Before mega-malls, before outdoor “lifestyle” promenades, before the Internet, people used to shop ” downtown.”  During my era, there were 2 places to buy jeans, Teen Haven,” where we’d go with our mothers for neatly hemmed and pressed denim pants or Googleplex, a head-shop which sold, among other things, Landlubbers.  These low-slung, hip-hugging bell-bottom jeans perfectly accented my curvy post-pubescent shape.

A decade later Googleplex and Landlubber went the way of Huckapoo and Wayne Rogers shirts.  Designer jeans were in style: Sasson, Gloria Vanderbuilt and, of course, the jeans that made Brooke Shields famous for claiming that “nothing” came between her and her Calvins.

The next step in jean evolution was the emergence of jeans that were so tight they literally left no room for anything between you and your Georges Marciano’s, not even imagination.

When trying them on, it was standard practice to lie on the floor of the dressing room in order to zip up.  We took to shopping with our girlfriends, so they could maneuver our immobile bodies to a standing position, close the ankle zippers and slip on our stiletto shoes, to allow us to admire ourselves in the dressing room mirror.  The question then was never, “Do they fit?” but rather, “Can you breathe?”

It is unfathomable, looking back, how we managed to get ourselves into these jeans by ourselves once we bought them, or how we allowed fashion to dictate that this was the outfit of choice to go disco dancing.  We grinded, we hustled, we bumped, while silently singing, “I will survive!” which had nothing at all to do with the Gloria Gaynor song.

Twenty-five years later, I can dress myself, breathe and, yes, even dance, thanks to the miracle of cotton spandex.

But I started out to write about good genes, not good jeans.

I celebrated a birthday this week.  I don’t feel any older but, after the year I’ve had, I definitely do feel wiser.

The weird thing about getting older is, well, getting older.  Age may be a state of mind but nobody tells your body this little secret.

I am sure that my contemporaries who have children have mentally adjusted to their  age.  They witness their children’s milestones: graduating from high school, graduating from college, getting married, having children of their own.  Without children, however,  life becomes a straight road without these mile-markers. One day you look back in amazement at how far you’ve actually travelled.

Most days I feel the same as I did twenty-plus years ago but then I notice a couple of new gray hairs (I won’t say where) or that my dimples have somehow become elongated,  Each sign of physical age is a startling surprise.  No one takes me for my age and I thank good genes for that blessing.  I am in the best shape in my life, a result of the physical aspect of owning and running a restaurant.  But, at the end of the day, my right hip aches and if something falls on the floor, my husband and I look at each other, hoping the other one will bend down to pick it up.

All in all, I’d like to think that I am growing older graciously.  Our nieces and nephews see my husband and myself as hip (unless, of course, we actually use the word “hip.”)  I still revel in the fact that we get to sit at the “adult” table at holiday dinners, although I’m usually sitting at the annexed bridge table by dessert.

I still believe that you’re only as old as you feel and, most days, I feel pretty damn good.  It’s rewarding to know that I can still fit into those jeans from long ago, but it is even better to possess the common sense that comes with age that tells me not to even try.

Helloooo, Ladies!

Black cohosh, passion flower and fillet of snake,
Stir in caldron and let slow bake. Add
Primrose oil, flax seed and toe of frog,
Chaste berry, valerian root and tongue of dog,
Wild yam, sarsaparilla, and blind-worm’s sting,
Gingko Biloba, Gotu kola, and owlet’s wing,
Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn, and caldron bubble.

I was standing in my local GNC reciting my shopping list when I suddenly had an epiphany about the witches of “Macbeth.” Were they nothing more than three friends of a certain age? Bonding together in a cave in the middle of the night desperate to create some magic potion that would work? The one concoction that would make all of those nasty symptoms vanish…the insomnia, the hot flashes, the irritability, the forgetfulness… …what was I saying?…

However, I also realized that, since at least the 16th century, (and probably since the beginning of human existence,) men have not fully understood what women experience during this time. Forget about the discomfort of waxing, the pain of childbirth. Those are only winks in time. But menopause….it seems to go on forever! Believe me, if we could get away from ourselves during this change, we would.

The great Bard himself described us this way:

What are these
So wither’d, and so wild in their attire,
That look not like the inhabitants o’ the earth,
And yet are on’t…
You should be women
And yet your beards forbid me to interpret

Well, we could say that you don’t look so hot yourself with your receding hairline or your love handles, your ear hairs or your increasing flatulence. But we love you anyway and we really are grateful that you love us too, in spite of everything.

We promise that, eventually, we’ll get through this rough patch. And we’ll love you even more for staying by our sweaty sides. Just bear with us for another couple of years. It’ll be over in a flash.

In the meantime, gentle reader, say “hi” when you see me. I’ll be the one holding the portable fan, waving a piece of paper in front of my face and gently dabbing at my forehead.

Just call me “Eve.”