Desperate in DC

Crossing the Rubicon

Dear C,

So sorry I haven't been in contact of late. Rest assured, I haven't disappeared in a puff of smoke. Rather, I have been busy fielding a number of emails and invitations from friends and family, wishing me Many Happy Returns on reaching my most recent 'milestone' birthday. Quite why people have chosen to be so kind to me on what otherwise might have been a difficult occasion is something of a mystery. The day dawned auspiciously enough, when one of the twins made me breakfast in bed, then left me in peace to eat it! It continued with phone calls and deliveries of flowers from friends, which put me in such a good mood that I simply laughed when the florist delivered a funeral arrangement by mistake. The Oldballandchain even went so far as to give me a massage - the paying kind, for once, not the usual five minute shoulder rub that invevitably results in some kind of happy ending. For him. Most gratifying of all, perhaps, was when my other daughter inquired, seemingly in all innocence, whether or not I had lost weight. The memory of this comment still brings tears of joy to my eyes, almost a week later.

However, while I am the last person to dismiss any kind of attention, I cannot help harbouring a sneaking suspicion that it is really a form of schadenfreude, from people who have already weathered this storm, or who are still far enough from it not to feel any empathy. Either that, or they fear that I am standing on some kind of emotional precipice, poised to jump. Regardless, I find myself feeling pecularly sanguine about the age in question, probably because I have already been anticipating it (and celebrating) for most of this year. I suspect reality will only set in when my birthday rolls around again next year, when another twelve months have passed and I am one year closer to death. At least then I will be able to derive some comfort from being able to wish others approaching my position a heartfelt Many Happy Returns, without inquiring too closely into my own motives.

P.

Re: Crossing the Rubicon

Darling P,

It is, all age related issues aside, so wonderful to have you back in the Village.  Most unfortunate that you will no longer be among those of us who still cling tenaciously to the belief that our thirties will last forever.  But I do so enjoy having older friends like you and don't want you to worry for one instant that our friendship will change just b/c you are now so clearly in your declining years. 

While away, you may not have known that I became embroiled in a bit of a spat with the Village Board.  I can imagine your shouts of "Quelle Surprise!" bc you do know I always try to maintain a certain level of decorum in my dealings with others.  It is, alas, only when push comes to shove (fortunately it isn't literal this time) that I must assert my most reasonable positions rather aggressively.  Seems, however, that tethering myself to the poor diseased Dutch elm straddling our property and that of the Village hasn't succeeded in convincing the Board that we shouldn't have to pay for its removal. 

So, clearly, I must simply up the stakes and wonder whether either of the twins is available early this evening for a turn at being chained to the elm's trunk.  I think, as the evening commuters pass along the Village path next to our property, they may find a child's cries for freedom compelling enough to tell the Village to please take out the damn diseased behemoth already.  Fear I've already used up the goodwill of the cherubs this morning and was surprised to see so very few people who even noticed us on their walk to the metro.  Having heard the twins wails in the past, my guess is that maybe only they can successfully pierce the best ipod headphones of those neighbors trying so very hard, yet again, to avoid knowing what we are doing.

C.   

Club Med Anyone?

P,

You must forgive my failure to attend to you in London last week, but short of tunneling under the sea, I was unable to remove myself from an escape called Club Med, tucked in a quite unassuming and cultish manner into the island of Guadeloupe.  Can't say you wouldn't have enjoyed the barely legal boys called Gentile Organizateurs (GOs for short) from Montreal nor did I avoid the slightly filthy older French men who cast a disdainful glance my way.  However, as I mostly had at least one cherub tucked over a hip or under a thigh at each moment, I am unable to report I successfully fulfilled your fantasties or mine while there. 

Did remember why tourism in France may have fallen off since the last Great War as their hospitality consists largely of a sneer and a sharp retort, but it couldn't have helped that hubby showed anyone who would listen his version of the French salute (yes, yes, his arms raised in surrender) without much provocation at all.  As we have been officially escorted from the French colony since then, without any plans or invitations to return, I can report another sighting of my Nemesis---in your own home.  Traffic is surely an absorbing topic to someone like the obc, dearest P, but is the leather whip I noticed she carried required to keep his attention at a lagging moment?  Or is that for the return of the horse and buggy to our little village? 

