I once heard or read a story about a woman who, upon her marriage and subsequent acquisition of a cat, informed her husband that women should not clean cat boxes for health reasons. No, not pregnant women but women in general. Why he didn't think about all the many women who look after their cats without the benefit of male company, or even the origin of proverbial Cat Lady, I do not know. So he cleaned the cat box for years until one day someone, his sister or boss perhaps, mentioned that, being pregnant, she was no longer going to be handling the cat box at her house. The resulting conversation put a quick end to his wife's delegation of that particular responsibility. No longer could she get away with that little sin of ommision.
I've been thinking about this story because I've been giving a lot of thought to getting away with stuff. Not crime or anything like that, but rather in the ways my life is changing as I get older. It's true that while on the one hand age has given me the smarts and guile to get away with some new things I don't think I can get away with quite as much. It's been only recently, for example, that I cannot claim to be in my 20s. Not that I did so a great deal, but it was a nice fib to trot out from time to time as needed.
I can no longer get away with waiting for my phone to ring. In years past I had no trouble filling my days from offers for lunch, dinner, movies, shopping, trips and even jobs. The world beat a path to my door and it was fun. Now I need to be much more proactive in building the life that I want. Now I think I understand what aging actresses are talking about and I am learning what it means to really put myself out there.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not in mourning for my lost youth or anything like that. I rather like having developed the self-knowledge and self-worth to be able to choose wisely for myself rather than suffer what I now recognize was a certain level of insecurity that caused me to run around always being "on" - making good conversation, singing for my supper, telling funny stories and rolling out the dry sardonic wit when called for. It takes some level of courage to create space for oneself, to put a border between where one stands and the world. Age helps in this regard and I am increasingly grateful for my acquired years.
So when my March Vogue arrived yesterday I noted with amusement that I am now more or less dead even, age-wise, between the models and the intended recipients of advice doled out by the apocryphal Mrs. Exeter. More and more I find myself nodding in agreement with the recommendations and encouragement offered in response to a writer, inevitably a femme d'un certain âge who wants to know how to interpret the latest hot looks in a more appropriate, ahem, fashion. This month's column concerned the best ways to incorporate "global chic" into a more conservative and less colorful wardrobe - what, in other words, is a mature woman to do about hippy skirts and beaded ponchos?
It occurs to me that I can no longer get away with sartorial inappropriateness in the name of fashion. No more concert tees under suit jackets, among other insanities previously filed under "personal style." Just the other day I mentioned to my husband that I wanted to head up to Talbots to see if I could pick up a pair of nice wool trousers, that I was tiring of my wardrobe of jeans and turtlenecks. And what did he think if I bought a couple new scarves and maybe some loafers as well?
The next morning, as he pulled on his new tweed blazer with elbow patches, he encouraged me to make the shopping trip. "Don't get the pants in brown or black," he said, "You're a grown-up, but there's no need to be dull about it."
Mrs. Exeter would be proud.
I've been thinking about this story because I've been giving a lot of thought to getting away with stuff. Not crime or anything like that, but rather in the ways my life is changing as I get older. It's true that while on the one hand age has given me the smarts and guile to get away with some new things I don't think I can get away with quite as much. It's been only recently, for example, that I cannot claim to be in my 20s. Not that I did so a great deal, but it was a nice fib to trot out from time to time as needed.
I can no longer get away with waiting for my phone to ring. In years past I had no trouble filling my days from offers for lunch, dinner, movies, shopping, trips and even jobs. The world beat a path to my door and it was fun. Now I need to be much more proactive in building the life that I want. Now I think I understand what aging actresses are talking about and I am learning what it means to really put myself out there.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not in mourning for my lost youth or anything like that. I rather like having developed the self-knowledge and self-worth to be able to choose wisely for myself rather than suffer what I now recognize was a certain level of insecurity that caused me to run around always being "on" - making good conversation, singing for my supper, telling funny stories and rolling out the dry sardonic wit when called for. It takes some level of courage to create space for oneself, to put a border between where one stands and the world. Age helps in this regard and I am increasingly grateful for my acquired years.
So when my March Vogue arrived yesterday I noted with amusement that I am now more or less dead even, age-wise, between the models and the intended recipients of advice doled out by the apocryphal Mrs. Exeter. More and more I find myself nodding in agreement with the recommendations and encouragement offered in response to a writer, inevitably a femme d'un certain âge who wants to know how to interpret the latest hot looks in a more appropriate, ahem, fashion. This month's column concerned the best ways to incorporate "global chic" into a more conservative and less colorful wardrobe - what, in other words, is a mature woman to do about hippy skirts and beaded ponchos?
It occurs to me that I can no longer get away with sartorial inappropriateness in the name of fashion. No more concert tees under suit jackets, among other insanities previously filed under "personal style." Just the other day I mentioned to my husband that I wanted to head up to Talbots to see if I could pick up a pair of nice wool trousers, that I was tiring of my wardrobe of jeans and turtlenecks. And what did he think if I bought a couple new scarves and maybe some loafers as well?
The next morning, as he pulled on his new tweed blazer with elbow patches, he encouraged me to make the shopping trip. "Don't get the pants in brown or black," he said, "You're a grown-up, but there's no need to be dull about it."
Mrs. Exeter would be proud.
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