dressing and acting my shoe size.

my grandma would hate the way I look today.

If my maternal grandmother were alive today, she’d pretty much hate everything about the way I looked, starting with my hair cut. She came from the school of thought that women of a certain age shouldn’t have long hair because it demonstrates a woman not willing to age. Come on, you gotta love those mid-century rules analogous to no white after Labor Day and hospital corners confirm that a bed is made. Not only do I disagree because I never make the bed, but I even doubled down on age “inappropriate” hair with a 1960’s girl-group bouffant and bangs that I admit on most days are more Tootie from The Facts of Life than Ronnie Spector circa 1963. It’s fine though. I’m not famous. I also still wear the same pit-stained band t-shirts I wore as a teenager. Then there’s the yellowing white and red checkered Vans I bought at an Army Surplus store with a boyfriend in East Hollywood. And I drink my coffee in either a unicorn or cat mug. I laugh thinking of my grandmother side-eyeing the shit out of all of this. And, please, none of this makes me hip or cool. This a product of laziness and tight funds iced-blended with lost childhood and trauma that makes me very popular in my Zoom al-anon meetings. I guess there’s a cool table for everyone…if you seek, you shall find.

But it did make me wonder when exactly I’m supposed to “tone it down”? When the grays start sprouting…everywhere? Done. When jeans described as skinny offend me? Done. When I need to moisturize my hands before bed like moms in movies do? Again…fucking, done, dude. When I decide to stop talking like a 17-year-old stoner from 1998? Nevah.

And then there’s the Golden Girls. Anyone reading this who grew up in America in the 1980s I’m sure spent Saturday night watching four women who were supposed to be really old. But JFC, they weren’t. And I’m not just saying that because I’m closer to their character’s age. With the exception of Sophia, they were in their early to mid-50s. Young! To put that in present-day perspective: Demi Moore is 60 . And Martha Stewart is this year’s Sports Illustrated cover model. And it’s brilliant. So, the concept of what aging looks like has obviously and thankfully evolved, which means we all get to bypass short perms. Win-win for all.

And that’s it. My big statement of the week: the meaning of aging has evolved. You heard it here first on untidy thoughts. Truly, a hot take that I’m not going to wrap up with something cliché like “age is nothing but a number” (but…wait, that Aaliyah song….)

Okay. I’m back.

At 41, I’m just getting this party started and my son loves it (foreshadowing the inevitable my-kid-is-embarrassed-of-me-post). So, in honor of my grandmother shaking her Jackie O. bob at all of my aesthetics including my turquoise kitchen, here’s the full she-bang (pun so intended) with the hair with ribbons in it…the Kurt Cobain white cat-eyes…and what the hell, a tutu as I ride off into the sunset.

I hear you up there, grandma. And I love you. But the bangs are staying. Still deciding on the tutu that I may or may not wear around the house…

What about you? How are you defying the stereotypes of aging?

As always, thanks for reading!

LCM