The Best Parts of Aging…

I’ve tried to age gracefully and elegantly, but it turns out I’m aging wildly and eccentrically.
My entire life I have been attracted to evocative clothing and I named my own personal fashion eras things like: wildly romantic (Betsey Johnson or “old west” style dresses with cowboy boots); Hippy Grateful Dead (Corn Rows, Birkenstocks with long skirts and knitted Rastafarian berets); Bohemian Belly Dancer (Belly Baring Velvet Half tops, flowing skirts); Glamourpuss (silky gowns I called “Marilyn Monroe after drinking too much champagne” or “Mae West lounging in her swan bed” or “slinky lounge singer on a piano”).
Even as a teenager, I expressed my creativity through my clothing, and I was lucky enough to have parents who were amused by my choices (I was #5 out of 6 kids—they had seen everything by then). One day I borrowed my Mom’s red Mumu (she kept a collection of mumus for Sundays so she could eat as much as she wanted) and bunched up the back like a bustle, tied it with a rubberband, and wore that to school with a sparkling turban. I’m sure I was quite a sight with my bustled muu- muu. As a teen I also carried an enormous carpetbag handbag ala Mary Poppins. I liked my oversized bag because I could pack it with items to entertain myself when I got bored in classes. I filled it with magical shiny objects from my visits to vintage stores: brooches of cats with sparkling eyes, a multi-layered faux-diamond watch, a giant cocktail ring with hinges on top that opened. I loved that ring’s secret compartment! I could fill it glitter, or cream perfume, or pretend it had poison in it and I was secretly pouring it into people drinks. Very entertaining.
Where did I get such ideas? Various places—I had older sisters so there were always Vogues lying around, and even though the magazine was completely unrelatable to me as a teenager living in Orem, Utah, I was fascinated by the fashion concoctions and made my entire room my Fashion/Dream Vision Board. My room was filled with posters of Marilyn Monroe, Holly Golightly, and a massive mural of white horses splashing through water. I had a waterbed I kept turned up to 10 and a baby blue satin comforter. See how cool my parents were? They let me design my own room, and my own life. When I came home with my bangs dyed bright pink, they laughed and said I looked great. The next time I came home with green streaks, purple, blue, silver, they never batted an eye.
They did ask me not to get a tattoo. Back then tattoos were not as prevalent or popular as they are now. My Dad kept asking me in his booming deep voice, “Just promise me you’ll never get a tattoo,’ and I’d say “I can’t make that promise,” and he’d laugh (nervously). I did finally get a tattoo when I turned 20 and went to school in Paris for the summer. I wanted a permanent memory of my time in the city of my dreams, and my favorite flower at the time was a daisy, so I traipsed up to the Red Light District in Pigalle, home to whores and thieves, and jauntily walked past the drug peddlers and prostitutes, to find my way to Bruno’s Tatouage Parlor. I went several times, and every time Bruno found an excuse not to give me a tattoo. With his white hair, white doctor’s coat and broom brush moustache, he would shake his head no and say something under his breath in French. “What did he say?” I finally asked one of his workers who could speak English. “He say you are pain in ass.”
Yup, that about sums me up.
In any case, I did end up with my daisy tattoo. From Bruno. Not only was it lopsided, but it promptly got infected and I had to backpack for 6 weeks all over Europe with an infected ankle. I never really liked my daisy—it wasn’t bright, perky and happy like I had envisioned, so a few years later I went back to the same damn place and had Le Chat Noir—Toulouse Lautrec’s painting of a black cat-tattooed over it, which I like much better.
But back to my fashion choices. I’m going to guess I was mostly influenced by my Grandma Lupe. Grandma Lupe was a very beautiful and very flamboyant dresser. She loved sparkly dresses and shoes. She always had bright red toes sticking out of her metallic kitten heel slippers, bright red lipstick, and black hair. As children, my little sister and I loved dressing up in her dresses and jewelry because it was all sparkling, big, and glamorous. She was known as the most beautiful girl in San Diego—having been brought there from Mexico as a girl. She and my grandfather got engaged after only 2 letters. The photos of her as a younger woman are stunning—dangling earrings, spaghetti strap dresses with diamond brooches, glitzy movie star dresses with matching hats, gloves, and handbags. She passed her fur stole and hat onto my mom, given to her by one of her many admirers—not my grandfather—but I have to admire whomever it was for showering luxury items on a woman with eight kids. I love to think about her spunky spirit, how she always worked because she liked having her own money, how she never stopped doing sit-ups to keep her tummy flat, and how she never stopped going to boxing matches with her girlfriends for fun!
Of course one of those 8 children was my mother. And my Mom is also a flamboyant dresser, although in a totally different way. My Mom had 6 kids, drove an orange VW bus, and still managed to wear mini skirts and go-go boots to church every Sunday. She kept several different wigs in her closet for “church” which was the only time she’d dress fancy. The wigs were sassy little bouffants—red, brown…all kept on those white Styrofoam heads with no eyes. After 23 years of being a stay-at-home mom, my mom went back to school to fulfill her dream of teaching school. This opened the floodgates of total indulgence in her vivid sartorial tastes. Her closet became inundated with denim dresses embroidered with farm scenes; knitted vests with Santa and his full beard on both sides; wooden necklaces in the shape of animals; teddy bear earrings; even bobby socks and mary janes. Now, at 75, she works in a doctor’s office, and besides liking the income, her favorite part is dressing up for the other ladies in the office.
My favorite part of her fashion choices: she always wears a flower in her hair.
So I guess my eccentric tastes come from my matrilineal line.
Recently, I was at a pedicure salon in NYC and I ended up chatting with Bebe Neuwirth about aging, fashion, etc. (I was wearing my Betsey Johnson tutu dress, tights, and boots.) I told her about this article and my opinion on how I was not aging as elegantly as I’d like. She said “But there’s a grace in becoming who you truly are. I think that is graceful and elegant—coming into exactly who you are.”
I concur Miss Bebe!!
I think there is grace in free creative expression, uninhibited by age or seasonal decrees. Bring on the tutu dresses and sparkling jewels! I’ve only started shaking my tail feathers and strutting my madness! I just turned 45 last week, and the very best part: being happy with exactly who I am right now. Now excuse me while I don my top hat. I have some shimmying to do!