Fashionista to Passionista

One of the things that fascinates me the most about humankind is how different we all are. I love that while we are all fashioned out of the same elements, we are each put together just differently enough to create billions of individual humans with different perspectives, different passions, different interests, different personalities. What a fabulous kaleidoscope of diversity is humanity. How tedious and boring it would be if we were all the same. The Stepford Wives horrified me, not just because they wore ridiculously brimmed hats (a la Here Come The Brides) while grocery shopping, but because of the stifling sameness. (And speaking of 70’s movies, that sci-fi flick starring Farrah Fawcett also horrified me because a) citizens were “eliminated” at 30 years of age, and b) they all wore the 70’s idea of kicky, futuristic outfits, and they were quite hideous.)

What I think is wonderful about humanity is that you don’t give a rat’s ass about what matters to me, and right back atcha. Isn’t that wonderful!? I think it’s fabulous! It means that we have myriad charity groups so that those of us passionate about saving the whales can participate and contribute, as can those of us who want to improve living conditions for women in Rwanda. Some of us want to study geography, and others of us are obsessed with how things work. Some of us are the life of the party, and some of us like to quietly observe the life of the party.

I admire those people who respect the differences in others. I personally find the differences fascinating and positive. Therefore, when I learn that someone in my community is branching out, taking a chance, making a leap of faith, venturing into the unknown, all in the name of finding their passion or following their bliss or any other cute little phrase you want to label it with, well, I say booyah!! How many of us though, are surrounded by a majority of folks who, upon learning that we want to move a tad outside our carefully constructed comfort zone (complete with caution tape and everything), are very quick to label us crazy, restless, immature, or silly. How many of us are surrounded by people who want to know why we’re just not satisfied with the status quo?

I say to hell with the status quo. Sure, the status quo is safe. It’s predictable. It’s very Stepford Wives. But it’s not living. It’s not experiencing and failing and falling and trying again and starting over and succeeding and loving and laughing and grinning because you’re so damn delighted with yourself. You’re delighted with yourself because you ventured outside the box, and regardless of whether or not you failed or succeeded, you created and lived through an experience. And that, in and of itself, means success in my book. Because it enriches us and expands who we are. It makes us bigger on the inside.

I have read self-help  books which tell you to absolutely not tell anyone when you venture outside the box. They’ll just make you uncomfortable, not offer any support, create obstacles, label you crazy. You’re writing a book? Why? No one will publish it. No one will want to read it. Or, You want to go back to school? What for? You already have a job. You’re lucky to have a job. Why spend the money when you already have a career? What can you do with a Fine Arts degree anyway? I have also read as many books recommending you tell everyone on the planet so you can increase your sphere of influence and that people will rally to your cause when they see how important your new journey is. Regardless of whether and/or whom you decide to tell, the point is that it – whatever IT is – matters to you. And you matter. So what you care about matters, no matter what else.  What you care about has intrinsic value, and needn’t be defended or justified to anyone.

I’m here to tell you that if you followed a gut instinct, heeded an internal spark, investigated an urge, and took it beyond that to actually acting on it, well my friend, you are not crazy. You are amazing. But you are in the minority. Sadly, so many of us have become so firmly entrenched in our day to day lives and responsibilities and to-do lists that any thought of moving beyond that reality doesn’t even occur to us. And when we hear of someone who actually did it, we may offer congratulations, but many of us are secretly thinking “How dare you? You’ve proven that there is life beyond this, and, damn it, that shines a giant spotlight on the lack of deliberate intent in my life. Thanks, dude. On the other hand, maybe you’ll fail, and then I can feel good about myself again.”

Now, that sounds a little negative, and it is never my intention for this blog to be negative. I’m simply trying to point out that while some of us can be truly happy for our brothers and sisters who venture outside their safe little box, at least an equal number of us don’t like to hear about it, because it reminds us that we’re not venturing, we’re not experiencing, we’re not living. We’re simply existing. And misery loves company.

About a year ago, I starting paying attention to the sparks, to the glimmers of inspiration which began to push their way through to my consciousness. In all honesty, I didn’t consciously ask for the awareness. It developed as a result of the clearing of my mind after a loss where I simply wasn’t capable of filling my head with much else. I gained a new respect and love of life. I gained a very clear awareness of my own mortality and of the short span of each of our lives. In short, I realized that, at almost 50, I was running out of time to get my shit together.

And now, a year later, I organize a social group for some amazing women. The experience, and the members, feed my soul, and provide a sisterhood I never had growing up (I had brothers). What a wonderful gift. I have a blog which I contribute to regularly. It allows me to experience the joy of writing – something I lose myself in. You see, even if no one ever reads it, I am enjoying writing it – that’s the point. It’s my passion. If others enjoy it, well that’s a wonderful additional benefit. I have, in the last year,  participated in a Flash Mob, and conducted a speaking engagement (where I received a standing ovation by almost 2000 people). I also took a jewellery-making class and started guitar lessons, both of which didn’t inspire me enough to continue (although I can now repair my own jewellery which is cool). And I bought my dream car, a very aggressively styled Mustang which makes me grin every single time I turn the key. (My ex popped by to check it out and we happened to turn onto my street at the same time. He said he saw my grin before he saw the car.) The point is not the result. The point is the journey. The point is making the effort in the first place, even if people think you’re crazy.  The point is to find those things which keep you up at night and make you grin like an idiot.

