January 15, 2015
That’s all, just the miracle of neoprene to protect the extremities.
Because of course the water was cold — 6 C, around 43 F — just about bearable, i.e., not freezing, not literally. Ice is my cut-off point. I don’t break ice to swim.
I’m not that hard core.
I know someone who is, a woman all the way hard core, who breaks the surface ice with her heel and shoves the fragments aside to make a lane for herself through the water. I’ve seen her a few times at the riverbank club, the two of us the only ones out that early in the morning. We usually chat, a brief discourse about the weather or the big male swan who’s had a go at both of us: what’s his story?
These encounters are always very civilized, but they’re also slightly surreal, because what we don’t acknowledge, not ever, is the essential weirdness of the situation, the fact we’re standing there naked in winter with goosebumps and river hair.
I ran into the ice breaker on the train to London not long ago. We were both dressed so it took us a while to realize we knew each other, and in what context. Even then, having figured it out, one of those shared lightbulb moments, we didn’t talk about the riverbank club.
The first rule of riverbank club is you do not talk about riverbank club.
We didn’t talk about swimming because it’s a boring subject. Images of flesh and dark water and the inscrutability of ice aside, what is there to say? You get in. It’s wet. You swim. You get out.
The only halfway intriguing aspect has to do with why.
The ice breaker and I have never discussed our respective motivations (the first rule of riverbank club…), but I suspect the reason she breaks ice is because she can.
I say this because the reason I inch down a soggy ladder into a body of water that, duh, gets colder every day is because I can.
It’s something I can control. This matters because there’s a certain amount of slippage in my life right now. Without going into details (I’m striving for discreet), I can reveal that events are out of kilter, emotions are running high and my future is undergoing what a self-help manual might refer to as an interval of readjustment.
And this small business of lowering myself into a near-icy river is one of the few obstacles I’m able to surmount. Or dismount, as it concerns descending a ladder.
I start my descent. Urged on by my internal pep squad, who rally the crowd with a chorus of, Come on, come on, you wimp, I pry my fingers off the sides of the ladder, release a series of dog’s-tail-caught-in-the-car-door yelps and, with the neoprene booties deceiving the rest of my body into thinking, Well, this isn’t so bad, I sink backwards into what turns out to be – every single time! — aquatic hell. Thermoreceptors in overdrive, I flirt briefly with cardiac arrest. I’m mid-river by this time so it’s swim or drown.
Simple, really and only marginally insane.
But marginally insane is the current state of play for me and at the conclusion of my version of the ice bucket challenge (sponsorship welcome, btw), I get my pay off: the drug of smug. Of all the endorphins the brain supplies after a bout of physical activity, this has to be the best– the obnoxious, buoyant balm of self-regard.
November 16, 2014
What can I say about this flower necklace?
I’d never worn anything like it before.
Each flower – there are three of them – is the size of a deflated satsuma and dyed a deep red. In-your-face blood red. You can adjust the length of the chain so the flowers lie either just above or just below the collarbone. I advise below to limit the risk of chin abrasion.
It’s a lot of necklace.
Proper fashion bloggers would call it a statement necklace.
I’m not a proper fashion blogger. At best, I’m a faux fashion blogger, which has a nice ring to it but is actually about the fact I use clothing as a jumping off point for what I want to say as opposed to actually having anything useful or insightful to say about clothing itself.
Even so, I know enough to be able to claim, categorically, that this big red item around my neck was definitely a statement necklace. And as a statement, it dovetailed nicely with the occasion, November 9th, incidentally my birthday but, much more importantly, Remembrance Sunday.
In the UK, Remembrance Sunday is the day to officially honor all those who served in the two World Wars and in places like Burma and Palestine, The Falklands, Northern Ireland and the Gulf, Iraq and Afghanistan – battles and conflicts not necessarily sanctified as wars with a capital “W” but still occasioning the same realities: death, injury, loss.
The ceremony for Remembrance Sunday is relatively brief: prayers, readings, a military band and a two- minute silence. After the silence, poppy wreaths are laid at the base of a war memorial. This year, my choir was performing at a Remembrance service being held at a local air base. The base is a museum now, the hangar filled with jets and bombers, even an old Concorde that you can board.
