This is my friend Liz Katkics Thompson, a remarkable human being, OG blogger, devoted mother, and grandmother — though you might know her best as the social media editor for TueNight. Liz is our Gen-X savant, our “Weekend Watch” scribe, a community-gathering genius always with a twinkle in her eye and a deep, hearty laugh— truly, the heart of TueNight.

Tragically, Liz has been diagnosed with ALS, a cruel and degenerative disease for which there is no cure.

The last time I saw Liz in person (we did so much virtually!) was at our final TueNight event a year ago. Munching on popcorn, savoring a cocktail, clapping enthusiastically for storytellers, and darting around to capture perfect social media moments with her signature zeal, jotting down her hopes and dreams for the future along with everyone else. It's shocking how things can change in a matter of months.

Now, as her daughter writes in a GoFundMe to support Liz, "She needs help doing everything. She can no longer sit up without assistance. She cannot stand or walk. She has effectively zero use of her left hand and arm, and extremely limited use of her right hand and arm. The muscles in her face have started to freeze with stress or when she’s excited, causing uncomfortable spasms that can last for minutes at a time and leave her unable to speak. She has difficulty chewing and swallowing her food. Her muscles are too weak for her to even cough, which makes the threat of choking that much more severe."

PLEASE, if you have it in your heart to donate something, Liz and her family could really use your support. You can do so right here. Liz is going through the unimaginable and she is a giving, thoughtful, creative soul who has been a bright light for so many. Please consider a donation of any amount to help our dear friend and TueNighter, Liz.

CLICK HERE TO SUPPORT LIZ AND HER FAMILY

Happy January TueNighters,

It’s me, Margit. Hope your 2024 is off to a peaceful and productive start and you’re hiding under the sheets only a few times a week. I just wanted to pop in here to explain what’s going on with this website and community that we all love so dearly — or, try to explain, because I’m not entirely sure myself. Back in October, I suggested in this post that TueNight as we know it would be coming to a close, after 10 great years. 

Since then, a few things have shifted for me. I feel a little like The Who, who said they would be playing their final concert in 1982 and then went on to play Live Aid in 1985 and several more times after that. You can’t keep a good band down.

And that’s how I feel about TueNight — we’re this large collective of people who (hopefully) aren’t going anywhere, but we can always find each other and it might be worth checking in once in a while.

My plan was — and still is — to work on a book/screenplay (it started as a book then became a screenplay and now it’s back to a book… are you sensing a deep character flaw?), and perhaps to pop in here from time to time. 

And then, life happened. In December, after time in the hospital and then hospice, my Mom passed away. It has been a surreal, devastating, traumatic and curious moment for me, a subject which I might go into in an essay down the road, but for now, I’ll just let it be. And that’s what I’m trying to do with everything right now — let it simmer, let it be. 

I’m still in the process of accepting that she’s not still a phone call away. 

Part of me wanted to run here and check in with you all: so many of us have lost parents, are caregiving for parents, who haven’t had parents for a long time. I didn’t because I was too overcome. I imagine you can understand.

So right now we’re in a pause. The Pause. How appropriate. Three months, six months — I’m not sure. BUT… I might sneak back in here from time to time to do some writing under the It’s Me, Margit banner. I’ve thought about moving entirely to another Substack but I haven’t the energy to think that through. 

Right now I’m just living in the quiet. The quiet of a dark, frigid January. The quiet of a mother drifting away forever. The quiet of listening to my own breath. The quiet of nothing to hit “send” on, Tuesday night at 8pm.

My plan, with my newfound time, is to write a LOT, do more reading — maybe I’ll even listen to podcasts (which I never do) — spend time with my 90-year-old Dad and my family, keep a close watch on my beagle Bo (who has a pretty serious nerve sheath tumor. When it rains…), and to just find joy in the stillness.

I’ve held off on writing this note to you all, because it’s so hard. What can I say except: Wait for me? I’ll be back, in some form, or amoeba-like shape, wanting to know what’s new, what’s hard, what’s good with all of you.  

In the meantime, here’s to your own creative pursuits, dreams, and life revamps. (We are all in the thick of that all the time, no matter our age, aren’t we?) 

Love you all.

Margit

And before you go…

I do still wonder what matters to you, what TueNight means to you, and could be for you in our future. So will you take a minute and fill out this survey? Because even as I’m stepping back, I still want to know what you think, what you need, what you love, and what you’re waiting for. Huge thanks. Xo

There’s a certain magic that happens when women of a certain age come together. Maybe it’s our years of experience, wisdom and grit that creates this immediate warmth — a “we get it” vibe.

This past weekend, I was craving that kind of in-person connection. After the chaotic horror that unfolded in the Middle East this week, and the accompanying emotional weight we all felt, I was eager to attend a cozy gathering in my friend Susan’s home with the author Farnoosh Torabi. Farnoosh is a well-known and much-loved money expert. But her new book, A Healthy State of Panic, is not so much financial tips as it is personal stories about growing up as the daughter of Iranian immigrants in the ‘80s, and how we can allow fear in our lives to serve us and embolden us to take risks.

The group of 20 or so women at the event went around the room introducing ourselves. We each mentioned something we were grateful for — and so many of us mentioned the thrill/the peace/the joy at just being in a room with other people, the opportunity to sit with other women and just be. A sanctuary. Over the last week many of us had been in chat groups or online threads. Some were heated and ugly, some were kind and understanding, some were polarizing and harmful. But here, here we could look each other in the eye — New Yorkers from all different kinds of backgrounds — hug each other and feel that warmth of female connection. Nothing like it.

That afternoon reminded me of one of the chief reasons I started TueNight 10 years ago. (Yes, T. E. N.… W. T. F!…  years ago. But before we get all shocked at how time flies when you’re telling stories...)

The idea was to tell the stories that were not being told: authentic stories from women in midlife, who are aging differently than any generation before them. But more than that, it was to find connection with other women from all walks of life and to share stories that used to be taboo — you know, menopause, sex and aging, choosing not to have kids— but were so real to the women I know. In the 10 years since, a lot of those topics have thankfully entered the popular discourse. There is an entire movement around saying your age and talking out loud about menopause. Gray hair is firmly in the cool category. ( Obv, I am biased.)

Back in 2013, I was 46 and, as I wrote in this essay that kicked things off, I started to feel like the world had shifted around me. I noticed that, “at work, young women with topknots and thick black glasses eye you like a strange, irrelevant species. They don’t understand your references (Riot Grrrls not Pussy Riot). Wearing vintage is suddenly called ‘Grandad’s Style’ and it feels like everything old is rebranded as something new.” I was in a generational Twilight Zone. 

Loneliness had crept in. Where were these women like me who feel like, yeah, maybe we’re getting older, but we are still making shit happen:  traveling, forging new relationships, creating new careers for ourselves…

I enlisted friends Adrianna Dufay, Kat Borosky and Susan Linney into the endeavor in 2013; we hoped to tell these stories and also just have fun together making a website. We wanted to hear other stories from women about their experience in midlife — the difficult, challenging, thrilling and definitely the weird. There was Susan’s journey to sobriety and Deesha Philyaw's trip to find freedom post-divorce. We also tried to shine light on tales far removed from what then felt like the typical midlife topics. These were not about anti-aging serums or staying fit after 40;  these were emotional shifts and lifestyle changes that our Gen-X generation was uniquely poised to tell.

With TueNight, I aimed to mirror my own personal challenges and evolution. In the last decade, I survived ovarian cancer, gave up on fertility treatments, attempted a million diets and then gave up on those, too; went gray, lost a close friend and broke up with another, lost two cats and got a dog, deepened the bond with my partner, watched in horror as Roe v. Wade was dismantled, witnessed some of my favorite places shut down, revamped our website and then moved our digs to Substack.

There was a big mindset shift in that timeframe: My 40s was when I realized oh, hey, I’m getting old(er); my 50s is when I actually started to accept it. 

Somewhat.

I don’t want to pretend that aging is all fabulous because we know it ain’t. There are the painful losses, the painful joints, the fear of someone never hiring us again, but ALSO the feeling like we KNOW our shit backward and forward (but also, what was your name?), and the people in our lives matter much more deeply. I feel so much gratitude.

Back to TueNight….

Since those early days, scores (and I do mean scores) of women have participated in TueNight: told stories, created graphics, helped out at our live shows, introduced us to new folks, all to make TueNight a creative place for raw, honest, real midlife expression. This here is a list of pretty much everyone. We’ve published nearly 2,000 stories over the past decade; hosted 25 live storytelling events, received a a Webby nomination (for Ovarian Rhapsody) and two Webby honorees for the newsletter and the site, just 6 months after we launched. I want to give a big hug and a particular thank you to Liz Katkics Thompson, who, for the last two and a half years, has been our social media/ everything editor and has truly kept TueNight charging along in style.

This week Anne Helen Petersen of published a Substack post called “How Millennials Grew Up and Got Old” and I gotta tell you, it feels like my Dinosaur Jr. essay over again. Anne wrote:

Something interesting happens when you realize your generation isn’t the center of the discourse anymore. I’m not even talking about being the locus of cool. More like: You just seem to matter less. People are less anxious about you, less mad about you — if anything, they seem slightly annoyed by you. You’re no longer the future. You’re the well-worn middle.

Exactly. Welcome, Anne. I can’t help but feel bumped to the next age block. But I care so much less. I’m 56, and yup when I’m 66 I’ll be like, “Gosh, remember how young and dumb I was 10 years ago?” But for now, I feel excited about moving into my fabulous grand dame era.

Here’s the part that’s a bit scary to say out loud. At the end of this year, the TueNight chapter will be coming to a close. Candidly, it's been an absolute life-changing blast to do TueNight, but maintaining it has been challenging. (I do have a day job!)  And I want to find new avenues to write. We built the site 10 years ago to process a life phase that felt surprising and new, and now, not only have many of us adapted, but there's also a proliferation of platforms addressing midlife —  it feels less urgent.

Or maybe my muse has left the building. I need to honor that.

I’m not quite sure what I want to do next. I know I’d like to do more writing ( that might be here on Substack from time to time) and I have been trying to find time to work on a book for years. Midlife teaches that embracing new challenges often means bidding farewell to the familiar — or “jumping into that fear,” as Farnoosh says in her book.

Buttttt… before all that wrapping up and such (which I’ll talk more about as the year closes), we are going to do what we do best: come together to share stories. Yes, friends, there will be a huge, awesome 10th ANNIVERSARY BIRTHDAY BASH!! And YOU are invited!

Our theme for this one is “Ambition.” It’s a word that has been rolling around in my head for a while. When we’re younger we visualize this upward trajectory for ourselves, that career ladder to climb, the relationships we desire. Now, in our 50s, I think we’re more interested in finding the things that comfort our souls, bring us joy. We keep our loved ones close, we seek our “good life.” And we want to spend time with other women like you.

I hope to see many of you either at Caveat on the Lower East Side in NYC or online, where we’ll be streaming the event. Because it’s not just TueNight we’re celebrating. It’s YOU. (And you and you and yes, you.) It’s US. It’s the WE who stumbled into this stage of life with ideas about who we are and who we’d like to be. And dammit, we are, all of us, still becoming. That’s always worth a party.

(And, well, this grand dame does like throwing a party, after all.)

Thank you for being a part of this incredible labor of love and for joining us on this journey. Here’s to the stories we’ve shared, and all the ones yet to come…

In 1984, Laurie Anderson and Lou Reed hadn’t even started dating yet, but they were already living together in my VCR. As a teen in Philly, without cable or MTV, I used to record music videos I liked, so I could watch them endlessly. On the same tape on which I’d recorded Laurie’s “Sharkey’s Day” from some PBS special, I’d also captured Lou Reed’s “I Love You Suzanne” from somewhere else. Who could have imagined that almost a decade later this icon of experimental art-pop would marry the godfather of underground rock. They were a fascinating yin and yang couple, one that demonstrated an amazing breadth of art and music within one household.

I’m going to guess anyone reading here probably already knows who they are, but for the sake of journalistic propriety: Laurie Anderson creates avant-garde art that’s both accessible and full of soul — from performance art to music to technology and film. (I watched her achingly beautiful film Heart of a Dog right before my dog had surgery and was a complete mess afterwards). The late, legendary Lou Reed became Laurie’s partner and creative collaborator in 1992. Founding member of the Velvet Underground, protege of Andy Warhol, streetwise poet, ferocious guitarist, he was also a guy who lived and breathed New York City. But in a new book credited to Lou Reed and co-edited by Laurie, The Art of The Straight Line: My Tai Chi, we learn about Lou’s passion for Tai Chi, how he was a “martial art nerd,” someone fixated on learning, and a seeker of magic. And as Laurie put it in her essay in the book, “Lou knew how to cry; it’s why I fell in love with him.” 

