It’s no secret that I am fashion challenged, and while I enjoy picturing myself fashionable I lack confidence, creativity, and motivation. In my youth I followed trends, I have a chilling recollection of banana clips, scrunchies, lace gloves et al Madonna, and there was a short Hippie phase. I was ahead of my time as this was before the Bohemian trends. Picture if you will wrap skirts, jesus sandals and feather earrings. As time went on and I was in the throes of babies and mommydom I ended up with a wardrobe of yoga pants, blue jeans, and two outfits I rotated for fancy. Presently my wardrobe has morphed into all black, I’ve been under the misconception since gaining some weight that black is slimming. I look like Johnny Cash.
Lucky for me, grey hair is trending so my laziness has caught up to my lacking fashion sense. I’m really not worried though, I was reminded of the poem Warning by Jenny Joseph. She talks about what she is going to do when she is an old woman, wearing purple,eating and drinking what she wants, getting into mischief, learning to spit. I like her spunk. It got me thinking of what I am going to do when I am an old woman. Age to be determined. I’m not sure what constitutes old. At 30 I thought 50 was old, when my kids were small, I looked at the Mum’s of the kids going to high school and couldn’t imagine what that was like.
When I am an old woman I am going to wear very high shoes, and clothes with animal prints, and carry a cane because I will need help walking in the high heels. I may start smoking, probably cigars, or a pipe.
I will always overtip when I’m dining out, and I will never carry my own bags, or walk through the airport when I travel. I will tell terrible, rude jokes. (This will be a feat as at this age I almost never remember the punch line when I’m telling a joke) I will flirt with much younger men, and I will always dance when there is music.
My middle will spread further and I will eat whatever I want, whether that’s pizza and beer, or martini’s and toast. I will say whatever comes to mind and I will wear a hat. I draw the line at wearing pink though, horrible colour.
Bohemian to 50, and my first pair of eyelashes.
When I am an old woman I shall wear purple With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me. And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves And satin sandles, and say we've no money for butter. I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells And run my stick along the public railings And make up for the sobriety of my youth. I shall go out in my slippers in the rain And pick flowers in other people's gardens And learn to spit. You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat And eat three pounds of sausages at a go Or only bread and pickle for a week And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes. But now we must have clothes that keep us dry And pay our rent and not swear in the street And set a good example for the children. We must have friends to dinner and read the papers. But maybe I ought to practice a little now? So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.