Joan Rivers, the amazing and ever-funny comedienne made an eclectic and provocative appearance on the new Tonight Show; the same Tonight Show she used to host when Johnny Carson was still alive. She showed a picture of herself with Johnny: she was stunning. Now her face surreally resembles The Joker on an episode of Batman. She has been botoxed, pulled, and sown into a caricature of her former self. Why? While at the hairdresser I read an article on movie stars who have been “plastic surgeoned” to the point of bizarre and yes: ugliness. Again, why? Meg Ryan was beautiful and sweet, now she looks like someone hit her in the face with a baseball bat. What is more incredible the article noted, was the fact that some of these stars have gone from big screen draws to anonymity because of their “improved” looks. They lost the look that launched them to fame and they lost the scripts that went with it. Albeit the fact that both male and female stars have been sown into quilts, the number of females seems to outweigh the number of males. Again, why?

The double standard lies in society’s expectations of health and viability. Meaning: the younger a woman looks, the healthier and more active she is perceived to be. Getting the dream job, the best script, the youngest boyfriend is all about being young. In one of my favorite movies The First Wives Club, Goldie Hawn as the sexy 40ish movie star Elise, goes to her plastic surgeon for another lip lift. The plastic surgeon played by pan faced Rob Reiner, tries to talk her out it by telling her that at her age she looks terrific. She balks at him and says that in Hollywood there where only three ages for women: “babe, district attorney, or driving Miss Daisy.” How true is that? I think that Goldie Hawn struck a relevant note. To solidify that argument: in the same article about movies stars and enhancements, Jamie Lee Curtis told reporters that when she made the decision to allow her hair to turn gray and age “gracefully,” her Hollywood friends told her that she had just signed her death warrant as an actress. However, she maintains that she has remained popular and played a recurring role on the hit series NCIS; looking great and gray at 50+. Of course she now plays parts of “her age!”

Why the fear of rejection because we opt to let our looks grow with our age? The world has set separate standards for men and women. When a man’s hair turns gray he is “distinguished” or “handsomely middle-aged:” have you checked out George Clooney lately? His hair is grayer than my mother’s and she is 97. But he still draws the younger crowd into swooning. Now let’s turn the table 180% toward the woman: gray? “She is letting herself go; she is beginning to look her age.” Well, shut the front door and call me stupid, but aren’t we supposed to look our age? And what is wrong in looking our age? Now watch a paunchy gray-haired middle-aged dude strut with a woman young enough to be his daughter: the reaction is envy and a pat on the back for being such a sport. Check out a woman with a younger man: the reaction is generally border-line incredulity “Tut, tut, tut, he is young enough to be her son!” I once heard a joke about Sophie Tucker, an amazing provocative vaudeville entertainer of the early 20^th century. She was healthy looking and funny. It seems (or so the story goes) that Sophie had a friend called Ernie, and both Sophie and Ernie were in their 80’s. One day Ernie told Sophie that he “got himself a 20-year old: how about that?” Sophie replied to Ernie that she got herself a 20-year old as well, but she reminded him “that 20 goes into 80 a helluva lot more than 80 goes into 20!”

The point is that we all grow older and old. Why are women under so much more scrutiny than men? Why are women more insecure when it comes to age than men? When a man reaches a certain age he seems to come to terms with the fact that he is losing his hair, losing his bowels, and gaining a gut. But society does not expect anything else from him. A woman still goes to the hairdresser kidding herself and the world that at 60 she has no gray hair. “It’s my natural color!” A woman spends a fortune putting creams on her face in the event that the wrinkles disappear overnight, the chin lifts like Cher’s, and the skin remains radiant. But is it our fault? We are fed visions of perfect bodies and ageless people on the covers of magazines in every grocery check-out counter. Have you counted how many men grace the covers of these magazines? I have. Two magazines: NRA and NASCAR. Women rule in the world of beauty, air brushing, diet, health, youth, and everything else that is expected of us to line the coffers of a multi-billion dollar beauty and entertainment industry. Has anyone ever seen a magazine on middle-aged women or for women over 60? To remain ageless in a generation where reality shows are as unreal as honesty in Washington, and social media is the oracle to every truth, is not only difficult but as impossible as chewing on water.

Aging is not a disease but a unique process that enables us to morph from ourselves to ourselves. We have the unique opportunity to change with time and gather more wisdom and experience. Instead we are asked to remain in the mindset of an imbecile adolescent because: I don’t know, do you? Why do we allow it? My 97 year-old mother is an amazing woman. She married young and raised seven children before, during, and after World War II. Estee Lauder hardly made an appearance in our house, and I do not remember my mother ever going to have her nails “done.” Today she barely has wrinkles on her face, and her skin is soft and beautiful. Despite her arthritic hands, her nails have a natural shine and polish to them. She claims that she owes her skin softness to the fact that she never indulged in sun worshiping or smoking. Her hair is a silver gray with a few dark patches, but full and curly. She never used any colorants in her hair, and as she aged her beauty within seemed to ooze without. I only hope to look half as good as she does when I reach 97, but right now I need all the help I can get. So pass on the Guerlain wrinkle firmer because I just noticed a new wrinkle under my right eye!