We were scheduled to sing (“For the Fallen” by Douglas Guest) after the prayers and before the bugler’s rendition of “The Last Post.”
That’s why I was kitted out in a dress and a pair of decent shoes, and a piece of statement jewellery that, under normal circumstances, I would not have felt stylistically brave enough to wear.
The symbol of Remembrance Sunday and Armistice Day on the 11th is the red poppy.
It represents all the soldiers who’ve died in service and harks back to the men –boys, really – who lost their lives on the poppy fields of Flanders.
By the end of October, artificial poppies have sprouted on half the lapels in Britain and it’s an unwritten rule that all public figures –even D-list celebs pitching diet aids on late night infomercials — have to wear one.
I buy a poppy every year. Actually, I buy several, because mine are always falling off or snaking down the lining of my jacket. But to sing at a ceremony for fallen soldiers, surrounded by soldiers and veterans and their families, called for something more, well, durable. The big red necklace Claire gave me nicely solved the problem.
I’d never sung at a Remembrance service before. In fact, other than buying the aforementioned poppies every year, I’d never particularly, consciously, honored those people who’d fought and died in battle.
I grew up in the Vietnam era — in America, a divisive time. Opinions were wildly polarized; you were for or against our involvement there and, in the course of taking sides, the soldiers themselves seemed to lose shape and consequence, became shadowy pawns. In certain quarters, acknowledging them became tantamount to supporting the war itself. There were very few grey areas: if you had long hair and a poncho, you were a commie sympathizer. If you had short hair or wore a business suit, you were a right-wing warmonger, a tool of the military-industrial complex. Of course, the term military-industrial complex originated with Republican president and former general Dwight D Eisenhower, who used it to warn the nation about the dangers of the arms industry, but that was an inconvenient fact for both sides of the Vietnam debate.
You could say it was not an era epitomized by clarity of thought.
But now, years later, in a country not my own, I had the distance – in all senses — to be able finally to pay homage to all those who went, willingly and unwillingly, into battles not of their own making.
It’s strange to write about this in an earnest voice, particularly strange if you live in Britain where sincerity is often experienced as embarrassing or — even worse — as indelibly American, but the truth must be told: that day, that moment, there I was in a blue dress and a big poppy necklace, just one person out of a thousand in an echoing hangar, all of us grateful, moved and completely untouched by cynicism.
September 29, 2014
I don’t know if the outfit was a catalyst for the revelation or if the revelation inspired the outfit, but, anyway, here’s the revelation:
50 is the new black.
Think about it: 50 is the new black.
I can’t believe everyone isn’t saying this.
I can’t believe it’s not a mantra, a mantra for the zeitgeist.
Most of all, though, I can’t believe the extent to which the British marketing industry is trying to ignore this, pretending it’s not so, hoping it will just go away. It’s as if most of them — manufacturers, advertisers, trend spotters – have decided the 50-plus audience is dull and toothless, not worth bothering with. Negligible.
Three words come to mind:
Head. Sand. Buried.
Anyone with any sense knows this is Britain’s next great consumer revolution.
As a consumer group, the 50-plus age band accounts for 76% of the UK’s wealth. Come April 2015, this group will be even richer, with the law shifting to allow them early access to their pension funds. And they’ll be dipping into that money, spending it to enhance their emotional, social and physical well being; this is a group obsessed with self-improvement, with all things quality of life.
50-, 60-, 70-year-olds comprise the serial generations that invented teenagers, that codified sex & drugs & rock & roll. That made a religion out of challenging the status quo — in fact that made a religion out of making religions. These were the first generations to trudge through mud for music festivals, espouse free love and communal living and make a whole lot of useless, exuberant noise about smashing the state.
Most importantly, we — I’m in there — are the tribe that sanctioned the concept of choice, life as a menu of options.
Keith Richards is our poster boy.
Does anyone really believe this tribe will take ageing lying down? Take death lying down?
We don’t have to! Thanks to technology, both conditions – decline and mortality – have been upgraded from inevitable to governable. Stem cell therapy will be available to halt not just the effects of menopause but the process itself and, on an even more fundamental (and slightly creepy) level, scientists are developing the ultimate life option: human enhancement. For a price, presumably a really staggering price, this cocktail of chemical, electronic and genetic engineering will allow us to surmount evolution and live longer, better, stronger.
