For me, having a daughter has made it easier to face my own aging and the sometimes awful process that it is. As I watch things droop or fall--much of it expedited by having that aforementioned daughter at age 42, for pete's sake--I have many times claimed that it is okay, I am ready to pass the baton (of beauty, of men-catching, of ambition) on to my diminutive chunk of immortality. However, every time that I sit in the hairdresser's chair, ticking on one more color to the highlighting process, or purchase a new restorative face cream, I am reminded that maybe it is a joke I say, a verbal mattress placed to strategically catch my future fall.
The other morning I was listening to a pop song that had a catchy little beat, and a sound that makes you picture the video without ever having seen it. The singer sounded blonde, gorgeous, thin and fun. And often I listen to these kind of songs and think how absolutely fun it would be to be that person singing. How hot would it be to have an entourage, a limitless supply of Louis Vuitton, dates with Jake Guyllenhalls? And despite having no singing talent, connections, or actual real-life desire to be a "star", there was always a feeling of "hey, ya never know."
I became aware, a few days ago, that even daydreaming about possible fame and non-small-scale adoration (cause I still get it from Simon when I am holding a Krispy Kreme donut) was at its end. Because as I drove home from Starbucks, bopping to that peppy little tune I told you about earlier, I had a brief fantasy: wouldn't it be wonderful if that girl singing on the radio was your daughter, enjoying all the spoils from such attention. And wouldn't it be cool to tell people, "oh yes! That's my child!"
Poor Olivia. I see how easy it is to become a Joe Simpson. What pressure for her as that baton goes from my hand into her little fist, the one that currently can barely hold a Zwieback.