A few days ago a mother and a cute baby walked into the lobby where I work. The baby could not have been more than a few months old: still innocent, still smelling good, still vulnerable and attracting attention. My employees ooohed and aaaahed at the little rascal each outdoing the other to get a smile from the chubby face. Then out of the blue one of the ladies asked me: “Do you remember your kids this little.” It was a pie in the face moment because if truth be told; I did not. Now when I think of my children, I think of them as adults. I really have to put an effort on my gray cells to think back because it seems like only yesterday that they went from drooling diaper ridden urchins to two wonderful adults. Where did the time go, and how did I miss it?

“Time flies by so fast” I suppose some moronic sage said that and the world took on the mantra. But seriously: does time’s velocity have any correlation to our age? The older we get the faster time goes by? A few years ago I heard some old self-proclaimed “doctor” on one of these psychoanalytic reality day-time show say that the reason time seems to go faster as we grow older was because based on a person living 100 years, a person at a younger age has longer to wait before reaching a hundred than say a person turning 70. He was equating our age to a clock: the closer we get to midnight the faster time seems to be going than at one in the morning. As goofy as it seems, he might have caught on to something.

I remember how as a kid I wished that time would go faster especially in the spring in anticipation of summer, and in the fall in anticipation of Christmas. As kids we never seemed to have time to accomplish anything: anything we wanted to anyway. When pregnant I wanted time to fly because during the last trimester I found myself becoming an animal lover; empathizing with elephants whose gestation period is in double digits. I bet time crawled for them as well. I wonder how the male elephant fared under those circumstances, living with a female gestating for all those months in hormone turmoil. I digress and pity the tusked fool. You get the picture. I do not think that time goes by faster as we grow older; I think we grow slower in relation to time. What used to take a few minutes to accomplish when young, later in life it takes a millennium. Have you ever walked behind two old ladies carrying groceries?

My father must have been the exception because he literally did not have time for the mundane which meant that he did not have time for half of humanity. His attention span went from hundred to zero in micro-seconds much like the way he drove his car only in reverse. He had a leaded foot on the road and did not like pedestrians because they were on “his road and right of way” and as a pedestrian did not like drivers who refused to stop for pedestrians because they were on “his road and right of way.” Catch my drift? For my dad and until the day he passed I doubt that he or time ever slowed down. Putting kids, gestation, old ladies, and my dad into an Einstein-like equation, I concluded that there was only one viable explanation on time.

Time stands still for those of us who as we grow older are molded into thinking that we should slow down. “Take it easy, you are not as young as you used to be!” Familiar? Why do we have to be reminded about how old we are getting or how old we are? Don’t these people know that we DO KNOW how old we are getting and we definitely KNOW how old we are, some of us just want to ignore it. Humor us for God’s sake! We are not asking for much, perhaps we want to have the choice to take our time. There is a difference between growing older and getting old. Cher grew older but never got old…of course she had help from her own Botox god but that is another story for another day. Society sends us mixed messages: those over 60 are now the “new 40” which deflates all ages following. So why are we still harping on acting and dressing “our” age when youth and energy are glorified and worshiped like an Aztec god in Peru? Nobody questions Madonna’s age!

Last week I watched an amazing 80 year-old dancing with her 38 year-old Spanish dance instructor on a talent show. As they transcended from a slow almost clumsy waltz to a heavy salsa, the once pitying looks on the audience changed to incredulity and awe. Age did not matter as those 80 year-old light tight feet and thighs seemed to lift themselves off the floor in rhythmic moves and glides that secretly urged us to look for hidden wires that must be pulling that little old lady across the stage like Peter Pan. Surely no octogenarian can do that? Well, she did! She had been dancing since she was five years old! Go figure, time is surely not flying by for her (excuse the pun). Even stoic Simon Powell had to admit that the lady was amazing, and that her extraordinary dancing had nothing to do with her age: she was a good dancer.

My 97 year-old mother sits in the lounge every morning wishing that another day would pass quickly and bring her closer to being with my father: wherever my father passed to. Being in a seniors’ home contemplating how to pass eight hours of every day must be tedious to anyone, let alone a 97 year-old. To her, time is crawling by and if she could move the earth faster around the sun, she would. She is not tired because she is 97; she is tired because she knows that she has nothing else to contribute. That is the reason why time flies for some while for others: it crawls. When my mom was a “mom” she complained that there weren’t enough hours in the day to do everything. Now she complains that the day is too long and so are the hours. Does time really flies by? I don’t think so. I think it simply adapts to us.

