Age

I spent five days in the hospital a few years ago when I had my surgery for . . . well, let's just say it was for feminine things, and let's just say it wasn't cosmetic.

Anyway, those five days were like a trip to my distant future, and the trip was sobering. One day (or evening, or afternoon -- you lose track of time when you're pressing that morphine button), I woke up from a nap and struggled to remember where I was. Robe . . . slippers . . . matted hair . . . . Oh, yeah: I was in the hospital, and I must have fallen asleep reading. My reading glasses were cockeyed; my magazine had fallen against my neck and was covered in drool.

I suddenly imagined how I'd be seen by people glancing into my room as they walked down the hall: Old. Nursing-home old. Worthless old. A Gome from the Home, as my husband and his fellow med students used to say. ("Gome" meaning "elderly," short for GOMER, or Get Out of My Emergency Room.)

Later that day (or the next, or that night), I was dutifully taking my I.V. pole for a walk down the hallway, shuffling, aching, cursing the nurses for making me do this; and ahead of me I saw a genuinely elderly lady pushing a walker. My first reaction, which shocked me, was envy -- man, I'd love one of those things.

I was able to stuff this chilling experience into the back of my memory drawer for a few years, stay in denial about the inevitability of my own aging.

And then my son turned 16.

There is nothing like a scathing stare from a smug teenager to make you feel like a Gome from the Home. You stare back for all you're worth, mentally straightening your dignity and buttoning up your pride. You attempt some imperious corrective lecture about his ". . . attitude, Mister." But even if he looks away first and grunts assent, the damage is done. It's all relative, man; and relatively, you're Old.

My consolation is that I am a baby boomer. Therefore, as I like to say, I am The Demographic. My age group gets the lion's share of advertiser's attention, reminding me how hip I still am (even with leakage protection!) My daughter's iTunes library includes some of MY music -- Crosby, Stills, and Nash; Cream; Pink Floyd; The Beatles. When my kids watched a TV documentary about Woodstock the other night, they were fascinated by the ethos of that time. I made the most of it, singing along with the songs, pathetically pretending that I was at the core of the movement instead what I really was: a clueless 14-year-old in go-go boots.

Consolation, too, comes in reminiscence from the book I'm currently reading: Girls Like Us, by Sheila Weller, a wonderful intermingled biography of Carole King, Joni Mitchell, and Carly Simon. What a vivid, evocative trip back to the 60s and 70s this book is, especially for someone of my gender and age (in other words, someone who can still sing every word to every song Joni Mitchell wrote).

That's what my 50s feel like so far -- a duality, a precarious poise between flower child and Gomer. And so when I watch my son pull the car out of the driveway, I don't feel like his middle-aged mom; I feel 16 again, heady with the freedom of a new driver's license, driving downtown on a summer evening with the windows open and "You're So Vain" blasting on the radio.

FFriends

I used to be very selective about which Facebook friend requests I'd accept. This came from the mistaken idea that Facebook friends were actually friends. I mean, my Facebook friends are friends, of course, but it took me awhile to figure out that Facebook isn't a coffee date, or a party at my house, or a private gathering of BFFs.

It's like a big interactive address book. I can assemble all my acquaintances without having to write down their contact information -- without even having to contact them at all. What used to feel like a disturbingly public place is now, I realize, actually very private. It's Facelessbook.

If, for instance, I regret getting back in touch with Paula Peilmeister from 6th grade, I can filter out her Status Updates, or hit Ignore when she asks for my birthday, or delete her altogether -- and I never have to find out how she felt about it. And because Paula, like most of us, is inured to the facelessness of the Internet, she probably doesn't even care that much.

And so I've updated my definition of friendship: I now have FFriends (pronounced fffriends), Contacts, Speed-Dials, and ICEs. FFriends are everyone on my Facebook friends list. Contacts are good enough friends to be in my cell phone. Speed-Dials are the 20 people I call most, and ICEs are my In Case of Emergency designates (not to be confused with just any old relatives).

These days, if you're legit and not a Facebook Slut (someone who collects FFriends like Pokémon cards), I'll probably accept your friend request. Just don't expect me to read your Status Updates. No offense, but honestly, I'd rather fold laundry.

