I See You Made an Effort: Compliments, Indignities, and Survival Stories from the Edge of 50 Read Online Free PDF Page B

of shampoo and body wash. I carefully place this jar, labeled “daily nutrition for skin,” next to the one marked “transdermal, bioenergized resurfacing solution,” which I purchased only a few weeks earlier. I take out a facial disc and begin scrubbing my left hand, wondering how many of the millions of American women born the same year as me are doing something similar at that very moment.
    After only a few circular motions, it’s clear that I simply have dirty hands. I am an idiot. Brown was never ever going to be the new black. I scrub my face hard. Remove another disc. It’s more scouring than scrubbing at this point, applying so much force that terra-cotta-colored capillaries bloom on the thinning skin around my nostrils.
Thank God I bought that concealer
, I think as I head down to heat up a frozen pizza for dinner.
    Marte must be at home by now as well. Marte, whose real name I may never know, because I too have worked service jobs undera “slave name,” is heating up the casserole she made yesterday from scratch. She’s boiling corn and steaming greens for her kids. Marte, who is actually twenty-nine, in all probability, didn’t need my lecture on hormones and vitamin D. She’s probably read the latest research and smartly decided to skip them all, and I hope she’s working on commission, because she deserves it.

“KA-CHING” OR “CHA-CHING”?
    Dear God,
    Is it “ka-ching” or “cha-ching”? You’re so omniscient, you decide.
    I am no longer allowed to sing in front of my son. I can’t ask questions about school, no queries about girls, can’t look too proud or enthusiastic at ball games, and all public displays of affection are, of course, verboten. Must sit separately when taking him to the movies with his friends, must never be nude within a hundred feet of him, even if doors are closed, can’t allow a sigh to pass my lips (too old), an “oy” is forbidden (too Jewish), can’t make a loud sound in an enclosed space even if a shelf falls on my head.
    It’s all come down to starchy foods. I’ve been dragging myself out of bed every morning to get breakfast ready just so I can watch him eat the Aunt Jemima–brand pancakes I’ve mixed fromscratch. But now he hates my pancakes, I chew too loudly, the timbre of my voice is grating and he’d prefer to eat alone.
    Our sole discussion of any length in the last few months took place over the course of an eight-hour car ride down the California coast, during which time we debated whether the proper pronunciation was “ka-ching” or “cha-ching” when mimicking a cash register sound. This went on for six and one-half hours. The remaining hour and a half he was sleeping, and although unconscious, he still managed to communicate his disdain through hostile body language. *
    The downhill slide began last year. I was instructed not to make eye contact with him on his middle school campus. Doing my best to walk while staring at my feet was difficult enough, but I once made the unforgivable mistake of waving hello, a gesture that was deemed way too enthusiastic. It caused so much distress I could only surmise it was the teenage equivalent of waterboarding. After that, I was instructed not to leave my car; instead, I was to text him when I was in his immediate vicinity. There was an occasion, however, when I was forced to address him in front of a girl who may or may not have been his girlfriend, and I cavalierly mentioned his (adorable) freckles. A teenage boy’s appearance is a very, very bad and inappropriate topic for his mother. There is zero tolerance in this arena for teenagers. You might inadvertently use the adjective “cute” when “handsome” is the desired effect, or vice versa. I suggest treading carefully.
    On top of that, entering the immediate space of a teenager subjects your own appearance to a scrutiny I doubt Anna Wintour could withstand. It’s hard enough to please myself, but a teenager’s prohibitions include: do