Saturday, September 3, 2016

     If there has ever been a word that has gotten under my skin over the years, it’s 


I hate that word. It speaks authority, discipline, rules, arrogance, It spells parents, principals, teachers, smart asses and mean girls.

     Enough said.

     What does that have to do with my blog today? Everything. I am a septuagenarian. (There’s no cure for this). This means, I have lived long enough to try just about every style of clothing ever imagined. Funny, no one ever asked my opinion about style, comfort or chic. No matter, OUTRAGEOUS MATTERS.

     I am at that age when I don’t know whether to dare continue Inappropriate or knock myself out with outrageous. There are three less letters in the latter, so that may help sway me. Let’s define “inappropriate” first before you all jump to conclusions.

     “Inappropriate” according to Dan Webster,the guy that claims he knew it all, but he was just bored so he wrote a fat book. I never could figure out how his was a bestseller. The definition of “inappropriate” is:  “not in keeping with what is suitable or proper.” Proper, shmopper! Whose the effen expert on “proper,” and when did this start? If it were in the Toga Period, then someone is confused because that was what I call Classic attire. I would like to get me one of those.

     I digress.  At a certain point, one must give up particular styles, favorite outfits, hair styles, layers of make-up, pure whisky. As I have flipped through some recent catalogues online, I have realized that the dresses which grab my attention do not assume spider veins or crepey legs. This truly sucks. I was always very proud of my giraffe extensions, but they are sagging with age, and the five inches above the knee (which now looks like an elephant’s) just feels weird. 
I was good till I turned 69, and then. . . 

     The cleavage thing has gotten easier, however, in some ways, as my breasts have shrunk proportionately to the crepe that covers me. So if I wear something low cut, it no longer makes me look like a whore. Now I just look like an old woman trying to play Kim K. 

     I used to love short shorts. I looked great in them, and I always wore stilettos or high wedgies. Men used to drool (at least, that’s what I told myself). Now the crepe has extended way too far up for me to even consider those cute lace-trimmed puppies. I am finally at the envy stage when I see young girls in them skipping along arm-in-arm with their man candy .
Oh, my. 

     And then there’s the hair and make-up piece. The older the woman, the shorter the hair. No, I don’t think so. Not this Septy. I had hair so short, you had to take a magnifying glass to see it. I wore it that way for at least 49 years. Enough. I wanted to run my fingers through my shiny waves and comb them like the Breck commercial bitch. Well, I can run my fingers through my locks now, but my fingers come out with pieces wrapped around them. yuck. (My English teacher taught me “hyperbole” in 1959, and I’ve used it ever since.)

      Make-up:  Less is more. Easy for you to say if you’re under 50. I am not so lucky. I got some incredible gifts in the old chromosomes, but skin was not one of them. I never learned to take care of skin; I was too busy picking up the dog turds in the yard. While young women today go to spas and buy thousands of dollars of products to moisten, firm, prevent, enhance, at their age, I was teaching Butch some tricks. As a result, it takes me longer to put on concealer than to clean out the pantry. Thank heavens that some greedy scientist figured out how to cover up our flaws, ladies, because without that guy, we’d all be in trouble, except for Jennifer Anniston. We all know she’s perfect. bitch.

     Here’s the bottom line:  After giving all of these issues serious paragraphs, I will continue with inappropriate and move my game up to outrageous. What have I got to lose? It’s all crepe anyway.