Fifty and Other F-Words

by Margot Potter

  • Easy to put on and remove as body temperature fluctuates.

  • Armholes wide enough to accommodate a human female arm. No straining seams or squished biceps, please.

  • Three-quarter-length sleeves preferred, but will entertain wrist length during the coldest months.

  • Available in a tasteful array of colors, allowing the wearer to purchase multiples.

  • Pill-, fuzz-, and overstretch-resistant.

  • Versatile enough to take you from the office to dinner with ease.

  Last year, near the end of sweater season, after an exhaustive search, I found the perfect sweater at Goodwill. Imagine my delight as I slipped my arms into the sleeves of a soft, luxurious, mid-calf-length, textured, black, kimono-style cardigan. It had everything and so much more! The only small flaw was a missing belt, but I carefully removed the belt loops with scissors and all was well. I was smitten, so much so that I wore this new-to-me sweater to family gatherings, on shopping excursions, and out to dinner, all the while feeling cozy, chic, and stylish.

  Oh sweater, my sweater, how do I love thee? So much!

  I decided to search the internet, on the off chance that this sumptuous chenille sweater might be available in other colors. It was then that my unbridled joy came smack up against a most unfortunate truth. This glorious sweater I’d worn hither and yon was a glorious bathrobe.

  Wait, what? How could this be? It was clearly placed in the sweater section at the thrift store. I was flimflammed and finagled by the capricious thrift-shop gods. This sweater was not a sweater at all. I was a bathrobe-wearing trashionista.

  I dug this bathrobe-posing-as-the-perfect-sweater out of my winter clothes bins this past weekend. The soft, supple, chic simplicity beckoned, dared me to defy convention. Could I? Should I? Would I flout the unspoken laws of fashion and wear a bathrobe as a sweater without shame?

  Oh yes, yes I could, should, and will. Now that I’ve crossed over to the dark side, I’m seriously considering the possibilities of silk pajamas as daywear. Where did I put my turban and marabou slippers?

  Random Fashion Musings

  Leggings, as pants

  What does it matter if women wish to wear leggings as pants? They’re freaking comfortable. Don’t like it, avert your eyes. On a side note, dear leggings manufacturers, please make leggings a skootch less sheer. In case you have not heard, women are wearing them as pants. Thank you.

  High heels

  A man invented high heels. This is not shocking. If men had to walk in these torture devices, they’d have gone out of style ages ago. (Actually, heels were invented for men, and, as you can see, they went out of style ages ago—for them.) I’m not sure what this says about women. They do make legs look longer and elevate the saggy parts. I have a love/hate relationship with high heels. I love them, they hate me. We’ve made a mostly amicable separation, with visitation rights.

  Waxing down there

  When did women have to add waxing all of the hair from their genitalia to their beauty regimen? Don’t we have enough to do already? Is it just me, or does this seem more than a little creepy and also, quite frankly, painful? I’ve decided to rock a mostly maintained topiary, but I’m seriously considering letting it go and rock a ’70s porn bush, because I’m a rebel like that. Bow chicka bow bow.

  Lady pants

  A few years ago I discovered the holy grail of leggings at Target in the shapewear aisle. I purchased two pairs of these architectural wonders. I dubbed them “lady pants.” They lifted, they smoothed, and they were comfortable: the trifecta. When I slid them over my posterior and waistline, a chorus of angels sang Hosanna in the Highest. My daughter mocked my lady pants, until she tried them on one day. I now have one pair of lady pants. The other has disappeared. She swears she has no idea what happened to them. I went to replace the missing pair and discovered that they stopped making lady pants. I have not recovered.

  Jeans

  There is nothing more depressing than shopping for jeans, except shopping for bathing suits. It doesn’t matter what size or age you are, because jeans do not discriminate. They’re all equally unflattering and ill fitting. The same size jeans at the same store vary wildly from pair to pair. I vote that we categorically reject jeans and replace them with leggings. This is a radical idea and unlikely to gain traction, but a girl can hope, can’t she?

