I remember how excited I got in college when gorgeous Barry Cunningham told me he thought about being with me while his girlfriend was away.
I remember how excited I got when I was offered my first real job, as an assistant editor on Where Magazine.
I remember how excited I got when I saw The Eiffel Tower for the first time.
I remember how excited I got when I made the honor society in high school.
I remember how excited I got when I closed my first sale as a publisher.
I remember how excited I got when my son was accepted to the pre-K program in a great school.
I remember how anxious I got when I was waiting to hear if I passed a final.
I remember how anxious I got when I waited for Edgar to call.
I remember how anxious I got when I had to babysit for my younger sisters.
I remember how anxious I got when I thought I was lost driving in a strange city.
I remember how anxious I got worrying whether I’d get the account.
With so much excitement and anxiety all those years, it’s no small wonder I survived without having multiple breakdowns and heart failure. If youth is defined by fast, first, many, more, loud and lively, what defines FOF?
I say it’s peacefulness, patience, calmness, simplicity, lower, longer and continuous. I want nice outcomes, but I no longer jump for joy when I get them. I don’t like unpleasant circumstances or outcomes, but my anxiety level no longer climbs into the stratosphere when they come my way.
It’s exciting not being quite so excited. And it’s pure joy not being so apoplectic.
Extremes are so childish. Thank heavens I’ve outgrown them (most of the time, anyway!)
We all want perfect, happy children who get good grades, have winning personalities and loads of friends, graduate from the best colleges, earn huge salaries, marry wonderful people and have wonderful children, and on and on. If they do well for themselves, we’re pleased as punch. If they don’t, and are sad, we’re sad, too. There’s a saying, “You’re only as happy as your saddest child.”
Shirley, such a swell little girl
I saw a riveting movie called “Beautiful Boy” today on Pay Per View, about a couple in a strained marriage whose only child commits a heinous crime, then kills himself. The movie takes us through the way they process his death and the crime, as well as the reaction of their friends, neighbors, co-workers and families. Needless to say, they go through a period of intense self-doubt, when they blame themselves and each other for their son’s violence.
Are we somewhat, overwhelmingly or not at all responsible if our children turn into marvels or monsters? Are monster parents who have marvelous offspring just plain lucky, while marvelous parents with monster kids drew the short straw? Is it okay to dislike your child if he turns out to be a monster?
Our parents raised us differently than their parents raised them; we raised our children differently than our parents raised us, and now our kids are raising their kids differently than they were raised by us.
Every generation is certain it’s unlocked the secret to perfect parenting. So how come so many imperfect people continue to inhabit the earth?
I was 24 when Gloria Steinem launched Ms. Magazine and I thought it was written for uber-feminist misandrists. I was driven to succeed as a writer and journalist, I had no interest in being a housewife and mother, and it never entered my mind that anyone would deny me anything because I was a woman. I was a wife, but I never defined myself that way, yet I didn’t have a burning desire to erase the Mrs. before my name. And although it nauseated me when my best friend’s pompous husband looked at her as arm candy, versus an intelligent human being, I didn’t hate him. I just thought he was pathetic.
Forty years later, I realize how narrow minded I was. Although I didn’t follow the path of many women my age, I didn’t recognize that women were, indeed, treated like second class citizens. Gloria and her band of brazen, brave and visionary women gave voice to a movement that would help raise public consciousness and change the culture of all women.
A 40-year-old photo of a sultry Ms. Steinem, cigarette poised between the long-nailed fingers of her right hand, graces the current cover of New York Magazine, which previewed the first issue of Ms., in 1971. Abigail Pogrebin’s cover story ( she’s the daughter of Letty Cottin Pogrebin, a co-founding editor of Ms.) is a compelling oral history of the magazine from many of the founding members. I encourage everyone to read it. To tempt you, here is an excerpt from a feature story by Jane O’Reilly that ran in the debut issue of Ms.:
“On Fire Island my weekend hostess and I had just finished cooking breakfast, lunch, and washing dishes for both. A male guest came wandering into the kitchen just as the last dish was being put away and said, ‘How about something to eat.’ He sat down, expectantly, and started to read the paper. Click!…In the end, we are all housewives, the natural people to turn to when their is something unpleasant, inconvenient or inconclusive to be done.”
If it wasn’t for Gloria, there probably would be no FabOverFifty because many of us would still be housewives, and not necessarily by our own choosing.
Thank you, Gloria.
P.S. Please tell me your thoughts.
David, Rigby and I waked around Soho yesterday with nephew Max and his good friend, Will, where it dawned on me that the world of young people is basically divided into two sectors: Those who feel disenfranchised and those who are cool, or at least think they’re cool.
David is the definition of cool
Bethenny is an ass