I BOMBED

And Then I Called Joan Rivers

This word has been lying to me for years.

What does it even mean anymore?

SUCCESS.

Success in your 50s, 60s, and 70s isn’t the same animal.

Usually, a much better, much more tamable pet.

But every now and then...

the old monster comes back and bites you in the ass.

Here’s one.

In my late 50s, success had me spinning.

I went from the “IT” girl of publishing to someone who couldn’t get a phone call returned.

I went from the person everybody wanted to brand their magazine—yes, I’m talking print magazines. Remember print magazines?—to nickel-and-diming potential clients for work I didn’t even want, making less money instead of more.

UGH.

I wasn’t alone.

Women in media—and plenty of other industries—were discovering that once they reached “a certain age” (God, I hate that expression), they went from being the bomb to... well, bombing. Having to figure out their lives all over again.

And it’s still happening.

But it was something I never expected.

I was my title.

It defined me.

Who the fuck was I without it?

Well, I got to find out.

Today, I love not being “that title.”

But it took a lot of work to let it go and roll into what came next.

It also took an illness—one I’ve thankfully recovered from.

I had to figure it out.

Recently, I heard Rachel Ward say that success, at this point in her life, is “the idea of turning into another aspect of myself to roll into.”

God, I loved that.

Because that’s exactly what I did.

I rolled into another aspect of myself.

Actually, a few.

I’ve spent the last ten years as the founder of Glorious Broads — finding and interviewing kick-ass women who defy traditional “aging” and all the lies we were fed.

Success was one of them.

We raise the middle finger.
Gleefully.
Ragefully.

I love these broads.

Recently I chatted with Katrina del Mar.

We talked about success.

She shared something the poet Eileen Myles once said:

“A succession of moments.”

POW!

Now that’s a definition of success I can get behind.

Not one big arrival.

Not one title.

Not one career.

Just a succession of moments where you keep becoming yourself.

Like most New Yorkers, I have been driven by success.

But since turning 60, those success moments have seriously changed.

Less angst.

Less self-judging.

Less about others.

More about me.

And yet...

I BOMBED.

No getting around it.

I bombed.

Majorly.

Bombed in a recent interview on a show I admired.

By a host I admired.

Oops.

I was away when the interview was released.

Enjoying time off social media.

I assumed it hadn’t aired.

I found it when I got home.

Wish I hadn’t.

But I did.

It had me reeling.

Like I was back in my 50s.

The interview was in two parts—one about life, the second about my financial collapse after 2008.

And what a collapse it was.

Fair enough.

But I hadn’t prepared a timeline.

Numbers have never been my strength, and I got one key date wrong.

And that key date was a doozy.

Once I stumbled, I never recovered.

Neither did the audience.

I was in an easy-breezy mood.

But that ‘tude did not work for me.

We rapidly went downhill.

I’ve been interviewed many times.

Only one other time have I bombed.

And interestingly, that interview also required a timeline I wasn’t prepared for.

DUH.

When home, I read the first fifteen comments.

WOE.

I was called a liar.

Privileged.

Slut-shamed.

A Samantha Jones wannabe—which, frankly, I’m not sure is an insult.

Judged.

But the lying part got me.

I’m a lot of things.

But not that.

I was done.

As I read the through, I thought about our Glorious Broad Hatty Wiener

80-years-old.

Boy toys.

Endless judgment.

Her response?

“Nobody can shame me.”

I needed some of that.

• Now I did learn a few things:

  1. Read the room. This was not the place to be in a fun, loose mood.

  2. Never have a double espresso before an interview. Even if you didn’t sleep the night before.

  3. If you’re going to talk about your own life, and you suck at numbers—WRITE THE SHIT DOWN.

  4. Don’t read more than five comments. Nuf.

I blame no one but myself for this bomb.

Though disgusted with the judging, I probably would’ve held the audience if it weren’t for my big fat flub.

I could feel the room leave me.

The comments confirmed it.

Some questioned my credibility.

Others questioned my character.

That’s the internet.

It stung.

Like the old days.

After consuming the deluge of hate, I collapsed onto my comfy couch and wondered...

What kind of Glorious Broad do I turn to for recovery?

Because I needed to recover.

I needed the patron saint of public humiliation.

I needed Joan Rivers.

Who else?

A Broad who had approximately 9,000 public disasters and somehow turned them into one kick-ass career.

I watched Joan Rivers: A Piece of Work.

Not for comedy.

For recovery.

A master class.

In a few weeks, I’ll be onstage at Joe’s Pub, surrounded by the broads of Generation Women, talking about “new beginnings.”

You better believe I’ll have my fucking crib sheet with me.

Wipe the humiliation off my brow.

Go onward.

Like Joan.

Like Hatty.

That’s my definition of success now.

The one that says humble pie is not the end of the story.

Success wasn’t lying to me after all.

It just shifted.