I See You Made an Effort: Compliments, Indignities, and Survival Stories from the Edge of 50 by Annabelle Gurwitch

shield his eyes. At least I can still get a rise out of him.
    I turn around, head back into my bedroom. As I pass through the hallway connecting our rooms, I catch a glimpse of nonagenarian Rachel gazing out of the picture window in the living room of her home just across the street. When she goes, there’s only Mrs. Ho three doors down who’s got a few years on me, then I’ll be the Rachel. We moved onto this block when I was pregnant, and in a short amount of time I’ll be the oldest person on our street. I’d better ask Rachel the secret to her longevity, because I am going to have to live to at least a hundred if I want to make regular eye contact with my son again.

THE SCENT OF PETTY THEFT
    Dear God,
    If there really is an afterlife, can I spend mine in a plush bathrobe?
    The rich are different from you and me.
Fitzgerald’s line repeats in my head as I pull my dusty Prius into the driveway at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel. It has been years since I have been a guest in such an opulent setting, but I am neither intimidated nor overly impressed, because I am as comfortable at my corner burrito stand as I am in a five-star hotel. I have transcended class. I am an artist.
    This is the narrative I have crafted for myself since I was nineteen and flat broke in New York City. I didn’t see it then, but it was my youth, a certain amount of beauty—style, really—and thepromise of a big career that allowed me to travel between classes. This combination can give you an all-access pass to the enclaves of the wealthy, but there is a time limit. There’s a grace period you’re allotted when the future is ahead of you, before people in your industry start saying things like
What happened to you? I thought you were going to have a big career
, or
I’m so impressed with all the ways you stay creative
, which translates to
It’s astounding that your body hasn’t been found decomposing in a fleabag motel in the high desert
. I am not becoming anything anymore. That’s the kind of thudding honesty that occurs at fifty, and it’s that kind of thing that can lead to petty theft.
    I’ve arrived to discuss my duties at a charity event being held at the hotel that evening. I head into the bar to meet the producer of the event and it’s easy to be friendly and breezy, primarily because I’m donating my services, so I can’t be fired. There is a certain irony that I have been asked to forgo my standard fee at a black-tie event where most of the women will be wearing gowns that cost more than I typically earn in a month or maybe six. But it’s a worthy cause, and I readily signed on.
    We sit down in a cozy alcove on a silk damask settee and I sip what is probably the most expensive latte I have ever ordered. How do I know that? The price is written in Arabic. We’re discussing the event but I’m distracted. Maybe it’s because I’m shivering. It’s as cold as a meat locker. Glancing around, I see that I am surrounded by expensively maintained skin, capped teeth and two sure signs of wealth: women with hair so blond and so immovable it can only be described as starched, and though weare nowhere near a body of water, 75 percent of the gentlemen present wear nautically themed jackets, brass buttons polished to perfection.
    Monica, the catering manager, whom I’m introduced to, is professionally beautiful in the way that every woman working here today is. Tall, in good shape, but not so beautiful that she takes up space in your head. She doesn’t even blink an eye when I blurt out, “Isn’t this bar supposed to be a good place to meet high-end hookers? Which of those women are prostitutes, do you think?” *
    “What? I’ve never heard that,” she says.
    It’s an overshare, but I can’t take it back, so I add, “Can I have your card? It’s so nice to meet you.” She hands me her card, and notes that if I need anything, to please let her know. “Oh, I will,” I say, dropping her card into my bag, where it will join