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.

Tuesdays With Buddhist Buddy--The Straight One (Part I)

“What the ….?” I say, paging through InStyle magazine. I friggin’ can’t believe it!

The younger girls get to wear Bohemian skirts and we’re wearing pencil! 

They get scoop-necks, we get turtlenecks! 

They get wedges and we’re stuck with slingbacks! 

I guess while I've been running to lacrosse games, something else has been running too—my youth. Apparently I’ve moved from one style category to another--from the “hip” Young to the “not-so-hip” Not Young category. 

How.   Did.   This.   Friggin’.   Happen?

I mean, I’m used to being Young; I've been young foreeevvver. I know what Young looks like—me, 16, long braids, short uniform, pouring coffee for a group of Saturday boaters at my dad’s restaurant. They smile at me. Flirt. One of them invites me to local swim hole. I’ve been Young for four full decades. 

Four. Full. Decades! 

But with this Not Young stage, I’m still figuring out if I can wear skinny jeans.

I need help.

HELP.

Wait. Breathe.

WWJD?

If he were a woman, he’d call his best friend.

Buddhist Buddy--the straight one--arrives forty-five minutes later with yerba mate in tow. She’s as close to granola as you can get without throwing it up. Her hair, face, legs, peanut butter and clothing are au natural. But she’s a very wise woman and I love her dearly.

I pour a glass of wine for me, and we sit at the kitchen table. And then it all spills…not the wine, the InStyle, the skinny jeans...

And then…. I see her lips mouthing something….wait….what the...? 

Midlife Crisis?

I’m not having a midlife crisis because I am not midlife. I mean, aren’t 40s the new 30s?

“But it’s OK Meg. Or you could wait till you’re fifty to have a crisis.” (to Buddhists time is meaningless).

“But 50 is Old,”  Did I say she was wise? I lied.

Everyone knows it’s a bigger leap to go from Young to Not Young than from Not Young to Old. Old people know they’re Old. They’ve been Old for a while. 

And I apologize to you, if you’re Old. But I’m sure you’re used to it.

Of course, Young and Old have little meaning to her. She’s taken her Bodhisattva vow, which pledges to wait to reach enlightenment until everyone has reached it. 

She’ll be waiting a long time for me.

But seriously, can I still wear skinny jeans? What about embellished tank tops?  Buddhist Buddy has no clue. Email me, I need to know.

Disclaimer: If you're expecting a happy ending, stop reading now.

And here’s what else bothers me, “On top of my fading Youngness,” …. I continue, swigging my wine, “I’m a mother. 

A mother. Me! 

Mothers make Jell-o. They wear control-top panties. They get Ma’amed regularly—at the clinc and the checkout counter: Have a good day, ma’am. Boaters don’t flirt with ma’ams. Cheryl Tiegs wasn’t a ma’am!”

Buddhist Buddy furrows her eyebrows.

“Cheryl Tiegs. The model.” You remember Cheryl Tiegs, don’t you? I first saw her photo on the back of Seventeen in junior high. I was convinced I had something to look forward to—being a woman. I couldn’t wait for my body to change, to start my period, to shave my legs. Soon I’d wear eye shadow, use Sun In, French kiss Dennis Peters. Soon I’d be a woman like Cheryl.
I was betrayed. Cheryl wasn’t a woman. She would swim in women’s clothing. She was Young. Young! Probably jail bait.

Buddhist Buddy sips her tea. “Become one with your Not Youngness,” she advises. Easy for her to say. She can become one with a tree.

She picks up a Vogue with Scarlett Jo Hansen on the cover and begins sifting through it.

“What is she, like 12?” I grab it from her and toss it to the floor. Yes, I do have a dramatic side. 

“You want to know my latest guilty pleasure?” I ask her, pouring a second drink. “When I read in Celebrity Birthdays that another actress has turned 40, like Edie Falco or Julianne Moore, I celebrate. God, the day Nicole Kidman turned the big 4-0, I cracked open the champagne.”

“Were not getting older but better,” my friend chirps.

Oh yes, the aging spin. Next, she’ll want to take me to Menopause the Musical.

“But better is hard work,” I say a bit louder than I’d intended. “Better means concealer and control-top underwear." 

I know Buddhists see life as suffering, but pleeeaase....control-top underwear?

Clearly I need another drink.

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