In 2005, I had a not-so-serendipitous encounter with Reed in a Tai Chi class which I wrote about here. In short, a friend/ co-worker Scott Richman suggested I take a Tai Chi class and oh, Lou Reed happened to be one of his classmates, and, of course, I was IN, and well, you can read the rest. Looking back, it’s a slightly cringe-y story about me as, essentially, a celebrity stalker. So when my friend Scott, who also co-edited Art of the Straight Line, asked if I’d speak with Laurie about the book, I was beyond thrilled but also, like…are you sure? (He was sure.) 

Something that I didn’t explore deeply in that Tai Chi class story, and something I’ve realized in hindsight, was how affected I was by the experience. I was a bumbling novice, but even my brief attempt gave me a glimmer of how mind-broadening this fluid and forceful martial art could be. All those memories came rushing back as I read The Art of the Straight Line, a rich collection of interviews with everyone from Iggy Pop to Julian Schnabel to author A.M. Homes to Lou’s teacher Master Ren sharing candid first-person memories of Reed.

On a Monday evening this August, Laurie called me as she was driving back to New York City, taking the Long Island Expressway from Springs in East Hampton. As many articles about her had suggested, Laurie was indeed easy to talk to and the conversation effortless. It didn’t feel much like an interview but more a chat with a thoughtful, inquisitive friend — who happens to be a genius. Listening to her  quintessential, soothing voice, I noticed the way she says Lou’s name: Lou, with a soft, drifty curve on the U. Like “cooo.” It’s hard to describe, but when she says “Lou” it sounds like love.

What follows is a lightly-edited transcript of our conversation.

MARGIT: So… I don't know if [your publicist] mentioned that I took  Master Ren’s Tai Chi class…

LAURIE:  Oh, I read your little blurb about that. [laughs]

MARGIT:  Uh oh. Oh dear. [laughs, nervously]

LAURIE:  Did you ever do Tai Chi again after that? 

MARGIT: Eventually I did a few more classes with him and I really enjoyed it. But life just sort of got in the way. I have to say that reading The Art of the Straight Line, and feeling the pain in my shoulder right now, I’m reinspired.

LAURIE: You’re also older. We were hoping to get college kids interested in this but, you know what, they’re not.

MARGIT:  Why wouldn’t they be?

LAURIE: Nothing hurts. It’s too slow. We were trying to do a sort of college tour for the book, to appeal to college students with [Tai Chi] demos. A lot of colleges have huge mental health centers now, just because so many people are not feeling mentally good. There really is an epidemic of suicides, you know. Why is that, what’s your theory about that?

MARGIT: What’s my theory on suicide in young people?

LAURIE: Yeah. If you had to say a couple things, like what comes to mind?

MARGIT: Technology and isolation. Lack of true community. Everything is about the self and showing your life in a certain way and I think that really does tremendous damage to mental health. But what about you?

LAURIE:  I would say loneliness and tech — and it’s a very poor substitute for hanging out with real people, you know, and actually seeing them and going out your door. If you don’t go out your door, things can get really weird. And the branding pressure is huge.

MARGIT:  Absolutely. You have to be a certain way, look a certain way and have this whole marketing plan for your lifestyle.

LAURIE: I feel weirdly responsible, in terms of my own generation's contribution to that. When I started in with the commercial record company, [the company asked] ‘what’s your brand?’ And I, you know, I did it as a joke. I didn’t think it was me, but I did it anyway. I was like, oh, here’s an image you can use. But, I think people now identify with their brand. So when you think that your own self image is what other people think you are, it gets very, very mirror-like.

MARGIT: Speaking of mirrors, you talk in the book about hearing Tai Chi-like ideas in Lou’s music, lyrics like “I’ll be your mirror, reflect what you are.” You describe that as one of Lou’s most transcendent songs and “observing, understanding people were among his greatest skills.” So, in that Tai Chi class, when Lou was kind of moving me around and I wasn’t getting it, was he mirroring my … 

LAURIE: He did the corrections for you. He put his hands on you. He does that to everybody — not that you weren’t special — but it’s a hands on kind of thing. And that shocks people sometimes because they’re like, whoa, don’t touch me, you know? But it’s a fighting form. You’re right to kind of feel a little beaten up, because it really has a lot of force to it. 

One of Lou’s favorite things about working with Master Ren were the applications - they are the secret moves. What you’re actually doing when you hold your palm out like that, you’re decapitating someone. It’s not a nice, polite form of beautiful movement at all. It’s a ritual killing. So I think that really appealed to Lou and to a lot of guys. There were a lot of guys who just really threw each other around. Now it’s mostly women in Master Ren’s class who are really good. 

MARGIT: How challenging was it to compile the book after Lou had passed?

LAURIE:  The book took us years to put together; we’re all really proud of it. It was really fun to talk to all those people because they’re all our friends and it’s a very unique book about Lou because it’s people who knew him. None of the biographers knew Lou. Some of them claim that they were his friends but they were not. 

We kind of dragged out the writing a little bit just so we could hang out more and we did wanna get it right. It’s the only account by people who knew Lou personally. And, many of them were really, as you can tell from the book, really grateful to him for pushing them [in Tai Chi] like that. And he did that with people. He would just see people and go, “What's wrong with your shoulder?” or “Why are you standing like that?”

He really wanted to help people. He genuinely did. Who does that? How many people do you know who do that? Like one or two, maybe?

MARGIT: Did you know Tai Chi before you met Lou or was it something that he introduced you to?

LAURIE: I started when I met Lou, in the mid-’90s with Leung Shum, a guy doing really acrobatic stuff. It was like going to the circus and I thought, I’m gonna kill myself if I just do this. Lou and one of his best friends were doing the class — they were older guys then and they couldn’t compete with these 16-year-old kids who would be jumping up into the middle of the air, like fish out of water, and spinning around and like [she makes a “boop” noise]. Then I really decided, you know, couples can’t do everything together. I’m gonna be wearing a matching outfit any minute. 

MARGIT: Lou and Laurie in matching sweatsuits.

LAURIE: Exactly. So I asked around and somebody said this guy over on Lafayette [Street]  is interesting. So I went to his class about three or four times and he was astounding. 

I told Lou, “Listen, I hate to say this, but my teacher is better than yours.” He said, “Really?” And he went to see Master Ren and he immediately saw this is the real deal. This guy is not making it up. As soon as they got together it was sort of like a threesome so I had to like, fade off into the shrubbery. 

And then when [Lou] died I got more into it and had more of a relationship with Master Ren. He really encourages women, you know, and that's pretty unusual too for any kind of martial arts person.

MARGIT: I found Master Ren very encouraging, joyful. He has a sort of twinkle in his eye.

LAURIE: Yes! You were there in what, 2004? It’s almost 20 years later. That he's still doing that. It… it's kind of crazy, like, and, and also can you imagine driving if you don't read English? How do you do that?

MARGIT: I don't know. I don't really even drive so…

LAURIE: Oh you don't? Wow.

MARGIT: Well, I know how, but living in New York…

LAURIE: You don’t have to.

MARGIT: Exactly… On another topic, you describe Tai Chi in the book as “moving through circles without losing the sense of direction.” And I feel like, to me, that’s also sort of the process of aging. Adapting, adjusting, but keeping your core beliefs in place. Do you agree?

LAURIE: I think Lou would. He definitely wanted to be a grand old man. He didn’t wanna be decrepit. And that’s always a good goal. In terms of what you’re saying about spirals,  one of my meditation teachers talks about how learning is never in a straight line where you tick things off. You say, “I learned that, and then that.” But you come back and forth to [the material] and then you see it again, you know, three years later, you look down the spiral and go, oh, I remember when I first saw that and then you see it in a different way. So that was the very first thing that we, as editors, had to ask ourselves: Why is it called the Art of the Straight Line in a world of circles? We did feel that it was eventually sort of a kind of aspiration, that there is a kind of a true north somewhere.

MARGIT: And those are individual true norths, right? Everybody’s line is different.

LAURIE:  Yes, everyone’s path is different but the teaching stays the same. You adapt to what you need and what you can understand and go as far as you wanna go. For some people Tai Chi is fine to just do as a kind of workout, and then for others it’s like Chinese brushwork, you know? There’s a woman in Ren’s class now who is a really wonderful calligrapher, she does some really high leaps and turns. And I feel when I see her I’m like, wow, it feels like she’s got a brush in her hand or something. It’s very, very graceful. It’s not like looking at a man doing it. It’s of course a whole different center of gravity in a woman's body than a man’s.  Men’s force is often kind of around the heart and the chest and the arms, right? And women’s is lower down. That’s kind of never pointed out and I, you know, as, as the only female editor, I just wanted to harp on that. I should have…

MARGIT:  We can harp on it here.

LAURIE: Oh good, yeah. Harp on it. Because it really is a wonderful martial art for women.

MARGIT: Oh, I think I'm losing you a bit. Laurie. 

LAURIE: Can you hear me now? We’re barreling along the LIE so it'll probably fade in and out.

MARGIT: Where are you going? Somewhere fun?

LAURIE: I’m coming back from the Springs; it’s so pretty out there now. But so is the city. I like summer in the city a lot. Have to say. This summer, I realized I don’t go to many movies as much as people, so when I went to see Oppenheimer and Barbie it was like…

MARGIT:  Wait. Wait. You saw Barbie?

LAURIE: Seeing girls’ reaction in the movie theater was like, whoa, I can see why this is why this is a billion dollar sale, you know, I really can. There are girls for whom this is new information.

MARGIT: Crazy, right?

LAURIE: I’ve probably gone through like four different women’s revolutions in my life. I’ve seen this in a lot of different guises. So when I recognized that for these kids that was, like, new information, I was like, oh, this is fantastic. And also I just loved that girls and women were laughing. It’s pretty disarming. What did you think of the film?

MARGIT: I enjoyed it. I didn’t really fully understand going in that it’s sort of a twist. You see all these young girls dressing up in pink and I think they expect it to be something completely different than what it is.

LAURIE: Yes.

MARGIT: I thought it was really smart. I loved America Ferrera’s speech

LAURIE: I’m really grateful to [Greta Gerwig] for making that and also for being so clever collaborating with Mattel. That’s, like, revolutionary. Not very many filmmakers can do that kind of thing. In many ways it’s a very subversive film. You can tell by the people who really can’t stand it “That was a horrible film!” It really does challenge people.

MARGIT: And it’s so timely, especially as women’s rights are essentially being reversed.

LAURIE: I thought things would be so much different than they are now, for women. I mean, yeah, the first groups I was in, in the ‘70s… It's kind of worse now for women. Artists and writers, you know, and that’s horrifying. So even if there’s something like [Barbie] —‚ anything, anything! Do something. 

MARGIT: I would love to hear about what you’re working on now?

LAURIE: Just too many things, you know, I don’t know why I got into this, all of these things… I’m doing an opera that’s opening next year. We just did a big workshop of the thing at this really cool place called EMPAC in Troy, New York. It's a kind of tech center for art and I’ve worked on a lot of different things there. So doing that, and then making a movie about 21st century art and then a book as well. Doing some music tours. So, it’s really stupid. Do you ever just agree to do too many things? 

MARGIT: Oh YES, all the time. I was thinking about this earlier because I’ve been reading and watching a lot about you and you talk a lot about being busy and it's just weird because you’re creating these amazing pieces of art and I feel like you’re allowed to be busy. There’s the whole “busy is a choice” kind of thing, in that we choose how to spend our time, but you’re choosing to spend your time in these wonderful ways that, like, make the world a better place. So…

LAURIE: I’m not trying to do that. I’m not trying to make the world better. Also I’m not proud of being so busy. It’s an idiotic thing: If you’re so busy, be less busy. It is a choice. It really is, you’re right. It is a choice.

MARGIT:  I actually think about Lou Reed, who always talks about the Andy Warhol message on work: “All that matters is work.”

LAURIE: Yeah.

MARGIT: And I find work quite fun. I even enjoy being busy.

LAURIE: Exactly. What else are you gonna do? Go and hang out on the beach all day? I don’t think so. Work on your tan? Mmmm naaah… Warhol really never stopped working or whatever, whatever he was doing. I mean, I think musicians have a better vocabulary for that because they just go — because it's all about play. You know, they don't ever talk about working. Well, I guess you do, you’re working some gigs— but mostly you’re playing places. Right?

[A dog whines]

MARGIT: Oh was that your dog?

LAURIE: Yeah, that's Little Will! [laughs] He’s crying in the back of the car.

MARGIT: What’s your advice for women as we age?

LAURIE: Gosh, everyone is so different, you know. I think, there’s as many ways to get old as there are to be people. What I truly admired about. Lou was his ability to do things a little bit slower, but with a lot of intentionality. It wasn’t this sort of frantic thing, like I got to pack it all in because I’m about to die. He paid attention to his body and he was grateful to his body, too. A lot of people just kinda hate their bodies.  They think I’m not as pretty as I was when I was 18, I’m 40 and I’m an old bag. And they start  blaming themselves and not liking themselves instead of going like, wow, this body carried me around for 40 years and it looks pretty, pretty good. Gratitude goes a long way to feeling better about things you might be disappointed in. Or, like you said, people sometimes don’t feel like they’ve lived up to what they could have become. And that’s very disappointing to them. We’re taught to measure ourselves against other people, and really is against. It’s sort of like that line in Barbie where Ken says, “I'm gonna play guitar at you.”

