To look at me you would not think I was married to a world famous actor, the man every woman says, according to a recent survey in a popular magazine, is her dream mate. I am of average looks, keep my maintenance low, have a harried, slightly loopy demeanor that worked well for me in my younger days but is not wearing well as I descend into middle-age. None of this bothers me unduly or didn’t until my husband, resurrected from obscurity and polished to a high shine, has become a sex symbol of sorts.
Since his latest movie in which he starred with today’s “it” girl, I won’t name her because that particular designation changes each month, and Hollywood’s favorite actress who never seems to change, my husband somehow, after years of bland supporting roles in good times and complete oblivion in other years has become the man every woman over thirty-five would like to get into bed with, according to another poll in a cheesy celebrity magazine. I guess it’s time I started to take a different approach to my marriage of, let’s just say, we passed our silver anniversary but haven’t made it to the golden years.
My husband has been in the “business” as it’s referred to by those in it since he moved to Los Angeles after his discharge from the Marine Corps. He came from Texas originally. For a time he was considered a sixties bad boy, the easily classified rebel/wanderer/thrill-seeker, with a reputation that earned him fame and acclaim in that decade and the one to follow. It was an era of violent cultural upheaval that extended itself into the seventies and died out in the eighties with the ascendancy of the yuppies or the greed decade and had a brief renewal in the nineties as nostalgia and now my dearly beloved is once again, back in vogue as a garrulous, though lovable, rebellious aging boomer everyone finds sexy/hot/lovable/handsome, you name it, the press has, of late, ascribed it to him. He is the kingpin of the reading-glass set. That’s what I tell myself, but the survey tells me younger women are also in line to take my place in what has been a fairly regular marital bed.
Should I be nervous? Well, I wasn’t until we started getting strange phone calls with breathy messages, gifts and flowers left outside our door and bundles of letters addressed to my husband with lipstick kisses, perfumed missives, flowery envelopes and bits of erotica, hand-drawn. I don’t think my husband has ever been unfaithful but that doesn’t mean he couldn’t be unfaithful. I have never been unfaithful but I came close once. It was in France with a friend of mine, but I can honestly say nothing happened if I were asked. Neither of us has ever asked.
We met when we were both pretty young and took an instant liking to each other at a party in Laurel Canyon. I don’t know what I was doing at that party with movie types but in those days people of different walks of life mingled more. I was with a friend who worked for Universal and I was working on my master’s. I felt out of place in my turtleneck and long skirt amongst the flashy Hollywood babes in draped silks and satins with plenty of skin. My future husband offered me a drink and said I looked lost. He’s the champion of the underdog though he has never referred to me that way. He said he liked serious girls and in this company, I was that. He called me the next day and we were married within a year. I liked the Marine in him more than the movie star and he said he appreciated that, it showed good sense.
This is a story about me but I wanted to give you a little background before I delve into what’s troubling me. I am a professor of English literature at a small conservative college. I could be described as dull, middle-aged, unfashionable, usually bleary-eyed from having read too many freshman discourses on the beats and L.A.’s premiere poet of raunch. When I assign a specific reading list I hear things like irrelevant, too difficult or too boring. There has been a renewed interest in a certain eighteenth-century lady author that I found heartening until I realized she was a favorite because they could watch the movie and skip the book. It took me a while to catch onto that one. Shame on me, really. I should take more interest in the movie business, I married into it, after all.
I have been a teacher for enough years that these things neither surprise nor irritate me anymore. I’m hardened and accept that reading about sex, drinking and the race track is as deep as most of my students care to go if given the choice. They think they are shocking me by bringing this poet’s works into discussion or sheepishly reading some particularly garish passage. Little do they know that my husband and I once had dinner with the writer when one of his short stories was being considered for a movie with my husband to play the role of the poet himself. He was a much more amiable man than his books would make him out to be though he did get roaring drunk, insulted the host and had to be driven home when he dropped his keys down a sewer grate.
But back to my story. After sharing a bed, more or less happily for some twenty-odd years, with one man, I am now in danger of losing him to a fantasy world that is called Hollywood stardom. Celluloid dreaming. He just brushes it off saying it will all pass over soon enough but lately I find him preening in the mirror for longer than is quite manly, spending time on Rodeo Drive carefully choosing his wardrobe and occasionally I hear him talking on the phone in a voice that could only be described as mellifluous. I’d gotten used to his old curmudgeonly rasp having only given up cigars rather recently and the change was more disturbing than the Armani jackets, the Gucci loafers or the Prada wraparound shades. When I teased him a little, in the way he would formerly joke about our actor friends, he looked at me without even a glimmer of recognition of what was once cause for lampoon. I suppose his lack of satiric response was what put me on my guard. To lose the ability to ridicule was to me, a sign of dementia even though I’ve lived in L.A. for thirty years and know how easily you can lose your formerly endearing qualities with even a smidgen of success in the “business.” But I never took my husband for the type having had early success and the attendant fame and survived. We have watched many friends succumb to all sorts of vanity from a parade of wives, gaudy houses, an inordinate love of cocaine laced with vodka, not to mention a menagerie of love children, broken homes, domestic hell. Somehow we've managed to live our simple life in Studio City without once checking into rehab or hiring lawyers. We are an example, our friends say. They seem surprised by this because of my husband’s early roles. It was all image.
But that is once again not about me. In truth it is rarely about me, this I can honestly say without rancor. My husband is an extrovert and I am an introvert and as such, he takes up more oxygen than I do. He is a former star--a cult hero, hip, cool, iconoclastic and lately a TV pundit.
It was this political posturing that brought him into the limelight again. All of a sudden his opinions attracted a following; his former image opened up a whole new realm of recognition when he appeared on a talk show, invited by a young smart aleck who had been influenced by the character my husband once played in a low-budget film produced by an old friend of his now deceased but not forgotten. I guess my husband was also thought dead and buried in one form or the other and when seen on this talk show, was instantly resurrected as if he had been sorely missed all along. With renewed cachet, he has become a politically correct crowd-pleaser.
My husband is an attractive man. He has always been so even when he was unable to get even the most inane parts and had to resort to voice-overs; when he had to do commercials that embarrassed him for food products he wouldn’t touch or beer he wouldn’t drink. He’s a good-natured guy though, and always honored his commitments, played by the rules of Hollywood and never made waves if he could help it. He accepted that to be an actor was a precarious profession and tried to live life in a state of reality. He spent a couple of years reading for a books-on-tape publisher, usually without even a mention on the packaging. His name was so insignificant it was not thought useful to give him the credit and he said he preferred it that way as long as they paid him well. He was never bitter like many others in our circle--he accepted that acting was a gamble and he’d had a moment in the spotlight and was thankful for that.
I’ve been the dependable breadwinner over the years although he received residuals or royalties or whatever it is actors receive who have once been in a cult movie that nevertheless continues to be released in the latest format and is played on late-night television. We paid off our house eight years ago and made some good investments so have a comfortable life though not anything near Hollywood standards. We do not own a ranch somewhere in Montana, a vacation home in Hawaii or a New York pied a terre. I am from New York and though I could wish for a nice little studio apartment in the Village, we do not have that lifestyle. Though in the “business,” we are on the fringe. We save up and every two years go somewhere really nice; Italy, the south of France, and last year, Spain. My husband is rarely recognized even though I don’t think he has changed much.