March was the month for women to bond and celebrate their achievements in time and history. The word “empowerment” was sprinkled abundantly like flour on pizza. I am all for women having the freedom to make choices; however, individual life choices should never become a burden on society. We should be open to all choices that women make, and not only to those  deemed relevant by the few. In the mid-60’s the women’s liberation movement burnt bras as a symbol of freedom. Although thinking about it right now it makes little sense to liberate the breasts while the brain remains in neutral. The movement fought for women’s rights but it also inadvertantly pushed women in taking up roles they might not have felt comfortable in taking. The likes of Gloria Steinbeck wanted a war on men and consiquently the family nucleus became a casualty. Stay-at-home moms were rediculed, and some women were literally bullied into the work force under the pretense that they could have it all: the kids, the house, and the job. They could”bring home the bacon!” If you couldn’t do it; you were ultimately a failure.

Last week I had an interesting encounter with a German young lady who was elated that women in Germany can take three years off for parental leave and then go back to the workforce if they so chose to. They could really “have it all.” I had to remind her that it was these pollyannaish social benefits that gave Germany the destinction of being one of the most expensive European Union countries to do business in. Women go on maternity leave six weeks prior to birth, and a mandatory eight weeks after. A three-year parental leave option can also be taken in two installments of their choice. My question to the enthusiastic “empowered” lady was: where does that leave the employer? Who carries the burden of work in these women’s absence?  The German maternity social plan reads like the works of Shakespeare on a cold winter’s night. Very long and comfortable only to those who pretend that they really know what Bill was talking about. Pages upon pages of “health” restrictions are embedded deep in a labor law that makes the employer accountable for the well being of the pregnant employee without any consideration to the business.  As my young friend excuberated her enthusiasm, I felt my blood pressure reaching critical mass remembering my own experiences with pregnant employees and my futile attempt at providing adequate staffing to our customers. At least the young enthusiast did remark that she had never thought about the impact on the employer and the business. How convenient!

I think that motherhood is a moment in time all women should experience. As women, it brings relevancy to our lives. After all we are biologically made up to procreate. Also, I am all for freedom to have it all: but at whose expense? It boils down to the fact that someone’s choice to procreate becomes an employer’s problem to try and keep a business going. The employer ends up being the accomodating party through long absences and activity restrictions imposed by law on the individual herself, and the team. The business still needs to run and someone has to run it. All the burden falls on the employer. When I chose to be a mother I did not expect society to be involved in my decision to have a child. I was “empowered” to have a child but I was not empowered to make it someone else’s problem. I chose to have the child and I should be soley responsibile for it and for my well being. Not the government, not the church, not social services, and definitely not my employer.

Women seemed to have gone nova when it comes to “their body.” The continual bombardment of how as women we have the right to make decisions about our bodies is becoming as old as my “new 40” body and equally exhausting. We get it: we want equal pay, equal rights, and equal opportunities, BUT: let’s face it, our biological purpose is reproduction. We have the babies and men don’t. Fellow women: get over it, and please quit moaning that you want it all. As a woman you want to be taken seriously yet when it is convenient you become pathetically maternal and whine that there is a “war on women.” My advice to our current generation of women who feel that their biological clock is ticking and get the urge to reproduce: take a V8, take a shower, watch a movie, text inane messages to someone, but please, please, do not become a parent so that at the first opportunity you put the child in day care to be raised by someone else because you get “bored” at home. If you want personal “growth” read a good book. How many “empowered” women have the guts to tell their kids that they prefer”empowerment” to being a parent?

Has the women’s movement in all their eagerness and anger to get back at men make men inconsequential? Is that why so many women are single mothers? Which is ironic, because when I speak with these strong and hard working women who have to raise and provide for the family single-handedly; they all wish they could stay home and raise their kids. They go to work because they have to and not because they would be “bored” being mothers. How sad that the inherent quality that we have as women: nurtering, should be debased as a nuisance by so many in power. How sadder is the fact that so many women believe that unless we do it all we are worthless?  

My mother raised seven children on my father’s salaryy. Some would say that it was easier in the past. Why? Whatever was considered expensive then would still be considered expensive now, relatively speaking. Needs were different. We did not need a television in every room, an electronic gizmo for every child, and two cars. My father managed to take us around in a VW Bug! When I started my family we followed suit and kept our needs in line with my husband’s military salary. It was taken forgranted that when one starts out one takes it slow and generally borrows furniture or buys it second hand until we grow in our role as parents. Now our “needs” have ballooned into the ludicrous brand mania. The ones at the short end of the stick end up being the kids, the family, society, and employers. 

