She used to be too ashamed. She hadn’t allowed herself to listen to any music in the car, not even classical, which was where Peter always left the dial, when he even listened to the radio. Usually he just played CDs he’d checked out of the library. He was deep into Mahler these days. For years Celia had viewed the radio as one more opportunity for self-improvement, studiously following every public radio story as if there’d be a test at the end of the month. She’d listened to oldies stations only when she rented a car, when she went to visit her sister in Cincinnati, and then only when she was alone. If someone had noticed and asked why, she would have said it was only because she couldn’t find the local NPR station on the dial.
Now she didn’t care. What good had all that self-improvement done, anyway? Now she had the button programmed—Peter must notice, she thought, but they’d never discussed it—and when she was in the mood to sing along, she went right there. “A Groovy Kind of Love.” “Big Girls Don’t Cry.” “Dancing in the Street.” “Do You Wanna Dance?”
Yes, Celia did want to dance. She couldn’t think of the last time she’d danced.
The songs they played weren’t even old, at least Celia didn’t think so. Last week they’d played Elvis Costello, “(What’s So Funny ’Bout) Peace, Love and Understanding?” What indeed? And how could that be? It seemed like only yesterday that Elvis Costello was new. New Wave. Back then, only hip people had heard of him, let alone knew his real name was Declan MacManus. Now he was a sing-along act for drunken businessmen at karaoke pickup bars. How did that happen?
Life is so short, Celia thought. Or rather the part you enjoy is. If she’d had any idea it was going to be over so soon she would have stayed up later.
Snap out of it
, she told herself, out loud, almost rolling through a stop sign. She sounded to herself like her eighty-one-year-old mother. But she couldn’t snap out of it. Ever since she’d turned fifty, everything made her sad.
Celia made herself do the gratitude litany: She was alive. She had all her body parts. Her car still ran. She had a beautiful healthy child, a more or less loving husband, wonderful friends, health insurance, a partially—at least—restored nineteenth-century farmhouse, even if it was mouse-ridden and cramped and mortgaged to the hilt. And she got to sing along with the Ramones. Celia turned up the volume.
Lo-bot-o-my!
It was all you could hope for, really, and more than most people got. People get old, was all. It was just a fact, and that’s if they were lucky. I’m not even old, Celia thought, just pale. Pale people only seemed to age faster.
• • •
She was sitting at a stoplight now, looking at herself in the rearview mirror, wondering if she should dye her eyebrows. Someone behind her was honking. Apparently the light had changed to green. She looked past her reflection to see who it was—some dark, handsome young jerk with a shaved head, enthroned in an enormous vehicle better suited for the Australian outback.
Hold your horses
, she said.
Everyone young was so impatient now. And they were all so dark and good-looking, of no discernible ethnicity, with such beautiful, slow-aging skin. Asian Spanish African Semitic, who knew what was in the mix, maybe even some Northern European, though not enough to blunt the beauty. Celia had just read that Jackie Kennedy of all people was descended from a Moor. It just goes to show, she thought. Hybrid vigor was improving the face of the nation.
The brat in the tank was honking again. He was twenty, at most, barely old enough to think, let alone drive. It was a scientific fact that his brain wouldn’t gel for another four years. She crept into the intersection and he zoomed past, giving her the finger.
Celia pretended not to notice. She remembered a time when a guy like that would be slowing down, not speeding up. Hanging out the
Now she didn’t care. What good had all that self-improvement done, anyway? Now she had the button programmed—Peter must notice, she thought, but they’d never discussed it—and when she was in the mood to sing along, she went right there. “A Groovy Kind of Love.” “Big Girls Don’t Cry.” “Dancing in the Street.” “Do You Wanna Dance?”
Yes, Celia did want to dance. She couldn’t think of the last time she’d danced.
The songs they played weren’t even old, at least Celia didn’t think so. Last week they’d played Elvis Costello, “(What’s So Funny ’Bout) Peace, Love and Understanding?” What indeed? And how could that be? It seemed like only yesterday that Elvis Costello was new. New Wave. Back then, only hip people had heard of him, let alone knew his real name was Declan MacManus. Now he was a sing-along act for drunken businessmen at karaoke pickup bars. How did that happen?
Life is so short, Celia thought. Or rather the part you enjoy is. If she’d had any idea it was going to be over so soon she would have stayed up later.
Snap out of it
, she told herself, out loud, almost rolling through a stop sign. She sounded to herself like her eighty-one-year-old mother. But she couldn’t snap out of it. Ever since she’d turned fifty, everything made her sad.
Celia made herself do the gratitude litany: She was alive. She had all her body parts. Her car still ran. She had a beautiful healthy child, a more or less loving husband, wonderful friends, health insurance, a partially—at least—restored nineteenth-century farmhouse, even if it was mouse-ridden and cramped and mortgaged to the hilt. And she got to sing along with the Ramones. Celia turned up the volume.
Lo-bot-o-my!
It was all you could hope for, really, and more than most people got. People get old, was all. It was just a fact, and that’s if they were lucky. I’m not even old, Celia thought, just pale. Pale people only seemed to age faster.
• • •
She was sitting at a stoplight now, looking at herself in the rearview mirror, wondering if she should dye her eyebrows. Someone behind her was honking. Apparently the light had changed to green. She looked past her reflection to see who it was—some dark, handsome young jerk with a shaved head, enthroned in an enormous vehicle better suited for the Australian outback.
Hold your horses
, she said.
Everyone young was so impatient now. And they were all so dark and good-looking, of no discernible ethnicity, with such beautiful, slow-aging skin. Asian Spanish African Semitic, who knew what was in the mix, maybe even some Northern European, though not enough to blunt the beauty. Celia had just read that Jackie Kennedy of all people was descended from a Moor. It just goes to show, she thought. Hybrid vigor was improving the face of the nation.
The brat in the tank was honking again. He was twenty, at most, barely old enough to think, let alone drive. It was a scientific fact that his brain wouldn’t gel for another four years. She crept into the intersection and he zoomed past, giving her the finger.
Celia pretended not to notice. She remembered a time when a guy like that would be slowing down, not speeding up. Hanging out the
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