Acid Flashback

Fashion is a strange thing, and over the years some bizarre--and terrible--styles have been popular, from harem pants to leg warmers. Sometimes the reason why a horrible style catches on is obvious--with leg warmers in the early 1980s, surely the movie Fame was to blame?--and you can only hope its popularity fades quickly. But other times an offensive fashion trend seems to arrive for no reason and then sticks around for way too long, and when it's finally out you're all, Whew, glad that's over, that was some FUGLY stuff! You know, like bubble skirts. But the worst fashion occurrence is when a horrible, unflattering trend that you had to suffer through once already, comes BACK IN STYLE, making you momentarily wish you lived in Afghanistan where all you'd ever see are burkas.

What I'm talking about, people, is ACID-WASH JEANS. These were slutty the first time around, and not good-slutty like platform heels, but bad-slutty like I'm-sixteen-and-a-Warrant-groupie.

Yours for just $39 at Macys.com!

I first noticed the acid-wash comeback last spring--a little bit in stores but mostly in paparazzi photos of various young startlets wearing horrendous splotchy, ripped, tight jeans. Lindsey Lohan, Kim Kardashian, Fergie--classy gals like that. I ignored it, sure the utter heinousness of it all would render it just a blip on the fashion meter. But now the Fall ad campaigns are out, and acid-wash is everywhere. The ads I've seen seem to be positioning them as edgy and grungy. One Old Navy ad has models wearing skinny acid-wash jeans with long, belted plaid shirts. It's mid-80s Valley Girl meets early 90s Seattle Grunge Chick. My brain wanted to explode after seeing that one.

Most fashion trends come back in style at some point--there was even a scary fluorescent resurgence a couple of years ago--and all you can hope for is that the awful ones are short-lived. So far, I haven't seen any of the teens in my town wearing acid-wash. Maybe they're smarter than that. If not, I have some photos of myself circa 1987 that should scare them straight.

Cape Cod Sojourn

Last week we were on vacation in Falmouth, Cape Cod, visiting my parents, and my husband and I actually got out one night after the kids were asleep. Earlier in the day, we'd seen signs at The British Beer Company, a nearby restaurant, advertising live music, so we decided to check it out. The place had everything we could ask for: a nice bar area, water views, and lots of fun beers on tap. Apparently, others thought so, too, because we arrived to find the place jam packed.

We thought about leaving but weren't sure if we'd find another place with live music and no cover charge, so we squeezed through the noisy crowd toward the bar. While my husband was getting the drinks, I took stock of the room. The crowd was impossibly young, good-looking, and well-dressed. What the heck was going on? This was Cape Cod: People wear shorts, flip-flops, and Sox caps EVERYWHERE. But there was not a baseball cap in sight.

"I think I'm underdressed," I shouted to my husband over the din when he got back with the drinks. The band hadn't started yet so we weaved our way through the crowd and found some open real estate at the back of the room.

The women were uniformly pretty--tall and blonde and decked out in tight flowery dresses and high-heeled sandals. The men wore light-colored summer suits and loafers. One dude looked like a slightly-less-attractive David Beckham. We thought maybe it was a wedding party, but on a Thursday night?

"This isn't how I remember Massachusetts girls looking," I said. (I haven't lived there in 18 years.)

My husband leaned over and said something to the prettiest and blondest girl of all the pretty blondes (who happened to be David Beckham's date). They chatted for a minute. Ahem.

"They've all come from a rehearsal dinner," he said. "Their friend's getting married tomorrow at the Popponesset Inn." Okay, so that explained it.

There were some other regular folks there besides us, but not many. I felt old and schlubby. One of the guys from the wedding group asked an older woman who wasn't with them to take a picture of him and his friends. This woman was with two friends--they all looked to be in their forties and were dressed casually but young & hip for their age. They were all obviously single and looking. The woman who was asked to take the photo laughed and said something about being practically blind. She and the young man whose camera it was flirted a bit back and forth. The guy thought he was hysterical, but his quips were totally lame. The older woman laughed and laughed like he was the funniest guy she'd every met. She gave the camera to her less-nearsighted friend, who took the pic. The first lady continued the banter with the 20-something dude, "Oh, ha-ha, that's what happens when you're over forty!"

