Tuesday, September 29, 2009

Stuck in the Middle....Alone

Stuck in the Middle...alone


I never forgot the look on her face when, after her 40th birthday party as we sat collapsed on the stairs, she said,

“When you are young and men whistle at you or yell at you from their cars you roll your eyes and think what pigs men are, right? Well, last week I was walking past a construction site and I tensed up ready to slough off the hoots and catcalls. Nothing came. They didn’t even notice me. And then it hit me like ice: I’m old.” 

I was eighteen at time time. The despondency in the birthday girl’s eyes as she slumped against the railing mindlessly twirling a green ribbon around her thumb was something that never left me. It came back stronger than ever a few weeks ago when I attended a magazine launch party. 

I have been a writer in this fair city for seven years. In Boston before that. I don’t consider myself a Pulitzer contender, (OK I do, whenever I finish that damn book) but I do have a healthy ego about my career. I even got a VIP invite to this party. So, I am standing in line, excited about how Sex and the City this all feels when the first diss of the night happened. 

One of the higher-ups of the mag was greeting everyone in the line. He gets to me, looks at me from my stellar D&G shoes to my fabulous blow-out and....walks right by to the people behind me. 

My first thought was, “OMG, have I slept with him??” Then, “Well, I don’t have a name tag on, so how could he know who I am?” To ”F*@K, I wish I had a cigarette.” And I don’t smoke. 

To sum: I couldn’t charm my way to the front of the bar to get a drink; no member of the male (or female for that matter) species felt sorry for me and offered to get me one; the photographer walked by me numerous times without even a pity snap and someone dumped something sticky all over my insanely expensive shoes. 

The kicker: A handsome man did slip me his biz card. Finally, I ‘m redeemed! 

“Oh, I am so flattered, but I am happily married.”

He looks confused. “Mark over there said you are going through a divorce.” 

“No, not at all.”

“Sorry, he thought you could use a divorce lawyer.” 

He’s not even hitting on me, I realize as I see a law firm embossed on the card. 

Pan to Mark pointing to the lady next to me, “It’s her....her!” 

I’m old. 

And not the trendy Cougar-old either. I am stuck in the middle of perky-boob-twenties and hoarding-young-men-forties old. Too old to have the thong peeking over the jeans thing look sexy. Too old for a sparkly pink phone. Too old to blast Party in the USA and not look like I have an 11-year old daughter. Look like I’m getting a divorce old. 

Later than night, after a few Manhattans (yes, I know--an old man drink) I made a list of what I can proudly rock as a thirty-something that I could never do as a 20-year old. 

I properly pepper phrases like “per se” and “he doesn’t suffer fools gladly” into conversation. I whip up gourmet dinners without looking at a cookbook. I make a perfect martini. I can walk down stairs in 4-inch stilettos while holding said martini and never spill a drop. I wear red lipstick without looking like a hootchie. I love that after seven years my husband still thinks I am a goddess (notwithstanding the roofie-spiked coffee I brew for him every morning). I love that my son greets me like I am a celebrity every time I enter a room.

Seeing how far I’ve come through the aromatic haze of V.O. versus under the harsh light of a launch party makes me feel so much better. 

Update: I went to another publicity party a few nights ago. My newly minted confidence must have been putting off some strong vibes. Never having to wait for a drink, I flawlessly carried a full martini across the bustling room without spilling a drop, while the 20-year olds cursed triangular glasses and tried to shove their thongs back where they belong.