Although my digression took me all over the place, the thought process remains the same: ladies we cannot have it all. We are only “empowered” as far as doing the right thing for ourselves, our families, and if employed: our employers. We cannot leap tall buildings in a single bound, but we can have the courage and tenacity to realize that to do everything well, we must make hard choices. Those choices should not interfere or put demands on the rest of the world. If there is a “war on women” we are waging it on ourselves because we have become our own worst enemy. We whine, we demand, we expect, and we feel entitled. A few months ago while visiting my 97 year-old mother at the senior’s home. my niece walked in with her toddler to visit. She was lamenting the hardships of motherhood and how she would never have another child because it was too much work. My mother listened patiently and when she left she remarked: “such a fuss, I had seven of you.” How true, and it was my mother who later “empowered” me to be a stay-at-home mum until the children grew up and I could start a career. Not an easy choice, but now I can truthfully say that “I’ve had it all.”

I am still waiting for this generation to morph into responsible adults. When we were growing up, our parents mentored us and guided us into becoming responsible adults, or at least they hoped that we would eventually get out of our stupid teen stupor and grow up. It seems that parents of this teen generation are missing the train on “growing up” because half of them have missed on maturity themselves. What has become of mentoring our youth? When have adults left responsibility and accountability behind and allowed our youth to become morons? When is this generation going to right itself up and start making serious choices? “But they are only kids!” I can hear the cliché’ from a mile away. It is as painful as nails on a chalk board.

This week I witnessed the worst in adult leadership. It was unbelievable and yet understandable because society has turned a blind eye to decorum and respectability since Clinton entertained an intern in the Oval Office. Once we accepted that behavior, society only had one way to go: downhill. I was the keynote speaker at a Women’s History Month celebration where I urged and challenged community leaders to become involved and mentor young girls into becoming successful professionals and entrepreneurs. Participating at the celebration were four teen girl scouts; immortalizing women in history who had shown courage, character, and commitment. Besides the fact that they had trouble reading the script, they obviously had trouble getting dressed in the morning. I was wondering who would allow these girls to go on stage to celebrate women’s trials and achievements dressed like hookers? My answer appeared slovenly by my side, and I suddenly saw the light like Moses. The “leaders” deported themselves worse than the kids. It was painful watching. The only item of apparel that I recognized as relating to scouting was a vest with badges. What the girls had on would make Lady Gaga and Madonna look like nuns. Torn tight jeans, short skirts, and large body parts appeared out of clothing two sizes too small. How come the two “leaders” were unable or refused to instill standards and propriety to this group of teens? Is this what scouting has turned into? Isn’t scouting supposed to instill a code of conduct and turn children into responsible adults?  I was a Girl Scout and Cub Scout leader for many years, and the children, regardless of age, had to participate in public in crisp uniforms and respectful behavior appropriate to the organizations and themselves. What leadership skills were these two slugs imparting to these girls? Worse still: how could the parents allow these two women disguised as “leaders” to spend even one minute with their kids?

Is my generation responsible for this generation’s lack of reason and sensibility? Have we allowed ourselves to be carried downstream toward the mud and silt of vulgarity and disgusting behavior? How come this generation of parents and adults do not seem to care for our youth? Why is trashy clothing accepted by our young girls? Even in the 60’s, The Beatles wore suits and ties when on stage. Aretha Franklin, Petula Clark, Shirley Bassey, Connie Francis, and other artists went on stage classy and in beautiful clothing that we all envied. Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Herman’s Hermits, The Beachboys, and Sammy Davis Jr. never appeared before an audience in torn anything. They had respect for those watching them. That is the answer. This generation has no respect for anyone, Parents do not respect their kids and vice versa. Hence the utter chaos in families, schools, and social behavior. When did society disintegrate into degradation? Was my 60’s generation at fault; when we burnt our bras and raised our skirts? Did we smoke one joint too many? Did our flower power send pollen into the wind which landed in the brains of this generation of morons? Am I indirectly responsible for what I witnessed on stage? Am I guilty with the rest of my generation of being too compliant with whatever society has been throwing at us for the past 30 years? My parents raised me as a teen in the 60’s and I was a handful, but I also knew the limits and the standards that were set for me. I knew when I crossed the line. Our parents wanted us to be successful. There was no disdain toward the one percenters who had wealth and success; only admiration and some envy which made us work harder at school in the hope that several years down the road we would be them.

My mother always told us that we should never be like “those people.” Till this very day I have no clue who “those people” are, but lately I began to realize that what she really meant was that we should seek out those better than ourselves. To her “those people” did not help us get on in life but rather hamper us toward success. At 97, my mother remains aloof and sets herself apart from most women I know. When I visit her at the senior residence, I attempt to dress nicely because she likes to see us dressed smart. The last time I visited her, we were sitting in the lounge when out of the corner of my eye I noticed a relative of a resident sitting close by. My mother looked at her critically and said: “Look at the way she is dressed, she looks like one…” I never gave her a chance to continue because I knew what was coming next: she was one “of those people.”  My mother was not being insensitive just pragmatic of the fact that we are who we portray to be. If at an early age we allow young girls to look like tramps eventually they may fit the mold. The question is: how are we going to break that mold?

