Miserere on Turning Sixty

Author’s note:  This is a performance piece for five actresses ranging in age from 30-80.  Although they represent various aspects of one person, they can and should be distinct both in appearance and in attitude.

Staging for this piece is versatile.  It could be  a multi-media piece, with images projected upstage; it also lends itself to stylized blocking or choreography that allows the characters to interact with one another physically throughout.  It also could be a play for voices.

Character list:

CENTRAL VOICE:  It’s her 60th birthday and she’s not happy about it.

REFINED VOICE:  She is on the far side of sixty, sophisticated  and still lives an elegant life.

YOUNGEST VOICE:  She is a friend of these women, not their daughter, but definitely younger and in a different phase of her life.

ANGRY VOICE:  Over sixty and pissed off about it.

OLDEST VOICE:  Wise, humane, reflective–ageless..

The opening scene is outside the home of Refined Voice.  A surprise birthday party for Central Voice is about to happen.  She already knows about it, hesitates before going inside.

CENTRAL VOICE:  (from the outside)  This is about aging, the sorrow of fading beauty and the sense of worth that often fades with it.  It is about being and becoming…(her voice becomes louder)  Actually, it’s about how shitty it is–this process of being and becoming an “older woman…”

EVERYONE:  Interrupts to the tune of “I Feel Pretty” from West Side Story, “I feel shitty, oh, so shitty…I feel shitty and petty and surprised.”

CENTRAL VOICE: (from the outside) singing to the same tune, “See the aging face in the mirror now…”(her voice fades…)

Inside the beautiful home, Central Voice’s friends are waiting to surprise her, talking among themselves.

REFINED VOICE: (from the inside)   I began the day wearing a cashmere sweater and reading a seed catalog–luxury and hope.

CENTRAL VOICE (from the outside):  I’m standing on the porch of the first day of the rest of my life, thinking it’s dawn, realizing it’s dusk.

YOUNGEST VOICE:  (from the inside)  I was thirty before I figured out I was in business for myself and needed managing.

CENTRAL VOICE: (from the outside)  Presents.  They’re going to give me presents.  Now this was a present.  He took my face in his hands, looked me straight in the eye and said, “God, you’re beautiful.”  It was a gift from that old drunk.  He didn’t say, “You used to be beautiful.”

YOUNGEST VOICE:  (from the inside)  Ogling.  I miss the ogling…Do men ogle any more…?   Her wistful voice trails off.

ANGRY VOICE: (from the inside)   This is me on a bad attitude day.  Every day is a chance to get it right. Right?  Here’s my “getting it right.”  Every day is a chance to look in the mirror and see frown lines that can’t be erased.  Every day is a chance to grieve missed opportunities and  mess-ups.  Every day is another chance to break my own promises.  Every day is just that.  Another day. 

OLDEST VOICE: (from the inside)   My heroes when I was a child?  Dogs and horses.  I wanted to be loyal and smart–and classy–a palomino or a collie.  I wanted to be Lassie and always know my way home.

ANGRY VOICE: (from the inside)   I wanted to be a rat terrier, not afraid to bite the heels of bullies.

YOUNGEST VOICE: (from the inside)  I wanted to be Black Beauty, rescued from hardship and turning out to be a real winner.

CENTRAL VOICE: (from the outside)   I can’t go in there.  How do they see me?  How do I see myself?  When I scan the vacation photos, I’m  surprised to see a lumpy figure in a red shirt standing by a rock.  

REFINED VOICE: (from the inside)  My life is organized.  The bills organized, my clothes color-coded,  my files alphabetized.     My hands come to polished oval conclusions.

YOUNGEST VOICE: (from the inside)   Are there women who wake up singing?

ANGRY VOICE:  (from the inside)    I would like to hear the sirens singing, “Get a grip.  You’re okay.”  I know those  sirens don’t say, ”okay” or “get a grip.”  Actually, sirens don’t talk to women.  They only whisper to men.  Who sings to women?  Their mothers.  Often they hum, “You’re not as good as me so don’t even try” or “I wished for a boy.  I wished for a boy…”

OLDEST VOICE: (from the inside)   Some days my face is the Braille I read with compassion.  My fingers touch the lines at the boundaries of my eyes and mouth and I laugh and I  cry. 

REFINED VOICE:  (from the inside)  When my husband dies, he will leave me with lots of money and I will have a pleasant remainder of my life.  I will dress beautifully, have a charming bungalow, eat well, and go to art films.  Oh, and I will have a little dog.

ANGRY VOICE:  (from the inside)  What’s going to happen to me?  Bad haircuts, broad hips, dishes in the sink.  A husband who never gets out of his recliner.    Grown children with drug problems.  Occasional  impulses of joy mixed with gin and remorse.

CENTRAL VOICE:  (from the outside).  I’m ready.  I love them all. I am them all. 

OLDEST VOICE:  My dears, you suffer from the angst of midlife, well…life.  I think you brood too much about the youthful joie de vivre  that went with you everywhere.   Even on the days you felt like a lumpenprole.  I sense you feel helpless and slightly chagrined.

My advice?  Nothing too profound, but I think  you get a little too fixated on worth.  Look at me.  My hair, a blown dandelion.  My body, a rectangle with legs.  I’m still curious. I find reasons to laugh.   Don’t be afraid.

EVERYONE:  (sotto voce)  Don’t be afraid…don’t be afraid…don’t be afraid…

CENTRAL VOICE:  Same West Side Story tune:  “Love the aging face in the mirror now…”