I keep returning to my husband. Is it because he is the more interesting or because I am not used to the spotlight? Both, I’d say. But I vowed to write a story about recent events in our life together and I want to talk a little about what has happened to me since my husband’s recent acclaim. And I want to begin with his nomination for an important award and the attendant fuss.
As I mentioned, my husband was in a movie, directed by an old friend of ours from New York. It was not a big-budget film and was not expected to put us into a different tax bracket. We expected a nice chunk of change that we would add to our savings for retirement or into our investment portfolio. My husband, for all of his racy repute, is quite frugal. He has never spent time in rehab or therapy because he was always grounded enough to not find succor in drugs or heavy drinking. He says it is because of me. I’m too stodgy for that sort of thing and too unsympathetic with weakness, I guess. We also have not had children to support or put through college.
In his thirties my husband went through a few rough patches and seemed to be relying on scotch, a nightly habit that began earlier in the day as he came to the realization that he might not have a career than was continuous, dependable or satisfying. When I thought he was using whiskey for escape, I kept a close watch on him and it could be said that I got a little bossy, domineering maybe. In my defense, I never wanted to be a ball-buster or tame his lively, creative juice. Instead, I encouraged him to start sculpting as an antidote to the long days when job offers were not forthcoming. He had always been good with his hands and was a skilled welder, picked up in the service. With a little encouragement, a studio was built in our garage and my husband found a way to spend his days. He no longer needed to start drinking in the afternoon and in fact, did not need to drink much at all after a time. I thought the sculpting would keep him steady and out of danger. It worked and he has done some very strong pieces using recycled metal from junkyards, soaring bird-like apparitions that appeal to lovers of nature as well as those who prefer abstract art. He occasionally shows in a Pasadena gallery and sells a few pieces. Sometimes he gets a commission for a large piece.
Whenever he felt deflated over the years and let’s face it, L.A. is a continuous panoply of ego deflating tensions especially for the aging actor, he would get on his motorcycle and visit a group of ex-Marines in northern California and come back re-grounded. His best friend lost his leg to a landmine and lives in a trailer-plus-additions in an out-of-the-way plot of land with no electricity or running water. The others just make ends meet, living a lower to middle-class life. Only one lives comfortably suburban as an attorney for veterans. These reunions bring my husband back to reality. “These guys mean more to me than all the movie hacks in Hollywood,” he would say upon his return. “They are tried and true; this phony culture we live in sickens me sometimes.”
So my husband revived his movie career with our director friend in a quiet little movie based on a novel that was not a best-seller but well received. It was about a couple who had weathered many storms in their marriage but had found the key to marital happiness by way of a trip to Italy and an old woman who recounted her life to them in a hotel bar. So moved by her story was the couple they felt ashamed of their nonsensical lifestyle in New York, went home and wrote a book on marriage based on the old woman’s tale; her philosophy and advice, and in the process renewed their own shaken vows. The movie had the couple in Italy and New York with flashbacks to the old couple living through WWII and Mussolini’s Italy and the death of their son. As a teacher of literature I can say that while the book is not a literary masterpiece, it was a well-written, interesting story that translated beautifully into cinema where the gorgeous Italian landscape so enthralled the public it became a hit, first in Europe where it received an award at Cannes and then proceeded to captivate American audiences with favorable reviews and an extended run reaching out to all the obscure towns in America. It had the distinction of being an artistic film and a box-office success all in one, not an easy thing to accomplish, and all quite unexpected.
Now my husband, who incidentally got the part because the big-name, ultra-famous leading man turned it down at the eleventh hour on the advice of his manager as too pokey and low-budget for his eminence, was called in by the director to “save his ass.” The actors he initially considered casting either signed on with another movie or thought it not enough money. The director, overwrought and manic with Hollywood’s leading lady chomping at the bit not sure of this low-budget project that was getting off to a bad start and was on the phone with her agent thinking of doing a cut-and-run, decided to bring my husband onboard as he was back in the spotlight, appealing to television audiences for his wit and good looks. Maybe it could work, he thought but it was really his only option at that moment with production starting on location in Europe (expensive) and the leading actress getting antsy.
My husband, in his role as the modern husband in a mid-life crisis seemed to strike a chord with the movie-going public. Now he is being courted for appearances by every TV show, every magazine and a host of parties and fund-raisers on both coasts. It’s a good story but he says the Italian setting along with a major star opposite him and an up-and-coming actress with great style as the old woman in flashbacks made the film. That said, my husband was none too deficient in his part either. I must say, he looked remarkably handsome in the tailored Italian suits, the stylish glasses and a suave haircut that made him almost unrecognizable from the guy who schleps around our house in sweats or cutoffs, ratty hair that rarely sees a professional and his dollar-store glasses I had to force him to wear rather than watch him squint over the newspaper. I fell in love with the screen character myself. In the months following the release, I kept scrutinizing my husband for signs of this masculine creation portrayed by him so eloquently. “Where did you get that charisma?” I’d ask. “I’m an actor, babe,” he would sardonically reply. “How am I going to compete with your leading lady?” I’d tease. “You will have to upgrade your attentions,” he mockingly replied. I would look at him slumped in our old recliner I longed to get rid of with his cheap glasses askew, his old Army/Navy surplus fatigues and three-day-old beard and forgot about that character on the screen who was after all, only that.
He did a few talk shows to promote the movie but was mostly back to his old life in the garage, promising without enthusiasm to clean the pool and attend a dinner with my department colleagues at the end of the month. Surprisingly, none of my colleagues seemed to know about the movie or my husband’s part in it which I found a little hard to believe. Yes, they were of a bunch of starchy high-brows but we all live in the movie capital of the world, don’t we?
Then came the announcement of his nomination for Best Actor, always a time of fevered pitch in L.A. though as a college professor, never big on my roster of coming attractions and my husband had long ago stopped caring. Our director friend was occasionally up for something like musical score or the more arcane technical achievements. His career had also peaked in the sixties and seventies though he kept on making movies often at a loss. He had a following based on his big hit that my husband played a supporting role in, his first major Hollywood role.
Here I am talking on and on about my husband again. I can’t seem to get on with my story which is the point of this ramble. With his award nomination our life became a frenzied act--vaudevillian in its extravagance and unexpectedness. Naturally, my husband would attend, walk the red carpet and do his bit and I, as the supportive wife, would be with him, though not necessarily for the cameras. I was very busy right at this time with my students, faculty dinners, fund-raising events that I was put in charge of this year and all the things that make life hectic including the reading list for the following semester. I had been giving this some consideration as trends in literature had changed and my students' cries of irrelevance had begun to disturb me. I was getting nervous and having something of a mid-life teaching crisis myself. How far into popular culture did I wish to take my curriculum was a quandary I and other instructors as well, grappled with. We were a conservative bunch with many professors considerably older. They all calculated retirement options if things got any more “inane.”
