As we Baby Boomers move through middle age and toward our dotage, one phenomenon is becoming sadly more common: mutton dressed as lamb. And unlike most media pundits, I am by no means singling out women with this description.
People born from 1946 to 1964, listen up: Stop dressing as if you were 18. It's unseemly, unattractive, and just so wrong.
Living as I do between two popular lakes, I am faced with examples of this at every turn. Yes Boomers, once we could pull off hot pants and Speedos, but those days are gone. If you care even the tiniest bit about your personal dignity, you will accept your sartorial limitations.
Women over 45: No crop tops, tube tops, or sports bras. This also goes for the miniature garment my teenage daughter calls booty shorts.
Men born before the Nixon administration: No one wants to see your pale, flabby torso jiggling around Lake Harriet. I beg you—put on a shirt! And take off those Lance Armstrong bike shorts--but no! Not in front of me!
It's hard to admit that our time in the sun, especially our time spent partially clothed in the sun, is over. But wearing that mini-skirt or those board shorts isn't going to make it come back. It's only going to make you look ridiculous.
Friday, July 29, 2011
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Gabrielle Giffords is not going back to Congress
At recent meetings of my stroke wives club (an exclusive group you don't want to join, made up of women married to professional men who have suffered massive left brain strokes) we have been laughing ruefully at the clueless media reports about Gabrielle Giffords' recovery. The Arizona congresswoman, who was shot in the head last winter, was shown smiling lopsidedly in recently published photos, and various people have been quoted as saying "her progress is miraculous."
Of course, after severe brain damage, any progress is good progress, and it's heartening that Giffords is saying a few words and starting to walk a bit. But it's not a miracle and probably never will be: The damage to her brain is too great.
I wish at least one doctor would have the courage to tell the media what a neurologist told me about my husband two weeks after his stroke:
Professional people who suffer massive left hemisphere brain damage almost NEVER return to work.
I was and am very grateful for this information, though at first it was damn hard to hear. It allowed me to help Rob with his recovery without holding out the vain hope that he would one day return to practicing architecture. It allowed me to close his architectural practice within six months instead of leaving clients hanging. It allowed me to—repeatedly and ad nauseum—tell his friends, family members, and would-be clients that no, this talented architect, though only 45, would never be designing their dream house or new kitchen. So please stop asking.
In the five years since Rob's stroke, he has relearned to talk, walk, read, write, and drive. He is an important part of our family and a stalwart friend to those old friends brave enough to keep in touch and the new friends he has met in rehab. But he is no longer an architect, and that professional role is the most important part of being human, at least here in America's upper middle class.
I'm sure Gabrielle Giffords' family and closest friends would be thrilled if she ended up doing as well as Rob has done. But she's not going to serve in Congress again, and for most people, that's the only important thing about her.
Of course, after severe brain damage, any progress is good progress, and it's heartening that Giffords is saying a few words and starting to walk a bit. But it's not a miracle and probably never will be: The damage to her brain is too great.
I wish at least one doctor would have the courage to tell the media what a neurologist told me about my husband two weeks after his stroke:
Professional people who suffer massive left hemisphere brain damage almost NEVER return to work.
I was and am very grateful for this information, though at first it was damn hard to hear. It allowed me to help Rob with his recovery without holding out the vain hope that he would one day return to practicing architecture. It allowed me to close his architectural practice within six months instead of leaving clients hanging. It allowed me to—repeatedly and ad nauseum—tell his friends, family members, and would-be clients that no, this talented architect, though only 45, would never be designing their dream house or new kitchen. So please stop asking.
In the five years since Rob's stroke, he has relearned to talk, walk, read, write, and drive. He is an important part of our family and a stalwart friend to those old friends brave enough to keep in touch and the new friends he has met in rehab. But he is no longer an architect, and that professional role is the most important part of being human, at least here in America's upper middle class.
I'm sure Gabrielle Giffords' family and closest friends would be thrilled if she ended up doing as well as Rob has done. But she's not going to serve in Congress again, and for most people, that's the only important thing about her.
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