  Socks

  Why can’t they make socks without seams or, at the very least, why can’t they make the seams face outward? Is there anything quite as irritating as a sock seam rubbing relentlessly across your pinky toe? Even worse, what fool came up with toe socks? Ten seams are ten times as irritating.

  Flip-flops

  Yes, they’re loud, tacky, and designed for shuffling across a boardwalk, but they’re so comfortable! This is why they’ve infiltrated fashion with a relentless, unapologetic assault. I’m convinced that the addition of a judicious smattering of rhinestones, or festive marabou trim, helps elevate them, but I am deluding myself. I like to pair them with leggings as pants for the win. I’m still searching for the winter version of flip-flops. The struggle is real.

  Hats

  I think we should bring hats back. They are the perfect antidotes for a bad hair day. They instantly elevate even the most mundane outfits. They keep your head warm on a cold day, dry on a wet day, and prevent your hair from flying into your lip gloss on a windy day. While we’re extolling the virtues of hats, I’d also like to make a case for wigs.

  Wigs

  One can be completely transformed in an instant with a wig, avoiding hours at the beauty salon or struggling with hair styling tools. Long hair, short hair, black hair, blue hair, you can have it all and change it on a whim. Be a woman of mystery and intrigue, keep your friends and family guessing. Does she, or doesn’t she? Wouldn’t they like to know.

  Bras

  I am not a fan of bras. That’s perhaps putting it mildly. I detest bras. What sadist invented the bra? To add insult to injury, recent studies have shown that bras do nothing to keep breasts from sagging. Still, they do lift, separate, and create the illusion of perkiness. If only someone could make the lady pants of bras.

  Caftans

  I would like to argue that the caftan is the greatest fashion invention of all time. Nothing is more effortlessly chic and deliciously comfortable. A caftan hides a multitude of sins without making you feel like you’re wearing a circus tent. Wearing a caftan instantly transports you to an exotic locale, where tasty beverages are delivered in pineapples by scantily clad cabana boys. Who couldn’t get behind that initiative?

  Pajama pants

  I have a dream. It is a simple dream, but a powerful one. In my dream, pajama pants would become a daywear staple. That’s crazy!, you say. It would never work!, you say. Pajamas are not pants!, you say. Well, neither are leggings, but who cares? Everyone looks good in pajama pants. Is it a crime to want to be comfortable and stylish? If so, then lock me up in a pair of striped pajama pants and leave me to my foolish dreams.

  Slutty Pilgrim Costumes

  I found a dress at Goodwill a while ago. It was one of those super scores that make me super happy. From Anthropologie, with tags, never worn, a $120 dress for a couple of bucks. How this dress made it to our Goodwill, I will never know. It was my intention to sell it, but then I tried it on, it fit, and I liked it. So I kept it. Only later did I realize the zipper was not sewn in properly. It was nothing a few safety pins couldn’t fix. I would sew it, but I’ve got other fish to fry. Or crafts to craft. Or something like that. Insert excuse for not sewing small opening around zipper. . . .

  Yesterday, I decided to wear this dress for a TV airing. I realized, rather quickly, that the décolletage was, shall we say, ample. Or, more aptly, this seemingly demure dress was actually seriously saucy. I was running out of time, so I just went with it. I don’t feel saucy all that often these days. That afternoon in the car when my daughter saw the dress from behind, she asked me why I was wearing a pilgrim dress.
r />   “Uh, it’s fall, and I was on TV.”

  “Oh, huh.”

  “Except, the front isn’t really very pilgrim.”

  “It’s not?”

  “Nope, it’s more ‘slutty pilgrim.’”

  “Is that a thing?”

  “I don’t know, Google it.”

  When I got home, I did, in fact, Google it.

  I found a dazzling array of slutty pilgrim costumes. Good Lord. Are they serious? Nothing says “I’m gonna sex you up” more than a ruffled bonnet and pantaloons. Am I right?

  More disturbingly, these costumes are not intended for Halloween. Oh no! These are for Thanksgiving.