I was busy and preoccupied and with my husband overseas on location and then in New York for two months, the year seemed abnormally fraught with problems; appliance breakdowns, a sick pet who had to be put down, car trouble, work dramas, it all came at once. Just when things returned to some semblance of normalcy, my husband again home, doing the cooking, the laundry, managing the house, the whole world descended upon us, needing my husband’s presence it seemed twenty-four hours a day. Even he was overwhelmed as was the director. I spoke with his wife on the phone every few days and she said it was bedlam at her house in Connecticut and could just imagine what I was going through. I said I didn’t know what I was going through, I just felt rushed all of the time.
My husband, instead of refurbishing old furniture and maintaining the pool was now dressed in Versace suits attending luncheons, cocktail parties, museum and restaurant openings. He was on TV frequently and spent hours in front of the mirror with new suits, casual ensembles, expensive footwear and daring sunglasses. I was happy for him, I really was, but in the past, we would do these things together because they did not happen so often. Now he was on his own and it seemed we were living in a parallel universe. His outings seemed far removed from my daily affairs and he could not feign interest in them, dry in the dullest of times. With the awards ceremony looming, I would be compelled to buy some sort of dress, get my hair done and make an effort at glamor that would only, could only be described as that: “She made an effort.” I am not a movie star and no one would mistake me for one. I am the wife of one and that is fine with me.
I spent an entire Saturday at the Beverly Center shopping for a gown, a pair of shoes and once the gown was purchased was told I would need a special bra without certain straps. I thought I’d done well enough and went with black, better to be invisible amongst the starlets. It was a nice dress, I thought. Simple, without embellishment and I planned to wear a vintage broach I’d bought in Paris to jazz it up. The dress was not made by a famous designer but it was quietly fashionable like the movie itself. My hair is now half gray as is my husband’s. His was colored for the movie. I colored mine once a few years ago but let it grow out, not certain it had any impact on my daily life whatsoever. I wear it up, casually twisted or for more formal occasions, in a French twist that was once the height of chic, a classic, but now looks dated and somewhat comical to me after a British TV character wore a highly exaggerated version. I made an appointment with my hairdresser on Ventura, lately relegated into the margins of my life. She vaguely remembered me and said “I am fully booked for that day,” but when I told her I would probably be seen on TV, her spirit rose and my name was penciled in her appointment book with the words “the works.”
On the day of the appointment, of the awards ceremony, I was hustled into a chair by a consultant, a young man who fluttered like a small bird haughtily tossing his metallic hair, saying he would be assisting Madame, who had always been Donna to me in the past. I was given a brief neck massage, a glass of white wine and a magazine of hairstyles and told to relax until the shampoo girl was ready for me. The consultant lifted my lank strands, played around with them a bit and announced that they should be several inches shorter and of course, colored, that goes without saying, he seemed to imply. All of a sudden I wasn’t sure of any of it. I was hoping for a trim, a wash and set and then a sophisticated but subtle up-do. He looked at me with the consternation only an under assistant could, clicked his tongue and grabbing the magazine from my hand, opened it to page 38 and showed me a picture of exactly what he thought I should have done. The picture had nothing whatever to do with my hair or my overall look and I may have mentioned that while quietly sipping the glass of lukewarm Sauvignon Blanc, much too early in the day, but it was something of a holiday, I thought, or something like a holiday. My head began to ache before the shampoo girl was ready for me but I noticed they also served coffee so I relaxed in her hands. When Madame came to me, lamented over her sadness at not seeing me for so long, a sort of recrimination, I felt, and commented on my gray, I got edgy.
“So what’s the occasion?” she asked me while combing through my too long hair. I mentioned the awards show and she proceeded to ply me with questions and enthusiasm over being a part of such a prestigious affair. “Were you in a movie?” she probed. “No, my husband is in the business,” I replied. “Oh…, I see...,” she said. And the word business just put her off altogether. She relegated me to obscurity and let it go. I don’t know why I didn’t tell her about my husband’s movie and his nomination. She’d probably seen it. But I rarely talked about him. Even my colleagues knew very little. Over the years there wasn’t much to talk about so they only knew him as my husband who had a dubious, if any, profession. They did not recognize him from his early movies but they are not exactly counter-culture aficionados by a stretch.
In any case, I did not feel like sharing anything with my hairdresser though I’m sure I would have been given much more respect, more attention if I had. As it was, she asked me pointedly what color I was thinking of and I backed off. I said, “Just a set and style,” when in actuality I had planned on “the works.” Something made me impatient with the whole process, my head was beginning to throb from the cheap wine and I wanted to be out of there. The ammonia smell was getting to me as well as the faux cheerfulness.
My hair was washed, cut, set, dried and pinned up on my head in a style of swirling bravado that was perhaps too young for my discolored strands but nevertheless looked better than it had for many, many months. Madame lost interest in me before the whole process ended and handed me over to her assistant and while I perked up after three cups of coffee, thinking I could do without the hazelnut flavoring, I left feeling I had gotten through an ordeal successfully and could look forward to the big night we were sure to have especially if my husband won for Best Actor which I admit, I hadn’t given much thought to yet. He was up against three big names. I handed out generous tips to one and all despite their disappointment at not improving me with a stylish cut and glorious color: I was hoping generosity would improve my stature. “Next time,” the assistant said while ushering me out the door with his special flourishes.
When I arrived home, expecting to find my husband watching a ballgame on TV or rummaging around his studio, I found him cloaked in secrecy with two stylists sent by his production company to get him dressed and groomed for the ceremony. He’d never mentioned it, so it came as a surprise. Our guest bedroom was filled with suits, shoes, shirts, ties, eye wear and an entire line of men's cosmetics, hair products, makeup, styling tools and a facial massage machine that loosened up the muscles and was said to take ten years off your looks while helping you to smile a little easier. My husband who rarely bothered about his hair, a slap of Old Spice his only grooming routine, was sitting with his face immersed in a clay mask while his hair was undergoing some sort of chemical treatment and he was not only having his nails buffed but a clear lacquer was diligently being applied. “Holy mother of Jesus,” I uttered. “Just routine, babe,” he mumbled through the clay masque. "I swear to god if any hint of a pedicure is forthcoming I will faint dead away," I said. I prayed I would not have to witness anything of the sort but couldn’t help but notice whitening strips in his mouth which he removed to send a few grunts in my direction. “See what I have to endure,” he barked, but I couldn’t help but notice that there was a little gleam in his eye as he said this, meaning he might recognize the foolishness of his position but was able to find the humor and enjoyment in this enforced regimen. “Just remember you’re a Marine!” I shouted. I could only shut the door and leave him to it.
My headache threatened to return as I went to our bedroom wondering if the Nivia scrub I’d purchased especially for this evening would be up to the mark. Would my new L’Oreal eye shadow and lipstick, an impulse purchase while stopping at Walgreens on my way home for laundry detergent have any impact at all? I looked at my hairdo in the mirror and realized my fit of pique in the salon over the coloring may have been a mistake. I looked faded. It was too late now. I again reminded myself I wasn’t a star and had no need to impress. Such is life in academia. In my lavender eye shadow I would stand out amongst my colleagues and would not ever consider wearing the purplish lipstick I was contemplating for tonight.
