child to the library? Why can't he walk there or take a bus? Must I really shoulder the blame and the consequences for the many many many wrong-headed, wrong-hearted decisions made about taxation and urban planning and mass transit?

Hugh could care less about the societal/structural issues. He sees things simply and clearly. Simply and clearly, I'm a Bad Mom. And so his response to my "no, not this week, honey," was to punish me. Over the next two days, I became acquainted with my shortcomings as a housecleaner, a cook. a pet owner, a laundress, a driver, a gardener, a wife, a teacher, and a friend; I learned why my clothes, my hair, my jewelry, my toenail polish, and my taste in tv shows were not only inadequate but an insult to humankind; I was forced to see that the way I walk, blow my nose, sleep, remember family vacations, pronounce various words, and chop onions all threatened the future of civilization.

So, I'm grateful to Nancy. Because of her, I know it's ok not to like a kid for awhile. I'll always love him. And sometimes I like him. Some time soon, I'm sure, I'll like him. And that's ok. It's all one can expect. And really, it's ok. Really. OK.

Post-Girdlehood

I've been thinking about girdles. As one does.

Throughout most of my childhood, Mom wore a girdle for dress-up occasions, which pretty much meant weekends--Saturday night out to dinner with Dad, Sunday morning and evening to church. I was asleep when they returned late on Saturday nights so missed the de-girdling, but the Sunday process remains indelibly carved into my memory. Despite a myriad of Sunday dinner tasks demanding her attention, Mom would clomp upstairs in her high heels and she'd be hollering as she went, "I just have to get out of this girdle!" A little bit later we'd hear the shout of relief and downstairs Mom would trot as her hands massaged her stomach and hips.

I identified in many ways with my mother. She was a woman; I'd become one too. That was clear. Strangely, however, I understood implicitly and absolutely that I would never pass into the realm of girdledom. I don't recall ever thinking about it consciously, certainly not ever asking about it. I just knew: Mom and her friends wore girdles. I and my friends would not. This was A Fact.

Except it turns out that it wasn't. Isn't. Because now there are "body shapers." I thought I was living in the post-girdle world, but post-girdlehood was an illusion.

Kind of like the day of Obama's inauguration, when I thought that a majority of Americans were genuinely, truly embracing his vision of a globally aware, environmentally concerned, social democratic society. An illusion.

Guess I'd better just hike up the girdle--excuse me--body shaper. But someday, someday, change is gonna come.

I used to be better

Today I bought a Dyson. Vacuum cleaner, that is. Not the roller ball kind, as I couldn't justify the extra $100 just so I could zoom around corners. It's not a race car, for pete's sake.

Today I also purchased ridiculously expensive black jeans from J.Jill. And I got a pedicure and manicure.

Can you tell it's been a really bad week?

When did I become a person who indulges in Shopping Therapy? Good lord. I used to be better than this. I used to be, you know, sane.

The Queen Goes Shopping

I've finally solved a mystery that has been perplexing me for years: Where does the Queen of England get those dresses and handbags? Now I know. From a small coastal town in Norfolk called Sheringham. Like all coastal British towns, Sheringham bulges with tea shops and fish-n-chippies and ice cream counters and hopeful watercolorists. Unusually, however (at least in my experience, and I actually do have some experience in British beach holidays--much more so, bizarrely, than most of the natives of my acquaintance, who flee to Spain or Egypt or Thailand for their seaside getaways), Sheringham also includes a large number of ladies' clothing shops, all frozen somewhere in the mid-1950s.

So now I know. In the off-season, Her Maj must scutter on down and load up the Rolls with heaps of flowered frocks and boxy handbags. Maybe she stops at Ye Olde Tea Shoppe for a herring bap or a bacon buttie, and then strolls along the promenade and watches the waves. I hope so. I'm sure it would do her good.

Out of Place

I'm beginning to think it wasn't such a good idea to spend the month in which I turn 50 in the company of 15 undergraduate women. All these slender waists and slim thighs and firm butts and oh, the perky boobs, perched up above flat tummies like a couple of cupcakes piled high with frosting. My boobs look more and more like dead flounders. Out at dance clubs til the wee hours of the morning, these Lovely Young Things then show up all bright and yes, perky, goddamn perky, at 8:30 breakfast while I, I of the are-those-boobs-or-are-they-dead-flounders, I struggle to stay up til 10.

Our student apartments here in Ireland adjoin a conference hotel that seems largely to cater to busloads of German retirees who, in between bouts of porch-sitting, shuffle around in sensible trousers and clunky shoes. Not a perky boob among them. I think I'll just hang out with the Germans in my free time. Sensible and clunky with lots of porch-sitting--sounds about right.

