Some people righteously boycott certain shopping experiences or coffee shops, but my line in the sand is the phenomenon known as the celebrity podcast. I quite smugly and obnoxiously refuse, on the grounds that celebrity podcasts have pushed out smaller, independent podcasts. I will not have it. I will not have it! You can keep your big, showy podcasts with excessive amounts of advertising, and I will be over here listening to two Australian women sharing their hatred for sunflowers, or two Irish women deep diving into Sweet Valley High.
But of course, there is always an exception, and for me that exception is Wiser Than Me, wherein Julia Louis-Dreyfus interviews older women who are celebrities. And now I will tell you that there is an exception to the exception; I very much enjoy these interviews and Julia’s style with one important caveat, which I will get to shortly.
Recently she interviewed Cyndi Lauper, of whom I have been a fan since I was eight years old, when She’s So Unusual was released, and this episode did not disappoint. I adored listening to her heavy Brooklyn accent – whaddya wanna know? – relate her take on life and zest for standing up for what she believes in. But most of all, I loved that she called out Julia for the question that I absolutely loathe, and grit my teeth about during every one of her interviews.
At the beginning of every interview, Julia asks if the woman is comfortable divulging her real age, and after that, she asks how old do you feel? My love for Cyndi Lauper was like the Grinch’s heart, exploding out of the little box it had been in before, as she called out the question as the bullshit garbage it is. When Julia expressed surprise that Cyndi, who is 72, said she feels 72, she replied:
Well, here’s what I think. I think it’s a bunch of bullshit that they give you these numbers and they tell you what you’re supposed to do at what age and what age you’re supposed to feel like this and what age you’re supposed to feel like that and I think it’s a load of crap.
I love her. How old do we FEEL? I don’t know about you, but I feel 51, because THIS IS WHAT FIFTY-ONE FEELS LIKE. Can we please normalise the idea that it’s okay to be the age we are and, relatedly, that how we feel does not need to correlate to a number? If I said I felt 92, the immediate thought would be that I frailly had one foot in the grave, not that I felt wise and gentle with the years. If I said I felt 22, it would be assumed that I was vibrant and sexy, and not riddled with self-doubt and insecurity. I very much dislike that “old” is used pejoratively, and “young” is the opposite. Listen, I get it, I get that there are things that are objectively difficult about aging, but also, it’s not like being young is always a bag of laughs, see also last week’s rant about Monica Lewinsky’s youthful indiscretion and the resulting turmoil for that poor young woman. I would never, ever trade my menopausal tum-tum for my previously stellar flat stomach if it meant I had to go back in time. I LIKE having these years behind me, I LIKE not second-guessing myself, I LIKE the feeling of having experience and knowledge and that there is more of that to come. Sure, I may no longer be able to put my legs behind my bed or run a sub-eight minute mile – or CAN I? I haven’t tried for a while – but that’s a small trade-off for this glorious peace of mind, this who-gives-a-shit attitude, the feeling that this is who I am, take it or leave it.
It’s like bananas.
I don’t mean it IS bananas, although it is, the worship of youth culture. I mean that we are literally like bananas. God bless the banana, I say, what a versatile and wonderful fruit. Bananas are delicious when they are still a bit greenish, they make a great smoothie when they are yellow and frozen, and when they become black and mushy and kind of grody, they make the absolute best baked goods. I ask you, what can’t a banana do? They are full of vitamins, potassium, iron, and fibre, they have electrolytes and prebiotics, they are essentially a superfood. They are reliably inexpensive and available year-round, and if you are travelling and are concerned about getting explosive diarrhea from a piece of fruit? Have a banana! They come pre-wrapped! You can pretend to make a phone call with them, you can make your mouth into a giant banana smile, and you can look deeply into your husband’s eyes while eating them, so he can uncomfortably look away.
There is a time and place for every stage of a banana’s life.
There is no judgement about which stage is better – they are all useful and delicious in their own way. All hail the humble banana, and all hail us, in all our glory, no matter what stage we are in. I feel like I am in the banana ice cream stage: kind of sweet and soft, good for a dessert, better with some chocolate sauce and Reece’s Pieces…you know what, I’m not sure this metaphor is working anymore.