Wow, I was embarrassed for her. She was shamelessly flirting with this guy who was easily 15 years her junior. He wasn't even one of the cute ones. I mean, if you're gonna humiliate yourself, at least do it with the David Beckham guy! It got me thinking about how different the thoughts going through her mind must've been compared to his. I wonder if she thought that he thought she was cute and fun and sexy? She looked pretty good for her age, but still. I'm sure he didn't think much of her at all since there were so many hot girls in the bar.

There were also some old guys trying to catch a rap with the young ladies. That's just as pathetic--and grosser--but the older woman/younger guy thing seemed worse somehow. I think it was because she came across as trying way too hard, which made it depressing to watch instead of just creepy. The old dudes didn't care--they were just hitting on whatever girl was nearby. But the woman kept looking around the bar expectantly, an open and hopeful expression on her face, like she was searching for something.

I doubt she found it there.

I'm Still Alive...Just Breathe

One day last week I was in my car listening to our excellent local, independent radio station (shout out to 107.1 The Peak!) when Pearl Jam’s newish song, “Just Breathe” came on. Listening to this pretty song got me thinking about Pearl Jam’s impressive catalogue of songs and their longevity--I (and my fellow Gen Xers) practically grew up on them. 

Despite this, the rock band that has come to define Gen X is Nirvana; along with a handful of other Seattle bands (Soundgarden, Pearl Jam, Alice in Chains, and Mudhoney to name a few), they ushered in the Grunge era and gave voice to the alienation and insecurity of their generation. Nirvana’s music and lyrics certainly did capture the “what the hell am I doing with my life” feeling most of us had in the early 90s, but I have to argue that, because Kurt Cobain killed himself in 1994 (when he was only 27), thus ending Nirvana’s reign as the voice of Gen X, they shouldn’t be our defining rock band. Because, unlike the rest of us, Nirvana never had to grow up. Sure, Dave G. and Krist N. have aged, moved on, and even started families, but that doesn't count, because we didn't get to see how Nirvana would’ve handled the death of Grunge, Napster, ITunes, or the rise of the horrendous boy band era. Kurt Cobain never had to cope with turning forty. I wonder, if he was still alive, if his daughter Frances Bean would hate him, too.

To me, the band that best defines Gen X is Pearl Jam. Though Eddie Vedder wasn’t as tortured as Kurt Cobain, both bands were Grunge, both came out of Seattle, both wore plaid shirts. Pearl Jam even had a cameo in the classic slacker film, Singles; that’s about as Gen X as you get. The difference is that the members of Pearl Jam have grown older together, have had to change with the times, and are still putting out decent, relevant music. In the 90's, they even challenged the increased corporatization of rock-n-roll by boycotting Ticketmaster and selling tickets to their live shows themselves. 

As I listened to the words of “Just Breathe” it became clear just how “mature” Pearl Jam has become. I’m not a schmaltzy person by nature but I found myself almost getting choked up: Yes, I understand that every life must end, aw-huh. As we sit alone, I know someday we must go, aw-huh. Oh, I'm a lucky man to count on both hands the ones I love. Some folks just have one, others, they've got none, uh-huh.  In his twenties, Eddie Vedder was singing about being alive; now, like the rest of us Gen Xers, he's coming to terms with the fact that his life is probably more than half over. His voice is deeper and more gravelly than it was twenty years ago. He sounds like a man who has been through hard times and has learned from his mistakes...a man who realizes one's worth is best measured by the amount of love--not money--in one's life.

Eat, Pray, Leave Me Alone

The older I get, the more I resent marketers telling me what I should and shouldn't like. Maybe it didn't bother me as much when I was younger because the things I was being sold were cool and hip. But now that I'm in the "over 35" demo, not so much. Sure, there are the obviously insulting products like wrinkle creams and stretch-mark treatments, but what irks me most are the subtler items geared to ladies of a certain age...for example, the "Eat Pray Love" phenomenon.

A few years ago, the paperback was being passed around from mom to mom at a weekly play group my kids and I go to. Everyone said they loved it, but I just had no interest. Right off, I was annoyed by the title ("eat" being the only part I found remotely appealing), then when I heard what it was about...forget it. I'm sure it's an interesting and well-written book, but I'm just not a fan of "journey" books.

