Fashionista to Passionista

A few years back, some canny soul coined the term “TomKat”, and a fad was born. But no, it wasn’t a fad. Today, people are portmanteauing all over the place. Portmanteau is the very dignified term used to describe combining two words to form a new one. And so, it is in that spirit that I created the term fromance. Thinking myself quite clever to invent such a catchy new word, I set to work on this piece, only to discover that fromance has been in the urban dictionary for some time. Oh well, I did invent it. It’s just that a lot of people had thought of it already.

My curly hair has always been the bane of my existence. Its texture is such that my hair will respond to anything I do to it. Until there is one molecule of water vapour in the air, in which case, it first flips, bends, then coils into ringlets. Well, at least in the front. The sides and back, unfortunately, simply expand into a horror-inducing mess. Yes, small children shield their eyes as I pass, teenagers snicker, adults shoot pitiful glances my way. Sometimes, a kind soul will take pity on me and offer me a flat iron. Think Carrie’s Mom crossed with Ronald McDonald (I’m a redhead). It ain’t pretty.

There was even a point shortly after the Barbra Streisand movie Evergreen, where I actually permed my hair into tight coils. It was pretty – until it began to grow out and gave a terrifying new meaning to the word “flat top”. Back in the 80’s, creating a billowy cloud of curls meant mousse, and lots of it. I imagine when a man ran (or more likely, tried to run) his fingers through a moussed woman’s hair, it sounded like boots crunching on snow and there was probably screaming involved. You know when a frothy halo of curls moves as one entity, it’s helmut-hair hell.

Now why go to all this fuss to fight nature? Why not just embrace my curls/waves/frizz with abandon and be the real me? Why spend at least 30 mins each morning taming my unruly mess into some semblance of civility? Other than the fact that the real me resembles an Einstein who decided to go with Intense Copper, it’s because I love my hair. I love how it looks when I take the time to style it. I spend 30 mins with a blowdryer, three different round brushes, Velcro rollers, and a flat iron to achieve a “natural” look. I picture Picasso with one paintbrush in his mouth, another in his hand, as he studied his canvas, his muse, lost in his art. That’s me in my ensuite – I’m the Picasso of Porcelain. I appear to have six hands as I create my masterpiece, brushes flying, sweat beading on my brow from the heat of the dryer, Alice In Chains blasting on my iPod to pump me up, as I pump my hair up. It is a masterpiece. I can’t draw a straight line or sing a note, but damn it, I give good blow dryer. Good times.

But wait, did I not just say my hair was the bane of my existence? And now I am extolling its virtues? Isn’t that what legendary romances are made of? Passion, sometimes disguised as love, sometimes hate, but never apathy. Because here is the problem. After spending a hefty chunk of my morning coiffing up a headful of fabulous, I will see the beginnings of the dreaded curl forming moments after leaving the house. It’s like creating a turreted sandcastle only to have some brat come along and gleefully kick it to smithereens. Damn you, Mother Nature. Jealous  much?

Contrary to how I’m presenting myself, I’m no high-maintenance diva. More often than not, I will tuck my strands up under a ball cap to buzz around the neighbourhood. Long gone are the days when I applied a full face just to pick up the mail. I am very comfortable in my skin. I am content at this age and stage. My primary accessory these days is joy, and it goes with everything. But I’m just not ready to go hair-commando yet.

When I think of myself in the future, I believe there will come a time when I  chop off my shoulder-length locks and embrace my 50% grey. My morning routine will consist of finger combing my curls, and letting them dry where they may, in a curly, cute cap, framing the face of a woman who embraces where she has come from, and looks forward to where she is going. A time will come when I’ll want to do something else with those 30 minutes in the morning. Maybe I’ll be working with sea turtles in Costa Rica or whales on the St. Lawrence. A flat iron will not likely be part of the picture. I’m looking forward to that time, but it’s not here yet.

In a bar recently, I was participating in a trivia game – the kind where the questions are displayed on ceiling-mounted monitors and the players punch their answers into a console. I was winning, and I had $50 riding on the game. The last question flashed on the screen: Where is a woman’s hair the curliest? I grinned. Sadly, the answer is Fiji. I wasn’t even close.

And so my fromance continues. The effort, the love, the resentment, the disappointment, the unexpected storms, the joy. I’m embracing it all. For now.

