Fashionista to Passionista

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.

A few months shy of my 50th birthday, I seem to notice anything pertaining to turning half a century old. It’s like my truck. I drive a Ford Escape and so I see Escapes everywhere.  Well, actually, there are Escapes everywhere. (Mine’s special because I pronounce it ”Es-cop-ay”.) But I digress. One thing I notice about being 50 is that it is being hailed as the new 40, the new 30. Why is this I wonder? Why isn’t it simply the new 50? Let’s ponder this a moment.

To me, “50 is the new 30″ implies that 30 is preferable to 50. I think not. I loved being 30 but I wouldn’t want to go back and relive that decade. Been there done that, got the migraine meds. I spent my 30’s raising my two wonderful children. The 1990’s are a blur of school trips and homework and playdates and scraped knees. Raising children is the most challenging thing I’ve done (and if you’ve got an hour and a good bottle of cabernet I can tell you about all the other challenges - there have been a few…) but I wouldn’t have traded it for anything. I loved my 30’s. But you couldn’t pay me to do it again.

So what about the 40’s? As my 49th year prepares to roll over to a new decade, I reflect on my 40’s. Been there, done that, got the divorce. If you’ve read previous posts you’ll know my ex-husband and I are still dear friends – always will be – but I needed to not be married anymore. That decision brought on a barrage of challenges: working three jobs to keep my house and dealing with the exponential angst of raising two teens (Search and Destroy) alone. My 40’s are a blur of financial pressures, homework which required thought and research and tutors, first boyfriends, driving lessons, long talks about right vs wrong. We posted a small whiteboard in the kitchen to write down grocery items, leave each other notes, and I started using it as a way to be present when I wasn’t present. Every morning before work (I finally did settle down into one corporate job), I would write a note on the whiteboard such as “Do the right thing, even when no one is looking.” It became a family activity as Search and Destroy would often add their own pearls of wisdom to my comments, such as adding “in your pants” after everything I wrote. Good times. Wouldn’t want to do it again.

And now as I approach 50, I am fully aware that I am no longer the mother of small children and wife of an airline pilot. I am no longer a single mother of two teenagers who has to choose whether to use her last $5 before payday for food or gas. I am simply and wonderfully just me (I feel a Helen Reddy song coming on….). This approaching decade is already gearing up to be so incredibly different than the previous two. Each have been spectacular in their own way despite, or maybe because of, the challenges. This decade will bring its own challenges I am sure. I have goals and dreams and aspirations that are purely and wonderfully all mine. They are potent, undiluted by others. To be simply, and fabulously, me, is liberating and exciting. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. Even without children, I’m not sure that I would have reached this perspective any earlier.

So I embrace 50. I celebrate 50. Let’s not banish 50 into oblivion by decreeing it’s the new anything. It deserves merit all on it’s own, as does every age and stage. I’m almost 50 damnit, and I’ve got the crow’s feet – and the blossoming wisdom borne of experience - to prove it.

Now, if you asked me if I want to be 50 but still look 30, well, stay tuned for a blog post coming soon to a website near you….

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.

Some folks wake up in the morning and jump out of bed, ready for the day. Some folks wake up and cuddle with their partner. Some folks start mentally running through their “to do” list. Some folks wake up and dread another day of the same (been there, sista!) These days, I wake up and deliberately let my mind wander wherever it wants to go. On non-work days, I lounge for 20 or 30 minutes and just let my mind take it’s sweet time down any path it likes, a mental browsing through a cerebral storage room. The house is quiet, the sun is filtered through the sheers, the steady breathing of the dog is comforting. And so my mind lazily wanders….

This morning it wandered to hats. I imagine I headed (sorry) down that particular path because it’s Good Friday which led me to thoughts of Easter bonnets, on to one in particular, and then it went on from there. Even though I am currently on a journey of self-discovery (more internal than external), you’ll note the first part of my URL is “fashionista”. Yes, there is still a Barbie inside who loves to play with her clothes. No reason one can’t be well-dressed while uncovering the amazing secrets of the self!