Weekly Reading
The Elegance of the Hedgehog. This interesting little book involves a middle aged concierge in an expensive Parisian hotel particulier and a 12-year-old inhabitant of said building, both of whom hide their extensive, and kind of pretentious, intelligence in order to fit into society’s expectations for them. The concierge pretends to like things like cabbage and television – so pedestrian! – so that no one will know she’s a brilliant autodidact, while the 12-year-old has decided that privileged life has no meaning, and so she is going to set fire to the building and kill herself by her thirteenth birthday. Talk about preteen angst. When an intelligent Japanese gentleman moves into the building, things start to change for both of them; discoveries are made and friendships are created. It’s a statement on class-consciousness, to be sure, as well as the beauty of life and the power of connection.
Writers and Lovers. I first read this gorgeously-written book in 2022, and I wanted to reread it concurrently with the author’s latest, Heart the Lover, which is, interestingly, both a prequel and a sequel to Writers and Lovers. Alas, due to library holds, the concurrent read didn’t work out, but I think that’s for the better: I think the books work so beautifully stand-alone, with the “oh, THAT’S what happened” feeling of Heart the Lover. A concurrent read would highlight a big inconsistency with one of the major plot points of Heart the Lover, when compared with the character of Casey in Writers and Lovers. I know from an interview with Lily King that the big plot point was a late addition to one of the final drafts, and I like knowing that – I like knowing the process, and I think that plot point added so much to Heart the Lover, even if that means that some character details don’t stand up to close reading scrutiny. The tl;dr here is that I LOVE THIS BOOK and I also loved Heart the Lover, and I think they should be read and appreciated separately. I loved Writers and Lovers when I read it in 2022, and I love it even more now. It hit me differently this time around and affected me deeply.
Interestingly, I went to look up my 2022 review and it is in a post entitled “Psychological Long Covid” in which I talk about panicking at the grocery store, hoarding lemon juice, and also – callback to podcasts – eviscerate a book written by an obnoxious and privileged podcaster. Blog posts are such time capsules! And speaking of time capsules!
The Remains of the Day. Wow, this book. This book! I loved it so much. It combines two of my major interests: the staffing and running of great English houses, and the political ideologies and events in the years between the World Wars, hashtag I am a War History Buff Now. This book should be held up as the gold standard for showing, not telling. The narrator, who seems kind of like a robot, personality-wise, is not exactly unreliable, but the information we receive is limited and much is concealed. Slowly, we begin to see a clearer picture of both the butler’s life, and also the life of his employer. This is a slow burn and is really, really remarkable in the writing style. It is desperately sad and contains incredible insight. The quote that might stay with me forever is this: “You’ve got to enjoy yourself. The evening’s the best part of the day. Now you can put your feet up and enjoy it. That’s how I look at it. Ask anybody, they’ll all tell you. The evening’s the best part of the day.” As a metaphor, it’s incredible. As a book, it’s absolutely excellent. As a part of this blog post, it’s perfect.
My husband was camping this week, so after I finished The Remains of the Day and stared into space for a while, emotionally destroyed, I thought Maybe I should watch the movie! And friends, I should have learned my lesson from Hamnet, along with EVERY OTHER TIME I have watched a screen adaptation of a beloved book: don’t. Or, don’t watch the movie so close to reading the book, because instead of appreciating the film for what it is, I mentally pulled it apart for how it deviated from the book. Did I expect it to have that same emotional interiority of a book, even though that is impossible to show on screen? Did I expect the literary genius to come through? I told my older son I was going to watch the movie and he said, warningly, that I would be angry because it wasn’t the book. The young can teach us so much. He knows me better than I know myself. I do not like screen adaptations. I NEVER like screen adaptations. I am who I am, and who I am is a browning banana who needs to be peeled and put in the freezer before the fruit flies start swarming. I really don’t know what I am doing with this metaphor. xo
