72 — and learning to give a damn about the things worth giving a damn about.

I’m puzzled at the doctor’s office. So many bizarre questions from the new PA… why is she asking me to draw 3:00 on a clock — am I in kindergarten? And repeating 3 simple words (apple, clock, chair). Her balance questions were not about what I owed them but about my ability to stay upright.

Then. I realized. She sees my number on the chart. She’s checking me for early signs of dementia. And — damn — I showed up looking so fine in my newest hot mama getup — and Balenciagas. There’s some balance for you…

Then it happened.

Two days later — I lost my balance in the middle of my “power walk” — on the 9,237th step to be exact — and ended up in the emergency room — with a couple of broken bones.

Was I hexxed? Or is this balance thing … umm…. a fact.

Vulnerability set in… am I really, truly and officially….a tottering ole broad? Or Is this simply … an awakening? My ageism rageism really kicked in when my (mostly very sedentary) pals started telling (active AF) me to “watch my step” once spotting the cast. No. I’m not tottering — but the vulnerability helped me realize — yep, time’s creeping up on me. It’s just a fact.

The evidence mounts:

My very first design assistant just invited me to her 50th birthday bash. Whaaa?

The group texts with my buds sounds like the recovery ward — “How’s your shoulder” “Is your ankle any better” “How’s that back”…. Oh, there’s plenty about vibrators, lovers, ageism, movies, food — and fuckin Covid and fuckin double fuck Putin … but lots and lots about arthritis….

And then there are the photos. They contain so many facts. Sometimes too many. I splurged on a photo sesh gift for a BFF— she lost 45 pounds during the plague — walked it off — and we wanted to mark this metamorphosis. I thought the shots were FAB and sent them over. Radio silence. For days. Huh? The confession: She was, in fact, shocked to see that her neck is no longer 30, and she has some bags under those huge almond eyes. She loves them now. It was simply — a fact.

Even the almighty R&B singer, Bettye LaVette is not immune. When Covid was FULL TILT, she heard – as we all did - that the “elderly” were more prone to getting IT – and dying. The elderly — not 76-year-old Bettye. So there she was, sporting a mask and speeding around town doin’ her thing. It was her young grandson who tapped her on the shoulder and said: “Ummm, you are an elder. Please don’t go out.” Shock. Facts.

I took this selfie of myself for my 72nd birthday WEEK. Oh yeah, It’s a week! Would I ever have stood in front of the camera minus a dash of makeup in the ole days? Hell no! And it’s damn freeing! And yeah, the face has changed. Shock. Facts.

Or could it be shock and awe? Once you get it. That change is the only constant — and these changes are punctuated by some cold hard facts. That are hard to swallow. But we do (I’ve never been a spitter).

This is not advice. It is an observation. Observing the way time takes you.

With the years, you get realer about aging, unrealistic beauty standards, love, and not giving a fuck about the stupid things.

I used to go out at midnight.

Now I hit the bed at midnight, purring over a good book, with my turmeric pill, ready to kick ass in the (very early) morning.

My lover is designated every other night. No more full time -— sorry not sorry.

Aging is an eye opening. And it is liberating.

You learn to give a fuck about the things worth giving a fuck about.

And that edits out a LOT.

Ok. It’s midnight. Tumeric, check, good book, check.

And grateful — no longer vulnerable — that I am still aging. And still got my balance bitches!!!

"Fuckable" Is Overfuckingrated

Enough Paulina …

Young. Lovely. Clueless.

I just found these photos. I utterly forgot that we ever made them. “We” was me and a photographer who I guess back then I called a “friend.”

I am so coy here. And very, very young. You know the drill — it was the '70s, I was new in New York, met him at a Soho party. He was dressed in a disco white flaired suit. The suit I remember. The face? Naaa. He did me lots of “favors.” Shooting pics of me, pals, family. The favor I paid back was — no — I didn’t f*** him — but when I see the look on my face here — faking the you are AMAZING with a side of completely unfaked PLEASE don’t touch me — deeply uncomfortable then and now. In fact, that mutherfucker was a pig throughout the shoot. And every shoot. The price I paid for mediocre pictures.

You just put up with it. THEN. It was invisible, something we didn't even realize we could speak up about. Good riddance to that bullshit.

And speaking of invisible, Paulina Porizkova is talking a lot about this on Insta these days — no expiration on sexy and the whatnots. I LIKE a lot of what she does, what she says. But — I mean — you win — you're a bloody model. You're posting jaw-dropping gorge photos TOTALLY looking for “am I f***able” outside validation at 50. Don’t put that shit on us. Fitness, sure, but fuckable is overfuckingrated.

