NORA EPHRON MAKES ME FEEL BAD ABOUT MY ASS
We plunked our hungry selves onto the opposing benches of our booth at Friendly's in Leominster, Massachusetts. Yes, the home of Union Products, which would shortly stop production - after 49 years - of the iconic pink lawn flamingo. We'd seen that and other historical plastics during our just completed visit to the National Plastics Center Museum. The server retreated with our order and the conversation turned to the subject of my writing.
"I hope you won't take this the wrong way," Martha said. Uh-oh, I thought, this can't be good. I felt the wind desert my sails, the pin point approach my balloon; I prepared myself for a less than favorable assessment from one whose opinion I valued. Unnecessarily, because she'd only employed that preface to her next comment for fear that I was not a Nora Ephron fan. She told me my writing reminded her of Ephron's.
"You really think?" I asked, unable to agree or disagree, confirm or deny. I'd seen many of the films written by Ephron, and liked them. I thought I might have encountered a magazine piece or two, but couldn't cite anything specific. I recalled having my interest piqued while reading a review, a few months ago, of her new book - something about her neck. Finally, I made a mental inventory of the few facts I really knew about Nora Ephron: she's published, successful, some of her screenplays were nominated for Academy Awards, she's earned money for her writing, indeed, enough not to need a "day" job. Oh, and once, her kitchen was featured in a home magazine. It was a kitchen I would have if my income allowed for such things - like good kitchens. "I'll take that as a compliment," I told my friend.
In a serendipitous turn, the following day at one of my bookstore haunts, I passed a stack of Ephron's latest essay collection I Feel Bad About My Neck. Curious to learn if we really shared similarities I bought the book. Well, obviously - isn't that why we're here? What follows is my review, by way of personal musings, comparisons between Ephron and me, sometimes but not always pertaining to our writing.
In the first of fifteen essays we learn that Nora Ephron is, indeed, unhappy about her neck. Her dermatologist has told her the neck starts to go at forty-three. No mention appears as to when the neck finishes going. Perhaps it reaches an apex of going and then stops, or at least goes at a much slower pace thereafter. Perhaps it stops only for death.
I do have something in common with Ephron. Neither of us spends much time looking at ourselves in mirrors. As a result of this mirror avoidance, I had no idea of the condition of my neck. At eleven years past forty-three I steeled myself for a neck evaluation and approached my bathroom mirror with - as they say - trepidation.
They also say the real thing never lives up to the hype - good news in this case. My neck, while not the neck in a photograph I recalled from roughly ten years earlier, did not horrify me. A couple of horizontal lines, which could be the banded neck listed by Ephron in the litany of neck problems one might suffer from, but I didn't feel the need to wear turtlenecks and mandarin collars. In fact, turtlenecks draw adverse attention to my angular jaw and somewhat weak chin. So, unlike Ephron, I'll not succumb to the extra coverage, but continue to mitigate my broad shoulder expanse with square and v-necklines.
Had I stopped there, having made that decision, and turned away from the mirror everything would be fine. Once I'd voluntarily looked at the mirror for more than a few seconds, with eyes wide open, I realized I was surrounded, like some twisted through the looking glass horror, when I became aware of my rear view in the full length mirror on the bathroom door opposite. Being scantily dressed at that moment I saw the real problem - the enemy, so to speak - and it was my ass.
No doubt I gasped and uttered one of my tried and true questionable expressions that, in deference to readers with delicate sensibilities, I won't repeat. The sight was astonishing in that mine is not so much the stereotypical fat ass, nor one you'd say had the - desirable in some schools of thought - junk in the trunk. It's just, well, all over the place. I mean it begins not far below my shoulder blades and doesn't end at my thighs. No, my thighs are just dual extensions of my hideous ass. And that's not all; it seems to wrap around my sides - roughly where my waistline would be if I had one - and encroach upon my already compromised abdomen. Am I the only woman who has part of her ass in front? No wonder I stopped wearing tops that required tucking.
You're probably thinking: eat a salad, take a walk, get off your ass! Here's the amazing part - when not reading or writing I spend a fair amount of time on my feet. Even at work, where I do have a chair and computer, I still find numerous reasons to stand, walk, climb stairs, reach, bend, lift and carry. My history is peppered with exercise: walking, running, biking, road races, aerobics classes, weight machines, tennis lessons, parent-child baseball games, and more. Granted, consistency was never my strong suit. I logged my share of down time in order to recover from injury or illness. I've actually spoken words similar to Ephron's statement in the exercise section of her essay Maintenance. "Every time I get into shape, something breaks."
In a desperate attempt to stop kvetching about my ass, instead of exercising, I returned to the book and focused on finding other areas of common ground, or even contrast. I found plenty of both, as in Ephron's second piece I Hate My Purse. I also don't do purses well and plan to look for the New York City MetroCard tote bag that finally solved most of her purse problems.
