Saturday, November 04, 2006
I remember lying in my rod iron bed in my parents house about ten years ago. (The same bed that made the journey to my office here with Rex, then upstairs to Pip N' Squeak's room. Iron-ic, ain't it? Ah, I amsue myself)
It was January 1, about 3 am, and I was talking to Cecelia on the phone. I had rung in the New Year with my Israeli boyfriend. She was telling me all about this fabulous New Year's Eve party she attended in the Hollywood Hills. Right out of her Nebraska fantasies of L.A. life, this was a sprawling house with a huge balcony that overlooked the twinkling lights of L.A.. She was flush with excitement and hope. She had plans of being a producer, and standing on the high ledge, mingling with the stars, why wouldn't all her dreams come true?
Then she uttered something that has forever been imprinted in my brain: "I wish I could be 28 forever."
This was almost ten years ago.
Shortly after that magical evening she left NBC to become a teacher. I got tired of doing the Gaza Srip and eventually met Rex. We both became wives and then mothers.
So many changes in such a short time. And in no place can you see them more than with the numbers. In our ages. In our weight. In the number of children we have. The number of parents still left. The number of couples still married.
I find it disturbing to look back at photos of myself from my magical year and see the visible changes on my face. But after a few minutes of wistfulness, Mama P kicks in and I get mad.
Why do our best years have to be behind us? Why can't we get better and better as we get older? Sure, I have a few more lines now, but (and this is so cliche) I wouldn't trade the all nighters and perfect skin of youth for the all nighters with babies for all the world.
And so, I am going to pick a new number: 49. My kids will be almost out of the house. And instead of planning on crying hysterically that my life is over, I plan on being in karate kid shape. I will take that full time editing gig in New York. Rex can plan his time around my schedule, not the other way around. I will have money for beautiful clothing and furniture.
And I won't hide the mirrors: because those lines are mine.
This philosophy just might be keeping me out of Hollywood, but that's okay.
And speaking of reflections, check out my mirror image. When I see that, 30 can go kiss Mama P's 36 year old sagging ass.