Vogue Editor c. 1940

No, this isn’t a post about menopause. Besides – ewwwww – those aren’t good sweats. This is a post about what Oprah calls shlumpadinkas . Oprah made this word up – and it’s a pretty good one  – to describe women who had given up on their appearance and wore nothing but sweats. Are men shlumpadinks, I wonder? I have a closet full of beautiful clothes, magnificent shoes (seriously, someone in a grocery store recently called my Naughty Monkey pony hair Mary Janes magnificent - and they are!), and yet, sadly, I fall into the shlumpadinka category. Because once I’m home the stylish fitted sheath comes off, the heels are carefully shelved, and my trusty grey sweats sporting bleach stains are what I settle myself into. Then I wake up on Saturday and Sunday, and the sartorial splendour I’ve displayed during the work week devolves into choices that should earn me the title Queen Shlumpadinka. But, I’m still a fashionista even when dressing down. I only wear my good sweats out in public. What is the difference between my regular sweats and my good sweats? The “good” sweat pants don’t have bleach stains, and the “good” sweatshirt was purchased in a women’s store and is slightly more fitted than the mens XXL I schlep around the house in.

There is a reason mothers with young children fall into this trap. I myself had two sweat suits I interchanged while raising my babies in the 90s. You’re tired, overwhelmed, and it’s all you can do to keep your child from swallowing those bath oil beads (poison control, I’m sure, had a file on me). When you haven’t slept through the night in three years, using what little decision-making ability you manage to find on choosing an outfit which doesn’t cause pantylines seems ludicrous. And once you cross that pantyline line, well my friend, it’s a slippery slope straight into shlumpadinkaville.

But what about now? What about the fact that I have thousands of dollars worth of beautiful clothing at my disposal, and yet I manage to look like a homeless person (mind you, a homeless person who somehow managed to come across a cute Michael Kors crossbody bag) when I pop out to the do the groceries on Saturday morning? (Disclaimer: This is not a judgement about homeless people. Whenever I head into the city I take money specifically to give to any homeless person I encounter. Regardless of how they got there, we are all part of a global community and I believe in giving back. That being said, I’ve not run into one homeless person whose personal style or grooming habits I would like to emulate. End of Disclaimer.) I certainly don’t have the excuse that I’m run ragged by rugrats. I don’t live with a partner so don’t need to accomodate anyone else’s schedule, and my grown kids, Search and Destroy who live with me, manage their own lives. Nope, things are going pretty well in my life at this point and I have plenty of time to make an effort on my appearance. So what’s my excuse? Laziness? Apathy? Comfort? Convenience?

Yes, yes, yes, and yes. The answer, for me, is that it’s a little bit of all of the above. Let’s look at each in turn. Lazy is not a word anyone would use to describe me. I struggle to stop doing stuff. But, given that I spend a solid hour each work day morning getting ready – clothes, hair, make up – yes, it is nice to be what constitutes lazy for me and just pull on a pair of relatively shapeless, neutrally coloured sweats and tuck my hair into a ballcap . Done! Apathy? A little. While I have always cared about my appearance, I have always and only ever dressed for myself. Never to impress anyone else, male or female. I enjoy fashion as a form of personal expression (ergo the first part of my domain name), and I admire it as an art form. But, some mornings I simply don’t care to make the effort. Some mornings, I’d prefer to spend that hour walking or contemplating or writing (yes, I am currently in my good sweats right now, since I needed to pop out this morning to run an errand). Comfort? Absolutely. I spend five days of the week wearing beautiful clothes that look good in a boardroom: fitted suits, sheath dresses, and sky high heels. Not exactly curl up on the couch kinda clothing. It feels utterly decadent to then swath myself in fleece and not worry about seams or wrinkles or stairs or gravel, or any other environmental considerations one must have when wearing my weekday duds. Finally, convenience. Yup, that’s part of it as well. You see, my sweats just hang on hooks fitted to my closet door. I grab them and go. No hangers, no buttons, no straps, no zippers, no considerations at all. And when I’m done with them, I could put them back on the hooks, or throw them in a corner. They’ll look exactly the same the next day, ready to wear. Awww, sweet freedom from wrinkles. One of my personal philosophies was formed as a result of my extreme aversion to ironing: If you wear your clothes tight enough, you never have to iron. I know, I know, pretty powerful stuff. You’re welcome.