Old Lady Feet

I crossed a new threshold this week. Literally and metaphorically.

The literal threshold was very pleasant. I walked into the New Balance store, where I'd never shopped before, and I must say I've never had such a patient, helpful, and knowledgeable shoe clerk. [Disclaimer: Neither I nor any of my family members are employed by New Balance. Tho' given the oil spill , the gutting of the Louisiana fishing, shrimping, oyster cultivating, and tourist industries, and the resulting sharp decline in state revenues, I soon may be exploring a new career in shoe retail.]

The crossing of the metaphoric threshold was decidedly less enjoyable. I've entered the world of Old Lady Feet. The onset of bone spurs and arthritis in my left foot* means none of my shoes--not the fab boots I splurged on this winter, not my stand-by sexy sandals, not even my funky Clarke clogs or cutey pink striped slip-on Keds--are comfortable. So now, thanks to New Balance, I have three pairs of very sturdy shoes that will keep my feet at the proper angle and reduce the physical discomfort. Or at least that's what's supposed to happen. I'll tell you what's guaranteed to happen: a massive increase in social discomfort. These are some amazingly ugly shoes. Hugh is mortified--I doubt he'll ever let himself be seen with me again--and even Keith could only bring himself to say, "Well, they're not that bad." And then, to pile corns on top of calluses, as it were, keeping Old Lady Feet comfy turns out to be an expensive business. This trio of what Hugh calls "Grandma shoes" cost $500. Eek! I've never spent that kind of money on shoes.

So, I guess I should dwell on the positive. I've now crossed the threshold into the world of Expensive Shoe Consumption--the world, in fact, of Sex and the City. Voila! I'm Carrie Bradshaw sauntering along in ridiculously pricey shoes. OK. OK. Clunking. Clunking along in ridiculously pricey shoes. But at least I'm still clunking.





*See "I Have Seen the Future" (April); "Life after 50" (May)

Life after 50

A couple of weeks ago, Baton Rouge hosted the "Life After 50" expo. The ads promised a delectable array of products and services aimed at the "50-plus set." The 50-plus set? I turn 50 and I'm in a new set? Harumph.

Needless to say, I did not attend--a decision confirmed by the photo in the local paper the next day, which featured three decidedly geriatric individuals, biting dubiously into Kalamata Tapenade Bruschetta (the Suggested Choice for Healthy After-50 Entertaining). Hmmph. No perky chirpy dietician needs to introduce me to bruschetta or tapenade or kalamata olives, thank you very much.

The next week the same local newspaper featured a big article on the Red Hat Ladies. You know, those old, spunky ladies who dress up in purple and wear gargantuan red hats and go out for lunch and act wild and crazy over spinach salad and iced tea. To my horror, I learned that a woman can be transformed into a Red Hat Lady at the ripe old age of, yes, 50.

50!! I turned the page with a contemptuous sniff. Gimme a break. 50! Hardly the start of old age.

One should never sniff contemptuously. One should never dismiss perky chirpy dieticians. One will pay. Big time.

Today I went to the podiatrist for my ridiculously sore foot. No, it's not gout as Keith predicted. It is, the extremely competent, efficient, articulate doctor who looked all of 16 years old explained, a matter of jammed bones, leading to bone spurs, leading to arthritis. Wahh.

Leading to extremely painful injection into sore toe joint this afternoon. Extreme Wahh.

Leading, most likely to surgery.

Fine. One and a half months short of my 50th birthday, and the road ahead is clear: rapid physical disintegration and decay.

Excuse me. I'm off to search out other members of my 50-plus set. And I have to shop for a really big red hat. And make up a batch of Kalamata Tapenade Bruschetta.

Fashion Revolution

The time has come, the walrus said, to talk of many things. . . actually, just hats and gloves. And I'm not really the Walrus. I think that was John Lennon.

Anyway. I've been looking at my hands. They are old lady hands. Wrinkly. And there are these spots. They used to be freckles--charming, mischievous, evoking a youth spent dropping from the rope swing into the lake (there was no swing; there was no lake; there wasn't much of a youth-but the freckles didn't know that). Now these insouciant little freckles have morphed into age spots. Just like my mom's. Geez. Just like my Gram's. They (the age spots, not Mom and Gram) look like some amoeba-like aliens planning their conquest of the human race.

