Confidence or Desperation?

A friend responded to my last blog (Wearing It Well, November 9) by asking if it was really desperation and not confidence that makes women of a certain age decide to wear make-up and clothing that some might find inappropriate for their years. I had used as an example of confidence Sophia Loren, age 75, looking good in tight leopard skin pants.

I've been pondering my friend's question and concluded that there is no correct answer. It's all in the attitude of the wearer and the eye of the beholder.

Desperation is not the word that comes to mind when I think of Sophia. I like the spark of fun that makes her put on those pants in defiance of what women her age usually wear. Someone else might interpret her wardrobe choice as an act of clinging desperately to something she used to have. I think she still has it.

What is it that makes a woman of 83, like the Mamma in our local caffe bar, paint her toenails red? Is it desperation or just the pleasure of looking down at cherry-colored toes peeping out of her shoes?

In Wearing It Well, I mentioned a lady I see every Sunday at the pizzeria. Always dolled up in an exaggerated style (dyed black hair, bright pink lipstick, high-heeled mules), she makes me smile because she seems pleased (and confident) with how she looks. There is a comic element to her fashion sense, but I don't see it as desperation. I see it as good fun.

The friend who posed the question, incidentally, is comfortable with a beauty that she chooses not to exaggerate like Sophia or the pizzeria lady. She has beautiful prematurely white hair, sparkling blue eyes, and la gioia di vita (joy of life) that leads her to go trekking in Bhutan, swim fifty laps a day, pick olives with the best of the contadini (farmers), get up and dance at the drop of a hat, and create a day with her little grandson that led him to say that it was the best day of his life. Hers is another kind of confident beauty.

This friend says that she likes the line from the 'Desiderata' philosophy: "Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth."

My philosophy is: If you like what you see in the mirror, pull those shoulders back and wear whatever you want for as long as you want. And do it gracefully.

Wearing It Well

She is there, as she and her husband are every Sunday night, enjoying the best pizza in the world, right here in our village. We always acknowledge each other warmly, though we have never met. I know her name is Paola and where she lives only by accident. But it is reassuring to see her every Sunday night at her usual table.

She is a woman of a certain age. What interests me about her is the effort she puts into her appearance. Oh, her hair is dyed a solid block of black, her eyes are too heavily lined and mascaraed, and her lipstick is a vivid pink, but she is confident she looks good, so you go along with it.

I've seen her hanging the wash on a line, working in her garden, sweeping her balcony, taking walks with her husband and shopping at the local market, always put together in her unique way. She has a warm smile and one imagines that she is or would be a doting nonna (grandmother). I once noticed her reading a copy of Chi (Who) magazine, with Sophia Loren on the cover. It crossed my mind that she was inspired by how the actress looks.

Now 75, Sophia has to be the most glamorous nonna in the world. She says she has had no plastic surgery, but...well, it's okay if she wants to dire bugie (tell a lie) about that. She uses wigs, most in an auburn color, and applies make-up in a way that highlights her prominent bone structure. She likes to pose for pictures showing her left profile, so that must be her good side. She still has a magnificent carriage that once led someone to write that she comes into the room "like the prowl of a ship."

Two years ago, we attended an "Under the Tuscan Sun" festival in Cortona. Sophia was there to introduce her son, Carlo Ponti, Jr., who was conducting an orchestra in music from his late father's films. She arrived wearing tight leopard skin pants. It takes courage to do that at any age. She looked good. It helps if you are Sophia Loren.

Since we all have birthdays, it's not a bad idea to learn a few tricks from someone who wears the years well.

Sophia once said that she owed her figure to pasta, which she ate every day. We can do that.

She doesn't think it suits a woman to be too thin, because it makes her look older. Compare Sophia with the emaciated New York woman of the same age and you have to agree with her.

She says a woman should never sit down with a sigh because it makes her seem bone-weary. Let's practice that.

She walks an hour every day. Easy enough. When she does, she tries to find something beautiful and be mindful of it. Note to all of us: This could be anything, including a beautifully decorated cupcake.

She tries to maintain an erect posture. Shoulders back, head up, stomach in. We can do it.

What she doesn't talk about but exudes is confidence. It is easier if you are an Italian goddess and reknowned actress, to be sure. But like the lady I see every Sunday in the pizzeria, we all have it in us.

Sola (Alone)

The woman driving her car on my bumper down the narrow, winding Tuscan hillside was otherwise occupied. She wasn't in a hurry to pass me, though her nearness seemed to indicate it. She was definitely not observing the distanza di sicurezza (secure distance) that signs on the autostrade urge us to do.

No, she was engaged in an animated conversation on her mobile phone. I could tell it was a happy conversation because she was laughing, holding her phone to her ear with her right hand and occasionally gesticulating with her left, leaving the car to drive itself. She was so close she might as well have been in my backseat. My rear view mirror put her there for sure. We could have become pals.