If patience is a virtue than I am doomed. Growing up in a large family I always wondered how my parents kept their cool and sanity because as kids we could be vicious. We seemed to enjoy irking and irritating each other which was easy to do when nine people lived in the same house. When I became a mother I swore that I would be patient with my kids because it was imbedded in my brain by the nuns that motherhood is a blessing. What a crock! There were times when I bit my tongue so hard I could taste my own blood, especially when my daughter became a teenager. I never knew what talking points I was supposed to use especially on school mornings. If I greeted her she responded with a grunt and if I ignored her she got upset because I ignored her. One time I asked her to provide me with cue cards to give me a hint as to an acceptable script. However, I remained cool most of the time because I had to maintain control and discipline, so to some extent I exercised patience and endurance like a saint. Then it happened: both kids left home and I suddenly realized that apart from my own children I really did not like other people’s kids. This happened simultaneously with the fact that I was already 40 years old when we became childless again, except for the occassionaly phone call usually to ask for money; but I digress.

As I grew older and way into my “new 40” age bracket, I gradually grew utterly intolerant and impatient with this generation of parents and their urchins. Just when I think that I should be enjoying my life with peace and quiet I find myself in the same universe with the most annoying, unpleasant, and rude generation I have ever known. I have quit taking vacations in the summer because I refuse to pay good money for a resort to get annoyed at kids running loose like animals. What happened to parenting? It has been diluted into an insignificant and irrelevant event by the politically correct loons who demand government intervention and “counseling” at my taxes’ expense to teach other loons how to raise a child. Amazing! My mother had seven of us, three born during the war, and one raised in a shelter underground and away from Luftwaffe bombs. What is equally amazing is the fact that it never crossed her mind to get parenting classes, she sort of knew what she was supposed to do. 

Society is being held hostage by those who make parenting and having children my concern. Why? This misnomer that it “takes a village” to raise a kid became the mantra of the Clintons in the early 90’s. They made it my concern that someone accepted insemination and got pregnant. Now I was supposed to help raise someone else’s child. What nonsense! We have developed a generation of sperm and egg donors who expect society to tolerate their moronic parenting and their equally moronic children. What is even more frightening is the fact that this generation of self absorbed texting empty-headed Myle Cyrus girating morons will be taking care of me in my old age. I will gladly accept euthanasia!

I think that our generation raised our children in the same way as our parents raised us; to be responsible adults and civil. Unfortunately with the upswing of technology and telecommunication , this young generation lost its ability and skill to communicate within an individualistic and family environment. Parents do not parent any more because they have no time or so they say. My parents managed to raise seven kids on my father’s salary, and I managed to raise two and send them to university on my husband’s salary. So why can’t parents cope any more financially and socially? Quite simple: stuff. They want stuff and more stuff at the expense of parenting. Our needs were not excessive as those of today. Our kids did not have cell phones, a television in every room, and technology that costs an arm and a leg. Our needs were simple, but our families were solid. Discipline and guidance raised our children and gave them a compass in life. We did not expect society to raise them.

As I grow older my patience with younger twits grows even thiner. It is not that I do not tolerate others, it is just that this generation’s nonsensical egotistical nuances tire me. This generation of children is tiring those of us who have already raised families. This generation of parents is equally tiring us as they expect us to tolerate their brats and raise them for them. I find myself scolding kids I do not even know while the mother stands by and watches with amazment as her urchin actually obeys me.  Disciplining a child and teaching them right from wrong has become as foreign as a dial on a phone. In the meantime, those my age who have gone through parenting and managed to raise children without any major production, resent the fact that we are expected to tolerate other people’s brats because some pseudo intellectual politically correct leftist political moron or morons told us to.

At 97 my mother sits in a home for seniors and watches the world go by. However, there are times when she looses her patience with another elderly lady. One time during one of her intolerant spats, I asked her why the woman bugs her so. Her reply was simple: I’m old.

I have just sent a birthday card to a soon-to-be 54 year-old with a silly mundance and cliche’ message that read: “You’re as young as you feel.” Really? Do I feel young? Does anyone above the age of 60 really feels young, or wants to feel young? Who comes up with these cliches’? If I remember correctly it was a stupid commercial in the early 70’s for a product aimed at pensioners or at least those approaching retirment age. As if some magic sentimental potion can turn our age around.

