It just might tale midway-age to rock tweed.
This is day 15 of a 30 day New Year’s Resolution.
I did the math. I’m halfway through my New Year’s Resolution. When this write-o-rama began, I was sitting in a “casita” in Austin, feeling hungover, feeling happy. Fifteen blog posts later, the topic du jour has shifted from cutting fashion corners to death and dying. My New Year’s resolution is middled aged, and it is aware of its end.
Speaking of middles – both my Uncle and Grandfather died around their 80th birthdays. And while this doesn’t mean that I will die when I’m 80, nor that I think of myself as m-m-middle aged, given that I turned 40 this year, it puts things into perspective. Namely, for my New Year’s Resolution, and for my life, there may be a long, long, long time to go, but it’s not going to be any longer than what’s already been. I’m not middle aged, but I’m mid-way aged.
This brings to mind some of the ways people react to hearing that I’m 40. I get a lot of “no way”s – a lot of “you certainly do not look it,” and more recently, from a retail salesguy, “Congratulations!” A couple of days ago, someone said I looked 20, but I’ve seen pictures recently of when I was 20, and I look like a strange, long-haired, gothic Yentl. I don’t look 20, and I’m glad I don’t look 20.
I didn’t have the eye to put a look like this together when I was 30.
While most of the dudes rocking selfies on Instagram are 20 or 30-something, I enjoy being mid-way aged. On the one hand, when I wear a suit, I don’t look like an intern, wearing something handed down from his big-brother. I look like I belong in an outfit with gravitas. On the other hand, when I wear something casual, I make a point to wear something with clean lines and bold colors. I don’t want to wear blingy sunglasses or “streetwear” like the midway-aged guys I’ve seen lurking around Hollywood.
I want to take advantage of having survived this long, with a slightly higher budget for clothes, with a sharper eye, with a more discerning taste, and most important, with the confidence that younger men lack, the lack that keeps any young man from looking like he belongs in a red-velvet ball-room.
I plan to eat lots of kale. Exercise regularly. And wear what I look good in, long past mid-way age.
You can dress youthfully without dressing like a kid.
The old people sitting around my Aunt’s house after the funeral agreed: growing old sucks. I sympathize with their achey knees and their non-stop trips to the doctor.
But midway-aged? It’s pretty great.