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Ask Earle:

More Obvious Advice

Dear Earle,

I'm in love with "Cliff," and he's in love with me. The problem is that he's married. He has told me he wants to leave his wife and run off with me, but he hasn't done anything yet. I'm afraid to deliver an ultimatum, because I don't want to lose him. Am I doomed to be the Other Woman forever?

-All Torn Up

Dear Torn,

Yeah, probably. But it could be that ol' Cliff's just dumber than a bag of hair. You want him to be your knight, you're going to have to write the instructions on his lance.

-Earle

A Big Welcome to Earle

Dear Readers,

I'm expanding my staff with some guest columnists -- they'll be providing blog-fodder when I don't feel like it.

Today's contributor is a wise friend, name of Earle, who's always got the gloves off. Without further ado:

Ask Earle

No-Nonsense Advice for Wussies

Dear Earle,

I'm a nice guy who just graduated from high school, but I feel lost. I'm not ready for college, and I want to help the human race, but I also need to nurture my creativity. Can you help me decide what my path is?

-In Limbo

Dear Limbo,

What are you, Jonathan Livingston Seagull? Turn your hat around, pull your pants up, and get a job.

-Earle

Dear Earle,

Ever since I turned 50, it's been one ache and pain after another. First tendinitis in my elbow, then a ruptured disc, then my rotator cuff. Will this ever get better?

-Frustrated at 55

Dear Frustrated,

No.

-Earle

Dear Earle,

My little brother's raison d'etre ('scuse my French) seems to be to ANNOY me. How can I get him to leave me alone?

-Wish I Were an Only

Dear Wish,

Don't ever use French and then say "'scuse my French" again. Ce n'est pas sophistiqué; c'est stupide.

I'm kinda on your brother's side right about now, so write me again later and maybe we can start over.

-Earle

. . . So Little Time

Okay, I'm fried and have to just go to sleep, so all I can offer is a three-minute synopsis of the last two days. South Pacific at Lincoln Center lived up to all its reviews and Tony awards -- it was splendid, impeccably acted and sung and designed and performed. It brought back such memories, too, of my childhood, of the times my sibs and I had lip-synced from the record or performed the numbers. More than anything, I felt my mom and dad there -- Dad who loved Broadway musicals and had brought home the album of the original Mary Martin production . . . Mom who loved South Pacific and the South Pacific.

I really liked that they did the full-length version (it was 3 hrs. + but didn't seem long). The restored parts (cut for the movie) deepened and strengthened the plot, making it less of a musical and more of a play about race and bigotry. But they didn't get too emo and P.C.; it was still a luxurious musical show. I actually had tears in my eyes in the final scene -- and I rarely cry even at movies!

And when I left Lincoln Center and was walking back up Amsterdam Avenue to my hotel, I checked my text messages and there was one from Whitney saying, "I'm glad you chose to go to South Pacific instead of the NYC Ballet. I remember when I was a kid hearing you sing 'Cockeyed Optimist' as you did the dishes." And then I cried for real.

I've been meeting up with old classmates from Yale -- really fun. Dan took me to his favorite old-fashioned NY lunch place for pastrami sandwiches (like no pastrami I've ever had!) I've been to Lincoln Center library to donate my collection of play manuscripts and programs; they were very grateful for it, and I am so glad it will be helpful to scholars and directors. I went to an avant-garde music / poetry concert down in Greenwich Village. (Note to Donna: it was interesting, but was it art? Honestly, you didn't miss much. Just some music sets with people standing up and reading poetry in between, and I'm thinking, Um, do you, like, ever wash your hair?)(And I'm lying. Just trying to make you feel better.)

I'm fried because I've been at the Big Conference all day -- Audio Publishers Association -- handing out my business card and demos, collecting business cards, introducing myself to casting agents and executive producers and all the while feeling kind of amazed that I have the guts to do this. I auditioned today for a narrator's contest; there will be tons of entries online, but I was among a small group that got to audition live at the conference. It doesn't matter whether I win or not; what matters is that I read aloud in a small room to small group of some of the top audio publishers in the U.S. -- Random House Audio, Audible.com, etc. etc.

And based on audience response -- well, I think I broke a leg.

