Good afternoon, Thursday. I'm tired as could be and have been on the road doing production all week- from Palm Springs to Malibu to freaky deaky Venice. It's all been done and I know it's the Jewish Holiday and I'm just wishin' and hopin' and prayin' that G-d is going to be cool with all of this travel and lack of apple and honey eating or temple going. But on to some other stuff.
On my way out west, I watched a killer documentary on Elaine Stritch, who died on my birthday of this very yea- I think she was about 90. For those of that don't know her because you are not in tune with dowager workaholic countesses who live in the Carlyle Hotel and don't wear pants, you may know here from her role as Jack Donaghy's mother in "30 Rock".
In any event, this documentary made me laugh and cry at the same time- laughing because of Elaine's insanely foul mouth and salt water countenance and crying as I watched her forget her lines to her favorite Sondheim classics due to an epic bout with diabetes.
Now Elaine was a broad, but a classy broad all the less. It's true she drank too much, swore too much, and did not have much use for pants- her style was kind of bananas in the good way- think crisp white mens shirts, legs a hat, enormous eyeglasses, and some tights with legs for years- oh and a Carlyle shopping bag as a purse. Yes. And yes again.
All I could think about while I watched this film is I must be getting really old because I've suddenly fallen in love with old people. When I was young and kind of a moron, I was fearful of them. The fact that they were so close to death, the unpredictable vulnerability, the creaky body parts- the moth balls. All of it. Hated it. Ewww.
But with the loss of Joan still fresh and watching Elaine and reading about Betty Halbreich, the legendary (and older) personal shopper at Bergdorf GOODMAN, I find myself on a plane wearing a leopard scarf and noting that each year, the frames of my glasses gets a little bigger, and I creep one inch closer to becoming a pretty eccentric old lady myself. (Don't worry, you will too. Right now you're worried about your naked pictures getting shared in the cloud but soon enough you'll be wondering what all the fuss was about). I'm starting to see great value in women of a certain age who face down the sands of time with a loaded shotgun and a bottle of whiskey. Stupid to fear it or fight it. There's great nobility and as Elaine put it, "great courage in getting older". So stop trying to wear those jeans from college, cause they don't fit you any more, in more ways than one. As Charlotte Rampling recently put it , "I've earned this face". Indeed. And Ms. Stritch, who was 87 when this film was made, said she hated being called "old". She much preferred "older" because we were all getting older, together. Very true.
And on my Facebook feed the other day, a friend asked what advice they would tell their younger selves- and mine would be don't be afraid of who you are, because at some point you're just going to have to own it and that's that. I myself look forward to bigger glasses and bigger attitude.
I find myself missing these old women who tell it like it is and are just who they are- and when every other day some dumb young celebrity whatthefuck is having naked photos leak, I really miss these grand old dames who don't take themselves so bloody seriously. Life is hard enough. Calm the fuck down. Be a fierce warrior like Joan and Elaine and Betty, because nobody likes a crybaby.
I'm not even sure what I'm trying to say here other than we should hold women who tell it like it is and are not afraid of age and can make fun of themselves in the highest regard. Everybody else can kind of suck it as far as I'm concerned, says the lady in outzsized glasses with a slightly more intense prescription than last year and a face that's starting to look well earned. And that's what's up this cool old dame of a Thursday somewhere on the tarmac in Seattle. Yours, in being who you are. I'll drink to that, because all fine wines are better with age. XO