Why buy a retirement condo when you can lay out the cash for a new self?
For a tribe committed to the concept of perpetual reinvention, this is very attractive stuff.
It should be even more attractive to marketers, the prospect of an aspirational, acquisitive audience with money to burn.
Bizarrely, it’s not. Instead, the 50-plus market is subject to sad-dad commercials for elder insurance (cue grey-haired gramp in a pastel sweater vest puttering around the garden), sappy ads for Nordic cruises (cue grey-haired couple staring into the sunset) and all those Viagra promos with a man in a plaid shirt who clearly needs to be talked in off the ledge.
There have been a few signs of a more targeted approach. A new cruise ad that shows a middle-aged couple gassing it up on the dance floor. Clairol urging us to defy time. Clinique insisting our skin has a future at any age. At least the (older) women and the lone male in those spots look as if they know there’s still fun to be had out there.
Because that is what’s missing in all of this: the fun factor, that hint of former wildness. The British media seems unable or unwilling to assign fun to us, to allude to a previous level of coolth.
They’ve neutered us.
The BBC has just launched a comedy series called Boomers, ostensibly for and about the 50-plus audience. I say ostensibly, because the night I tuned in I couldn’t find a single appealing or even identifiable character in the entire show. The episode I saw centred on a retirement party. It’s an age-appropriate theme with a certain amount of psychic and comedic potential, but the actual plot line – or should I say plod line — concerned the retiree’s anxiety over food preparation. The retiree, played by Alison Steadman, was incensed because one of the guests was getting underfoot in the kitchen, co-opting the Hors d’Oeuvres and acting territorial over serving platters. Ms Steadman complained to someone that this was ruining the party.
This is how the BBC perceives the Who generation?
They just don’t get us.
August 11, 2014
I looked like an aquatic flasher.
Clifford’s Cove is at the bottom of a tall wooded hill. To get there you walk down Claire’s driveway at an acute angle, cross the road and find the gap in the wild grape bushes. Duck under, follow the shaded path and – last leg – try not to take a header off the rocks that lead to the beach. It’s a short trek from porch to cove, but there’s lots of opportunity for slippage.
The tide was out. I left my coat on the flat boulder where Claire and her cousins used to have tea parties and picked my way through kelp and shingle to the shoreline. The water was icy, what a New Englander might describe as brisk. When it was deep enough,I launched into a surface dive.
As my feet left the seabed (swimmer’s lift off) I thought about the surprise of buoyancy and the first time I experienced it, that sensation of being suspended in an unsubstantial medium. I was six, messing around in the bay in Bridgehampton with my father. He was keeping a light grip on me as I hopped through the water, one foot pushing against the sandy bottom — pretend swimming. Then everything changed. Both my legs rose up behind me and I was afloat. At some point my father had let go. I was swimming, for real. It seemed both a miracle and my natural state.
I tend to swim most days in the river or, if I’m lucky, at the seaside in places like Maine or North Norfolk. If I go three, four days without swimming I get fidgety, peevish. I’ve spent some time thinking about this, my relationship with water and swimming, trying to assess whether it’s a question of passion, an activity I happen to love.
I finally decided emotion doesn’t come into it; it’s more basic than that.
Swimming is simply a fact of my life. It’s one of those constants, like reading or my daughter.
It would definitely go to the top of the list of things my father taught me.
I’ve been composing this list all summer, adding bits to it, editing it down. I call it, secretly, ‘Lessons Learned from my Father’.
It’s kind of soppy, this list business. I know that. And it’s hard to ignore the slightly creepy, Little Dorrit overtones– the writer as daddy’s girl – but in all fairness the occasion of my father’s 90th birthday just a few weeks ago has made me want to focus on this stuff.
I gave a toast at his birthday party. A number of us gave toasts. Mine was about the life he created for his family, his realization of the American dream. I tried to keep it short because the truth is, these big raucous parties, no one wants to listen to someone rambling on in a self-referential fashion; they just want to keep drinking and gossiping and complaining about the food while eating a lot of it.
As a result, my list has yet to see light.
