From this distance, I can say without false modesty that in my 20s I was a babe. I had long, dark wavy hair, saucer gray eyes, and a petite but curvy figure. I was even approached about doing a Playboy shoot but as I was still under the influence of my Catholic upbringing, I turned it down.
(That’s me around 1974. Take note Project Runway: I made that skirt out of an old pair of jeans and some scrap fabric!)
On one occasion, a new-ish boyfriend invited me to be his date at an advertising industry awards ceremony. He was up for an art directing prize. It was a black tie affair, and I splurged every penny I could afford on a new outfit. This was the hippy era, and I bought a long, grape-colored crepe dress. It had an empire waist and long bell-shaped sleeves.
At the dinner we sat at a round table with a group of Bob’s colleagues, including his 50ish boss and his wife. I was feeling fab in my new frock and proud of my long-haired, handsome date (who, unfortunately, didn’t win). Then, during a lull in the conversation, Mrs. Boss leaned across the table and said to me loudly and clearly, “You young girls are so lucky to be able to get away with those cheap little dresses. At my age I have to wear designer clothes to look good.”
I was gobsmacked. I was savvy enough to know this was all about her, but young enough to be deeply humiliated in front of my new boyfriend and hurt anyway. I held up at the dinner but burned with embarrassment and cried for days afterwards. Then I made one of those grand pronouncements that we tend to do when we’re young.
When I’m old, I will never, I swore, never ever be hurtful and rude to young women just because they are young.
I’ve long forgotten most of the portentous vows I made back then, but for some reason that one stuck with me. And believe me when I tell you, I’ve often had to remind myself about it in the last 10 years or so. Many times I’ve bitten back snippy remarks when some young thing in size two jeans has swished her hair in my face or a I’ve brought myself up short when I was about to reprimand a girl for her exposed belly ring.
But, dear reader, I’m about to crack. You see, I’ve become fixated by a young woman at the gym: let’s call her “Mandy.” She has a great body, fabulous hair and skin, works out really hard and is a favorite of all the instructors. At least once every class the teacher will give her an “atta girl.” In the meantime, I work my long-suffering heart out week after week and never get so much as an acknowledgement that I’m present. I get the feeling I could show up naked with sparklers in my ears and still not get noticed. And that’s why I almost called Mandy a “mirror hog” the other day. And why I still might do it, or worse, one day if I don’t get my rancor under control.
Because, see, it’s like this. On top of everything else, Mandy shows up in an adorable different exercise outfit almost every day. Never mind Lululemon and Juicy, who knew Prada, Chanel and Stella McCartney even made workout clothes and why would you want to sweat in them? And there I am in my Target and Ross Dress for Less gear. How come after 30 years, I’m still the one in the cheap little outfits? I’ve been nice: What went wrong? Does this make it okay for me to beat up on Mandy? Just asking.
On one occasion, a new-ish boyfriend invited me to be his date at an advertising industry awards ceremony. He was up for an art directing prize. It was a black tie affair, and I splurged every penny I could afford on a new outfit. This was the hippy era, and I bought a long, grape-colored crepe dress. It had an empire waist and long bell-shaped sleeves.
At the dinner we sat at a round table with a group of Bob’s colleagues, including his 50ish boss and his wife. I was feeling fab in my new frock and proud of my long-haired, handsome date (who, unfortunately, didn’t win). Then, during a lull in the conversation, Mrs. Boss leaned across the table and said to me loudly and clearly, “You young girls are so lucky to be able to get away with those cheap little dresses. At my age I have to wear designer clothes to look good.”
I was gobsmacked. I was savvy enough to know this was all about her, but young enough to be deeply humiliated in front of my new boyfriend and hurt anyway. I held up at the dinner but burned with embarrassment and cried for days afterwards. Then I made one of those grand pronouncements that we tend to do when we’re young.
When I’m old, I will never, I swore, never ever be hurtful and rude to young women just because they are young.
I’ve long forgotten most of the portentous vows I made back then, but for some reason that one stuck with me. And believe me when I tell you, I’ve often had to remind myself about it in the last 10 years or so. Many times I’ve bitten back snippy remarks when some young thing in size two jeans has swished her hair in my face or a I’ve brought myself up short when I was about to reprimand a girl for her exposed belly ring.
But, dear reader, I’m about to crack. You see, I’ve become fixated by a young woman at the gym: let’s call her “Mandy.” She has a great body, fabulous hair and skin, works out really hard and is a favorite of all the instructors. At least once every class the teacher will give her an “atta girl.” In the meantime, I work my long-suffering heart out week after week and never get so much as an acknowledgement that I’m present. I get the feeling I could show up naked with sparklers in my ears and still not get noticed. And that’s why I almost called Mandy a “mirror hog” the other day. And why I still might do it, or worse, one day if I don’t get my rancor under control.
Because, see, it’s like this. On top of everything else, Mandy shows up in an adorable different exercise outfit almost every day. Never mind Lululemon and Juicy, who knew Prada, Chanel and Stella McCartney even made workout clothes and why would you want to sweat in them? And there I am in my Target and Ross Dress for Less gear. How come after 30 years, I’m still the one in the cheap little outfits? I’ve been nice: What went wrong? Does this make it okay for me to beat up on Mandy? Just asking.
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