Glamour

This isn't about Glamour the magazine, though I loved it both long before and long after I was the age of their target demographic.

It's about something that appears in The New Yorker every week on the page with their guide to who's playing where in the city. 

Can't quite read it? (Sorry for the bad photo.) Underneath ROCK AND POP, it says, "Musicians and night-club proprietors lead complicated lives; it's advisable to check in advance to confirm engagements."

There was a time when this small statement would have represented, to me, the height of glamour. I mean, for The New Yorker to issue a public excuse for the complicated nature of my life! To be given carte blanche to be unreliable--even irresponsible--by the magazine of the intelligentsia of THE most glamorous city.

The smart set, the jet set, the rat pack, the brat pack. Like that.

My idea of glamour has changed. Or rather, maybe I've outgrown the whole concept, in the same way I outgrew the magazine.

Nowadays, I'd appreciate a good night's sleep--not for the sleep itself, but because being rested keeps my life UNcomplicated and lets me RELIABLY do the things that are important to me.

I suppose I could go about my day in sequined stiletto heels, if I wanted a dose of glamour. But yoga pants and flipflops are really more my style. And since the night life around here consists of watching herons hunt in the bay in front of the house, I think I'm good.