Here it is: 10 Lessons I learned from my father
1. How to swim.
2. How to fire a gun: a .38, a .22, a .45 Smith & Wesson and a muzzleloading rifle.
3. How to make mini-balls for a muzzleloading rifle. (You melt a bar of lead in an iron kettle then pour the liquid mixture into a mold. When the mixture sets and cools you trim the edges of the mini-balls until they’re uniformly smooth and round.)
4. How to paint a swimming pool. (Our record was 45 minutes.)
5. How to respect the people who work for you.
6. How to sand and varnish a deck.
7. How to ‘antique’ a piece of furniture. (Whack it several times with a heavy chain.)
8. How to tell a joke.
9. How to face an audience so you can do things like tell jokes or give toasts without your knees clacking together.
10. How to love a child.
Some of these lessons have been less useful than others. For example, I’ve yet to find a situation that calls upon my mini-ball trimming skills. Most of my furniture already looks as if it’s been whacked with a heavy chain, and not in a good way. Finally, it has been conveyed to me, rather emphatically, that I do not know how to tell a joke, and should stop attempting to do so. But the first and last items on the list, numbers 1 and 10 – they’re with me every day.
July 24, 2014
… was a black cocktail dress with spaghetti straps, a chiffon shrug, my mother’s gold bling and a sixties updo.
The party was in a function room at the Sheraton in Weehawken, New Jersey, where the Hudson River laps gently against the edge of the parking lot. The birthday boy himself drove us there from the Hoboken apartment. It was a six minute trip in his Toyota people mover but all told it had taken a lot longer than that for me. There was a transatlantic flight. There was the task of packing for a multi-faceted trip, one that encompassed festivity, work and the pea soup heat of a New York summer. The pug and all her meds had to be temporarily disposed of, there was that to do, and all those zero hour chores — bills, calls, lists –to check off before double locking the front door of the Cambridge house and climbing into a waiting cab.
You’d think I’d have the whole business down to a science by now.
The problem, of course, the self-imposed stress factor, is in the packing. My friend Claire — another American based in Britain – says I pack like a Victorian spinster on the brink of a perilous sea voyage.
She may be right. It’s not as if I seal the lid of my perfume bottles with wax or sew my money into the stays of a corset, but I do approach each trip as if it’s my last, a journey into the unknown and exotic.
And we’re talking flying over to New Jersey.
Even so, and even now, 20 years after moving to Britain, two decades of going back and forth, each trip seems terribly important, the distance vast, the differences even vaster. The process of readying myself for these visits is an acknowledgement of how important they are, these occasions that bring me back to what was once my home. And, the last ten years or so, the particulars behind these jaunts, the defining elements, have been momentous, tied in with all the big stuff: illness, death, marriage. (I can’t remember a time I came over just to bop around.) Given that, the weight and attention I accord to packing, the time spent pondering what to wear when, makes a certain amount of sense: I’m suiting up for ritual and ceremony, a process that demands more than just tossing a cardie and a pair of jeans into a carry-on bag.
This trip the occasion was joyful. My father’s 90th. There were close to 120 of us in the Sheraton function room and the dance floor was packed. The D.J., a sedate middle-aged man, played dreamy standards from the 30’s and 40’s, jazzing it up every now and then with a little something from The Platters. There were toasts and a master of ceremonies. The mood was mellow and affectionate, the average age 70. I drank far too much vodka and discovered my friend Tom was a wonderful dancer. It was the nicest party I’d attended in years and the black cocktail dress and chiffon shrug were absolutely right. I had packed well.
July 14, 2014
I actually put some thought into this get up, hoping the right ensemble would turn things around.
Because these job interviews have not been going well.
I walk into the interview. We shake hands. They ask their questions, I give my answers. I ask my questions and then … nothing. Dead air.
I’m a little hazy on what goes wrong, why it always turns so flat and sour. Is it me (the interviewee), them (the interviewers) or the situation itself?
