as we talked , i was unsure whether to cry because i no longer occupied the pretty and divering category or to laugh because i had been elevated into the category of serious .
barry departed , and i was left to beat the working day into shape . i went through my in-tray and procedures of an office , and professionalism and her husband on a plate . i wrote a report , made phone calls . i read script until my eyes blurred .
eventually , i pulled the file marked middle age toward me . i had definitely been avoiding it . i opened my notebook and wrote : 1) what is story ? 2) why are we proposing it ? 3) who will make it ? 4) likely costs ?
what was thewrre to say ? wasn't middle age a furtive , secretive stage ? when i bought my first bra , there was nobody i did not butonhole with the news . ask the sprit of my dead , unsympathetic mother . but i would rather die than reveal the existence of to dicuss my body ' s slippage . the first blows of age . that was skin to tourist' tramping around a ruin , and which of us would volunteer . to examine the mistakes , guilt , regret , or banalities of working , nurturing , and fretting ? who wished to acknowdge the loneliness of growing older ?
"when middle age creeps up on a woman , she discovers that younger women are also wolves , as much as men ," one newspaer pundit was quote in the cutting that deb had handed over . on that point i conceded i was the expert .
i remembered playing the wolf ....
nathan tracked me down in bonne tarine . he must have followed me from the vistemax offices . he slid into the opposite seat and nodded at my coffee and the palte on which sat a tiny , uneaten . he seemed inordinately pleased with himself ." is that just there for temptation ?"
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