And then there are the fingernails. Or lack thereof. I try. I really do. And for a month last spring, I actually did have nails. A brief, shining moment of being good at being female. But then I reverted to my usual ragged, jagged nails bit to the quick, bleeding cuticles, pus-pulsating hangnails. I can't help it. Life is hard. Fingers are close at hand. I bite. I tear. I chew. I pick. I prod. I peel.

So. The solution, obviously, is a grass-roots renaissance of gloves. Not utilitarian winter gloves, which clearly would not catch on here in the Deep South. I mean, ladies' gloves. Gloves for all climates and classes. Elegant, silk-like elbow-caressing gloves. And little lacy white wrist gloves. You know, gloves. The sort of gloves I have some vague, primordial memory of my mother wearing to church. And even me, as a very little girl, in white fake patent-leather shoes and white tights and a pastel blue church dress. And gloves.

And if we're doing gloves, then we must do hats. Again, fuzzy, hazy pictures come swimming up from long ago of my mother and the other Ladies, bedecked and bedazzling up on top. Think of it. No more Bad Hair Days. The ability to put off your roots touch-up for another month. No more blowdryers and curling irons and straightening rods, no more mousse and gel and paste and wax and "Product." Just pop on that sexy little beret. A dashing toque. A demure yet ooh-la-la pillbox. A jaunty newsboy cap. A feminine, postmodernist take on the cowboy hat. Oh, the possibilities are endless.

But if the grassroots Hats-and-Gloves movement fails, then I suggest we all adopt the hijab in solidarity with our Muslim sisters. Or shoot. Given the realities of the Body Facing 50, let's just go for the fullout burka. All this time, I've identified the burka with oppression, but honestly, maybe it would be the ultimate liberation: Time to go to work? Pull on the burka and you're heading out the door, 60 seconds max.

But I've got my eye on the cutest straw cloche with a black silk ribbon, paired with lacy black cotton gloves. Maidens of menopause, unite!

Girlie Glam

I'll confess, I wanted daughters. Actually, it's not much of a confession. Anyone and everyone who knows me knows my longing for a daughter. Not instead of my sons, mind you, but in addition to. (Well, ok, it is true that I have proposed a straightforward swap to my sister Cheryl on numerous occasions--"I'll trade you Hugh for either Elizabeth or Allie"--but that's only because both of her girls seem like they really should be mine, and Hugh really wants a mom who wears high heels, drives a cool car, and has granite countertops.) Nonetheless, I have found raising sons fascinating.

Particularly the gender-bending. By the time Owen was three, I waded daily through imaginary pools of blood and climbed over piles and piles of fantasy bodies--the pretend corpses of the Bad Guys slain by Sir Owen, Owen the Cowboy Kid, Pirate Owen, and Owen the Red Power Ranger. And yet, when we pulled up to the McDonald's drive-in window, he would ask for the girl's Happy Meal, because he preferred the mini-Barbies to the Matchbox cars.

With Hugh, the gender bending intensified. Unlike Owen, Hugh had no interest in Romance or History. With Owen, bedtime reading brought us to Narnia, to Prydain, to the Shire and Mordor. Hugh, however, preferred to read about shark habitats and the nocturnal habits of ants. When I traveled on imaginary excursions with Owen, we trekked to Camelot or Sherwood Forest, to the Alamo or to Perelandra. With Hugh, we drove to Shreveport. The point is, Owen found that sparkle and glamour, the sense of glory, the breach in the boundaries of space and time--all of which is so essential to make it through the agonies of childhood--from his rich fantasy life. Hugh had to find it elsewhere.

And when he was little, he found it in cross-dressing. Let's face it, boy's clothes are pretty boring. But walk on over to the girls' department, well, it's the stuff of fantasy: Glitter, lace, sequins, silk, velvet. Camis and slips. Shawls, feathery boas, capes. Nail polish. Eye shadow, eyebrow pencil, blush, lipstick. Earrings, necklaces, bracelets, rings, scarves, belts. High-heeled booties, strappy sandals, spiky-heeled and toeless pumps. Barrettes, braids, ribbons, tiaras, headbands. Who can blame a little boy in search of glamour and glory for plunging in? And so he did. At his request, I regularly painted his toenails (that way, he could hide the color when he felt it necessary and flaunt it when he found it safe). He saved up his weekly allowance to buy sparkly high heels from the Girlie Dress-Up aisle in Walmart's toy section. He adapted whatever was at hand (dish towels, my negligee's, aprons) to fashion evening gowns.

Then we moved to England, and on one school holiday took a trip to Scotland. And there were men in skirts. Men. In public. In skirts. Within 24 hours of our crossing the Scottish border, Hugh had a kilt. Which he proudly wore for the next two years--with his beloved cowboy boots.