Here’s the situation: for the first time in years I’m looking for a staff job. The time is right — our daughter’s now at university. While she was growing up I worked freelance. I did corporate writing, magazine articles, the occasional newspaper feature. People hired me to name things – products and companies. I moved on to fundraising projects, still freelance. It was all about the holy grail of balance. Raise the child, run the household, earn some money and maintain the semblance of a professional profile. There were dry spells of no employment and there were periods of far too much of it. I remember one vacation in New York where I worked round the clock for two weeks with my daughter parked in front of my parents’ TV. But then, nothing’s perfect, right? What mattered, I stayed in the game. And I did my weekly stint in the kid’s classroom, joined the PTA, helped run a local youth club. To my way of thinking being a mother actually augmented my skill base. After all, who’s more efficient, more proficient than the person who’s been keeping all those balls in the air, all those years, right?
It seems no one’s buying it, not in my case. Or to put it in another context: no one’s booking that second date. (I mention this because I’m convinced interviews are a lot like dating. In fact, I’m convinced everything is like dating.)
Admittedly, there are all sorts of valid reasons I’m not getting these jobs, not even making it through to the second round of interviews: The wrong qualifications. Not enough experience. Sometimes the chemistry’s wrong, which is fair enough. What’s not fair is being told I have too much experience. That’s the work world equivalent of the perennial break-up line, It’s not you, it’s me (#everythingislikedating).
If my interviews were a graphic novel, the thought bubbles over the heads of the interview panel — it’s always a panel — would read, “Oh God, another one of those opt-out-revolution mothers.” “She can’t do the job.” “ She’ll never fit in.” My thought bubble would say, “Of course I can do your fakakta job. What I can’t do is the interview. I’ve lost the interview knack. “
I used to sneer at the random Hollywood star who refused to audition after making it big, who found the idea insulting. Self important, delusional: that was my assessment. I get it now, though. The star is good – great – at his job, which is acting. Everything he has, his energy, his time and talent, went into achieving that and along the way and of necessity, he lost his auditioning skills, discarded them the way a snake sheds a redundant skin. Then some director calls and demands he go back to square one. The actor stands there, looks at the phone in his hand and thinks, Do I really have to do this, this stage of my life, go out and audition like a novice?
There are courses out there targeted to women like me, mothers returning to the full-time work force. Lots of articles as well, tons of them on-line and in magazines and all of them can be boiled down to one collective title: Re-Entry Strategies for Moms. They always feature a section on the interviewing process, with its comprehensive list of do’s and don’ts. Every time I flick through one of those lists, what to say, what to wear, the art of eye contact, I can’t help but think, Do I really have to do this, be interviewed like a newbie, this stage of my life?
April 14, 2014
… was a coffee colored dress from ASOS online, an LK Bennett cardie in royal blue (how apt) and, in an unconscious nod to my roots, a crumbly leather jacket from Manhattan’s lower East Side, once the schmatta center of the universe.
You could think of it as something old, something new, something net-bought, something blue, because I was feeling pretty solemn and ceremonial about this interview. It was the last stage of my UK citizenship process, a final test before they’d give me a passport.
I became a British citizen — a Britizen — a few years ago. It was a real business getting that done and I stalled on applying for a UK passport because that was going to be another to-do. I’d have to hand over my American passport. I’d get it back, but it was a creepy idea, the symbol of my American citizenship disappearing for an unknown period of time, keeping me caged in Britain while it was gone. I finally got round to it last month, mailed everything off: the forms, my U.S. passport, the little photograph — the one that makes me look like someone who used to be presentable before she discovered crystal meth. Two weeks later, I got a phone call asking me to report for an interview at HM Passport Office.
They wanted to conduct an identity check.
The man on the other end of the line said, “Do you understand what this is about?”
“Um, you want to make sure I am who I say I am, that I’m me?” That’s what I said, but I was thinking: You’re doing this now? Isn’t it a bit late in the day? I mean, you already let me into the club, made me a citizen. I have the certificate to prove it, the one with the big royal seal at the top of the page.
We agreed on a day and time for the interview.
The passport office is in Peterborough, about an hour train ride from Cambridge. It’s a cross-country route through the fens, which, this time of year, are in riotous bloom. Green marshes, fields of loamy earth, acres of eye-blinding rapeseed and those low, twisted trees you see in Constable paintings. Halfway there, Ely Cathedral rises majestically over a housing development and everywhere you look there are waterways – the insane and brilliant system of canals and locks that keeps East Anglia from being swallowed up by the sea.
