Many moons ago when I was moving into my very first college apartment, I spent what was at the time a small fortune on a black fake fur couch with padded arms and a low back. The aesthetics of black fake fur not withstanding, I selected the couch for one reason: When my boyfriend and I went out furniture shopping, I laid down to test it out and within minutes, passed out asleep.
We all die, right? Some of us do it the long way, chipping away at life slowly until there is nothing left; others check out abruptly with a sudden heart attack or accident. Some of us do it when we are old and others do it when we are younger. It's them -- those younger people -- that get under my skin.
There was a time when the obituaries were the best read part of your daily newspaper. That was, of course, back in the days when you actually had a daily newspaper. But as news moved online and the people producing it skewed younger, writing about someone's death -- or more accurately someone's life at the time they died -- became less of an art form.
Susan Cosentino, a Malibu Realtor friend with six kids, is one of those crazy busy working moms who is legitimately crazy busy and not the 'must-catch-my-pilates-class-after-lunch-or-I'll-die' kind of busy. I like being around Susan for a couple of reasons, chief among them is that she's one of those people who manages a boatload of bananas without ever tipping over.
The Academy Awards appearances of Goldie Hawn, 68, and Kim Novak, 81, triggered a firestorm of fan reaction. Both actresses appeared with what were perceived to be dramatically altered faces and the Internet was quick to harshly criticize them. Can we pause a moment and reconnect with reality -- both theirs and ours?
I am probably the most responsible, stay-the-course, do-the-right-thing person you have likely never met, and I admit that even I don't quite understand this pounding drumbeat in my head telling me to throw my pick-up sticks in the air and see where they land. I'm 64, not 24, and really don't have time to erase life mistakes if I make them this late in the game. Still, the temptation is there to just rewrite my script.
Camille's life is the life shared by a generation of women who are now in their late 60s. They were stay-at-home moms who missed the women's movement by a few years but rejoiced in the doors that it opened for their daughters. They drove carpools, kept house, had dinner ready on the table when the breadwinner came home, and were the glue that silently kept the family together.
I bumped into a woman the other day who I hadn't seen in a while. I knew from word on the street -- or, more accurately, word at the school bus stop -- that she had caught her husband running around with another woman, or maybe it was that she had been diagnosed with Lupus, or possibly it was that her over-achieving-never-tasted-failure kid didn't make the all-star team and is now in counseling for his grief-induced migraines.
Recently, a real estate agent who I once wrote about added me to a group on Facebook without asking my permission first. The group was for supporters of a political candidate who I know nothing about, including whether her views are even aligned with mine. Yet I woke up one day and found myself in a position of publicly 'supporting' her.
Some people like to make resolutions this time of year -- you know, the stuff that makes January the happiest time of the year for Jenny Craig and Gold's Gym. There won't be any 'lose weight, exercise more' on my list -- not because I don't need to do both but because I'm feeling more introspective as we flip the calendar page into a new year.