ageing

I celebrated a friend's 50th birthday on the rooftop of the new, posh Mamilla Hotel in Jerusalem. I walked into the lobby and everything was quiet, lights were muted, candles were lit and the air was perfumed. Not a convention center atmosphere at all. I felt like I stumbled onto or into a spa. I also felt that I don't belong - kinda like Ellie May Clampett of the Beverly Hillbillies. The place was so exquisitely beautiful, that the toilets had soft ecologic (?) paper towels and L'Occitane hand soap. MK Tzipi Livni was there too but not for my friend's celebration; she was out having dinner on the rooftop restaurant, which didn't appear to be overly expensive. The view of old and new Jerusalem is magnificent from the rooftop bar. While the sun was setting, around 15 of our friend's closest girlfriends toasted her over a nice (few) bottles of champagne. I was buzzed after just one glass.

But speaking of age, I'm growing out my hair and it's a grey blonde. In fact, I was highly insulted recently when a stupid, tactless, asshole Egged bus driver asked me if I wanted to buy the senior citizen's monthly bus pass. This is the first time anyone implied that I look like a senior citizen. Not that that's awful, but it's just not fair that when I'm blonde, people don't take me for being a grandmother and now bus drivers are trying to sell me passes for people who are at least 11 years older than I am.

Then when I got home I see that one can join the local Golden Age club in my town when you're just 55 years old. I'll be 55 in February. Maybe it won't be too shabby to be a golden ager after all. They advertised for their members quite a number of trips to spas and hotels for quite cheap. I asked a couple of my girlfriends who are over 55 if they'd join up, but they complained the club is full of Russians. "So what. If we join, we'll turn it into a half-Russian, half-English club." There is strength in numbers.