All ironing jokes aside, some of us at this age and stage are just as busy, if not busier, than our young mother counterparts. Many of us are looking after elderly parents, working, raising teens, managing homes, providing care, making a living. Many of us don’t have the time or inclination to give a rat’s ass about our wardrobe. Seven years ago, I was working three jobs and raising my teens alone. I can assure you, at that time I did not have a closet full of beautiful clothes, and I did not indulge an hour a day on my appearance. It was all I could do to put food on the table, and that is not an exaggeration. Some of us have issues with our bodies. Naturally thin my whole life, I have seen the weight do it’s best to creep around my middle when I wasn’t looking and frankly, it’s pissing me off that it’s taking as long as it is to get rid of it. Many of us at middle age have come through the winter and disrobed only to be horrified at what has taken up residence. And some of us are somewhat disillusioned at this stage of life. I have the opportunity and privilege to speak to middle-aged women on a regular basis since I organize a social group for 40+ women. A number of us are now unexpectantly single, some of us have lost our jobs just when we were supposed to be in our “peak earning years”, some of us are suddenly caregivers for sick parents or partners.  Some of us have gone through some significant personal losses, and it’s all we can do to get up in the morning, let alone do it stylishly. Personally, that has been my experience over the last two years, after I lost my brother suddenly at 46. Having lost my father and grandmother just three years prior, the loss of my brother pretty much did me in. I went to work and I did the groceries. And that’s about it. That was the life event which took me from stylish girl to sweats girl, but I didn’t realize it at the time.

For me, the defining moment was about six months ago, just about the time the haze of grief was starting to dissipate. I was heading out to do the groceries, and I realized I should probably go upstairs and change into my good sweats, which is what I wore to do errands whenever my give-a-shit-meter was a little higher than usual. I couldn’t get that thought out of my head, and it gave me pause. I realized that it’s not about the clothes, and it’s not about impressing anyone. It’s about feeling good about yourself. It’s about living with passion and joy despite your circumstances. Sure, there are a lot of justifiable reasons to be a shlumpadinka. For me though, who always got such tremendous joy out of fashion, recognizing I was upgrading from bleach-stained sweats to non-bleach-stained sweats (and thinking that was okay) was an aha moment. I had moved from numbness to awareness, and could now choose joy. You see, my other non-ironing-related philosohy of life is this: If it is to be, it is up to me. So let me just say this. If you’re a shlumpadinka, take a moment to look at why. If it’s because you’re busy as hell looking after everyone else and his uncle, well then you do what you need to do and to hell with what anyone else (including Oprah) thinks. If it’s because you’ve given up, remember that you are worth it. Remember that you deserve as much attention and love as you give to others. And if it is to be, it is up to you. You are all you can really depend on. And if you’re happy and content, and you choose to be a shlumpadinka, then by God, be a great one! Embrace it in all it’s fleecy goodness.  Do it with deliberate intent. Find joy in it. Now when I curl up in my sweats, I am not staring blankly at the wall or going through the motions. I am luxuriating in comfort and freedom.  Rarely is it the end result of what we do that is the issue. It is almost always the why we are doing it that matters.

In my previous post I discussed how I wouldn’t want 50 to be the new 30. But I posed a question at the end: Eventhough I wouldn’t want to be 30 again, would I want to look 30? The answer is a definitive, resounding, obvious….well, yes and no.

At a recent doctor’s appointment to discuss having my deviated septum corrected (thus hopefully eliminating the need to wear those beguiling breathe strips to bed  – they SO don’t go with my lingerie – perhaps if they made them in lace…). Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, the appointment. After explaining the procedure to me (they have to break my nose, put the septum in the middle where it’s supposed to be, and then let it reheal – super. I was told I might have a slight nasal whistle when I’m done. Well, at least people will be able to find me if I get lost in the dark…), the doctor very kindly suggested – without solicitation – that perhaps while under I could have a shot of filler here, pull up the eyelids a little there, botox my forehead… Hmmmm, and I thought I’d been looking pretty good that day. I thanked him, kindly refused, and made the appointment to fix my septum.

Let’s examine this for a moment. Society has come to value youthful looks to the point where it is simply assumed that we would prefer to look like perpetual 30 year olds. I’m not sure I agree with that. I mean let’s face it (face it, get it?). Gravity is going to do its work no matter how hard we try to fight it. If we keep lifting stuff up, at some point our navels will look like a tracheotomy scar.

Before I go on, let me just say that I completely support a person’s choice to do whatever the hell they want to their own body. I’m just not certain that having a smooth, perpetually surprised countenance is something I personally consider attractive.  Let me also say that if I had an extra $6000 hanging around, I would be in the doctor’s chair for an eyelift so fast, it would make your head spin, since I have had droopy eyelids since the age of 15. I’m a little tired of having to hold my eyelids up to apply shadow, but hey, that’s the hand…er…face…I was dealt. I guess my point is that I think aging itself is getting a bit of a bum rap. The marketing campaigns assume that we all want to look like 30 year olds, and we’ve been fed this for so long, it has become axiomatic. Whatever happened to character? Look at Kate Hepburn, Lauren Bacall, Meryl Streep. Maybe it’s just me, but I sincerely think the living that appeared on their faces over time only makes them more beautiful.