What I feel generally has little to do with my age. I have felt certain things all my life. Certain people piss me off more than others, and certain things I would rather not do or have others do to me. For example: I do not like people tasting food out of my plate. It drives me into a frenzy. I do not care if I shared spit with them, stay off my food. I do not like sharing eating utensils even with my kids. I actually abhor any sharing of anything that belongs to me. Probably because when I was a kid we were so many  children we had to share space with each other and we never seemed to have anything that belonged to “us.” Catch my drift? I hungered for solitude and a corner to call my own. Every corner of the house seemed to have a body in it. Some shrink somewhere will probably come up with some kind of a syndrome to explain my reaction. Does the way I feel about my space play a role in my aging process? Am I going to feel melower about people digging into my food as I put on the years? What exactly do feelings have to do with the aging process? Is it possible that if I talk myself into feeling sixteen I will retain a miniscule residual of physiology I had at that young age? Does that mean I can get acne again? Does that mean I would want to chew gum and stick it under the chair as I did at sixteen? How about dating seventeen year-olds? I can see me now: “No, your honor, that was my boyfriend. I know he is only seventeen, but I am feeling sixteen right now, and consequently because I am as old as I feel it does not constitute sex with a minor!” Well, shut the front door! That would be some defence for some fancy lawyer.

The continual social bombardment to feel young or younger than one’s actual years has cascaded into the ludicrous. We diet, we cream, we tuck, we pinch, we botox, and eventually when nothing else works, we pretend and recite to ourselves inane sayings like: “We are as young as we feel.” Why the pongiant and strong desire to feel young? Is it because we do not want to spend money on health care? Is it because we want to spend the rest of our lives actively doing things we had done forty years ago? Is it ego? Why do we tell others and ourselves that age does not matter? Is it nostalgia?

Age matters because it gives us the knowledge and experience we need to make sure we take care of ourselves. It has very little to do with youth. Have you spoken to the youth lately? For starters they have lost the ability to talk. They let their fingers do the talking. If they could, they would text their entire conversations and never speak again, which after listening to some of them talk, being silent would be a major improvement. Remember Thumper’s mother in the classic Bambi: “If you can’t say notin’ nice, don’t say notin’ at all.” That deer was the proverbial Doctor Phil. I can only imagine this generation of finger-tapping morons as they age and find themselves in senior homes; regressing to their long term memories and all they can remember is texting. Heads bent down they will be playing with their fingers hoping for a reply!  Do I really want to be young again? Undoubtedly not. My generation had enough to deal with: the sexual revolution, Vietnam, mini skirts, and pot. We grew out of our mistakes, hopefully this generation will have enough sense to grow out of its own stupidities.

If I had to ask my 97 year-old mother if she is as young as she feels, she would look at me straight in the eye and ask if I was as stupid as the question I had just asked her. The problem is that for the past twenty years the world has turned into a huge sentimental love fest. Everyone wants to “feel.” In the movie the Iron Lady, Margaret Thatcher brilliantly played by Meryl Streep, is asked by her doctor how she felt. She quickly retorted that the new generation always talks about feelings but not about thinking. How about we ask how we think? That is something to think about. We all want to feel young because we want to hold on to something which we remember as being better than what we have right now. But eternal youth is in the recesses of the brain. We must think young. My mother still enjoys a mean game of Bingo, loves watching cartoons, and if anyone attempts to give her something to wear which she does not like, she quickly reminds them that she does not want to look like an old lady! That is thinking as young as we are!

Recently I sauntered down the halls of SAKS Fifth Avenue in New York City only to discover that I am a “large” size. I must digress and set the stage for this unprecedented discovery. I was calmly surveying my favorie brands when my eye caught an unusual array of unfamiliar clothing and name brand. To some that might not seem important, but to a brand afficionado like myself, it is not only exciting but crucially obligatory to stop and take a closer look. As I ran my hands gently through the silk and color, I discovered that all the sizes were either zero or two. How can that be? Was I in the teen section? No, this was the third floor where Guccis, Armani, Lauren, Moschino, Sanders, and others of their ilk hold court. As I was evidently frustrated, a young size zero sauntered in my direction asking if I required assistance. I answered calmly if the brand carried only clothing for embryos. The size zero was slightly taken aback but managed a smile as she pointed to the “large” sizes in the back. Way in the back and segregated from the rest of the embryonic merchandise lest they contaminate them were the shameful sizes: three, four, and my size six. At that moment I felt like the proverbial pubescent whose first hard on was cruely interrupted by a cold shower.

I was livid. Who makes the rules? Who decides what body fits into what size? As I wondered through the store that day, I discovered other brands carrying only sizes that would fit a five-year old disguised as a woman. When did women allow haute couture  to determine whether we should be labled as normal or fat? If Marlyn Monroe had lived today she would have been regarded as obese because she was a size 14! Jane Manesfield was another healthy beautiful woman whose clothing size would have probably been displayed way in the back or not at all. What has happened to the hour-glass figure?

