The phrase "I think I'm too old for that" was not supposed to arrive in my lexicon until my 40s, at which time I would welcome him and his companions Lord Reading Glasses and Lady Gel Insoles with open arms in the safe and certain knowledge that I was an elegant woman of comfortable means.
When I started avoiding Topshop and River Island last year I eructed road blocks in the path of this phrase and convinced myself (somewhat legitimately) that it was the cheap fabrics and poor craftsman ship to which I was developing an aversion. Nothing to do with the neon prints, loud music and One Direction tshirts, no - nothing at all. Fact is, who wants to be too old for anything at 25? Besides, I wasn't elegant or confident yet.
However in March, twenty years earlier than expected I uttered that fateful phrase. Upon facing a pair of...shorts (?) of which the main component was GUSSET I calmly said it; "I think I'm too old for that." In the absence of photographic evidence to the contrary I want to deny turning down the corners of my mouth and shaking my head white I said it...but I can't be sure it didn't happen.
Even more shockingly than the unanticipated advent of maturity was the assurance that followed. Rarely do I consider myself a feminist, after all I will ask a gent to open a jar and happily accept his seat on a train, yet in this moment I surprised myself by winning a battle I didn't know I was fighting. I said no to the incessant prattle that told me my body, nay woman's body, was to be used for attention and acceptance. I said no to the niggling voice which said "you won't have good legs forever". I said no the photoshopped nymphs which smugly insisted they were better than me. I said no to the careful marketing which defiantly declared this was the right thing to wear. And I said no to the tyrant who would use my body as a piece of social branding, a tool to impose a set of ethics I wasn't sure I supported. I said no.
Being too old, I suddenly realised, had nothing to do with being old and everything to do with being confident. I don't need shorts which leave a wedge of bum exposed in order to feel acceptable. Actually, I don't want to feel acceptable! I no longer belong to the generation of fidgeting, glossed girls who toss their hair like horses avoiding flies and employ shrieks as their communication means of choice....and oh what a relief! I went home that night and unfollowed the gaggle of beauty/fashion magazines and bloggers clogging up my news feeds. With startling ease I was free from a judgemental, consumerist stream of Top Tips, Must Haves and Summer Essentials.
I don't need to be told what to do, I'm not six! I'm too old for that. From now on I'm keeping my gusset in my pants.
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