January 17, 2002
I’m not sure how old H. is. She has children my age (40), is technically a grandmother, though she avoids the moniker, and recently underwent her first face lift (this I am sure of because she asked me if I liked it the same way you ask your best girlfriend if she likes your new hair do.) I have to say that I’m not too keen on her face lift or her new hair do, now everything aspires too violently upwards, skin, hair, eye brows. As I was talking to her last night at a party I kept thinking of flying buttresses and how great she looked before she shocked her hair and face into an anti-gravitational revolt. She has recently lost her second husband and is vaguely thinking about looking for a third. She joined a video dating agency and was full of the delights of technology as a way to find a companion (she kept reiterating that she did not want to have sex with these men or a new husband). She has recently secured a book deal to write on the subject of dating after fifty, a sort estrogenless Sex in the City, and after several glasses of bad champagne decided that we should work together on the book. I’m not over 50 and am proud to have never been on a date, but this doesn’t seem to bother her. H. is one of those people that either reduces you to a cauldron of oozing hatred or who you forgive endlessly for her faults. She’s an only child, a Gemini and is the only woman with children who I have ever heard admit to having no innate maternal instinct. Perhaps it’s this unholy trinity of selfishness which we share that assists us in some bond. There is something vaguely immoral about her and her completely ageless capacity for having a good time reassures me that real maturity can be avoided indefinitely.
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I’m not sure how old H. is. She has children my age (40), is technically a grandmother, though she avoids the moniker, and recently underwent her first face lift (this I am sure of because she asked me if I liked it the same way you ask your best girlfriend if she likes your new hair do.) I have to say that I’m not too keen on her face lift or her new hair do, now everything aspires too violently upwards, skin, hair, eye brows. As I was talking to her last night at a party I kept thinking of flying buttresses and how great she looked before she shocked her hair and face into an anti-gravitational revolt. She has recently lost her second husband and is vaguely thinking about looking for a third. She joined a video dating agency and was full of the delights of technology as a way to find a companion (she kept reiterating that she did not want to have sex with these men or a new husband). She has recently secured a book deal to write on the subject of dating after fifty, a sort estrogenless Sex in the City, and after several glasses of bad champagne decided that we should work together on the book. I’m not over 50 and am proud to have never been on a date, but this doesn’t seem to bother her. H. is one of those people that either reduces you to a cauldron of oozing hatred or who you forgive endlessly for her faults. She’s an only child, a Gemini and is the only woman with children who I have ever heard admit to having no innate maternal instinct. Perhaps it’s this unholy trinity of selfishness which we share that assists us in some bond. There is something vaguely immoral about her and her completely ageless capacity for having a good time reassures me that real maturity can be avoided indefinitely.
- rachael 1-17-2002 11:14 pm