This one had to do with reading stupid stuff on the internet, so I was doomed anyway.
This particular absurd artifact was a list of What Women Shouldn’t Wear After 30. Just the title took me from zero to full-on righteous indignation in seconds – which I suppose is how internet tripe should be approached for maximum gratification. I tried to find the article again just now, so we could all mock the author together, but there’s a ridiculous amount of advice on what women should or shouldn’t do after age 30, which got my blood boiling all over again.
With that title, I was pretty sure someone was going to be attacking my skinny jeans, and I was going to have to shake my fist at the universe in defense of 46 year-olds everywhere in skinny jeans. Or yoga pants. You do not attack momma’s yoga pants. Or little cap-sleeved t-shirts. Or running skirts.
Oh yes, I should be on a catwalk somewhere.
So, now I’m incensed that a worthless list has been churning in my head for longer than it probably took to write. Even though it’s nothing but drivel, I’m going to break down the specifics I remember and add my perspective:
Fur boots. When I was a teenager, our family friend Lynn wore what we called her animal boots. They were huge and furry and spectacular on her.
That was the 80s, but I suspect she could carry them off today. She wore leggings and animal prints and stood about six and a half feet tall. Her curly hair and megaphone voice added another half foot. She didn’t have kids and loved teenagers and decorated her house in Egyptian art and insisted I be served red wine with dinner just like everyone else at the table.
When I was fifteen she took me shopping for cosmetics at a department store. I came home feeling like Nefertiti and looking like I’d been on stage. I had cheekbones for miles.
I’ll bet if someone told Lynn what she couldn’t wear after age 30, they’d have gotten a fur boot right in the junk.
Fur anything. I’m not a big fur person anyway, but not for any reason that’s going to incite me to splash red paint on someone. I just think it’s kind of weird to wear the same stuff I’m constantly vacuuming off my floor from the dog.
One time one of these kids around here wanted a fake mustache for Halloween, and I found one at the costume store, with mustache glue. It was a realistic looking, high quality fake mustache. It said on the label: “made with real human hair.”
Real. Human. Hair.
I’m grossed out enough by my own real human hair that cleaning the shower drain makes me gag. Why not just slap a used Band-Aid on my upper lip?
That’s kind of where I am with the fur thing.
Hoop earrings. Shut. Up. I love my hoop earrings. I want to be buried in my hoop earrings. If I could I’d marry my hoop earrings.
Big Sunglasses. I had a pair of big sunglasses once. Loved them. They made me feel like Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Broke them in my purse about a week after purchase, just like every pair of sunglasses I’ve ever owned. It’s why I never pay more than $12 a pair. And why I squint a lot.
Bedazzled anything. Really? I kind of thought that the bedazzling thing was a hallmark of a certain age that is far beyond 30, or far younger than 14. Like the wearing red-with-purple thing, or snow boots with your leotard and tutu.
Bare Midriffs. If I had a good-looking midsection, I’d probably show it off all the time and I don’t care what the age. As it is, I don’t think there’s much call for someone with a stomach like a used Jiffy Pop container. But anyone else, if you’re in the gym or at the beach or in the dance club, share it if you’re feeling it, baby.
Blue or glitter eye shadow. Honey that stuff wasn’t appropriate at any age, unless it came in the Barbie hair and make-up kit someone gave you. And you’re seven.
Mini-skirts. I have three words for you, writer of internet claptrap:
Tina. Freaking. Turner.
Overalls. Um, I’m kind of with you there. Unless you’re a farmer. Or you’re pregnant and somebody gave you her hand-me-down maternity overalls. Then you can wear whatever makes you feel put together simply because it doesn’t have a blotch of spaghetti sauce on it.
Daisy Duke shorts. I had a great pair of short shorts. They were my favorite. They fit me well and didn’t ride up. I don’t think they revealed any actual cheek, so bonus points for that. I’m short, and getting shorter every day, so it’s not like I have a lot of upper leg to show regardless.
I’m sad to report, those shorts have gone missing. My husband does the laundry. These two things are related, but I can’t get him to cop to their disappearance.
I don’t want to press too hard, because then I’d probably have to do my own laundry.
Skinny jeans were nowhere on the list, nor yoga pants. So, even though it was a ridiculous list, and even though nobody should be opining on what to not to wear at any age (unless you’re a mom to a boy who refuses to don a proper winter coat), we can probably all calm ourselves and put away the pitchforks and torches for now.
Until the next stupid internet thing, I mean.
A vote a day is all I ask. Unless you bedazzle. Then you need to vote twice. Don’t ask why.
And thank you.
Photo by Benedetta Anghiliri