You are entitled to live the life you choose. In fact, I believe it is our obligation to bring our particular gifts into the world. I believe that’s why we’re here. And, except for those blessed few who seem to be born knowing what their gifts are, the exquisite agony of trying to figure it all out is what life is really about. Once we learn to embrace that, the world is limitless. And I can tell you, raising children is rewarding, being part of loving relationships is wonderful, but being delighted with yourself, well, that’s a whole new level of joy.

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.

Yesterday I decided to head to downtown Toronto. Typically, I will take a small bag with just the essentials: ID, money, credit card, cell phone, lip gloss. Yesterday, though, I took a backpack. And in it was goggles, a towel, several bottles of water, a bandana, a camera, painkillers. Usually I prepare for my downtown trip with fun and culture in mind. Yesterday I prepared to be tear gassed. (For the record, I also took my lip gloss. I am, after all, a fashionista who shelved her heels in favour of sneakers for this outing.) My son and I had decided we wanted to see what was going on at the G20 protests for ourselves so made a rather spontaneous decision to head to the core. A number of friends asked me why I would put myself in harm’s way. The answer is simple: Because I can.

The purpose of this blog is not to be political. So why a post about the G20? Because the purpose of this blog is to document and share the experience of middle-age and all that comes with it. Five years ago, I would not have even considered the trip downtown. But now I can. And the shift from can’t to can is relevant to this blog.  So we’ll start there.

I have asked parents what the biggest shift in their lives was after having a child. Sure, lifestyles changed, finances dwindled, joy increased, stresses mounted, sleepless became the new badge of honour. But the single most surprising thing to new parents seemed to be the overwhelming instinct to survive. This was certainly true for me. When you realize you have a person completely and utterly dependent upon you for his or her survival, you make different choices than you otherwise might. It’s a no-brainer. You have to be here for them and you can’t afford to take any chances. As a result, a good deal of your effort goes into protecting and providing for these little people. You don’t drink and drive, you give up smoking, you hang up your mountain-climbing gear or back country skiis and you become responsible. You don’t take chance. You can’t get sick. Does anyone remember the show 30-Something? One of the characters, a mother of young children who is battling cancer, pleads “I just can’t die. I’m not done with them yet”.

One of the recent freedoms I’ve embraced is that my children, Search and Destroy, are now 22 and 20 respectively. I did my job.  Sure, I will always be here for them. But they are educated, capable adults who no longer need me for their survival. I don’t have to be afraid to die. Well, other than the fact that that would suck for me personally. But the overwhelming instinct that has guided the last two decades of decisions is rapidly fading. Mama bear has figuratively kicked those cubs to the curb and they’re going to be just fine. And now Mama can have some fun of her own.  And what better way to celebrate this freedom? Why, to put myself in the middle of a potentially dangerous situation, of course.

Part of my nature as a writer is to observe and document what motivates people. And part of my nature as a passionista is to participate in life, not just watch it. So, I turned off the news coverage and headed downtown with my son, Destroy. We packed our teargas gear and were downtown in minutes, given that most sane people were staying home and watching it on tv. By the time we arrived, most of the violence had ended, although a third police car was torched while we were there (which is why we had trouble getting back to our car – we had parked in the hot zone, literally). Here are some images from the experience.

A lot of gear for a hot, humid day.

Holding back protestors chanting "Whose streets? Our streets!"

Typical scene on many core streets.

Security guard waits for repairmen.

Huge destruction. Alarm was still going off as we passed by.

I’m glad I saw it for myself. I’ve spent twenty years watching the world go by. It’s time to rejoin. I realize I could have been harmed. I could have become trapped in a crowd, tear gassed, hurt, even though I was only there to observe and document. Things could have gone horribly bad. As it was, the only trouble we had was getting back to our car because by the time we were ready to head home, a third police cruiser had been torched and it happened just a block from the parking lot. And here’s one of the differences between my son and me. If he’d been unable to get back to the car, he’d have had to call for help, hung out on the streets, whatever. At this age, I could have just pulled out a credit card and got a hotel room. As it was, we had to take such an out of the way route to double-back to the car, that I just hailed a cab, and paid him $10 to find his way through the back streets.

This morning I discovered the other difference between my son’s experience and mine. He is ready to head downtown again today. I need to ice my leg after walking for 4 hours through the rain yesterday. He might have the strength and the stamina of youth, but I have the money for the cab.

I’m not sure how old Bette Davis was when she said “Getting old ain’t for sissies” but I think she was into her 70’s. I’m just around the corner from 50 and (say the rest in a gravelly-voiced-Keanu-Reeves-in-Speed voice) Sister, I’m already there….