MARGIT: YES!

LAURIE: That was the best line in the movie.

MARGIT:  That was so good. 

LAURIE: And every single female understood that right away. 

MARGIT: I’m gonna guess Lou never played guitar AT you.

LAURIE: No, he didn’t, he didn’t. That’s an interesting thing, actually. I never had to say, “Oh you’re such a sensitive guy!” Or, “Oh, my God. What a beautiful song.” I mean, I did, I did say that sincerely to him. But I wasn’t being forced to say that. 

[Little Will is crying ]

Oh, I've gotta get out of the car.

MARGIT: Yes, yes. Go, go, go.

LAURIE: So come back to Tai Chi sometime.

MARGIT: I will.

LAURIE: OK! See you there.

This article was originally published October 28, 2013

So let me tell you about the time Lou Reed roughed me up — a little.

It was in 2004 or so.

A colleague, who’d worked in the music biz, happened to mention that he took a regular Tai Chi class and that the rock-and-roll superstar was a regular attendee.

“Excuse me? Repeat that?”

“Yeah, he’s a Tai Chi expert, been taking the class for years. You should try it sometime…”

Um, where do I sign up?

I feigned interest in the martial art of Tai Chi; I’d seen the older Chinese women practicing in the basketball court near my apartment — it looked way too slow for my impatient monkey mind. But the idea of sweating aside one of my rock and roll heroes seemed like either the coolest or strangest thing in the world.

I had to do it.

Lou Reed and his first band, the Velvet Underground, were the soundtrack to my college years. My roommate dragging on a cigarette on a “Sunday Morning”; dancing with 20 sweaty people in a dorm room to “Cool it Down”; spinning records at WPSU, on a “Coney Island Steeplechase.” V.U. was the coolest possible band, ever.

I came to appreciate the grander oeuvre of Lou when a boyfriend compiled a mixtape called “Lou Reed Doesn’t Suck.” He introduced me to the luminous “Satellite of Love,” the urgently funk-filled “Follow the Leader,” and, of course, the unlistenable Metal Machine Music. Sure there were the hits, “Walk on the Wild Side” and “I Love You Suzanne,” but I always preferred the seedier, drug-induced moods from this Brooklyn-born songwriter. And as he got older, his voice got grittier, even ugly at times, and his lyrics a little cornier (“Egg Cream” anyone?), his side projects a little stranger (Metallica?) — but it made this longtime fan love him even more.

It always reminded me what a great town NYC is when the guy who sings “Vicious” is your neighbor.

Living in New York, Lou Reed was omnipresent, part of the fabric of the city. I’d seen him in the audience at the Knitting Factory twice. I’d eaten next to him and his wife Laurie Anderson at E.J.’s diner in the Village (they both ordered the Mexican breakfast special while Laurie scribbled on her placemat). One friend remembers him in the late ’90s doing yoga at her gym in his jeans. I know few people who live here who hadn’t had at least one sighting.

It always reminded me what a great town NYC is when the guy who sings “Vicious” is your neighbor.

On balance I was more star-gawker than fitness seeker, but I played it off, studying up on the martial art of “Chen Taijiquan,” watching the prerequisite VHS tape of teacher Master Ren. It looked a lot more intense than a few slow, graceful movements, and I was a bit nervous.

So on the Tuesday night when I walked into the small, non-descript studio off Astor Place, I was warmly greeted by the cheerful Ren, sporting a “Got Qi” t-shirt. I quickly scanned the room for any sign of glam-rockers, and breathed a sigh of relief — no one. I suddenly realized that maybe I didn’t want to see Lou Reed, just as I was getting the hang of this practice. Maybe I’d like it?

I stood in the back of the small class of 10 or so. My work friend was in the class too, stretching and moving like a well-trained cat in sweatpants. He assured me I’d be fine. “You’ll get it. Patience butterfly.”

I smirked at him. “Hilarious.”

As Ren started the class, we began with a standing pose. I struggled to keep my balance for what felt like 15 minutes and just as we were ending, I peeled one eye open. In walked Lou. Slighter than I’d imagined, with ropey muscles winding down his arms, he sauntered over and stood, right. next. to. me. Hello. Hi. Did I even speak? I think I mumbled something.

I WAS FREAKING OUT.

Outwardly I think I kept my cool, played the New York, “Oh, uh, do I know you?” attitude and tried to keep from falling on my face. Then Ren moved into one of his “Forms” and after showing us the basics, said he wanted the newbies to partner with the old-timers, “So let’s see, Margit you go with Lou, and…”

I didn’t hear anything else, I just slowly turned to face the man next to me. He was wrinkled and ragged and then I heard a familiar gruff Long Island-bred accent…

“What are you doing, alright, no, you’re not standing right at all.”

He seemed almost angry.

He put two hands on my waist and adjusted my stance.

Yes, LOU REED ADJUSTED MY STANCE. What world was I in.

“Alright go ahead do it,” he said, urging me to get started with my “Moves.”

I’d half-learned Ren’s basic “Form 21” from watching the tape, and as I was moving my wrists in, what I thought was a synchronized fashion, Lou grabbed my arms with a rough shake.

“No, not like that, that shit’s wrong.” He moved my arms up, down and then to the side in one brisk movement.

“This is about strength, not limp-wristed shit.”

Lou Reed just said shit to me. Twice.

I think he swore at me maybe five different times.

But he did show me how to do it right, even if he kinda beat me up in the process.

After our two or three minute encounter I told him thank you, mustering as much coolness as I could.

“Sure,” he said, and imparted a bit of advice with a sneer, “Just work.”

He took this one million times more seriously than I did, and I felt shamed. He was trying to help me find my chi, in his own curmudgeonly way.

For the remainder of the class we continued to work, side by side and I’d occasionally see him looking at me askance, like, “What the hell is she doing?”

I can now say Lou Reed was semi-annoyed by me.

I went back to the class twice after that and, while I did gain a new appreciation for the intensity of Tai Chi, I decided it wasn’t really for me. I’d rather be jumping around the room to the V.U. song “Rock and Roll” than finding my zen in a standing pose for 10 minutes. Oh the irony.

It’s always a dicey thing to meet your heroes. For a long time that encounter bugged me; Lou was a bit of a dick. He was also a real, cranky, human being. But what I love about his music isn’t the prettier side of things, not that there was ever anything pretty about Lou. So in fact, our encounter kept things true to form.

*

According to a report from The New York Times, his doctor said he was doing Tai Chi until the very end. “His physician Charles Miller noted… he was doing his Tai Chi exercises within an hour of his death, trying to keep strong and keep fighting.”

Lou was a persevering, strong son-of-a-gun. I saw that first hand.

Now that he’s gone, I’m incredibly sad. His music meant the world to me.

I’m also sad that I won’t have another New York City Lou Reed run-in. But I know I’ll always have his incredible rock and roll, and I’ll always remember that Lou Reed once tried to wrestle me into finding my chi.

I’ll miss you Lou.

On July 5, in the span of 24 hours, I went from being intrigued and almost giddy with the brand new Threads app, the Twitter alternative from Meta, to feeling massive dread and removing it from my home screen. I haven’t yet deleted it from my phone because apparently you can’t delete it without deleting Instagram. Nasty one, Zuckerberg.

The day also marked my fifteenth anniversary with my husband.  Before and after our celebratory dinner, however, I found myself fixated on this new app with the squiggly logo. In the car on the way over to the restaurant I scrolled through hundreds of posts. As we enjoyed a post-dinner stroll in Washington Square Park, I posted a few selfies. Later, I scrolled for a few more hours while watching the season finale of The Bear. I clocked HOURS on Threads. I imagined my husband looking at 15 years with this lady who was relentlessly staring into the eyes of a glowing, metallic paramour.

The following day, a slight shoulder pain that had been bothering me for a  month had become much, much worse. When I saw my physical therapist, who I typically see for a knee issue, she assessed me and said that it was a classic case of “tech neck.” 

“Put down that phone,” she bluntly told me. And then a few minutes later she used my phone to film me as I did  rehabilitative exercises to cure me of said tech neck. This hellish phone — a gift and a curse

Later, when I checked my screen time, I realized I had been averaging around 6 hours per day, but that figure  had escalated to nearly 9 hours now. Out of those hours, I spent a whopping 4 on social media: Twitter, Threads, Instagram, and TikTok. (Yes, I still use Twitter and hardly use Facebook anymore, but big whoop.)  Of course, those 9 hours also encompassed reading the news, using Kindle, and managing emails. But there was also 45 minutes of games a day. As horrific as this sounds I still have not quit Candy Crush —eight years after publishing this.. (I am forever your unreliable narrator.)

When the hell am I working? Or thinking? Or dreaming? Or playing with my beagle? Or loving my husband? Or having a leisurely lunch with a friend? Or freaking BEING PRESENT?

Spoiler alert: I’m not. I mean, I am, but my attention is siphoned into dozens of directions and alerts so my brain is all flighty fairy dust. I wrote about this a few months ago, but since then my phone grip has become even worse. Maybe once I started really thinking about the problem, I sabotaged myself by spending more time with social media? The human brain is so annoying. And then Threads came along and finally seemed like a worthy contender to a disintegrating Twitter. You can see why: It’s fun. It’s not (yet) full of mean, alt-right trolls and assholes, or even anything terribly serious. Which is good and bad, as Ryan Grim writes on his Substack. It’s just a scattershot batch of the friends I already follow on Instagram and not the handles I interact with on Twitter who share indictment updates and snarky memes.

But let’s be real. Do we actually need all this social media? And what if I simply shut it down for a bit? Would I miss the latest news from @MuellerSheWrote or the clever retorts from @MollyJongFast? Would I never know how my friends’ whirlwind European trips are going? (Hey Shelly! Hey Kim!)  If I don’t have a passing understanding of the Colleen Ballinger or Shein scandals how would I ever talk to my nieces? 

They’d roll their eyes and tell me, “It’s not that deep.”

As Jenny Odell writes in her book, How to Do Nothing: Resisting the Attention Economy:

“In such times as these, having recourse to periods of and spaces for “doing nothing” is of utmost importance, because without them we have no way to think, reflect, heal, and sustain ourselves — individually or collectively.”

Or as Johann Hari says in Stolen Focus, “If you spend your time switching a lot, then the evidence suggests you will be slower, you’ll make more mistakes, you’ll be less creative, and you’ll remember less of what you do.”

The truth is I do find myself lost, frayed, a bit depressed by it all. I’m on the other, bleaker side of the dopamine crash. And I’m ready to get out of the mire.

So, I’ve decided to take a real-deal sabbatical from social media for the rest of the summer. I’m inspired in part by my friend Ann Shoket of The List who is also doing this.

I’m curious and excited by how things might change: Will I feel FOMO? Will I be less depressed? Will I get more done? Will I have MORE fun??? 

Here’s the plan, starting now and through September 30: 

My Social Sabbatical Rules:

• Nighty night, phone: Move my phone charger from the bedroom to the living room, which is very far away so I’m not tempted to even check it for hours before sleep, at 4 a.m. and then when I wake up. There’s 3-4 hours right there.

• Delete! Delete Instagram, Twitter, Threads, Facebook, TikTok from my phone. The *only time I will use these is on my computer when I am looking for content for our newsletter, which is kind of de rigueur. But limiting this type of activity to my desktop will be an enormous shift.

• Delete more! Delete Candycrush. I just have to do it. It’s time. I’ll get my dopamine hit another way. Blasting tunes, gettin’ busy, reading a book, walk around the block, coffee with pals — so many other ways.

• Post it: I’ll put up a post that I’ll be going off social media for a time. It feels a little weird because I’m not the world’s most prolific poster — but who cares, this is for me. I’ll tell folks to email me or text instead of sending DMs.

• Filter: Add the OneSec app to my phone so that when temptation strikes the app will delay me and suggest a take a breath instead of opening social media.  

• Read: I’m going to read more in general (I hope) but in particular Jenny Odell’s aforementioned book, How to Do Nothing: Resisting the Attention Economy.

• No Alerts: I will turn off my notifications. This is a big one. If you look at your phone’s screen time you can also see how many times you pick up your phone. On July 6, I picked up my phone 135 times. Yeep.

Sorry Threads, you might be the cool new thing but I’m just going to have to unspool you.

And I’m curious: Have you tried a social media sabbatical? How did it go? Advice??

