One of the great things about being a woman of a “certain age” is a burgeoning maturity to give zero fucks on what the public at large thinks about one’s fashion sense let alone the sagging ragtag bits of the aging female body in all of its subversive glory.
Yes, my ass has fallen and can’t get up. It has made peace with gravity a long time ago.
A woman of maturation brims in self-confidence, knowing that the maternal shelf is the perfect size for a warm cup of coffee to perch on. I wear with pride my fallen pizza-dough tummy in glitter pants that bulge unseemingly and in all the wrong places. I’ve long tamed the feral cats in the sack where my baby-bump used to be. I appease them at night with saucers of milk and red velvet cake, and they have clawed ragged track marks on my once nubile and tight torso in kind.
We, the proud silver foxettes, no longer live in dread of our twilight years, self-assured and carefree to tuck away our elongated and sagging tattas as one would roll up a pair of stockings from toe to thigh before depositing each blubbering boob into the sagging E-cups of a matronly Maidenform bra. Nay, we look forward to their future fetching sway, softly perched above our puckered, timeworn and weary navels, as we hobble along in well-constructed footwear with firm arches.
We no longer get our dull grey granny panties and period pants in a twist over the latest fashion faux pas deigned to oppress us. Please look the other way while we stray outside the norm, refusing to reject perfectly comfortable Capris that were so three seasons ago, having lost any interest in fretting over whatever shade is the new black or if tiny backpacks are on the outs (again).
We are generations past giving a fuck about wearing white after Labour Day.
I’ve long abandoned tweezing out the grey hairs. I’ve even come to terms with the stray ones on my chin.
You know why, oh sweet misguided and naïve neophyte fashionista bloggers of today, that we, the older generations, can dare commit the heinous crime of wearing mixed-match socks while over the ripe old age of thirty? Punky Brewster. She had zero fucks to give decades before you were a gleam in your father’s eye, and that was back in the 80’s when interest was at an all-time high.
We understand that pubic hair is not the devil. If a woman can lick a man’s bearded jaw clean from chin to earlobe without disdain, a grownup man of quality can very well hold his nose and dive into my sea of greying follicles where the sun don’t shine: or better yet sniff in with deep luxurious breaths and sighs the heady pheromones trapped in my tender hoary tendrils. How unfortunate for you and your ilk to spend so much time fretting and shaving your pussies to be deprived of any sweet soft fur to pet.
Us older women have witnessed the glorious rise and shameful fall, the exile in disgrace and heralded restoration of every fashion holy-grail-turned-pariah of the modern age: the fanny pack, the bicycle shorts, the shoulder pads, the gypsy broad-rimmed hat, the Mary Janes, the maroon flared pants, the turquoise leg warmers, the rabbit fur earmuffs and even the lowly beret (who’d a thunk it). And we are blessed with long sharp and keen memories that reach back into decades of yore to remember who wore it best. (Hint: not you and your foppish kind. When we were kids, Normcore was called shopping at K-Mart with mum.)
I, for one, am far too busy sharpening my “long tooth” to care for you and your trivial busybody concerns (all the better to eviscerate you with, my dear).
So the next time you, childling of the 90’s and double 0’s, stumble across the unfortunate sight of a woman past her prime wearing pink hot pants showcasing spectacular cellulite with pride, frosted lip gloss on a dent-marked pursed mouth, t-shirts of bands of yesterday they actually are acquainted with the music of, fluttering eyelashes unabashed and adorned in blue eye shadow and crow’s feet, and jangling wrists covered in silver bangles and friendship beads under elbows with calloused skin abrasive enough to sand drywall plaster with…
Cut yourself some slack and embrace the ferocious rebuke of the petty things that don’t matter one jot.
Take it from us. We have learned through the years that the dictates of fashion are not decided and agreed upon in sacred cloisters by sage monks but are rather fairly arbitrary and are whispered, with wagging tongues, amongst Those With Too Much Time On Their Hands.
We stopped calling 911 to report crimes of fashion many moons ago. Life experience has schooled us that the Fashion Police are always changing the rule of law. And who has the time and energy to keep up anyhow? We know our days are numbered and want the remainder of our dwindling years living Life with a Capital L, frolicking in misguided daisy print frocks and unfortunate purple flip-flops with the freedom of Those Who Simply Do Not Give a Fuck.
This rant was written in response to the silly Rant Chic listicle titled 24 Things Women Should Stop Wearing Over Thirty.