Is It Time to Start

by carmen

Dressing my age?

I thought tonight as I looked in the mirror.

No wonder he was flirting.

I look like a teenager.

Ok, let me take that back, no teenagers I know have grey hairs sprouting at their temples.

I was dressed like a teenager.

Bright electric blue eyeliner, hair down, long, curly, grey’s are not so noticeable when I wear my hair down (and they are not that abundant, I am just not used to seeing them on my head. They started sprouting when I was in Paris right around the New Year), with two big flower clips in it, both purple, one that I covered in glitter glue and the other an iridescent blue/indigo/violet that shimmers underneath the light.

Add to that my striped blue teal, indigo, chocolate, and purple socks (which you can see as I had my blue jeans rolled up, biking you know) and my black Converse low tops and I look like a kid.

Toss in the purple messenger bag and the big hoop earrings with disco balls on them and well, I guess if I was a 27-year-old boy from Ukiah, I would be dazzled too.

I kept poking myself, he’s 27!

Leave him be.

But I could not help it.

Damn cuteness.

Flirting harmless.

I walked away and hopped on my bicycle and thought about dating men my age and what that means and wondered do I need to dress like someone my age?

Then I thought.

FUCK NO.

I am just going to dress like me.

Although I would like a pretty dress.

I am going to see the Mister tomorrow night and the thought of a pretty dress really did something for me.

I might scrape off the glitter nail polish too.

He’s a pretty sharp dresser, has to be for work, and I feel a little like a big kid around him, in my black Converse and blue jeans, messenger bag, and tattoos.

But, I don’t hear him complaining.

Never had.

This is just all conversation up in my head.

And I look what I look like and yes, I will probably be that crazy old lady with pink flourescent hair and a crinoline learning how to ride a skateboard at the age of 65.

I mean, why not?

I am having a good time.

Now, give me a whopping big clothing allowance and I am sure I would dress differently, not less colorfully, but differently.

There is a little longing to grow up, to be pursuing “adult” tastes, but I think that is just a way to cause myself unnecessary grief, a way to beat myself up and try to be happy by being conformist.

I am not a conformist.

Never have been.

Never will be.

“You look exactly how I thought people in San Francisco would look like,” my friend said to me after she had been living in the city for a while.

I was flattered.

I knew what she meant.

Because San Francisco is just not as whack-a-do as people think it is.

Oh, there are some colorful folks out there, a few leather daddies wearing it proudly in the Castro, maybe an art student or five getting creative with their clothes, but I see a lot of uniform in the city.

Mostly yoga pants and running shoes, Northface and Lululemon and Gap and clever tight-fitting leggings that make your ass look great, if you’ve been doing lunges all day long, not my type of thing though.

There’s a framed piece of art that I took out of the box yesterday with my things.

My sister made it and gave it to me many, many years ago.

The first time I saw it I was put off, that’s not me.

But the more I see it, the more I see that her estimation of me was correct.

It is a calligraphy that she did saying “Eccentricity is not just for rich old men.”

I thought, “I am not eccentric!”

I am though.

I belive that eccentricity has more to do with wearing your heart on your sleeve and not giving so much of a damn that I am a forty year old woman that wears irridescent flowers in her hair that she bought at a casino in Reno on the way to Burning Man.

Fuck, the world could use a little more of that if you ask me.

Here is an interesting list of eccentric characteristics (thanks Wikipedia):

According to one study, there are eighteen distinctive characteristics that differentiate a healthy eccentric person from a regular person or someone who has a mental illness (although some may not always apply). The first five are in most people regarded as eccentric:^[6]

Nonconforming attitude
Idealistic
Intense curiosity
Happy obsession with a hobby or hobbies
Knew very early in their childhood that they were different from others
Highly intelligent
Opinionated and outspoken
Unusual living or eating habits
Sometimes not interested in the opinions or company of others
Strong moral obligations (against infidelity, strong family values, ultrareligious)
Mischievous sense of humor

Um, yeah, I could check a few of these off.

I don’t mind being different, I rather like it.

I have always felt a little different, sometimes to my deteriment and sometimes, most times and more often now than ever before, I like the differences.

I like that I have tattoos and glitter in my outfits.

I like that I wear bright colors and I like it that I sing out loud while walking the kids to the park, that I will happily dance down an avenue in Paris twirling my umbrella and signing a song from the Parapluies of Cherbourg (I mean, come on, when in Paris, right?).

I like that I am happy and let myself be silly.

I don’t need to dress my age, who cares a fig about age, aside from wanting knees that don’t feel like they’re arthirtic, which I don’t want to admit to, but man, the knees have been grinding on me, I dress in what makes me happiest.

And I believe that I need to do more of that, if anything.

Dress for happy.

Not for 40.

Dress for love.

Not for conformity.

Society.

Or to get a man.

Just for me, just because.

I want to.

Now, where’s that cute boy?

Auntiebubba