I looked out at all this water and greenery and thought, I’m a citizen, this belongs to me as much as anyone, and it occurred to me I was probably the only person on the train thinking about that, the idea of pride of place. But that’s what it’s like when you’re an immigrant; you jump through so many hoops in order to belong that you don’t let yourself take it for granted. You’re always a little grateful, like someone who’s lucked into a great second marriage. (Not, of course, that there was or is anything wrong with my first marriage, to America; we’re still together, thank you very much.)
The man in the passport office seated me in a little booth, a countertop between us and said, what I’d already been asked over the phone, “Do you know why you’re here?” I gave him the same answer and then he got into it, a series of questions that seemed plucked out of the sky, that leapt from topic to topic: Where were your grandparents born? Where in Eastern Europe? Give me the names of the shops on either side of the post office where you mailed the passport application. Your father, what’s his life like? I kept saying, “Really? You want to know that?” and then I reminded myself, you’re not on a date with the guy, this is not the time to act mysterious, pick and choose what you want to say. Just tell him everything he needs to know.
So I did.
It got oddly emotional, because all mixed up with the bits and details dredged up from whatever wrinkle of my brain – he even asked me to describe the route I take when I bike into the center of Cambridge, every lane and alley I pass — I had to talk about why I’d come to Britain, what I’d left behind and how you go about creating an existence, constructing a world, in a new land. It turned into a conversation about the stuff of life, defining and marking it, which is actually the true meaning of ceremony.
After 20 minutes of this he shook my hand. Apparently I’d passed; her majesty had decided I was, in fact, me.
I got out of there and headed for the train station.
Peterborough is not attractive. There’s an important Gothic cathedral in the center of town, but the rest of the place has been stripped down and rebuilt according to the punishing standards of ‘70’s moderne, all flat glass storefronts and plastic signage. It’s also been pedestrianized in such a way that the main street is one long wind tunnel; the dress I was wearing turned out to be a terrible mistake, flapping wildly in the breeze and threatening to expose my undies to the general public. I had to clutch it as I ran to catch the 2:18 to Cambridge, not wanting to spend another hour in Peterborough. I managed to make it, and as I flung myself down I saw someone had left a Sainsbury bag on the empty seat across the aisle. It was full and bulging, the proverbial suspicious-looking unattended package. For the good of my country, a citizen acting in the interests of national security, I alerted the conductor. She thanked me, saying what a relief, she was really hungry. The bag contained her lunch, and she’d forgotten where she put it.
My UK passport arrived two days later, unceremoniously dropped through the letter box, the pages blank, the retina detection symbol on the front cover affirming that from now on I would enter the gates of Britain in the literal blink of an eye.
February 2, 2014
… was an LBD from the Gap and a pair of pumps. The latter’s distinct in my mind because of the clickety-clack noise the heels made as Dame Norma and I sprinted down the hall.
We were trying to get back to our seats before the opera restarted.
This wasn’t part of what you’d call a prearranged date, two gal-pals out on the town. I did not call the wife of our former prime minister and say, “I’m off to the opera. Wanna come with?”
That would have been crazy.
First of all, I was there because my friend Sarah had an extra ticket. Second, Dame Norma Major and I travel in different circles, even if she and (Sir) John reside in Huntingdon, practically next door to where I live in Cambridge. Finally, I wouldn’t have rung her no matter how pally we were because the opera in question was called Norma and I would have had to say something like, “Well Norma, do you want to go see Norma,” and I know I wouldn’t have made it through that conversation without a certain amount of immature snickering. But then she probably gets that a lot, goofy operatic jokes, because as it happens the circle she travels in is the high-end music circle.
Apparently, she’s considered very knowledgeable on the subject. She produced a biography of the soprano Joan Sutherland, rated four-and-a-half stars out of five on Amazon and for all I know she’s also written about the opera we were seeing that night. If she has, I hope she called it Norma Does Norma, because I think that would be a fabulous title.
