I See You Made an Effort: Compliments, Indignities, and Survival Stories from the Edge of 50 (3 page)

“Oh, that’s a bargain,” I hear myself say in agreement. “Only fifty dollars.”

It’s made by a doctor, a doctor from New York, she tells me in the same voice my grandmother used to describe men who were good marriage material—
a doctor!
Marte says to Older Marte, “Tell her about the deal she can get.” They’re double-teaming me now.

“If you spend two hundred dollars, you get this bottle of oxygenated, harmonized water for free.”

My grandmother Rebecca, from Minsk, would have liked the sound of that water. In the summers during the 1940s, our entire clan traveled by Greyhound bus from where they had settled in Mobile, Alabama, a few hours to the north, to take the waters at Healing Springs. For centuries, the Muscogee people visited this site, where the mineral water was said to cure everything from dyspepsia to eczema. You would not only bathe in the springs, you’d drink its curative properties as well. My grandmother had lived through pogroms and the Depression, so she expected a lot of value from everything she purchased.

“But will it keep my vagina from being so dry?” I blurt out. The Martes look at me blankly. “I was joking,” I say. “JK, as the kids say—just kidding.” But they just stare at me and I know I’ll be going home with Dr. Colbert’s Intensify Facial Discs, because they don’t know me or my sense of humor, because I said “dry vagina” and because she spent so much time on my hand.

This time the financial exchange is rapid. Surgical, really. In
that moment, I recall shopping when I was a kid, my mother holding her breath as each credit card she’d hand over would have to be tried before a sale could be completed. I would look around, hoping no friends from school were there to witness this ritual. At forty-nine, I have discovered that age gifts you with invisibility in all but monetary transactions. It’s also given me compassion for my mother. I have it covered, barely. Cash extracted, I leave.

Arriving at home, I rush upstairs past my teenage son. “I’m working on a deadline,” I yell down to him, which is sort of true when you think about it. I immediately strip off my clothing and step into the shower, pushing aside the upside-down bottles of shampoo and body wash. I carefully place this jar, labeled “daily nutrition for skin,” next to the one marked “transdermal, bioenergized resurfacing solution,” which I purchased only a few weeks earlier. I take out a facial disc and begin scrubbing my left hand, wondering how many of the millions of American women born the same year as me are doing something similar at that very moment.

After only a few circular motions, it’s clear that I simply have dirty hands. I am an idiot. Brown was never ever going to be the new black. I scrub my face hard. Remove another disc. It’s more scouring than scrubbing at this point, applying so much force that terra-cotta-colored capillaries bloom on the thinning skin around my nostrils.
Thank God I bought that concealer
, I think as I head down to heat up a frozen pizza for dinner.

Marte must be at home by now as well. Marte, whose real name I may never know, because I too have worked service jobs under
a “slave name,” is heating up the casserole she made yesterday from scratch. She’s boiling corn and steaming greens for her kids. Marte, who is actually twenty-nine, in all probability, didn’t need my lecture on hormones and vitamin D. She’s probably read the latest research and smartly decided to skip them all, and I hope she’s working on commission, because she deserves it.

I am no longer allowed to sing in front of my son. I can’t ask questions about school, no queries about girls, can’t look too proud or enthusiastic at ball games, and all public displays of affection are, of course, verboten. Must sit separately when taking him to the movies with his friends, must never be nude within a hundred feet of him, even if doors are closed, can’t allow a sigh to pass my lips (too old), an “oy” is forbidden (too Jewish), can’t make a loud sound in an enclosed space even if a shelf falls on my head.

It’s all come down to starchy foods. I’ve been dragging myself out of bed every morning to get breakfast ready just so I can watch him eat the Aunt Jemima–brand pancakes I’ve mixed from
scratch. But now he hates my pancakes, I chew too loudly, the timbre of my voice is grating and he’d prefer to eat alone.

Our sole discussion of any length in the last few months took place over the course of an eight-hour car ride down the California coast, during which time we debated whether the proper pronunciation was “ka-ching” or “cha-ching” when mimicking a cash register sound. This went on for six and one-half hours. The remaining hour and a half he was sleeping, and although unconscious, he still managed to communicate his disdain through hostile body language.
*

The downhill slide began last year. I was instructed not to make eye contact with him on his middle school campus. Doing my best to walk while staring at my feet was difficult enough, but I once made the unforgivable mistake of waving hello, a gesture that was deemed way too enthusiastic. It caused so much distress I could only surmise it was the teenage equivalent of waterboarding. After that, I was instructed not to leave my car; instead, I was to text him when I was in his immediate vicinity. There was an occasion, however, when I was forced to address him in front of a girl who may or may not have been his girlfriend, and I cavalierly mentioned his (adorable) freckles. A teenage boy’s appearance is a very, very bad and inappropriate topic for his mother. There is zero tolerance in this arena for teenagers. You might inadvertently use the adjective “cute” when “handsome” is the desired effect, or vice versa. I suggest treading carefully.

