On Wearing "Whatever The Fuck I Want"
Lately I’ve fallen into the habit of asking Mike if certain outfits look too young for me before I walk out the door. He always furrows his brow and acts like I’m nuts for even considering the scenario–I think partly because he’s got an “age is just a number,” attitude, and partly because I’m two years younger than he is, so if I’m feeling self-conscious about my age, then he should be having an all out tantrum because his big 4-0 is on the horizon, (as in, it’s happening before the end of the summer). Typically, I echo the sentiments so eloquently expressed by the blogger behind Caution:Curves Ahead in her respons to an eye-roll-worthy article by Kallie Provencher for RantChic.com, “24 Things Women Should Stop Wearing After Age 30”. But sometimes I let self-doubt creep in when I think of how I’ll look among the other moms at school drop-off, for instance. (I know–I might as well shut this blog down right now if I’m going to use the schoolyard as a litmus test for how stylish I should or should not be dressing). The other 99% of the time, I feel like soon-to-be-38 is the new 25 (how hard is it to reconcile your actual age with how you feel?), and I dress
accordingly in whatever the fuck I want (I’m not swearing gratuitously here. If you haven’t already clicked the link above, then you owe it to yourself to do so).
Disclaimer: I’d be lying if I said that I was so secure in my age that I didn’t give an inward shriek of delight when I was asked for ID at the LCBO the other day. And I don’t know how “inward” it was. I could feel a big, goofy grin stretching across my face as I searched through my wallet for my license.