I try not to overuse the word fabulous, but it’s almost mandatory when you’re in opera country. For example, the opera Norma is fabulously camp. It’s the story of a tormented Druid priestess (Tormented. Druid. Priestess. Hello! Three words into the description and we’re already reaching for the smelling salts). There are lashings of love, jealousy, rage and anguished motherhood. Maria Callas performed the role 89 times, which is pretty much the sine qua non of fabulousness, not to mention a very camp fact to have at your fingertips.
Camp and fabulous are not adjectives you’d normally associate with Norma Major who, while her husband was prime minister, more or less hid herself away in their Huntingdon house. When she did appear for the odd state occasion she always looked uncomfortable, standing a little behind her husband, her shoulders hunched over in a suit one size too big for her –the hallmarks of an individual who does not want to be noticed. The media were endlessly unkind about her, calling her dull and unforthcoming, and making little digs about her taste in clothes and hair-do’s. After it came out her husband had had a torrid affair with a particularly noisy and self-regarding female MP, people said things like, “Well of course, what would you expect,” as if, had Mrs M shown more oomph, her husband would not have felt compelled to stray. (Not that John Major was perceived as much of a dynamo; the affair, as detailed by the female MP – and I mean detailed, down to the color of his underpants – staggered everyone. John Major, Tory stud?)
So there I was at Norma, second to last on line for the ladies’ room, the minutes ticking away, the second act of the opera about to start and the line was not moving. The woman behind me, commiserating, the two of us in the same boat, said, “Unbelievable isn’t it?” and as I turned around to agree, I realized it was Norma Major, Dame Norma Major, as she’d become. Her features were delicate, her hair gamine. She was wearing something chic and feminine. In the flesh and under compromised conditions (glary white tiles, severe bathroom lighting) she was, to my surprise, wonderfully pretty.
Inevitably, by the time we both emerged, the final bell had finished ringing. Which is why we ended up hoofing it, side by side, down the corridor. When we reached the auditorium door, we nodded in mutual approval – Job done –adjusted our clothing, and took our seats.
The only reason I mention this fey little vignette, is because I’ve been thinking about first ladies. Is Michele Obama still furious over that funeral selfie? Will she dump the president when he stops being president? And if Hilary Clinton becomes the next president does she plan to implement a secret service detail whose only task is to peel Bill off White House interns? Of course, foremost in my thoughts, the first lady du jour, is Valerie Trierweiler of France, recently turfed out of the Palace Elysee for a younger model. (Who, by the way, looks so much like Trierweiler she could be her baby sister.) One of the many aftermath articles about the affair, this one titled, “Jilted First Lady Seeks Solace in the Slums of Mumbai,” shows Trierweiler cuddling various orphans. The funny thing is, the woman known throughout France as the Rottweiler looks good. As first lady or, rather, first partner, she always photographed tense and driven, her eyes narrowed and her mouth open as if in mid-snarl. Some of that could be attributed to the sheer hell of living with Francois Hollande, who was probably a really terrible boyfriend, always sneaking around and doing tacky things like bringing his secret squeeze to public events and seating her in the row behind Trierweiler.
But now, papped on the world stage as the classic wronged woman, Mme T looks softer, the eyes wide and attentive, the worry lines smoothed out. Once characterised as pushy and vicious, she has morphed, seemingly overnight, into a sympathetic creature, accessible and simpatico. I call this phenomenon the humiliation factor.
The humiliation factor is not about being a victim, or the shame of being brought down a peg or two. True, it involves hitting rock bottom, being left wounded and winded, but the real point, what it’s actually about, is the resulting alteration.
The thing you dreaded most has happened: you have been dumped. At first, you lay there where you fell. You assess the damage. Eventually — because there’s no other option — you wrap yourself in the tattered remnants of your dignity (often far more flattering to the wearer than the garments of triumph and victory), and you pull yourself up. Maybe you throw back your shoulders and apply liberal coats of lipstick (a la Liberty Ross); to each her own survival technique. What happened to you is something you thought you couldn’t bear …and guess what, you’re bearing it. Even more, and here’s the interesting part of the humiliation factor, you’ve acquired valuable information, some life facts to digest — the kind of self-knowledge that, however bruising in the first instance, ultimately adds lustre and depth. It’s akin to the sheen on a pair of no longer new but highly polished leather boots. You’ve become a person who knows a lot, who’s seen a lot and who has learned how to wear it. Like Dame Norma Major looking fabulous and not at all defeated in the ladies room of the West Road Concert Hall, you have become a woman of experience.