It’s always around this time, right after the Tony Awards and before my birthday, that I get bit by a Broadway bug. I’m swept up in the impractical desire to see every possible Broadway show I can afford. Of course, theater tickets are astronomically expensive, but I still manage to splurge on a few ("it’s my birthday!) Going to the theater is one of the greatest pleasures of living in New York City. And in a world that feels inches away from becoming an AI hellscape, live theater feels like a fleeting, transformative, IRL experience.

On Tuesday evening, my husband and I saw the magnificent Kimberly Akimbo and I still can’t stop singing the song, “Better.” (My fave version is this one from NPR’s Tiny Desk concerts.) It was the cast’s first show after the Tonys; what a thrill to see the audience on its feet for a full five minutes before the show even started, cheering on Best Actress in a Musical winner Victoria Clark, as she stood impossibly stony-faced before our wild cheers. (Acting!) I can’t recommend this show enough — a heartwarming, tearjerking gem, set in 1999 Bergen County NJ, about a 16-year-old girl with a disease that causes her to age prematurely. It focuses on a lot of the themes we talk about here on TueNight, in particular, seizing life “by the balls” at any age.

The next day, for a Wednesday matinee, I had tickets to see Prima Facie, which I kept calling Prima Fauci, so I had to learn how to pronounce the term: pree-muh fay-shee. It’s a legal term meaning “based on a first impression.” Friends kept urging me to see actor Jodie Comer’s mesmerizing, gut-wrenching performance about sexual assault. I knew this wouldn’t be an easy watch. So I went, even though I was still on a high from Akimbo and a friend who was supposed to go with me canceled (for a good reason).

I sort of relished the idea of seeing a performance by myself, smack dab in the middle of the week, in the middle of the day. Imagining myself sitting in a darkened theater felt luxurious, if a tiny bit lonely.

But then, as I was in line, an older woman (well, older than me!) with a pronounced limp leaned in and asked if I happened to have an extra ticket. She’d been at the show last week when Comer had a Canadian wildfire smoke-induced coughing fit on stage and told the audience she couldn’t continue. (Dramatic!)  If I understood this woman right, Phyllis (we’ll call her Phyllis) took a refund and decided to come back to try her luck.

“I do have a ticket!” I said.

“How much?” she asked.

“Uhhh…”  I’d already mentally spent this money so anything was a bonus. “50 dollars?”

“GREAT!” She handed me a crisp $50 bill. She was ready.

“You’ll be sitting with me,” I smiled.

“Also great!” said Phyllis.

An older couple in front of us were obviously eavesdropping and fully turned around to find out where the seats were. The man gestured at Phyllis. “Good seats!” And kinda looked at me skeptically as if to say, “You do NOT know the value of a Broadway seat.”

“I usually try to get a comfortable seat,” Phyllis leaned in. “And it’s even more important now; I just had a stroke. I fell out of my bed which was worse than the stroke, I really injured myself. But they got me to the hospital within an hour. You know you have to get to the hospital within an hour.”

“Well I think these seats might be pretty roomy — they’re right next to the handicapped section, you know, like where an assistant might sit?” I immediately wished I could yank the words out of my mouth.

“Disabled,” she offered kindly. “We like to say disabled.”

“Oh my God, I am so sorry,” I responded sheepishly. “I don’t even know where that word came from. Like 1975, maybe?” 

She laughed. “It’s ok.”

Our seats were excellent: Orchestra left, just ten rows back. I fumbled in my bag for my requisite gum, Ricola and water because I am constantly coughing in old dusty theaters — or, at least, panicking at the possibility. Phyllis pulled out a half-eaten protein bar and said, “I’m sorry I don’t have anything of sustenance to give you — would you like the rest of my power bar?”

I was so touched by her gesture, like we were two refugees in the last place on earth. I politely declined, unwrapping a Ricola.

As we dined on our pre-theater snacks, we got to know each other a little better. We talked about where we live, what we ddo for work. Phyllis, who is 72, owns her own business and sells diamonds.  (My Prima Facie was not that!)

Phyllis told me how she blocks her calendar every Wednesday for a few hours (“to avoid any raised eyebrows”) in case she wants to run down the street and see a matinee. She usually does rush tickets, or sometimes waits in line like she had that day.. “The ushers know me. And when I used to walk with a cane, they would snag me a great seat,” she said.

That reminded me of going to the United State of Women Summit several years ago. I was recovering from cancer and using a wheelchair, and it was strange to have the seas parted for me, but also to be looked on with pity.

I told Phyllis that I’d had cancer and she wanted to know every detail. “What kind was it? How did you find it?”  I never mind talking about it even though I never have any answers about how to prevent it.

As we chatted Phyllis interjected to ask, what was I doing after the show? For a minute I wondered if Phyllis wanted to grab lunch, keep our new friendship going. I told her I had to go back to work. “Busy day.” She quickly responded that she did too. “Me, too. Busy here, too.”

Perhaps Phyllis didn't actually plan on asking me to lunch. Or maybe she did? I started feeling guilty for shutting down the possibility. Why wouldn’t I just keep our mutual day of hooky going? Get to know someone new? For some reason I just wanted to set a boundary, preserve Phyllis as a memory in this very New York moment. But what if I had said yes? 

We were hot in the throes of discussion when the curtain came up. Phyllis and I were still talking as the crowd jumped to their feet, just as they had for Kimberly Akimbo. But this time the lead actress, Comer, didn’t pause for her Best Actress in a Drama accolades, instead she launched right into her 90-minute solo performance. 

Save for the unwrapping of snacks and slurps of water, Phyllis and I were rapt. I still can’t believe what I watched Comer do — the taxing, athletic job of a solo performance, jumping up and down off a desk, moving her own set around, speaking nearly non-stop at full volume — for a story that left Comer drained and solemn in her final bow.

As the house lights came up, I looked around at the mostly white-haired people in this Wednesday matinee audience and felt my place in the crowd, forgetting for a minute that I, too, am now white-haired.

As we got up and started to exit the theater, Phyllis turned and shook my hand heartily.

“Thank you, you made my week.”

And just as I was saying, “See you at the next matinee!….” Phyllis had sped up the aisle, ahead of the crushing crowd.

I know this is obvious, and we all have these, but I just had a lovely five-minute chat with the barista at my local Blank Street coffee shop in Brooklyn.

Which, as a quick aside, I'm naming the place specifically because it's the first coffee shop I'm kind of devoted to — a tiny, nondescript coffee shop chain, but they let dogs in, make the best oat latte I've ever had, are always super friendly, recently unionized, and it's become part of my early morning dog-walking routine.

Anyway, I've never seen him in there — I usually chat with the female and non-binary baristas who are often by themselves opening shop at 7a.m., and I'm like, "Are you by yourself in here? That's not right." Like an old overprotective grandma. (So Blank Street, get your shit together on that front.)

Back to this guy: super tatted-up, fuzzy wool hat, ripped black tee, and rings in every portal — like a 1985 goth, only he wasn't born until probably 1998. Before he talked to me I realized I unconsciously pegged him as aloof…

Read more

Updated, 6/6/23, to add Meta’s Threads. 🤦‍♀️

On a regular catch-up call to a friend, I asked how she was doing and she replied, "Well you know… Phoebe has that thing and...."

That thing. That thing. Phoebe is her dog but I had no idea what "that thing" was. 

"Uh huh, right," I feigned while putting her on speaker phone and frantically scrolling and tapping my way through her socials. 

Instagram...Facebook... LinkedIn...Twitter... Text. Oh no... Mastodon?

Her puppy post was on three of the six sites. Dear Phoebe had a heart murmur and I had completely missed the post. The horror.

Then, having found the puppy post with its details about doctors, and doe-eyed Phoebe in no mood for her usual tummy rubs, I recovered and quickly added, “Yes, and what has the vet said about her heart murmur?”

Phew.

For a decade there have been a maddening number of places to find messages and posts from friends. An alert pops up on your phone and disappears with a flourish never to be seen again, leaving you wondering where the hell did that message come from? But now. BUT NOW. Since Elon Musk revamped Twitter in his image and everyone is looking for something better, there has been a new platform du jour every jour: The aforementioned Mastodon, counter.social, Tribel, Hive social, Post, Spoutible, this platform Substack and its “Notes” app, and Bluesky, which has a waiting list to get in. Bluesky was started by Twitter founder Jack Dorsey who apparently came out of his monk-like lifestyle to develop it. I guess he had a taste of the quiet life and said, Hell no, get me back to alerts and “dings” and DMs and 15-year-old memes about The Office. So far Bluesky seems to be the winner of them all, with friends texting around, “Are you in yet?" and invites selling for hundreds of dollars on eBay.

Update! And now, as of last night (6/5/23) with friends scurrying around at 2am to join Mark Zuckerberg’s new Threads, we have yet another, even heftier challenger in the post-Twitter face-off. Techies, according to the New York Times, dubbed it the official Twitter killer.

People. Do we really need more social media?

I've already been fielding so many all-day-long group chats on What'sApp, Signal, Mighty Networks and even Reddit that it’s amazing I get any actual work done — work that demands its own slate of communication apps like Slack, email, Google Drive, Dropbox and Trello. We know these tools and apps can create serious burnout — add this to my midlife brain fog and it’s the stuff of nightmares.

On a recent weekend I completely missed a meeting with a friend because my brain is so fractured. (It wasn’t on my calendar. Disaster.) Two hours later I found his message, replete with sadface: “Hey, are you coming? ” It was tucked in a Facebook Messenger post, a place I check maybe once a month. He was happy to reschedule, but I was mortified. 

Such are the real-life consequences to not staying up-to-date on the socials. Several times I’ve missed someone’s new job announcement, a baby being born, or worse, the passing of a friend’s parent. Chiming in with a weeks-late “Congratulations!” or “I’m so sorry” has me feeling like an inconsiderate schlub. 

How did people do this before the internet??? Well, they didn’t have 500 places to check for updates. They had the telephone, the newspaper, the church, the informative grunts from the next cave over. “Unk unk, Susie had her baby, unk.”

Even when we’re not missing the milestones, these multiple networks have created a sense that we’re always missing something. I walk around these days constantly feeling like I’ve forgotten a task — and I reckon this myriad of apps plays a big role.

I can’t help being intrigued and impressed by a few family members who have staunchly refused to embrace social media. I’m not naming names because, of course, they are extremely private. 

That’s the point. They have no interest in the time-consuming, intrusive world of likes, selfies, comments, emojis and they don’t care to add to Big Brother’s personal data collection. They revel in their snubbing: “Who has time to post a selfie?? Good Lord, I’m out here living my life!”

The problem is, I tend to be the one to keep them updated. 

“Did you hear Joe got married?”

“No! When was that??”

Not only am I keeping track for myself, I’m keeping track for those of you who can't be bothered. 

Perhaps the pandemic has worsened this problem and we’re socializing inside our devices more than ever. I was listening to this excellent, slightly terrifying episode of the podcast Speaking of Psychology in which famed MIT professor Dr. Sherry Turkle notes that, ultimately, these networks are making us less social and empathetic.

“There's been a lot on how people say they want to go back to the office, say they want to go to the movies, say they want to get out there and mix it up,” Turkle said. “But actually when you really give them the opportunity, they're like, maybe I'll just stay in and watch Bridgerton; I'm feeling fragile.”

 “The Facebook friendship, the metaverse friendship, the online friendship — yes, it gives you that sense of something,” she continued. “But it isn't the same as sitting across the table from someone and saying, ‘How are you? What's been going on?’” 

It all just makes me want to move to Paris, sit by the Seine and proclaim, “Je Refuse!” Do we really need 19 new social media sites, especially when, as recent research shows, we really need only 5 close, “shoulder to cry on” friends, and, cognitively, we can really maintain only 150 known friends. (Which still seems like a hell of a lot to me.)

We know the antidote to this tech overload, to feeling more connected with our loved ones, is to spend more time together in real life, to remove tech from the bedroom and the dining table, to be present and, as an old boss of mine used to say, PUFF (Pick Up the Fucking Phone).

And look, I know I run this here website, which is essentially a community and network for Gen-X women to have great chats, find each other and share our stories, but in no way do I see this as replacing IRL conversations and meetups. (Which we’ve had many of, and will have again… but have you seen the new Bridgerton spin-off? Queen Charlotte? It’s really good.)

So while I’m not yet giving up on social media entirely, from now on, I’m going to be honest when a friend tells me something I don’t know and just say, “I haven’t been on social media lately, is your pet ok?”

And? If and when my Bluesky invite arrives, I’ll let you know my new handle.

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Once upon a time back in the mid aughts, when technology was really starting to take over our lives, I pitched an idea to write a modern manners column for Real Simple (an old magazine with ink, as well as my workplace) but it never took hold. “No one cares about technology,” I was told. Ahem.

Back then, life moved at the speed of a Palm Pilot; now, it moves so much faster as the interwebs are ever more interwoven in our everyday lives. Social mores have shifted, too. After reading New York Magazine’s now-viral article on etiquette—and the counterpoint, and Buzzfeed’s tech version (which was so illuminating)—we decided we too would weigh in with our multi-decade experience of life online and off. 