There was much laughter and squealing from the guest bedroom. I didn’t blame the young women--my husband was a sight with his facial mask and a sort of men's girdle around his waist to hold in his gut that to me, didn’t seem like much of one but he was told the camera will pick up any flaw and it will be reported all over the world. Such is the life of a movie star. It’s a wonder they can get out the door these days so overwrought was the need to look, not good, not great, simply perfect. Why? How? These things were going on in my head as I got out my dress and shoes, ready for action, however imperfect.
I heard my husband’s loud guffaw here and there and knew he was not in too much misery. He used to scoff at teeth whitening and manicures. He would remind me he is a member of a Harley Davidson club. I admit the “business” is a little more demanding and he is now, with this movie, a celebrity. I will have to get used to this.
Eventually my husband emerged from the guest bedroom with a glowing complexion and glistening hair cut so precisely he could have passed for an avatar. I was happy to see there was a little gray at the temples, we’d be a slight match anyway. Again I fretted about not getting the color treatment I’d planned. I looked again in the mirror and sheepishly asked my husband if I was good to go or was my hairdo too something or other. “I don’t know, maybe ask her,” he said pointing to one of the stylists now busy packing up the rejected apparel. They moved quickly, my husband just one of many on their itinerary for the day. The suit, tie, shoes, shirt, socks, cuff links, sunglasses and even his underwear had been chosen for him. My husband called to them and asked as a personal favor if they could give me a once-over. As far as evening gowns went, it was a choice between the one I purchased a week ago or an old purple dress from the eighties I wore to a fund-raiser dance in a the Beverly Hills Hotel. It was, they said, no contest but advised me to wear a bold necklace to offset the plainness of the dress. They didn’t seem to think much of my choice but didn’t want to get into it.
“What about her hair?” asked my husband. “She just had it done. Is it a little weird?” All eyes went to my head and the stillness was about as much information as I needed. Finally the older of the stylists broke the silence and said, “It could use something…” This made me nervous and I practically shrieked “What? What should I do?” She answered in a low voice, “I think it should be done over.” There it was, two hours before show time and a whopping sum spent only to be faced with a failed attempt. “It’s too bad there’s not time for a color rinse,” said the younger stylist. Feeling my pain, she grabbed my brush, unpinned the swirls and ringlets, brushed it out, smoothed it down with a spritzer, gave a few wisps in the front a final adjustment and said, “That’s the best I can do for you. I have to leave now. We’re really, really busy.”
“You look better,” said my husband who’d put on his shirt and pants and seemed to prance around our bedroom with a look of confidence and a new awareness of his assets. He kissed me and told me how attractive I’d always been to him but that maybe I should consider dumping the gray, it was no crime to want to look younger, fresher, was it? Not that it made any difference to him but that it might give me a younger “vibe.”
Ah, it could'a been. I was that close to a mahogany, espresso or a golden pecan supreme rinse. There are times when I wish I had a gaggle of women friends to advise me but my best friend passed away two years ago and my sister, who lives in England is more frumpy than I’ll ever be. “I was at Woodstock,” I bellowed, “I’ve got a built-in younger vibe.” Okay, so maybe once upon a time in a galaxy far, far away.
I dressed and undressed and redressed and in the end, left off the broach as too old-fashioned, ditto for my wonderful strand of pearls given to me by my husband on our tenth anniversary. Plain I would be. My husband would shine for the both of us. If only we weren’t going to be on a red carpet with all the cameras, I would have no qualms. But TV is brutal, even I knew that. Madame told me so. “Wear a lot of makeup,” she said. “Go to Macy’s and see if someone there will give you a free makeover. They’ll be glad to do it.” I didn’t follow her advice but instead chose two exotic colors in Walgreens that may or may not work for me. I was getting nervous and chastised myself for improper planning. I fiddled with the lipstick for a half hour before I wiped it off completely and put on clear gloss.
I won’t go into the details of the entire evening, it was what you’d expect: the fawning, the querulous sniping, posing, posturing, flapping, fierce competition on all level from seating arrangements to on-camera time. Everything my husband, sitting at home in his pajamas drinking beer in other years, would have laughed at. I would look on him indulgently as I prepared our dinner while reading a novel, missing most of it and not caring.
My husband, I must admit, was the best. Yes, he played to the cameras, joked with the hostess/comedian about his designer duds and spoke endearingly of his costars and mentioned the director whenever he got the chance. My husband has an ego but it is not the out-of-control kind that diminishes others to make himself appear bigger. He wants everyone to shine. He was smooth without being cloying. I was the proud wife who basked in his aura. I was very happy for him, genuinely proud when he won for Best Actor. His speech was a marvel of erudite humble gratitude. I wrote it for him on the way over: “Just in case,” he said.
Here’s what happened on the way to the auditorium. We arrived in the limo sent for us by the production company. This is de rigeur because no one is late for the red carpet. My husband did his bit with me at his side, smiling. Later he greeted everyone, talked to a few more reporters, posed for photos and as we were leaving the press range to find our seats, I heard someone say, someone who forgot they were miked, “His wife looks like his mother. Why don’t they do something with themselves? Doesn’t she know a million women are now plotting to go after him?” A few people in the vicinity glanced our way and looked pityingly at me, or so I thought, so repudiated did I feel. My husband heard it too but he pretended he didn’t. I was as embarrassed as I could possibly be but I was more angry than anything. I look like any woman my age looks who works hard and does not spend her time in spas, salons or plastic surgeon’s offices. I am no worse than most, though admittedly no movie star.
And that is the problem. My husband is and I could see the problems mounting. Oh, how I fumed in my seat. I had to sit through the ceremony knowing that every time the camera landed on my husband, it landed on me--a beat up old hag who doesn’t have the sense to get herself fixed up when her husband is a hot property. I was stony silent during the ceremony; that is until my husband won, and my problems disappeared as I spontaneously jumped up to hug him, with all sincerity and pride. He grabbed me close and kissed me with what could be described as a little passionate for public consumption. The camera caught it all and there it was for the world to watch. For me, it’s always been about him, you see.
I put away my little snit and went on to enjoy the night at my husband’s side. Later we hung out with all the members of the cast and drank endless bottles of champagne--everyone was wonderful. My husband hugged me repeatedly, announced to one and all that he owes everything to me and even though I got a few looks that said, “Yeah, sure, loyal wife, soon to be usurped,” I ignored them. After I was a little tipsy I made a toast to my husband, “To the man who has been happily sharing my bed for as long as I can remember…” I stopped before I became any more silly. My husband was aglow. Take that, all you jezebels in waiting, I said under my breath. We left the last party and my husband had to practically carry me to the car, so drunk did I get. He whispered in my ear, “You are beautiful, you did great.”
The next day, with a ripping hangover, I watched us on TV: I did not look at all like his mother. I looked like a woman who has been with a man for many years and sort of looks like him. I looked like a woman who genuinely loves her husband and who is loved in return. And was about to have the time of her life. We partied until daybreak and came back to our humble home just in time to find raccoons in the garbage cans again with the contents strewn across our driveway and front yard. And as my husband changed out of his tuxedo, put on his sweats and started sweeping up the remains of last night’s dinner and all the packaging from his makeover, I heard him laugh and say, “Situation normal.”
