“How Would it Look on a Woman in her 50s?”

A friend of mine shared a photo on Instagram and recounted being asked how a certain style of clothes would look on a woman in her 50s. Reading that sent me into a futile rage about “bikini bodies” and “ladylike” and “unfuckable” and all the other external barometers of acceptability placed on women and girls—dress codes for female students so that boys can concentrate, behavior guidelines for young women at college so that men don’t rape them, edicts from a government agency suggest that women shouldn’t drink if pregnancy is possible.

What about boys and men? Any rules for them? What do we do if a pair of jeans and flannel shirt were what was worn on the night of a rape? If we worry about cleavage on a woman over 40, do we worry about Jeb Bush, age 62, saying that the 27 year old actress playing ‘Supergirl’ is hot? Or that’s fine? Should Daniel Craig be wearing looser jeans at his advanced age of 47?

I resent the expectation that I bend my actions to the comfort of others, or that I ought to downplay my sexuality or my opinions because of my age or my weight. How could anyone but me be qualified to say if I am worthy? Sexy? I may not turn someone on, my ambition or my body may not be in line with what does it for them; I’m fine with that. What I am not fine with is the relentless confining of women—don’t wear that, don’t eat that, don’t feed your baby here, don’t dance like that, don’t day that.

I will not monitor any clock but my own to know whether or not I am allowed to show cleavage. I won’t stop demanding that women’s health be a topic in the debates because someone else says it should be saved for the general election. Because while I may be irrelevant to you, my path is mine to navigate, my comfort is relevant to me. If my body or my opinion is distracting or upsetting to you, that’s on you.

I will not limit myself, not matter how much society suggests I should.