Back in Time

There's a little company here called the Big Onion; it offers walking tours around NYC, all of them led by history grad students from Columbia.  I saw that there was a special Memorial Day tour on "Revolutionary War New York," and I was all over it.  I love Revolutionary War history the same way I love ballet -- with enjoyment but no particular expertise.

It was wonderful.  Our leader was a really interesting young woman, a native New Yorker who's almost done with her Ph.D. in colonial American history.  I learned so much.  We wandered all over the lowest part of Manhattan, stopping in front of an amazing series of 17th- and early 18th-century buildings and sites that are sandwiched between towering finance-company skyscrapers.  It's an extraordinary and somehow beautiful series of contrasts.  There's the sweet, tranquil St. Paul's church (where George Washington worshipped) ringed by its 17th-century graveyard, the eroding headstones like stoop-shouldered old men in overcoats.  Next to this is a sleek glass office building, after which comes a narrow, cobblestoned street that leads past Montayne's tavern, where the Sons of Liberty used to hang out and rabble-rouse.

The tour gave me a more visceral sense of how dangerous and restive the times were in the years leading up to the Revolution.  New York was occupied by the British through the entire course of the war.  In fact, General Howe took the city with without bloodshed after General Washington, wisely concluding that his troops were vastly outnumbered, double-timed them off into the hills to fight their battles inland.  But New York was also had a quite a a strong population of hot-headed patriots, and so a citizen's choice of loyalties could have perilous consequences.   Near City Hall Park, where our tour started and where now stands an elegant fountain, is the spot where Thomas Paine ("I regret that I have but one life . . ") was hanged by the British.  And just down the street from there is the site of a tavern where a Maryland colonist -- newly appointed as a stamp tax collector for the British -- made the mistake of spending the night.  He realized that this tavern was a nest of radical patriots, and he snuck away before they could tar and feather him (not the quaint, antic activity we sometimes imagine, but agonizing and usually fatal). (If you haven't seen the HBO series John Adams, see it!)

We saw the grave of Alexander Hamilton (whom I would sneer at if it weren't for the fact that I am related to Benedict Arnold).  We saw a replica of the Liberty Pole -- erected by the Sons of Liberty (using a mast stolen from a British ship), then dismantled by British soldiers.  The Sons of Liberty were a radical gang here, and when they found the pole sawed into pieces and dumped on the doorstep of their favorite hangout (Montayne's Tavern), they got into a street brawl with the British that ended up on Golden Hill nearby and became a prelude to the Boston Massacre six weeks later.  

We ended the tour at Bowling Green, built in 1760 for, well, bowling on the green; it's still a little park, ringed by its original wrought-iron fence.  Up the street from this park, on July 9, 1776, George Washington read the Declaration of Independence to the troops and citizens of New York, whereupon a mob ran to Bowling Green, pulled down the statue of King George, and knocked the little decorative crowns off all the finials of the iron fenceposts.  

I was lost in this world as I wandered back up Wall Street, but that mood ended in a hurry when I descended into Coin-Suckers Land (see previous post) and caught a subway back uptown.

ADHD in the Big Apple

So imagine one of my favorite foods, eggplant, made into a kind of creamy baba ghanouj and then baked.  Oh, and throw in one of my favorite meats, lamb.  Then imagine another of my favorite foods, halvah (okay, I have a lot of favorite foods), also made creamy and baked.  Those were the entrée and dessert last night when Dan and I went out for Turkish.  Considering how rich that halvah was, it sure went down nice 'n easy.  I was still full this morning.

I have been hanging out at Steps dance studio way too much.  Hey, cut me some slack -- it's right there, across the street, the biggest dance studio in New York!  I loved my ballet class yesterday, but I love the atmosphere at Steps just as much.  You walk through a tiny doorway hidden beside the entrance of Fairway Market, go up a dingy, deserted staircase to the third floor . . . and you enter a world of noise and music and dancers and laughter.  It's in a beautiful old building with lots of wood and French doors, so you can see what's going on in every room as you look around.  There are dancers stretching in the hallway, dancers putting on pointe shoes as they sit against a wall covered with celebrities' inscribed 8 X 10s, dancers practicing alone in empty rooms, dancers in a big classroom doing beautiful jazz, dancers in the next room executing perfect arabesques in unison.  I could hardly tear myself away from watching them to go to my rinky-dink beginner's class, although I was consoled by finding myself at the barre between two gorgeous male dancers -- both clearly professionals picking up an extra workout.  (I had to duck when we started the grand battements.)