Probably not any time soon, I thought as I fell out of my dress.
Since his latest movie in which he starred with today’s “it” girl, I won’t name her because that particular designation changes each month, and Hollywood’s favorite actress who never seems to change, my husband somehow, after years of bland supporting roles in good times and complete oblivion in other years has become the man every woman over thirty-five would like to get into bed with, according to another poll in a cheesy celebrity magazine. I guess it’s time I started to take a different approach to my marriage of, let’s just say, we passed our silver anniversary but haven’t made it to the golden years.
My husband has been in the “business” as it’s referred to by those in it since he moved to Los Angeles after his discharge from the Marine Corps. He came from Texas originally. For a time he was considered a sixties bad boy, the easily classified rebel/wanderer/thrill-seeker, with a reputation that earned him fame and acclaim in that decade and the one to follow. It was an era of violent cultural upheaval that extended itself into the seventies and died out in the eighties with the ascendancy of the yuppies or the greed decade and had a brief renewal in the nineties as nostalgia and now my dearly beloved is once again, back in vogue as a garrulous, though lovable, rebellious aging boomer everyone finds sexy/hot/lovable/handsome, you name it, the press has, of late, ascribed it to him. He is the kingpin of the reading-glass set. That’s what I tell myself, but the survey tells me younger women are also in line to take my place in what has been a fairly regular marital bed.
Should I be nervous? Well, I wasn’t until we started getting strange phone calls with breathy messages, gifts and flowers left outside our door and bundles of letters addressed to my husband with lipstick kisses, perfumed missives, flowery envelopes and bits of erotica, hand-drawn. I don’t think my husband has ever been unfaithful but that doesn’t mean he couldn’t be unfaithful. I have never been unfaithful but I came close once. It was in France with a friend of mine, but I can honestly say nothing happened if I were asked. Neither of us has ever asked.
We met when we were both pretty young and took an instant liking to each other at a party in Laurel Canyon. I don’t know what I was doing at that party with movie types but in those days people of different walks of life mingled more. I was with a friend who worked for Universal and I was working on my master’s. I felt out of place in my turtleneck and long skirt amongst the flashy Hollywood babes in draped silks and satins with plenty of skin. My future husband offered me a drink and said I looked lost. He’s the champion of the underdog though he has never referred to me that way. He said he liked serious girls and in this company, I was that. He called me the next day and we were married within a year. I liked the Marine in him more than the movie star and he said he appreciated that, it showed good sense.
This is a story about me but I wanted to give you a little background before I delve into what’s troubling me. I am a professor of English literature at a small conservative college. I could be described as dull, middle-aged, unfashionable, usually bleary-eyed from having read too many freshman discourses on the beats and L.A.’s premiere poet of raunch. When I assign a specific reading list I hear things like irrelevant, too difficult or too boring. There has been a renewed interest in a certain eighteenth-century lady author that I found heartening until I realized she was a favorite because they could watch the movie and skip the book. It took me a while to catch onto that one. Shame on me, really. I should take more interest in the movie business, I married into it, after all.
I have been a teacher for enough years that these things neither surprise nor irritate me anymore. I’m hardened and accept that reading about sex, drinking and the race track is as deep as most of my students care to go if given the choice. They think they are shocking me by bringing this poet’s works into discussion or sheepishly reading some particularly garish passage. Little do they know that my husband and I once had dinner with the writer when one of his short stories was being considered for a movie with my husband to play the role of the poet himself. He was a much more amiable man than his books would make him out to be though he did get roaring drunk, insulted the host and had to be driven home when he dropped his keys down a sewer grate.
But back to my story. After sharing a bed, more or less happily for some twenty-odd years, with one man, I am now in danger of losing him to a fantasy world that is called Hollywood stardom. Celluloid dreaming. He just brushes it off saying it will all pass over soon enough but lately I find him preening in the mirror for longer than is quite manly, spending time on Rodeo Drive carefully choosing his wardrobe and occasionally I hear him talking on the phone in a voice that could only be described as mellifluous. I’d gotten used to his old curmudgeonly rasp having only given up cigars rather recently and the change was more disturbing than the Armani jackets, the Gucci loafers or the Prada wraparound shades. When I teased him a little, in the way he would formerly joke about our actor friends, he looked at me without even a glimmer of recognition of what was once cause for lampoon. I suppose his lack of satiric response was what put me on my guard. To lose the ability to ridicule was to me, a sign of dementia even though I’ve lived in L.A. for thirty years and know how easily you can lose your formerly endearing qualities with even a smidgen of success in the “business.” But I never took my husband for the type having had early success and the attendant fame and survived. We have watched many friends succumb to all sorts of vanity from a parade of wives, gaudy houses, an inordinate love of cocaine laced with vodka, not to mention a menagerie of love children, broken homes, domestic hell. Somehow we've managed to live our simple life in Studio City without once checking into rehab or hiring lawyers. We are an example, our friends say. They seem surprised by this because of my husband’s early roles. It was all image.
But that is once again not about me. In truth it is rarely about me, this I can honestly say without rancor. My husband is an extrovert and I am an introvert and as such, he takes up more oxygen than I do. He is a former star--a cult hero, hip, cool, iconoclastic and lately a TV pundit.
It was this political posturing that brought him into the limelight again. All of a sudden his opinions attracted a following; his former image opened up a whole new realm of recognition when he appeared on a talk show, invited by a young smart aleck who had been influenced by the character my husband once played in a low-budget film produced by an old friend of his now deceased but not forgotten. I guess my husband was also thought dead and buried in one form or the other and when seen on this talk show, was instantly resurrected as if he had been sorely missed all along. With renewed cachet, he has become a politically correct crowd-pleaser.
My husband is an attractive man. He has always been so even when he was unable to get even the most inane parts and had to resort to voice-overs; when he had to do commercials that embarrassed him for food products he wouldn’t touch or beer he wouldn’t drink. He’s a good-natured guy though, and always honored his commitments, played by the rules of Hollywood and never made waves if he could help it. He accepted that to be an actor was a precarious profession and tried to live life in a state of reality. He spent a couple of years reading for a books-on-tape publisher, usually without even a mention on the packaging. His name was so insignificant it was not thought useful to give him the credit and he said he preferred it that way as long as they paid him well. He was never bitter like many others in our circle--he accepted that acting was a gamble and he’d had a moment in the spotlight and was thankful for that.
I’ve been the dependable breadwinner over the years although he received residuals or royalties or whatever it is actors receive who have once been in a cult movie that nevertheless continues to be released in the latest format and is played on late-night television. We paid off our house eight years ago and made some good investments so have a comfortable life though not anything near Hollywood standards. We do not own a ranch somewhere in Montana, a vacation home in Hawaii or a New York pied a terre. I am from New York and though I could wish for a nice little studio apartment in the Village, we do not have that lifestyle. Though in the “business,” we are on the fringe. We save up and every two years go somewhere really nice; Italy, the south of France, and last year, Spain. My husband is rarely recognized even though I don’t think he has changed much.