“You just put up with it. Then. It was invisible, something we didn’t even realize we could speak up about.
Good riddance to that bullshit.”

In my family of 5 sisters, the eldest one was, without a doubt, the GODDESS. THE sex bomb. Too much emphasis on this in our clan, but she was worshiped — the Liz Taylor type. She came up in the '50s. Mad Men territory. And that was the business she was in. She WAS Joan.

I remember fishing with her, decades later, solidly in her 60s, a bad-ass broad, with her body — well — she looked like a bumblebee and she loved it. I asked her if she missed being the babe — the sexy young thang — her response: "Hell no. I was absolutely tortured for it …."

I'm NOT saying here accept being “invisible.” HELL NO. But being young and being attacked on the streets or creeped on at photoshoots makes who you are invisible. In her bumblebee stage, my sister was more visible than ever. We all get to be visible for who we absolutely are. If we own it. And today? I would have clocked that asshole right in the crotch for messin' with me.

So let's do it — be VISIBLE as the older, powerful Glorious Broads that we are. Nobody else’s idea of “f***able” — OUR OWN idea. Get botox if you want to. Do whatever the hell you want. But recognize. Decades change you. And that's OK. In fact, it's better.

#MeToo Musings: Holidays, Sisters — and Harvey

Big sis Dee. Lil’ sis me. We didn’t have a clue.

The newly svelte (facing a lifetime in jail — an excellent diet) Harvey Weinstein and his army of lawyers released a 25 million-dollar settlement. The beast remains free on bail, once judges doubled his bond after he (allegedly) dicked around with his ankle monitor like he (allegedly) dicked around with (at last count) 87 women. What does $25 mil getcha? He's “not required to admit to wrongdoing” — pleading not guilty to raping any of the women who came forward. He gets to say the rapes were all acts of consensual sex. Nice.
What’s particularly interesting to me about the Harvey case is the different generations of women involved. Weinstein’s accusers range from late boomers to millennials. Like Cosby, Harvey’s been at it for a long time — with charges that go back decades. If this settlement goes through, it signals to (rich) shithead abusers that they can get away with — whatever.

And this got me thinking of the current stories — and solidarity — of the #MeToo movement — when the younger generation said: We’re not standing for this.

Alas, 'twas not always so. I saw E. Jean Carroll, author of “What Do We Need Men For,” famous for getting grabbed (and ‘allegedly’ raped) by our fine President, give a talk recently — I RELATED. In my day, growing up in the 50s, on the work force in the 70s, we didn’t want to be seen as victims. We didn’t want to whine. We laughed off the everyday harassment, buried the humiliation. We wanted to work. So we ate it.
I remember day-dreaming as a kid, my top talent at the time, sprawled out on my sisters' bed (always two to a bed) while they were out on one of their “dates” (they were very popular.) I’d roll around in one of their sexy kitten tight sweaters and hoop skirts, filling myself up with wistful songs, flirtatious tunes, 45s spinning away on their “record player.” One of my favorites was Patti Page, and the refrain of the tune I loved was “Don’t you know a girl means yes when she says no.” I can still hear the melody, though I can’t find a trace of the song anywhere today. Maybe they scorched it.

Wise.

Almost as bad is the holiday standard “Baby, It’s Cold Outside”— jaw dropping conversation between a hunter and his soon to be lip smackin’ meal ... a trapped girl.

So many messages received with the same theme: This is the way of the world, girls. Carry on.
And we did. We put up with it. We thought we had to shut up, move on and not talk. Well, we gabbed plenty to each other — about one “horn toad” or another “perv” to look out for. That was our code. Don’t get caught alone with that bugger. But we didn’t know. We didn’t know the value of our voices outside our own circles — then.

But 20-somethings? They aren’t taking it. It's the difference between thriving on “Broad City” vs. “Sex & the City.” It's Emma Watson offering free legal advice on sexual harassment. It's Miley Cyrus reworking the sexist B.S. lyrics of ‘Santa Baby.’ These young Glorious Broads are saying NO. And they are being heard.
So for me — no more "Baby It's Cold Outside." My holiday wish is a world where women — all generations — support and protect each other. And, oh, that the (alleged) rapist motherfucker gets to rot in jail ... like a certain other celebrity.

Happy Holidays!