Watching fashion week is like watching an array of clothes hangers hovering surreally to crazy music on an elevated platform symbolic of how detached the fashion world is from the rest of us. The current genre of runway models could amplify third world hunger and emaciation rather than glamor and beauty. At what point in time did starvation and shapelessness become the hight of fashion? In the early sixties, a young British model by the name of Twiggy came on the scene wearing wonderfully outrageous figureless clothing and mini skirts. She was skinny, pouty, and taunt. As teens we all loved her clothes, but I do not recall any of us wanting to be that thin. By the way, in today’s standards Twiggy would have been a fat size three or four!

The fashion industry is a billion dollar empire dominated by female gendered male designers who sometimes seem to despise the fact that women’s bodies have three dimensions: breasts, waist, and hips. They prefare women to be and look one dimensional without any distinction in curves. Is it possible that they create shapless clothing that hangs on shapeless people as an attempt to neuteralize society into accepting their version of “beauty?”  Is that why runway models are caught in a gender war that leaves us undetermined whether some are male or female? Is that why no one really buys runway haute couture except  Hollywood kooks who want to make a statement at the Oscars only to be rediculed by Joan Rivers the day after?  Finally, why do women allow this to happen?

Am I a “large” size? I don’t think so. As we grow older we are well aware that style and fashion morphs into what should be deemed as acceptable to our age. My “new forty” look has kept me in good stead and I have no complaints about my shape either. At 97, my mother has remained small and petite. Her elegance, grace, and demurity can never be duplicated by any brand name or haute couture. Like many women of her time, she is and was one of a kind. No neuture gendered runway fetus can ever come close to that!

One of my “new 40” employees walked into the office aghast that his pants were dragging by a good two inches. Apart from the fact that at his age and mine every inch counts: this revelation sent shivers in both our spines. Now I have been trying to ignore the fact that my mother at 97 stands at four foot eight in heels. But she was always petite, right? I also try to ignore the fact that recently my shoe size has shrunk from a seven to a six. Those Chinese are making shoes for their feet not ours. Right? I am also ignoring the fact that while some areas of my body are shrinking, others, like my waist have taken a life of their own. So what gives? Do we shrink as we grow older? At five foot (without heels), am I looking forward to continual shrinking until I can audition as a munchkin in a rendition of the Wizard of Oz?

As my colleague and I pondered on our future as shrinkees, we received unsolicited opinion from those around us: “it is well known that as you age you shrink.” Notice the implication that we must be the only two individuals in the world who are currently shrinking, hence the impertinent “you.” Oh really…nobody whispered that little tid bit in my ear as the years crept up on me. Are we supposed to buy shorter pants so that eventually we fit into them? How come there are no products for shrinking? We have “senior” products for every part of our anatomy, why not for shrinking? Why can’t I “Alice In Wonderland” myself with a potion and put on inches in height? Why can’t a plastic surgeon botox me into remaining my normal height (although five foot never seemed too normal for some)?

Aging is a process full of surprises. We wake up one morning and discover that what we thought was a cute freckle has spread like a fungus into brownish spots. Ugh! “Oh, honey those are aging spots.” Really? How come we do not tell some acne faced kid “Honey, those are youth spots.” However, give me acne on my arms as a sign of youth any day, but aging spots are too permanent, too conclusive of the fact that the years are piling on. The discovery that one’s body has shrunk a few inches is disconcerting to say the least. It does not bode well with what we should be expecting next. Although we have watched our parents age, aging is still a process that we leave to others. I remember my mother who at 80 used to go and visit “those old people” at the home. She referred to anyone a few months older than she was as “old.” Was that her way of feeling better about herself and the inevitable years creeping upon her? She still looks at the obituaries and makes snide remarks when someone younger than she passes away. If she could, she would dance a victory dance. Her way of rebelling against old age and the inevitable.

We try to cheat our way through aging in creative and obtruse ways. We spend billions of dollars extending youth toward the inevitable brown spots, aches, pains, and the ultimate shrinking. Even Jane Fonda probably shrunk a few inches since her hot Hanoi days. Why do we fight it so vehemently? Why do we struggle to push back old age? What are we afraid of? Why are we so bent to remain on this earth? Is it the fear of death and its unkown concept, or is it self-indulgence? I have no answers, but I am late for my appointment with my dressmaker: she needs to trim two inches off my pants!

The good old USA is home to the best in fast food, sports, clothes, nature and: a generation of seniors. Or so it seems. I have discovered that being over 60 provides drug and chemical companies inspiration on how to sucker us into buying products that are supposed to improve our “quality of life.” “Quality of life” is an expression invented by yuppies in the 90’s to make a buck from products they think old people would like. Notice I did not say the PC correct word “senior” but old. Madison Avenue and drug companies like to glamorize old age, or those of us on the road to old age. They turned old age into an epic like Gone With The Wind glamorized the Civil War. Yes it was nasty but it gave us Clark Gable. Yes the South burnt but it did so epically and with Southern flair. The damn yankees provided the meat to the movie as old people provide billions to the drug companies.

