And the striped sox must go....
Some part of me still thinks I'm 25 and that's partly because when I was 25 I felt more like an over forty-year-old than the naive, unwieldy, immature youngster I still was. Wobbly as I was on my feet, I was boldly crashing forward with every aspect of my life: marriage, film career, vice-presidency, expensive car, self-important Hollywooooood through and through.
Part II was a bit different and I blame my lack of age-awareness on the fact that I clung to the notion I was a late bloomer. Which I actually was. When I left my job at the studio and went off to Canada to rediscover myself as a writer, I was suitably homeless for a while (if staying in a friend's guest house counts) jobless, and then looking for paying work anywhere I could. My relationships weren't working out so well either. Once I'd let go of the career marriage, my taste in men hadn't matured beyond the Justin Timberlake stage and I was picking one tempermental lost soul after another.
My solution was to jettison any trappings of age to stay in a kind of time-travelling stasis, one that was forgiving of all my mistakes, and I think it actually worked for me. At an age when, in past centuries, women were rotund dowagers wheeling around in wicker chairs and playing whist, I started my real married life, got a kid, and jumped into the PTO head first. They say children keep you young and so far this has worked wonderfully for me.
For the first six years of Sweetpea's life I lived in seven pairs of yoga pants and assorted tee-shirts and just as I envisioned, my fashionista focus disappeared into diapers and home videos of baby steps. But inevitably, the need to bounce a wet child up and down on my lap or crawl around on all fours half the day morphed into a more grown-up lifestyle and I realized that my wardrobe, as practical as it was, would no longer suffice. Yes, I was still the mother of a young child but no, the thigh-high boots and skinny sweaters weren't working anymore. No longer in the market for the pricier styles of days past, I gravitated to Forever 21 and found that it had gravitated....away from me.
At first I thought it was because my backside and frontside were no longer in agreement. Somewhere along the line the fat that was meant to push my bootie up into a nicely rounded shape had decided it was better utilized protecting my internal organs from baby stroller handles or carrying a 40 pound monkey-child who was clinging to my neck for dear life. Thanks, belly fat! So nothing I tried on in Forever 21 fit. Even the large sizes. Someone should tell the buyers over there about the apparent obesity problem in America because I'm a size 10 and sized out of the joint. Everything was too tight, too short, or too transparent.
Then it hit me. The dreaded words I'd heard from my mother decades earlier when I'd seen an adorable Madonna-ish flouncy dress and though she'd look smashing in it. She was, after all, quite a lovely woman with a great figure.
"Oh, dear, she said with kindly dismay, "that's too YOUNG for me."
I didn't get it.
Now I do.
Cut to the other day when I was going through my packing list for Ireland and trying to figure out how to cover the bare skin peek-a-boo of leg between my ankle boots and slim wool pants (thank you, Lycra). I need both for the upcoming trip to Ireland where I'll be doing a lot of walking. I was proud of the boots - they were a step up from the Merrill clogs I'd been wearing for the past eight years. And more comfortable than the 4" heeled, square-toed knee-highs I'd saved from a time when I walked the fashionable advertising floor.
Still, my legs are as white as a dead flounder (probably fit right in there in Ireland) but not an attractive wedge between boot and pant no matter how great they look in a Macy's ad. Then I had a great idea! Why not wear a pair of black and white striped socks. In the gauzy image of my mind's eye it looked like the perfect solution. Practical, and hip. Maybe even a bit edgy.
I slept on the idea.
In the morning I had to face the fact that these kinds of Pippi Longstocking ideas might have worked when I was actually 25, but sadly, at my age it would be more reminiscent of the crazy cat lady who wears purple and, like the famous poem, uses her umbrella to rattle picket fences and prove she's not going gentle into that good night.
No thanks.
I've resigned myself to the fact that I've got to think more like Kate Winslett (she may be south of 40 but she's quickly aging into her British dotage), and less like Lady Gaga. A plain pair of black socks, ones that hopefully don't fall down and reveal my legs like a bit of granny's underwear.
