This morning, I was perusing an online Avon brochure when I came to the bras. The featured bra was described, in large letters, as “soft and sensible.” There was this beautiful young girl wearing what was obviously an old lady Playtex bra. She was looking oh so happy. Obviously, she’s an actress. My age starts with a six and I wouldn’t wear that thing!
It made me think. I don’t want to be soft and sensible! Okay, maybe soft, but I am so sick and tired of being sensible I could scream! I want to be wild. I want to be out there. I want to be anything BUT sensible. I want to see and do things I wasn’t allowed to do as a girl. I want to have adventures I would never have dreamed of as a young woman because somebody might notice me or, worse yet, make a comment!
At this point in my life, I’m like. . . bring it on, baby! I used to say, “When I’m older, I’ll do X, Y and Z.” It was always “when I’m older.” Well, all it takes is one long, hard look in the mirror to know that I am older and it’s time to break out of that sensible mindset that’s held me prisoner for so long.
Now please don’t misunderstand me. I’m not planning on running down the street naked and screaming obscenities or anything like that. It’s just that I no longer care to buy the black dress; I want the purple one or the zebra print! I no longer want a black handbag and shoes. I want prints and bright colors, things that sparkle, the wilder the better!
I want to go places reserved for younger folks, places where “they” think old folks shouldn’t go. I want to go to concerts and not the ones for old farts with groups who can barely make it on stage because they’re older than me. I want to go on the rides at the amusement piers. I want to do it ALL before I die. Tempus is fugiting rather quickly at this stage of the game so I need to get busy.
The last thing I want to be is sensible, but my mind is fighting me. That sensible mind of mine guides my hand to the brown eye shadow instead of the purples and greens I love. It sends me to the “old lady” racks of clothes instead of the fresh, young kicky stuff I long to wear. It’s screaming at me as I stand in line to buy tickets to some band whose members are about the age of my grandkids.
I have to shut it up. No, I must shut it up! There are things I want to do yet, things I need to do. There are things I want to learn. I want to be the one who proves that you can, in fact, teach an old dog new tricks.
The one thing I do NOT want to be is sensible. Strange, eccentric, a little daft, maybe, but not sensible. Anything but that! No more sensible for this old lady. It’s been a long time coming, but sensible will now give way to all those adjectives in the beginning of this paragraph; in other words, the real me. It’s finally my time.