Dear Will Shakespeare
I have a bone to pick with you on the subject of aging. I am aware you are, um, no longer with us, and your bones are beyond picking but hear me out.
I have always been a fan of your Seven Ages of Man monologue from As You Like It. This is because when I first read it I was at the ‘creeping unwillingly to school’ stage and thought this speech rang beautifully true. Also, once I understood ‘sans’ meant ‘without’ I found it easier to read than some of the ‘all hail/ye/thee’ type stuff you so oft used.
But, now that I’m headed towards the shrill voice stage of my life at the speed of a ping-pong ball down a San Francisco hill, I am seeing you left quite a lot of stuff out – things we have to go ‘sans’ – as we head back to the beginning of the circle of life. (And it’s not pretty, Pumba).
You never mention that slowly but surely we have to go sans alcohol. Otherwise we wake up with raging hangovers that last two long mewling and puking filled days.
You never mention that we have to go sans cigarettes. No more cheeky smokes over said alcoholic drinks, or we wake up sighing like a furnace that a woeful Santa got stuck in with size 16 boots.
You conveniently leave out that we have to go sans pizza, doughnuts, burgers, fries and a lot of other delightful junk because, unlike in our youth, they stick around the belly in the kind of consecutively layered rings that look cute on a baby but not on a grown woman.
You failed to note we have to go sans late nights. Now, if I have one late night, or even mistakenly pull an all-nighter because I’m old but I’m still a pro, the next day I’m as crabby as an infant on a plane that is given Shakespeare to read instead of an iPhone and a spoon of NyQuil.
You also skip over things like going sans long runs because the knees just can’t do it anymore. And that you can’t go sans looking after your skin anymore, you actually have to buy the expensive eye creams, because the face finds more ways to wrinkle than a shar pei puppy.
It seems to me that we get to revel in wine and doughnuts, work hard and play hard, and then we have to wean ourselves off it all because we just can’t take it anymore. I guess I’ve always known I’d have to deal with losing my teeth, my hair and my mind, but damnit William, I didn’t expect to have to become so disciplined in my forties. Harumph! Mewling! Wah!
Anyway, with all that in mind I made a few suggestions to revise your piece to be more truthful (see notes in red italics inline below – it’s what we do these days. If you were on Google docs I’d have just added comments). I’d make these revisions myself, but it’s nearly 9pm and if I don’t go sleep now, I’ll wake up so grumpy I will kill the first teenager I see with a doughnut.
The Seven Ages of Man
All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women* merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
(*Sidenote: It’s nice you mention women, very progressive for your time actually, but you might think about writing it all from the female POV considering the year we have had? Just a thought…)
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms;
And then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face*, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school.
(*Good you note the “morning face” – I’d bring it back at the end. Mention that this ‘morning face’ slips slowly down the neck, like a candle melted in the evening.)
And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
(Move this to the end. As a woman, bearding really gets aggressive as you get older. I’m waxing my upper lip and finding all manner of dark and long hairs that never existed at this stage of my life.)
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon’s mouth. (Move the quarrel bit to later too. The older I get the more forthright and argumentative I become because I’m not getting younger so I hate people who waste my time.)
And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined, (I like the use of belly here. Accurate.)
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut, (See lip wax note above, maybe add here.)
Full of wise saws and modern instances; (Nice, like that you’re avoiding saying as we get older modern things like phones get harder to figure out, and it’s embarrassing that an infant can send a text faster.)
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon, (The word “lean” doesn’t ring true. Because of the belly you really aren’t wearing anything lean here. Everything is kinda baggy to cover up all manner of eating sins. Slippers are true though. We look for comfort here. Heels all night feel like a young woman’s game. I’m personally celebrating sneakers having their fashion moment at the same time as I’m heading into the woods of 40.)
With spectacles on nose (You need to be more specific. Say reading glasses on nose because suddenly at this stage lights in restaurants all seem to be too dim. Also mention that reading glasses are humiliating because so many of them are designed like you’ve lost your sense of taste not your 20/20 vision) and pouch on side; (Is it just me or does “pouch” sound like a colostomy bag? Damn. This circle is depressing, eh,Will? )
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide (In my experience ‘hose’ or leggings are not too wide, but rather too tight…Also, consider saying “leggings” or “Lululemons” because the word hose denotes something getting ruined.)
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, (Mention we go also go back to listening to old music like Depeche Mode and Billy Idol…) pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion, (Oblivion might be a tad dramatic, delete.)
Sans more than one glass of wine, sans late night partying, sans burgers, doughnuts etc….sans anything fun really….then lead into sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything. (Maybe mention we can only hope for oblivion here?)
Yours, sans humor
Sue