Tag Archives: Culture

Continuation of a Mid-Life Crisis

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I woke up one day and none of the clothes in my closet were mine.  I’m not making this up.

Okay, maybe I am, but that’s the way it felt.  I tried on 90% of my closet, and nothing seemed to fit – neither my body or my personality.

Over the next several days I bought and returned dozens of items.  A geometric print maxi-dress seemed fine in the store.  Maybe a bit “young” for me, but I was sure I could still pull it off.  And then I got it home, where I realized that, NO, I couldn’t pull it off and back to the store it went.

I’ve done this time and time again.  I’m in some sort of Limbo (the Catholic kind, not the game) where I’m too old for average women clothes and too young for old women clothes.

Last week, I hit bottom.  I gathered all my strength and walked into what I’ve always considered The Old Woman Clothing Store.  As I flipped through the racks of shapeless dresses and baggy capris, I had a running conversation with myself.

“I’m too young to wear these clothes!”

“No you’re not.  Look around at the other women here.  They’re not much older than you.”

“I don’t belong here”

“You do belong here.”

“I DON’T!”
“You Do!”
“Fine! I’ll try something on!!!”

I picked several items off the racks and trudged to the dressing room.  Just as I was stepping into my first outfit, hoping to god I wouldn’t look in the mirror and see my grandmother, I overheard this conversation in the store, right outside my dressing room door.

Salesclerk:  “Here we go.  I’ve put you in the largest dressing room  – where they’ll be plenty of room for your walker.”

Customer:  “Why, thank you dear.”

I ran out of that store so quickly I almost broke a hip.
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Bonus Blog Post

While I was working on the blog post above, this email conversation occurred with one of my brothers. Caution – I’m leaving in the strong language.  I know, can you believe it?

Mike:  So FYI, I am officially a middle aged woman trapped in a man’s body.  In addition to frozen shoulder, it appears I now have varicose veins.  I found two cysts in my calf this weekend and went to get them checked.  The doctor is 99% sure that’s what it is.  I have to get a sonogram to confirm. Did mom have that?  Fuck!  Getting old sucks!

Teresa:  Well, yes she did, as do I.  But I didn’t think it was worth a dr. appt.  What will they do about them?  Are they dangerous or something?  FUCK YES, I hate getting old.

Mike:  He did not seemed concerned at all and what I can find online seems to say the same thing.  I think there are some cosmetic procedures to make them look better, but I will probably pass because looking good in heels is down on my list of worries.

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Enjoy your Fourth of July.  Here are the Crazie Town safety rules from last year, just in case you need them.

I Don’t Own My Hair

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IS IT GROWING OUT YET?

My sister and I have a pact:  We don’t make major changes to our hair without calling the other one first.

A couple of weeks ago I violated this pact.  I didn’t plan to or anything.  I just went in to get a trim on a haircut that I’d actually gotten a few compliments on.  But then, at the salon I saw a picture of (insert angels singing and harps strumming)   The Haircut of My Dreams.

Straight bangs across the forehead and straight bob.  It looked simple yet funky, exactly what a woman going through a mid-life crisis needed.

Now, I’m not stupid.  I mean, I did realize that the woman in the picture was probably a teenager and that her hair was shiny and red, but it was straight and one thing my hair has always been is straight.

The first time I married, I inherited a mother-in-law who owned a beauty parlor — not a salon but an old-fashioned beauty parlor.  Where women sporting pink curlers sat under dryers and came out flourishing bouffant hairdos that challenged gravity.   She considered my baby-fine, straight hair as a personal insult and tried everything in her arsenal.  And yet, week after week, the minute I walked out her door, it all fell into a stringy mess.  The closest she came to any kind of success was the year she put in a perm, had me wait an hour and then put in a second perm.  I rocked that 70’s afro for at least a week.

Now I was sitting in a comfortable chair, in a beautifully appointed hair salon imagining myself walking out the door with the hippest haircut.  I did ask Pamela if she thought I was too old for the cut and being the kind, yet honest person that she is, she said, “You could do it, you just have to OWN it.”

I told her to go for it and closed my eyes, imagining when I opened them, I’d own my hair like this woman.

Owning your look.

It didn’t happen.  Because, evidently – I don’t own my hair.  Well…and also because I’m not twenty…and I have wrinkles…and I don’t walk around wearing bright red lipstick all the time.

In Pamela’s defense, I’d begged for this haircut and, being the professional that she is, she let me come back a week later so she could undo what I couldn’t own. (Free of charge I might add – go see her at Alquemie Salon.)

I tried whining to my sister but she reminded me that, “that’s what a pact is for.”

Will I learn from this embarrassing mistake?  I doubt it.  I was going through some of my mother’s old journals and came across this entry – “Teresa arrived with another of her crazy haircuts.  I couldn’t say anything nice so just kept quiet.”

Hmmm, now that I think about it, everyone has been very quiet around me lately.

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Thanks for coming to Crazie Town.  I appreciate all the tourists who visit and especially all the people who invested in a time share opportunity (i.e. subscribers).

Talk to you next week!