  I don’t know about you, but I sure love to dress up as a slutty pilgrim for Thanksgiving. Sometimes I dress up as a slutty pilgrim just to clean house or bake cookies or run errands. Why, I’ve been known to dress up as a slutty pilgrim in the middle of July, just for the heck of it.

  There are slutty costumes for everything. Put a word between slutty and costume and you will probably find a costume for it. What’s up with that?

  Does it really matter to me?

  To be quite honest, it doesn’t matter to me in the least. Women should do what makes them happy. What someone else wears or does not wear or chooses to do or does not choose to do really isn’t any of my business. I have enough to worry about just wading through my own vast and seemingly endless sea of choices. Live and let live.

  If a gal wants to dress like a slutty pilgrim, good for her. Whatever bastes your turkey, sister.

  The Tao of the Three Kinds of Shoes

  There are three kinds of shoes:

  Fuck me shoes.

  Fuck you shoes.

  Don’t fuck with me shoes.

  Wear the second or third kind to all family functions, except weddings if you’re single. In which case, the first kind works best.

  There are two distinct contingents—girls who love shoes and girls who just don’t get it. Those who just don’t get it claim to walk around mostly barefoot or wear sensible, comfortable footwear. Which makes me wonder: If shoes are, in fact, subconsciously tied to our female sexuality, what does that mean to the girl in the comfortable shoes? Is she comfortable with who she is or is she stuck in a rut? Has she ditched her passions for security or has she focused them elsewhere? Is she trying to blend in or is she just tired of having sore feet? Has her libido taken a hike in stilettos, is it hibernating in fuzzy slippers, or is it just fine and not in need of anything thankyouverymuchforasking?

  Is the girl who lusts after pricey designer pumps lacking in lust in her bedroom? Is her insatiable desire for fancy footwear a ruse to cover her insatiable longing for love? Are “Fuck me” shoes a way to make us conform to archaic stereotypes of how women should look and walk? Are we desperately seeking saucy or do we bring the saucy to the shoes?

  Do we define ourselves by our footwear or does our footwear define us?

  Is there a right answer or a wrong answer to these questions?

  Why do I feel so Carrie Bradshaw? Is it the shoes? Is it these questions I keep asking and not really answering? Is it my curly mane that I’ve yet to flat-iron this week?

  Even a girl with comfy shoes is still attaching meaning to her footwear on some level. If not, she’d be the girl in the bare feet. My Amish neighbors take off their shoes at the first flush of spring and they don’t put them back on until the first frost. They live outside of the shoe continuum; the only meaning their shoes have is to offer protection from the elements. I can’t say that’s a reflection of their sexual proclivities because they are definitely having sex since they’re popping out babies left and right.

  A girl who buys Birkenstock, Naot®, Ugg®, and rubber flip-flops is still buying shoes and attaching importance to them—they’re just a shoe of a different color. I love comfy shoes, but I also love stylish shoes.

  I save saucy shoes for cocktail parties, special events, public appearances, and TV. If I must walk, I shove them in my giant purse and wear comfy shoes until I arrive at my destination.

  I am going to go out on a limb here and say that “Don’t fuck with me” and “Fuck you” shoes are almost always comfy. They’re about saying screw you to convention and stereotypes. My favorite pair of “Don’t fuck with me” shoes were my Creepers with the three-inch crepe sole. They made me super tall, super skinny, and super badass. They were also insanely comfy. Conversely, a pair of laced, grommet-, and/or buckle-embellished knee- or thigh-high boots can fall into this category if one wishes to be fucked but not fucked with.

  The “Fuck you” shoes I wore until they got a hole in the bottom were a pair of French army boots I purchased at a flea market in Santa Cruz. I laced them with satin ribbons and wore them with frilly dresses. They were ironic in their simultaneous hideousness and slight nod to femininity. I had an entire collection of men’s shoes back then, which all had various bows and ribbons placed on them. I liked the androgynous appeal of these shoes immensely.

  Back in my day, I could sport my “Fuck me” shoes everywhere, but those days are long, long gone. Traipsing around town in five-inch heels is better left to 20-somethings; now I wear them when I can sit my aging fanny on a stool and cross my legs seductively. The fact is, they make me feel happy, and it has little or nothing to do with anyone else. On one level they are meant to attract, but on another they aren’t. Ah, the dichotomy.