My first hat memory dates back to 1967/68. I’m around 7 and I am indeed dressed for Easter Sunday. Interestingly, and unusual for me, I canot remember the dress I was wearing, and I think it’s because it was outshined by the magnificence of my hat. In all it’s crocheted and bangled glory, a jewel-enrusted crown could not have felt more regal. I think my mother made it. But it sat atop my pixie-cut-haired head, all white wool and multi-coloured bangles. (Not too many, mind you. My mother wasn’t into overkill.) It resembled those crescent-shaped hats perched atop style icons’ heads in the 1950’s. (I searched the web for an hour looking for the name of that damned hat style to no avail so if anyone knows what they’re called, please let me know. It’s kind of making me mental. ) With my black patent leather Mary Janes and white purse, I felt quite fetching.

Jump now to 1975, grade 10. This was the era of wide-legged denim jumpsuits and platform shoes. Being a baby fashionista at the time, I was still feeling my way through the sartorial jungle. On any given day, I might get silhouette right, but mess up colour. Or, maybe I was dead on with texture and weight, but the shoes were wrong (an example which still haunts me to this day: sea green linen wide-leg pants with clunky, red/black platform Oxfords – sheesh). However, I decided that what my denim jumpsuit needed was – naturally – an engineer’s cap. So off I went to the nearby Co-Op store (small town, lots of farms around) and picked up a navy-blue-with-polkadots engineer’s cap. I still remember my mother’s horrified look when she realized I was actually going to go to school dressed that way. Of course, I felt very hip. In retrospect, I probably looked like a 15-year-old pimp.

My most comforting hat memory concerns my paternal grandfather. An executive at the Ford Motor Company, he wore a trench coat and a fedora to work every day in the 60’s. My grandfather was an imposing, strong character (especially to little 6-year-old me), but even at 6, I knew a sharp dressed man when I saw one. My grandfather exuded elegance and to this day, I feel an incredible wave of nostalgia when I think of that fedora. You can imagine how much I enjoy watching Mad Men. My grandfather was Don Draper (well except for the philandering and secret double-life). A little tip to Don: wear the fedora just a little lower on your head – it’s more fierce.

My next hat memory involved my father. Provided the relationship isn’t too messed up, I believe that the first man a little girl falls in love with is her father, and that was the case with me. I thought my dad was handsome, cool, funny, and rebellious. He worked in the office at Ford so wore trousers and a shirt and tie every day. But my dad was a weekend warrior. He’d rather spend his time on the lake with a bass boat, an outboard, and a fishing rod than just about anything else. We’d zoom out to a hidden cove or bay, kick back, catch some fish (or not), and zoom back in. Weekends were baseball cap time. Thing is, when you’re zooming across a lake, wearing a ballcap peak-forward is a quick way to lose all your hats to the drink. And so, when it was time to zoom out or in, my dad would turn his ballcap around, peak-backwards, and off we’d go. He saved the lives of many hats that way. To this day, I’m a giant sucker for a man in a backwards ballcap. I lost my dad 5 years ago now, but on my desk I display my favourite photo of him: driving the boat, red ballcap backwards, a look of complete contentment on his face.

Fast-forward to now. I’ve not yet activated my membership with the Red Hat Society but I love that they’ve used hats as their symbol of independence and joy and I expect I’ll start my own local chapter in a couple of years when I qualify for membership. I take my….er….hat off to them (sorry again) for finding levity and joy amongst the seriousness of life at this age and stage. We’ve done a fair bit of living – put on a hat, and have a good time!

Last year I bought my own fedora. And I wore it with a graphic print dress and above-the-knee flat boots to a Tina Turner concert. I think my grandfather would have approved. And when I’m at the gym and doing lat pulldowns, I turn my ballcap around so the bar can graze my nose. I think my dad is probably smiling at that.

But my favourite hat these days? It’s not stylish, it’s not silly, it’s not nostalgic. When I started down this path of self-discovery, I realized one of my goals was to get my scuba certification. Problem is, it’s been years since I’ve paddled around in a pool with my now-grown kids, and being naturally thin, exercise has never consistently been a big part of my life. As a result, I’m not capable of doing the laps required for certification. So, three weeks ago, I decided I wanted this bad enough to do something about it. (See a previous post “As a Woman Thinketh So Does Her Butt Get Bigger”. At some point, we have to translate intention into action. Power walking and trips to the gym and pool are now part of my weekly routine. And when I don my current favourite hat – my swim cap – and dive into the pool, I may not be stylish, but I’m fierce.