Wit and Wisdom
by Beth Broderick
The note was written on a legal pad. It was a bit Catty Wompus, had been written hastily and not within the lines of the paper, but rather at an angle. There were other, more orderly scribblings, such as: “Call Elizabeth” and “Pay Insurance,” but this one read:
“My hands are too crippled to apply the anti-wrinkle cream. Haha!”
It sounded promising enough. “Anti-Wrinkle Film and Contour Body lotion.” It had popped up on Amazon as I searched for body lotion. Maybe the algorithm suspected (rightly so) that a woman of my dotage would cotton to the idea of firming and contouring. I am 66 and still modeling, sometimes in swimwear, so you betcha! I ordered a bottle of it toot sweet. I added Biotin capsules, DIM supplements and eye cream to the delivery list. All of these items are supposed to fight off the inevitability of wrinkles and bags and dull lifeless locks of hair. I have no idea if it works—I suspect that there may be a placebo effect in play—but I am a sucker for this stuff. Given its popularity, it would seem that I am not alone.
I try to buy as much as I can from brick-and-mortar establishments, but these days the shelves in most have limited offerings. Also, many of the items I wish to purchase are locked behind glass doors, which means I have to push a button to “call attendant.” Then I have to stand there while a voice booms from a speaker throughout the store, “Assistance needed in the wrinkle cream department.”
Some days I give in and consent to enriching Jeff Bezos, in spite of the fact that he is not a shining example of rich-guy-dom. He is busy spending his gazillions hurtling rockets into space and hosting ridiculous, lavish events. Not my favorite human, Mr. Bezos, but he has figured out how to satisfy my needs almost instantaneously, and some days I have needs that want meeting right quick.
The miracle lotion came in a long cylinder with a cap that could be twisted into an “ON” or “OFF” position. This took a bit of doing, as my hands are, as the above note would suggest, a bit stove up. I managed to wrangle the thing into the “ON” and then tried to squeeze the bottle. No dice. I grimaced as I forced my toddler hands to press into the plastic, which finally produced some cream that I could apply to my legs. This went on for a bit, me wincing as I tried to get my ridiculous hands to wrestle the promise of firm, contoured flesh from the rigid bottle. I gave up after one leg’s worth. Life is too short. I am just gonna go ahead and live it without a “miracle repair regimen.”
We all want to look our best. I think this is true at every age, but the pressing, desperate need to be attractive is meant to wane at a certain point. When your hands are too crippled to apply the anti-wrinkle cream, there is a good chance you have reached that nadir.
“No matter how you tell yourself, it’s what we all go through …
… those lines are pretty hard to take when they’re staring back at you.”
—Bonnie Raitt
That is from a song titled “Nick of Time,” which is featured in an album of the same name. Bonnie writes eloquently about finding love later in life when she really doubted the possibility of doing so. She married an old friend of mine, the lovely actor Michael O’Keefe. He adored her, and they had a good run, but it was not to last. Life is like that sometimes.
“I have to do it.” I told my nephew Journey. “I have never done it, and I do not want to do it but, it’s got to be done.”
“Never?” He looked at me askance. For him and his peers, it is par for the course.
“No. The thought of it makes me want to lie down and smother myself with seven weighted blankets.”
I am working on ideas for a book. I do not have a deal yet but, it has been strongly suggested that it might be time for me to seek one. In the book I plan to write about the topics that you all have empowered me to cover. I am trying to tell the truth about aging and how it feels to be in the third, bordering-on-fourth quarter of life. And stories, of course. I am telling stories.
In order to write about the experience of “later dating” I am going to sign up on one of those sites. I have no interest in swiping right or left or whichever way one is supposed to swipe. I have zero interest in dating and even less in being in a “relationship.” I am not good at it, have never been good at it, and I am good with not being good at it.
I had a friend for years, what the kids call a “friend with benefits.” A brilliant fellow who had a schedule as busy as mine. We met in a random way, made time for each other when we could, and developed a deep friendship over the years. We made no plans of any kind and had no intentions towards one another. It was perfect, and then I moved. Such is life.
“Turns out, you are hard to replace.” I told him the last time we talked. He laughed.
I may run into another person with whom that kind of arrangement could be made, but I am not holding my breath. I have a great life, a good dog, and work to do.
Part of that work is imagining the makings of a book.
THE PLOT THICKENS.
So. my nephews Journey and Conor have agreed to help me sign up and create a profile, or what have you, so that I can write about dating from at least some experience of how it is done these days. It is done online for the most part. A whole nation of singles are swiping away, all of them signed up on sites with hopes and dreams of meeting their true match.
It happens.
My sister was on a dating site for years and found it wildly discouraging, and then one day her wife appeared. They have made a fabulous life together. Another friend of mine met his match on a site very late in life and will soon marry for the first time. Both are in their seventies.
Another pal who lost his wife signed up with a heavy heart and found a woman who has given him his smile back.
I know plenty of others who have had a rough go of it and who swear off dating for months at a time, only to find themselves resigned to trying again. It can be a painful experience, an exercise in frustration for those who are really looking for a partner. In Los Angeles, especially, it can be daunting. This is a tough town, and folks are not inclined to explain themselves, or let one another down easy. They don’t care enough or are afraid to care too much. Hence the new and pervasive habit of “ghosting.”
Not communicating is the new communicating. It’s weird. This does not just happen in dating, but in many aspects of showbiz. Folks have simply disappeared from each other’s orbit. This even happens in friendships.
I had a young man contact me recently who really wanted me to sit down for coffee with him. I finally made time, because I believe in being there for young folks. I mean, what’s the point of old folks if we are not available to assist the young? He was super smart and fun, and we had a great conversation. We talked about movie ideas and what we are both working on. We exchanged screenplays and made plans to meet up again to discuss them. I read his pilot and wrote back to say that I thought it was terrific; a good, muscular piece of writing with great characters and a thrilling plot.
I never heard back.
I got “ghosted.”
I think it’s pretty hilarious. I mean, really. If I thought he could hear me, I would say, “You can steal the movie idea I have that you liked so much. I don’t have time to write it anyway. We can still be friends.”
I wish the kid well; it’s a good idea. Ghosting is on trend in Hollywood.
If you are going to sign up for those sites and swipe away, chances are very good that you will be “ghosted.” The internet has hardened us, made it easy to walk away from others, to avoid dealing with people or situations that disappoint us or don’t hold our interest. I am wary of the habit; my old-fashioned sense of manners tells me that it is rude. But it is the new normal, and that is that.
Meanwhile, I have a profile to fill out. How about this?f
“Older female seeks very, very busy older male who will not expect much. Poor eyesight a plus.”
That oughtta dazzle ’em.
On we go …
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