them and tan them somewhere else.
“Don’t you think this gun fetish of yours is kind of Freudian?” Beatrice suggests.
“That was a low blow, Beatrice.”
“If the shoe fits . . .” she replies as she turns and swishes off. I want to be mad, but I’m struck by her beauty and it softens me.
Anna on Phil’s Problem-Solving Strategies
(May 31)
Today Phil asked me if I wanted to go on a cruise. Inspired, I take a pencil and outline a few things in what will be the background to this raisin painting. Behind the raisin is a beach, filled with beautiful young girls in bikinis. Should I paint a bathing suit on the raisin? Maybe one of those with the little skirt attached? I have observed enough women older than I am to know that I will reach a place where I won’t care, where I’ll accept this new era of my life and wear a bathing suit to the beach without being critical of myself. There comes a time where you are simply happy for good health, and not worried about packaging so much. But I’m not there yet. Call it vanity if you want, but it’s deeper than that. It’s grief for a woman I’ll never be again.
It’s easier to be considered good-looking if you are an older man than if you are an older woman. This is compounded by the fact that women are valued for their appearance, whereas men are valued for their intellect, strength, or income. It’s sad, but undeniable. You know, men don’t get dimples all over their legs. Look at an old man’s legs. Can you really tell he’s old just by his legs? Not really. Okay, there is the hair loss thing, but frankly, I don’t think hair loss makes a man any less sexy. Now, trying to cover up hair loss with a bad comb-over makes a man less sexy, but hair loss by itself does not. It’s masculine, in fact. Now, how many men out there are thinking the same things about women’s dimply legs—that they don’t make a woman any less sexy—on the contrary, because they are feminine? Not many.
The other factor I struggle with at this time in my life is that Phil is retired. He had a clear job description, and now he has a clear retirement. I never had a clear job description, and now it’s obvious I’ll never have a clear retirement. Phil will never hand me a plaque thanking me for decades of good service and wishing me a great rest of my life. I have a life sentence where I will never come first.
The phone rings. I answer, “Hello?”
“Mom?” It’s Olive. “Can I come over and talk to you about something?”
Crap. I know that tone of voice and it fills me with dread. I want to run to my car and drive far, far away. Any place will do. “Sure,” I say instead. “Now?”
“If that’s okay,” Olive answers.
“Sure.”
I hang up the phone and grab another canvas. I sketch out another raisin, this time sitting at a family dinner.
Within fifteen minutes, Olive lets herself in and finds me in the kitchen, where I steep a pot of jasmine tea.
“Hi,” she says, and hugs me.
“Hi.” I hug her back. “Nice to see you. What’s on your mind?” Better to just get it over with than wait any longer for the bad news.
“Matt moved out a couple weeks ago,” Olive announces. She’s always stoic when she’s really upset about something.
“Oh?”
“We had a big fight about how to go from being renters to being owners.”
“You know, it sounds like your father would be a good person to talk to about this. I’m sure he could help you both come up with a plan.”
“Hey, maybe you’re right. I don’t know why I never think of talking to Dad.”
“He really needs something to do these days. You’d be doing him a favor,” I tell her, happy that my plan to deflect someone else’s problem is working. “He’s in his office,” I add, driving my suggestion home. She starts to go, but turns back and looks at me for a long minute. Her mouth opens as if she is about to say something, but she changes her mind and shuts it. “What?” I ask
“Don’t you think this gun fetish of yours is kind of Freudian?” Beatrice suggests.
“That was a low blow, Beatrice.”
“If the shoe fits . . .” she replies as she turns and swishes off. I want to be mad, but I’m struck by her beauty and it softens me.
Anna on Phil’s Problem-Solving Strategies
(May 31)
Today Phil asked me if I wanted to go on a cruise. Inspired, I take a pencil and outline a few things in what will be the background to this raisin painting. Behind the raisin is a beach, filled with beautiful young girls in bikinis. Should I paint a bathing suit on the raisin? Maybe one of those with the little skirt attached? I have observed enough women older than I am to know that I will reach a place where I won’t care, where I’ll accept this new era of my life and wear a bathing suit to the beach without being critical of myself. There comes a time where you are simply happy for good health, and not worried about packaging so much. But I’m not there yet. Call it vanity if you want, but it’s deeper than that. It’s grief for a woman I’ll never be again.
It’s easier to be considered good-looking if you are an older man than if you are an older woman. This is compounded by the fact that women are valued for their appearance, whereas men are valued for their intellect, strength, or income. It’s sad, but undeniable. You know, men don’t get dimples all over their legs. Look at an old man’s legs. Can you really tell he’s old just by his legs? Not really. Okay, there is the hair loss thing, but frankly, I don’t think hair loss makes a man any less sexy. Now, trying to cover up hair loss with a bad comb-over makes a man less sexy, but hair loss by itself does not. It’s masculine, in fact. Now, how many men out there are thinking the same things about women’s dimply legs—that they don’t make a woman any less sexy—on the contrary, because they are feminine? Not many.
The other factor I struggle with at this time in my life is that Phil is retired. He had a clear job description, and now he has a clear retirement. I never had a clear job description, and now it’s obvious I’ll never have a clear retirement. Phil will never hand me a plaque thanking me for decades of good service and wishing me a great rest of my life. I have a life sentence where I will never come first.
The phone rings. I answer, “Hello?”
“Mom?” It’s Olive. “Can I come over and talk to you about something?”
Crap. I know that tone of voice and it fills me with dread. I want to run to my car and drive far, far away. Any place will do. “Sure,” I say instead. “Now?”
“If that’s okay,” Olive answers.
“Sure.”
I hang up the phone and grab another canvas. I sketch out another raisin, this time sitting at a family dinner.
Within fifteen minutes, Olive lets herself in and finds me in the kitchen, where I steep a pot of jasmine tea.
“Hi,” she says, and hugs me.
“Hi.” I hug her back. “Nice to see you. What’s on your mind?” Better to just get it over with than wait any longer for the bad news.
“Matt moved out a couple weeks ago,” Olive announces. She’s always stoic when she’s really upset about something.
“Oh?”
“We had a big fight about how to go from being renters to being owners.”
“You know, it sounds like your father would be a good person to talk to about this. I’m sure he could help you both come up with a plan.”
“Hey, maybe you’re right. I don’t know why I never think of talking to Dad.”
“He really needs something to do these days. You’d be doing him a favor,” I tell her, happy that my plan to deflect someone else’s problem is working. “He’s in his office,” I add, driving my suggestion home. She starts to go, but turns back and looks at me for a long minute. Her mouth opens as if she is about to say something, but she changes her mind and shuts it. “What?” I ask
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