I’ve noticed obvious changes over the decade of my 40’s.  There is more grey than colour in my roots now, and where I was once hard and defined, I’m now a little soft and doughy (and not in a good way). I’ve had to start trimming nose hairs, waxing a moustache that would make a 13-year old boy proud, and plucking those pesky stray eyebrows that spring up at various points along my once-tight jaw line. I cannot see properly no matter what I do. I’m either exchanging distance glasses for reading glasses, or looking over or under my transition lenses, or closing one eye so I can read a novel. (I have discovered that if I duct-tape the outside corners of my eyelids to my hairline I can see fine.) I refuse to wear nude pantyhose in the summer for fear I’ll resemble Ruth Buzzi but bare legs are no longer acceptable due to veins and discolouration:  spray-on cover up is a must. Let’s not even talk about what happens when I sneeze unexpectedly. I have learned to identify and overcome these challenges with merciless precision. However, a new indignity has recently come to light.

Last spring I experienced a hair disaster. It’s too painful to talk about so we’ll leave that for another post. The result was that after 20 years with long hair, it had to be cut to above my shoulders. Sure, it was cute and current and fun (horrifyingly, at some point someone called it “sassy”), but that’s not the point.  When it was long, I wore it up regularly.  After my cut, it was too short to wear up so I hadn’t actually seen my profile in almost a year. Recently, as my hair now rests on my shoulders, I decided to wear it in a low ponytail. As always, I check my view from the back and sides before leaving the house. Much to my horror, upon examining my profile, I experienced a new brand of horror: I now have f^&^%$!! sideburns.

Not actually believing it, I thought perhaps I’d failed to wash my face properly (although I’m not known to come home from my corporate job in the suburbs with facial grime). Alas no, it didn’t wash off. Gingerly, I attempted to touch it and I could actually feel soft, fuzzy little hairs that were there enough to pull on. What fresh hell is this?! I flashed back to my childhood…..

Here’s an adorable, precocious, 5-year-old me, sitting on my beloved grandmother’s lap, patting the sides of her face, cooing “I love you Grandma. You’re fuzzy.” She was probably 50 at the time, and it speaks to her kind nature that she didn’t unceremoniously toss me off her lap and tell me little girls shouldn’t make such comments. Instead, she just hugged me tight and told me how much she loved me. And then she probably broke the land speed record driving to the beauty shop for waxing.

It seems I am now my grandmother. Or more accurately, my grandfather. Because here is what is happening. Here is the big secret no one talks about as we age. Everyone wants to know why men just get better looking with age and why women don’t. It’s because men are turning into stately older men which is good. Unfortunately women are also turning into stately older men, which is bad.

As women go through the stages of their lives, they pass their peak fertility years. As much as we’d like to think that we’re civilized, evolved beings, we are still largely governed by biology. The reason that 20 and 30 somethings look so desirable is because nature intended it that way. As women age, our fertility declines as does our desirability, which is the natural order of things. If hot, young men were all jumping the bones of post-menopausal women in favour of their 20-something sisters, our species literally wouldn’t survive. I believe the aging process of women is designed to make us as unappealing to the male animal as possible. I guess turning me into a wrinkled, pudgy, grey-haired hobbit isn’t enough to keep the young men away, so nature decided to add sideburns to the mix. Awesome.

Before I say anymore, let me just say that I am not a desperate woman trying to hold onto my youth. I am venturing boldly into this new stage of middle-age. I am certainly more comfortable in my (less than taut) skin, and more at peace than any other time of my life. I am confident and assured. My grown children are decent human beings I am proud to give to the world. I am succeeding professionally. My personal style has changed from one of trendy to one of elegance. Ironically, my personal style strategy has always been to mix elements of both the feminine and the masculine. The look I’m going for, however, is to mix an over-sized men’s watch with a delicate bracelet, not to mix Blue Suede Shoes eye shadow with Elvis sideburns. Geez, what’s next, a soul patch? 

I find 40+ women an incredible species, all fashioned with the fabric of their own fascinating stories. I am – and I say this with complete honesty – absolutely okay with the crow’s feet that surround my eyes. I am happy with the elegance and grace that comes with confidence and inner peace. I am less emotional and more cerebral. I like these changes very much. I don’t want to remain young, but for crying out loud, I do want to remain a woman. 

I’m not sure what the next 50 years have in store for me. The “old broads” who have come before me inspire me with their candour about aging: Bette Davis, Lauren Bacall. I am proud to be on my way to “old broad-dom”. Meryl Streep, in her 60’s, was recently quoted in Vanity Fair as saying “I don’t remember the last time I cared about being appealing.” That is a wonderful freedom which I am just beginning to experience and appreciate. And I like it. On the other hand, Gloria Steinem, inspiring confidence and self-sufficiency in women, was quoted as saying “We are becoming the men we wanted to marry.” I figure she meant socially and professionally. Who knew it was also happening physically? (Or maybe it’s just happening to me. I’ve heard other women share their horror stories with the opposite issue: balding.) Either way, these conditions are associated with males, not females.

The benefits of middle-age – wisdom, grace, inner peace, and more - far outweigh the (mostly superficial) changes. I’m still not crazy about the fact that I now have to buy my waxing strips in bulk, but given that fresh (hell) challenges are still waiting for me, I’d better man up.