I keep returning to my husband. Is it because he is the more interesting or because I am not used to the spotlight? Both, I’d say. But I vowed to write a story about recent events in our life together and I want to talk a little about what has happened to me since my husband’s recent acclaim. And I want to begin with his nomination for an important award and the attendant fuss.
As I mentioned, my husband was in a movie, directed by an old friend of ours from New York. It was not a big-budget film and was not expected to put us into a different tax bracket. We expected a nice chunk of change that we would add to our savings for retirement or into our investment portfolio. My husband, for all of his racy repute, is quite frugal. He has never spent time in rehab or therapy because he was always grounded enough to not find succor in drugs or heavy drinking. He says it is because of me. I’m too stodgy for that sort of thing and too unsympathetic with weakness, I guess. We also have not had children to support or put through college.
In his thirties my husband went through a few rough patches and seemed to be relying on scotch, a nightly habit that began earlier in the day as he came to the realization that he might not have a career than was continuous, dependable or satisfying. When I thought he was using whiskey for escape, I kept a close watch on him and it could be said that I got a little bossy, domineering maybe. In my defense, I never wanted to be a ball-buster or tame his lively, creative juice. Instead, I encouraged him to start sculpting as an antidote to the long days when job offers were not forthcoming. He had always been good with his hands and was a skilled welder, picked up in the service. With a little encouragement, a studio was built in our garage and my husband found a way to spend his days. He no longer needed to start drinking in the afternoon and in fact, did not need to drink much at all after a time. I thought the sculpting would keep him steady and out of danger. It worked and he has done some very strong pieces using recycled metal from junkyards, soaring bird-like apparitions that appeal to lovers of nature as well as those who prefer abstract art. He occasionally shows in a Pasadena gallery and sells a few pieces. Sometimes he gets a commission for a large piece.
Whenever he felt deflated over the years and let’s face it, L.A. is a continuous panoply of ego deflating tensions especially for the aging actor, he would get on his motorcycle and visit a group of ex-Marines in northern California and come back re-grounded. His best friend lost his leg to a landmine and lives in a trailer-plus-additions in an out-of-the-way plot of land with no electricity or running water. The others just make ends meet, living a lower to middle-class life. Only one lives comfortably suburban as an attorney for veterans. These reunions bring my husband back to reality. “These guys mean more to me than all the movie hacks in Hollywood,” he would say upon his return. “They are tried and true; this phony culture we live in sickens me sometimes.”
So my husband revived his movie career with our director friend in a quiet little movie based on a novel that was not a best-seller but well received. It was about a couple who had weathered many storms in their marriage but had found the key to marital happiness by way of a trip to Italy and an old woman who recounted her life to them in a hotel bar. So moved by her story was the couple they felt ashamed of their nonsensical lifestyle in New York, went home and wrote a book on marriage based on the old woman’s tale; her philosophy and advice, and in the process renewed their own shaken vows. The movie had the couple in Italy and New York with flashbacks to the old couple living through WWII and Mussolini’s Italy and the death of their son. As a teacher of literature I can say that while the book is not a literary masterpiece, it was a well-written, interesting story that translated beautifully into cinema where the gorgeous Italian landscape so enthralled the public it became a hit, first in Europe where it received an award at Cannes and then proceeded to captivate American audiences with favorable reviews and an extended run reaching out to all the obscure towns in America. It had the distinction of being an artistic film and a box-office success all in one, not an easy thing to accomplish, and all quite unexpected.
Now my husband, who incidentally got the part because the big-name, ultra-famous leading man turned it down at the eleventh hour on the advice of his manager as too pokey and low-budget for his eminence, was called in by the director to “save his ass.” The actors he initially considered casting either signed on with another movie or thought it not enough money. The director, overwrought and manic with Hollywood’s leading lady chomping at the bit not sure of this low-budget project that was getting off to a bad start and was on the phone with her agent thinking of doing a cut-and-run, decided to bring my husband onboard as he was back in the spotlight, appealing to television audiences for his wit and good looks. Maybe it could work, he thought but it was really his only option at that moment with production starting on location in Europe (expensive) and the leading actress getting antsy.
My husband, in his role as the modern husband in a mid-life crisis seemed to strike a chord with the movie-going public. Now he is being courted for appearances by every TV show, every magazine and a host of parties and fund-raisers on both coasts. It’s a good story but he says the Italian setting along with a major star opposite him and an up-and-coming actress with great style as the old woman in flashbacks made the film. That said, my husband was none too deficient in his part either. I must say, he looked remarkably handsome in the tailored Italian suits, the stylish glasses and a suave haircut that made him almost unrecognizable from the guy who schleps around our house in sweats or cutoffs, ratty hair that rarely sees a professional and his dollar-store glasses I had to force him to wear rather than watch him squint over the newspaper. I fell in love with the screen character myself. In the months following the release, I kept scrutinizing my husband for signs of this masculine creation portrayed by him so eloquently. “Where did you get that charisma?” I’d ask. “I’m an actor, babe,” he would sardonically reply. “How am I going to compete with your leading lady?” I’d tease. “You will have to upgrade your attentions,” he mockingly replied. I would look at him slumped in our old recliner I longed to get rid of with his cheap glasses askew, his old Army/Navy surplus fatigues and three-day-old beard and forgot about that character on the screen who was after all, only that.
He did a few talk shows to promote the movie but was mostly back to his old life in the garage, promising without enthusiasm to clean the pool and attend a dinner with my department colleagues at the end of the month. Surprisingly, none of my colleagues seemed to know about the movie or my husband’s part in it which I found a little hard to believe. Yes, they were of a bunch of starchy high-brows but we all live in the movie capital of the world, don’t we?
Then came the announcement of his nomination for Best Actor, always a time of fevered pitch in L.A. though as a college professor, never big on my roster of coming attractions and my husband had long ago stopped caring. Our director friend was occasionally up for something like musical score or the more arcane technical achievements. His career had also peaked in the sixties and seventies though he kept on making movies often at a loss. He had a following based on his big hit that my husband played a supporting role in, his first major Hollywood role.
Here I am talking on and on about my husband again. I can’t seem to get on with my story which is the point of this ramble. With his award nomination our life became a frenzied act--vaudevillian in its extravagance and unexpectedness. Naturally, my husband would attend, walk the red carpet and do his bit and I, as the supportive wife, would be with him, though not necessarily for the cameras. I was very busy right at this time with my students, faculty dinners, fund-raising events that I was put in charge of this year and all the things that make life hectic including the reading list for the following semester. I had been giving this some consideration as trends in literature had changed and my students' cries of irrelevance had begun to disturb me. I was getting nervous and having something of a mid-life teaching crisis myself. How far into popular culture did I wish to take my curriculum was a quandary I and other instructors as well, grappled with. We were a conservative bunch with many professors considerably older. They all calculated retirement options if things got any more “inane.”
