September 13, 2016

Source: Bigstock

Anyhow, wait for the announcement, any day now, that Elizabeth Gilbert has signed a juicy contract to write a new book about this latest chapter in her life (although I suspect she”€™ll have the good taste not to shove the word “€œeat”€ into the title this time).

Alas, I”€™m doomed once again to be excluded from all this zeitgeistyness.

If, as we”€™re constantly being informed, sexuality is fluid, then mine most resembles a stagnant swamp. As a raving heterosexual, becoming a lesbian seems the midlife-crisis moral equivalent of selling a sports car you already own, rather than buying a new one. Intimate female friendships, even those morbidly so, are no mystery to me; I was a teenage girl once, and a weird one at that. Look, I own Heavenly Creatures on Blu-ray, okay?

However, the appeal of girl/girl sex escapes me, either as a spectator or a participant. It seems too much like drinking chamomile tea, except naked.

Being five years older than Gilbert, I can now say that the prospect of menopause turned out to be far more distressing than the thing itself. I”€™m still not entirely sure what a “€œhot flash”€ even is, so I guess that means I haven”€™t had one yet. I”€™m no more (or less) prone to the fits that female flesh is heir to than I was before. Thanks to the tender mercies of “€œvanity sizing,”€ I can still call myself a size 6 even though that no longer means what it did twenty years ago. I have yet to acquire a sudden taste for loud animal prints or chunky “€œstatement”€ jewelry, or that long-promised “€œcomfort with my own body”€ that (I can”€™t help but notice in those women of a certain age who boast of it) seems like a fancy way of saying “€œfat.”€

The closest I”€™ve come to any of the stereotypical symptoms of The Change is to find myself occasionally wondering, “€œIs that smell me…?”€

When I turned 50, my “€œbucket list”€ ambitions were to finally figure out music theory and cryptic crosswords. Two years later, a busier-than-ever professional life has left even those thimble-size to-dos undone.

So no need to worry that, one Tuesday soon, you”€™ll be presented here with my declaration that I have “€œrented a U-Haul,”€ as we used to call it back in the “€œgay until graduation”€ 1990s.

But now I”€™m beginning to wonder:

Has anybody heard from the broad who wrote Under the Tuscan Sun lately…?


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