I’ve heard there comes an age when a person ceases to care about what other people think. Is it when you hit fifty? Sixty? From there it seems a slippery slope down into utter social breech in the twilight years when you feel it’s your personal responsibility to deliver some home truths. Like when I was told by an elderly chap during my last pregnancy “Wow, you’ve really filled out….and it’s not just the baby!” Thank you very much.
If you asked me if I was heading in that direction, I would give you a flat ‘no’. But I was a bit worried today when I realised I might be further along the continuum than I first thought.
I was pottering along one of my regular runs, and with nothing new to look at I let my mind wander. I started thinking about my shoes and the way they were affecting my stride. A natural thought considering I’m breaking in some new runners.
But then disturbingly, I thought of my socks. My purple socks.
My shoes are lime green with a black tiger pattern. Nice.
But it gets worse. I had on my comfy grey shorts (with a classic fade pattern), a pastel pink and cream singlet, and a black and white running hat.
I was distracted when I left home but I can’t claim to be entirely unaware of the discordance. Holy ham-less burgers Batman, what’s happening to me? I left my house like that without hesitation. I hadn’t done my hair (hence the cap) and wasn’t wearing even a lick of mascara. Did I even put deodorant on? I don’t think so.
Passing traffic honked me. Twice. I’m pretty sure it was in protest of my crimes against fashion and not in any complimentary way.
There is something about saluting my youth and joining the ranks of the next phase of life that freaks me out. I can’t even bring myself to say ‘middle aged’. What if I can’t rock climb anymore? Or kayak? Or wear low rise jeans? What if I have to behave?
Excuse me while I go and colour co-ordinate my underwear and lipstick.
No comments:
Post a Comment