I was busy and preoccupied and with my husband overseas on location and then in New York for two months, the year seemed abnormally fraught with problems; appliance breakdowns, a sick pet who had to be put down, car trouble, work dramas, it all came at once. Just when things returned to some semblance of normalcy, my husband again home, doing the cooking, the laundry, managing the house, the whole world descended upon us, needing my husband’s presence it seemed twenty-four hours a day. Even he was overwhelmed as was the director. I spoke with his wife on the phone every few days and she said it was bedlam at her house in Connecticut and could just imagine what I was going through. I said I didn’t know what I was going through, I just felt rushed all of the time.
My husband, instead of refurbishing old furniture and maintaining the pool was now dressed in Versace suits attending luncheons, cocktail parties, museum and restaurant openings. He was on TV frequently and spent hours in front of the mirror with new suits, casual ensembles, expensive footwear and daring sunglasses. I was happy for him, I really was, but in the past, we would do these things together because they did not happen so often. Now he was on his own and it seemed we were living in a parallel universe. His outings seemed far removed from my daily affairs and he could not feign interest in them, dry in the dullest of times. With the awards ceremony looming, I would be compelled to buy some sort of dress, get my hair done and make an effort at glamor that would only, could only be described as that: “She made an effort.” I am not a movie star and no one would mistake me for one. I am the wife of one and that is fine with me.
I spent an entire Saturday at the Beverly Center shopping for a gown, a pair of shoes and once the gown was purchased was told I would need a special bra without certain straps. I thought I’d done well enough and went with black, better to be invisible amongst the starlets. It was a nice dress, I thought. Simple, without embellishment and I planned to wear a vintage broach I’d bought in Paris to jazz it up. The dress was not made by a famous designer but it was quietly fashionable like the movie itself. My hair is now half gray as is my husband’s. His was colored for the movie. I colored mine once a few years ago but let it grow out, not certain it had any impact on my daily life whatsoever. I wear it up, casually twisted or for more formal occasions, in a French twist that was once the height of chic, a classic, but now looks dated and somewhat comical to me after a British TV character wore a highly exaggerated version. I made an appointment with my hairdresser on Ventura, lately relegated into the margins of my life. She vaguely remembered me and said “I am fully booked for that day,” but when I told her I would probably be seen on TV, her spirit rose and my name was penciled in her appointment book with the words “the works.”
On the day of the appointment, of the awards ceremony, I was hustled into a chair by a consultant, a young man who fluttered like a small bird haughtily tossing his metallic hair, saying he would be assisting Madame, who had always been Donna to me in the past. I was given a brief neck massage, a glass of white wine and a magazine of hairstyles and told to relax until the shampoo girl was ready for me. The consultant lifted my lank strands, played around with them a bit and announced that they should be several inches shorter and of course, colored, that goes without saying, he seemed to imply. All of a sudden I wasn’t sure of any of it. I was hoping for a trim, a wash and set and then a sophisticated but subtle up-do. He looked at me with the consternation only an under assistant could, clicked his tongue and grabbing the magazine from my hand, opened it to page 38 and showed me a picture of exactly what he thought I should have done. The picture had nothing whatever to do with my hair or my overall look and I may have mentioned that while quietly sipping the glass of lukewarm Sauvignon Blanc, much too early in the day, but it was something of a holiday, I thought, or something like a holiday. My head began to ache before the shampoo girl was ready for me but I noticed they also served coffee so I relaxed in her hands. When Madame came to me, lamented over her sadness at not seeing me for so long, a sort of recrimination, I felt, and commented on my gray, I got edgy.
“So what’s the occasion?” she asked me while combing through my too long hair. I mentioned the awards show and she proceeded to ply me with questions and enthusiasm over being a part of such a prestigious affair. “Were you in a movie?” she probed. “No, my husband is in the business,” I replied. “Oh…, I see...,” she said. And the word business just put her off altogether. She relegated me to obscurity and let it go. I don’t know why I didn’t tell her about my husband’s movie and his nomination. She’d probably seen it. But I rarely talked about him. Even my colleagues knew very little. Over the years there wasn’t much to talk about so they only knew him as my husband who had a dubious, if any, profession. They did not recognize him from his early movies but they are not exactly counter-culture aficionados by a stretch.
In any case, I did not feel like sharing anything with my hairdresser though I’m sure I would have been given much more respect, more attention if I had. As it was, she asked me pointedly what color I was thinking of and I backed off. I said, “Just a set and style,” when in actuality I had planned on “the works.” Something made me impatient with the whole process, my head was beginning to throb from the cheap wine and I wanted to be out of there. The ammonia smell was getting to me as well as the faux cheerfulness.
My hair was washed, cut, set, dried and pinned up on my head in a style of swirling bravado that was perhaps too young for my discolored strands but nevertheless looked better than it had for many, many months. Madame lost interest in me before the whole process ended and handed me over to her assistant and while I perked up after three cups of coffee, thinking I could do without the hazelnut flavoring, I left feeling I had gotten through an ordeal successfully and could look forward to the big night we were sure to have especially if my husband won for Best Actor which I admit, I hadn’t given much thought to yet. He was up against three big names. I handed out generous tips to one and all despite their disappointment at not improving me with a stylish cut and glorious color: I was hoping generosity would improve my stature. “Next time,” the assistant said while ushering me out the door with his special flourishes.
When I arrived home, expecting to find my husband watching a ballgame on TV or rummaging around his studio, I found him cloaked in secrecy with two stylists sent by his production company to get him dressed and groomed for the ceremony. He’d never mentioned it, so it came as a surprise. Our guest bedroom was filled with suits, shoes, shirts, ties, eye wear and an entire line of men's cosmetics, hair products, makeup, styling tools and a facial massage machine that loosened up the muscles and was said to take ten years off your looks while helping you to smile a little easier. My husband who rarely bothered about his hair, a slap of Old Spice his only grooming routine, was sitting with his face immersed in a clay mask while his hair was undergoing some sort of chemical treatment and he was not only having his nails buffed but a clear lacquer was diligently being applied. “Holy mother of Jesus,” I uttered. “Just routine, babe,” he mumbled through the clay masque. "I swear to god if any hint of a pedicure is forthcoming I will faint dead away," I said. I prayed I would not have to witness anything of the sort but couldn’t help but notice whitening strips in his mouth which he removed to send a few grunts in my direction. “See what I have to endure,” he barked, but I couldn’t help but notice that there was a little gleam in his eye as he said this, meaning he might recognize the foolishness of his position but was able to find the humor and enjoyment in this enforced regimen. “Just remember you’re a Marine!” I shouted. I could only shut the door and leave him to it.
My headache threatened to return as I went to our bedroom wondering if the Nivia scrub I’d purchased especially for this evening would be up to the mark. Would my new L’Oreal eye shadow and lipstick, an impulse purchase while stopping at Walgreens on my way home for laundry detergent have any impact at all? I looked at my hairdo in the mirror and realized my fit of pique in the salon over the coloring may have been a mistake. I looked faded. It was too late now. I again reminded myself I wasn’t a star and had no need to impress. Such is life in academia. In my lavender eye shadow I would stand out amongst my colleagues and would not ever consider wearing the purplish lipstick I was contemplating for tonight.