Don't want to suggest you're naive, my friend, but I did notice the obc hobbling a little when he put out the recycling this a.m.  Yes, yes, he did actually put it out in your absence, which is normally enough to raise my suspicion level, but the deep cuts on the backs of his thighs made me consider whether I must keep your cherubs for the rest of your visit home.  Your prompt reply is most certainly my fondest hope.

Faithfully,

C.   

Re: Club Med, Anyone?

Dearest C,

No need to apologise for the lapse in communication over the past week or so.  I know you and yours were busy sunning yourself in the Islands, prior to mailing out the ultimate eat-your-heart out family holiday card, to arrive on friends' doorstep just as they prepare to contemplate the joyless abyss that is the week between Christmas and the New Year.  BTW, were you finally able to persuade your mother not to appear topless?  If not, a couple of Photoshoped coconuts should cover your embarrassment - or you could always use the same program to enhance your own assets on a level with hers.  God forbid that we should be outshone by the women who gave birth to us!

As you can tell, any positive effects from my own pre-Christmas jaunt to London wore off faster than the buzz from my in-flight  cosmo.  On the bright side, a spot of turbulance over the Arctic Circle resulted in a twisted ankle and an upgrade to First Class, where I was able to partake of some liquid nourishment from a fully-reclined position.  Unfortunately, my trusty ankle has since proven more of a hindrance, when it comes to beating a hasty retreat the family caroling - nasty habit that, spontaneously breaking into song whenever I approach.

Thanks for keeping a sharp eye on things while I was gone.  Other than appearing considerably thinner, and more cheerful, than before I left, I see no change in behavior on the part of the oldballandchain that might indicate his participation in a relationship with a woman whose ankles put many a tree trunk's to shame.  But I intend to check his back for scratch marks tonight, all the same.  You never know what turns on a traffic nerd.

Faithfully,

P.

Decaff skim latte and 110 pounds of Instant, please

Dear C,

Your recent comments about hubby stealing your personal stache of Guatemala's finest has reminded me of a burgeoning problem I intended to bring to your attention - one that could some day require a few soul-searching decisions on our part. In case you haven't been listening to the BBC World Service recently, you may not be aware of the growing numbers of dead people in the world, and in particular, of the burning issue of what to do with all their bodies. Time was, according to the experts on the show, when a person would be left to decompose where they fell, causing little inconvenience to those around them, apart from the need to say 'excuse me' as you stepped over the decaying corpse. But in today's fast-paced world, where even our most elderly citizens can't wait to mow you down on the sidewalk with their Segues, you can see why such a laissez-faire attitude to the recently departed simply won't do any more. Which is why, apparently, some Swedish environmentalists have come up with an innovative method of freeze-drying the human body so that it can be turned into soil, and thereby recycled. (Don't ask me why the old-fashioned worm method no longer seemed up to the job; perhaps they're on Atkins, like everyone else). So next time you find yourself in Starbucks, dear C, do not be surprised if the barista serving you enquires whether you would care to have Grandma, yourself or hubby roasted or freeze-dried along with that 1/2lb bag of Indonesian Java. The future of the Aunt Glady's vegetable patch depends on your response.

Faithfully,

P.

Re: Decaff skim latte and 110 pounds of Instant, please

P,

I must first advise that no adult in this house could get by with 110 pounds of anything. Which for me raises the all-important side issue: can you freeze dry bits of oneself prior to death?  I've got a section of tummy left over from carrying four cherubs (it can't possibly be caused by late night ice cream raids) that I could spare immediately.  And, as I find my own obsession with just the right coffee bean insufferable (though clearly necessary), should we consider adding a little of mummy's tummy to it?  If it's true that we all come from dust and to dust we shall return, does it make one damn bit of difference if we consume one another, saving our planet from further overcrowding and at last making me feel worthy of my cup of java?

I fear this was a serious-minded endeavor for you, dear P, and you may think my comments are in jest.  But make no mistake: if I could consider the possibility of one morning sipping hubby while reading the morning paper in peace, it might all be bearable.

Faithfully,

C.