On top of that, entering the immediate space of a teenager subjects your own appearance to a scrutiny I doubt Anna Wintour could withstand. It’s hard enough to please myself, but a teenager’s prohibitions include: do not wear any outfit that could be construed as either trying too hard, not trying hard enough, or classified simply as “trying.” I found out just how discerning the teenage eye can be when I enlisted my son in a project rebuilding elderly veterans’ homes that had been destroyed by Hurricane Katrina in New Orleans. I was going to introduce him to social activism and impress him with my knowledge of local fare while connecting him to the part of the country where I spent my early years. We’d work alongside volunteers from across the country, share beignets and étouffée, and contemplate the mysteries of NOLA, including the gender of the attractive, scantily clad women who walk the streets of the French Quarter from midnight to dawn. My teenager refused to eat meals at my table or work on my crew and declined to be photographed with me, all because I had the temerity to be wearing khaki work pants. What horrible crime did khaki commit? Was khaki responsible for the collapse of the euro, the decline of science education in America, or Hot Pockets? Later, when I asked what the most memorable part of the trip had been, he replied it was befriending Skunk and Sam, the resident cats at Café Du Monde.

Tonight, however, my stock will go up, I am sure of it.

I’ve scored something that no teenager who plays the electric bass can resist, an invitation to a private concert of a well-known indie band. But we’re late-as-usual-Mom-why-can’t-you-
remember-where-your-keys-are, and we’re rushing to get out of the house.

Where are my keys? Good question.

I started losing track of them five years ago and gave up because I’d rather use my remaining brain cells to scour my memory for movie titles, obscure sitcom actors and names of the spouses of old friends. I’ll catch myself punching the air with a triumphant “Yes!” when my brain has successfully located this mostly useless information. When recalling the theme song from
Laverne & Shirley
is a cause for celebration, your keys are really the least of your problems, but I don’t tell my son that. I just repeat what has become my catchphrase, “I’m doing the best I can,” and continue rooting around the kitchen.

“And this concert better be great, Mom.”

“Oh, it will be. I guarantee it,” I reply as we exit the house aided by a spare set of keys.

I have promised him something extraordinary so I can spend two hours in his company. If all goes as planned, he will realize that I am a great mother, or at least that everything I do, have done, and will do in the future comes from having his best interests at heart. I hope I can deliver.

I blame this entire enterprise on biology.

My friends with older kids love to regale me with tales of how things will turn around.

“Your kid will eventually realize your worth and you’ll find yourself having a ball with him,” they assure me. But most of them had kids when they were younger than I was. I had to do
theater in Off-Off-Nowhere-Near-Broadway theaters in my twenties, instead of having children like nature intended, and now I’m paying the unexpected price of going through menopause while my son is going through puberty.

So many aspects of my grandmother Frances’s life were thoroughly unsatisfactory. Higher education was a privilege reserved for the boys in the family. Her choice of spouse was largely dictated by the onset of the Depression. On top of that, in order to work, she had to claim to be unmarried, as no employers wanted to hire women who might be about to get preggers. At least at fifty, she was rewarded with the pleasure of inhaling the milky, sweet smell emanating from the heads of her grandchildren. It makes sense that just as your estrogen flow is waning, you get a boost of oxytocin, often referred to as the “love hormone,” from caring for your grandchildren. My mother, at fifty-three, was a first-time grandma when my sister gave birth to the first of her sons.
*

I don’t have the luxury of waiting for my son to grow up and say,
Now I get it, Mom
. I had him at thirty-seven. If my kid follows my lead, I’m going to have little ambulatory time to enjoy his appreciation. Tonight, damn it, he will see I am just a little bit cool, even if he hates me for it.
*

The idea that a concert could bring us together seems perfect. We regularly listen to music on our computers and the iPods scattered around our house. Or so I thought, until I saw his list of favorite bands on his Facebook page: The Antlers, Deerhoof and Deerhunter. I had never heard of any of them. What is it with all the venison-themed bands? Clearly the window was closing.

“What exactly is this we’re going to, Mom? Do you even know?”

“I’m not sure,” I lie.

Oh, I know, I do. I have planned this outing for two weeks now, but I must withhold details, because the more he knows, the easier it will be for him to reject the experience. My friend Heidi’s fifteen-year-old daughter, Eloise, produces a local live music series, which has gained a national following on the Web. We’ll be part of a small group who has been invited to a taping.

The idea that my mother and I would have shared musical tastes when I was a teenager would have been laughable. During my childhood there was one record player in our household. I told this to my son when he was ten years old. He asked if I had taken a flight to New York when I left home for college or if airplanes hadn’t been invented yet.
*

Though we were secular Jews, the few records my parents had invested in on their limited budget were Jewish-themed. We listened to
You Don’t Have to Be Jewish
,
My Son, the Folk Singer
,
and Theodore Bikel’s
Greatest Broadway Hits
, over and over. If I lose my short-term memory, a definite possibility considering both a grandfather and an aunt had Alzheimer’s disease, I might just be left with Allan Sherman routines and Bikel singing “Edelweiss” from
The Sound of Music
.