There was much laughter and squealing from the guest bedroom. I didn’t blame the young women--my husband was a sight with his facial mask and a sort of men's girdle around his waist to hold in his gut that to me, didn’t seem like much of one but he was told the camera will pick up any flaw and it will be reported all over the world. Such is the life of a movie star. It’s a wonder they can get out the door these days so overwrought was the need to look, not good, not great, simply perfect. Why? How? These things were going on in my head as I got out my dress and shoes, ready for action, however imperfect.
I heard my husband’s loud guffaw here and there and knew he was not in too much misery. He used to scoff at teeth whitening and manicures. He would remind me he is a member of a Harley Davidson club. I admit the “business” is a little more demanding and he is now, with this movie, a celebrity. I will have to get used to this.
Eventually my husband emerged from the guest bedroom with a glowing complexion and glistening hair cut so precisely he could have passed for an avatar. I was happy to see there was a little gray at the temples, we’d be a slight match anyway. Again I fretted about not getting the color treatment I’d planned. I looked again in the mirror and sheepishly asked my husband if I was good to go or was my hairdo too something or other. “I don’t know, maybe ask her,” he said pointing to one of the stylists now busy packing up the rejected apparel. They moved quickly, my husband just one of many on their itinerary for the day. The suit, tie, shoes, shirt, socks, cuff links, sunglasses and even his underwear had been chosen for him. My husband called to them and asked as a personal favor if they could give me a once-over. As far as evening gowns went, it was a choice between the one I purchased a week ago or an old purple dress from the eighties I wore to a fund-raiser dance in a the Beverly Hills Hotel. It was, they said, no contest but advised me to wear a bold necklace to offset the plainness of the dress. They didn’t seem to think much of my choice but didn’t want to get into it.
“What about her hair?” asked my husband. “She just had it done. Is it a little weird?” All eyes went to my head and the stillness was about as much information as I needed. Finally the older of the stylists broke the silence and said, “It could use something…” This made me nervous and I practically shrieked “What? What should I do?” She answered in a low voice, “I think it should be done over.” There it was, two hours before show time and a whopping sum spent only to be faced with a failed attempt. “It’s too bad there’s not time for a color rinse,” said the younger stylist. Feeling my pain, she grabbed my brush, unpinned the swirls and ringlets, brushed it out, smoothed it down with a spritzer, gave a few wisps in the front a final adjustment and said, “That’s the best I can do for you. I have to leave now. We’re really, really busy.”
“You look better,” said my husband who’d put on his shirt and pants and seemed to prance around our bedroom with a look of confidence and a new awareness of his assets. He kissed me and told me how attractive I’d always been to him but that maybe I should consider dumping the gray, it was no crime to want to look younger, fresher, was it? Not that it made any difference to him but that it might give me a younger “vibe.”
Ah, it could'a been. I was that close to a mahogany, espresso or a golden pecan supreme rinse. There are times when I wish I had a gaggle of women friends to advise me but my best friend passed away two years ago and my sister, who lives in England is more frumpy than I’ll ever be. “I was at Woodstock,” I bellowed, “I’ve got a built-in younger vibe.” Okay, so maybe once upon a time in a galaxy far, far away.
I dressed and undressed and redressed and in the end, left off the broach as too old-fashioned, ditto for my wonderful strand of pearls given to me by my husband on our tenth anniversary. Plain I would be. My husband would shine for the both of us. If only we weren’t going to be on a red carpet with all the cameras, I would have no qualms. But TV is brutal, even I knew that. Madame told me so. “Wear a lot of makeup,” she said. “Go to Macy’s and see if someone there will give you a free makeover. They’ll be glad to do it.” I didn’t follow her advice but instead chose two exotic colors in Walgreens that may or may not work for me. I was getting nervous and chastised myself for improper planning. I fiddled with the lipstick for a half hour before I wiped it off completely and put on clear gloss.
I won’t go into the details of the entire evening, it was what you’d expect: the fawning, the querulous sniping, posing, posturing, flapping, fierce competition on all level from seating arrangements to on-camera time. Everything my husband, sitting at home in his pajamas drinking beer in other years, would have laughed at. I would look on him indulgently as I prepared our dinner while reading a novel, missing most of it and not caring.
My husband, I must admit, was the best. Yes, he played to the cameras, joked with the hostess/comedian about his designer duds and spoke endearingly of his costars and mentioned the director whenever he got the chance. My husband has an ego but it is not the out-of-control kind that diminishes others to make himself appear bigger. He wants everyone to shine. He was smooth without being cloying. I was the proud wife who basked in his aura. I was very happy for him, genuinely proud when he won for Best Actor. His speech was a marvel of erudite humble gratitude. I wrote it for him on the way over: “Just in case,” he said.
Here’s what happened on the way to the auditorium. We arrived in the limo sent for us by the production company. This is de rigeur because no one is late for the red carpet. My husband did his bit with me at his side, smiling. Later he greeted everyone, talked to a few more reporters, posed for photos and as we were leaving the press range to find our seats, I heard someone say, someone who forgot they were miked, “His wife looks like his mother. Why don’t they do something with themselves? Doesn’t she know a million women are now plotting to go after him?” A few people in the vicinity glanced our way and looked pityingly at me, or so I thought, so repudiated did I feel. My husband heard it too but he pretended he didn’t. I was as embarrassed as I could possibly be but I was more angry than anything. I look like any woman my age looks who works hard and does not spend her time in spas, salons or plastic surgeon’s offices. I am no worse than most, though admittedly no movie star.
And that is the problem. My husband is and I could see the problems mounting. Oh, how I fumed in my seat. I had to sit through the ceremony knowing that every time the camera landed on my husband, it landed on me--a beat up old hag who doesn’t have the sense to get herself fixed up when her husband is a hot property. I was stony silent during the ceremony; that is until my husband won, and my problems disappeared as I spontaneously jumped up to hug him, with all sincerity and pride. He grabbed me close and kissed me with what could be described as a little passionate for public consumption. The camera caught it all and there it was for the world to watch. For me, it’s always been about him, you see.
I put away my little snit and went on to enjoy the night at my husband’s side. Later we hung out with all the members of the cast and drank endless bottles of champagne--everyone was wonderful. My husband hugged me repeatedly, announced to one and all that he owes everything to me and even though I got a few looks that said, “Yeah, sure, loyal wife, soon to be usurped,” I ignored them. After I was a little tipsy I made a toast to my husband, “To the man who has been happily sharing my bed for as long as I can remember…” I stopped before I became any more silly. My husband was aglow. Take that, all you jezebels in waiting, I said under my breath. We left the last party and my husband had to practically carry me to the car, so drunk did I get. He whispered in my ear, “You are beautiful, you did great.”
The next day, with a ripping hangover, I watched us on TV: I did not look at all like his mother. I looked like a woman who has been with a man for many years and sort of looks like him. I looked like a woman who genuinely loves her husband and who is loved in return. And was about to have the time of her life. We partied until daybreak and came back to our humble home just in time to find raccoons in the garbage cans again with the contents strewn across our driveway and front yard. And as my husband changed out of his tuxedo, put on his sweats and started sweeping up the remains of last night’s dinner and all the packaging from his makeover, I heard him laugh and say, “Situation normal.”
Probably not any time soon, I thought as I fell out of my dress.
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