Women and Age Appropriateness

The other day, I put on a top that I’ve had in my dresser drawer for ages. Literally, ages. I think that I got it around age 27, while I was still living in New York City, and had some sense of fashion from working in the industry.

A friend of mine, who is probably the most stylish of all my friends, worked for awhile at JCrew, and they had an entire room of prototypes that they had considered turning into JCrew products, but then passed on. This shirt that I threw out was one of them – a one of a kind, velour, half-shoulder number that showed just an inch of my tummy.

Now, thankfully, I still have a toned tummy, so when I put on that shirt a couple of nights ago to go out to dinner with my fiance, that wasn’t the trouble. The trouble was more one of age appropriateness. Did I look good, or stupid? Hot or old? Ridiculous, or not? I feel like it’s getting harder for me to see myself as I really am. I have reverse aging anorexia. The more I age, the fewer years I see in the mirror. Should a woman who is 35, barreling down on 36, still wear a shoulderless top?

There is no end to the fashion advice craze, and every bitch in stilettos has her own opinion on the matter.

Some say that a woman over 30 shouldn’t wear any pastels – too girly. Fuck that, I say. I like pink. So sue me.

Some people advise that women cut their hair to look younger. But, then, studies show that men don’t actually like women with shorter hair, so if you’re still single, you’re screwed. And if you have short hair and get a divorce? I guess you grow it out.

Some fashionistas claim that over 30 women probably shouldn’t be wearing short-shorts, or short skirts, or anything too revealing in the leg department – even if they still have great gams. By this standard, Tina Turner would have nothing in her wardrobe and women over 30 wouldn’t be allowed anywhere near the beaches.

I stick to this latter rule out of deference to my dimply thighs, but if I had great legs, I think that at times I might show them off. Although, there is something perverse about women in too short skirts walking with their 15-year-old daughters. It looks – I don’t know – strange.

Like they are attention mongers. Or just refuse to age at all. Or something.

It’s this ’something’ that I struggle with myself. I’m finding it hard to age ‘well’, whatever that adjective is supposed to mean before such an insulting effect to the body. Aging is never, ever pretty. It pretty much sucks. But we have to do it – all of us, including Madonna – so the questions I’ve been asking myself of late are these:

How can we all age ‘well’ without losing ourselves somewhere in the mix?

Is it possible to age naturally and accept it – to truly be happy letting one stage of our lives go while embracing the next phase?

Can we, especially as women, bow gracefully out of the competition that is female-dom in our early 20s and 30s?

When I lived in New York, I lived on the Upper East Side. The rich side. In my elevator one day, this ancient lady and a younger man got on at a high floor and we rode down together. She had on furs, her blonded hair done, and a thin, shaky strip of hot red lipstick on her lips. Her face was pulled back so tight that it looked shiny. Like Joan Rivers, only at 90. I kept wondering if the man were her son? husband? lover? caretaker? grandson? They were clearly going out to a fancy dinner, and as we left the elevator, she looked in the mirrored paneling and said:

“I’m worried that my hair doesn’t look right.”

I thought to myself, You should really be worried that your face doesn’t look right.

And then I promised myself that I would never, ever end up like that old granny in my elevator, no matter how tough it got to resist the lure of taking 10 years off, of an easy fix, of a more youthful existence.

I’ve been thinking recently about dusting off my journalism skills and going out into the streets to ask people – young and old, men and women, rich and poor – about aging. Their thoughts, their fears, about how they cope, when they first knew that they weren’t, ahem, youngish anymore. (For me, it was when my knee started to ache inexplicably going up the stairs.)

I want some advice. I want some guidance from real people who seem content with their lot at age 50, 60, 70, and beyond. Maybe I just want some perspective to counter all the youth-obsessed media we’re accustomed to here in the States.

Anyway, I threw out that velour top and changed into a sleeveless, black turtleneck. The next day, I went to get blond highlights in my hair to cover up the gray streaks forming at the temples.

You win some aging battles, you lose others.

I’m still trying to figure out what ‘age appropriate’ means, so if you have any thoughts on whether or not 50-year-olds should wear velour tracksuits with ‘Juicy’ on their asses, and why or why not, please feel free to weigh in on this issue in the comments section.