But whatever happens, I'm not giving up my pigtails. Not until I look into the mirror at some future point and realize that they too have had their day. Then I'm going to shave my head and become a performance artist. Apparently if you are a performance artist you can be bald and everyone thinks it's cool.
Still packing.
Part II was a bit different and I blame my lack of age-awareness on the fact that I clung to the notion I was a late bloomer. Which I actually was. When I left my job at the studio and went off to Canada to rediscover myself as a writer, I was suitably homeless for a while (if staying in a friend's guest house counts) jobless, and then looking for paying work anywhere I could. My relationships weren't working out so well either. Once I'd let go of the career marriage, my taste in men hadn't matured beyond the Justin Timberlake stage and I was picking one tempermental lost soul after another.
My solution was to jettison any trappings of age to stay in a kind of time-travelling stasis, one that was forgiving of all my mistakes, and I think it actually worked for me. At an age when, in past centuries, women were rotund dowagers wheeling around in wicker chairs and playing whist, I started my real married life, got a kid, and jumped into the PTO head first. They say children keep you young and so far this has worked wonderfully for me.
For the first six years of Sweetpea's life I lived in seven pairs of yoga pants and assorted tee-shirts and just as I envisioned, my fashionista focus disappeared into diapers and home videos of baby steps. But inevitably, the need to bounce a wet child up and down on my lap or crawl around on all fours half the day morphed into a more grown-up lifestyle and I realized that my wardrobe, as practical as it was, would no longer suffice. Yes, I was still the mother of a young child but no, the thigh-high boots and skinny sweaters weren't working anymore. No longer in the market for the pricier styles of days past, I gravitated to Forever 21 and found that it had gravitated....away from me.
At first I thought it was because my backside and frontside were no longer in agreement. Somewhere along the line the fat that was meant to push my bootie up into a nicely rounded shape had decided it was better utilized protecting my internal organs from baby stroller handles or carrying a 40 pound monkey-child who was clinging to my neck for dear life. Thanks, belly fat! So nothing I tried on in Forever 21 fit. Even the large sizes. Someone should tell the buyers over there about the apparent obesity problem in America because I'm a size 10 and sized out of the joint. Everything was too tight, too short, or too transparent.
Then it hit me. The dreaded words I'd heard from my mother decades earlier when I'd seen an adorable Madonna-ish flouncy dress and though she'd look smashing in it. She was, after all, quite a lovely woman with a great figure.
"Oh, dear, she said with kindly dismay, "that's too YOUNG for me."
I didn't get it.
Now I do.
Cut to the other day when I was going through my packing list for Ireland and trying to figure out how to cover the bare skin peek-a-boo of leg between my ankle boots and slim wool pants (thank you, Lycra). I need both for the upcoming trip to Ireland where I'll be doing a lot of walking. I was proud of the boots - they were a step up from the Merrill clogs I'd been wearing for the past eight years. And more comfortable than the 4" heeled, square-toed knee-highs I'd saved from a time when I walked the fashionable advertising floor.
Still, my legs are as white as a dead flounder (probably fit right in there in Ireland) but not an attractive wedge between boot and pant no matter how great they look in a Macy's ad. Then I had a great idea! Why not wear a pair of black and white striped socks. In the gauzy image of my mind's eye it looked like the perfect solution. Practical, and hip. Maybe even a bit edgy.
I slept on the idea.
In the morning I had to face the fact that these kinds of Pippi Longstocking ideas might have worked when I was actually 25, but sadly, at my age it would be more reminiscent of the crazy cat lady who wears purple and, like the famous poem, uses her umbrella to rattle picket fences and prove she's not going gentle into that good night.
No thanks.
I've resigned myself to the fact that I've got to think more like Kate Winslett (she may be south of 40 but she's quickly aging into her British dotage), and less like Lady Gaga. A plain pair of black socks, ones that hopefully don't fall down and reveal my legs like a bit of granny's underwear.
But whatever happens, I'm not giving up my pigtails. Not until I look into the mirror at some future point and realize that they too have had their day. Then I'm going to shave my head and become a performance artist. Apparently if you are a performance artist you can be bald and everyone thinks it's cool.
Still packing.
posted by vallie at 1:11 PM
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