The name I heard on the radio talk show — a touchy-feely program, during which the host once said we had to pay attention to “the way we language” and she clearly did not feel she had left a word out — was Susie Prudden. I instantly had a vision of an exercise book, circa 1950s, with a woman in capri-length tights and tied-off top, doing all sorts of static poses. On the cover was a silhouette of a woman in what I would now call “boat” position, having taken a lot of yoga classes in the past year.
Bonnie, as it turns out, was Susie’s mom, and is still alive at age 90. The name brought back the book and the wonderment of the odd objects that one associates with one’s parents. I don’t recall my mom ever doing Prudden’s exercises. (She was quite slim.) But I remember looking at the book over and over again, as if it held some key to adult life.
Were there things, actual things, that you thought contained the secrets to being grown-up?
I don’t know what things I thought had the secret to being “Grown up” — but I can tell you what things I thought meant you had reached it:
– lots of condiments in your fridge (more than one kind of jelly, pickles, mustard…)
– a framed piece of art (with glass!) that wasn’t a poster
– a formal dining room table — fabric covered chairs, no tablecloth on it to hide the watermarked rings from glasses
– THREE sets of sheets (“one on the bed, one in the linen closet, one in the wash”)
– towels that all matched. With guest towels.
– a newspaper and a news magazine subscription.
– a headboard and a footboard for your bed.
Some of these I now have, some I don’t. Oh, and I still don’t feel “grown up.”
Three sets of sheets! Beth, you have outdone me. I thought I was growing up when I moved to two.
Although I don’t admit to being grown up, there are some points of passage that seemed to suggest it, most of which involve my grandfathers.
I think I started to feel that I was growing up when I got to sit at the “big table” instead of the “kids’ table” at Thanksgiving dinner at my Grandpa Bradley’s house, when Grandpa put a $5 bill in my Christmas card instead of a $1 bill, and when I visited him he asked me if I’d like a shot and a beer instead of a ginger ale.
Much later, I think I was in my mid to late 30s, my Grandpa Young (my maternal grandfather) told me that I had done a good job driving driving him home from my aunt’s cottage. This was not a compliment he handed out lightly–especially not to one of the “kids.”
I thought I was grown up in my 20′s, but I still needed the slavish and lustful attention of men to feel good about myself as a woman/person. I thought I was grown up in my thirties, but I still needed the social approval of others based on the endless consumption of status material items. I thought I was grown up in my 40′s, but I still needed the social approval of others based on my “resume”.
Now I do not need the approval of others to feel good about who I am. I only need to love and be loved and accepting of others and the world as it is to feel truly grown up.
Usually with me it was quite simple: things I associated most directly with grown-ups were what I associated with being grown up. My parents’ jobs probably provided the best examples: my mom is an English teacher in Baltimore City schools (Forest Park hs, entering her 30th year). My brother and I used to go in with her in the summer to prepare whatever would be her new classroom for the fall. Everything I touched, including blackboards I washed, pointers I hit my brother with, staplers I filled, etc., bore a very special and distinctive magical quality I associated not only with Mom, but also with a grade in school which I would surely never reach.
My dad is a museum exhibit designer (formerly chief designer at the Walters), and so his books, blueprints, and drafting tools had the same magic. I don’t know if it was how hard my parents worked, or just the age/generation thing, but I really respected adulthood through them and their things. I still, now in my twenties, have a hard time thinking that their clothes and tools and things are the same as things I buy and wear and use. I really love that, and I still think that quality is what is most directly responsible for me not quite feeling grown up yet. I’m a “professional musician,” and for some reason, I still feel a need to put my job in quotes. I wonder if I’ll ever measure up to the standards my brain has built for grown-up-ness…
What held the key to adult life? Only one thing: My father’s cocktail accessories. I know this sounds like a first-draft opening line on a long, introspective essay about the author’s alcoholism, but I swear: I’m a social drinker and probably always will be. But I drink beer and wine and the occasional single-malt neat, whereas my dad could make anything in the mixologist’s repertoire with some or all of his bar tools.
Such as? An ice-cracking hammer that was hollow at one end, so you could use it as a shot glass. Many, many swizzle sticks, in plastic, glass and metal. Shakers, squeezers, ice strainers. Pewter beer mugs, pilsner glasses. Order what you wanted from his personal bar, and you stood a good chance of getting it. (I should add “within reason” — you’d get a Manhattan or Rob Roy, but not a pink squirrel or anything featuring tequila.)
I remember him getting home, hanging up his salesman’s hat and coat, loosening his tie, changing clothes and then sauntering back into the kitchen. “Make you a highball, Dora?” he’d say to my mom, and she’d usually reply but of course, and they’d have one or maybe two. Sometimes they’d have martinis. Sometimes they’d have nothing. It was very John Cheever, only without the closeted homosexuality. I remember my dad’s mood mellowing over the course of these refreshments. Every so often he’d tip over into tipsiness, but not often. Which is probably why whiskey breath doesn’t unnerve me as an adult — it just means day is done and the home fires are burning.
“John Cheever, only without the closeted homosexuality” — okay, that’s the line of the week.
Seriously, I also grew up in a household where drinking was common, but always in moderation. I now collect martini shakers, although not very doggedly.