  Come here, come here, come here . . . go away, go away, go away.

  In the Hans Christian Andersen version of “The Red Shoes,” a girl wears a pair of red shoes that initially brings her joy and eventually entraps her because she is “vain and self-absorbed.” Or is she? She can get the red shoes off her feet only when she repents. She must admit that it was wrong to want to own pretty shoes. She must become plain and dull and stop trying to stick out from the crowd. She’s a bad, bad girl and she must see the way.

  That is a powerful story, but perhaps not for its intended message. It’s powerful because it reinforces the idea that women who try to stand out are bad. Women who want to wear red shoes are bad. Women who wish to pamper themselves are selfish and vain. The story isn’t about the shoes as much as it is about the message that we are not supposed to rock the boat.

  I think women should wear shoes that make them feel good. If that’s comfy shoes or no shoes or sexy shoes . . . it matters little. As long as we are wearing shoes for us and not for everyone else, our shoes are saying that we are in control and in charge and we don’t give a fuck if you don’t like them. We can wear whatever shoes please us.

  And remember that the slippers Dorothy wore were red . . . and sparkly . . . and magical. They protected her from evil and took her home.

  Plus Size

  I think our cultural obsession with being skinny (which has morphed into an obsession with muscular arms, ample bosoms, tiny waists, rounded bottoms, waif-thin thighs, and six-pack abs) is making most of us miserable. It isn’t doing younger women any favors, either.

  What does “plus size” mean anyway? Plus what, puberty?

  The average size of a woman in America is 14. Yet, that’s where “plus size” begins. If we must quantify sizes, how about we consider “minus size” or “half size” or “curvalicious” or “extra awesome”? Or, better yet, how about we just have a variety of sizes and stop feeling the need to categorize them?

  I spent most of my life as a skinny person. I was the kind of person who could eat whatever she liked and never get fat. I shopped in the juniors department because I was too small to fit into women’s sizes. I once complained to my local Target that they needed to carry more clothes in size extra-small. Yes, I was that person. My weight fluctuated within a range of 5 pounds or so. After I had my daughter in my mid-30s, I gained 50 pounds. After giving birth, nursing, and a little diet and exercise, I got down to a size 4. Then something shifted around the age of 45. With the combination of stress, less activity, metabolism shifts, hormones, and medications, I found myself gaining copious amoun
ts of weight. My body has not been cooperating with my efforts to lose copious amounts of weight. I am learning to embrace myself at this size and let go of the weird attachment I had to the smaller, more svelte me. This has not been easy. I’ve been conditioned to believe that being thinner makes me prettier. The fashion industry refuses to create clothes that flatter fuller figures. The media celebrates the slender and denigrates the curvy. The messaging is loud, clear, and relentless.

  Women come in all shapes and sizes and all of them are beautiful, exactly as they are. There is no “one size fits all” for beauty and there shouldn’t be. Curves are beautiful. All sizes and shapes are beautiful.

  We tell a lot of stories in our culture about women and their bodies, about what is beautiful, what is ugly, what is acceptable, and what is not acceptable, and every time we hear one of these stories it chips away at our self-worth. We need to start telling another story.

  Young women face a world that is hyper-obsessed with appearances at the expense of what is real. It is harder for them than it was for our generation, because we weren’t living on the internet every minute of the day, posting photos and praying for likes. We weren’t living our lives under an increasingly cruel and unreasonable microscope. What can all women do to fight these limiting narratives and shift the dialogue? We can start by not participating in negative discourse. We can refrain from making the offhanded, mean-spirited, attention-seeking comments about celebrities or women we see as we move through the world. We can shut those thoughts down and replace them with positive, uplifting, expansive thoughts instead. If more of us stand up for other women and their right to be exactly who they are, wear what they please, say what they think, and live their lives as they see fit, the story will begin to shift. Let’s change the story. We can do that, together.

  The D Word

  Coffee must be steaming black,