When comfort outranks style, you’ve reached ‘a certain age’

My entire life I have heard women referring to either themselves or other women as being of “a certain age.” As a young child, I tried to make sense of the term and was left struggling with the euphemism. I didn’t even understand the concept to which the term referred. After all, we were all a “certain age.” I was certainly seven and three quarters and, if pressed (or completely unsolicited), I could even tell you exactly how many days until my next birthday. I was undoubtedly “certain” about my age for many years.

The mystery of the “certain age” reference became less mysterious as I grew up, but it also became more foreign. While I understood it could be classified with other niceties about aging such as, “mature” or “seasoned,” what did teenage me know of it? Hell, what did 30-something me know of it? It was a far-off, yet slightly intimidating, term conjuring up thoughts of sensible shoes, early-bird specials, and support bras with padded straps that seemed like they could not only support a well-endowed woman but also the Freedom Tower, all without painful, red marks.

The thought of one day being more concerned about my comfort than the amazingness of my favorite high-heeled, pointy-toed, witch-inspired, tall boots was not only ludicrous but also painfully depressing. I had spent years enduring blisters, toe cramps, and other maladies caused by torturously fantastic footwear, always understanding and accepting that it was worth every agonizing step. And anytime I started to question whether or not it was really a good idea to force my toes into a triangle shape, I would simply think of nurse Ratched and her hideously ugly, orthopedic, sneaker-shoes, then struggle on with renewed conviction.

As I inch closer and closer to that loosely defined “certain age,” I hear the term a lot more. And I have been railing against it for years. Tell me I’m too old to wear something and you might as well have bought it for me and presented it, wrapped up in a big ‘ole bow. You can be assured that I will break out my Doc Martens at a moment’s notice and that there is still a considerable amount of camouflage in my wardrobe. I’m not saying whether that’s good or bad, I’m just making a point.

I hate societal definitions of what I can and cannot do/say/wear/be simply because of my gender or age. Don’t get me wrong, you won’t catch me in booty shorts, but I can promise you that you would never, at any point in my life, have caught me in booty shorts. At least, not on purpose. Those elementary school years were tough on us big girls. There were not many husky options in gym shorts in the 80s. Remember the solid-colored, not very long — or flattering — running shorts with the thick white trim? I personally try not to, but there is photographic evidence.

So it was with a good dose of denial that I began to notice the shift towards comfort. It started when I was digging through my shoe collection — all 100-ish pairs of which reside under my bed in a disorganized labyrinth of straps and laces and require a flashlight, yardstick (for retrieving runaways), and more than 20 minutes to navigate — and noticed that it had been some time since I’d put on my wicked witch boots. I told myself it was fashion that was changing, not me. Nobody was wearing pointy tall boots this season and I’d definitely pull them out in a decade or so when they came back in style. Then I yard-sticked them back to my husband’s side of the bed and grabbed some Uggs.

It was harder to yard-stick away the other signs, though. There was the drawer overflowing with leggings to such an extent that they required space in the jean drawer, which happened to have some recent openings. Additionally, I seemed to have acquired a sizable collection of sweatshirt dresses. Yes, they are totally a thing and I have at least five.

And then there are the photos. I don’t like to have my picture taken, but I also don’t want to be erased from history and/or my children’s memories, so I occasionally step in front of the camera. It seems like there is not one photo in the last five-plus years where I am not in a dress and leggings. That may sound like I dress up, but really I’ve just spent half a decade in my pajamas. Seriously. I haven’t had to button up a pair of pants in recent memory. And I don’t do pantyhose, either. They have always been a hateful and spitefully contrived mechanism of torture. I’d rather eat haggis than be squashed up like an over-cooked Irish breakfast sausage in a color referred to as, “flesh” (ew) or “nude.” Clearly a misnomer, as nudity does not include being bound by a magical fabric, so tightly, that there is a real fear of physical damage to myself or others should it fail and I explode forth. At that’s not a self-deprecating weight comment, either. That’s how pantyhose are for pretty much any woman, ever, who has flesh.

I’m not yet ready for a housedress (my husband will be very sad to hear the “yet” part), but I am able to see the sensibility of such a garment. After all, they zip on and off, have lots of pockets, and are virtually incapable of accepting stains, due to the almost-always 100-percent polyester construction. I don’t think they make them anymore, but if flamingo leggings in adult sizes can be a thing, I don’t see what’s stopping the comeback of the housedress.

Because nobody enjoys me when I’m uncomfortable. “Certain age” has brought with it “certain words” that I feel need to be said. Words like, “If this bra strap slides off my shoulder one more time, I’m throwing the whole thing out the car window,” and also, “Why are we still acknowledging denim without stretch as a viable option?” or maybe, “Toe socks were sent by the devil to suffocate your toes and anyone who brings them near me will be sent straight back to their fiery pit of misery with specific instructions as to where the socks may go.” I really dislike toe socks.

I was horrified last year when overalls made a comeback to the garment racks, but now I think I’ll just invest in many pairs. Because my journey to “certain age-dom” will not only be full of comfort but also devoid of plumber’s crack. And hey, they’re at least slightly better than a housedress (or that’s what I’m telling myself, anyway).

Years of super-awesome shoes that seem not to have been designed for actual people have left me with some lasting damage. When my oft-abused feet need a little extra something, I like to whip up a batch of peppermint foot cream. It’s an easy recipe and you can find a great version at culturesforhealth.com. 

Ingredients:

1-1/4 cups coconut oil
1/4 cup beeswax granules or beeswax shavings
25 drops peppermint essential oil
12 drops lavender essential oil (you can add others for scent, as desired, but peppermint is pretty strong)
1/4 tsp. vitamin E oil

Instructions:

In a double boiler or heat safe jar placed in a pot of water, gently melt coconut oil and beeswax. Remove from heat and add essential oils and vitamin E oil. Pour into container and cool.