We asked ourselves, we asked our friends in midlife media (yup, it’s a thing), and we asked TueNighter regulars about the etiquette they’d recommend to our comrades in (aging) arms. Some of it is etiquette; some is just good advice.

Think of this as a jumping-off point and add your own etiquette ideas in the comments below. Are they hard and fast rules? Well, no. We’ve lived this long, we can basically do and say what we want, right?

Dating, Love & Sex

1. Dating again? Use protection. Sure, you had that hysterectomy, but girl, STDs still exist.

2. You can ask him — or her, or them — on a date. Really. 

3. Don’t talk to your high school flame on Facebook. It’s just not worth it. 

4. Listen during couples therapy and take comfort in the fact that the therapist totally agrees with you.

5. Lube, lube, lube. Lube is your best friend. There is no such thing as too much lube.

— Cindy Gallop, Founder & CEO, MakeLoveNotPorn 

6. Don’t fret if he can’t perform. Let him make it up to you in other ways. 

— Tracey Lynn Lloyd, imtraceylloyd.com

Work & Money

7. If you see something, say something. If someone refers to your 54-year-old CEO friend as “sweetheart,”  call them out on it. Publicly.

8. Don’t call me a “legend” in a job interview and then not give me the courtesy of a second interview.

— Sari Botton, Oldster

9. Bring back the 80’s and take Nancy’s advice: Just Say No. Refuse to do the invisible work you’re not getting credit for anyway.

— Jackie Ghedine, Modern Gen X Woman

10. Ladies, make room for each other at the table. No one is stealing your chair.

— Jackie Ghedine

11. If your friend starts a business, support it. (Except if it's an MLM.) It may not make or break their business but they are absolutely going to notice that you were there for them.

— Rachel Sklar, @RachelSklar

Health & Menopause

12. Menopause? Talk about it. Loudly.

13. Go ahead and pluck that chin hair. It won’t create a beard. (You know you can’t resist. Enjoy the pluck.)

14. Don’t wake up anyone over 40 if they’re napping, unless you’re about to miss a flight or Ed McMahon is at your door with a check.

15. In this, the year of our Beyoncé 2023, we are not comparing ourselves to 20-something bodies with “I wish I could —.” No, you don’t. Your body took you here. Be nice to it and give it a snack and a stretch and whatever clothes feel good.

— Corrbette Pasko, @Corrbette on IG and TT

16. Don’t sweat the hot flash in public. And a hot tip: Athletic wear tops are a fantastic option if you’re experiencing hot flashes; they are designed to wick away sweat. You can still be a hottie even with hot flashes.

— Kendra Lendsey, YoFlyAunty

17. Everything in your midlife body that feels “off” is probably perimenopause. Even the itchy things. Unless you have crabs. Then it’s definitely crabs. 

— Ellie Dvorkin Dunn and Julia Granacki, Circling the Drain Podcast

18. Make self-care whatever you want it to be. Sometimes that means plopping onto the sofa with a big blanket, a pint of Häagen-Dazs, and a “MILF Manor” marathon. 

— Tracey Lynn Lloyd

Technology

19. Paraphrasing Buzzfeed: If you’re using speakerphone, always let your conversation partner  know who else is in the room with you.

20. Counterpointing Buzzfeed: We say go ahead and use a GIF as a text reply. So those people under 30 roll their eyes. WHO CARES. (Obviously, we take this one personally).

21. There’s now an edit function for text messages you’ve already sent on an iPhone. Use it.

22. When sending an email, always start with something positive before you drop any bad news.. 

23. Voicemail is dead. Don’t even think about leaving one.

24. Don’t ask how a friend or relative is doing in the comment section of their posts. It’s awkward. (Someone posts a vacation pic and under it I see, “This is beautiful where is this your uncle and I miss you and we cleaned off the golf cart today, Aunt Pat.”)

— Corrbette Pasko

25. When you take a selfie with a friend let her approve the pic before you post it, even if you look absolutely fabulous! 

— Kathy Cano-Murillo, Crafty Chica

26. Learn the tech. Just find a YouTube video with instructions. There’s an 8-year-old in Australia who knows how to do it. Stop saying you’re incompetent.

— Corrbette Pasko

Social Events & Travel

27. Thank you notes still matter. And it’s okay to type that note if your handwriting is atrocious, like ours is.

28. When your friend cancels brunch at the last minute, reply with “ah, you’re the best”, because you know you didn’t want to go out either.  

— Jennifer Reitman, DAME Magazine

29. Resist the urge to make your [insert aching body part here] issues a party conversation starter.

— Kathy Cano-Murillo

30. Do the thing. Travel to new places, go back to college, live in another country, pivot your career. It’s never too late. You’ll only regret what you didn’t try. 

— Aubrey Hubbell, Co-founder, Hazel

Age Stuff

31. Don’t generation-bash. You were once 20, too. And one day, they will be 50— and will probably be that nurse taking care of you, so….

32. Learn to respect the pronouns. Sure, it’s new for us, but Gen-X, we’re nothing if not adaptable. Respect how someone identifies and they’ll respect you.

33. You can be corny. You get to be corny. You’ve earned it.

34. Don’t give ageist birthday cards unless you want to be an offensive a-hole. It’s not happening yet, but there will be a day when that crude card will elicit an eyebrow raise and a sheesh. 

— Mimi Ison, HeyMiddleAge

35. I know you hate it when some kid calls you “bro”, but you’ll never win that argument, so just accept it.

— DJ Crystal Clear, @DJCrystalClear

36. Never be afraid to tell people your age.

— Stacy London, @StacyLondon

37. Don’t say “you look good for your age.” It sounds like a compliment but adding the qualifier “for your age,” really means that you don’t look bad for an old person. Just say “you look great.” 

— Mimi Ison

Family & Friendship

38. Wait two to three years after kiddos fly the nest before converting their rooms, because sometimes they do come back… and more than once.

39. Show up when your friend is going through a loss, illness or divorce. Whether that means a simple phone call, sending them a meal, or coming over to take out their trash. 

40. There is no such thing as TMI. Talk to your friends about ALL of your bodily weirdness. Chances are if you’re going through it, they are, too. 

— Ellie Dvorkin Dunn and Julia Granacki

41. Call your friends and sing to them on their birthdays! They truly appreciate the effort, and it’s cheaper than buying them dinner!

— DJ Crystal Clear

42. Normalize talking about our beefs to the people we actually have them with, instead of triangulating by bitching to other people instead.

— Sari Botton

Beauty & Fashion

43. Wear what you want to wear. Period. Same goes for hair. But please wear something nice on Zoom calls.

Two words: Simply Incredible

Last night we hosted our final storytelling event of the year — TueNight Presents #1 Daughter: Who Says We’re The Responsible Ones!? Sponsored by AARP — with mini house parties in living rooms across the country and hundreds of viewers joining online.

We cheered, we cried, and, yes, even snort-laughed a few times.

Our storytellers — Ophira Eisenberg, Omisade Burney-Scott, Mimi Ison, Melody Godfred, Kathy Cano-Murillo and Me! — talked about everything from the burdens of responsibility, to ancestral healing, to losing a parent, to putting ourselves first, to, well, becoming a guinea pig doula (promise, it all makes sense somehow).

In case you missed it, never fear - you can watch the replay right here.

Watch the Replay

Get An Inside Look

For a peek at what went on behind-the-scenes, check out storyteller Omisade Burney-Scott’s highlight reel (click to open in Instagram)

See the Storytellers in Action

Witness our amazing storytellers, in the presence of their close friends, share their stories with TueNighters across the country. Hope you enjoy watching them as much as we did!

Watch the replay

Note: Zoom will prompt you to register before watching the replay. If you already registered through Eventbrite, sorry for the extra work! Technology, right? 🙄

Happy Sunday TueNighters,

This holiday season has me a bit bonkers trying to tie up year-end loose ends with work, shop for Christmas presents, and plan for holiday travel — you? The pressures at this time of year are no joke — especially for (wait for the tie-in to our event….) #1 Daughters! Those of us with many, many responsibilities to care for our family — and our chosen family.

Which is why I’m truly looking forward to a laid-back night on Tuesday, (December 13) telling stories with y’all. We #1 Daughters have a lot to talk about - one of which is the need for community. Going back to our very early convos about this event, many of us are separated by longer distances and spread thinner in terms of time, making gathering more important than ever.

Snag your free ticket

Since many of us are super busy, traveling, all over the country, and maybe just a little reluctant to poke our heads out the door, we designed a hybrid event (with a little TueNight flair, natch). Each storyteller is hosting a small group of friends in her home so there will be a live audience when we come together virtually.

We encourage you to bring your own buds to the online sesh: Invite that friend you’ve been missing (but keep forgetting to text) who lives out of state. Reach out to her and plan a remote date night with us. Invite some girlfriends over and stream the show together over a glass of wine.

I’ll be sharing my story alongside the amazing Ophira Eisenberg from NPR’s Ask Me Another, Omisade Burney-Scott from The Black Girls’ Guide to Surviving Menopause, Kathy Cano-Murillo from The Crafty Chica, Melody Godfred - the Self Love Philosopher, and Mimi Ison from HeyMiddleAge.com. Thanks to our sponsor AARP for helping to make this evening possible.

Looking forward to a chill Tuesday Night vibe and hope to see you there!

xo,

Margit

Don’t be tardy to the virtual house party! Join us for TueNight presents: #1 Daughter: Who Says We’re the Responsible Ones?! Sponsored by AARP on Tuesday, Dec. 13 at 8pm ET/ 5pm PT.

Join us!

At 40, and without playing many matches this year, Serena Williams wasn’t expected to make it past the first round of the U.S. Open. Her intent was to retire after this tournament, play her best and say goodnight — on her own terms.

Watching her play Danka Kovinić last Monday night, I saw a familiar fire and spirit come charging back, as she defeated Kovinić in straight sets. Something told me this champion wasn’t nearly done. You could see it in her inimitable game face — eyes narrowed and focused, shoulders squared.

And so, taking a risk,  I snagged tickets for Friday — not knowing whether Serena would make it past a Wednesday night matchup with the No. 2 seed, Anett Kontaveit, but knowing if I waited until after Serena won, the tickets for Friday night would be insanely expensive. I looked my husband in the eye and said with confidence, “If I get these tickets, she will win.” And guess what?! Call it a 55-year-old’s intuition.

Watching her scrap to a win against Kontaveit, my husband and I practically rolled around on the floor with glee. “We’re going to see SERENA!” It was a rare chance to see a legend, the greatest tennis player of all time (GOAT!), and well, a grown-ass woman showing us all how it’s done.

Our newsletter editor Margaret (who watched the game at a sports bar in Washington, DC) saw my Instagram posts and my TikTok (see below) and started texting me a barrage of questions. “How did you get tickets?” “What are you wearing?” Some of them made me giggle. So I thought I’d share them with you, FAQ style.

How did you manage to get tickets?

StubHub had (has!) tons of them. They aren’t cheap but I did a bunch of research on what would be a good seat (I always check out this site, whether I’m going to a sporting event, concert or Broadway, to see what the view might look like) found two in the loge section, which is the middle tier of Ashe, and bit the bullet. Totally worth it.

Had you ever been to the U.S. Open before, and if yes, was it different this time, and why?

Yes! I’ve been a handful of times. And, in fact this is my second time seeing Serena there; the first time was 11 years ago in 2011 when she beat Ana Ivanovic in the quarterfinals. The Open is one of the greatest things you can do in NYC. Just taking the 7 train out to Flushing in Queens is fun; the train is mostly above ground so it’s a bit of sightseeing in and of itself. Typically I buy a day pass or a ticket to one of the stadiums and just wander around the outer courts to see amazing players up close and then watch a star-studded game in Louis Armstrong or Arthur Ashe. (This guy has great tips.)

What did you wear?

Some people get super fancy like this one older gent sitting across from me in a canary-yellow suit. I’m all about comfort — I wore these green balloon-y cargo pants, a white tee, black sneaks and a mask!

Could you see everything with bare eyes or did you need binoculars or the Jumbotron?

The loge section had great sight lines — I could see everything. I did use my camera to zoom in on courtside celebs shown on the Jumbotron, such as Spike Lee, Billie Jean King, and Ciara. (It was my second time seeing Ciara, Margaret! The first with you! She’s stalking me.)  [Last year the TueNight Crew went out for pizza in Manhattan and we spotted Ciara with her husband and bodyguards — Ed.]

Was it hot?

Nope. It was a breezy 68-70 degrees.

What was the food like?

Surprisingly good — but the lines were INSANE. There was the usual stadium fare —burgers, hot dogs and pizza — but also poke bowls and Korean rice bowls. Also, I happened to try the Open’s sweet-tart tasting drink the Honey Deuce which has vodka and melon balls. A very drunk couple sitting in front of us were getting up to get their fourth round and brought back one extra so they gave it to me. 🥰

Did you see any famous people, like, not on the Jumbotron?