Driving in tandem like that, twisting and turning past the golden harvested fields, we somehow arrived safely in the town of San Giovanni. As I turned off for the weekly Saturday market, she drove on, still talking. I felt like I had lost a friend.

We usually go to the market in the summer months, so it is always a treat to go in the fall. The bancorelle (market stalls) are manned by the same people, set up in their usual spots, but everything feels different. The fruits and vegetables on display are autumnal: bright orange clementines with green leaves still attached, boughs of ripe grapes, plump green pears, porcini mushrooms still covered in dirt. Heavy sweaters and wool scarves, guanti (gloves) and boots take the place of the floaty cotton shirts, sunglasses and sandals on sale in the summer.

Everyone seemed to be wearing black down coats or jackets. The air was a biting damp cold, but that made the caffe bars more cozy, the cappuccini more warming, the cornetti di crema (cream croissants) more satisfying. It would be better to share this with someone, but this time I am here for five days by myself.

It feels nice to be comfortable in this part of the world, even sola (alone). When I arrived at our house a few days ago, I encountered a few problems: the phone, heat and hot water were not working, the chimney flue was stuck, and the cable was out on the TV. Within two hours, I solved everything on my own. Le vittorie piccole (small victories). Those of you who have been following this blog know how I struggle with la lingua (the language), so imagine me on the phone with the cable company. Try not to laugh. The cable is working now.

I recommend time alone to everyone. I do not prefer it, but it is self-affirming to be able to do it. "Aren't you afraid to be there by yourself?" people often ask me. No, I am not. I used to be. The first time I came here alone, I slept with an electric drill, jolting upright at every sound, ready to drill holes in any intruder.

There are startling noises in the quiet countryside of an old restored farmhouse. They are amplified at night. The loud snort of a cinghiale (wild boar) outside the window or a pine marten moving the tiles on the roof, which sounds like furniture moving above your head, can be jarring. A TV on standby can suddenly come alive with voices at three in the morning. All of these things can give one pause.

But I knew I had turned a corner yesterday morning when I had one of those lifelike dreams in which I was certain I could hear my car being started and driven away. I opened my eyes, thought "insomma" (anyway), turned over and went back to sleep.

Wish You Well? Part Two

My last blog, Wish You Well? (November 1), struck a chord with many of you. I received lots of responses, most saying, "I know exactly what you mean!" One friend was pleased that I "put it out there."

I was told about someone who had been seriously ill and received loving care and attention from a large circle of friends. Now, years later and happy and healthy, she asks, "Where did they all go?"

A sister who innocently sent details of where she could be reached on her travels was shocked to learn that some of her siblings thought she was showing off a jet-set life.

A group of young single women, always very close, became stand-offish with the one who got engaged.

A woman of a certain age who got a little surgical assistance and looked wonderful heard that her friends were saying, "Well, she should! She had a major facelift!"

Then there are the people who bask in compliments about themselves but never think to return the favor when a friend does something well.

What is all this about?

The consensus among you is envy. I agree, but since I've put myself in a philosophical chair on this subject (and it's not a place where I am comfortable) let me throw this out to you: Could it be that if we are dissatisfied with ourselves and our accomplishments we find it hard to feel happiness for anyone else?

It doesn't matter if we are thought to have achieved a lot. It is all internal, how we think we are doing measured against how we thought we would do. Maybe the success or good news of a friend makes us feel as if we are failing if comparable things haven't happened to us. A friend reminded me of what the prolific and accomplished writer Gore Vidal once said, "Whenever a friend succeeds, a little something inside me dies."

Wish You Well?

What does it mean when your good friends don't wish you well?

Don't misunderstand me. If you were seriously ill, they would be right there to support you, drive you to the doctor, pick up your medicine, make chicken soup. If your life fell apart, they would be there with advice, a shoulder to cry on, a vodka tonic, tickets to a play.

But if you do something well, if circumstances take a bright turn for you, if good things happen in your life, those same friends might suddenly go silent, disappear.

Why does that happen? Is it envy? Anger? Resentment? Why is it easier to be a friend to someone in need than someone who seems to need nothing?

It's something to think about. If you have an answer, let me know.

Mamma's Boys

I am not an Italian mother but I understand them. Maybe it is my own Mediterranean roots. There is a saying that mothers from the region are all the same, the only difference being in the sauce.

John and the girls would certainly say that I share all the attributes, good and bad, of a Mediterranean mamma. I'm tempted to write that I don't think much of it is bad.

Okay, I can't resist the temptation.

