Bitch Bitch Bitch

I am, among other things, what used to be referred to as "a woman of a certain age." I'm over 50 and I'm good with that. Fifty is a very liberating age, even if you don't have breast cancer to remind you of whom you truly are. Be happy with you, because you're great just the way you are.

Nonetheless, I've been in a general quandary about what's appropriate (or not) for women my age to wear. To help enlighten myself and avoid embarrassing fashion faux pas, I subscribed to a magazine aimed directly at my demographic.

I've come to dread its bi-monthly arrival. The magazine is filled with articles about women who've quit their unsatisfying, soul-killing but lucrative careers to pursue their personal career bliss. Without fail, these women have somehow managed to find the work they love that puts food on the table and pays the monthly mortgage. Imagine my distress.

I'm stuck here in Crazy Land, doing things that I generally don't like to do...or doing nothing at all (unless you count weblog activity as work-related). I'm the primary wage earner in the family, I have breast cancer, personal debt in addition to a mortgage payment and, of course, the rising costs of fuel, food and medication. Stuck.

I resent the beaming faces and glowing testimonials to branching out on your own, opening a knitting store, a cozy bed and breakfast, etc., etc., ad nauseum. Looking at them makes me feel like a failure and a coward. I am a failure because, even when my job here was highly demanding, it was without question nothing that I ever liked and always underutilized my brain power and creativity.

Next, the age-appropriate fashion. How many of us can afford a "bargain" $300 dress for work? Or a $150 pair of jeans, paired with a $200 pair of espadrilles and a $150 shirt? Even if I could afford it, I wouldn't. Clothing costs make me absolutely crazy. I like clothes. A lot. I don't indulge my desires as much as I used to; the changes breast cancer makes to one's body doesn't inspire a great body image.

I shop at sales. I mean 80% off sales. Even at that discount, I still couldn't afford anything like the prices cited as "reasonable" in any magazine that features knock-offs of high fashion looks. I don't want to look like Meryl Streep; I just want to look classy and elegant. People generally say I do. I think that has to do with the way I (used to) carry myself and the fact that I was genetically blessed with a tall, slender frame. We all know I work out like a maniac when I'm capable (in between breast cancer tortures). I try to eat right. So I look okay, without spending lunatic amounts of money.

Nonetheless, I'm sick of being made to feel like a disappointment to my generation for not achieving enough, looking good enough, being healthy enough, not climbing a mountain, not raising a perfect family while having an enriching career.

Where am I going with this? Nowhere. I just had to say. I'm not, repeat not going to read this month's article about gourmet cooking on a $400 a week budget. Furthermore, you don't like what I'm wearing? You think I shouldn't be wearing these shoes because they're too young-looking? As it turns out, I don't really care. Welcome to fifty.