And I haven't even talked about the day before, when I went down to the Alvin Ailey studio to take class with the illustrious Finis Jhung.  He was stern and scary, and he zeroed in on me (how did he do that? it was a big class and I tried to blend in with the rookies in the back) and made me get on that standing leg and stay on that standing leg.  By golly, my pirouettes started to stabilize by the end of the class.  Sheesh.  I'm such an addict.  There's got to be a 12-Step program for Heather's passions.

After Alvin Ailey, I bought a 7-day unlimited subway card and rode around on the subway for awhile just to get the hang of it again.  I remembered that New York subways aren't as easy to navigate as the ones in London or Washington, D.C. or even Paris.  And I'm glad I practiced -- during the daytime, in a good part of town -- because I had to do conspicuous things like taking out my subway map and wandering around looking for the exit.  (I didn't want to be doing that later this week when I was in a hurry and going through some funkier stations.)

Dan enhanced the whole subway mystique when he told me last night about what homeless guys used to do.  I guess that when the subways still used tokens, homeless guys would stick pieces of cardboard in the slots so that when people dropped in their tokens, nothing would happen and they'd give up and go through another turnstile.  Then the homeless guys would put their mouths over the coin slots and suck up the tokens.  They were called "coin suckers," and they started showing up in ERs with horrible diseases -- typhoid, tetanus, T.B.   Ick ick ick. Gonna be using my elbows a lot more on doors and turnstiles from now on.

Dan regaled me with this story, by the way, just as I was tucking into my baked halvah.  And it didn't slow my spoon down a bit; the halvah was that good.

New York, Sunday morning.  Back to the clamor of NY noise and smells, the bustle of the Upper West Side, the damp grey air off the river.  I looked out my hotel window this morning and saw that right across the street is Steps on Broadway, the biggest dance studio in New York, classes all day for addicts like me.  Must . . . stay . . . away . . . .

What a different city this is when you have some money.  During my starving student days, I'd come down here from Yale every couple of weeks (research, events, dentist), and it was a splurge even to take a subway.  I couldn't afford street vendors, so I'd bring my little sack lunch with me.  One day, I set my lunch down on the floor of the train from New Haven; when I got to Grand Central, it was filled with roaches.  So I just didn't eat that day.

Fast-forward to now, where I'm in this plush hotel on the Upper West Side and it's probably roach-free.  As I plan my week, I'm deciding to walk to most places just because I want to; and I'm not stressed about going places after dark because I can just take a taxi.  Maybe I'll even buy a hot pretzel from a street cart!  

Also across the street from me (ground floor of the Steps building, in fact) is a huge gourmet grocery, Fairway, to which of course I hastened last night before I'd even unpacked. The place has a huge olive-oil department complete with tasting bar (I thought it was the wine section at first).  I also thoroughly sampled the vast array of olives and discovered that dried marinated Moroccan black olives are as addictive as crack-cocaine.

I couldn't believe that all the dairy here is still ultra-pasteurized.  When I used to live out here, I chafed at having to buy the stuff.  My healthnik research said that it's nutritionally vapid, that its fat molecules are rendered somehow more insidious and damaging.  But obviously it's the Way of the East Coast. Even Organic Valley pre-cooks its whipping cream here.  Whores.

I've morphed, Hulk-like, to my old East Coast persona – iron-shelled but amused underneath, like an actor who studies the audience from the wings.  Yesterday at the market, the young clerk grinding my coffee (grind-your-own not allowed) was sniffing inside a can of Sharffenberger cocoa powder, and I barked, "Smells good," and he hooded his eyes and said guardedly, "What's it for?" and I said flatly, "Baking.  Hot chocolate," and he looked right at me now and said, "How?" and I looked right at him now and said, "Heat a cup of milk, add two tablespoons of it and some sugar.  Delicious," and just like that, we were friends.