And staring in the role of Great-Aunt Nora...

Bill and I took my daughter to see Mama Mia! I’d seen it on stage several years ago, so there were no surprises. It was fun. Who wouldn’t enjoy a lot great songs, wonderful dance numbers and fabulous scenery.
But you would think, since the director, producers, virtually everybody, knew that it was a musical, they would have cast actors in the roles who could actually sing. For most it was a laudable effort. Poor Pierce Bronson was worse than guys at my high school.
As we were leaving, Bill said to me, "I just kept imagining how Cher would have belted out those tunes or even Madonna.’"
I couldn’t help but agree. Meryl Streep did a pretty good job. But yeah, Cher has really lived the story.
Of course, both Streep and Cher are a little old for the part. Much was made of the daughter being just twenty. So when the mother was living this wild life with three serial boyfriends, she was 37? Hmmm.
My sister, Sherry, told me (therefore it might be just gossip rather than fact) that Hollywood had a hard time getting someone to accept the part of the mother. That the script called for a woman aged 40. But in Hollywood, no woman aged forty wants to admit to being forty. So they had to settle on Streep who is 59 and therefore more kindly disposed to being thought to be 40.
I just shook my head at that. Hollywood! They are such shallow phoneys. Getting older is great. My years have given me such perspective. And I’m a lot happier now than when I was younger. I don’t look like I did at twenty. But I think I have more character in my face now than I did then. A photographer once suggested that my publicity photo should be air-brushed to get rid of the crows-feet around my eyes. I wouldn’t let her. I think the lines actually make me look smarter and more interesting.
With these thoughts in my mind, I piddled around my house tonight feeling very smug and superior. I’m traveling to San Francisco next week for a writer’s conference and have a lot to do to get ready. All my best clothes had to be pulled out of the closet, tried on and then taken up or let out. I’ve got to get a haircut and freshen my highlights. Tomorrow, I’m getting a facial and having my invisible blonde eyebrows dyed. Much to be done.
As I washed my face with jojoba cream, I caught sight of myself in the mirror.
Who do you think you’re fooling? I asked.
If I’m so unconcerned with my looks and my years, then why aren’t I allowing myself to gracefully age into a revitalized version of my Great-Aunt Nora.
Does this qualify me as having ‘gone Hollywood?’