Then I started hearing about the movie--how Julia Roberts gained 15 pounds while filming the "eat" part in Italy--and I was turned off by how the trailers and print ads were positioning it as a middle-aged-chick flick. That image of Julia Roberts primly sitting in a picturesque Italian piazza, eating gelato with a tiny spoon, with a self-satisfied smirk on her face? I find it insulting. Oooh, here I am in Italy, indulging in rich gelatoooo! I'm so happy!

I knew it would be successful, and I imagined groups of recently-divorced 40-somethings seeing the movie on a "girls' night out" and laughing and crying together for two hours. This kind of movie is just not my taste ("The Other Guys" and "Avatar" being the last two movies I've seen in a theater) but that's not what bothers me about it. I have a problem with the whole idea that yoga can change one's life and that a savior or personal guru is needed in order to find oneself. It's a dangerous message. And then the whole I-found-a-hot-Latin-lover-and-lived-happily-ever-after ending? It's insulting and trite.

So that was bad enough. But then I started hearing about recently divorced women who, after reading the book, ran up huge credit card bills to go on their own "Eat Pray Love" (EPL) journeys in order to "find themselves" (and, hopefully, a Javier Bardem look-alike). A recent article in the New York Post tells of how these EPL "pilgrims" would "often end up broke, and broken" after spending all their money trying to find enlightenment. Scary stuff.


Just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, I opened yesterday's New York Times and saw this article, about "Eat Pray Love"-inspired candles from Fresh. A set of three candles--yes, you guessed it, one called "Eat," one "Pray," and the third "Love,"--each with a scent inspired by the name (e.g. the "Eat" one is lemon, basil, plum). I'm sure lots of women will be buying these $45.00 sets for their EPL-obsessed pals, and the thought makes me want to laugh. Or maybe cry.

The Swimsuit Conundrum

This summer, a question that's been on my mind is, how old is too old to wear a bikini? Because at some point, even if you've got the body to pull it off, a woman of a certain age wearing a bikini looks inappropriate. I'm just not sure what that age is. (I'm aware that in many parts of the world, older ladies continue to wear two-pieces without shame; but not here.)

I'm concerned because I've always been a bikini girl (my tummy being my least worrisome body part). But now that I'm 41, how much longer can I get away with it? Let's be honest, after having a couple of babies...well, things aren't quite what they used to be. Because although the pages of US Weekly magazine would lead you to believe otherwise, there are very few moms out there who can successfully pull-off a bikini after giving birth. Sure, if you can afford a private chef and daily training sessions, then you too can have six-pack abs like Gwen Stefani post-baby; but for mere mortals, it takes much, much longer (if ever) to get back in shape.

After having my first baby, I was shocked by how long it took for my stomach to stop resembling a lump of Play-Doh. So I bought and wore a one-piece for the first time since I was an insecure teen. Eighteen long months later, I was in decent enough shape to attempt a bikini. Just in time to get pregnant again.

The recovery time for baby #2 was even longer. I was pushing 40 by then and thought perhaps my bikini days were over for good. I suppose I could've just packed it in for good, but decent-quality, cute bathing suits are very expensive, and I would've needed at least three new one-pieces to get me through the summer. Besides, in my closet were a bunch of super-cute, barely worn bikinis that I didn't want to toss just yet. I jumped the gun by wearing one of these suits a year after my daughter was born. I thought I looked okay, but then my friend's four-year-old son asked, "Why does your belly look old?" The bikinis went back into storage.

This summer, two years after baby #2 (and countless sit-ups later), I've been hesitantly wearing bikinis again. I keep thinking back to a trip we made to a resort in the Dominican Republic last March, where the only women over the age of 50 wearing one-pieces were the Americans (okay, probably the British too). Seventy-year-old, barrel-shaped European ladies were walking along the beach, happily wearing bikinis (or topless), not at all concerned that their breasts were down where their waists used to be and pointing toward their feet. I envied their lack of self-consciousness. But I don't live in Europe; I live here, where it's like aging is a disease people pretend not to have.

I'm certain I won't be 70 and still wearing a bikini, but I'm worried I might cross the line and not know it.  After all, who wants to be the inappropriately-dressed middle-aged lady everyone snickers about behind her back? I'm sure there are lots people out there who don't care at all what other folks think of them. I wish I was one of them, but I'm not.