November 27, 2013
… was a red dress.
I was aiming for festive.
A week before the wedding my cousin emailed me. She was still in Arkansas, I was still in England, both of us about to fly to New Jersey for the ceremony. Her email said, “What are you going to wear,” followed by an orgy of exclamation points. It was the kind of punctuation normally reserved for the tweets of 14-year-old girls but for once it was totally appropriate to a communication between two grown women. We were, after all, discussing something remarkable, the marriage of a man and woman well into their ninth decades — my father’s about to tip into his tenth.
It’s wonderful to think at that stage of life intense happiness is still an option.
Of course, wonderful often goes hand in hand with a margin of weirdness, an element that did in fact creep into the proceedings like an uninvited guest. My father used to be married to my mother, who died two years ago. His new wife lost her spouse as well. The children of these two previous unions –delighted and relieved as we were — couldn’t help but see the shadows. We didn’t want to, but there they were, parental spectres, appearing at intervals over the shoulders of the happy couple. Along with the red dress, I was wearing some of my mother’s jewellery: two of her necklaces, her bracelet and a cameo ring I kept twisting around on my finger until I realized what I was doing, why I was doing it, and made myself stop.
My new stepsister and I were the official witnesses. (I now have a stepsister and two stepbrothers. They’re very nice.) Our job as witnesses was to sign the marriage license. I think it was the marriage license I signed. It could just as well have been a fishing permit, I was feeling that spacey by the time a secretary handed it to me in the marble gloom of Hoboken City Hall. That’s where the ceremony took place, in the courtroom of Hoboken City Hall, a Victorian wedding cake of a building located, ironically enough, right across the street from Carlo’s Bakery, home of Cake Boss, the reality TV show with a cult following here in Britain.
The mayor of Hoboken officiated, a woman named Dawn Zimmer. It took me a while to work out who she was. We were standing around the lobby in our wedding clothes for what seemed like a very long time, waiting for a trial to wind down so we could take over the courtroom. I was talking to someone’s p.a., a bare faced girl with long bangs and a gauzy Indian-print top. The girl p.a. kept apologizing for the delay and it was only when she told me not to worry about the time, she’d cancelled all her other appointments, I realized I was making chitchat with Mayor Dawn herself.
She’s something of a heroine in Hoboken’s Hudson County, a district of New Jersey notorious for vote rigging, dirty deals and shady politicians. Four years ago she was narrowly defeated in the Hoboken mayoral election. Six weeks after her victorious opponent took office he was hauled away by the FBI on charges of international money laundering and corruption. The FBI called it Operation Big Rig, and it was pretty exciting stuff, even by Hudson County standards. A special election was called, which Dawn Zimmer won (not a foregone conclusion in New Jersey; a few years ago the mayor of Lodi was re-elected from his jail cell), making her available to stand in front of all of us in a courtroom bright with fluorescent tubing to unite my father and stepmother in wedlock. (I now have a stepmother. Exclamation point.)
Halfway through the ceremony, the mayor started crying. She had stood up to the bad boys, turned down the bribes that subsequently tripped up her disgraced opponent, but the marriage of two octogenarians had gotten to her. It was getting to me as well, for all the obvious bittersweet reasons, but there was, for me, an added component. The day before I’d gone to a memorial service for someone who had died way before her time, someone I loved very much. That was the real purpose of my trip to America. This wedding was a bonus, a balm, which my father and his lovely bride-to-be had kindly organized around my visit.
I talked to my daughter before I flew over. The person who’d died had mattered to her, had been a major part of her life. My daughter is not sentimental. I like that about her, the fact she’s never in danger of violating what I call the Two Jews Rule. The essence of the Two Jews Rule is you cannot have two Jews crying at the same time because once they – okay, we – start, there’ll never be an end to it. I told my daughter what I’d be doing in New York, the memorial service for the person we both loved and had now lost, the wedding the next day in Hoboken. There was a long silence on the other end of the phone and then she said, “Well, you can’t wear the same outfit for both occasions.” She sounded angry.