Today I Am a Ma'am: and Other Musings On Life, Beauty, and Growing Older by Catherine Whitney, Valerie Harper
Authors: Catherine Whitney, Valerie Harper
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CHAPTER 1
PARDON ME, MA’AM
Little Old Ladies
I knew I had to write this book the day I found myself uttering a shocking statement. I was regaling my teenage daughter, Cristina, with a funny story about an encounter I’d had with a woman at the supermarket. “She was this little old lady of sixty,” I said. That’s as far as I got, because Cristina was doubled over with laughter.
“ What? ” I demanded, annoyed. “I didn’t get to the punch line yet.”
“Uh, Mom,” she said with a grin, “I hate to break it to you, but you’re sixty.”
“So?”
“You just said, ‘this little old lady of sixty’“
“Oh, my God!” It was a moment of truth. I certainly didn’t consider myself to be a little old lady, but if the phrase could slip off my tongue with such remarkable ease, that meant it was hardwired in my brain.
Shelf Life
I never thought I’d be sixty. It’s not that I didn’t expect to live this long. It’s just that—well, sixty! That’s almost old. I was afraid that by the time I reached fifty I wouldn’t be myself anymore. I guess that when you spend your life as a dancer and an actor you learn to view the passing of time like the ticking of a time bomb— five more years until annihilation . . . four more years until annihilation . . . thirty minutes until annihilation . I can still remember being a thirteen-year-old ballet dancer and thinking, oh, my God, if I don’t get into a ballet company by age sixteen, I’m sunk. Imagine feeling that pressure at thirteen!
That’s an extreme example, but the prevailing media wisdom is that women have shelf life. If you don’t believe it, just look at the movies. When was the last time you saw a leading man of a certain age (Sean Connery, Michael Douglas) paired with a leading lady (Meryl Streep, Faye Dunaway) of a similar certain age? What does it say about our society when our most popular romantic male leads are in their fifties, sixties, and even seventies, and our most popular female romantic leads are in their twenties and thirties? If I were to be cast in a Harrison Ford movie, I’d probably get the role of his mother. I’m not joking. Jane Fonda once made this observation: “What’s the worst thing about being a female movie star over forty? Watching each year as Robert Redford’s leading ladies get younger and younger.”
What a Greeting
For pure, unadulterated insults, nothing beats a trip down the greeting card aisle. Those warm, fuzzy greeting card moments are certainly not directed at women—especially past the age of thirty. I ask you, who writes these cards? A troll in the back room? Here’s a random selection. You be the judge.
Birthdays are like fine wine.
Once you find an age you like, stick to it!
Birthdays mean nothing to women like us.
Why, you and I are just a couple of teenagers stuck in middle-aged bodies . . .
And deep, deep denial.
Birthdays are like French fries.
The more we have, the bigger our butts get.
A birthday and big boobs.
Well, at least you’ve got one of those things today.
Happy Birthday, Gal!
No need to panic yet . . .
Your whole butt still fits in the mirror.
To aid you on your birthday, here are some valuable lovemaking tips for people your age . . .
Set alarm clock for 2 minutes in case you doze off in the middle.
Make sure you put 911 on speed dial.
Keep extra Polygrip close by so your teeth don’t end up under the bed.
Have heating pads, Tylenol, splints, and crutches ready in case you actually complete the act.
We know we’re getting older when “Frosted Flakes” begins to refer to our peer group.
Here’s the real kicker. You don’t have to be over forty to be pronounced over the hill. I saw this card for a woman turning thirty:
Wow, 30! You know what that means!
Time to get a bad haircut and some real dowdy clothes.
If Life Imitated Television . . .
Teenagers would be twenty-five, Mom would be thirty,
PARDON ME, MA’AM
Little Old Ladies
I knew I had to write this book the day I found myself uttering a shocking statement. I was regaling my teenage daughter, Cristina, with a funny story about an encounter I’d had with a woman at the supermarket. “She was this little old lady of sixty,” I said. That’s as far as I got, because Cristina was doubled over with laughter.
“ What? ” I demanded, annoyed. “I didn’t get to the punch line yet.”
“Uh, Mom,” she said with a grin, “I hate to break it to you, but you’re sixty.”
“So?”
“You just said, ‘this little old lady of sixty’“
“Oh, my God!” It was a moment of truth. I certainly didn’t consider myself to be a little old lady, but if the phrase could slip off my tongue with such remarkable ease, that meant it was hardwired in my brain.
Shelf Life
I never thought I’d be sixty. It’s not that I didn’t expect to live this long. It’s just that—well, sixty! That’s almost old. I was afraid that by the time I reached fifty I wouldn’t be myself anymore. I guess that when you spend your life as a dancer and an actor you learn to view the passing of time like the ticking of a time bomb— five more years until annihilation . . . four more years until annihilation . . . thirty minutes until annihilation . I can still remember being a thirteen-year-old ballet dancer and thinking, oh, my God, if I don’t get into a ballet company by age sixteen, I’m sunk. Imagine feeling that pressure at thirteen!
That’s an extreme example, but the prevailing media wisdom is that women have shelf life. If you don’t believe it, just look at the movies. When was the last time you saw a leading man of a certain age (Sean Connery, Michael Douglas) paired with a leading lady (Meryl Streep, Faye Dunaway) of a similar certain age? What does it say about our society when our most popular romantic male leads are in their fifties, sixties, and even seventies, and our most popular female romantic leads are in their twenties and thirties? If I were to be cast in a Harrison Ford movie, I’d probably get the role of his mother. I’m not joking. Jane Fonda once made this observation: “What’s the worst thing about being a female movie star over forty? Watching each year as Robert Redford’s leading ladies get younger and younger.”
What a Greeting
For pure, unadulterated insults, nothing beats a trip down the greeting card aisle. Those warm, fuzzy greeting card moments are certainly not directed at women—especially past the age of thirty. I ask you, who writes these cards? A troll in the back room? Here’s a random selection. You be the judge.
Birthdays are like fine wine.
Once you find an age you like, stick to it!
Birthdays mean nothing to women like us.
Why, you and I are just a couple of teenagers stuck in middle-aged bodies . . .
And deep, deep denial.
Birthdays are like French fries.
The more we have, the bigger our butts get.
A birthday and big boobs.
Well, at least you’ve got one of those things today.
Happy Birthday, Gal!
No need to panic yet . . .
Your whole butt still fits in the mirror.
To aid you on your birthday, here are some valuable lovemaking tips for people your age . . .
Set alarm clock for 2 minutes in case you doze off in the middle.
Make sure you put 911 on speed dial.
Keep extra Polygrip close by so your teeth don’t end up under the bed.
Have heating pads, Tylenol, splints, and crutches ready in case you actually complete the act.
We know we’re getting older when “Frosted Flakes” begins to refer to our peer group.
Here’s the real kicker. You don’t have to be over forty to be pronounced over the hill. I saw this card for a woman turning thirty:
Wow, 30! You know what that means!
Time to get a bad haircut and some real dowdy clothes.
If Life Imitated Television . . .
Teenagers would be twenty-five, Mom would be thirty,
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