And You Thought Those Adults Wearing Silly Bandz Were Ridiculous

My 4-1/2-year-old informed us that he wants to to have a lemonade stand one of these days. Just about every kid ends up selling lemonade at some point during the hot, boring summers of childhood. If I recall correctly, my own attempt at this rite of passage wasn't a huge success: I was terribly bored sitting there waiting for customers and gave up after selling just a few cups. After factoring in the cost of the lemonade mix and plastic cups, plus the four customers I served before quitting, my parents probably ended up losing a couple bucks.

Of course, some kids have what it takes and are more successful than I was, but I've never thought of a lemonade stand as a serious money-making endeavor. However, Michael Orobona, a 40-year-old from Brooklyn, begs to differ. This strange man runs a lemonade stand outside his apartment in Park Slope, and apparently, he actually makes decent money. "If I tell you how much I make, people won't want to buy from me anymore," he told The New York Times (in today's Styles section).

He sounds like a serious slacker to me. Mr. Orobona claims to be a "restaurant consultant" but as we all know, anything with "consultant" in the title means you are basically unemployed. While I admire his entrepreneurial spirit--hey, a guy's gotta pay his rent--there are some kid things that should be reserved for kids ONLY.

Running a lemonade stand is one of them.

Old Mommy on the Block

I didn't have my first kid until I was 36-and-a-half, which was just fine by me. I had plenty of time to sow my wild oats in NYC before getting married, having a baby, and moving to the suburbs. While I occasionally miss my old, crazy life, I wouldn't still want to have that life. I've moved on, and that's a good (and healthy) thing.

One odd thing about having kids later in life is that many of my mommy friends--ladies with kids the same age as my own--are much younger than me. Like a decade younger. Manhattan mommies tend to skew older--they delay starting families to further their careers--but it appears that the ones around here had their first child closer to the national average of around 25 years old. At age 25, I was going to Lollapalooza.

When we first moved here a few years ago, it was shocking. I didn't know anyone, I had no friends, and unlike my husband, I wasn't going in to the city every day and getting a nice dose of culture and sophistication. There were awkward moments while getting to know people: We'd be talking about the silly bands we liked as teens, I'd mention being obsessed with Duran Duran, and the response would be something like, "Oh, I loved them, too. I used to sing along to 'Hungry Like the Wolf' when I was five." Conversation OVER.

Things are better now. Pretty much all my friends are younger than me, but mostly by only a few years. I don't think about it too often, now that our conversations tend to be about our current lives rather than our pasts.

Every now and then, however, something happens to make me feel REALLY FREAKIN' OLD. There's this mom I know...we're not friends but we're friendly. I see her around a lot--library story times, the town pool--and she's sweet. Our kids are similar ages so we end up chatting. I never thought about how old she might be.

I saw her at the pool the other day and we got talking about sunblock, how we are super-vigilant about covering up our kids but often neglect ourselves. I told her that I use a daily moisturizer with SPF 15, so even if I forget the rest of me, at least my face has some protection. She laughed and said, "Oh, that's a good idea! I should do that too, or before I know it, I'll look like I'm 40!"

Oh, the idea of looking 40 to her was just ridiculous! Preposterous! Unheard of! Something to joke about, the worst thing she could imagine! I just laughed. I mean, what was I gonna do, say "Um, I'm 41, actually." That would've been uncomfortable and weird for both of us. So instead, I laughed as if I  could relate (Forty?! Eeek, blah, ptooey!), and took solace in the fact that she certainly wouldn't have said that if she thought I could be that old.

But I'm watching her.

When the Future Isn't Quite How You Thought It Would Be

A thousand years ago when I was in my early 20s, I was in an exclusive relationship, as serious as two kids-pretending-to-be-adults could be. One day my then-boyfriend and I had THE TALK about THE FUTURE. We were way too young to be thinking about getting married and having kids, but I guess we were trying to figure out if we had what it took to make it or were wasting each other's time.

The usual questions came up: Where we'd live, how many kids we wanted to have, etc. Things were going great until we got to, "Would I stay home to raise the kids or would we get a nanny?"