Spike Lee was several rows below me. I watched as he moved to the front of his section, took out his iPhone and filmed Serena’s final shots. It was funny to watch this world-famous director getting the camera shot like the rest of us.

What was the overall vibe of the crowd when it looked like Serena wasn’t going to win?

I think we all knew it was inevitable. We watched her get really, really exhausted. People were cheering every shot. Some people were cheering when her opponent Ajla Tomljanovic faulted, which is lame and rude. But as the game hit its third set, we were on our feet cheering for nearly every point.

Did you cry?

😭😭😭

What kind of merch were they selling?

The usual U.S. Open-branded tennis everything. I couldn’t find any official Serena-focused merch; there were guys in the crowd outside the grounds hawking some pretty tacky tees but I didn’t get one. The only thing we kept was the commemorative glass from the honey deuce drink.

Were people as stressed out in the stadium as I was watching the game on TV?

YES. Holy shit yes. The woman next to me had her head buried in her lap. 

Was anyone rooting for Serena’s opponent?

Probably but I couldn’t hear them. Certainly no one in our section!

When you were shouting “Serena!!” like everyone else, did you feel at all guilty because it might have made her opponent feel bad?

A little. I mean, the roar of the crowd was deafening for Serena. It was a testament, too, to Tomljanovic, that when she won, she didn’t jump up and down but sat down and let Serena have her final moment. 

Was the referee losing her mind?

The referee had a really funny way of saying deuce. She said, “Nnnnnnnndeuce,” and everyone around us kept repeating it everytime she said it. She also had to quiet the crowd down a lot with just “Please.” More like “Pleece….Pleece.” Which, of course, I now say to my husband all the time. “Pleece.” But you have to give it to that referee and our unruly crowd. She did her damn best to keep us in line.

Was anyone at the game utterly sh*tfaced the way people get at, say, football games?

Oh yes, the aforementioned set of couples in front of us. And they were shrieking for Serena and then when they (very kindly) gave me their extra drink the guy kinda yelled at me “Now make surrrrre to share that….with yer hubby…” 

What was actually happening when the rest of us were watching commercials?

Mostly music, dancing and mugging for the Jumbotron camera. In some cases if they caught you on camera you could “upgrade your seat.” 

Could you even get a signal on your phone in a crowd of that many people?

Yup, no problem.

What was the subway ride home like?

As fun as the subway ride to the game was, the ride home was an absolute shitshow. The second game (Danill Medvedev v Yibing Wu) started after Serena’s match ended, around 10pm. We watched a few minutes of it and then roamed around the grounds, did some shopping, had a drink, and then headed to the subway around midnight with the throngs of people. My feet are still not in perfect shape, and my dogs were TIRED. I was practically limping over the wooded walkway to the Mets-Willets Point station. Once we got there the police had us barricaded back until a previous group left; there wasn’t enough room on the platform. And then of course we had to change subway trains three times. We didn’t get home until 2am.

Did the U.S. Open make you want to play tennis?

I’d love to. I used to play a little in high school, college and in my 20s. My torn meniscus, onetime tennis elbow and healing feet keep me from making it a reality. BUT maybe someday. 

In your list of Top New York Experiences, where would this match rank?

Oof that’s hard. It’s in the top 10 for sure.

If you could say one thing to Serena Williams, what would it be?

Thank you — you’re a badass and an inspiration. 

@margitdetweilerJoin us as we take the 7 train to see the #GOAT Serena Williams play her (hopefully not!) final match ever! #serenawilliams #usta #tennis #williamssisters #simplythebest #nyc #queens @Serenawilliams

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Welp, it finally got me. After two and a half years of avoiding it, my husband and I finally succumbed to COVID. We’re very late to the hell party; it feels almost silly to write about it, but here we are.

We figure we were exposed before we left Brooklyn to head to a wedding in Atlanta; it needed time to incubate and we got it five days after arriving. Maybe we got it on the plane. Maybe the wedding. Who knows. One thing’s for sure: The maskless are plentiful these days. 

Fortunately, before we fell ill, we had a fantastic weekend celebrating family and true love and indulging in breakfasts at the Flying Biscuit (as delicious as it sounds). The day before diagnosis my husband was woozy and then passed out asleep in a chair, as a few nieces and cousins huddled on the bed, pre-departure, watching Pitch Perfect. The very next morning, I was standing in the hotel’s empty bar, hunting down cups of coffee and a take-out bagel, prepping to head to the airport, when my husband called me on the phone from the room: “I’m positive.” A day later, so was I. We felt absolutely horrible — yes, there was the cough, sore throat, the absolutely skull-pounding headache, but the overall feeling of *ill* was what got me the most. 

I got my hands on some Paxlovid, and we signed up for another week at our hotel to quarantine. Ugh. Quarantine stays should be subsidized by the government somehow, reimbursed. I don’t know how traveling folks who don’t have a little room on their credit card — or a credit card at all — could possibly manage. I suppose they don’t.

The Paxlovid made me feel like I was propped up on stilts — the disease was somewhere, still hanging around waiting to topple me — but it knocked out the overwhelming body aches and 102-degree fever. Still, I needed a good distraction to get through the week. And I found one.

Hacking and bleary-eyed, I found solace in the summertime guilty pleasure that is Love Island. To be clear, my binge of choice is the UK version, not the slightly more puritanical and dopey US version (although this year they’ve allowed salty language. Whatevs.). It’s like a National Geographic expedition into multiple British accents and towns (Swansea! Liverpool! Thirsk?) And who could resist the twentysomething British love lingo (“She has good chat,” “Crack on,” “I need to get grafting”) peppered with terms that should have been retired a century ago (“Nice bird you’ve got there.”) On the show, couples compete to find love and win £50,000 while tempted by incoming “bombshells'' and other tantalizing newcomers.

So as our dreary, freezingly air-conditioned hotel room quickly filled up with styrofoam containers and bags of trash  — we weren’t allowed to put anything outside the hotel door for fear of contamination — I slipped into a blur of Barbie-pink, yellow and aquamarine sets, neon signs that read “Thirsty,” and “Eat, Sleep, Crack on, Repeat” while ripped, tan bodies spilled over each other on an outdoor couch in Mallorca. My husband, who found solace in The Colosseum, a History Channel documentary about the rise and fall of the Roman empire, was only allowed one eyeroll in my direction, daily. Because really, weren’t we were more or less watching the same content, albeit 2,000 years apart?

Now, I’m no Love Island newbie: I’ve been watching since Hulu added the show to its library, and a few summers ago I went back and gobbled up every season since the 2015 debut. For the record, I have also been reading Octavia Butler’s Kindred this summer, so don’t think I’m completely devoid of taste, but I’ll do my best to defend this silly show. The main appeal: People actually fall in love and it’s wild to watch in real time. Like an arranged marriage with ridiculously attractive people. More than a handful have continued to ongoing partnerships, marriages, families and so forth. Whether you watch the show or not, you may hear the names Ekin Su and Davide (aka the self-named “Turkish Delight” and the “Italian Stallion”), the stand-out couple this season. A stupidly gorgeous duo whose relationship toggles from immediate spark to fiery argument and back and forth. The show’s finale was last night in the UK, but you can catch up on Hulu (and avoid the spoilers on Twitter).

Sure, many have deemed LI a “moral disgrace,” or “brain rot,” with writer after writer pretending they don’t love it anyway, but this 55-year-old has given in to the ridiculous fantasy/excellent distraction… and, yes, I am positive my love for the show has nothing to do with the fact that I was dosing Dayquil.

A Palate-Cleansing Playlist:

1. The Brandi Carlile Tour: If you can catch it you must. She played with Joni Mitchell (😮) earlier in the tour; I’m seeing her with Allison Russell and Yola.

2. Into the Woods has been extended on Broadway! Theater Geeks Unite.

3. The Bear: Everyone talks about how good this family restaurant drama is. After one episode, I’m hooked. 

4. Easy Beauty by Chloe Cooper Jones. TueNighter Kate Hanley recommended this book on GoodReads, “I love how this memoir focuses in on one particular year (or thereabouts) of the author’s life and weaves in earlier stories as needed to provide context — it’s not your typical time-ordered memoir. It’s more about one particular year of awakening.”

5. Beyoncé’s Renaissance. Because Beyoncé. Maura Johnston calls it “a master class in the evolution of dance music.”

Still a COVID or Love Island virgin? Share below:

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The Sunday after Roe was struck down, I met up with my friend Sulyn for dinner in Brooklyn. She arrived sweaty and amped up from the Pride parade here in NYC — all tank top, rainbow bandana, and brightly colored shades. I hadn’t seen Sulyn since she moved to Colorado four years ago and she practically bounced into my arms. We hugged for a long time and then we shook our heads in disbelief and sadness. 

“20 years ago I was part of a human chain that blocked off the Holland Tunnel to protest the gag rule. We got arrested, but it did we feel like we made a difference…. It wasn’t for shit.”

“No no, it was, it was,” I told her. “ You made a difference.” I tried to console her, to console us. But even I wasn’t sure.

I’ve been struck by this feeling of great defeat; we’d spent nearly our entire lifetime under the protections of Roe and the fear that it would be removed. And now it’s gone. I recalled a string of events: My mother rushing me to get birth control at 17 when I started dating, “um Mom I’m not even having sex yet?”; in a college political science class, doing a mock debate with a classmate where we had to argue the side of demonic anti-feminist/ anti-abortionist ​​Phyllis Schlafly; hosting an all-female rock band concert I co-organized in Philly in 1992 during the Planned Parenthood v Casey trial called Strong Women in Music, in part to celebrate women in rock but also to point out how tenuous our abortion rights were. I actually found the speech I gave in a box the other day (have I mentioned I save everything?). Uncovering it felt bittersweet and oddly prescient. I was a bundle of 25-year-old rage:

”We must demand the whole choice without some slimeball shoving a cross in our faces, calling us sinners and blocking our legal path to the clinics. We must demand the whole choice without parental consent, gag rules and 24-hour waiting periods. We must demand the whole choice without some asshole on the street telling us he wants to fuck our brains out. We must demand the whole choice without someone telling us we can’t play lead guitar. We deserve the whole choice.”

And I ended it with, of course, “Rock on.”

Thirty years later, I look at that young woman with awe and a bit of sadness. I feel like I let her down. Yet, I still have a glimmer of hope for what’s next in our fight for reproductive rights. A tiny, shard of a glimmer.

I was curious what other TueNighters were thinking about this span of time — the then and now of a life under Roe. So I asked. Here are their reflections, which all feel so familiar. I’m so fascinated by how many of our mothers made sure we were protected, no matter what.

I’ll start with my friend Sulyn:

Abortion Defender

Back in college in the 80s, I would drive to the outskirts of Detroit to be an abortion clinic defender. The pro-lifers would be there too — always with their very graphic posters. They would shout in our faces that we were murderers. At my very core, I knew every woman should have the right to choose regardless of sexuality, economic class, or race. I became very active in Act UP, Queer Nation, Lesbian Avengers and other groups fighting for equal rights and justice.

In 1991, the Lesbian Avengers planned a radical action. We blocked an entry to the Holland Tunnel by chaining ourselves together in protest of the gag rule implemented by the Reagan administration. We were all arrested and charged with a felony for blocking state property. I look back at the activist movements of the 1990s with pride. As citizens, we took action. We stood up for what we believed. In contrast, now it seems the general population has gotten so comfortable in the last 20 years, with the passage of gay marriage and the affordable healthcare act, that people have lost the will to fight. We can only hope those tides of apathy will turn.

— Sulyn Silbar

Finding the Light

In 1987, I was seventeen. I got a diaphragm on my own from Planned Parenthood which allowed me to have sex and not get pregnant. That year, state legislatures were proposing restrictions on young women seeking abortions, requiring them to notify their parents. I was enraged by this manipulation of legal protections guaranteed by Roe. I was raised by feminists who instilled in me a deep appreciation of women’s rights. As a teenager, I learned about the history of women being subjugated, limited in their access to education or financial independence, and about the need for back-alley abortions. But to me, those times were long-ago history. 

In 1992, I marched in DC with friends from college, protesting what was the start of a 30-year effort to overturn Roe. In 2006, I chose to have a baby on my own, the most important choice of my life, and one I cannot imagine not having the ability to make. My daughter is 14 now, and I’m terrified that her reproductive rights are more limited than mine.  My solace lies in the rage I see in young people, in their awareness of patriarchy and misogyny. We’ve grown a generation under Roe who respect women, and somewhere in that, I find light.