Here is a sample of what one may see on one ordinary every day night of prime time viewing on the major networks and cable:

Forget about constipation, it  does not have to be painful, if you are over 50 you can take a special laxative that helps your golf swing the next morning. You lucky guy you. Everyone is smiling and happy to be over 50 and constipated. Are there any commercials for teenage constipation?

The gooey denture grip commercial almost makes one wish one was toothless. Who would not want a hunk over 50 to dance the night away with on a cruise ship? Only prime time can make us feel good about ourselves and having to glue false teeth to our gums. What an opener for a senior dating game!

Among the favorites in “senior” commercials on any given night are: erectal dysfunction, bladder dysfunction, hair loss, sight impairment, and botox. However nothing prepared me for the catheter commercial. That was the winner. The voice of sexy enthusiasm and exuberance promoting catheters in all shapes and sizes left me with a tingling feeling that these instruments were as exciting as vibrators on a lonely night. I felt like calling the 800 free number and order several to include the ones that fit in my purse because they are “the size of a pen!” Who would not want that? As various catheters rapidly enter our view with eclactic vigor, a “senior” is on the phone smiling and eager to order this amazing piece of bladder joy.

My mother just turned 97 and she is old. She is not a “senior” she is old. She requires bladder protection and assistance to get dressed. Her hair is l grey and she keeps her dentures in a box marked “classified.” There is nothing glamorous about the ailments and frailities that befall us as we grow older. All the commercials in the world cannot hide the fact that growing old is tiresome. I asked my mother what it feels like being 97. Without batting an eyelash she replied: tiring.

Are we eluding ourselves about growing old? Do we feel that if we “fix” ourselves up we are less biologically impaired and more socially acceptable? Are seniors really so gullible as to go out and buy any product that is on the market? Am I ever going to feel the urge to indulge in hair replacement, teeth implants, catheters, and botox? Has growing old become so socially unacceptable that we must find ways to make it bearable by glamorizing and minimizing the one truth of growing old: it is tiring?

I had a rude awakening this week. I broke a tooth at lunch. So what? Some might say that there is nothing strange about that. I was eating yoghurt!!! That is like breaking a tooth on pulp. I was not chewing on a stake or a nut, but soft gooey yoghurt. A trip to the dentist did nothing to bolster my ego. It seems that as we grow older our teeth become “brittle.” Actually I came up with the term because my German dentist had no clue how to say that my tooth had enough wear and tear and was falling apart. I wanted to spare him the embarrassment of him telling me that my teeth are old.  To pull or not to pull? That was his dilemma. He saved it. Well, he was smiling from ear to ear as he gave me the news that we could save the tooth especially after it had been worked on recently (two root canals) and a 40+ year old filling replaced.

I never thought that this visit to the dentist would bring me close to what I probably must anticipate later in life. Brittle teeth. I take care of my teeth and floss till I drop, but I guess like any other part of our anatomy, if over used it will also diminish in its performance. I always somehow corelated teeth condition with youth. Old people lose their teeth, younger ones have a Colgate smile with all their teeth intact. Both my parents had false teeth in some location in their mouth. It was not a pretty sight looking at canines in a glass of water. They always seemed to float in a smile!

Is brittle teeth the next step to no teeth? I think my dentist saw my distress and “saved” my tooth. He went to work eagerly inside my mouth to save my tooth like Superman attempting to save Lois Lane. In half an hour my tooth was saved albeit brittle, and regained my dignity and a reprieve. If truth be told, it is a hollow reprieve because I cannot chomp on hard food any longer. But that is my secret. That is demotivating in itself because I always prided myself in being able to chew on hard crusts and hard apples like a warrior on the front. I put my energy into it. Now I am literally reduced to eating and chewing politely on pulp. How does one explain the brittle tooth syndrome without giving away the fact that age has now crept in one’s mouth? How am I going to explain eating soft food and pulp?

I think that teeth are the final frontier to one’s perception of youth. A beautiful smile with gorgeous teeth adds years to one’s self esteem. Commercials for denture adhesive give false teeth a romantic aura to the reality that one’s mouth is now a benign cave that chews baby food. Middle-aged gray haired beautiful people are chomping down on a hard apple while horseback riding on a California beach. A deep sexy voice asks us mere viewers if we can tell which one of them has dentures; like we really give a damn. We all know that once we succumb to dentures there is no turning back, and glueing false teeth in place is hardly a romantic turn on.  Those in the commercial must have been paid well to be secure enough and advertise the fact that they are toothless.

At 97, my mother keeps her old false teeth in an equally old container with her name on it at the Home she is in. The container is protected like Fort Knox in case “someone steals them” as she so often says. Who wants your teeth ma? I just want to keep mine. Taking someone else’s teeth would never cross my mind, but then I am not 97…yet! I wonder if there is a trade-in for a brittle tooth?