I grew up in a traditional family where my dad worked full-time and my mom stayed home. And while I mostly appreciated my mother's home-cooked dinners and her quiet, supportive presence (except during my teen years when I would've preferred fewer calories and more freedom), Mrs. Happy Homemaker was NOT what I aspired to be. I wanted to be a Modern Woman! To rise to the top of my field! I was sure I could--and would--bring home the bacon, fry it up in a pan, and never, ever let him forget he's a man.

My boyfriend, however, wanted a wife who would stay home to raise the kids. We stayed together for a while after that, but knowing how he felt certainly created a rift. I felt myself slowly drifting away, my attention drawn elsewhere. Ten years later, I married a wonderful guy who didn't care if I went back to work or stayed home with the kids.

Fast-forward another five years, and here I am, a stay-at-home mom by choice. After my son was born, I tried to go back to work but only could stomach it for three weeks. I was shocked by how painful it was to leave him. I cried every day and couldn't focus at work. I began to hate and resent the job I had adored for five years. So I quit and have never (okay, hardly ever) regretted my decision.

I realize how lucky I am to have had the choice. However, now that my kids are no longer babies, I find myself thinking more and more about going back to work, getting an actual job in an actual office. Because as much as I enjoy the work itself, it's the office camaraderie and being an important part of a well-oiled machine that I miss the most. The grim reality is that after four+ years out of the game, it's going to be extremely difficult to get back in. And to be honest, I don't know if I can hack being away from my kids that much.

It makes me wonder: What would the idealistic (and naive) girl I was in my 20s think about the woman and mother I've become? On the one hand, I'm sure she'd be pleased about having two happy, healthy, smart, beautiful children...but on the other, I can't help but think she'd also be a bit disappointed to look in the mirror and see Mrs. Happy Homemaker reflected back. Where did the career girl go? (And who is this laundering, cooking, diapering, cleaning woman who has taken her place?) Have I let my former self down? And if so, is that a bad thing? Or is it just life?

Generation X Grows Up

An interesting thing about my generation is that it was the first one given a cool name: Generation X. Popularized by Douglas Coupland in 1991, and the name of an early Billy Idol band (when he was a teenaged punk in the 70's, before becoming an MTV pop star in the 80's), it sounded bleak, nihilistic, and edgy, unlike previous generational names: Baby Boomers, Silent Generation, Greatest Generation, Lost Generation.

But what did Generation X mean? Nothing, and that was the point. After the Baby Boomers, who were so political and idealistic and FOUGHT FOR CHANGE, what was our generation expected to do? We were slackers...we "temped" while trying to figure out what we wanted to do and then while trying to find an "actual" job during a terrible recession. But it seemed no one expected much from us, and we liked that just fine.

But even Generation X had to grow up sometime. And then what? "Reality Bites," that's what. We got jobs--usually not great ones--and worked hard enough not to get fired but not so hard that we couldn't still go out five nights a week. But then we hit 30, and it was time to grow up. Previous generations grew up at 18 then 21 then 25; ours was the first that moved back in with our parents after college.

Many of us eventually got married and had kids--but a lot fewer than previous generations--and that's when things got strange. Because suddenly there we were: Adults still very much in touch with their own inner-child having to be the responsible, in-charge grownup. For many of us, it was completely foreign territory. And we didn't really have any role models to emulate. Sure, we could look to our parents for some help, but they matured much earlier than we did. Surely they never found themselves, while in a toy store looking for a child's gift, completely overcome with giddiness over all the super-awesome new toys, games, and crafts. Oh, how to leave with just ONE THING?!

As parents, we go overboard sometimes. Last fall, I bought my completely-uninterested-in-dolls toddler a babydoll that makes various goo-ing and gaa-ing sounds, noisily sucks from a bottle, then burps, falls asleep, and even snores (!!)--all because I'd always wanted but never received such a doll when I was little. My inner-toddler was begging for it, and I ended up playing with that thing more than my daughter did.

So we're trying to find our way...our OWN way. At the same time, we--Generation X, the cool, nonchalant slackers--are hitting middle-age and realizing we're no longer cool. We've become responsible (most of us) and even successful (some of us). We might still go to parties occasionally, but we generally don't "PAAARTY" anymore.

So what does that make us now? Generation X-pired?