More Tuesdays With Buddhist Buddy--The One I'd like to Strangle

No Buddhists were injured in the writing of this post...

but my mind did go to a dark place a few times. I love my Buddhist Buddy, I do. But you’d think with all the compassion crap they espouse, she might have the decency to join me in my midlife mother f*cker of a crisis. But no, she’s says stuff like…

Meg, many women accept their aging with grace.

Hello, I say back.

They’re all on Paxil. P A X I L. Sometimes her naivety worries me.

So where was I? Oh yeah, skinny jeans. Can I wear them? But this, of course, is a question for my gay Buddhist Buddy, not my straight one.

But then she takes a sip of tea and says something that gives me pause. It sounds like your crisis is about more than physical age. It seems it’s really a fitting in sort of thing.

I realize Dr. Buddhist is right.

I am looking to fit into more than just skinny jeans. 

I still want to be a member of the club. Can you blame me? I’ve had these distinct phases in my life: my Rock Concert Phase in high school (AKA Hearing Impaired Phase); my Theater Party Phase in college (AKA my Dance Nude to Weird Music Phase); in graduate school, my Save the World Phase (AKA Excuse Me, Could You Sign this Petition Phase). 

It didn’t matter where I was, what I was doing, or how I was dressed, I was young. That was a fact. I never thought about it. I’ve played various roles and the thing they had in common was the "young" actress.

But in my next role, I begin, I’ll be lumped with InStyle’s Fi…Fi…Fif…. I swallow hard, fifty and up. That’s the same age group as my grandmother, for Chrissake! I’ll have to wear housecoats and Isotoner slippers!



Buddhist Buddy laughs. She knew me when I wore vintage under slips and High top shoes.

I’m now an Inbetween. An in-be-tween! And I don’t know what an Inbetween is supposed to do. Really. I mean, can I still stay in youth hostels?  Run in a mosh circle?  Can I still wear a bikini? High tops? 

When do I start wearing silk blouses or those artist smock shirts? When will I be too old to shop at the Gap? When will I not feel like I’m living in the Gap?

The gap between Young and Not Young.

I’m living in the frickin’ Gap, I shout.

At that point Daughter inquires from the family room if I’m OK. No, I’m not, I call out. Go back to watching Degrassi.

My head aches. I pour more wine.

Here’s the thing, ever seen those clerks at the Gap? They know their freedom is approaching and that it’s endless and limitless. They’re oblivious to the fact that one day they’ll be 40-something, knee deep in knee socks ruminating over which fabric softener to use. O-bliv-i-ous.

That’s what I want. To be oblivious. To believe that the possibilities are endless. Isn’t that what we all want? Circle Yes/No. Better yet, leave me a comment. 

Fine! I slam the glass down on the table.

Let those clerks think they’ll have time for foreign films. 

Let them think they'll build a 30-foot sloop and summer in Maine in something out of House Beautiful with Stickley furniture and rare books.

Let them think they’ll take up Celtic harp, Buddhist throws in. (Told you. Gra-no-la)

Let them think they’ll be poets or filmmakers or Wall Street wizards, I continue.

Or organic farmers.

Does she think this is funny? 

Let they think they’ll always like fast cars and loud music and… 

Thai food. 

Let them think they’ll always wear skinny blue jeans. 

I mean, the inside of me still feels like them. I do. I really do. I could hop in a convertible this minute and drive topless down the highway. Only at my age, I’d have to wear a seatbelt and SPF 62 sunscreen.

And in case you're thinking of tagging me with this:

Here it is. My most honest scrap confession: Trying to find the right fit of jeans at the Gap recently, after trying on 38 pairs, I found myself hating those 17-year-olds because they are 17 and hating, hating my 40-something self because I’m 40-something.  

I tell this to Buddhist Buddy--a desperate cry for sympathy. 

But clearly I’m barking up the wrong Buddhist.

Meditate, says Buddhist. Contemplate the pros and cons of being Not Young.

Whatever. But is not wearing skinny jeans a pro or a con? And I’m confused about Nicole Kidman. Now that she’s 40, we mature women have another gorgeous Not Young role model. But does that mean that the rest of us are expected to look as good as she does?

Doesn’t ‘being a mother’ make the positive column of being Not Young? Buddhist says.

Hmmm.

Doesn’t it?

I guess, I concede. Though I don’t like seeing my own mother when I look in the mirror, I do enjoy being one. I mean, my ten-year old has no idea of my true hair color. 

Right. His love is boundless, she adds.

But let’s face it, I say retrieving the corkscrew on the counter. My kids are part of the reason I have to color the gray. 

Of course, not being one to use chemical dyes, Buddhist Buddy has no idea about that either. 

Her graceful acceptance of aging makes me think I should consider her religion. Sitting meditations, silent retreats, the path to enlightenment. Nah…

I grab the phone book and look up the number for my doctor. I’m taking a different route.

More Honest Scrap at Humor-Blogs.