But what's wrong with talking to your grown children every day? Who wants to share their children with their in-laws on the holidays (though I am happy to do so if they all come to my house)? Isn't Vick's on the chest a good idea when they have a cold? Don't they sometimes need unsolicited advice? And doesn't a hot plate of spaghetti pomodoro (chicken soup, grape leaves, moussaka) always make them feel better?

I am lucky that John and the girls view these aspects of my personality with good humor (most of the time). My son-in-law is a quick study, too.

Despite these admissions about myself, there is one thing I don't get about Italian mothers: their willingness to indulge their grown sons in infantile behavior. These young men are so prevalent in Italy that they have a name, mammoni (mamma's boys).

In our little village, we have observed a particular group of young men since their teens. Over the years, many of them kept busy observing our daughters. They are a handsome bunch, metro-sexually turned out in the latest Italian fashions. Some American men think they look gay (not that there is anything wrong with that), but, hey, it's Italy! They all work or study and have one thing in common: living at home with Mamma.

Sure, it is a good way to save money, but most of them make respectable salaries now. The idea of renting an apartment of one's own or with friends is not even considered. And when Mamma is happy to do your laundry, iron your clothes, make fresh orange juice for your breakfast, keep your room pristine, and cook delicious meals for you, why would it be?

My girls told me that one of these young men used to get a call from his mother every afternoon, asking what he wanted for dinner. This would lead to a protracted discussion before they settled on the menu: "Ma, Mamma, no! Non voglio penne arrabiata ancora! Voglio fettucine al limone stasera!" (But Mamma, no! I don't want spicy penne again! I want fettucine with lemon tonight!)

60 Minutes did a segment on mammoni several years ago. Even wealthy young men with their own stylish bachelor pads went home to Mamma's for dinner. Papa didn't mind, either. "Why should he be at home alone when we are here?"

This means there is no rush at all for mammoni to get married. They might date the same woman for years, spending a lot of that time in the cramped backseat of a Fiat Punto, and then going home alone to their big beds at Mamma's.

Accidental pregnancy will often get them to the altar, though. The girls and I love to count the pregnant brides in the windows of local photographers. Occasionally the baby will be a part of the wedding party.

Almost all of the couples I know in the village got married only after the woman became incinta (pregnant). "If it hadn't been for our son, we would still not be married," one woman told me, twenty years after his birth.

That's one way to get out of the backseat.

The baby who prompts a mammono to the altar is likely to be an only child, though. Italians famously love bambini (babies), but theirs is one of the lowest birth rates in Europe, with an average of 1.3 children. Why?

There are several factors at work: more women in the work force, economic hardship, a desire for more material things, and grown children living at home well into their thirties.

Or it may be that the woman who marries a mammono decides that she already has one child too many.

The Nobel and My Friends

Last Friday I received several e-mails and texts from Italian friends, full of exclamation points, saying "complimenti!!!" (congratulations). Why? Because the President of the United States unexpectedly won the Nobel Peace Prize. As an American, they thought I would be pleased and proud. I am.

Many of my American friends, almost all of them Democrats, don't share my point of view. I discount views of Republican friends on principle. Anyone who willingly cast a vote for the possibility of Sarah Palin becoming president deserves to be discounted. But I digress.

"It's too soon!"

"What did he do to deserve it?"

"What about the surge in Afghanistan?"

"Gandhi didn't get a Nobel!"

"The Norwegians are know-nothings!"

"It's only because he is not Bush."

"Yeah, well, Yasser Arafat won it, too." (Note to those who say that: Don't leave out that he won it with Israeli Yitzhak Rabin)

Can I just put it out there that the President did not campaign to win the Nobel Peace Prize? By all accounts, the White House was taken by surprise. But if you win it prematurely do you turn it down? Get real.

Obama accepted it graciously: "...I do not view it as a recognition of my own accomplishments, but rather as an affirmation of American leadership on behalf of aspirations held by people in all nations."

But even those words cause criticism: "All he can do is talk. What has he accomplished in nine months?"

Can I just say that even rural people in a small Italian village, many of whom are uncomfortable with blacks (okay, racist) acknowledge that his election was "buona per tutto il mundo" (good for all the world)?

Can I add that changing the way the world views the United States overnight is not nothing?

I expected that the right wing of the States would heap scorn on the Nobel Committee (they're Scandinavian socialists!) and President Obama. I did not expect it from those on the left or in the middle. Or my friends. It is disappointing.

Obama said, "To be honest, I do not feel that I deserve to be in the company of so many of the transformative figures who have been honored by this prize."

Whether you agree with those words or not, Americans have reason to be proud of their president for the first time in almost nine years. The Nobel Peace Prize is an honor. Anyone who criticizes it would be deliriously happy to be its recipient.

Why not just revel in the fact that the President of the United States, the guy we elected, won it, and be proud?