And now on to the other appearance factor, wardrobe. This is a subject near and dear to this fashionista’s heart. Again, maybe it’s just me, but I have no desire to head out to a dinner party or corporate function in a belly top and low rise jeans. I have no desire to be confused with Cougar Barbie. No, by now my style has evolved from edgy to elegance. I’ve done the trendy, sexy thing. (In my 30’s while raising young kids my entire wardrobe consisted of two sweat suits.) Over time, I have come to recognize my personal style and time has only refined it. I’m somewhere between the belly shirt and stretch pant demographics and it’s a stylish place to be. I think style at 50 and beyond should be defined as more Anna-licious (a reference to Anna Wintour, Vogue Editor), and less Fergie-licious.

So if the whole 50 is the new 30 mindset isn’t about actually reliving previous decades, and it’s not really about recapturing our looks of old (pun intended), then what does this paradigm mean? I think it means that 50 is vibrant, appealing (even when not cosmetically enhanced), energetic, powerful, joyful, confident, fun. 50 has all the benefits of 30 with the added blessings of wisdom, perspective, discernment, and experience.

So no, I don’t want to surgically change my looks to resemble a 30 year old. And no, I don’t want to fill my closet with items from Forever 21. But yes, I do want to maintain that inner vitality, that inner joie de vivre that radiates out to our looks and our attitude, and makes us beautiful. With nary a Cougar Barbie accessory in site.

Each of us lives by a chosen motto. It may not be acknowledged or recognized, but the way you live your life reflects what you believe about the world, and about yourself. A magnanimous person’s personal motto might be “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you”. A more cynical person’s motto might be “Do unto others before they do unto you.” A personal motto – or philosophy of life - will often change throughout a person’s life, to reflect their current circumstances and mindset.

As you can see from this blog’s tagline, my current personal motto is Living passionately is always in style. In my 20’s and 30’s, my personal philosophy was Don’t just Do It, Overdo It, my take on the Nike slogan. I was a tad type-A back then, and it showed. I lived on adrenalin and momentum, and while I recognize industry as a strong element of my personality, it was also a way to stay one step ahead of the general discontent I was feeling with my life choices at the time.

Freshly divorced, by my early 40’s I was starting to feel the restlessness that has recently set me on this path to refashion my life. My motto became Life is not a dress rehearsal. I forget where I first heard it, but it was quoted by Rose Tremain, a British novelist. This quote spoke directly to me, although I wasn’t quite sure why at the time. (I find that is a fascinating recurring theme in my life: something will strike me as important but I won’t be able to define why, only in later years to have it become very clear once my heart and head have caught up with my intuition.) In any case, in my early 40’s, I was not feeling a sense of mortality or urgency. This quote just struck a chord deep within me, so I adopted this as my philosophy of life, and carried on.

Some of you know that this blog, which reflects my current personal journey (which reflects similar journies of many of my boomer brothers and sisters), started almost 2 years ago after a significant personal loss which prompted a cold, hard look at my life. (To those of you who are new readers: you’ll not see older posts because I revamped the blog to reflect a new direction a few months ago.)  In looking for a tag line for this blog when I first started it in late 2008, I chose Fashioning a life, one outfit at a time. That seemed to reflect what I wanted to say. But, in the 18 months since this blog’s inception, I have done a lot of soul-searching for the meaning of life, and my purpose here, and what matters to me (that’s another post). To say that my priorities are profoundly different from what they used to be would not be an understatement. And so, when I reworked this site, I decided upon my new personal motto. It fits me like the perfect little black dress, with just enough “me” spin on it to make it personal. And, when I google that phrase, this blog is the only result.

At this stage of the game, I’m feeling calmly intent on, restlessly resolute, to live my life with deliberate intent. To set my own course, write my own chapter, blaze my own trail, or any other creation metaphor you wish to use. A lifelong lover of the exquisite art of fashion, style has always been a part of my vocabulary. When I look at myself and my life, I believe I’m a fairly typical representation of our boomer generation mindset. And what I see around me, which is wonderful, is a shift in priorities and perspective from things to thoughts, from consumerism to indivdualism, from matter to what matters. And so, I incorporated my love of style – the meaning of which has changed for me over the years – into my goal of deliberate intent, and voila, my new tagline was born. I’ve learned that style is a state of mind, not just a great pair of shoes. Living with passion, enjoying each day, embracing each experience, and being present in the moment, all contribute to living with elegance. This mindset, for me, has created deep contentment, embellished with just enough curiousity to keep questioning the status quo.

Examine your personal motto, your current philosphy of life. Does it still fit? Does it tug a little around the edges? Does it pull uncomfortably, or ride up? If so, give it some thought, look at where you are going and what you want. And create a new personal motto that is just the right fit.