There was a time when I arrogantly rolled mascara-rimmed eyes at any of the reigning sex who dared emit a cat call, who had the ummitigated gall to whistle, who barbarically honked horns as I strode past on platform shoes that would make the Spice Girls circa 1997 jealous.
Those days are no more. The cat-calling, the platforms, the tits and ass that elicited such attention. Gone the way of the Spice Girls.
I get checked out by the opposite sex about as often as the Christ child himself celebrates another birthday. And now, when I notice some redneck-ish fella from 'round the way eyeballing my gravity-battling wares, I experience an emotion that would cause the innocently arrogant pre-baby me to make gagging noises: gratitude.
Isn't that some SHIT? To feel grateful to some sweaty, ball-scratching, hairy-backed feller in the plumbing aisle of Home Depot for checking me out?
And yet. AND YET. I do. I feel gratitude in spite of myself. In spite of never really being the kind of gal who enjoyed getting "checked out". For a moment, instead of cringing in horror and rocketing my shoulders forward - as I would've instantaneously done a mere five years ago - that double-take from a stranger gives me and my sagging, post-Henry mom knockers a better lift than the heavy-duty wire bra holding them aloft.
This odd experience leaves my inner feminist all pissed off and confused but has instilled within me a greater sympathy, very nearly an appreciation of sorts, for the moms who dress like their daughters. Because, they ain't going gentle into that good night even though I increasingly recognize it to be easier to give up on hair, on make-up, on trying to look presentable.
Rage, mamacita, rage. Rock it for as long and as hard as you want. Showcase that leathered, sunspotted chestal region until it's on permanent display in your coffin. Or else fade into oblivion? Or Ann Taylor and mom jeans, which, I think we can all agree is worse than oblivion.
Don't get me wrong, I plan to age gracefully. I'm not advocating the super freaky shit that seemingly every woman on the planet is doing to her face. The commonality of Botox and plastic surgery and what it's done to faces that were beautiful by nature of being natural scares the bejesus out of me. But the older I get I realize there's something about the whole "dressing one's age" thing that is starting to bother me. I've been far too judgmental of the clothing choices of others lo these many years.
Imma gonna wear my t-shirt, jeans, Chuck Taylors combo until I die and if I want to sport a tube top one size too small for aforementioned mom knockers, well, fuck you. Conversely, if a gal of a certain age wants to get her fishnet on because she needs a little pick-me-up by way of a wink from the opposite sex, I ain't one to judge.
Rage, motherfucker. Rage until you can't rage no more. And if your raging includes a miniskirt that's a tad on the inappropriate side "for a woman of your age", fuck 'em and rock that shit as hard as you can against the dying of the light.