I used to be 'that' girl with 'those friends'.
You know, the young lady you would see in the super high heels with the super v neck top exposing almost everything with the super illegal short skirt that you can't bend down in or sit down in or breathe in. Trampi-I mean, traipsing around all sex before the city doing everything short of illegal and if it was, So. What.
My friends were all artists and automatically cool. We partied in old churches converted into night clubs. Partied in lofts that were taken over by other artists with questionable electrical and sometimey water. Sexuality? Free to be you and me and possibly he. Fueled by liquor cigarettes and drugs we would laugh at our parents, the old folks, 'cause they missed the train on being young and fun forever and ever aaaaamen.
Now I can't figure out if I am old or just jealous.
I still consider myself kinda...hip. *cringe* I dress current enough to accommodate certain things (yeah, the old 'do I look fat in this?'). I still have the cool artist musician writer design photog friends except we all have super high rent or mortgages to consider. Gave up the drugs, still do part time cigs and the liquor continues to flow into my body - albeit on a very slow pre-determined schedule, And my party places? Well that old church is now a mall. And the party has moved to my couch.
Even my politics seem to have taken a small turn right of 'let everyone be what they wanna be': So...you have many kids with many non-participating fathers. Suing because you spilled the hot coffee you ordered on yourself. Don't like the direction the country is taking but don't vote. Watching your pant size increase but won't get off of the couch or really change your diet. I am not heartless but it isn't bleeding too much for anyone anymore.
You know, the young lady you would see in the super high heels with the super v neck top exposing almost everything with the super illegal short skirt that you can't bend down in or sit down in or breathe in. Trampi-I mean, traipsing around all sex before the city doing everything short of illegal and if it was, So. What.
My friends were all artists and automatically cool. We partied in old churches converted into night clubs. Partied in lofts that were taken over by other artists with questionable electrical and sometimey water. Sexuality? Free to be you and me and possibly he. Fueled by liquor cigarettes and drugs we would laugh at our parents, the old folks, 'cause they missed the train on being young and fun forever and ever aaaaamen.
Now I can't figure out if I am old or just jealous.
I still consider myself kinda...hip. *cringe* I dress current enough to accommodate certain things (yeah, the old 'do I look fat in this?'). I still have the cool artist musician writer design photog friends except we all have super high rent or mortgages to consider. Gave up the drugs, still do part time cigs and the liquor continues to flow into my body - albeit on a very slow pre-determined schedule, And my party places? Well that old church is now a mall. And the party has moved to my couch.
Even my politics seem to have taken a small turn right of 'let everyone be what they wanna be': So...you have many kids with many non-participating fathers. Suing because you spilled the hot coffee you ordered on yourself. Don't like the direction the country is taking but don't vote. Watching your pant size increase but won't get off of the couch or really change your diet. I am not heartless but it isn't bleeding too much for anyone anymore.
When packing my purse I make sure to carry a pashima an umbrella mints tissues lotion extra pair of shoes ibuprofen lip balm SPF face lotion ...Maybe it's just me and this is what people (women) carry all the time. No one could ever count on me having any of this stuff. Took my chances with weather, with heels, with the possibility of a mess. Now I pack for the Apocalypse.
Ordering in restaurants is depressing. I consider my red meat intake my sugar intake my diary my carbs and settle for the freshly washed green leaf salad instead of the bacon garlic crouton encrusted buttermilk dressing salad. Settle for the steamed not the fried exotic. Settle for pseudo milk instead of the fourteen liqueur infused cocktail.
During my 'me time' days, I make sure to tell the manicurist to paint them Ballet Slipper throw up muted pinkish grey instead of the Aiee Ya Ya vivid lime green that catches my eye. What would my clients think? A responsible adult makes responsible choices.
Right?
Ordering in restaurants is depressing. I consider my red meat intake my sugar intake my diary my carbs and settle for the freshly washed green leaf salad instead of the bacon garlic crouton encrusted buttermilk dressing salad. Settle for the steamed not the fried exotic. Settle for pseudo milk instead of the fourteen liqueur infused cocktail.
During my 'me time' days, I make sure to tell the manicurist to paint them Ballet Slipper throw up muted pinkish grey instead of the Aiee Ya Ya vivid lime green that catches my eye. What would my clients think? A responsible adult makes responsible choices.
Right?
As with everything, as long as you can identify the problem, you can solve it. The problem: I was becoming an old judgmental asshole before my time. I could foresee it happening while kissing the sidewalk at the age of nine hundred (mumbling toothless at the feet of the young whippersnappers) but not now . The solution: just stop it. And it's not easy. You toe the line between being seen as the adult who can't let go of the past to the adult who can't let go and enjoy the future.
So everyday I have to make a concentrated effort to play with my food. To remember to live and let live. Paint them nails in teenage shades. Carry a smaller purse (impossible). To listen for those thoughts those words of pure naked cranky adultness before they come out of my mouth. Stop paying attention to right sided people. Go back to the ways of the glass is half full.
So everyday I have to make a concentrated effort to play with my food. To remember to live and let live. Paint them nails in teenage shades. Carry a smaller purse (impossible). To listen for those thoughts those words of pure naked cranky adultness before they come out of my mouth. Stop paying attention to right sided people. Go back to the ways of the glass is half full.
And maybe, just maybe, I can truly be cool again.
xo,
Fabulously Fourty(ish)
xo,
Fabulously Fourty(ish)
Girl, you are way cool to me!!!! P.S. that is what is in my purse too. HA!
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