— Jenny Laden

Having the Choice

I was “radicalized” at age 17. I’d left my parents’ evangelical church, had premarital sex, and won my high school debate arguing the merits of abortion. There was no turning back. My freshman year of college, three of my friends had an abortion. It would be another 17 years before I faced the actual possibility of having my own abortion. When I became pregnant on my 35th birthday, I was automatically thrust into the AMA category of advanced maternal age, where doctors scare you at every turn as to what could happen to your baby. So at 17 weeks along, I was convinced into having an amniocentesis to find out if my fetus was healthy. I was going through this pregnancy alone, and knew that as a single mother, there would be no way I would be equipped to raise a child with special needs. I knew what I would have to do, should the test come back positive for genetic abnormalities. Those two weeks were painstaking, but I was always reassured because this was my CHOICE. 

Fortunately, I gave birth to a healthy child. Fast forward 17 more years, my child is now of childbearing age, and I have a bonus daughter who is away at college. To think that they no longer have the same rights that I have had my entire life makes my stomach ache to the point of nausea. I’ve known since the ‘90s that Roe was always on the chopping block. So to see it actually gutted guts me to my core.

— Letisha Marrero

Planning For It

1989. You bet I had an abortion fund. I’m a planner. I was a 17-year-old Catholic school girl and the first girl in the family to head to college. I’d been working after school as a cashier at a grocery store and saved $5/week for a year. I found the clinics in the yellow pages, mapped out the drive, had a friend for the ride (and I would do the same for her) and even had my excuse/lie set as cover. My Latin mother started hissing in my ear: “Don’t get pregnant!” as early as possible. She needn’t have worried. The example she’d set of birthing six kids, while unhappy and almost dying with the last one was enough for me. People throw out all kinds of traumatic (and important) scenarios re: abortion but some are as simple as: Not now. 

I never needed to use that fund but decades later, it’s been a mission to make sure others have the ability and means to do so. Your body is yours and yours alone. We are not free and equal unless we have AGENCY and CHOICE. 

— Carmen Rita Wong

Becoming My Own Mother

For me, the right to end a pregnancy was fundamental to self-determination. My mom died before I turned twelve. My dad impressed upon me that to mess with boys and get pregnant would ruin my life. I believed him — my only parent — though I knew that even if that happened (“but I hate boys!”), a pregnancy could be stopped. It was 1977; I had rights.

By 16, adrift without my mom, I felt strangely free. Nobody pressed me to be traditional, to babysit, to dream of my wedding, to long for an adorable baby. The universe said, “Do as you like; please yourself.” Sex, marriage, and children, I realized, were choices. Not requirements. 

I first had sex with a man at age 23, and his condom broke. I was lucky and didn’t conceive. I got a diaphragm, then the Pill, but I kept money in reserve in case I ever needed an abortion. I knew I’d never devote my one uncertain lifetime to child-raising. I needed a peaceful life. I would decompress, understand my life, and heal from early loss.  No one should have to gamble her self-determination in a sexual relationship.

— Fran Mason

Future Generations Need Us

Federal dollars paid for my abortion at 17 in 1981. Now, a 17- year-old might face parental consent laws, waiting periods, graphic untruths, and no access to health care to end a pregnancy. This is so astonishing, even though I have been a dedicated activist since my college years. With my reproductive years behind me, I find myself hoping that older (Boomers/Gen-X) people make tons of room to lift up younger organizers, whose bodies will bear the brunt of these restrictive, terrifying years ahead.

— Sarah Buttenwieser

Accessing Our Power

In 1992, when Casey was being argued at the Supreme Court, I was 20, just getting started in life, and I remember feeling like the case was about control over my body. This time is different. This time, it’s about control over my power — the power of all women. Think of all the dreams that will be derailed when young women without resources give birth to unplanned babies. Think of all the women who will be sidelined from job opportunities or overlooked for promotions because they don’t have control over when they become mothers. Think of all the ways this gives permission to people to see women as inconvenient, insignificant, and incapable of making any decision of weight if they can’t be trusted to make one about their own health.

Let’s stop talking about this decision about whether women have access to a medical procedure, and let’s start talking about it as whether we have access to our personal power — and power in the world.

— Ann Shoket

Our Mothers Knew

Growing up as the daughter of a proud feminist mom and dad, there was always a copy of Ms. magazine on our living room coffee table. So when Roe was passed into law in 1973 (I was nine years old at the time) it didn’t faze me. However, in 1982, before I headed off to college, my mom wouldn’t let me go until I was properly fitted for a diaphragm by my OB/GYN. I wasn’t sexually active, but to paraphrase my mom’s words, “I don’t want you getting pregnant” and having to deal with all the challenges associated with it. She grew up in “before times” and was clearly operating in a world (in her mind) that no longer existed — at least for the foreseeable future.

— Susan McPherson

To fund choice, go to Abortionfunds.org.

Share your own Gen-X reflections on a life under Roe in the comments

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Happy first day of summer and Happy Birthday to Me! Yup, 55, squarely in the middle of this decade. On this birthday I thought I’d share a few things I’ve coveted for the season — and mostly bought for myself already. ;-) Because when you’re 55, you treat yourself.

1. A Pair of Lawn Chairs

Look. I love a good outdoor concert, but I pretty much avoid them because I’m not sitting on the ground and trying to get back up with these knees. So after doing a bit of internet scouring, I bought a set of these Helinox lawn chairs. They are expensive but will hold my ass and then some. PLUS they are light as a feather and roll up into a nice carryable pouch. Truly never thought I’d be shopping for a lawn chair but here we are (even if the version of the Helinox chair I bought is called “Sunset” — it’s a little too apropos.) See you on the lawn.

Helinox Sunset Chair, $165, REI

2. The “Jamones” Tee

I mean… Did another t-shirt ever scream Gen-X summer? I just love the bright, bold colors in this illustration by artist Sergio Mora. I found this tee at the Mercado Little Spain in New York City and had to have it. 

Jamones Tee, $28, ThinkFoodGroup

3. Neutrogena Hydro Boost Hydrating Tint

I’m not one for a lot of makeup at any time, especially foundation, but lately I’ve been feeling like my 55-year-old skin could use a little smoothing and finessing. Liz, our social media manager, recommended this light, moisturizing tint from Neutrogena. It has a bit of hyaluronic acid and just enough coverage to make me a little more polished on hot days.

Neutrogena Hydro Boost Hydrating Tint, $12.79, Target

4. Colorful Wide-Leg Pants

These pants fit so well that I got a second pair. They’re just tailored enough, just loose enough, and quite lightweight. I wear jeans all the time so this is a nice change plus they come in plus sizes, bright colors, and patterns. Just a great fitting pair of pants that can be dressed up or down.

Maeve The Colette Cropped Wide-Leg Pants, $120, Anthropologie

5. An Insulated Water Bottle

I’ve been on the hunt for a great, insulated water bottle with a straw that I can take everywhere AND is dishwasher safe. To the rescue: Margaret, our newsletter editor, recommends this brand which she says, “keeps water cold for a very long time.” And so many cute colors.

Corkcicle Classic Sport Canteen, $39.95, Corkcicle

6. Comfy “Green” Clogs

I’ve been clog-obsessed since I was a teen in the 80s and these particular Dansko “Kane” clogs are a fantastic updated version — they’re constructed from over 50% “I'm green™ Biobased EVA” which is derived from the sugarcane plant, a renewable resource that helps to reduce CO2 emissions. I bought these super comfy clogs in yellow, and they were the perfect post-surgery shoe. I loved them so much I bought another pair in blue for my “inside” shoes.

Dansko Kane clogs, $79.95, Zappos

7. Lens Wipes

Simple, but boy are these things life-changing. I’m always bumming a lens wipe from someone because my glasses are perennially dirty and foggy. Especially when you’re a sweaty, summer mess. I might just splurge on a big box of these, as recommended by TueNighter Jen Roventine, and shove a bunch in my purse.

Care Touch Lenswipes for Eyeglasses, $12.95, Amazon

What are you shopping for this summer? Let us know in the comments!

Last weekend, 14 people were shot, and three killed, on Philadelphia’s South Street, once a legendary destination for cool. Yet another example of horrific gun violence, but this time on a street that held so much for me, as a Philadelphia kid.

It’s rare in life to have a moment where the younger you and the adult you come head to head, but here it was — nostalgia and perspective and horror all at once. In my memories, South Street is all psychedelic colors, punk rock, new age shops, obscure films and everything weird in one cruise-able strip. For this girl from the edges of suburban Philly, it represented everything that was possible. “The hippest street in town” (so goes the 1963 song about South Street by the Orlons), yes, but also a brave new world. A place to stretch your creative boundaries. A place to explore what grown-up life could look like.

Now, as in so many other cities in America, it’s a site with cordoned off police tape and multiple lives lost forever.

The South Street area was never exactly safe. Once, when I was home from college, I was mugged on Bainbridge, the street right off South. Five kids jumped my boyfriend and me; they threw him up against a car and rummaged through his back pockets while I played tug of war with a brand new leather tote I’d saved up for with summer job money. I only had 50 cents and my Walkman in that purse. I’ll never forget the cops driving us around to look for our assailants and then throwing several random Black kids up against the wall roughly, the scene lit by headlights. “That’s not them!” I want to think I yelled, but probably muttered. I was shocked by what the police did. Life lesson #63.

Back then, South Street was a source of cultural immersion for young, open minds. Walking up and down South Street was the real activity — you’d go to the end, Headhouse Square, and return back up to around 10th street. We’d catch a movie at the TLA (then called Theater of the Living Arts) — mostly obscure or foreign — or we’d shout along with the Rocky Horror Picture Show. As a 17-year-old I was transfixed by the film Christiane F. which played at the TLA — a German movie about a teen drug addict obsessed with David Bowie (like me… not the drug addict part) and an incredible Bowie soundtrack. We’d always check out Skinz or Zipperhead, the Day-Glo fabulous punk shops where the salespeople (including, at one time, our own TueNighter Crystal Durant!) had green mohawks and nose rings and nonchalantly wore bondage gear. We’d grab a greasily delicious slice at Lorenzo’s and giggle at the suited Krass Brothers “store of the stars” guy who had his own crass TV commercials.

In my 20s, I rented movies from the TLA video shop, shopped at Tower Records and the Record Exchange, and wandered the cat-filled Book Trader. I saw probably 100 concerts at the TLA and JC Dobbs (Nirvana!). My roommates and I lived in various apartments in nearby Bella Vista, never far off South Street. We spent nights eating Spanish fries at Copa, gyros at South Street Souvlaki or drinking at O’Neals Pub, Manny Browns, and later Tattooed Mom. We saw The Roots busking in front of Tower, watched Josh Wink and King Britt spin at a club whose name I can’t remember at all. So goes the memory. 

My roommate liked a bartender at O’Neals, so we’d often hang out there. We were so broke. Always. We realized that we could actually flatten out toilet paper and slide it through the change machine to get quarters for the jukebox. Last weekend, the scene of O’Neals bartenders balling up wet napkins to help injured and bloodied people on the street was heartbreaking, but hopeful. Time was looping back on itself. I remembered that kid, laughing at her roommate making googly eyes at a bartender as we played some Pixies song, and then here in 2022 was a bartender pouring care into this horrible moment.

In the late ’90s, South Street inevitably gentrified, adding chain store after chain store: Tower became the Gap, a Whole Foods emerged, a Starbucks staked ground. I left for NYC in 2001 and haven’t had a good read on South Street in years. At one point, maybe I was a bit of an expert on all that, but now I get my Philly updates from places like Billy Penn, Philebrity, this perfect tweet from Tattooed Mom, or my friend Shelly who says, “We were just at Bob and Barbra’s for dinner. It’s so good! Outdoor bars and nice restaurants. Not crummy like the old days….”

Funny, I don’t remember it as crummy. But… we also liked crummy back then. 

Crummy was cool. Crummy was character. It was testing your limits, getting your ears pierced at a junky jewelry shop, sitting on the sidewalk as the stench of cheesesteaks breezed by. Feeling a little scared by the crowds, by the weird old guy asking for your number.

Now, the depth of what we fear has changed — and it’s so much more than just dropping our naivete. We’re all afraid these days, and not in a way that feels like brave rebellion but in a way that feels existential and deeply horrific, like, what on earth is going on. 

In my middle-aged mind, South Street remains fixed in time as a provocative playground, full of possibilities — and I wish, I wish, that’s where I could leave it. 

The reality is, on June 5, three people lost their lives. While this street may hold important memories, none of this is to minimize these tragic deaths. We offer so much peace and comfort to their families and loved ones.

Donate:

Moms Demand Action

Violence Policy Center

And VOTE.

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I’ve lived in New York City for 21 years, and, for the first time ever, I had an actual rat in my apartment.

I know most of you will stop reading right here and now, but this could happen to you too, so consider this a cautionary tale. We live with a reported two million rats in NYC; typica…

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Some of you may have read this on TueNight.com in December, but we’re reposting this here to share a few podiatric updates…

In our 20s, 30s and even 40s, we go to the doctor and they say, “At some point you might want to get that fixed.”

