Girls on film

I’ve come to the realization lately that when it comes to my age, there is a disconnect between how I feel or how I think I look, and how I actually look, at least as far as younger people are concerned. 

I mean, for the most part, and most of the time, I feel like I look OK and probably a little younger than I am. I’m not down on myself in the looks department. 

Maybe this is helped by the fact that my daughter, who is my lovely and enthusiastic cheerleader, routinely tells me how beautiful she thinks I am and that I look 35, tops. 

“Mom, everyone in my school thinks you’re so pretty.”

“I’m not sure how that could possibly be true given that I know maybe 6 or 7 people in your school, but that’s very nice of you to say.” 

I digress. This is not about whether or not I am pretty. 

What makes me think about this is that when Greg and I are out in public together, we tend to be very affectionate and a little PDA-ish. Not inappropriately so, but it’s there. He often has his arm around my shoulders (probably because with our difference in height, it’s comfortable for him, like leaning on a counter) or we’ll hold hands or give each other the occasional smooch.

I’ll joke that the younger people around us are probably like, “gawd, why are those old people making out? Gross.” 

We went to New Orleans for the week between Christmas and New Year's. We both adore the city, and I was particularly excited because while I have been in recent years, I haven't been there as a tourist since I was 20 years old. It's such a sexy place, and I wanted to go as a grownup with my dude and have a week of fun and romance.

We did all kinds of great touristy stuff. We walked all over the city and rented bikes and rode up to Lake Pontchartrain. We rented a car and went to see a plantation that focuses its historical presentation entirely on slavery (much like the Holocaust museum, it is powerful and astoundingly well done, and it wrecked me emotionally). We went to the World War II museum. We did a riverboat jazz/dinner cruise. We went to a Billy Strings show. We went to the Sugar Bowl.

We also partied non-stop, listening to live music, eating all the things, drinking all the cocktails. 

I am not exaggerating when I say that I ate bread pudding and/or Bananas Foster every day, sometimes more than once. Breakfast was eggs and biscuits and grits and bacon and whatever else I felt like loading onto my plate. Po’boys. Jambalaya. 

Both. Each. 

“Hey, let’s have lunch! Time for a Hurricane!” Or a Sazerac or a Vieaux Carre or a Paloma - you get the idea. 

No lie, by the time we came home, I was so bloated that I looked 5 months pregnant. 

It was totally worth it.

The ultimate party was New Year’s Eve. We bought tickets for the party at The Spotted Cat on Frenchman Street. It’s a great small music venue, and rather than leave the place open to the public as it normally is, they sold tickets to provide music and drinks and fun on New Year’s while also assuring that they would have a reasonable number of people without insane crowds. We put on party clothes, i.e., he wore a shirt with a collar and I put on a dress that showed lots of cleavage, and we danced and took advantage of the open bar and had a blast. 

At least recently - now that I’m old – I haven’t gone to New Year’s Eve parties and the goal is to make it to 10 p.m. so I can call my family when it’s midnight on the East Coast. This year we were out partying until almost 3 in the morning.

  

After we left The Spotted Cat, we walked down Frenchman, smiling and happy and schmoopy. At that point, we were wearing gold top hats.

There were lots of blue and purple lights. We did not eat the magical gum from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory that turned Violet Beauregard blue. 

This group of kids (and I say “kids” but they were probably in their mid- to late twenties) passed us and one of them said to us, “oh my god! You guys are gorgeous, and looking way too elegant for this scene!” 

We laughed and thanked them and wished them a happy new year. We chatted with them about the party scene and then mentioned that it was late and time for us old folks to think about packing it in for the night.

“No way! You don’t look old at all!”

“That’s very kind of you. I have a daughter who tells me that but I think she’s just being nice.”

One of them said, “I have an older sister who has kids - you’re not that old! You look fantastic for your age!” 

It reminded me of that scene in Clueless when Cher and Dionne are trying to set up their teachers - who are in their thirties - and they see them flirting on a bench and say, “old people can be so sweet!”

One of them had one of those cute instant cameras that takes mini photos, and they asked if they could take our picture.

"Sure, why not?" we said.

Now, remember how I said that our PDA isn't inappropriate? That's not entirely accurate. Occasionally, for example, Greg will let his hand slide down my back to the point that I might have to point out the obvious - that we're out in public and not invisible.

It happened a few times in New Orleans.

"Still not invisible!" I'd remind him.

Anyway, so the kids on Frenchman Street want to photograph us, and one of the guys said he was a photographer and would pose us.

"Cool! We can finally get a well-composed picture of ourselves instead of relying on selfies!"

I was imagining him having us stand at a certain angle and facing a certain way so that the light hit just right, and it would be worthy of a frame and a prominent place on the mantle.

But then he said, "now Wendy, you face the light pole and hold onto it like you're bracing yourself, and Greg, you hold onto her hips and push up against her from behind like you're ---"

"Wait, what??"

"No really, trust me, it'll be great!"

So he took the picture and it is beyond hilarious. I am holding the lamp post and laughing so hard and Greg is behind me with this huge shit-eating grin and I truly wish I could post it here and show it to you.

But alas, I work for a large public school district and enough people in the community - and their attorneys - know me that I have to be careful. And while the picture really isn't dirty or unfit for public consumption, I'm not putting it up on the internet. If you know me well and have my email or phone number, reach out and I'll send it you. It's so funny.

In any event, we were still not invisible, but I didn't even care. I guess we're not such old fuddy-duddies after all.

Happy New Year!