And suddenly you are old

Last night I attended the show of Marc Cain. Really nice. The collection was the most contemporary and covetable I have ever seen from the German brand (the result of a new designer), I was in good company (model Marvy Rieder and her nicest manager Hans van der Veen), there was more Taittinger champagne than water and there were colorful people. Marvy is Marvy, she knows everything and everyone and talks to everything and everyone. That gave Hans and me the time to catch up, because we know each other from my previous television life. Anyway.

Hans is a bit older (I'm going to blame Hans a little for what happened to me later), namely: he is 70 and looks like 60, and we stood at a politically correct distance watching the spectacle. Marvy turned around and introduced us to her conversation partner, a German VIP girl. “Uns Sie sind Marvies Mutter?” I stammered. I didn't understand this well. So she repeated it. Whether I was her mother. Well, then I must have been very early on the scene, because Marvy is 38 and I am 46. The girl wished she could disappear into the floor and left apologizing.

Ah, I thought, this must be because of Hans. She naturally thinks he is my husband and then the sum is quickly made that I must be the mother. Give me a glass and I won't think about it anymore.

Until we later sit in Borchardt, the restaurant in Berlin where really everyone who is ‘someone’ gathers on days like these. At our table, actress Esther Schweins joined us, who I thought looked very much like Julianne Moore. We talked about life, love, and of course about children. I suspected we were about the same age. I told her how old my daughters were. “So jóng still?” she asked, surprised. As if it were a medical miracle that someone my age could still have given birth to a child. Dear people, I was 39 when I had my youngest daughter. That's not so strange, is it?

With Hans (you know, my older husband) I secretly discussed how old this actress would be. My age, right? He googled under the table. She is from 1970 so 50, he said. Hoho, I defended my new friend. I am from ’72 and I am 46 so she is 48, not 50. Hans looked at me sternly for a moment. “If you are 46, you are 46. If you are 48, then you are just 50.”

This morning I texted my 60+ friend Peggy and told her the story. “Just get used to it, May. When people start standing up for you on the tram, then you really need to start worrying.”