Yesterday I celebrated;
today I'm suffering post-completion tristesse,
the way I always do after finishing a big project.
Nonetheless, I'm still glad I have some time to start thinking and writing about my upcoming fiftieth birthday, in exactly 2 months (March 5). I'm amazed and curious to find myself at this juncture.
What is it? Who and where am I at fifty?
I got wondering what some of my favorite people were doing at fifty.
You know I'm crazy for Simone Signoret?
She was both sexy and serious. And she was a woman.
I like that.
I wouldn't mind aging like she did. (I mean, with dignity, not smoking oneself to death.) They say she got fat and let her looks go.
To my eye, she just got more interesting and ... well, to borrow from Neruda, she had the weight of a golden vegetable.
When she was fifty, in 1971, she played The Widow Couderc, with Alain Delon. (I just ordered it on Netflix.)
I don't know much about her, as a person. (According to her Wipipedia entry, she never cared about glamor.)
It's not always good to learn too much about an actor (Manfred made many people unhappy by reporting that Colin Firth is not a sweet potato); but for my birthday, I would like to have dinner with Simone. (Here, with her husband Yves Montand.)
Of course, she's dead (at only 64) but there you have it.
Hey! The sun just peeped through the clouds.
I think I'll go to the library and get Signoret's memoirs, Nostalgia Isn't What It Used to Be (La nostalgie n'est plus ce qu'elle était). Yes. Then I'll go back to bed with hot milk, and read.
Good for sadness.