Apparently, our 50s are that “some point.” You’re not a senior citizen and the doctors still tell you things like “Well it’s good you’re doing this while you’re young…”

Eyes flutter: “Go on…”

Meet bunion. This thing on my foot. She’s been my little sidekick for a good 20 years: a pointy, red knob that juts out from my big toe joint alongside her curvy neighbor, hammertoe, a claw-like second toe.

Bunion. Hammertoe. 

Two of the least-pleasant sounding words in the English language, connoting decrepitude and busted dogs. That is, until you hear the more scientific word for bunion, “Halgus Vallux,” which sounds like you threw up in your mouth.

Really, the names alone make you want to rid them from your body.

Both were formed through a mix of genetics (mom has them), pointy fashionable shoes, a lifetime of city walking and, well, they just happened. In recent years, I’d been able to keep pain at bay by never ever wearing anything with a heel (if I did it would send me into a month of excruciating pain and a slate of physical therapy). My late uncle, an orthopedic surgeon, always told me to avoid surgery as much as possible, he said unless it hurts, don’t fix it: I could manage through shoe choice and stretching. Which I did, for a while.

Until this summer.

We’ve been trying to get my parents to use assistive walking devices to much grimacing; here I lunged at that thing like it was an old friend.

My niece was visiting NYC by herself for the first time and I wanted to take her everywhere. We covered massive Brooklyn territory, hoofing it to museums and restaurants and ice cream shops and my feet wanted to fall off, even wearing my bunion-knee saving sneaker of choice: Asics Gel 3000. I was noticeably limping. “Aunt Margit? Are you ok?”

It was time.

First, I made an appointment with a folksy podiatrist in Brooklyn who had a reputation as the local go-to for foot issues. Rolling my foot back and forth in her gloved hand while looking at an x-ray, she immediately assessed that, yup, I needed surgery. She suggested a relatively new surgery called lapiplasty which she could do at a nearby hospital, though she wasn’t affiliated there but they let her come in on off days. (Weird.) I’d be off my feet for months and couldn’t be weight-bearing. She handed me a lapiplasty pamphlet and said, I could do this next week if I wanted.

Part of me was oddly thrilled by acknowledgement that I had something that needed to be — and could be — fixed. But gah! Too soon! A I had some reservations. I always like to get a second opinion — that of a surgeon or M.D. versus a DPM. Also, to be real, I was a little put off by the fact that this doc took only cash and didn’t know how to share X-rays with another doctor for a second opinion. And she only took cash. Red Flag, as the kids say.

Amazingly, Doctor #2, an orthopedic surgeon at a top orthopedic hospital, wasn’t too keen on the invasive surgery the podiatrist had suggested. She noted the arthritis in my toe and how the hammertoe had curled around the fat pad on my foot and that these required a more nuanced, minimally invasive approach for both toes, where I’d have tiny incisions cut and the bones realigned with screws. “I’ll be honest with you, it might fix it temporarily and we’ll need to do more work in five years…or it could do the trick,” she said. While I really don’t want to anticipate more surgery, I appreciated her truthful assessment. The recovery time would be six weeks, as opposed to the four months the podiatrist suggested. 

Tell someone you’re going to have bunion surgery and for every “Oh, my friend did that, changed her life,” two more people will tell you a horror story

By the way, tell someone you’re going to have bunion surgery and for every “Oh, my friend did that, changed her life,” two more people will tell you a horror story: It didn’t work, the bunion came back, the recovery got botched. In fact, during our last storytelling event someone told me they were suing their doctor because they wrecked her foot. “ Where are you having your surgery?“ “Hospital for Special Surgery?” “Oh, you’ll be fine.” 

I scheduled bunion surgery (with the surgeon, not the podiatrist) two weeks before Thanksgiving which meant I wouldn’t be able to attend any festivities or travel during the pandemic. I’d just have to Netflix and recover. Gee darn. My biggest concern was how I would return from surgery, way uptown in Manhattan, in an Uber, and then, somehow, get up my steep two flights of stairs to my apartment — all after I’d been given a nerve block anesthetic behind my knee, which meant I couldn’t put weight on my foot for 24-48 hours. Would I hop up the stairs? How do people do this in New York City?? Anticipating this, and lucky enough to be able to afford this, I got an accessible hotel room for a few days near the hospital so I could be wheeled into a first-floor level and let the nerve block wear off before even attempting those stairs. Also, a friend had recommended Mobilegs, ergonomic crutches that create shock absorption and not so much underarm pain. That said, trying them before surgery, I could walk only about four steps on one leg with them. How the hell would this all work? I was trying to be as prepared as possible, but this was one giant unknown. “You’ve been through worse,” said several people, referencing my previous bout with cancer. True, I guess, but I’d never had someone put metal stuff in my foot? (Cancer does not make you some sort of superhero, people.)

A few hours before my scheduled surgery, a physical therapist showed me how to walk with crutches and go upstairs: “up with the good [foot], down with the bad.” And then he handed me a walker and said, “you should just use this.” “Oooo” I nearly squealed. Much easier. We’ve been trying to get my parents to use assistive walking devices to much grimacing; here I lunged at that thing like it was an old friend.

My surgery, scheduled for 3pm, was three hours late and now slated for 6pm —  “The surgeon is backed up,” a nurse told me. “Everyone is trying to meet their deductible for the year and get stuff done before the holiday.” I told her, “Oof I can’t do anything complicated at 6pm.” The nurse smiled and I thought I caught a glimpse of “Right??” but then she assured me, “Well that’s why she’s the pro.”

The rest is a post-anesthetic blur, the doctor came in and seemed pleased, pointing out a small ball on the top of my hammertoe which looks like a little spy camera. “That will keep it straight.” She told me she had needed to do a little more than anticipated once she got in there. The rest of my foot was bulky and bandaged and they gave me a walking boot.

Somehow my husband, Mark — my tireless, supportive husband — got me into a car and over to the hotel. Did I say, THANK GOD I GOT A HOTEL? I did, but it should be noted that this hotel, being on a first floor, and a walk-in shower with a very large drain appealed to some small visitors. After a dramatic killing of a live roach nesting behind a coffee cup — I was too woozy to care — we settled in for a couple of days.

The first time I saw my new foot I had a mini panic. Where did my old foot go?

Then on Saturday, I headed home to navigate those stairs. Mark called a friend to co-spot me in case things got tricky. But I did it all by myself, I’m proud to say, and up-with-the-good footed all the way into my apartment. And I stayed there for two weeks, elevating my foot as prescribed, 80% of the day. Until the stitches came out — at which point the doctor’s assistant noted, “Looking good!”

So here I sit. Almost week four. Pillows propped strategically behind me and under my knee. Positions can last for only about 10 minutes until I start to feel an ache and then it’s shift, flip, adjust. Same for sleeping. My foot is elevated high, just above my heart to let the fluid and blood drain and reduce swelling. I’m now icing three times a day, micro-stretching my toe and wearing a splint at night. It’s clear that the hardest part of this is patience, but every day my foot looks a little less bruised.

The first time I saw my new foot I had a mini panic. Where did my old foot go? This new foot, albeit dotted with protective Steri-Strips, is slim and straight. Bunion has left the picture. Hammertoe is now just Toe, straight as a rod (it also still has said rod sticking in it, and out of my toe, until January). I almost miss my old friends, something I’d built up and fashioned for two decades from years of living, dancing, walking, and those chic, but dastardly shoes. Now they’re gone. And if I’m lucky, never to return.

I’d earned those sidekicks. And now I’m bidding adieu to a bit of my own history. Isn’t that just midlife? Shedding the shit we accumulate is both therapeutic — and quite hard. But I’ve traded in for a new model, better mobility, and maybe, perhaps, the chance to wear something with a little heel.

UPDATE!

Welllllll…..I wrote that in December 2021. It’s now April 2022. Since then I’ve had about four months of physical therapy which has mostly fixed my toes, I can wiggle the big toe, I can mostly move the second toe, though as predicted it’s going to permanently float. It’s no longer hammertoe, it’s float toe. Fine. I can walk. Mostly.

Somehow, in February, while I was in physical therapy, while standing on one of those plastic bouncy half balls to work on my balance, I tweaked my ankle. Nothing broke, nothing fractured, but in trying to heal my toe I screwed up my ankle. The next day I was left with a swollen, painful red bump on the side of my ankle that, to this day, is still there. I’ve seen three doctors — my foot surgeon, primary care doc, and a rheumatologist — and none of them can figure out what it is. The foot surgeon prescribed some crazy strong anti-inflammatory (The label: “Can cause heart attack!” Great.) and suggested maybe laser treatment which I had once, and is basically someone shining a strong laser on your ankle for 10 minutes. “It kinda feels like sunshine,” said the technician. It maybe helped… a tiny bit.

When I asked the rheumatologist if he thought the laser treatment would help, he said, “I don’t know what that is.” He slid back on his wheelie chair, folded his arms and just glared at my ankle from a distance, thinking. “Just don’t bump it,” he said. “And be patient. It’s in a bad spot. I think whatever it is, it will go away, but just keep elevating it, ice it, don’t bump it.”

So here I am not bumping it. I think it might be getting better, through trial and error I’ve learned to that compression socks also help, anything to get the blood flow moving helps, and shoes that don’t rub my ankle — Dansko clogs FTW!

If I’ve learned anything in these decades of being in this body, it’s these three clichés:

1. Nothing is ever a quick fix.

2. Sometimes when you try to fix one thing you screw up another (maybe that bunion was serving another purpose and my ankle is trying to compensate??)

3. Patience is an absolute virtue.

So, until next time, I’ll be elevating.

Tell us below! Have you had surgery you postponed for a while? How did it go?

Well, hello! Margit here.  

Today we’re announcing big changes for the TueDo List.

As most of you know, our newsletter has been the foundation of the TueNight community since day one way back in 2013), and it’s been a tremendous space for us to share our stories, obsessions, profiles, and links we know you’ll love.

We’re excited to unveil The TueNight Social, our new home base. It’s everything you already know and love about TueNight and the TueDo List, with the ability to interact more with our stories, our writers and each other. 

You’ll still get the weekly TueDo List delivered to your inbox every Tuesday – but by becoming a paid subscriber, you’ll be able to comment on weekly threads, participate in conversations, stay connected with each other, access exclusive content and more.

The cost for the paid subscription is $5 a month, or $50 a year, or $100 for those who would like to be a TueNight Hero and truly support the work we do. 

Here are your subscriber goodies:

• Exclusive, subscriber-only posts like our Weekend Watch List and It’s Me, Margit

• Access to open threads where we dish on all the usual midlife joys and quandaries like hot flash remedies to Gen-X nostalgia to the best place to buy a bed. (As you know, I have thoughts on that)

• A monthly “Ask Me Anything” (AMA) chat with special guests and experts

• You’ll be able to comment on all posts and be in the mix of the TueNight Social community

• Access to the full archive of posts

• Bragging rights to tell the world you’re supporting TueNight’s work to amplify the power and stories of grown-ass women 🤘

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Nearly every single week, for eight years, we’ve been publishing this little newsletter you’re holding in your hands. Only a few weeks after we started it, we decided to call it “The TueDo List” because we realized that’s what it kinda was — a grab-bag of tv shows, books, stories, and midlife goodies we wanted y’all to know about and DO. Even while I was going through cancer treatment, we kept the newsletter rolling, thanks to the support of many editor friends. I know for many of you — because you tell me these things in nice emails — the newsletter has kept you going during your own bleak times. Our goal has always been to tell the truth about the chaos, the challenges, the joy, and oh, yes, the hilarity of what it's like to be a Gen-X woman in midlife.

We couldn't produce TueNight without the help of so many great writers, editors, photographers, and social media folx. Your paid subscription means we can continue to support their (and your!) great work and keep coming up with new ways to surprise and delight us all.

My personal goal is to tell stories — and have conversations — about midlife that no one is really sharing anywhere else. We’ve seen the beauty of that in our communities on different platforms over the years, but have also realized that we have an awful lot of “places” to manage (TueNight.com, TueNighters and the TueDo List here on Substack. Our social media editor Liz is always like, “Er, where am I sending people?”). And, we’ve wanted to access more of the cool community elements that Substack has to offer. So this was starting to feel like a no-brainer. We are already here!

We know that some of you like our newsletter as is, and we’re so grateful for that.  We’re changing nothing about the actual TueDo List and you can keep getting that for free. The weekly newsletter goes out to everyone. 

I’m pumped about our new community and I hope you are too. We’re going to have FUN. Honestly, that’s all I want this space to be. Because we need more fun and joy in our lives right now. I plan to bring it.

That said, I completely get it if even an additional bill is one too many and I want to make sure everyone feels welcome. You don’t have to make a case for why — just email me and ask (margit@tuenight.com).

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If you have any questions feel free to post here (we’ll keep the comments open for all) or reach out to me directly at margit@tuenight.com

xo,

Margit

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