On the other hand, Ephron describes accompanying a friend on a shopping trip to Paris where the friend's goal was to purchase a vintage Kelly bag - the "Hermes bag made famous by Grace Kelly in the 1950s." Who knew? While I do have a few friends who could afford to go to Paris and still have enough money to buy a twenty-six hundred dollar handbag, they probably wouldn't. And I definitely would not be along for the ride.
Anyway, the friend is advised to get her new bag waterproofed immediately as it would devalue by half if caught in the rain. Upon leaving the Paris flea market they stop for lunch at a bistro, where outside it begins to rain. "My friend's eyes began to well with tears. Her lips closed tightly. In fact, to be completely truthful, her lips actually pursed."
We must share comic sensibilities, Ephron and I, as I do get her sense of humor. It might be some of what my friend finds similar about our writing. It's possible I may occasionally turn a phrase in an Ephronesque manner. I am probably too close to the situation to cite actual passages, but at times my mind's ear recalls having heard me make pronouncements in approximately the same language as I'm reading on her pages. On some deeper level we might possess a kindred spirit that belies our vastly different upbringings and paychecks.
I came to discover, in the closing essay Considering the Alternative that on the subjects of loss, of grief and mourning, aging and looking around at all those "long shadows" we are kindred spirits, indeed. "My friend Judy died last year. She was the person I told everything to. She was my best friend . . ." Having lost my best friend, the man I'd had a relationship with for over 20 years, five months earlier, I felt the strongest connection to Nora (if I may call her Nora) ever in the course of my reading. She continued, "I want to talk to her . . . have lunch with her . . . want her to give me a book she just read and loved. She is my phantom limb . . ." I stopped reading there - phantom limb. Instead of seeing printed words that recalled earlier utterances of mine, those two words named what I had been feeling for months and couldn't grasp. Those two words - for me - became what this book was really about.
I read I Feel Bad About My Neck - the first time - and began this essay in October, 2006. Readers of this blog will note similar dates on its first few entries, then a 19-month gap before the next one. I thought a nice project, like writing book reviews, might be just what I needed. I'll read books anyway, I thought, so why not write about it. I didn't foresee that grief would erode my powers of concentration to the point that I'd become almost a non-reader with no motivation to write.
In keeping with the aging theme and returning to the topic of the neck, I've recently learned that I have three degenerated discs in mine. I'm shorter than I once was as those cervical vertebrae have compressed and sunk further into my back. The doctor tells me: no crunches, no aerobics, and no running, not even vigorous house cleaning. I went to this doctor to get fixed so I could return to running but instead learned that I might never - AND - that I can't even replace it with other useful exercise. So, like Nora Ephron, I feel bad about my neck. For me it's not my neck's appearance, but what the fallout from this affliction - the kid gloves treatment and non exercise - is going to do to my ASS!
"I hope you won't take this the wrong way," Martha said. Uh-oh, I thought, this can't be good. I felt the wind desert my sails, the pin point approach my balloon; I prepared myself for a less than favorable assessment from one whose opinion I valued. Unnecessarily, because she'd only employed that preface to her next comment for fear that I was not a Nora Ephron fan. She told me my writing reminded her of Ephron's.
"You really think?" I asked, unable to agree or disagree, confirm or deny. I'd seen many of the films written by Ephron, and liked them. I thought I might have encountered a magazine piece or two, but couldn't cite anything specific. I recalled having my interest piqued while reading a review, a few months ago, of her new book - something about her neck. Finally, I made a mental inventory of the few facts I really knew about Nora Ephron: she's published, successful, some of her screenplays were nominated for Academy Awards, she's earned money for her writing, indeed, enough not to need a "day" job. Oh, and once, her kitchen was featured in a home magazine. It was a kitchen I would have if my income allowed for such things - like good kitchens. "I'll take that as a compliment," I told my friend.
In a serendipitous turn, the following day at one of my bookstore haunts, I passed a stack of Ephron's latest essay collection I Feel Bad About My Neck. Curious to learn if we really shared similarities I bought the book. Well, obviously - isn't that why we're here? What follows is my review, by way of personal musings, comparisons between Ephron and me, sometimes but not always pertaining to our writing.
In the first of fifteen essays we learn that Nora Ephron is, indeed, unhappy about her neck. Her dermatologist has told her the neck starts to go at forty-three. No mention appears as to when the neck finishes going. Perhaps it reaches an apex of going and then stops, or at least goes at a much slower pace thereafter. Perhaps it stops only for death.
I do have something in common with Ephron. Neither of us spends much time looking at ourselves in mirrors. As a result of this mirror avoidance, I had no idea of the condition of my neck. At eleven years past forty-three I steeled myself for a neck evaluation and approached my bathroom mirror with - as they say - trepidation.
They also say the real thing never lives up to the hype - good news in this case. My neck, while not the neck in a photograph I recalled from roughly ten years earlier, did not horrify me. A couple of horizontal lines, which could be the banded neck listed by Ephron in the litany of neck problems one might suffer from, but I didn't feel the need to wear turtlenecks and mandarin collars. In fact, turtlenecks draw adverse attention to my angular jaw and somewhat weak chin. So, unlike Ephron, I'll not succumb to the extra coverage, but continue to mitigate my broad shoulder expanse with square and v-necklines.
