Going out with a bang
In my "end of an era" era
Have you heard of the agave death bloom?
It’s wild; a friend once wrote about it for the Awl (RIP). Agave plants are monocarpic, meaning they flower and seed only once in their lifetime (also RIP). The agave does so in this bizarre, searing display, sending an asparagus-like tower into the air before collapsing under the weight of its own beauty. It gets one glorious moment, and then it dies.
We see some version of this often in nature, this final, heartbreaking show. Most female animals live only a short time after they lose the ability to reproduce. We’re one of a few species who experience menopause—who outlive our use, to put it crudely. Who give it our all—and then, gallingly, keep on living! Maybe that is why, as humans, we have this desire to capture the ineffable. The last hurrah, one for the road. One more dance before the night turns to dust.
Yesterday I sent a selfie to a few friends. It’s 110 degrees in Boston, we’re under a thick musk of corn sweat, democracy is collapsing, and somehow I look like a fucking 10 for the first time in my life??? No matter what I do (or don’t do), my hair and skin refuse to quit??? It’s all very Fleabag at the funeral.
It’s bewildering and mesmerizing, and it is also so clearly the end of the road. “This is it,” I told my friends. “This is my final flush.” One suggested that maybe my body is realizing it doesn’t have to give away all the good stuff anymore; for the first time in six (!!!) years, I’m not pregnant or nursing. Everything that has gone into fattening up my delicious babies is now giving my hair an honestly reckless bounce and shine!
Whatever it is, I’m sure it won’t last. Apparently women fall off the aging cliff at age 44 (wheeeeeee!), so I’ve got three more years, tops, to do something with this glow (to anyone reading this over the age of 44, you still look spectacular, this is a me problem, not a you problem). But what?
Clearly I’m deeply preoccupied with aging lately, with the particularities of midlife and the portal and the what’s next of it all. Maybe some of the blood that’s rushing to my face to make me look AUTHENTICALLY ROSY-CHEEKED (seriously WTF) is also getting to my brain, sending it pinwheeling through these questions of selfhood and identity. And yes, while the needs of my two young kids still feel oppressive nearly all of the time, they no longer require the lions share of my energy and body. They’ve gifted me back something, though I’m not sure I want it. It’s a bit like being on a very long lead; the illusion of freedom only. I get to the end and am snapped right back to where I belong.
In the meantime, I’m thrifting and reading and donating and packing. We’re off to Canada for a month; we’ll see how long my brief golden moment will hold. I’ll be jumping into every body of water I can find, and I encourage you all to do the same.
Self Soothing
Okay, I know I said there’s no reason I should look this good, but I did recently firm up a skincare routine that is pretty simple and inexpensive so if anyone is interested, I use this vit-C in the AM followed by this moisturizer and this SPF. At night I cleanse with this for 60 seconds (sometimes double cleansing with this first), then alternate nights of this exfoliant and prescription tret. Once a week I take a night off and just slather on a bunch of random oils. None of these are affiliate links, I have zero credibility or investment here, please feel free to ignore me, my kids sure do.
Recent good thrift finds: a raspberry-printed Flax dress, 100% cotton L.L. Bean jeans, various white cotton slips perfect for flouncing and sighing dramatically.
This essay by Garrett Bucks on coping with impossibility. He nails the feeling of being on Instagram right now:
“I AM ABSOLUTELY DEVASTATED/AND ALSO I AM IN ITALY, we shout at each other in an infinite loop. I’M THRIVING, THANKS FOR ASKING/BUT ALSO HOW THE HELL CAN YOU ALL BE SO HEARTLESS?”
I’ve been donating near-daily to the Sameer Project, though nothing makes any of it less senseless, cruel, or unforgivable.
The Antidote is such a weird salt-lick of a book. Karen Russell is a mad genius.
One of the things I've been working through in therapy is how it can feel to try on different emotions; to merely decide you feel a certain way about something and then try and feel that way. As someone who has spent much of my life in the chokehold of my own emotional whims, this is a fun exercise. I’m currently experimenting on my husband (don’t tell him!)—like what if I just…decided not to be so annoyed all the time? Results tbd, but I do feel like less of a shrew.
75 HOTTER FOR OLD PPL IS WORKING