Look at this pic, that’s me in my twenties, living the dream, tight skin, natural hair colour, and a metabolism so quick it could compete in the Olympics. Yup, that was me, a self proclaimed lover of junk food, fake nail applier, tanning bed lover, and high heel enthusiast. I was one of those annoying chicks who said stuff like “I can eat anything and never gain weight” Ha-ha-ha, well look at me now, turning the corner on thirty and hardly fitting into my jeans. As it turns out “Wendy’s” is not a food group, and neither is Vodka.
Sorry to be a Jenny-downer but I currently only have 74 days left in my twenties, and I’m not handling it well. The abuse I put my twenty-year-old self through is now beginning to surface. I’m waiting, for any day now I will get my first grey hair and be reminded by my mother that my “biological clock is tickin like this”
What’s worse is, today’s world is one filled with gorgeous twenty-something’s, all who seem more successful, gorgeous, rich and powerful than me. How did this happen? Since when were babies welcome in the work place, and how did I not achieve this status while I myself was in my twenties?
The other day I was asking myself how I could possibly compete, and it dawned on me, this is precisely why older women dress in age-inappropriate outfits. Because they are trying to fit in with the younger demographic, or simply because they have never looked in a mirror. It then began to concern me, was I going to become one of the women who wear their daughters clothes? Ok, maybe not at 30, but 40 is only ten years away and if I’m not careful I could very well become “one of them”. Reason being; I never allowed my wardrobe to evolve past its quirky, semi-comfortable, reliable state. I don’t dress up for work, and I shy away from dressing “sexy” because I don’t like the attention it draws to me. Will I be forty years old, wearing a pair of mouse shoes? (woaa there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that!) Just recently my friend had to stop me from buying a shirt that had horsey’s all over it “You’re not 12” she said, “And they’re horses, not horsey’s”. Damn.
I don’t know why my style has never evolved considering I am not shy to take fashion risks, I guess I can chalk it up to the fact that I never thought about it. Not very profound, but perhaps enlightening myself to the fact that a change may be in order will bring about said change…do you think?
It’s not like I’m afraid of change, my hair is the perfect evidence of this. My hair has been every colour of the rainbow including pink, every shade of bleach including burnt, and every length including the current “dips into the toilet if I’m not careful”. Why wont I cut it? This is another story, for another day. So maybe I should purchase a pair of practical black pumps instead of those polka dot one’s I’ve been coveting? OMG even as I type this I know that is completely ludicrous. Historically, every time I changed my hair colour, or cut 6 inches off in haste I realized only after it was too late that I had never really thought the life changing decision through. I was immediately regretful 80% of the time I made a drastic change in hair style, and therefore I have to ponder in this situation, do I really even need to change my personal style?
I don’t know if I will come to a resolution over this before I turn thirty in 74 short days. But in case I don’t at least forty is still ten years away, so I figure I have some time to sort it all out before my future children are afraid to go out in public with me.
In the mean time here is another picture of me in all my twenty 28 year old glory, ahh the good old days…p.s photos by Laura May Photography, duh