Forever Fifteen

Dear C,

I've finally found the perfect moniker to describe our generation of women: Adult Teenagers. Wish I could say I came up with the expression myself, but alas, I happened to read it in a New York Times article today about the dreaded fashion emporium 'Forever 21'.  For some reason, the article's author herself seemed unaware of the cultural phenomenon that she had unwittingly named, but then again, a thirty-something woman who still shops in that store is clearly in denial about many  things. For anyone else in doubt, here's a list of characteristics, to determine whether or not you qualify:

You know you're an Adult Teenager when:

1) You have your first baby, and immediately start looking round the room for its mother;
2) You are outraged by the demands of parenthood and are still looking for someone to blame;
3) You feel like the first generation of women ever to have had children, and insist on telling the world, ad nauseum, how fantastic/ fulfilling/appalling/ impossible it all is;
4) You insist on wearing low-riders, but spend the entire time yanking your top down;
5) You pretend you're shopping for your daughter while browsing in Abercrombie & Fitch;
6) Your housekeeper insists on putting away all your clean T-shirts in your pre-teen's drawers;
7) You still go to rock concerts, but you worry about hearing loss and what to do if there's a fire;
8) When something breaks down in your house, you still call your parents to come and fix it;
9) You can't help feeling you should have made it by now (whatever 'it' is);
10) You were raised to believe it was all about you, and you still believe that it is.

Perhaps the scariest part, dear C, is how our children will cope with a generation of geriatric wannabes who can't even change a light bulb.

Faithfully,

P.

Re: Forever Fifteen

P,

I'd like to say I immediately relate to your opining regarding our demographic, but most of what you claim for us relates, I firmly believe, more to the generation that came before -- those narcissists born after the second World War who became hippies. 

Of course my parents were still nearly infants when I happened upon the scene, but they seemed to use my childhood as an excuse to relive theirs.    I definitely have distinct memories of my loving but divorced parents pining after my friends and boyfriends (at least back then there wasn't the now always possible trauma of dad going after the latter).  Only recently do I believe I've raised them well enough to send them alone into the world. 

I do think, therefore, it is now my birthright to experience life as a teenager.  Won't my own children relish the opportunity to share the experience with mom?  For example, when I Ieave a restaurant and wonder whether any of the three men at the next table are watching my ass as I sashay out of the place, I can giggle about it with one of my daughters.  Things really do come full circle, don't they?   What again was your point, dearest P? 

Faithfully,

C.    

Kicking some twentysomething ass!

P,

I think it may still be possible to trounce the generation nipping at our heels, clamoring to be all that we haven't become, and who generally look better while doing it.  Don't know from where the lithe young twenty-something specimens came, but today, at yoga, they all appeared to be pasty-faced smokers sent by the local authorities to do penance for their out all-night clubbing sins.  I was, needless to say, overjoyed.  Oh sure, they downward-dogged and even came through for cobra, but wheel was way past their game.  I nearly chortled with joy as I moved painfully through the routine and realized these girls were suffering perhaps more than I.  Have we found, dear P, a level playing field at last?  Light up, young vixens, and make the girls who partied down in the eighties look positively glowing.  Perhaps the twenty-somethings will even rediscover carbohydrates, P.  Not so easy to wear expose the abs then is it, dear ones?

Faithfully,

C.   

Re: Kicking Some Twenty Something Ass!

Dear C,

Alas, as one who gave up yoga for health reasons, but not drinking or carbohydrates, I wish I could join in your well-earned gloating at being able to find yourself in positions of which the oldballandchain can only dream. Instead, I am working on a far less strenuous solution to the age-old problem of aging, and choosing to claim that I am far older than I really am. When combined with a rigorous program of hanging out at the local senior center, this should ensure that I can continue to make at least one group of people green with envy at the sight of my  buns of steel (wool). After all, if we can no longer make someone else feel worse about themselves, then really, what is the point of it all? The only fly in this ointment, unfortunately, dear C, is that I will have to discontinue being seen in public with you forthwith, in order for my 'Be Seen with a Senior' scheme to work. I hope, however, that we can continue our friendship via this correspondence from now on.

Faithfully,

P.