Had I stopped there, having made that decision, and turned away from the mirror everything would be fine. Once I'd voluntarily looked at the mirror for more than a few seconds, with eyes wide open, I realized I was surrounded, like some twisted through the looking glass horror, when I became aware of my rear view in the full length mirror on the bathroom door opposite. Being scantily dressed at that moment I saw the real problem - the enemy, so to speak - and it was my ass.
No doubt I gasped and uttered one of my tried and true questionable expressions that, in deference to readers with delicate sensibilities, I won't repeat. The sight was astonishing in that mine is not so much the stereotypical fat ass, nor one you'd say had the - desirable in some schools of thought - junk in the trunk. It's just, well, all over the place. I mean it begins not far below my shoulder blades and doesn't end at my thighs. No, my thighs are just dual extensions of my hideous ass. And that's not all; it seems to wrap around my sides - roughly where my waistline would be if I had one - and encroach upon my already compromised abdomen. Am I the only woman who has part of her ass in front? No wonder I stopped wearing tops that required tucking.
You're probably thinking: eat a salad, take a walk, get off your ass! Here's the amazing part - when not reading or writing I spend a fair amount of time on my feet. Even at work, where I do have a chair and computer, I still find numerous reasons to stand, walk, climb stairs, reach, bend, lift and carry. My history is peppered with exercise: walking, running, biking, road races, aerobics classes, weight machines, tennis lessons, parent-child baseball games, and more. Granted, consistency was never my strong suit. I logged my share of down time in order to recover from injury or illness. I've actually spoken words similar to Ephron's statement in the exercise section of her essay Maintenance. "Every time I get into shape, something breaks."
In a desperate attempt to stop kvetching about my ass, instead of exercising, I returned to the book and focused on finding other areas of common ground, or even contrast. I found plenty of both, as in Ephron's second piece I Hate My Purse. I also don't do purses well and plan to look for the New York City MetroCard tote bag that finally solved most of her purse problems.
On the other hand, Ephron describes accompanying a friend on a shopping trip to Paris where the friend's goal was to purchase a vintage Kelly bag - the "Hermes bag made famous by Grace Kelly in the 1950s." Who knew? While I do have a few friends who could afford to go to Paris and still have enough money to buy a twenty-six hundred dollar handbag, they probably wouldn't. And I definitely would not be along for the ride.
Anyway, the friend is advised to get her new bag waterproofed immediately as it would devalue by half if caught in the rain. Upon leaving the Paris flea market they stop for lunch at a bistro, where outside it begins to rain. "My friend's eyes began to well with tears. Her lips closed tightly. In fact, to be completely truthful, her lips actually pursed."
We must share comic sensibilities, Ephron and I, as I do get her sense of humor. It might be some of what my friend finds similar about our writing. It's possible I may occasionally turn a phrase in an Ephronesque manner. I am probably too close to the situation to cite actual passages, but at times my mind's ear recalls having heard me make pronouncements in approximately the same language as I'm reading on her pages. On some deeper level we might possess a kindred spirit that belies our vastly different upbringings and paychecks.
I came to discover, in the closing essay Considering the Alternative that on the subjects of loss, of grief and mourning, aging and looking around at all those "long shadows" we are kindred spirits, indeed. "My friend Judy died last year. She was the person I told everything to. She was my best friend . . ." Having lost my best friend, the man I'd had a relationship with for over 20 years, five months earlier, I felt the strongest connection to Nora (if I may call her Nora) ever in the course of my reading. She continued, "I want to talk to her . . . have lunch with her . . . want her to give me a book she just read and loved. She is my phantom limb . . ." I stopped reading there - phantom limb. Instead of seeing printed words that recalled earlier utterances of mine, those two words named what I had been feeling for months and couldn't grasp. Those two words - for me - became what this book was really about.
I read I Feel Bad About My Neck - the first time - and began this essay in October, 2006. Readers of this blog will note similar dates on its first few entries, then a 19-month gap before the next one. I thought a nice project, like writing book reviews, might be just what I needed. I'll read books anyway, I thought, so why not write about it. I didn't foresee that grief would erode my powers of concentration to the point that I'd become almost a non-reader with no motivation to write.
In keeping with the aging theme and returning to the topic of the neck, I've recently learned that I have three degenerated discs in mine. I'm shorter than I once was as those cervical vertebrae have compressed and sunk further into my back. The doctor tells me: no crunches, no aerobics, and no running, not even vigorous house cleaning. I went to this doctor to get fixed so I could return to running but instead learned that I might never - AND - that I can't even replace it with other useful exercise. So, like Nora Ephron, I feel bad about my neck. For me it's not my neck's appearance, but what the fallout from this affliction - the kid gloves treatment and non exercise - is going to do to my ASS!
posted by Joanne Carnevale | 2:48 PM
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