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Sally was an extension of Nora Ephron - single-minded with a certain way of ordering a sandwich exactly the way it needed to be for her. For countless hairdressers rendered clueless and incompetent by the state of my hair, I unfolded that page as though it were the Shroud of Turin, while I beseeched them to grant me a Meg Ryan haircut. Seventy was out of the question - definitely not a new 50. Even though I recently found out that it’s bad for the car, I only buy gas after the “empty” light comes on.
And, most people will remember Sally in the throes of a spectacular fake orgasm in Katz’s Deli. Not until I turned 50 did they ever get it quite right. By all accounts, 40 was the deadline for letting oneself go. I can finally go on record and confess that I don’t like , and I even fell asleep during a performance of the musical version.
For me, she shines brightest in a scene that snaps me back to the young woman I used to be, the one who still shows up to remind me how little time I have to become who I am supposed to be. Opera doesn’t do it for me either, and I only went to the ballet once because all the other mothers were taking their daughters to see for Christmas.
Life, she asserts, is what happens in between the beginnings and the endings - in the middle -and in the twinkling of an eye. I resent the aging process and the way it sneaks up on me at the most inopportune times.
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There was a time when, without glasses, I could read the small print on the back of a shampoo bottle (in French and English); now, I spend less time reading than I do searching for one of the pairs of cheap reading glasses I bought at the carwash or found on a desk, forgotten by some other woman in the same predicament.
My hearing isn’t what it used to be either, which I would rather blame on my attendance at concerts over the past 40 years than on something as graceless as aging. I can tell you what I wore and with which handbag on June 5th 1984, but not where I’m supposed to be tomorrow evening.
Yvonne Watterson with her partner Scott Henrich: ‘Even though I know you’re not supposed to have any expectations, I had prepared myself to be let down and lied to, but my instinct told me that the man at the bar was not going to lie to me and that I would not lie to him.’ Between the time I met my husband and the time he died 24 years later, the search for romance and Mr Right had moved online, a perfect place for me to spend time, my dearest friends urged.
It would be fun, they said, a way for me to reintroduce myself to the world as the single woman I used to be in the days before smart phones and texting and instant gratification.
Over beers and banter, we sized each other up and over-shared, checking off those boxes our middle-aged online personas had created. First dates that are too long (or turn into second dates on the same night) are deemed more likely to create a premature and false sense of intimacy. They’re probably right, but I’ll be damned if we didn’t do it again the next night and most nights since.