PRESSURE PRESS ARCHIVE

THE PHENOMENOLOGICAL EDGES OF MIDDLE-AGED GIRLS I think some sort of glandular process occurs in females around age forty, something biological in their brains that pours in & changes everything. I feel especially qualified to speak on the aforementioned subject because my wife, Paula, is now 42. I've personally watched & dealt with the past 20 years enough to determine its validity in reality, in her case, & others. Like suddenly she's a fan of country-western pop music. She snaps her fingers & dips in a strange dance in the kitchen listening to what must be her favorite song. Processed country-western pop music is, to me, for adolescents; the lyrics tend to be extremely sophomoric & downright shallow. "I'm just a simple woman at heart," she explains to explain her enjoyment of this music she's never really listened to before which i have pointed out, have asked why she likes this stuff. I sip my colombian coffee. She seems uplifted, beating on her knees like a cowgirl I suppose. "But Paula, what STARTED you liking this shit?" She turns cold, naturally, unnaturally cold. "It ain't shit," she hisses, stopped mid-dip at the sink. Her fingers snap again as the lyrics slide into her & her eyes close & she smiles a weird smile. I don't interrupt her. She's not Paula. I think about true possibilities of parallel universes, about her foreign-looking smile & musical taste. Who are you, I think to myself. When the song ends, tho I smell cowshit, she opens her eyes, still smiling that alien-like wisp of a grin, & sighs a short, sweet sigh gazing out the window into the autumn guts of our oak tree. -------- "I'M NOT READY TO STEP IN THE GRAVE JUST YET!" she yells. "NOR I!" I yell back. I simply requested she lessens the amount of hot-sauce she's been hammering into the chili of recent months. "My stomach can't take it no more," I sd. I wasn't being critical. I considered it a reasonable request. "ME & THE KIDS LIKE IT THIS WAY, OK? MAYBE YOU SHLD SEE A DOCTOR ABOUT YR STOMACH." She has a cruel glare on her face. "& TO THINK YOU'RE ONLY A YEAR & A HALF OLDER THAN ME." I feel hate. Her make-up is thick today. -------- Paula wants a rewarding job. "I want to work with intelligence, with intelligent people. I'm tired of all the bozos," she says. "I won't work for anything under six-fifty an hour. I want to advance & have a real career." "Okay," I say. "I want to work for a good company. One that's sympathetic & professional." "I see." "I'm tired of all the assholes. I'm not stupid." She stares at me. "No," I know to say, "you're not stupid." "You think I'm STUPID?" "No." "I know you think I'm stupid, don't bullshit me." "I DO NOT THINK YOU ARE STUPID!" "Oh yes you do," she snaps. -------- I forget the actual color of her hair. I think it's near black, but for years she's dyed it. It's the color of iron rust now. "I hate gray hair," Paula announces in the hallway mirror. "Uh, I have a lot of gray hair, dear." "Oh, I don't mean on YOU, I mean on ME." "We age, you know." "Some of us do, Stan, some of us do." She stares at me thru the mirror.