When my sister turned fifteen, the record player migrated into her bedroom, and it wasn’t until she left home for college that I inherited her music collection and my parents bought me an 8-track deck to boot. But we never listened to Steely Dan, KC and the Sunshine Band, and Elton John together in the way that iPods and iTunes have made music so portable. When I was sixteen, I saw Jethro Tull play at the Hollywood, Florida, Sportatorium with a group of girlfriends. It was the first rock concert I attended, and maybe it was the strobe lighting and smoke effects, seeing the only rock band led by a flutist, or that someone puked on my tan suede Kork-Ease, but it was unforgettable. This will be my son’s first concert. And he is going with . . . me . . . his mother. If there is any generational marker of difference, this surely must be it.

Our destination turns out to be a cramped loft in Hollywood. It’s hot and the place is packed with teenagers sprawled on sectional couches in front of a small stage where the indie punk band Titus Andronicus is warming up. We find two empty folding chairs on a riser one level up from the couches, where other parental-looking people are seated, as the two Web VJ hosts take their place in front of the stage. My son inches his chair away from mine and stares straight ahead, careful not to look in my
direction. He’s younger than these teenagers, but I sense he wants to blend in with them, so it is not without trepidation that I whisper, “Take off your baseball cap.” I want the girls to see his beautiful face, but he won’t do it, and I know I can’t push him. After half an hour, when he finally relents and takes off the cap, I gesture to him with a triumphant raise of an eyebrow, but he lets me know that his decision had nothing to do with my suggestion, mouthing a silent
What?
—the staple of the teenage male vocabulary.

As the hosts move into place, I can tell they are not fifteen years old, but hired guns that appear to be in their early twenties.

The male host, an actor dude, is dressed in such a casual way, you know a tremendous amount of effort went into his appearance. It’s hard to say which aspect of his façade is more studied, his offhand delivery or his attempt to grow a beard. Each delicate hair on his chin appears strategically placed to cover as much surface as possible.

The female host has features almost horsey enough to render her unattractive, but her hair is shiny and flowing and she’s got a flattering leg-to-torso ratio. She’s also wearing a silky halter top, held up, as if defying gravity, by tiny sparkling strands of silver. I hate her instinctively. I’m positive she was a cheerleader in high school and that I scored better than her on my SATs, at least the English part. She reminds me of the blondes in bikinis who bite into burgers, juice dripping down their chins, in Carl’s Jr. commercials. She’s cultivated a ditzy delivery and even gets the name of the band wrong—“Titus Andonicus!”—but no one corrects her. Is it because her complexion is flawless and dewy? I know I
shouldn’t be so judgmental, but one of the few things I’ve been successful at maintaining into middle age is long-held resentments. Diets, meditation practice and regular flossing were all passing flirtations, but my distrust of perkiness? Intact as the day I first noticed the difference between my doleful Semitic features and cute-as-a-button symmetrical faces.

My pal Heidi, who’s seated near me, leans over and says, “That was you, right?” referencing my career as a television host. But I was never that girl. Tan, fit, appealing in a nonthreatening way. I’ve always rebelled against convention. In the eighties, I had dreadlocks. My hair was my anarchistic comment on our materialistic society, or I couldn’t afford conditioner—maybe both.

Cheerleader Host turns the discussion over to the teens on the couch.

The first to speak is Maize, a girl with vintage thrift-shop style. She fronts her own band and expertly drops names of her favorite groups. After her, scholarly Cassiopeia lets us know she’s aware that the group’s name has been lifted from a Shakespearean play and asks about the role of metaphor in song construction. There’s tomboy Dale, with her gender-neutral name, buzz cut and leather wrist cuffs, and my friend’s daughter, Eloise. Eloise is simply attired in jeans and T-shirt, glasses and long straight hair. She has an understated authority. She thanks the band for coming and asks questions about their musical influences. I can only intuit that Eloise has watched her fair share of television and determined that Cheer Host could potentially broaden the series’ audience to include Web-surfing males who enjoy burger commercials.

The band starts to play and I’m convinced Cheer Host doesn’t even like music. She’s bopping perfunctorily, but I am mesmerized by her confidence. I gasp, realizing she’s so attractive she might even go home with one of the band members.

The band is bursting with youthful energy. The only female member, Amy, a guitarist and violinist, comes alive when the band starts playing. Warming up, she had appeared doughy, but now she’s jumping up and down and her joy is palpable and contagious. She’s also wearing a bright red romper. The romper is an infantilizing one-piece short jumpsuit, something like an adult onesie. Once reserved for toddlers, rompers were a questionable fashion trend in the seventies that has been newly embraced by vintage-wearing twenty-somethings in Brooklyn.
*
Does Amy wear that for every show? Or does she have rompers in different colors, I wonder, knowing that my romper years are long gone and I will never ever be seen in one, unless portraying the mentally ill.

The lead singer, Patrick, is emaciated, with a rangy beard and mischievous eyes. He radiates an intensity just menacing enough to suggest he could easily be cast in the TV movie
Charles Manson: The Early Years
.